Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king - Chapter 410

Chapter 410: Among the tribes(3) Chapter 410: Among the tribes(3) Varaku was momentarily taken aback.

Three thousand warriors, all clad in steel?

The number alone was staggering.

His first instinct was to dismiss it as an outrageous lie-boastful words meant to intimidate, as any trader might do to make himself seem grander than he truly was.

But as his mind worked through the claim, doubts crept in.

The foreigner had not come empty-handed, nor had he made empty promises.

The goods he spoke of-salt, wine, and steel-were not rare trinkets doled out in small amounts but things he had offered freely, as if they were as common to him as air.

He also said they had more in the ships.  Steel was not something to be handed over lightly, yet this man had done so without hesitation, as though it were of little consequence.

That meant only one thing: they had it in abundance.  Their value after all was only proportionate to how they could get them, which was only by trading with the Azanians.This meant that only the truly powerful in a tribe could boast to have steel-weapon and chainmail, or as they called them Chain-cloth or Steel cloth.

And even then those with armor only were less than a few hundred.

Varaku glanced at the blade Aron had presented earlier, now resting against the table.

It was finer than anything his own warriors wielded-its edge sharper, its craftsmanship superior, and it was just a short blade.

The man in front of him had not even haggled over it, but gifted it.

A man who possessed little would have clung to such an item like a lifeline, yet this foreigner had given it away with the ease of a man who knew he could always get more.

The realization struck him hard.

If what Aron claimed was true-if his people truly had the means to arm thousands in such steel-then the strength they wielded was unimaginable, and as such what could they offer them?

Aron allowed a small, knowing smile to curl at the edges of his lips.

He could see the doubt lingering in Varaku’s eyes, the way the tribal leader wrestled with the sheer scale of what he had just been told.

But he wasn’t finished-not yet.

It was time to drive the point deeper, to make them understand just how small they were in comparison.

With a flick of his hand, he gestured .

At once, two of his servants , that had followed him in, stepped forward, carrying something large and rectangular, draped beneath a heavy cloth.

They moved with care, their faces betraying no emotion as they placed the object onto the table before Varaku.

Aron took a deliberate step forward, then, with a slow and practiced motion, he pulled the cloth away.

Beneath it lay a breastplate, gleaming even in the dim light of the great hut.

Its polished steel reflected the flickering flames of the firepit, the craftsmanship evident in every curve and rivet.  Aron let the silence stretch, watching as Varaku’s eyes traced over the armor, his fingers instinctively tightening on the armrests of his chair.

Only then did he speak.

“A fine blade,” he said, his voice smooth and measured, “deserves to be paired with an equally fine armor.” He reached out, tapping the breastplate lightly with his knuckle.

A sharp metallic ring echoed through the hut.

“This,” Aron continued, “is the standard equipment of a Yarzat soldier.The steel-cloth you wore when you marched to our camp.

That, noble chief, is merely the underlayer of the equipment of any Yarzat’s soldier.

This-” he gestured to the breastplate, “-is what is worn on top.” He saw the way Varaku’s jaw tensed, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach out and feel the weight of the armor himself.

Aron did not give him the satisfaction.

Not yet.

“I would be honored,” Aron said, inclining his head slightly, “if you would wear it in battle the next time you fight.” He let his words linger, then took a step closer, his gaze locking onto Varaku’s.

“No blade, no spear, no arrow can pierce this.

It is unbreakable by any steel forged by man.” He could see the way Varaku’s throat moved as he swallowed.

Doubt had already been sown, but now-now came the realization of just how vast the gap between them truly was.

Aron exhaled lightly, feigning casual indifference as he pushed the breastplate toward Varaku.

“Try it,” he said smoothly.

Varaku hesitated, glancing at Aron before looking down at the steel plate before him.

He reached out, running his fingers over the smooth, polished surface.

It was heavier than it looked, yet far from unwieldy.

Aron, sensing his hesitation, acted before doubt could take root.

With a deliberate motion, he reached for the dagger at Varaku’s belt, drawing it free with ease.

The blade was bronze-dull in color, well-used, but still sharp enough to gut a man.

“Go on,” Aron said, flipping the dagger in his grip before handing it back to Varaku hilt-first.

“Stab it.” Varaku’s eyes flicked up,he did nto need a translate for it .He searched Aron’s face for any sign of trickery.

He found none.

His grip tightened around the dagger, and then, with a sharp breath, he thrust it downward into the steel.

A loud metallic clang rang through the hut.

Varaku’s mouth parted slightly as he stared at the blade, his breath caught in his throat.

The armor had not only stopped the strike-there wasn’t even a dent.

Instead, it was the dagger that had suffered.

Along its edge, a jagged chip had formed, a piece of the bronze curling away uselessly.ù Aron allowed the silence to linger, watching as Varaku slowly withdrew the dagger, his fingers brushing over the flawless steel as if to confirm that his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

The warlord’s expression was frozen, his mouth slightly agape, the weight of realization settling over him like a shroud.

Aron folded his arms across his chest, the ghost of a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“Of course,” he continued, his tone almost apologetic, “such craftsmanship does not come cheap.

A single breastplate is costly, and few rulers can afford to outfit their warriors in such protection.” That much, at least, was true.

What was a lie, however, was the notion that Alpheo could easily field 3,000 men clad in such armor.

In reality, only his private infantry-the White Army-were granted such luxury.

Outfitting just 800 of them had taken an entire year of relentless work.

The cost was staggering.

A single breastplate alone was worth twenty silverii, and when paired with chainmail, leg armor, and a helmet, the price surged to forty-five silverii.

Add to that the weapons-spears, shields, maces, or axes-and each soldier required an investment of at least fifty-five silverii.

It was a fortune, one that could equip three times as many lesser troops with simpler gear.

But that was precisely why the White Army was feared.

They were always given the hardest battles, the deadliest fights, yet they suffered the fewest casualties.

Their armor turned blades and shattered enemy weapons, turning their foes’ best efforts into fruitless struggles.

Aron exhaled, watching Varaku’s stunned expression as he processed the sheer strength of the armor before him.

Then, without missing a beat, he leaned forward slightly, his voice smooth but firm.

“As you can see,” Aron said, his hands spreading out in an open gesture, “everything you have listed-your furs, your wool, your goats and sheep-is of no interest to us.

My prince has no need for them.Given what we are offering is clear that there is an inbalance.” Varaku’s brows furrowed at that, and for a brief moment, something like frustration flickered across his face, as the man translated everything .

Then, as if grasping at the last thread of hope, he straightened slightly and asked, “Then… is there anything that you do wish for from us?” Aron nodded.

The gesture was small, but it hit Varaku like a hammer to the chest.

His shoulders, which had been held tense in uncertainty, loosened ever so slightly, and a barely audible sigh of relief escaped his lips.

It was as if he had wandered the endless dunes of a desert, dying of thirst, only to finally see water glimmering on the horizon.

Only for that water to become an illusion, luckily this was not the case.

For the first time since this negotiation had begun, Varaku felt a rare emotion slip into his chest-uncertainty.

He had assumed they would barter as equals, but now, for the first time, he wasn’t sure if that was the case.

His eyes settled back on the foreigner, his voice measured as he finally spoke.

“And what,” he asked carefully, “is it that you desire from us?” Aron held Varaku’s gaze, letting the weight of the moment settle between them.

Then, with a calm and deliberate tone, he spoke.

“Of all the things we need… of all the things we want… there is one thing that you can provide and to which luckily you have in abundance.” He paused, allowing the anticipation to coil like a tightened rope.

“People.”