Chapter 59: The Signature
The streets of Iron Fortress were a whole new world for Hans and the children.
"Hans, look! That bone-rack lost his head! He's trying to fish it out of the gutter!" one of the boys shouted, his voice crackling with the excitement of a pioneer discovering a new land.
Hans looked over. A Skeleton Soldier was indeed clumsily stooping over, trying to scoop its own skull out of a drainage ditch. Beside it, another skeleton was poking its partner's spine with a bony finger, seemingly rattling in silent laughter.
Hans immediately chided the boy, though his own lip was twitching in a futile attempt to stay serious. "I told you, don't point at people. It's rude."
Lily, clutching her oversized, tattered stuffed bear, tilted her head. "But he looks so silly, Hans-nii."
They navigated the city, asking for directions as they went. The responses from the undead residents varied wildly. Most skeletons would simply stare at them with empty sockets for a long minute before pointing a bony hand in the exact opposite direction of their destination.
Eventually, a human resident eating a loaf of bread by the roadside pointed them the right way. Hans offered his thanks and led the children to their new home.
It was a two-story stone building, matching the utilitarian architecture of the surrounding area. The structure was simple, built from sturdy, ash-grey stone.
"Whoa! We're home!" the children cheered.
The interior was spartan: a few wooden beds, a large table, and some cupboards. The children didn't mind the simplicity in the slightest. Like a pack of unleashed young mabeasts, they charged inside with high-pitched screams of joy.
"This bed is mine!"
"No way! I saw it first!"
"Miguel-oniichan, look! There's a mushroom growing in the corner! Can we eat it?"
Miguel, the fourteen-year-old, trailed behind them trying to maintain some semblance of order. His voice was quickly drowned out by the chaotic celebratory din.
"Don't lick the walls! That mushroom is probably lethal!" Miguel's shout was laced with the despair of an older brother.
Hans clapped his hands. "Alright! Operation: Clean Sweep begins now! Miguel, take them to fetch water and scrub the floors. I'm going to see what we can salvage in the kitchen."
"Yes, sir!" Miguel snapped to attention like a tiny sergeant and began assigning tasks to his younger siblings.
Hans stepped into the kitchen. The equipment was surprisingly complete; there was even a large iron pot that looked brand new. However, the cupboards were as empty as a skeleton's stomach.
By dinner time, Hans and Miguel had used the last of their flour and salted meat to boil a pot of fragrant stew. The children crowded around the table, devouring the meal until not a single drop of broth remained.
Lily patted her round belly and let out a small burp. "Hans, are we really going to live here forever?"
Hans ruffled her hair. "That's the plan. This is our home now."
Once the excitement and the exhaustion of the journey took hold, the children fell into a deep sleep. Miguel carefully tucked each of them in before retiring to his own room.
The house fell silent.
Hans sat alone at the table by the flickering light of an oil lamp. He reached into his coat and pulled out a weathered notebook and a quill.
[The Sunflower Merchant Guild]
Hans wrote those words on the first page. It was a plan he had been crafting for a long time. A great mercantile empire would rise, and its foundation would be laid right here, in this city of the dead.
However, according to the regulations of Iron Fortress, establishing a guild required at least two founding members.
Where was he supposed to find a partner?
Hans was a newcomer whose pockets were currently cleaner than his conscience. What could he possibly use to convince someone to join a shell company with nothing but a name? The power of friendship?
He pondered for hours before deciding on a gamble. He bet that this massive Undead Empire wouldn't care about the petty schemes of a small-time operator like himself. All he needed was to trick someone into signing a paper to make the paperwork "legal." Afterward, the poor bastard would just be a ghost member on paper. Once the guild struck gold, Hans would just "relocate" him out of the partnership.
Hans began scribbling clauses in his notebook, each more predatory than the last. After finishing the final line, he blew on the ink to dry it, a grin stretching across his face that would give most people nightmares.
Everything was ready. He just needed a signature.
The next morning, Hans strode onto the streets of Iron Fortress alone. He scrutinized every stall, every vendor, and every face. He circled the market district three times before his "Target Radar" finally locked onto a target.
