Chapter 87: Winter
Thud.
A green, warty head rolled to a stop at Nick's feet. He kicked the trophy aside, raising his sword with one hand and pointing it dramatically toward the jagged ceiling of the cave.
"I, Nick! Once again, I have utilized my unparalleled blade arts to bring an end to the sins of this world!"
Bruce the Kobold stepped out from behind a jagged rock, dangling two dead Goblins by their ankles. "Nick, you literally just tripped over a loose stone. Your sword flew out of your hand and happened to skewer that Goblin while it was cowering in the corner."
"Ahem!" Nick sheathed his sword with a flourish and adjusted his stained collar. "That was the [Gambit of Fate]! A high-level secret technique accessible only to Heroes favored by destiny itself! Your Adventurer Rank is too low to comprehend such a profound realm of combat, Bruce!"
"My rank is the exact same as yours: Iron. It's as low as it gets," Bruce grunted, tossing the corpses onto a growing pile at the cave entrance. "Besides, in this mission, I handled seven. You handled three. One of which was a lucky throw. By every metric of contribution, I am the lead on this commission."
"Lies!" Nick pointed to the various shades of green slime staining his tunic. "Look at me! Look at the price I paid to distract these hideous creatures! This was my most expensive shirt! I charged the front line and bore the greatest risk!"
"You charged too fast and dove headfirst into the Goblins' latrine pit," Bruce countered, pointing a claw toward a bubbling puddle deep in the cave that emitted an unspeakable stench. "You were splashing around in there screaming, 'It's burning! It's burning!'"
Nick's face flushed a violent red. "That was a [Toxic Mire]! I was testing the traps with my own body! I sacrificed my comfort for the safety of the team! That is called devotion! It is a point of pride!"
His voice echoed through the damp, stinking cavern, startling a bat clinging to the ceiling. Bruce let out a long, weary sigh, deciding not to argue. As long as Nick is happy, he thought.
"Quit shouting and help me. The request requires the left ear of every Goblin as proof of subjugation. Eleven in total. Not a single one missing."
Nick grumbled, "Heroes are never understood in their own time," then knelt down, drawing a small utility knife from his belt. The two began scavenging through the pile.
"This ear is no good. You smashed it to a pulp with your hammer."
"Just use a right ear then. The clerks at the Guild can't tell the difference anyway."
"No. The regulations specify the left. It's a matter of professional credit, Nick."
"Can credit buy me dinner? Can it pay for ale at the tavern?"
Bruce didn't answer, silently slicing the left ear from an intact corpse and dropping it into a burlap sack. Nick reluctantly followed suit, gagging as he worked.
"The smell... ugh... Bruce. Next time, let's take a Slime subjugation mission. At least those are clean."
"Slime missions pay ten coppers. That wouldn't even cover the inn for a night."
"Then what about a Great Dragon! One haul and we're set for life!"
"And then we'd be eaten by the dragon. I suppose that counts as being 'set' for the rest of our very short lives."
Ten minutes later, Bruce tied the sack shut. A dark fluid seeped through the burlap, dripping onto the dirt.
"Let's go. Back to town to turn this in. If all goes well, we eat roasted meat tonight."
"With a double serving of ale!" Nick shouted, finding his spirit again as they stepped out of the cave.
The sky above had turned a heavy, bruised grey. A sudden gust of wind swept past, stealing the warmth from their skin. A tiny, white speck drifted down, landing softly on the tip of Nick's nose. It was ice-cold. He reached up to touch it, and it dissolved into a single drop of water on his fingertip.
"It's snowing," Nick whispered, stopping in his tracks.
More white flakes began to drift from the heavens, silent and indifferent. Bruce looked up, his dog-ears twitching. A snowflake landed on his snout, making him let out a sharp sneeze.
"Winter," Bruce murmured.
The two stood at the cave entrance, watching the white specks begin to dust over the mud and bloodstains of the battlefield.
"Bruce."
"Yeah?"
"How much coin do we have left?"
Bruce performed a mental audit. "After we turn this in and get our three silvers, and after we pay the lodging fee for the inn... plus two servings of the cheapest black bread and groat-gruel... we'll have about one silver and twenty coppers left."
Nick fell silent. One silver was nothing in the face of winter. It wouldn't buy a thick cloak, let alone a room with a hearth that didn't leak.
"Commissions are going to get scarce," Nick said quietly.
"Yeah. The mabeasts go into hibernation. Requests drop, and the rewards follow."
"Maybe... we should head East? I heard Jade Territory has free food and plenty of work."
Bruce shattered the fantasy immediately. "From here to Jade Territory is a month's trek on foot. Our coin wouldn't last three days on the road."
"Then what? I can't freeze to death in a gutter, Bruce. I'm not built for that."
Bruce shifted the heavy sack of ears to his other shoulder. "We go back to town. Turn in the ears. Eat a full meal. Then, we find manual labor. Helping out at a tavern, or carrying sacks at the docks. We'll find a way."
Nick stared at him in disbelief. "I, the Great Adventurer Nick, am going to haul grain sacks at a wharf?"
"You could always wash dishes at the pub."
"..."
The man and the dog-man stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, Nick let out a short, bark-like laugh.
"Fine! Washing dishes it is! Better than starving. But once we have the coin, the very first thing we buy is the best roasted meat in the Capital!"
"Deal," Bruce smiled. "Let's move, Nick. We need to reach the gates before the light fails."
"Objective: Roasted meat! Move out!"
The two figures—one hauling a foul-smelling sack, the other waving his arms in a fake show of bravado—marched into the deepening snow. Their silhouettes grew smaller and smaller against the white.
Iron Fortress, Sunflower House.
Hans stood by the window, watching the snowflakes drift past the glass. He let out a heavy sigh. Winter had arrived.
Behind him, the chaotic symphony of children filled the room.
"Miguel-oniichan! Lily is stealing my blocks!"
"Snowy took my bear first!"
"Quiet down, everyone! Close the shutters, it's freezing!" Miguel's voice rang out, laced with a teenager's weary patience.
Hans didn't turn around. His mind was a whirlwind of calculations. Sunflower House now supported six children; with himself, that was seven mouths to feed. He had commissioned winter clothes from the tailor last month—thick cotton and wool—costing a small fortune.
The granary was stocked with enough wheat and potatoes for two months. But meat and fresh greens were scarce. In the winter, the price of vegetables would skyrocket to the heavens.
Then there was the fuel. Firewood and coal were the greatest expenses. Keeping a house of seven warm throughout a northern winter was a logistical nightmare. While he could petition the Logistics Bureau for an allocation, the bureaucracy was slow, and the supply was strictly rationed.
Hans walked into his room and dragged a locked wooden chest from beneath his bed. He clicked it open, revealing the monthly turnover of the Sunflower Merchant Guild. He counted the coins one by one. Gold, silver, copper.
This was the children's lifeline.
Hans thought about the new venture Greed had entrusted to him: the potions. The diluted version of [Emerald's Respite]. Exporting it to the human kingdoms.
Hans watched the snow falling faster now, blanketing the city in white. In his mind, he saw the children huddled around a dying hearth, shivering from the cold.
No. Hans's fist tightened. I won't let that happen. Not to them.
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