My Fusion System: Fusing Weak Soldiers with Direwolves at the Start-Chapter 35: Massive Purchase

Kaelor flipped through the brittle pages of the worn book, his brows knitting tighter with each turn. Crude illustrations of sword swings filled the parchment, vertical slashes, diagonal cuts, and horizontal strokes so basic that even a militia recruit would scoff at them.

Every page seemed to echo simplicity, too much simplicity.

His lips thinned as he read on.

Accompanying these drawings were long, winding passages filled with the writer’s philosophical ramblings. The sword, it claimed, was not the true weapon. "The heart is the blade. The soul, its edge." Page after page, the writer preached about will, intent, and purpose, delving more into why one fought rather than how.

Compared to what Kaelor remembered from the previous Kaelor’s memories, training drills, aura control, the techniques of true Swordmasters, this read like the musings of a wandering monk. No forms, no mana manipulation, no battle techniques or advanced footwork. Just the mindless repetition of basics and some idealistic nonsense about channeling one’s heart.

Kaelor’s face darkened as he neared the end, disappointment tightening his jaw. But then, he turned the final page.

And everything stopped.

His pupils dilated. The ink was faded, but he could read it perfectly.

Mandarin.

Words not from this world, but from Earth.

His heart stuttered as he read the line aloud in his mind:

’I wish I had known this when I first came to this world. It’s the heart, it’s the basics, not the weapon. This is why rogues are better than soldiers.’ His fingers trembled slightly. ’End of Book 1, by Arthur the Supreme One.’

Kaelor’s entire being froze.

Arthur the Supreme One... Was the Human Emperor!

The realization thundered through him like a lightning strike. The most revered man in the continent’s history, was also transmigrated! Just like him. And this... this was his first book?

It all made sense now. The primitive teachings, the obsessive focus on the heart, the basic forms, this wasn’t a Swordmaster’s manual.

It was the blueprint of someone who had once been lost in this world. The notes of a man who had to start from the bottom, just like Kaelor.

His gaze sharpened. This was a relic, a guide meant for someone like him.

That means there could be more.

He leaned back slightly, closing the book with reverence, though his face wore the same indifferent mask.

Across the desk, Grant watched him carefully. He’d noticed the shift, the grimace, the frown, the look of disappointment. His shoulders subtly relaxed. ’I feared it was real,’ he thought.

"Are you done?" Grant asked, smiling as if he’d already marked up the price.

Kaelor gave him a small nod, masking the storm within. "Yes. It’s... a very humble read."

With a quiet breath, Kaelor laced his fingers together and leaned forward slightly. "How many slaves do you have?"

Grant raised a single brow, already intrigued. "Roughly 1,400 in our custody. About 300 of them are elderly or children under the age of five, mostly unfit for hard labor but still usable in certain ways."

He adjusted the cuff of his long-sleeved tunic and continued smoothly, "Among them, I have ten leather armourers. All novice-ranked, but decent with the tools. I’ll let each one go for ten silver coins."

Kaelor’s eyes flicked, calculating silently.

Grant gave a tight smile before pushing on. "There’s also an armour tailor, adept rank. The man can produce silver-tier gambesons with the proper materials. Lost an eye during a raid, but his hands and skill remain intact. Fifty silver coins for him."

Kaelor said nothing, prompting Grant to shift slightly, adjusting his posture with the weight of a deeper offer.

"Ah, and perhaps something more refined, a steward. Literate, multilingual, trained in etiquette and estate management. He was educated in the Holy Alliance, at the feet of those who still revere the Human Emperor’s legacy. He’s... fallen from grace, so to speak. His father gambled him into servitude. But trust me, he’ll cling to a new master like life itself if it means getting out of that cage."

Kaelor’s gaze sharpened. "You keep them in cages?"

Grant tilted his head as if the question puzzled him. "Where else does one keep valuable property?"

Kaelor let out a thin smile, masking the irritation behind his eyes. "I’ll take the steward."

Grant’s face brightened like someone hearing the jingle of coins in a tavern purse. "One gold coin."

Kaelor nodded once, curt. "Whether a gold coin or ten, if he’s worth what you claim, I’ll take him. In fact..." he leaned back, voice calm but firm, "I’ll take all of them. Every last slave in your custody."

Grant blinked. For a second, he seemed unsure if he’d heard correctly. But when Kaelor’s stare remained unflinching, he straightened with a barely concealed gleam in his eye.

"Let’s see..." he murmured, fingers moving like an abacus in the air. "That’s 1,100 silver coins for the unskilled. Another 150 for the elderly and children. Add 100 silver coins for the leather armourers, 50 for the armour tailor, and 100 for the steward..."

He cleared his throat again, slower this time, perhaps to savor the number. "Comes to a total of 1,500 silver coins. That’s exactly 15 gold coins."

Kaelor didn’t react, so Grant pressed on, voice practically humming with satisfaction. "And if we include the five hundred pounds of wrought iron and the booklet, that adds another 110 gold coins. Your final total would stand at 125 gold coins."

He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Of course, if you’re in need of anything else, the Golden Scales has more to offer. We’ve sacks of wheat seeds and grain, draft horses, wagons, mules. Even trained hounds and house servants. Let me guess... building something grand, are we?"

Kaelor offered a slow, knowing smile. "Let’s just say... it’s a good time to invest."

After Kaelor finalized the purchase of 600 bags of grain at 50 copper coins apiece, totaling 300 silver coins, he moved on to his next acquisitions without pause. 300 trained hounds were secured for a hefty 150 gold coins, each valued at 50 silver coins, bred for obedience and strength.

To haul the goods and his future workforce, he bought 10 sturdy draft horses and 5 reinforced wagons, each wagon groaning under the weight of opportunity.

When the last sack was loaded and the guards made their final checks, Kaelor departed under the curtain of nightfall, cloaked and hooded, with his convoy stretching like a dark snake into the distance.

From within the merchant tent, the Swordmaster leaned toward Grant, his voice low and edged like the blade he carried.

"You do realize," he murmured, "you might be funding a faction that will go to war with the Baron? No one buys that much and then asks for your return in two months unless they’re preparing for something... large."

Grant let out a calm chuckle, sipping from a goblet of spiced wine as his eyes lingered on the last torchlight fading into the night.

"If he brings more gold than the Baron ever has," he said smoothly, "then that’s a customer worth protecting."

The Swordmaster grunted but pressed on. "You’re not curious? Don’t you want to find out where he’s going?"

Grant’s gaze sharpened, eyes narrowing like a seasoned predator reading the wind. "He’s no fool. Moving over a thousand people, three hundred trained hounds, and a mountain of grain will not go unnoticed. The Baron will hear of it... soon."

He paused, swirling his wine. "Which means... Kaelor has already accounted for that."

The Swordmaster fell silent, and for a moment, the tent was filled only with the whisper of wind through canvas and the soft clink of coins being counted just beyond the flap.

The source of this c𝐨ntent is fre𝒆w(e)bn(o)vel