The fire pit inside the tent burned brightly. The charcoal was the hardwood type brought up from the south just yesterday; it produced no smoke, only a thin wave of heat lingering beneath the canvas roof.

Karl sat in the chief seat, leaning against a stone chair covered with snow bear hide, and signaled to the newcomer.

"Sit."

"Yes, Commander."

Grol let the tent flap fall shut, leaving just a slit to keep the cold out, then sat on a low stool beside the brazier.

The warm firelight bathed his body, making this place feel much more comfortable than outside.

Karl picked up a clay pot, poured a bowl of water, and pushed it in front of Grol.

Grol cupped the bowl with both hands, took a sip, then put the bowl back down.

"How's the camp these past few days?"

"Not bad. The wounded can eat and sleep, much better than last month."

"Is there enough to eat?"

"Enough. The food the Slimes sent hasn't all been used, and we still have some tubers and dried meat. The wounded get two hot meals a day—wheat porridge in the morning, meat soup or roasted tubers at night. Full bellies help wounds heal faster."

Karl nodded, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest twice.

"What about casualties?"

Grol took a folded, battered cloth from his breast, unfolded it, and held it up to the firelight to read the writing on it.

"In the past seven days, eleven killed, twenty-three severely wounded, much fewer than before."

Karl's fingers paused for a moment.

"Reduced that much?"

Grol nodded. "With the Slimes' food and bandages, the wounded are in better condition and can hold on. Deaths dropped dramatically."

Actually, with orcs' bear-like constitution, even severe wounds can slowly heal if they eat well and sleep warm.

He wasn't exaggerating.

"What about medicine? Have you used the medicine the Slimes sent?"

Grol: "Some were used, but most are still in the boxes."

Karl's gaze landed on his face.

"Why?"

Grol rubbed his hands on his knees. Even an old orc like him felt nervous under the direct stare of the Palaver commander.

"The ingredients in those medicines are indeed fine, but I'm not sure they work. Food and bandages the Slimes sent are tangible—eat them, wrap wounds with them, you can tell good from bad at once."

"But medicine is different. Once you swallow it, whether it works isn't known immediately."

He paused, as if weighing his words.

"I've been a physician for over sixty years. I've seen too many people bring so-called miracle cures—some did nothing, some made things worse. Those who sent the medicine often don't understand it themselves; they just heard it's good and bought it to give away. I'm not saying the Slimes are like that, but... I'm not certain."

Karl said nothing. He picked up the clay pot, poured water into his own bowl, drank a mouthful, and then set it down.

"So you're waiting."

"Yes. Solk's condition is dangerous—his wound got infected and he's still feverish—so I gave him some of the medicine and will observe the effect in a few days. If it works, we'll use it on the others; if not..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but the meaning was clear.

Footsteps sounded outside the tent, urgent, crunching on the snow as they drew nearer.

Grol turned his head, and Karl raised his eyes too.

The tent flap was thrown open.

A young orc soldier stood at the entrance, chest heaving, white breath puffing from his mouth.

His cheeks were reddened by the cold, but his eyes were bright.

"Lord Karl, Grol, Solk—his leg is healed!"

Grol rose from the stool.

"What?"

"Solk—this afternoon he took the medicine the Slimes sent, and tonight the pain in his leg is gone. When we removed the bandage, the wound had already closed; new flesh has grown."

Grol glanced at Karl, who had already stood up from his chair.

"Go see."

When they stepped outside the tent the wind was a bit gentler than during the day, but still biting cold, as if ice water had been poured into their noses.

The camp's fires still burned bright. The pile nearest the tent was surrounded by more people than during daytime; several layers of onlookers stood there, voices crackling as they spoke.

When the crowd saw Karl approach, they automatically opened a path.

Solk sat on a stone beside the fire, the injured leg stretched out and resting on a pad of dry grass. The bandage lay fully removed beside his knee.

The firelight fell on his leg and illuminated the wound.

The cut that had run from above the knee down to the middle of the calf was still there, but it no longer looked as it had during the day.

The blackened edges had completely faded, replaced by baby-pink skin. The yellowish pus in the center had vanished, replaced by a layer of light brown scab whose edges had begun to curl, revealing tender new skin beneath.

Solk saw Karl approaching and instinctively tried to rise.

"Com...Commander."

"Sit. Don't hurry."

Karl walked up to Solk, patted his shoulder, then crouched to examine the leg.

The action startled Solk; his shoulders tensed reflexively.

Karl didn't look at him. He extended two fingers and lightly pressed the skin at the edge of the wound.

The pink skin depressed slightly under his fingertips, then sprang back when released, returning to its original state.

