A general born to rule

The slavers

Sam, Marcus, and Reynolds moved through the markets, pausing now and then to watch the Valorcrest traders in action. The markets buzzed with energy, and their weapons—enhanced by the rare Darkthar shadowstones and paired with the healing herbs—were becoming hot commodities. Traders demonstrated each weapon’s weight and balance, showing how even an untrained hand could wield them effectively. The quality and effectiveness of these weapons at an accessible price were unmistakable.

As the trio observed, a group of disgruntled slave traders gathered at the edges of the market square, their expressions darkening as they muttered among themselves. One of them, tall and grizzled with a sneer that never seemed to leave his face, grumbled loud enough for Sam and Marcus to overhear.

"These swords are all well and good," he scoffed, his voice carrying a bitter edge. "But a weapon's only as good as the hand wielding it. And they’re fooling themselves if they think people like them can take down our ranks."

A few of his associates nodded, but others seemed nervous, casting wary glances at the growing crowd of eager buyers. It was clear that even the slave traders recognized the shift in the market—the weapons were flooding in, and demand was rising.

Reynolds leaned in toward Marcus and Sam, keeping his voice low. “They’re worried. They realize that without absolute control, they’ll lose the power they’ve held for so long. But with these weapons in people’s hands, the balance is changing.”

Marcus grinned, watching as another batch of Valorcrest swords and shields sold out within minutes. "Exactly as we planned. We’re offering the means for everyone to protect themselves, to fight back if needed. They don’t need soldiers—just the will to defend their homes.”

One of the traders—a burly man with deep-set eyes—approached, clearly frustrated. “You’re selling weapons left and right, but who do you think’ll wield them? You need soldiers—men trained for combat—not farmers or blacksmiths.”

Sam chuckled, folding his arms as he met the trader’s glare. “Farmers have defended their land long before your lot came around, and they will again. Valorcrest knows that freedom isn’t exclusive to those with armies—it belongs to anyone willing to stand their ground.”

Reynolds stepped forward, letting his voice ring clear and calm. “In this empire, we aim to break free from that old cycle of oppression and dependence. Valorcrest’s weapons, herbs, and training support independence, not enslavement.”

Seeing that their words were striking a nerve, Marcus added, “We’re not just selling swords and shields; we’re giving people a fighting chance. And at a price that everyone can afford.” He glanced pointedly at the traders’ dwindling crowd, a knowing smile on his face.

The slave traders' leader sneered but couldn’t fully mask his concern. “This empire may thrive on ideals, but ideals don’t always win wars.”

Reynolds raised an eyebrow. “Maybe not. But ideals give people a reason to fight, and with Valorcrest by their side, that’s all they’ll need.”

As they continued moving through the bustling market, Sam, Marcus, and Reynolds saw the difference their efforts were making. Each sale brought hope, each shadowstone-forged weapon a tool for liberation. With each weapon sold, the grip of the slave trade weakened, and the traders—those who had once controlled people’s lives—were being outpaced by a new force that even they couldn’t quite comprehend.

The slave traders convened late that evening in a grand, dimly lit room within one of the oldest merchant halls. Tensions ran high, and the atmosphere was thick with desperation as they plotted how to preserve their power amid the swift rise of Valorcrest's influence. Sitting around an ornate table, the wealthiest and most influential traders—accustomed to controlling the market and society itself—found themselves forced to consider drastic measures.