Conquering OtherWorld Starts With a Game - Chapter 172: Spectator Forces

Hal Maxwell lived the life of a wealthy industrial magnate’s son in the northern city of the Kenyan Empire until he was 16, while Tuttle Joe had been the promising heir of a middle-class family in Kargas, the capital of the Rhine Kingdom, before the age of 25. Both had seen the world and possessed a broader perspective than the average person who might marvel at the novelty of instant noodles.

When Yang deceived them into the depths of the Taranthan wilderness, unlike Finley, who had never known luxury, neither Hal nor Tuttle considered the supplies Yang provided as anything extraordinary.

Whether it was instant noodles made from refined flour or sealed packages of toast, loose cakes, starch sausages, or assorted snacks, none of it was beyond their understanding, except perhaps for the generous (or rather, excessive) use of industrial seasonings.

In any case, to Hal and Tuttle, the supplies Yang provided indicated his intention to win their loyalty but weren’t enough to secure their undying devotion. After all, both had experienced superior material comforts in the cities of the Kenyan Empire and the Rhine Kingdom, and what Yang offered did not surpass all that.

This “arrogant” mentality of theirs only received a slap in the face when they were sent on a mission in Indahl city.

The three former bandits were on a wanted list and couldn’t afford to freely indulge in luxury in a foreign city like Indahl. Moreover, with their limited funds, they could only linger in the taverns, inns, and free markets of Saint Joseph Street and had the opportunity to reacquaint themselves with the living conditions of the common folk in this world.

The lower-class folk of this world couldn’t enjoy the dubious privilege of being overwhelmed by industrial food products. The lower class didn’t have much financial strength and couldn’t sustain the massive market needed to support industrial food giants like those in America. Therefore, no monopoly could arise to dominate the citizens’ diets with ultra-low-cost junk food.

Having government-led initiatives to ensure food security… was even less likely.

Allowing the most populous commoners to live leisurely enough to ponder and question was against the interests of the ruling class. The more secure and slothful the rulers, the less they wanted their subjugated citizens to have the energy to revolt.

In other words, the living conditions of the common masses in this world were natural, devoid of industrial marks or additives. Food production was free of fertilizers and hormones, and the processing was rudimentary.

Of course, this results in high costs, low yields, inconsistent quality, and volatile market prices.

In the eastern part of Saint Joseph Street, near the river which cut through the city, over 20 ancient water-powered mills with stone grinding mechanisms provided the flour and cornmeal needed daily by the hundreds of thousands of citizens of Indahl. This roughly processed grain, full of bran and impurities, was turned into bread and cakes and distributed to households citywide.

Tuttle couldn’t take any more of this coarse bread made from crudely processed grain after just a few bites. Even though the tavern cook tried to enhance its flavor by spreading butter on one side and stuffing it with meat, vegetables, and jam, it couldn’t mask the fact that the bread was unpalatable and bland.

This “signature dish” of the tavern couldn’t compare to the semi-prepared dishes the orc girl Lyka heated up at the undead delicatessen or even the toasted bread Yang casually gave them weekly while they had been stationed at Exile Town.

Finley, who was used to such coarse bread from his childhood, was less critical, but he found the tavern’s home-brewed malt beer distasteful. How had he never realized how bad it was compared to the bottled beer sold at the undead delicatessen?

“I’ve already spread the word among the women of the street (streetwalkers) and given them some money to spread it. Last night, I got a reply that this news has already reached the high-end clubs on the north streets.”

While saying that, Tuttle saw several homeless children peeking into the tavern and casually tossed them the leftover bread, causing a scramble among the kids.

Seeing this, Finely also tossed over the remaining bread from his and Hal’s plates. Although he could still stomach it, this bread wasn’t worth it.

“Those idle young masters will surely go, but we can’t just rely on them.” Hal frowned. “Finley, what about you?”

“I went to the gambling houses on this street,” Finley said, struggling to sip the foul-tasting malt beer. “The news of the Weisshem’s new lord challenging the Radiant Sun Church’s knightly order to a battle of honor has piqued the interest of the gambling houses. Bets are open, and gamblers are placing their stakes. The bookies and those who’ve bet will definitely be interested in the outcome and will surely go to watch.”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Hal acknowledged Finley’s work.

“How’s everything on your end? Things going smoothly?” Tuttle inquired.

With a sly chuckle, Hal pulled out a copy of the Indahl Weekly, flipping it to the second page with a flourish to showcase the headline to his companions.

Tuttle and Finley simultaneously gave Hal thumbs-ups when they caught sight of the headline. Trust Hal to pull off something like this!

“That bastard editor even tried to haggle with me, asking for sky. So, I laid it out for him: Either my news makes the front page or the headline will be about the kidnapping of his mistress—entirely his choice,” Hal boasted proudly. “Tuttle recognized his wife as the darling daughter of a noble family from Kargas, right? I wanted to see just how tough this upstart, who climbed the ranks on his father-in-law’s coattails, really was.”

Tuttle couldn’t help but smile wryly… He had only casually mentioned recognizing the editor’s wife as a noblewoman from his hometown, and yet, Hal managed to leverage that tidbit so effectively.

“How did you know the editor had a mistress? You never mentioned that you knew Indah very well before,” Finley asked curiously.

“It’s because that piece of trash took on his wife’s family name,” Hal explained with a sneer. “Men who ride their wives’ coattails only to later despise them for overshadowing them are a dime a dozen. It’s obvious he’d seek validation from another woman.”

In other words… Hal had successfully intimidated the editor without even knowing for sure if he had a mistress, let alone who she was or where she was hidden.

