Sugar Rush (3)

“Other plantation owners probably warned you plenty of times to stop what you’re doing right now. But you ignored those warnings and let it come to this. You probably thought, ‘This isn’t war—I’m just doing the right thing, and I can prove that you can still profit while giving more to the workers. If I eat a little less, the problem solves itself. Why can’t others do the same?’ Right?”

Azadine had nailed it.

Randa Banema saw the other plantation owners who warned her as hollow beings stuffed with insatiable greed no matter how much was shoved into their mouths.

She mocked their greed and foolishness, but had overlooked the fact that such greed was laced with the cunning passed down for generations to protect their wealth.

She looked down on them as blind with avarice and ignited the first spark of battle without the resolve to kill or be killed. And now, flustered, she had summoned a Messenger with an imperial coin.

Azadine had seen through everything about Randa Banema.

“Are you criticizing me now? I only acted with good intentions!”

“Good intentions without strength or strategy often bring about the worst outcomes.”

“……”

Randa Banema was left speechless by Azadine’s rebuke.

“So what do you want me to do? Just give up and enter a political marriage and adopt slavery like the rest? Betray the farmhands who trusted me and crush their expectations now?”

“M-Madam.”

Her bodyguards were startled by Randa Banema’s wavering tone. Yet some of them secretly felt relieved.

Unless she was willing to go to war with every surrounding plantation, there was no overturning this situation.

But war?

Those who’d lived their whole lives in Bel Hoda knew it well. If a fight started over this, endless bloodshed would drown all of Bel Hoda.

The sugar plantations of Bel Hoda were so wealthy that each one was practically a great noble house. Once war began, no one would back down until their vast riches ran dry—and the land would remain soaked in blood until then.

Wouldn’t it be better to surrender and keep the peace?

It was just then—

“Ah. Don’t worry, Petitioner. What I said was only to share an understanding of the current situation. I have no intention of breaking your will.”

Azadine smiled and pointed to Randa Banema.

“I like people like you. Most folks have neither goodwill nor wisdom. Those who at least have goodwill? Incredibly rare.”

“……”

Was that a compliment or an insult? He basically just said to her face she’s dumb—but the guy’s smiling as if he meant it, even though he was blind….

Usually that kind of smile would come off as mockery. But at this moment, it felt genuinely pleasing.

“Your mood swings are wild. I don’t know what tune I’m supposed to dance to here. I get it now—I lacked strength and wisdom and made reckless choices. But even so, I can’t compromise with them. Messenger Clan, lend me your strength and wisdom. How far are you willing to go?”

“Hmm. Then let’s define the petition like this. From now on, no plantation in Bel Hoda shall kidnap or exploit people as slaves or in any similar condition. And Randa Banema, I will ensure your family does not fall through armed conflict between plantations. How about that?”

“Huh?”

Randa Banema was stunned by Azadine’s words.

She had feared, since he came at her with criticism from the start, that she would have to sacrifice far more. But the scope of Azadine’s proposed petition was nearly the best outcome she could’ve hoped for.

“Is that even possible?”

“Well, with enough strength and will, sure.”

“…Will.”

“Let’s start by persuading the other plantation owners. If we can end this through reason instead of bloodshed, all the better. So, can we leave this arena now?”

When Azadine asked that, Randa Banema nodded.

And then—

Whoosh!

Azadine’s body shifted—he lightly kicked off the ground and sprang up, grabbing the railing of Randa Banema’s VIP seat with one hand.

“Good heavens.”

Too fast. Just like with the arrow earlier—if Azadine had wanted to, Randa Banema wouldn’t have survived. Even with negotiations taking place in such a seemingly safe location, she felt chills down her spine.

“Then I shall accept the petition.”

The Bel Hoda Sugar Industry Guild quickly caught wind of the arrival of a member of the Messenger Clan.

The noble families who had long established roots in Bel Hoda were all interconnected—farmhands across plantations were cousins, in-laws, friends, classmates, seniors, or juniors of one another when traced back far enough.

Even those from the Banema Plantation had ties to workers from other plantations in the Bel Hoda Sugar Industry Guild, and through those connections, Randa Banema had been under constant surveillance.

“Messenger Clan, huh. What do you all think?”

Inside the Sugar Industry Guild’s clubhouse, the plantation owners were playing billiards with ivory-made balls as they conversed.

Billiards and bowling were trendy pastimes in Vthuma, and billiards especially served well to flaunt one’s wealth.

