Day 115.
The Imperial Messenger looked at Rian with disgust.
Rian was wearing a torn sheepskin coat. His face was smudged with soot. Behind him, the magnificent concrete walls of the city were hidden under mounds of piled snow and mud, making them look like primitive earthworks.
"The Winter Purge Expedition," the messenger spat, handing over the scroll. "You are to present your tribute and levies at the Forward Camp. Do not be late, Exile."
The messenger rode away, not even bothering to ask for a bribe from someone who looked so destitute.
Lara watched him go, then looked at Rian. "My Lord, why do we hide? We have the power to impress them."
"Impress them?" Rian wiped the soot from his face, revealing a cold, calculating gaze. "Lara, if I show them Gold, they will tax it. If I show them Steel, they will confiscate it. If I show them Wolves, they will brand me a threat and burn us down."
He threw the scroll to Varg.
"We are not going as conquerors. We are going as Beggars."
The Masquerade
Rian issued strict orders.
No Manganese Steel. Everyone carries rusty iron or stone tools.
No Wolves. Varg and his men will ride the old, limping oxen.
No Titan-Hawks. The Phantom Wing stays grounded in the mountains.
Kagan: Must wear a hood and stoop his shoulders. He is not a warrior; he is a "dumb laborer."
"Pack the sleds," Rian commanded.
"With the Soap?" Lara asked.
"No. Soap is luxury," Rian shook his head. "Pack Coal. Dirty, raw, unrefined coal. And Dried Fish. The lowest quality we have."
"We are going to be the joke of the camp," Varg grumbled.
"Let them laugh," Rian smiled. "While they laugh, they won't look at what I'm really doing."
The Imperial Forward Camp
Three days later.
The camp was a display of vanity. Banners waved, knights polished their gilded armor, and merchants sold exotic wines.
Then, Rian's caravan arrived.
It was pathetic.
Three creaking wooden sleds pulled by tired oxen. The drivers wore rags. The cargo was piled high with black, dusty coal rocks.
"Look at that!" a young noble, Count Sterling, pointed and laughed. "The Exile of Blackiron! He brought... rocks!"
The guards at the gate wrinkled their noses. "State your business, beggar."
"Lord Rian of Blackiron," Rian said, his voice trembling slightly (acting). "I... I have brought my tribute for the Grand Duke. Fuel for the fires. It is all we have. The winter... it was cruel."
The guard sneered. "Pass. Put that filth in the back, near the latrines."
The Performance
Rian set up his "camp"—a single tattered tent next to the garbage heaps.
He sat on a crate of coal, looking miserable.
Count Sterling, the peacock in gold armor, strolled over with his entourage. He wanted entertainment.
"So, Rian," Sterling kicked a piece of coal. "Is this how a Noble lives? Eating fish bones and digging dirt?"
Rian stood up and bowed deeply, looking at the ground.
"We survive, My Lord Count. We do not have your... magnificence."
Sterling preened. "True. My sword alone cost more than your entire life."
Sterling drew his blade. It was jeweled and flashy. "Go on, Exile. Touch it. It might be the only time you see real steel."
Rian reached out with a trembling hand, touched the hilt, and pulled back as if unworthy.
"Beautiful, My Lord. Truly a weapon of a King."
Inside, Rian was analyzing: Inferior alloy. Too much carbon. Brittle. The jewels mess up the balance. Garbage.
But outside, he looked awestruck.
"Hah!" Sterling sheathed the sword. "At least you know your place. Keep digging your rocks, dirt-eater."
Sterling threw a copper coin at Rian's feet.
"Buy yourself a bath."
The nobles laughed and walked away.
Rian waited until they were gone. He picked up the copper coin.
He didn't throw it away. He wiped it and put it in his pocket.
"Profit is profit," he whispered to Varg.
The Scavenger Hunt
While the nobles partied, Rian went to work.
He wasn't there to sell. He was there to Buy. But not luxury goods.
He went to the Quartermaster's Dump.
Here, the Imperial Army threw away their "damaged" goods.
Rian found a pile of broken swords, bent spearheads, and cracked armor plates. To the Empire, this was scrap.
To Rian, this was High-Grade Iron that just needed to be melted down and re-forged.
"Quartermaster," Rian approached the bored official. "I... I need metal to fix my plow. Can I buy this scrap?"
The Quartermaster looked at the pile of junk. "That trash? Take it. 10 Silver for the whole wagon."
"10 Silver?" Rian acted pained. "That is... expensive. But... okay."
He paid.
Then, Rian went to the Livestock Reject Pen.
He saw horses that were lame or sick.
And in the corner, he saw a crate of "Dying Slaves."
These were skilled workers—Blacksmiths, Masons, Scribes—who had fallen ill or frostbitten during the march. The Army was going to leave them to freeze.
Rian approached the slaver.
"I need... bodies," Rian mumbled. "To work the mines. They don't need to live long."
The slaver shrugged. "Take the lot. 5 Gold. They'll be dead in a week anyway."
Rian paid.
He loaded the "dying" men onto his sleds. He knew that with Soap, Warm Housing, and Antibiotics (Garlic/Honey/Mold), 80% of them would survive.
He had just bought expert engineers for pennies.
The Departure
The next morning, the "Winter Purge" began. The Imperial Army marched North to fight monsters.
Rian packed his coal sleds—now hidden under the scrap metal and sick slaves—and prepared to leave. He had been dismissed. The Grand Duke deemed him "Too pathetic to be useful."
As he left, he saw Sir Roderick (the man he tricked with the Poison Soap) arguing with a merchant about pimple cream. Rian pulled his hood down to hide his grin.
Varg walked beside the sled.
"They treated us like dogs, Boss. Sterling threw a coin at you."
"Varg," Rian said softly, looking at the wagons full of scrap metal and the 20 skilled workers he had 'rescued'.
"Sterling spent 500 Gold on a sword he will never use."
"I spent 5 Gold and gained a future factory team."
Rian looked back at the glittering banners of the fools.
"Let them be arrogant. Arrogance is blind. By the time they realize I am not a beggar... I will be their King."
[Ding! Expedition Complete]
[Status: Low Profile Maintained]
[Loot: 2 Tons of Scrap Iron, 20 Skilled Artisans, 0 Suspicion]
Rian whipped the oxen.
"Let's go home. We have an empire to build."
End of Chapter 42