NEC Chapter 38: Price, Negotiation, and Ambush

While on the airship, Chen Mo had heard from the mercenary guide Luke, a Starry Continent saying: “Old blades crave wine, long staves love smoke.”

“Old blades” referred to veteran warriors. Among those Chen Mo had met—Luke, Old John, the one-eyed tavern owner, and recently Old Blackhead and Charlie—nearly all were heavy drinkers.

Why? First, these warriors lived on the edge, licking blood off their blades, facing uncertain tomorrows, so living drunkenly was their norm. Second, their rough, wandering lives left them with chronic injuries that flared painfully with weather changes, and liquor served as their anesthetic.

“Long staves” referred to mages.

Identifying a mage’s status came in two ways: one, by their robes, entourage, and pomp; the other, more direct, by the length of their staff.

The longer the staff, the deeper the seniority.

As for “smoke,” it was a near-essential tool for veteran mages wielding long staves. It was said to help them clear distractions and enter a meditative state, aiding daily cultivation and magical research.

This was Chen Mo’s first time seeing the real thing.

The smoking kit included a wooden base, a spherical, half-hollowed smoke bowl, a long starlight conduit, and a packet of neatly cut, uniquely scented tobacco leaves.

Vincent methodically placed the leaves into the bowl, closed the lid, set it on the base, and rubbed his fingers. A faint flame sparked from the bowl’s hollows.

Deputy Director Vincent was also a mage.

Taking a drag through the conduit, he exhaled a long plume of white smoke, squinting and shaking his head in contentment.

During this leisurely ritual, Vincent had sorted out his thoughts.

This young lord, though slightly green in social graces, couldn’t hide the refined upbringing of a robed noble.

More crucially, his piercing judgment—seemingly seeing right into one’s heart—was not something an ordinary family could cultivate.

Only top-tier noble houses, those grooming future governors across generations, would hone a scion’s mind so sharply.

After several probing exchanges, Vincent found the young lord’s words, if not entirely credible, at least free of obvious flaws or fabrications.

His gaze was steady, his demeanor confident, and most importantly—he was willing to pay!

That was enough. As long as there was no ulterior motive, this deal seemed doable.

Decision made, Vincent took another puff and said to Chen Mo, “You’re too young to appreciate the wonders of this mind-clearing smoke. When I’m enchanting, a few puffs always sharpen my focus.”

“But my smoking kit is rather crude. Last year in the Federation’s Soapwater City, I saw a high-ranking mage’s treasure—a startear stone base and a blue crystal bowl. That set, tsk tsk, was worth twenty gold coins!”

Vincent smacked his lips, his eyes brimming with longing. “I thought then, if I had such a treasure, my work would be twice as efficient, my mind crystal clear!”

No cheating needed—Chen Mo instantly caught the hint. Twenty gold coins was the price.

The man’s way of asking for payment was an art form.

Chen Mo didn’t rush to respond. He studied his watch closely before replying with a touch of regret. “Mr. Vincent, that smoking kit is indeed pricey. If I were home, getting you one would be no issue. But out here alone, my funds are tight.”

“However, if I can secure a spot to study at the mage tower, getting some support from home should be manageable!”

Vincent got the message: confirm the deal, and money won’t be an issue.

They exchanged a smile, eyes full of mutual appreciation.

This old fox!

This sly cub!

While Chen Mo racked his brains, navigating the convoluted connections he’d painstakingly built to reach the mage tower, a traveling party from the Cloudmist Domain of the Emerald Duchy faced catastrophe in Longwind Hills.

This was Crescent Moon Federation territory, a core human region. Captain Paven, the guard leader, never imagined they’d face an orc legion ambush here.

He’d followed military protocols meticulously, posting scouts on the high grounds flanking the road even while traveling on the main route. But their only contribution was a fleeting ten seconds of warning.

“Orcs—!!!”

The scout’s piercing cry was cut short as he was skewered into a bloody mess. Within moments, enemy cavalry leaped from the slopes.

One rider, ten, twenty, thirty… more and more ferocious figures crested the ridge, charging down with thunderous momentum!

By the time they entered human sight, they were already at full gallop.

The instant the scout sounded the alarm, Paven issued a battle alert, but seeing the enemy’s formation and scale, his heart sank.

These were the elite wolf cavalry of the orc tribes.

The wolves of the Starry Continent were clearly not the same as Blue Star’s. These mounts from the Shattered Stone Plateau, over two and a half meters long and nearly four hundred kilograms, were ferocious, prolific, and the orcs’ most trusted battle companions.

Crucially, their spines and shoulder bones had undergone a bizarre mutation, forming a reinforced back with the longissimus and iliocostalis muscles, enabling their once-flimsy spines to bear the weight of burly orc warriors, vastly enhancing their mobility.

In the millennium-long, bloody history between humans and orcs, wolf cavalry roars had repeatedly torn through human lines and outflanked elven rearguards like specters.

When their low, menacing howls echoed across plains, valleys, or town ruins, even the hardiest Silver Alliance veterans’ eyes would involuntarily cloud with blood.

Now, on this official Crescent Moon Federation road, at least a full squadron, over a hundred fully armored wolf cavalry, their mounts clad in menacing head and chest guards, charged toward the human caravan with overwhelming force!

“What are Crescent Moon’s guards doing? How did they let these beasts through??”

“Spread the formation! Right-front sector, full draw! Fire arrows! Fire!”

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