Re: Tales of the Rune-Tech Sage Chapter 642: Rejecting A Toast, to accept a Forfeit I

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Within BloodIron City, a week zipped by rapidly—appearing calm and without incident on the surface.

The Lost Heartens' ongoing prospecting efforts in the barbarian village, along with their short-term exit from the city, caused the summit between Alex Fury, Fortuna Company's chief, and Brock Peyton, Lost Heartens' boss, to be set for one week ahead.

Over that period, Alex and Fortuna Company stayed mostly inactive. They seldom stepped out of the mansion except when utterly required, and never strayed past the city's boundaries.

Rumors soon started swirling. Gossip claimed Fortuna's leader had surrendered out of terror, even pleading with the Black Scar Syndicate to arrange the talks—a result undoubtedly pushed by the Lost Heartens' sway in the city.

Fortuna's ongoing stillness just strengthened these tales for numerous onlookers.

In a place where raw power earned true reverence, Fortuna's seeming wariness drew outright scorn from the majority, though others saw it as a sensible—yet mortifying—reaction against the Lost Heartens' dominant fame.

Just a handful grasped the reality: Fortuna couldn't act even if it wanted, since its main raid team—most of its forces—was still healing from wounds.

Nevertheless, the circumstances favored the Lost Heartens, enhancing their position in the city and weakening Fortuna's reputation before the looming conference.

A deadline that felt far off rushed in far too soon. Time marched on relentlessly, heedless of feelings or wishes, until the designated day arrived at last.

That very afternoon, Alex emerged from the mansion in his typical neat, rogue-ish noble garb—but this time, skipping the jacket, cloak, and hood.

Lacking those extras, the ensemble shifted toward a polished rogue style rather than classic noble wear.

Should Brock Peyton unexpectedly accept peace—or a version of it—displaying himself too nobly might just spur the bandit chief to squeeze him more.

With merely ditching a jacket or cloak able to reduce that danger, why hesitate?

Plus... the city sweltered unbearably regardless.

While Alex and his followers left the mansion, readying to climb into the carriage and horses, Raven Horn stood waiting by the carriage already.

Alex's eyebrows rose faintly in astonishment. Raven Horn wasn't supposed to link up here—the arrangement called for meeting straight at the site.

Intrigued, Alex moved ahead of everyone to welcome him.

After short greetings, the middle-aged fellow disclosed why he'd shown up unannounced.

"Plans have shifted. Brock Peyton demands the gathering limited to one entourage member each. No others may enter one block of the location, or he'll scrap the whole thing," Raven Horn clarified.

A faint smile tugged at Alex's lips.

"He's pulling a power play right at the end... aiming to stress who he thinks controls the situation."

Raven Horn nodded lightly.

"Regrettably, it's a fair request. As the 'neutral' go-between, we can't refuse. It binds you too, given you sought this parley originally," he noted.

"I get it," Alex answered with a nod. He shrugged lightly. "No issue from me. Hold on—I must pick my companion."

He went back to the others and quickly outlined the updated rules.

Predictably, the rest weren't thrilled, yet Alex brushed it off swiftly.

"You're with me, big guy," he declared abruptly, facing Mogal.

Shock rippled through the group. Of Alex's crew, Mogal seemed the mildest threat. His massive, bulky build aside, his visible level failed to suggest real might.

Suddenly, understanding hit them...

That hit the mark exactly.

Mogal as his only guard, Alex left the mansion via carriage, escorted by Black Scar Syndicate guards on both sides.

The Black Scars provided matching protection for Brock Peyton.

On paper, it guarded both sides' security, with the Syndicate—as referee—tasked to keep peace during the talks.

The site chosen was among the grandest, top-tier eateries in town. For ordinary folk, one meal there equaled a hefty sum—maybe half a year's pay.

To the public, it looked like Alex shelled out a massive sum to reserve the entire floor for the meeting. In truth, though, the Black Scar Syndicate secretly owned the place, so the deal cost him absolutely nothing.

The Black Scars timed everything flawlessly, making certain both sides pulled up to the restaurant at the precise same instant.

Escorted upstairs at identical speeds, they arrived at the meeting room together without delay.

The whole floor had been rearranged into one massive chamber just for this gathering.

A long table dominated the center, equipped with three chairs: one at each end for the rival groups, plus another midway along the side reserved for the mediator.

Right as they entered the room, Brock Peyton unleashed his Combat Master aura, drowning the area in suffocating might.

Alex saw it coming but chose not to fight back, letting the force crash over him for a split second until Mogal and Raven Horn advanced to block it.

Raven Horn countered by surging his own aura against Peyton’s, snuffing out the tension before it could build.

"What is the meaning of this, Brock Peyton?" Raven Horn demanded coldly. "An attack at the meeting venue is no different from an act of disrespect towards my Black Scar Syndicate."

"Relax, mediator. It was merely a friendly greeting," Brock Peyton replied with a broad, unapologetic grin.

Alex shot back the same grin.

He grasped the purpose of the display. Peyton aimed to flex his superiority early, dominating before talks even kicked off.

Simultaneously, it acted as a probe... or more accurately, a check on the other party's power level.

Before Raven Horn could usher them to seats per proper protocol, Peyton barged ahead and claimed his spot unbidden.

He sprawled in the chair, propping his boots on the table like some lowlife gangster.

Yet another brazen tactic—rough around the edges but spot-on—to grab the reins of the meeting from the start.

Alex stayed unfazed. He kept his cool once more, gliding into his seat with serene grace and polished demeanor.

Raven Horn took his mediator seat right after.

The Lost Heartens’ Vice-Captain and Mogal positioned themselves behind, looming quietly over their leaders.

Yet, against Peyton’s assumptions, the talks didn’t launch straight away.

Raven Horn snapped his fingers instead.

Instantly, waiters filed in, rolling carts brimming with luxurious delicacies.

"Let us ease the atmosphere a bit before we begin." Raven Horn said smoothly as the table was set. "How about we enjoy some of the most sought-after cuisine BloodIron has to offer?"

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