"What do you make of Jerome's report?"
An emergency meeting had been called at the head branch of the Yubes caravan, to which Jerome belonged.
A secret basement protected by magic.
Yesterday an emergency dispatch had come flying in to the caravan.
Such dispatches went out only when a caravan was in danger of being wiped out, or when something happened that would decide its future.
"Jerome may only be a third-class merchant, but he's the stuff of a future first-class caravan master. He wouldn't lie."
"Going by the dispatch alone, this is enormous. If we can be supplied with dwarf-made goods, the caravan's standing could shoot up."
"Even so, we can't believe it blindly, can we? Jerome is at the Count of Bersha's castle right now. It bothers me that he sent the letter from a place cursed by a fiend—not even a magic beast."
"Hmm..."
The Yubes caravan's four first-class caravan masters reviewed the documents.
Grand Caravan Master Kalmon, seated at the head, listened to them all with his eyes closed.
Kalmon was eighty this year.
He'd started as a fifth-class merchant and worked his way up to where he was today.
He'd lived a life his full head of white hair had no reason to be ashamed of.
Even he was torn.
Thirty-one years had passed since the Kroyan Empire fell.
The great lords and the old kingdoms had broken away.
The caravan, which had run without trouble for hundreds of years, had been hit hard.
Tolls were collected everywhere.
Monsters and magic beasts ran rampant across the continent.
The cost of guarding the caravan rose by the day.
Even an ordinary trading run barely turned a profit.
"They say he can even command spirits. He's a suspicious man."
"Nothing is known of this Count Becker's past, either. Even the information guild says there's no such noble."
"Later, other nobles could charge him with impersonation. You must proceed with caution."
The gray-haired first-class caravan masters spoke carefully.
"They say the Arsha caravan and the Luaran caravan are merging. At this rate, our caravan can only be weeded…