These plantation owners crafted their billiard sets from luxurious materials, competing with one another in extravagance and indulgence.

“So the Messenger Clan really showed up? I wasn’t sure they were even real.”

“They certainly exist. Haven’t you heard the rumor that they took over Coral Sahar recently?”

“Sure, I heard that. But there were so many rumors—one even said Nagas attacked Coral Sahar instead.”

“Well, those soulless blasphemers… the clan that killed the Heavenly King. It’s remarkable that they still maintain such cohesion even centuries after the emperor’s fall.”

Though they marveled at the Messenger Clan’s arrival, their words lacked any sense of danger.

Even the tales of the clan’s strength and relentless mission focus didn’t faze them.

After all, they were rich, commanded armies rivaling those of nobility, and had hired highly skilled adventurers.

The infamous reputation of the Messenger Clan, and even the insults toward their souls, only served to stir a different kind of interest among them.

“I heard the Messenger Clan operates by rank. What rank is this one?”

“Second Messenger.”

The informant replied.

The plantation owner holding the cue stick paused.

“Second Messenger?”

“That’s… pretty high, right?”

A plantation owner, cutting his cigar and lighting it, hawked loudly and spat. A servant caught the phlegm on a silver tray and silently carried it outside.

“A Second Messenger, huh. How many of them came?”

“Uh, one from the Messenger Clan, two men, and one woman.”

“Two men and one woman? Just four of them?”

“Yes. One of the men wears a blue scarf, likely from the Blue Turban Party. The other is extremely muscular and seems to be a follower of the Taina faith—he’s always lying on the floor. The woman is stunning but wields a curved blade and wears a veil of chains, like the Nagas.”

“A Naga woman?”

“She looks human on the outside.”

A curved blade was heavy and large—not something easily handled by a woman. Either she’s a magician who augmented her strength with spells, or she really was a Naga.

“I don’t know if she’s a Naga, but since none of the others carry bows, I think only the man is from the Messenger Clan.”

“So one actual Messenger, and the rest are just tagalongs? A Second Messenger should have more subordinates. So what are they doing?”

“Well…”

The informant hesitated.

“From what I heard, they’re just hanging around at Banema Plantation, eating.”

“Just eating?”

“They arrived yesterday, so maybe they’re resting off travel fatigue.”

“Hmm.”

A reasonable explanation. Traveling did wear you down. You couldn’t expect much action when you’re exhausted.

But what if they’re not tired?

“Could they be waiting for reinforcements?”

Some offered cautious speculation, but a young, ambitious plantation owner puffed up his chest and stepped forward.

“Whatever it is, does it really matter? I’ll handle it.”

“You’ll handle it?”

“Yes. My plantation frequently contracts adventurers to deal with magical beasts that show up—these guys are quite formidable.”

“Well, we’re not lacking in that regard either.”

The plantation owners had not only armed their serfs into private armies but had also hired A-rank and higher adventurers from the Cell Sword Guild at their own expense.

Though the adventurers were paid mercenaries, long-term contracts had fostered loyalty and affection between employer and hired hand. The owners took pride in the skill and fame of their personal adventurers.

And now, the Messenger Clan was the perfect opportunity to make a name.

What if their hired adventurer took down a Messenger?

The desires and vanity of these plantation owners—long dulled by luxury—suddenly reawakened and writhed with ambition.

“A Second Messenger, huh? If we beat him, it’d be a fine title for our adventurers.”

“So what should we do? Should my sponsored team be the first to challenge them? I’d like to see how strong a Second Messenger really is…”

“Trying to go first, huh?”

“Oh come on, we don’t know his full abilities. I’m taking the risk, right? If I fail, you’ll have more information—it’ll be easier for the next guy.”

“We can’t let you shoulder that burden alone. I’ll lead the charge.”

“Dear Salco, at your age? You really ought to stop getting excited like a fighting dog.”

The plantation owners joked and jostled, arguing over who’d get the first crack at the Messenger Clan.

Then—

Knock knock.

“Is anyone home?”

A voice came from outside the door.

And then—the clubhouse door exploded inward with a crash. It was as if a catapult had hurled it down.

Yet the servants stepped in, catching the flying door with astonishing skill.

This clubhouse was a haven for plantation owners weary from indulging alone—where they’d gather to flaunt their depravity. Bodyguards were stationed everywhere.

The servants absorbed the door’s force and gently set it down.

“My, excuse me. Impressive skill.”

The one who had mimicked the knocking sound with his mouth and walked in was a masked young man.