Re: Tales of the Rune-Tech Sage

Chapter 438: Camp Red Rock II

CH438 Camp Red Rock II

***

According to the information extracted from the tollmen, there were four ruling powers within Camp Red Rock:

Brieger the Desert Razor, Rolfe the Broker, Bram the Blood Blade, and finally, Warhammer Azgrug.

Among them, the undisputed strongest individual in Camp Red Rock was Warhammer Azgrug, the tribal chief of the Copper-skinned Orcs who founded and ruled the camp.

Azgrug lorded over Camp Red Rock with his One-Star Combat Master strength (roughly equivalent to a Pangean Veteran-rank, but possessing only Peak Elite-rank combat power).

His sheer presence acted as a natural deterrent, keeping most who stepped into Camp Red Rock firmly in line.

Beyond his personal might, Azgrug commanded a formidable force of Copper-skinned Orc warriors numbering over five hundred, each of them at Peak Bronze rank or higher.

Such a fighting force would be considered formidable anywhere within the Verdantis plane, let alone in a supposedly lawless backwater encampment on the fringes of the Hollowcrest Wildlands.

With this overwhelming advantage, Azgrug claimed and maintained absolute control over the camp’s lifeline—the oasis.

The leaders of the other three major factions were slightly weaker, each standing at Two- to Three-Star Gold rank. Every one of them commanded a force of roughly three hundred fighters, all at least Bronze rank.

Together, these three had driven out lesser competitors and divided control of the oasis’s eight distributaries among themselves.

Of the eight, four were held exclusively by Bram the Blood Blade, the Three-Star Gold-ranked brute and second-strongest individual in the camp.

The remaining four distributaries were split evenly between Rolfe the Broker and Brieger the Desert Razor.

Despite his title, calling Rolfe a broker was being generous.

He was a silver-tongued vulture—one who bowed before the strong and preyed mercilessly upon the weak.

Rolfe was undeniably well-connected within Camp Red Rock and its surrounding regions, but he was also its most notorious fraudster whenever he sensed vulnerability on the other side of a deal.

Alex glanced dispassionately at the battered youth.

”I didn’t act to save you,” he said calmly. ”And as for Rolfe—he won’t make trouble.”

His lips curved slightly.

”Not only will he take this quietly, he’ll shake my hand... and thank me for it.”

With that said, Alex spurred his horse onward, continuing deeper into the encampment.

Eleanor had caught his eye and made a subtle gesture, asking if she should heal the battered youth. Alex shook his head.

Some goodwill brought more harm than good.

If his party not only crippled Rolfe’s men but also healed the victim, Rolfe would have little choice but to conclude they had acted for the youth. While Rolfe himself would think twice before moving openly against Alex and his group, the same restraint would not extend to the boy.

There was no way a man with Rolfe’s reputation for viciousness would fail to send a message—written in blood—to preserve his standing. The youth would almost certainly meet a far worse end later.

This was the Wildlands.

Here, one had to act according to the land’s own twisted common sense, not one’s personal morality.

In these lands, the road to hell was paved not with malice—but with good and righteous intentions.

Paradoxically, the youth had a better chance at survival—whatever that amounted to—if the expedition party did nothing further.

So, ignoring the healer’s indignant glare, Alex led the party away.

As they rode deeper into Camp Red Rock, it quickly became apparent that very little planning had gone into the encampment’s infrastructure. Anyone could build whatever they wished, wherever they wished—so long as they had the strength to keep it.

Ironically, this made identifying the residences of those with power remarkably easy.

The largest structure in the camp—resembling a noble’s manor or even a small castle—clearly belonged to Azgrug the Warhammer and his Copper-skinned Orc clan.

Three other sizable buildings, only slightly smaller than Azgrug’s stronghold, stood in different sections of the camp. These undoubtedly belonged to the remaining three ruling powers.

Alex guided his party toward the Warhammer’s mansion.

Before long, they entered a noticeably different district.

The surroundings were not only better guarded, but far cleaner as well.

The group found an inn close to the Warhammer’s mansion—but at a hefty price.

Even a single full Berserk stone was only enough to rent a room for one week.

If Alex had ever heard of daylight robbery, this was it. Azgrug’s appetite was even larger than Brieger’s.

Still, Alex swallowed his displeasure and paid. They were not going to find a safer—never mind cleaner—inn anywhere else in the encampment.

”Sir, you look like a man with deep pockets and a taste for risk,” the inn manager flattered, doing his best despite his stony Orc features. ”Why not try our casino? It’s a lively spot where all the big players of the camp go to relax.”

Alex considered it for a moment, then nodded.

”Perhaps we’ll go see the sights,” he said.

After settling their belongings in their rooms, the group made their way—separately—to the casino across the street.

Alex entered with Zora and Eleanor, each closely followed by Kavakan and Mogal, both of whom looked intimidating without even trying.

The moment they stepped inside, the entire hall seemed to pause. Eyes turned toward them from every corner.

Alex remained unperturbed, leading his group past the shabby gamblers and toward the obvious high-roller table at the far end of the floor.

Seated there were three men, each with a woman’s bosom in hand, kneading flesh like dough as if competing to see who could be the most shamelessly lewd.

They stood apart from the rest of the hall so clearly that it required no genius to identify them.

Brieger the Desert Razor.

Rolfe the Broker.

And Bram the Blood Blade.

The three underbosses of Camp Red Rock.

Alex strode forward imperiously—as though he owned the place—and casually approached their table.

Aside from the big three, there were three other gamblers seated there. A single glance from Kavakan and Mogal was enough.

The men immediately vacated their seats, nearly forgetting to collect their chips.

Nearly.

No one left money behind in the Wildlands—not even a single shard.

Kavakan pulled back a chair, allowing Alex to take his seat. Then, together with Mogal, he placed two more chairs beside him for the still-veiled Eleanor and Zora before stepping back to stand behind them like the colossal guards they were.

The scene they created was imposing enough that even the three bigwigs swallowed any immediate displeasure at having their game interrupted.

They stared at Alex with a mixture of irritation, caution, and probing curiosity.

None of them dared act rashly.

Whine~

Fen, resting on Zora’s lap as usual, suddenly let out a soft yawn, breaking the tension.

Yet instead of easing the atmosphere, it only made the three men more wary.

They had never seen a beast like Fen before, and anyone capable of taming such a creature was not someone to be underestimated.

The dealer glanced toward the bosses for instruction. They nodded, and he proceeded to explain the rules of the game before dealing Alex his cards—after Alex casually placed ten full Berserk stones on the table.

The bosses’ eyes twitched.

Even they, despite their wealth, wouldn’t so casually throw that much money onto the table without hesitation.

This wasn’t the behaviour of a nouveau riche gambler.

It carried the ease and indifference of someone who genuinely did not care about the money—as though it were little more than chump change.

”So,” one of the bosses finally spoke, a shifty-eyed man with a sharp, calculating gaze, ”you must be the sorcerer going around beating up the good, respectable people of Camp Red Rock?”

Alex immediately recognised the man’s intent and played along.

”Respectable people?” he asked, feigning confusion. ”The only things my people whipped on the way here were a few rabid dogs whose owners were too incompetent to keep them on a leash.”

A vein bulged on the forehead of the burly man seated to the shifty-eyed man’s left.

Alex glanced between the two of them and asked innocently, ”You wouldn’t happen to know who these incompetent owners are, would you? They owe me a debt of gratitude... for putting their dogs back in their place.”

A heavy, palpable silence fell over the hall.

***