Synthesis-type adventurers

Chapter 42 The Return to Rusty Harbor

Rhodes's mind raced, and the court intrigues and power struggles of his past life were pieced together like jigsaw puzzle fragments, revealing a clear outline.

The Sarndran Empire, border marquises, military power...

These terms point to only one outcome on the political spectrum—either overshadowing the ruler or being purged by factions.

Rod suddenly asked, "How old is your father this year?"

"Fifty, fifty years old." Avira was a little caught up in the abrupt change of pace. "You suddenly asked that..."

"He seems to be in his prime," Rhodes interrupted her, continuing on his own, "and he commands a large army, guarding the nation's borders."

He poked at the campfire with a dry twig, and a few sparks exploded, splashing onto his boots.

"If your father really wants you dead, or really hates you, he could easily marry you off to some fat lord in exchange for a few trade routes... or just throw you into a monastery and make you pray to the walls for the rest of your life. That way he can squeeze every last drop of value out of you and keep you out of sight."

Rod looked up and stared directly into Avira's eyes, making her feel uneasy.

"But he sent you to Rusty Harbor. It's chaotic, dangerous, and dirty, but it has one core characteristic—it's a lawless place."

"Even though it nominally belongs to the United Kingdom of Vilian, it is an independent city-state ruled by local tyrants."

"The codes of empire and kingdom are worthless here, the church's influence cannot reach in, and even the adventurers' guild can only barely maintain a semblance of order."

Avira froze, then seemed to understand something: "Sir, you mean...?"

"Exile is sometimes the most effective protection," Rhodes said confidently. "You were kicked out because the chessboard is about to be overturned. That old stubborn man is using the most ruthless method to throw you, a pawn that hasn't even grown up, off a sinking ship."

Avira stared blankly at Rhodes; this explanation completely overturned her long-held beliefs.

Were all those public humiliations, heartless judgments, and uncompromising rebukes just a facade?

"No...this can't be..." she murmured to herself, tears streaming uncontrollably down her face. "But the look in his eyes...that was real disgust..."

"The most basic skill for a qualified commander, especially one who is a nobleman who needs to participate in power struggles, is disguise." Rhodes interrupted her again. "Of course, this is just speculation based on the information I currently have... Perhaps, he really is just an unreasonable old bastard."

He stood up, brushed the bread crumbs off his hands, walked over to Avira, and without making any overly intimate gestures such as hugging or wiping away her tears, he simply patted her thin shoulder heavily, as if she were a comrade-in-arms.

"Whatever the truth is, you're too weak right now. Too weak to even have the right to go back and question him." Rhodes's voice was exceptionally clear in the night wind. "Want to know the answer? Then live on, become stronger. Until one day, you can wear this armor, carry that shield, and march back to Sarndeland with honor, hold a sword to your father's neck, and ask him yourself what he's thinking. But until then..."

Rod pointed to the half-empty cooking pot on the ground.

"You have to live to pay off your debt to me first. Eat well, sleep. We still have a long way to go tomorrow... You keep watch for the first half of the night."

After saying that, Rhodes turned and went into his tent, where the curtain fell to block out the view.

Avira sat alone by the campfire.

The flames flickered, casting shifting light and shadow on her face.

She raised the back of her hand, forcefully wiped away the tears on her face, picked up the bowl of now slightly cold broth again, and swallowed it in large gulps.

The salty and savory broth, mixed with the bitterness of tears, didn't taste good, but it brought her an unprecedented sense of peace.

Avira looked at the silhouette projected onto Rhodes' tent, a silhouette that was not broad, even somewhat thin.

In this world filled with lies, betrayal, and the stench of money, in Rust Harbor, which is regarded as a garbage dump by all civilized people.

Surprisingly, she found a long-lost sense of "belonging" in the presence of this money-grubbing man.

"Yes, Your Excellency Rhodes," Avira said softly to the black silhouette.

-----------------

The dust of hay, the sour smell of horse manure, and the pungent smoke of inferior tobacco mixed together into a foul odor that lingered in the air of the Silver Hoof Inn.

The morning mist on the outskirts of Rust Harbor had not yet dissipated. The innkeeper's head was shiny, with sparse, greasy hair clinging to his scalp.

He was circling the two exhausted draft horses, casually tapping their shins with a copper-covered whip.

"Tsk tsk tsk... Look at those hooves, look at that fur."

The boss squatted down, his stubby fingers digging into the edge of the horseshoe, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh.

"Gentlemen, are you riding horses or using these to haul mine carts up a scree slope? These horseshoes are worn down to the bone; you can almost see the meat on them. The contract clearly states that this is 'abnormal wear and tear'."

The boss straightened up, but his gaze did not fall on Rod.

He grabbed a bag of money from the metal cash box under the counter and threw it on the scratched counter.

"The deposit is 6 gold coins. After deducting 15 six-cent silver coins for repairs and depreciation, the rest is here."

The boss narrowed his small, beady eyes, his lips parting into a half-smile, but without a trace of genuine laughter: "The price of silver has been unstable lately, and the exchange rate of ducats to gold coins has plummeted. But I'm still charging you the old price, isn't that fair?"

Avira stood half a step behind Rhodes. Upon hearing this, she frowned and instinctively placed her hand on the hilt of her sword.

Fifteen six-cent silver coins could be exchanged for one six-cent gold coin when the market was stable, enough for a family of three in the city to live comfortably for three months.

This isn't a discount, it's outright robbery!

"This is the 'rules' you're talking about?" Avira said coldly. "Our horses don't have a single new injury. Horseshoe wear is a natural result of running. Shouldn't you know this when you rent out horses?"

"Inevitable outcome? Ha! Who knows if you tied stones to them and let them run all day?" The boss's gaze swept contemptuously over her coffin-like plate armor. "If you don't want the money, get out. I'll take the horse, and the deposit is forfeited."

As he was about to take back his money bag, a hand firmly pressed it down.

Rod spoke up: "Article 12 of the contract states: 'Normal wear and tear in the field is exempt from liability; the lessee is only liable for the death, disability, or irreversible injury of the horse.'"

With his other hand, he pulled the worn and faded lease agreement from his inner breast pocket and spread it out in front of the boss.

"Boss, doing business is all about integrity. Are you really sure these horseshoe marks are from our trip?"

As he spoke, Rhodes activated his [Analysis Vision], locking his gaze onto the horse's hooves.