He lifted Solk's leg, bent the knee a little, and rotated the ankle.

Solk was handled this way without a sound, but his breathing grew heavier, as if he were holding it in.

Karl finally put the leg down and stood.

"All right."

Grol stepped forward from behind Karl, squatted, and performed his own examination.

When he finished, he remained crouched, staring at the wound for a long time.

"Incredible..."

He raised his head and looked at Solk.

"You only took one this afternoon?"

Solk nodded.

"You didn't apply anything else?"

"No."

Grol rubbed his hands on his knees, the same motion he'd made inside the tent.

"This isn't like herbal medicine. Herbs can't do this so fast. Even the best physicians on the snowy plains, with the best medicines, would take seven or eight days to close a wound like this. This is...this is only half a day."

He paused.

"This is more like alchemist work."

"Those human alchemists can mix minerals and herbs into strange compounds with effects far stronger than normal medicine, but their recipes aren't shared and the prices are terrifying."

He produced the clay jar containing the pills, turning it over and over in his hands.

"Where did the Slimes get this stuff?"

No one answered.

Karl stood near the fire, patted his shoulder.

"The Slimes meant well."

"Tomorrow use up all those medicines. If there's not enough, ask the Slime Kingdom for more."

Only now had he let down his guard toward the Slime Kingdom, truly acknowledging those doughy little allies from the heart.

Grol nodded.

Karl turned and walked a few paces, then stopped.

He looked back at Solk. The young orc still stood there, hands pressed along his trouser seams, finally managing to lift his gaze a little as he watched Karl's retreating back.

"Get well and rest. When you're better, come to my tent. I have work for you."

"Yes."

Karl left.

People around the fire kept lingering, chewing their food and enthusing.

"Those little blobs really know their stuff."

"If only I'd known sooner I wouldn't have had the limb amputated."

"Come on, you froze your arm yourself."

Storm Territory's northern defense line, the main hall of Iron Thorn Fortress.

Winter sunlight filtered through the glazed windows, lighting half of the long table while the other half lay in shadow.

On the table were several teacups and delicate pastries. The teacups were white porcelain with blue flowers, from a local kiln in the Storm Territory. The sweets included a dish of honey cake, one of dried fruits, and another of small pieces of pickled meat.

These were not ordinary fare for Slimes; they were for hosting guests.

An orc envoy sat on the shady side of the long table.

He was not particularly tall for an orc, but clever and cautious, which was why he had been sent as the envoy for dealings with the Slime Kingdom.

Opposite him sat a Slime, perched on a specially made high stool, its round body collapsed in a blob.

This Slime's gel was pale green, like spring shoots, and its status was notable: it came from the Oak Tree Academy in the swamp, one of the first pupils personally cultivated by the King.

Although the Oak Tree Academy had become the swamp's elementary school, that fact did not diminish its standing among Slimes.

The orc envoy took a letter from his breast and handed it over.

"Mr. Tzim, we have received the supplies. Lord Karl asked me to convey the Slime Kingdom's thanks."

The Slime envoy bounced once from its chair, landed on the tabletop, and curiously glanced at the letter before happily wobbling its gel.

"That's good."

"Our people liked those tubers. They said they were sweeter than the things from the snowy plains."

"Glad they like them. We have plenty more; we'll send more next shipment. We also have moss monster dried meat that keeps well—won't spoil for half a year."

"That stuff's tasty—more tender than jerky."

"Heh heh, the Kingdom researched it for years to make it—soak in brine, air-dry, then smoke. Many steps."

When it came to food, the two envoys seemed to have endless topics.

Then the orc envoy deliberately brought up a different subject. "By the way, Mr. Tzim, do you still have that new medicine you sent over?"

Tzim paused, then his whole body seemed to sag a little, letting out a slow sigh.

"What's wrong?" the orc asked.

"We don't have enough money."

The orc's fingers on the tabletop twitched.

"What money?"

Tzim looked worried. "Money to buy more medicine."

"We're allies, friends. The Kingdom wants to send more medicine, but the kind you requested isn't made by us. We bought it from southern alchemists."

"To prepare enough supplies for the army, the Treasury is nearly empty. Those alchemists won't hand it over without coin. We have no choice."

"The batch we sent cost ten thousand gold coins to purchase, three hundred pills in total. And that was just one batch. If you want more, the price climbs."

Tzim sagged a little more.

"Our Slime Kingdom is poor, you know. Nothing in the swamp grows wheat or fruit trees; our food is what human settlers scratch from the mud."