"Step up! Have a look! Red apples from the Evernight Territory! Big, sweet, and crisp! If they aren't the best you've had, you don't pay a copper!"
The voice was booming. Behind the apple stall stood a burly human man. He was built like a brick wall with a thick, bushy beard—the kind of man who looked like his physical strength was inversely proportional to his cunning.
Hans straightened his collar and marched over. He picked up an apple, wearing a look of practiced skepticism. "Boss, are these really as good as you claim?"
Seeing a potential customer, the big man slapped his chest. "Listen here, friend! If even one of these apples is sour, I'll eat the whole damn stall, wood and all!"
"Bold words," Hans muttered, curling his lip. "I've eaten more apples in my life than you've seen gold coins. I've never met a man brave enough to make such a boast."
The man's competitive streak flared. He polished an apple until it shone and shoved it toward Hans. "Taste it! I'll show you what a real apple tastes like!"
Hans didn't take it. Instead, he placed a single copper coin on the counter. "I'll taste it, but I have my own rules. I'll buy two. If they're good, the copper is yours. If they're sour..." Hans paused for effect.
"If they're sour, what then?" the man, whose name was Grog, demanded.
"If they're sour, you refund my copper and give me an extra apple for free. Do you have the stones to take that bet?"
Hans used the oldest trick in the book: the "Merchant's Provocation." The stakes were tiny, and Grog fell for it hook, line, and sinker. His face flushed red as he bellowed, "You're on! I'm not afraid of a little wager!"
"Words are wind," Hans said, slowly pulling a prepared parchment from his vest. "We need it in writing. I don't want you backing out when your fruit fails the test."
Hans spread the paper on the counter, pointing to a blank space at the very bottom. "Here. Just sign your name. It's a standard 'fair-trade' guarantee. Protects both of us."
Grog didn't even glance at the tiny, cramped handwriting filling the page. His head was too full of confidence in his apples to worry about a "guarantee."
"Fine! Give me the pen!" Grog scrawled his name in large, messy letters: GROG.
Hans watched the signature take form, his heart giving an unprofessional little skip of joy.
Success!
Hans took a bite of the apple. It was crisp. The sweet juice exploded in his mouth. To be honest, it was a magnificent piece of fruit. Grog watched him expectantly.
"Well, Boss? I didn't lie, did I?"
Hans finished chewing. He looked at Grog and revealed a very specific, crooked smile—the kind used by Kararagi merchants right before they take your house.
"I lose," Hans admitted. "This apple is indeed delicious."
For some reason, seeing Hans's smile made a cold shiver run down Grog's spine. "G-glad you like it." He scratched his head, feeling like he'd missed something important.
Hans tucked the signed "agreement" back into his coat as if it were a holy relic. He patted Grog on the shoulder. "Grog, was it? We're family now. I look forward to working with you."
With that, Hans hummed a jaunty, discordant tune and walked away, leaving a thoroughly confused Grog standing at his stall. "Family? Why was that guy acting so weird...?"
Hans didn't go home. He headed straight for the Logistics Bureau. Same counter, same Ghoul clerk. Hans slammed the signed parchment onto the desk.
"Greetings. I am here to apply for the official formation of a Merchant Guild."
"Name," the clerk drawled.
"The Sunflower Merchant Guild."
"Founding members."
"Chairman: Hans. Member: Grog."
The Ghoul clerk picked up the document, its eyes scanning the page. When it reached the clauses—which were so restrictive they bordered on literal slavery—it paused, momentarily shocked that any living human would agree to sign such a thing.
The clerk checked the signature against Grog's entry registration in the master ledger, verifying the handwriting and the lingering Od-signature. After a moment, the Ghoul nodded.
"Od matches. Handwriting matches. The contract is binding."
It picked up a heavy seal and slammed it onto the paper with a definitive thwack. It was the Master's personal chibi-skull crest.
"Procedures complete. The Sunflower Merchant Guild is officially recognized as of today."
The Ghoul handed the "soul-binding contract" back to Hans and immediately buried its head back in its work, as if it had just performed a task of no consequence.
Hans stepped out of the bureau, clutching the officially certified deed to Grog's soul. He slapped his own cheeks to stay focused.
Time for phase two.
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