Notes: Thank you guys for all the support so far! I greatly appreciate it.
I’ve come to realize that I’ve never really talked about the guild centered around this story… It’s called The Goldwake Company! The whole intent of ML was to pretty much be a prequel to how this whole organization was founded. Why? Cause’ talking about that stuff w/ people is FUN!!! A lot of people who are in it have contributed their own characters into this story, so if you’re interested in your own character potentially being in here, or just want to see what we’re about, feel free to ask.
Here’s our badass logo (Made by me):
Oh yeah also, Mayor Tilly is in this chapter. All hail supreme overlord Tilly!
…Anyways, jokes aside, on the the next chapter!
[CHAPTER 3: THE FLOW OF CURRENCY]
SEPTEMBER 6th, 1849
1700 - EARLY EVENING
When evening began to fall, the cold set in faster than he expected.
Zeke didn’t notice it at first—not really. The adrenaline from the “fight” (or better yet: one sided beating) still lingered in his system, dulling the worst of it. But by the time it wore off, the pain slowly crept in piece by excruciating piece. The early evening air bit against his skin, sharp and unwelcome, settling into the bruises forming around his throat and a slight swelling around his jaw.
“Ooooooowwww…” he whimpered under his breath, pressing a hand briefly to his face. It hurt like hell.
His tongue dragged carefully over the gap where his tooth had been—feeling the angry swell in his gums—and he winced immediately. Half-dressed. Injured. Alone. And—worse than that—he was broke. Fucking BROKE!!!
Zeke’s hand dipped into his pockets out of habit, fingers brushing against his near-empty pouch of drachma. The weight—or lack of it—was enough to make him sigh. Then his fingers brushed something else.
He pulled the red notebook out. It was even more scuffed now. Dirt-streaked. A little bent at the edges Zeke flipped it open quickly—then paused, his eyes widening.
“No…”
The pen clipped inside had snapped clean in half. Ink had bled into the pages in a dark, uneven smear, staining the margins of his last entry. Zeke stared at it for a second longer than necessary, thumb dragging lightly over the ruined ink. He could barely even read what he wrote here now…
“Damn it,” he muttered, snapping it shut. Guess it was pretty much lost forever. And not only that, he was stranded on Harvest Island with barely enough coin to justify breathing. Stranded without a ship, no plan, ruined notebook and—
His thoughts snagged for just a moment.
…Ryan.
Zeke’s gaze flicked back toward the trees behind him, tension creeping into his shoulders before he forced it back down. No. No, he was fine. Ryan had been in worse condition than him—much worse. There was no way he’d be in any shape to chase him down, let alone fight again.
…Probably.
That possibility sent a faint shiver down his spine.
“…Don’t think about it,” Zeke muttered, more sharply this time, dragging a hand through his hair. “He’s obviously not going to try anything right now… Focus!”
First, he needed to think of a way off the island. He could ask any ship that pulls up here to collect supplies for a ride, but he needed drachma for that, and he didn’t have enough to convince any captain to let him on, so how would he—
Zeke paused, a thought hitting him.
The borage.
“That’s it!”
His gaze shifted, scanning the direction he had come from earlier—the patch of crushed but still viable plants he had almost wasted time analyzing instead of doing his job must still be usable!
Early harvest yields disproportionate profit. Maybe if he gathered enough, and tried bartering for a ride with it…
Zeke blinked once.
Twice.
Then a short, breathless laugh escaped him—not quite amused, not quite bitter, but something caught in-between.
“…Fine,” he said, more to himself than anything. “That’s fine. I… I can live like this! I can make this work!”
Zeke turned on his heel and headed back toward the patch, his pace quicker now despite the lingering ache in his body. It didn’t take long to find it again—the broken stems, the scattered leaves, the cluster of borage still clinging stubbornly to life despite everything that Dark Sea storm had subjected to the island. He crouched before it without hesitation.
