Kent squinted his eyes as he studied the group before him.
The Level 8 Precision Archer, Dry Leaf, was hiding behind the shadow of a Level 7 Giant, carefully reattaching the bowstring to his longbow and adjusting the leather straps on the bow's body.
The Level 6 Giant Shield Warrior, Tali, had just finished his meal and was now sharpening his blade next to his massive shield, while the Level 6 Earth Bear was on watch, stationed nearby as a lookout.
The Level 7 Vanguard Warriors, Pockmarked and Scarred, were engaged in a silent arm-wrestling match, their hands frozen in place.
The Level 7 Precision Hunter, Cripple, was using a dagger to drill holes in a thin bone, his pockets scattered with a few finished bone whistles.
The Level 8 Swift Assassin, Crow, sat beside the Level 9 Vanguard Warrior, Splitting Blade, polishing the giant's long-handled warhammer with a piece of cowhide.
"You guys need to see something more interesting," Kent said with a mysterious smile, then paused for effect.
"A gold coin contract."
Upon hearing those words, the Giants, holding their massive helmets, appeared confused.
For a brief moment, Kent's longtime companions, the guards who had been with him for years, were taken aback.
The Gold Coin Contract was a game Kent had played with them when he was still a royal bastard on the plateau.
The rules of the game were simple: everyone would pool together a single gold coin, and in return, they could ask for something from another person.
It could be a dagger, a bottle of fine wine, a royal secret, or even a promise.
However, since his fall from grace and exile to the Hunter Spear Valley, it had been more than half a year since they had played the game.
The original dozen or so guards who often participated in the game were now reduced to just this small group.
Crow was the first to react. His eyes gleamed as he quickly jumped up and pulled an old silver coin from his pants pocket, holding it out in his hand before approaching Dry Leaf.
A bead of sweat dripped from Dry Leaf's forehead. He gritted his teeth and pulled a shiny new silver coin from the outer pocket of his quiver. He wiped it and was about to hand it over when he paused, pulled a less new silver coin from the dagger belt at his side, and passed it to Crow.
Crow, with the two silver coins in hand, stepped forward to Tali.
The sharpening stopped, and the blade's tip was pointed at the approaching hand. The hand and blade faced each other for a brief moment. Crow hesitated but then boldly extended his hand, shifting to the upwind side.
The coin with a foul odor finally won out. The blade trembled slightly, and Tali's hand wavered. He reluctantly set down the knife, reached into the hidden compartment of his blade sheath, and retrieved two warm silver coins—one of which was for the Earth Bear on lookout.
With four silver coins now in his possession, Crow approached Pockmarked and Scarred, who were in the middle of a hand-wrestling contest. The atmosphere became tense, as if the entire moment was building to a climax.
Pockmarked and Scarred exerted their strength at the same time, their muscular arms tensing, the air thick with the aura of battle. Their struggle seemed like two wild beasts fighting in the depths of an abyss.
In an instant, the battle was over. Scarred let out a desperate howl, the silver coin acting as a catalyst for his defeat. His face turned pale, as if the weight of the loss had crushed his spirit.
Crow swiftly extended his hand toward Scarred, and Scarred's face shifted from pale to flushed, then to bright red. He struggled, reaching into his pocket, but only found embarrassment as he failed to produce any coin.
With an awkward smile and a pleading look, Scarred turned to Pockmarked, who, as if anticipating this moment, pulled out a small leather pouch from his waist. He weighed it carefully, then stopped, retrieving a tattered parchment from his chest pocket. He unfolded it and presented it to Scarred.
Scarred's face momentarily showed anger, but it quickly gave way to defeat. He licked his thumb, dabbed it in the charcoal, and pressed it onto the parchment, leaving a messy, black mark as his signature.
Pockmarked nodded in satisfaction and placed the parchment away. He opened the leather pouch, dug through the coins, and pulled out two silver coins, which he solemnly handed over to Crow.
Crow weighed the coins in his hand and approached Cripple. With a grin, he extended his hand, causing Cripple to shudder slightly. Cripple fumbled through his pocket full of bone whistles for what seemed like an eternity before finally pulling out a single silver coin and handing it over in haste.
A sharp sound echoed from Splitting Blade's hand as a silver coin flew through the air in an elegant arc, landing neatly in Crow's palm. Crow winked at Splitting Blade and, after counting the coins in his hand, found that there were only eight.
His gaze shifted to the shadows near Kent.
All evening, Water Stream had been sitting there, her presence nearly undetectable. Besides a few bites of meat Kent had given her, she had remained motionless with her eyes closed. When she did open her eyes briefly, Kent felt an eerie stillness, as if her very presence could vanish in an instant.
Had it not been for her occasionally opening her eyes, Kent might have thought she was just a shadow.
Even Crow, with his sharp eyes, could barely make her out in the darkness, only catching a vague outline.
Crow hesitated, wondering whether he should ask Water Stream for a silver coin.
Suddenly, an overwhelming killing intent swept over the camp. Crow felt his chest tighten, nearly gasping for air. Sweat prickled on the backs of the guards, including Dry Leaf, and their hair stood on end.
The killing intent arrived swiftly, only to fade just as quickly.
Crow, terrified, immediately turned his gaze away from the shadows. He realized that the warning and punishment from Water Stream had been clear—she, with her esteemed position, would never carry money.
He sheepishly reached into his pants again and pulled out a silver coin, holding it up as if to pay it on her behalf.
As he made the rounds by the campfire, his hands filled with a variety of coins, each the same size but different in color and smell. Altogether, there were nine silver coins.
However, they didn't end up in Kent's hands, but instead were presented to the Giant in front of him.
Fatty Bull's face turned crimson. He set down his helmet, which was filled with the hearty soup, and rubbed his hands nervously on his iron bull armor.
"There's... there's only one left," he stammered, his tongue tying itself. Though the hearty soup had lifted his spirits tonight, he now found himself facing a dilemma: these guys were scheming over the last gold coin in his pocket.
He looked at Kent, who nodded firmly, reiterating:
"One gold coin, no bargaining."