Far from JP's camp, in the back room of a wealthy merchant's house, three men sat around a polished oak table. Candles flickered, throwing long shadows against the walls.
"He survived?" the bearded merchant growled, slamming his fist on the wood. "We sent five trained blades after him, and he still walks free?"
The second merchant, thinner and more calculating, sipped his wine. "Our men weren't prepared for… whatever tricks he carries. That glowing stake, the bursts of lightning—unnatural."
The third sneered. "He's dangerous. He makes tools that draw the villagers to him, sells goods that undercut our profits, and now he fights like a mage. If we allow this, our control crumbles."
The bearded one leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Then we escalate. No more bandits. We'll squeeze him properly. Deny him supplies. Spread rumors. And if that doesn't work…" He made a slicing motion with his hand.
The thin man smirked. "He plans to head for the city soon. Let him. Out there, the game is bigger, the knives sharper. He won't last long without friends."
They chuckled darkly, the sound echoing in the cramped room.
Outside, the village bustled as always, farmers and craftsmen unaware of the strings being pulled behind their daily lives.
And JP—still camped on the outskirts, dreaming of new inventions—had no idea just how deep the merchants' claws were about to sink.