“No overthinking,” he muttered, already reaching for the plants. “Just take it and go before nightfall!”
His hands moved quickly, gathering what he could—careful enough not to destroy what was still usable, but not nearly as meticulous as before. A few handfuls. Enough to hopefully convince a captain to let him hitch a ride.
After some time gathering, Zeke stood, brushing dirt from his hands as he glanced toward the shoreline. “…That should be enough.”
Finding a ride after that hadn’t been too hard.
Merchants and adventurers would still pass through here—even a ruined island like this had something worth salvaging, that much Zeke knew. He spotted a caravel not long after reaching the shore, its hull worn but intact, its crew already eyeing the coastline with the kind of cautious interest that came from experience before they hopped off the ship to gather supplies.
Zeke raised his hands as he approached, posture straightening just enough to look like he didn’t have any malicious intent. Like he wasn’t half-naked, half-broke, and half-beaten to death.
“I’m stranded here!” he called out, voice steady, but loud enough to carry. “Do you have room for one more?”
One of the men aboard squinted at him. “…Depends,” he replied. “What’ve you got in exchange?”
Right… Zeke knew trying to catch a ride for free probably wouldn’t work. But that’s alright. That’s why he gathered all those herbs to begin with. Zeke lowered one of his hands and lifted the bundles of borage he collected.
“Borage,” he said. “And some knowledge of first aid and merchandising, if you need it.”
(He’d added the last part just in case. Not because he felt it was necessary, but because he felt it would sway the odds in his favor).
Silence.
The man’s eyes flicked from the mildly coveted plants, to Zeke, to the island behind him. “Deal. On the condition you also help out around the ship. Do you mind getting off once we reach Palo Town?”
Zeke considered it for all of half a second.
“Of course,” he said simply. It wasn’t like he had the luxury of negotiating. Beggars can’t exactly be choosers, so he’d gladly take what he could get.
Soon, Zeke was on the caravel. He stood at the starboard side as it pulled away from Harvest Island with a slow, creaking turn. He watched the ruined shoreline shrink behind them as the water stretched out ahead.
Palo Town…
A decent little merchant town under the Grand Navy’s protection. That’s pretty much all he knew about it. It was a fresh start. Or… something like it. He was honestly hoping it was the kind of place where he’d be less likely to bump into a Proxy Knight or one of Norman’s merchants. Behind him, the island faded over the horizon, and soon after, the sun. And somewhere over there, Ryan O’Neill was still alive.
Zeke turned away from the deck, joining the rest of the merchants in their chambers.
He didn’t look back.
SEPTEMBER 7th, 1849
0900 - MORNING
Palo Town smelled like wet wood, saltwater, and sawdust. The caravel had barely finished docking before the crew began unloading crates, shouting over one another as ropes creaked and gulls screeched overhead like scandalized aunties. Zeke stepped off with the rest of the crew.
“…Merci,” —Thank you — he said quietly to the merchant captain before leaving.
The man gave a small grunt in response, not even looking at Zeke. “Try not to die lookin’ like that, kiddo,” was all he said.
Zeke touched his swollen jaw instinctively. “…Working on it.”
And honestly? Yeah. He looked like shit.
The lack of proper treatment he’d gotten from his injuries was showing. His face—more specifically, jaw—was even more swollen than before, the bruising dark and angry around his throat where Ryan’s hands had crushed his throat. Half his outer clothing was gone along with the Proxy uniform he’d abandoned back on Harvest Island, leaving him in mismatched layers that made him look less like a traveler and more like someone who had lost a bar fight very, very badly, like some sort of low-lifed drunkard who picked fights at the drop of a hat.
And the people of Palo Town noticed, of course. But something about the town was… off. Zeke felt it not because of the way people who passed by winced when they saw his face, but in their behavior; in their environment.
