Chapter 316: Chapter 316- Merchant’s Return

2 Days Before Present Timeline (Before Chapter 234 Timeline and 3 days later than previous Chapter)

The road to Millbrook had never been this crowded.

Aldrin gripped the reins of his horse-drawn carriage, his weathered merchant’s eyes scanning the traffic ahead with growing disbelief. Three—no, ’four’—other carriages were moving in the same direction. Merchant wagons, by the look of them.

Loaded with goods, driven by men with that distinctive calculating expression that marked their profession.

’What in the hells?’ Aldrin thought, his gray-streaked beard twitching as he frowned.

Millbrook had always been a backwater. A place you passed through, not a destination. The soil was shit for farming—too acidic, poisoned by some mineral deposits. The location was remote. There was nothing here worth traveling for.

Until now.

Aldrin’s head turned, almost against his will, toward the horizon.

And there it was.

The Tower.

Even from this distance—easily ten kilometers out—the structure dominated the landscape like a god’s monument. It pierced the sky, impossibly tall, wreathed in swirling purple and pink lights that pulsed like a living heartbeat. The sight made his stomach clench with primal unease.

’That thing,’ he thought, unable to look away. ’That’s what’s bringing them all here.’

The information about the Tower had spread like wildfire. Within days of its appearance, every merchant, trader, and opportunist within a hundred kilometers had heard the rumors. A dungeon. Treasure. Magic. Danger. Opportunity.

Even the Capital must have gotten wind by now, though Aldrin doubted they believed it. How could they? An architectural impossibility appearing overnight? It sounded like a drunk’s fantasy.

But Aldrin had been here. Had ’seen’ it with his own eyes when it first appeared. Had spoken with Lord Viktor himself and received samples of products that had made his jaw drop when he showed them to buyers in nearby towns.

His hand instinctively went to the leather pouch at his belt—heavy with coins. More money than he’d made in the last three months combined, and that was just from ’samples’. Herbs with unprecedented potency. Honey that tasted like liquid gold. Wool so soft it felt like touching clouds.

Whatever was happening in Millbrook, it was going to change everything.

The carriage crested a hill, and the village came into view.

Aldrin pulled the reins, bringing his horse to a halt.

“By the merchant gods…” he whispered.

Millbrook had ’transformed’.

The main road—previously just a dirt path with a few scattered huts—now had ’stalls’. Wooden structures, hastily constructed but functional, lined both sides of the street. Some were already open, displaying goods. Others were still being built, the sound of hammering echoing across the valley.

’When did this happen?’ Aldrin urged his horse forward, eyes wide. ’I was only gone five days!’

At the edge of the village, he spotted something even stranger. Villagers—at least twenty of them—were digging trenches in the fields. Deep ones, by the look of it. Piles of excavated soil sat beside each trench, dark and rich-looking despite this area’s notorious poor earth quality.

Aldrin squinted, trying to make sense of it.

Several villagers were spreading some kind of substance on the fields—a thick, grayish powder that they scattered with practiced motions. Then came fresh soil, poured in layers, creating what looked like… artificial farming plots?

’They’re mixing different soils,’ Aldrin realized with shock. ’Creating custom growing conditions. But how? And why now?’

A younger villager—a boy Aldrin recognized as the blacksmith’s son—was spreading fertilizer with the focused intensity of someone being paid well. His arms strained with each shovelful, muscles flexing, sweat dripping down his bare chest despite the cool morning air.

Near him, an older woman supervised, marking measurements with a string and stakes. Her thick figure jiggled slightly as she walked between plots, her practical dress swaying with each step.

Everyone was ’working’. Not the lazy, defeated labor of people with no hope, but the energized purpose of those who saw profit ahead.

Aldrin’s carriage rolled past the fields toward the village center.

At the corner of the main square, a crowd had formed. Thirty, maybe forty people, standing in a surprisingly orderly line. At the front sat a middle-aged man at a makeshift desk—really just a plank of wood laid across two barrels.

The man was slightly rotund, healthy-looking in that way that suggested he ate well and regularly. But his eyes…

Aldrin frowned as he got closer.

The man’s eyes had a yellowish tint. Jaundiced, almost. Like he’d been poisoned or was suffering from liver failure.

’Should he even be working?’ Aldrin wondered.

But the man seemed functional enough. He was taking orders from villagers one at a time, writing them down in a ledger with surprising penmanship. Each villager would state their request—building materials, tools, seeds—and the man would note it, occasionally asking clarifying questions.

“Two bags of northern wheat seed, got it,” the man rasped, his voice rough. “You’ll get them by week’s end. Next!”

A farmer stepped forward. “I need an irrigation setup for—”

“Irrigation’s on backorder. We’ve got twelve requests ahead of you. You want in line or not?”

“Y-Yes, sir!”

