After days of endless yellow sand, the desert finally came to an abrupt halt. Though there was still a lingering sense of the barren, Casia felt a lift in his spirits at the sight of expanses of green.
"No wonder it's called an oasis. It's beautiful," he said. The first impression the Green Oasis gave was the sheer abundance of greenery.
Ahead lay rows upon rows of carefully planted protective forests, layer after layer. At the heart of this, the buildings of the Green Oasis were nestled like the essential ingredients in a multi-layered cake, securely enclosed within.
The roads followed a web-like design, ensuring access from all directions to this massive, artificially cultivated desert oasis.
Beneath their feet, the yellow sand had given way to concrete. Shadows from the setting sun were blocked by tall trees. The sound of the windblown sand disappeared. Other steam vehicles scuttled along the roads, and pedestrians and vehicles were plentiful. Caravans and mercenaries made up a significant portion of the movement.
"Boss, where are we heading?" David asked, his voice cautious. The line of vehicles crawled along the road. He eased the speed, letting the steam vehicle maintain a straight path, glancing at Kara, who had been silent beside him in the passenger seat.
Kara hadn't decided yet. Even after entering the Green Oasis, she had no concrete plan. They needed a hidden identity and a way to gather information, but the details of the mission remained uncertain even to her.
"First, find us a place to rest. And you wanted to do some business, right? We've got some furs in the car; take them and sell them. I'll let you know if I think of anything else."
"Boss, if you don't mind, why not come to our home first?" David said with a slightly ingratiating smile. "Before coming here, I arranged to buy a small house. It's got trees, flowers, running water, and even a small courtyard. I think it will meet your needs."
"Just drive there," Kara said, unconcerned with the house itself. The humid, cool air alone was enough to please her.
"All right," David nodded quickly, already slipping into the role of a busy steward. He hadn't wanted this role. He was used to being the boss, having people work for him. But after last night's chaos, he had learned to fear the young woman beside him.
He had always heard of some well-known mercenary groups, men as big as black bears who could kill with a single punch. But those were just stories. Last night, he had seen two people, armed with only small handguns, wipe out a pack of over a hundred desert wolves—one bullet, one wolf. Killing wolves without hesitation wasn't just a rumor; he had seen it. At that moment, he realized a human life might be worth less than a wolf's in certain situations.
Now he understood. These two were not ordinary. Considering carefully, he concluded they were far more formidable than the scarred, brutal mercenaries he had heard of. This was a presence that naturally emanated from them.
Mercenaries try to appear fierce so merchants will hire them. In reality, they're simply familiar with weapons or daring, with a visible edge that convinces people of their skill.
But David couldn't detect any of that aura from the young woman leaning against the seat, feeling the warm evening breeze.
"Are they just hiding it too well, or is this all normal to them? Perhaps it barely affects their lives," he thought, cautious not to ask. His wife and daughters were still seated behind him.
The steam vehicles turned several corners. As streetlights flickered on, they arrived at David's house—a combination of concrete and steel, neat and attractive.
"Merchants really are wealthy," Casia said, stepping down from the car with his backpack, clearly impressed. Kara, coming from a grand ducal family, had seen many such houses and offered no comment.
David busied himself directing a few lean mercenaries to unload belongings. Once they were paid, he could send them off. If not for encountering those two, his family's lives might have ended in the desert. He felt frustrated, but he also understood the danger of leaving before the full moon. He rarely lost his temper, and had kept it mostly to himself.
The small garden, as David described, was modest but sufficient to park a dozen steam vehicles.
Inside, the items were stored carefully: silk and soft cotton protecting jewelry, and boxed high-end clothing. This was David's entire wealth aside from the money in the bank.
He was a jeweler. His wife designed clothes, and he had invested in a small clothing shop for her.
David settled the mercenaries' pay while Casia and Kara began unloading weapons and ammunition from the vehicles. They brought down bundles of high-quality furs, and beneath them, tin boxes containing neatly arranged ten-centimeter sniper bullets, each wrapped in oil paper.
"Boss, let me help," David said, hefting a small iron box. His face flushed with effort; sweat formed on his brow. The box didn't budge, as if solidly cast.
Seeing Casia and Kara lifting their loads effortlessly, he doubted his own strength, suspecting fatigue.
"Just put it there. It's heavy enough; you don't need to help," Kara said, glancing back.
"I don't believe it," David muttered. Kara's arms were barely a third the thickness of his, yet she carried it with ease. Frustrated, he peered into the box. Rows of golden bullets gleamed like disciplined guards, each capable of taking his life.
The cold glint made him flinch. Footsteps approached. He hastily smoothed the oil paper, standing aside with his heart pounding, forcing a sheepish smile. The visitor wasn't the boss, but the man at her side—Kali Hill, of one of the twenty-three ducal families.
"Oh, the boss wants you to prepare some food. She's hungry," Casia said kindly, lifting the last box of bullets and speaking to David. The tone was genuine. He could see how the honest merchant had been slightly manipulated, but there was no malice.
"All right, right away. We brought the old cook too," David said, nodding. The last trace of his merchant pride and resistance melted away in front of the boxes.
"I'd better just stick to being the boss's steward," David thought, his silhouette slightly forlorn in the garden's lantern light. Fighting wasn't his domain. His dream had been a quiet, honest business. "I'd better help with the cooking."