"Last time, to raise money for that batch we borrowed from the southern Merchant Alliance at terrifying interest. The first repayment is due next month and we haven't gathered enough."

The orc envoy also sighed. He hadn't expected the Slimes to sacrifice so much on their behalf and found himself moved.

But supply matters concerned the army, and he couldn't relent. The army couldn't carry too many gold coins on the march; they were heavy and took up space better used for food and arrows.

So the orc army's coin reserves were small, mostly taken from local nobles' coffers. He could only probe cautiously. "How much more can you provide?"

Tzim wobbled its gel. "Other supplies we can provide free, but the new medicine we cannot."

The orc envoy clenched his teeth. "If we pay, then? Ten thousand gold coins—we can pay ten thousand."

Ten thousand gold coins was already most of the orc army's assets.

But ten thousand coins could only buy three hundred pills; honestly, it wasn't enough for a month's consumption by the orcs.

But they truly had no more money.

Tzim bounced. "Actually, there is another way."

"What way?"

"You have captured much territory from the White Horse Kingdom, right?"

The orc nodded.

"There are mines under those lands, correct?"

Another nod.

"Do you mine them?"

The orc envoy was taken aback.

"No. Orcs fight well, but don't mine. Besides, those mines are near Demon territory; our people can't spare the effort."

Tzim nodded in satisfaction.

"Good. You grant us the mining rights and we'll dig. We sell the ore and buy medicine with the proceeds. The medicine is for you, the mines remain yours; after the war you can take them back."

"And tax-exempt. When ore is transported through your checkpoints, you waive the taxes so we can save more and buy more medicine."

"Provided you first pay one hundred thousand gold coins. After that, we'll raise the rest for future medicine purchases by mining."

The orc envoy was moved—he hadn't expected these little blobs to show such resolve.

What a splendid ally.

"You're talking about that adamantine mine?"

"Yes, yes!"

The mine the Slime referred to was known to the orc envoy.

The White Horse Kingdom's adamantine mine was renowned across the northern continent.

Adamantine was harder than iron, lighter than steel, corrosion-resistant, and could conduct Mana—something every blacksmith and alchemist dreamed of.

The reason the White Horse Kingdom's knight order had such fame was half due to horsemanship, half due to armor and weapons mixed with adamantine.

That mine lay in the kingdom's northwest, near the Forge Region. The vein extended from the mountainside hundreds of feet down; it's said it could be mined for centuries more.

After the Demon Legion occupied the Royal Capital, the mine ended up in the middle of the front line—no one could seize it or defend it.

"What do you want it for?" the orc envoy asked cautiously.

"To sell."

"When adamantine ore is transported south, each wagon can sell for several hundred gold coins. Dig ten wagons and you can buy a batch of medicine."

"The medicine is for your use; the mine remains on your land. We just provide manpower and pocket the margin."

Tzim's expression seemed sincere. The orc envoy found the face mostly naive, but the Slime was shrewd beyond that appearance.

It had learned from the King that the cost to make those healing pills was roughly eighty silver coins each—practically pennies.

Yet its quoted price to the orcs had been dozens of gold coins per pill—a markup of tens of times.

If the adamantine mine could be controlled by the Kingdom, every extracted piece would be pure profit, an absolute windfall.

While it couldn't immediately produce hundreds of thousands of gold coins, it promised steady returns.

With that mine, they could, over time, fund the construction of a second Floating Fortress by extending the work schedule to four years without relying solely on taxes.

Truthfully, the orc envoy was tempted by the proposal.

"I'll report to Lord Karl. Please wait for our reply." The envoy stood, nodded to the Slime envoy, and left.

He returned the next morning.

This time he moved quickly, snow and mud on his boots, face reddened by the wind, but his mouth curved upward—genuine joy shining through.

When he entered the hall, Tzim was sunning on the windowsill. Hearing footsteps it bounced off the sill, landed on the table, and steadied itself after two bounces.

"Agreed?"

The orc envoy nodded and produced a roll of parchment, laying it on the table.

"Lord Karl agreed. He'll first pay one hundred thousand gold coins. The mining rights to the adamantine mine will be granted, tax-exempt. The condition is you must send ten batches of medicine this month, and thereafter at least two batches per month, each batch no less than that first amount."

Tzim shuffled over to inspect the parchment and, seeing it was in order, happily wobbled its gel.

"Pleasure doing business."

"Pleasure doing business." The orc envoy grinned too.

It was clear both sides were very satisfied with the deal.

The orcs spent hoarded coins and unused mineral assets to gain precious medicine.

The Slimes received the gold they wanted—virtually pure profit.

Both felt they had profited.

But isn't that the nature of trade?