Chapter 69: The Price Of Bread [ Bonus - ]

Chapter 69: The Price Of Bread [ Bonus Chapter ]

Pax quickly discovered that the truth wasn’t something you could simply buy.

Money twisted words. It always had. Once cash changed hands, people started tailoring their narratives to please those with the coins.

They embellished, exaggerated, and refined their experiences until reality became obscured by theatrics.

Having lived among the common folk for some time, Pax understood this fundamental truth: desperation made people vocal, but the need to survive made them cautious.

So, his approach did not involve gold at first.

Instead, he opted for food. In the poorest area of Greyvale, food held a significance that money could never replicate. A copper coin might be stolen, lost in a gamble, or squandered on drink.

But food was immediate. Food created trust. It conveyed the message: I’m not asking you to entertain me; I’m asking you to live.

Pax chose a narrow street by the old drainage canals, a spot where beggars gathered as daylight faded and hunger intensified.

He didn’t stand out or draw attention. Instead, he sat on a low stone ledge, unwrapped a bundle containing bread, dried meat, and cheap fruit, and ate slowly and intentionally, as if he had all the time in the world.

The people immediately took notice.

At first, they watched from afar. A one-eyed man leaned against a wall, feigning disinterest. A woman in ragged clothing nudged the boy beside her.

Two elderly men paused mid-argument, lowering their voices. Pax chose to ignore them. He continued eating quietly, tearing the bread into uniform pieces and chewing leisurely. Once he was finished, he placed the leftover food beside him on the stone.

"Anyone hungry," he said calmly, ensuring his voice carried just enough, "is welcome to eat."

No promises. No demands. No further explanations.

The first to approach was a man known to everyone as Old Rask.

Rask was so thin he appeared almost frail, his beard yellowed with age, but his eyes remained sharp despite the tremors in his hands.

He moved at a slow pace, not out of weakness, but because he had learned that haste often breeds suspicion. He paused a few steps from Pax and tilted his head.

"You new around here?" Rask asked.

Pax shrugged slightly. "New to sitting here."

Rask snorted, unable to suppress a chuckle. He shuffled closer and reached for a piece of bread, stopping just long enough to gauge Pax’s reaction.

Pax didn’t say anything. Rask took his time, chewing as if each bite held great significance.

"Food without a sermon," Rask muttered. "Now that’s a rarity."

Pax offered a faint smile but chose to stay silent.

The quiet was intentional.

Once Rask didn’t faint or get reprimanded, others walked forward. A woman with calloused hands took a piece of fruit.

A hunched man with a limp snatched some meat and quickly retreated. Pax observed them all, his gaze gentle yet keen, listening to their interactions, noting their positions, who hesitated, and who disappeared swiftly.

When the food was gone, Pax finally spoke again.

"I’m not here to buy stories," he stated. "I simply want to understand how Greyvale functions."

That prompted laughter.

A loud, hearty laugh erupted from a man perched on a crate, his head shaved and voice booming. "Greyvale runs on coin and piss," he declared. "Just like any other city."

A few beggars chuckled in response. Pax shifted his attention slightly toward the speaker and studied him.

"What’s your name?" Pax asked.

"It’s doesn’t matter," the man replied with a grin. "But if you’re looking for answers, I’m overflowing with them."

Pax nodded once. "I believe you."

Then he redirected his gaze.

The brash man blinked, clearly taken aback. "Hey...."

But Pax had already turned to someone else.

Near the wall sat a girl, no more than sixteen, her patched clothes neatly sewn despite their age. She hadn’t rushed for food, waiting patiently until the end to take what was left without pushing. When Pax met her gaze, she held it steadily.

"How long have you been here?" Pax inquired.

"Three winters," she replied.

"Do you know the dock schedules?"

"Yes."

"Are you aware of which guards accept bribes?"

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

"And which ones don’t?"

"Yes."

Pax smiled.

"Good."

The man with the shaved head scoffed. "Are you really brushing me off because of that? I’ve got so much more to say...."

Pax finally glanced back at him, his face neutral. "You’ve got a way with words," Pax replied. "But I’m looking for people who know when silence is more valuable."

The man opened his mouth but then shut it, his grin fading.

That was when Pax made his choice. He didn’t try to win them over with a single grand speech. Instead, over the next two days, he lingered for hours, showing up at different times and bringing food with him.

He asked seemingly trivial questions and listened to answers that felt ordinary. But more than that, he paid attention to how they reacted.

He discovered who was quick to lie, who exaggerated without thinking, and who twisted events to put themselves at the center. Those qualities could be handy for spreading gossip, but they wouldn’t help in building a reliable foundation.

What Pax needed were the quiet ones.

Like Old Rask, who spoke only when asked, but when he did, his words were always sharp and to the point. Rask had the inside scoop on which taverns changed owners overnight, which dock captains could be counted on to cut corners, and which nights the city watch sent out their least experienced recruits.

Then there was Mira, the woman with the scarred hands, who worked near the brothels and knew which merchants visited which rooms, and could tell you which ones left angry and which ones left looking shaken.

And the girl, Lennie, who memorized patrol routes, not out of ambition, but out of necessity, since knowing where danger prowled was her way of staying safe.

On the fourth evening, Pax gathered them together.

Not a crowd of beggars, but twenty individuals.

They stood beneath the crumbling arch of an old warehouse, the flickering lantern light casting shadows on weary faces. No one was dressed similarly. No one looked exceptional. That was intentional.

Pax faced them, hands clasped behind his back, exuding a relaxed but purposeful air.

"I’m not here to hand out coins," he began. "At least, not yet."

A murmur stirred among the group.

"I’m offering stability," Pax went on. "Food every day. A copper coin for your efforts. Shelter when I can manage it. Nothing more than that."

Nervous laughter followed; someone frowned.

"What’s the deal then?" Old Rask asked.

Pax held his gaze steady. "You live. You walk. You listen."

A younger man frowned. "So you want us to spy?"

Pax slowly shook his head. "No."

The weight of that word lingered.

"You won’t spy," he clarified, more assertively. "You won’t sneak into places where you don’t belong. You won’t fabricate stories. You won’t provoke anyone."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"You just listen."

A hush fell over them.

"You catch the dockworkers’ grievances. You hear drunk merchants boast. You pay attention to guards grumbling. You take note when no one important thinks they’re being watched."

Pax scanned their faces closely.

"If something feels off, walk away. If something sounds valuable, remember it. Report back to me. That’s all there is to it."

Mira crossed her arms. "And if someone lies to us?"

"They will," Pax replied calmly. "That’s why you don’t repeat what you hear. You track trends."

Lennie raised her hand slightly. "What if someone catches on?"

Pax smiled, genuinely this time. "Nobody pays attention to beggars."

That earned a few quiet, bitter chuckles.

Pax let the moment breathe before continuing.

"This isn’t about power," he explained. "Not yet. This is about setting a foundation."

He turned to Old Rask. "You can help organize the older ones."

To Mira, he said, "You’ll keep tabs on the merchants."

And to Lennie, "You’ll monitor the streets."

Their eyes widened, not from the weight of the responsibility but from recognition.

"For the first time," Pax said softly, "your knowledge matters."

He straightened up. "You’re not serving me," Pax stated. "You’re serving information. And if that information is handled correctly, it benefits everyone."

There were no grand cheers or dramatic declarations.

But as they went their separate ways that night, they walked with a different air about them.

Pax lingered beneath the archway long after they had left, absorbing the sounds of the city around him. The unease he felt since accepting Sage’s offer was still present, but now it was accompanied by something else.

Determination. He wasn’t building an empire. Not yet.

But he was cultivating ears.