Neither Tuttle nor Finley was surprised by Hal’s audacious tactic; after all, Hal had always been this brazen. As long as he saw even a sliver of a chance, he’d take the gamble.

Noticing the newspaper’s publication date was set for the next day, Tuttle let out a relieved sigh. “With this paper’s release, our mission here is complete. Shall we head back tomorrow?”

“There’s no rush.” Hal patted Tuttle’s shoulder while eyeing Finley intently. “Which gambling house opened bets? How reputable are they?”

Tuttle and Finley: “…”

Hal was never one to pass up an opportunity for gain…

All three of them were well aware of just how bothersome the undead could be; this wasn’t about a 30% chance of winning but about whether they’d pick up free money lying on the ground…

Without much hesitation, Tuttle and Finley decided to join in on the scheme.

Once it was confirmed that the largest underground bookie in Indahl, with its formidable capital, was opening bets, Hal, the cunning and ruthless former bandit gang leader, decided to make a big play.

First, he and his two companions skulked into the alleys of the inn district, subduing a dozen or so patrons of the night one after another.

Through a mix of threats and enticements, they coerced these individuals into signing what was, frankly, a fairly reasonable employment contract. With these unwilling souls now turned into “human collateral,” the trio went from one underground lender to another, securing a substantial sum through high-interest loans.

With a significant amount of betting money pooled together in just half a night, they then led these “human collaterals” to the gambling house, placing all their bets on a Weisshem victory.

Finally, just before dawn, they had each of these anxious and soon-to-be terrified patrons safely returned home, with their address memorized.

Having secured their large bets through such disconcertingly unorthodox means, the trio returned to the inn district, booked a room to catch up on sleep, and awaited the battle of honor with bated breath…

December 1, Tuesday, Earth time.

The 4th day of the 11th month, OtherWorld time, and a crisp autumn day.

Early in the morning, the youthful cries of paperboys could be heard throughout the various districts of Indahl—

“Today’s second-page headline! The new lord of Weisshem has challenged the Radiant Sun Church’s knights to battle!”

“The battle of honor between Lord Charlie Rex of Weisshem and the Radiant Sun Church! Not to be missed!”

Most workers and laborers, barely literate, couldn’t understand the newspapers and, reluctant to part with their few coppers, merely joined in the endless buzz of idle chatter.

But for the small-time bourgeois with spare change and time, the long-standing subscribers among the middle class, and the wealthy who’d caught wind of the event and even participated in the underground betting, the enthusiasm was palpably higher. Early in the morning, the whole city was abuzz with this fresh news.

For the average citizens of Indahl, the biggest concern was not the outcome of the conflict but whether “that fabric” would still be available in the future.

As a result, the Indahl’s post office was swarmed with inquirers first thing in the morning, all asking if the mailman from Weisshem had arrived…

The stir caused by middle-class families was, of course, more pronounced than that of the average citizens. Ladies and mistresses of households unusually active at dawn visited each other, spreading half-truths and rumors… mainly pondering the allure and prospects of the rumored bastard lord and whether he would grace Indahl’s social circles.

Those higher up the social ladder, whether privy to insider information or concerned about more substantive matters, were significantly more engaged.

Adra III, the current lord of Indahl and baron of the Bartalis family, had been aware of Weisshem’s declaration against the Radiant Sun Church for a week already.

While he didn’t see the matter as directly related to him, he was intrigued by the prospect of using another’s blade to gauge the strength of his foes. Before dawn broke and the explosive headlines hit the streets, Mr. Gould, his loyal butler, had already led a detachment of the city’s cavalry out to a manor near the designated battlefield.

Viscount Darcy, recognized as the second most influential family in Indahl next to the Bartalises, also dispatched observers as the sun rose.

Should Charlie Rex fail, the Darcys wouldn’t mind shouting encouragement from the sidelines as the Bartalis family made their move on Weisshem; should he succeed, however, they’d consider forging ties with the upstart lord.

Nobles and knights of sufficient stature to “dip their toes” shared this sentiment, leading to a steady stream of parties heading out of the city, including the former lord of Weisshem, Baron Markus, accompanied by his household guards.

By noon, middle-class families with carriages, wealthy individuals involved in the betting, and curious layabouts had all made their way out of the city…

As the people of Indahl “enthusiastically” mobilized to witness the battle, the unnamed wasteland designated as the battleground remained peacefully undisturbed for the time being.

A week prior, the Radiant Sun Church’s knightly order had already surveyed the battleground, and three days ago, they had leased a farmstead roughly four kilometers straight from the site, stationing their forces there.

At dawn and dusk each day, this battle-hardened, elite troop would dispatch scouts to patrol the area, ensuring no foul play could be afoot on the nameless wasteland designated for their battle of honor. While the order held little regard for Charles Rex, they deemed any precaution against the sinister figure behind the upstart bastard lord as justifiably prudent.

This morning, the scouting party made their routine inspection of the planned battlefield. As they circled toward the southwest, a sight caught their eye—something that appeared to be an enemy encampment.

The scout leader immediately signaled for his men to conceal themselves, pulling out a compact spyglass and resting it on his nose.

With just a glance, he confirmed the presence of the enemy camp—cleared ground, pitched tents, and thorn barriers acting as caltrops manned by both humans and undead. These skeletons donned armor and wielded weapons, a hallmark of Weisshem’s forces.

Yet, there was a subtle discrepancy from what was anticipated…

“Why are they all dark-skinned, white-haired Sokrians? Isn’t Charlie Rex of Rhine descent?” the scout leader muttered in confusion.

He continued his observation through the spyglass, puzzled, until a familiar face came into view.

“Charlie Rex is here as well.” The scout leader lowered his spyglass and scoffed. “Actually leading the charge himself. This man is truly overconfident.”