The efficiency was remarkable. This was ’organization’. Someone had implemented a system, and it was working.

Aldrin filed that observation away and continued toward the manor.

Lord Viktor’s estate sat on a slight rise at the village’s far end. The building itself was modest by noble standards—two stories, stone construction, functional rather than grand. But it was well-maintained, and now it had something new: a proper gate.

Aldrin pulled his carriage to a halt outside and immediately noticed he wasn’t alone.

Five other carriages were already parked nearby. Merchants, all of them, judging by the goods visible through open wagon flaps and the calculating expressions on their faces.

They stood clustered near the gate, talking among themselves in low, urgent voices.

Aldrin hopped down from his driver’s seat, his boots hitting the dirt with a soft thud. His knees protested—too many hours on the road—but he ignored them.

“Oi!” he called out, approaching the group. “What’re you all doing here?”

One of the merchants—a thin man with a sharp nose and sharper eyes—turned to face him. “Same as you, I’d wager. Seeking opportunity.”

“Opportunity?”

“Permits,” another merchant chimed in, a heavyset woman with iron-gray hair. “To sell goods here. To set up shop. Apparently, there are new laws now.”

Aldrin’s eyebrows shot up. “New laws? What kind of laws?”

“Taxation. Permits. Official registration.” The thin merchant spat on the ground. “Lord Viktor’s implementing trade regulations. Anyone wanting to do business in Millbrook needs approval, or they get thrown out.”

“Thrown out?” Aldrin repeated. “By who? This place barely has a militia.”

“Doesn’t matter,” the woman said grimly. “Word is, Lord Viktor has… resources now. Best not to test him.”

Aldrin processed this. Trade regulations meant control. Control meant Lord Viktor was thinking long-term. Building infrastructure. Establishing Millbrook as an actual economic hub rather than a temporary gold rush location.

’Smart,’ Aldrin admitted silently. ’Very smart.’

He glanced toward the manor’s entrance, then started walking toward it.

“Oi!” one of the merchants called out. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Aldrin didn’t stop. “Inside. I have business with Lord Viktor.”

“Get in line like the rest of us!” another merchant snapped.

“I know the lord personally,” Aldrin replied without looking back. “I’ll just—”

A hand grabbed his shoulder. The thin merchant stepped in front of him, expression hostile. “We’ve all been waiting. You don’t get special treatment.”

Aldrin opened his mouth to argue—

The manor doors opened.

Everyone fell silent.

Viktor emerged first.

He looked… different. More commanding than Aldrin remembered. His dark hair was tied back loosely. He wore simple but well-fitted clothes—a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, black trousers, boots. No noble finery, but he didn’t need it. His presence filled the space.

Behind him came a woman who made Aldrin’s breath catch.

Blonde hair, long and lustrous, cascading over her shoulders. A white robe—priestly in style—that covered her from neck to ankles. But the fabric couldn’t hide her figure. Full breasts that strained slightly against the cloth. Wide hips that swayed with each step. Thick thighs visible as brief flashes through the robe’s split sides.

Her face was young—maybe mid-twenties—but her body had the ripeness of a woman in her prime. Everything about her suggested fertility, softness, comfort.

’A priestess?’ Aldrin wondered. ’What’s Lord Viktor doing with a priestess?’

But it was the ’third’ figure that made Aldrin’s jaw drop.

A woman with pink hair and pink eyes, wearing a dress that hugged every curve—generous breasts, slim waist, flared hips. Her face was striking, beautiful in that dangerous way that made men stupid.

And Aldrin ’knew’ that face.

“Elara?” he breathed.

It couldn’t be. Elara—the young woman who’d traveled with his merchant caravan months ago, dressed in men’s clothing, handling things like some thug— looked nothing like ’this’.

But the facial structure was identical. The slight tilt of her nose. The shape of her jaw.

The eyes and hair were different—Elara’s had been brown, he was certain—but the resemblance was undeniable.

“No way,” Aldrin muttered, his merchant’s instinct for recognizing faces screaming at him. “That’s impossible. She was just a traveler, and this woman looks like…”

Like a noble. Like someone who belonged at Viktor’s side.

Aldrin took an involuntary step forward. “Hey! Elara! Over here!”

The pink-haired woman’s eyes flicked toward him briefly—no recognition, just mild curiosity—then away.

Before Aldrin could call out again, one of the merchants pushed him back roughly. “Stay in line, old man!”

The crowd of merchants surged forward as Viktor approached, everyone talking at once.

“Lord Viktor!”

“I have premium goods—”

“My family’s been trading for generations—”

“I can offer exclusive contracts—”

Viktor raised one hand.

Silence fell instantly.

His dark eyes swept across the assembled merchants with the kind of authority that made grown men shrink.

“What,” Viktor said slowly, his voice cutting through the morning air like a blade, “are you all doing here?”

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