Chapter 88: The advantage is mine
Ian quickly assembled his troops in the Dragonpit. He had Dorian the Black Falcon with his twenty-odd men, and the captain of the *Shayala's Dance* with his twelve sailors.
Since Ian had prepared for the possibility of an attack on the Dragonpit from the very beginning, everyone present had brought their full set of equipment. At his command, they armed themselves with grim efficiency.
"Take off your plate armor," Ian ordered Rohr and Case, glancing at several of the Black Falcon's more poorly equipped mercenaries. "Give it to them."
"And what about us?" Rohr asked.
"You two will wear your original sets. Jonothor Darry's build was similar enough to mine, so I'll wear his Kingsguard plate."
"We're not pretending anymore?"
"At this point, there's no reason to pretend," Ian said, shaking his head.
The player alliance from Pentos had their sights set on the Stranger's Sept. Once Ian engaged them, the fight would undoubtedly draw the attention of every other player lurking in Flea Bottom.
In that case, why bother with charades?
From now on, he would play with his cards on the table.
How many players were hiding in Flea Bottom? He didn't know.
What method was the ghost in Flea Bottom using to hunt other players? He didn't know that either.
But did it matter? This was a game of survival, not a mystery to be solved. The only thing that mattered was seizing the treasure chest, not uncovering every truth.
Whatever plots and tricks the other hunters were using, they would all be futile in the face of absolute power.
Ian's plan was simple: crush them.
It was now the twenty-eighth day of the game. He alone had claimed the reward for the 'First Blood' mission, the single largest resource boost the system provided. From that, he could calculate the upper limit of resources available to any other player.
They might have killed a few players, earning some points and attribute bonuses.
They would have completed [Main Mission 1], gaining more points, skill points, and attributes.
At most, they might have triggered and completed a side quest of medium difficulty or lower. After all, a quest as complex as "The Truth of the Black Falcon's Death" was only rated as medium. Ian estimated that a 'difficult' quest would be on the level of capturing a castle.
In short, the resources available to other players at this stage did not include large sums of money. That meant they could improve their personal strength, but they could not form a decent fighting force.
Of course, even if they had the gold, it was doubtful they would dare recruit a large number of mercenaries for a treasure hunt of this magnitude. Honorable sellswords like Kammer were a rarity. It was a serious question whether any normal mercenary could resist the temptation of such an immense prize.
Even Ian, with his considerable forces, had a command structure built on checks and balances. His people were divided into three groups: the Black Falcon mercenaries, the sailors from the *Shayala's Dance*, and the team led by his new squire, Denzel, and Sir Grantham.
From the perspective of any one group, the other two appeared absolutely loyal to 'Sir Lucion.' Denzel was his personal attendant. The Black Falcon had sworn a personal oath to him. And Salladhor Saan, the owner of the *Shayala's Dance*, was a dear friend of Sir Lucion's father.
The three groups restrained each other, allowing Ian to easily maintain control and take the lion's share without fearing betrayal.
What did other players have to keep their hired swords in line?
The dozen elite swordsmen brought by the Pentoshi player alliance were likely the strongest hostile force in King's Landing at the moment. The player with the most powerful individual abilities was probably the ghost in Flea Bottom.
But it didn't matter. None of them were qualified to face him head-on.
The advantage was his.
***
After stripping off his own plate, Ian strode back into his quarters and had Chigen help him don the white armor of Jonothor Darry, captured from the abandoned fishing village.
The plate was articulated loosely, with enough buffer space in key areas that it fit Ian's similar frame almost perfectly.
The only real issue was the gauntlets. They were custom-fitted, knuckle-style gauntlets that had to be made to the user's exact hand measurements. The slightest error made it impossible to bend one's fingers.
Ian had no choice but to substitute a pair of chainmail gloves, secretly vowing to himself that once he found a safe place to settle, he would master the art of crafting fully articulated five-finger gauntlets.
Once the armor was on, he lowered the visor, transforming himself into a walking fortress of steel. With Chigen's help, he put on the surcoat, hiding the joints of the armor beneath the cloth.
Captain Corian Sussman, clad in black chainmail, approached him. "Have you found the traitors?"
"Word is they're hiding in an underground Stranger's Sept in Flea Bottom."
Corian's face soured. "So all our work in the Dragonpit these past days was for nothing?"
"If I recall, I've already paid your deposit," Ian said, his own expression hardening. He knew exactly what the man was doing—trying to extort more money as compensation for the supposedly wasted effort.
"That was the money to help you put down the mutiny. You've had my lads doing hard labor here for days. They deserve something for their trouble, so…"
"I said, I have already paid," Ian cut him off, meeting Captain Corian's gaze. "And as your employer, I believe I have the authority to ask you to do anything."
He knew he couldn't give the man more money, not now. It wouldn't be seen as generosity; it would be seen as weakness. In front of these sailors, who were half-pirates, weakness was a fatal flaw. They only obeyed the strong.
The two men locked eyes for several tense seconds before Corian looked away, lowering his head. "I meant nothing by it," he said, changing the subject. "I just came to ask where my first mate and his men are."
"They are with Sir Grantham, assigned to block the enemy's reinforcements from Pentos." Ian let the murderous intent fade from his eyes, his expression softening, but his tone remained unquestionable. "That is my plan. It is not negotiable."
The words stopped Corian from asking to have his sailors reassigned under his own unified command.
In the end, the captain just gave a slight, stiff salute. "As you wish, Sir."
***
That night, a drizzling rain fell on Flea Bottom, leaving its streets dimly lit and slick with filth. The stench of pigsties, stables, and tanneries mingled with the aromas spilling from alehouses and brothels.
With a soft creak, an old wooden door was gently pushed open. A man named Esther slipped into the house, bow in hand, his movements cautious and practiced.
Before coming to this world, he had been a senior enthusiast of traditional archery, the year-round champion of his club's league. His superb skill with a bow had given him a tremendous advantage here.
From the second-floor window of this abandoned hovel, he had a perfect view of the men gathering below.
He knew they belonged to a player's force. They had tried to tail him the moment he entered Flea Bottom, but his counter-surveillance skills were strong, and he had shaken them with ease. After disguising himself, he had turned the tables and followed them.
Seeing them all converge here, scattered from their positions all over Flea Bottom, Esther guessed this had to be the location of the treasure.
But he wasn't interested in the treasure. He was interested in the player. All he had to do was identify the leader in the crowd below, put an arrow in him, and all of the man's points would be his.
---
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