The shipyard should’ve been louder at this hour. From what Zeke knew, Palo was supposed to be a small but active trade town that relied heavily on fishing vessels and local transport between nearby islands. There should have been more workers moving cargo, more merchants yelling over prices, more ships actively loading and unloading.
Instead, almost all the docks looked empty.
There were a sparse amount of people carrying themselves through the docks—hurried, distracted, and irritated.
A few fishing boats sat idle near shore despite the clear weather.
Several market stalls remained shuttered.
Zeke took in these details with a lift of the brow and a whimper of pain as he nursed his swollen jaw for the umpteenth time
Something was wrong here.
Not catastrophically wrong, no.
Just… economically wrong.
The distinction mattered. There was no inherent danger. Nobody was in danger. But there still existed a certain “danger” nonetheless. Zeke wandered for a while after that realization, asking around for a job wherever he could despite the pitiful and suspicious looks people gave him. Most conversations ended quickly the moment he mentioned work.
“No openings,” said a tailor, not looking Zeke in the eye.
“Not hiring,” muttered a barber trimming an older man’s beard while four others waited impatiently for their turns.
“Try the docks,” said a young fisherman, pointing in a general, yet unclear direction.
“The docks aren’t hiring. Fuck off,” said another fisherman.
(That last one had come with enough bitterness that Zeke had almost snapped at them out of frustration).
(Almost—)
(But he ultimately decided against it).
(The last thing he wanted to do was antagonize someone in a town where he was nothing but a stranger).
(So he bit his tongue, bid them a respectful farewell, and went on his way).
Eventually, he found himself near one of the smaller shipbuilding sections near the edge of town, where the rhythmic sound of hammering cut through the morning air. A modest unfinished sailboat rested near a hut while two adults worked along the hull, their young son sitting atop a crate nearby swinging his legs aimlessly.
Zeke hesitated briefly before approaching.
The man noticed him first. The woman looked up a second later. Eyeing Zeke warily, the man asked, “…Can we help you?”
Zeke straightened slightly. “I’m looking for work,” he said. “I can help with cargo, inventory, bookkeeping, first aid, route planning, trade calculations. Just tell me what to do and I can—”
The woman blinked once. “…Trade calculations? Route planning?”
“Yes.”
The man exchanged a look with her before sighing quietly.
“…You’re not from around here.”
Not a question. Zeke shook his head slightly. “Just arrived.”
The man’s expression tightened faintly. “Sorry, kid. Can’t help you.”
Zeke frowned slightly. “…Right. I figured as much.”
“We can barely afford ourselves right now,” the woman said before the man could. Her tone wasn’t cruel—just exhausted. “Last thing we need is another mouth to support.”
The man grimaced slightly at how blunt that sounded, but didn’t contradict her. “…Town’s been rough lately. Fishing routes bad. Lumber shipments delayed. Harbor taxes went up last month.” He jerked his chin vaguely toward the docks. “Nobody’s spending drachma unless they have to.”
Zeke’s brows furrowed slightly.
Harbor taxes? Delayed shipments? “Bad” fishing routes? Before he could think further, the child suddenly pointed directly at him.
“…Why’s your face look like that?”
Silence.
The parents froze immediately.
“…Davy,” the woman warned.
But the platinum blonde boy kept staring openly at Zeke’s bruised jaw and swollen mouth with the ruthless honesty only children possessed. “…You look ugly.”
“I got punched in the face,” deadpanned Zeke.
The boy considered that for all of two seconds. “…Wow,” he said. “You must really suck at fighting.”
The mother immediately pinched the bridge of her nose. “DAVY!”
“What?!” the boy protested. “If somebody punched me that hard I’d just punch them back harder!”
Zeke stared at him for a long moment. “…That was more or less the other guy’s opinion too,” he admitted quietly.
“SEE?!” Davy said, staring at his mother. “You shouldn’t have been such a weakling. Then you wouldn’t look so ugly right now.”
The father barked out a short laugh before catching himself. The mother shot him a look, before bringing her gaze back to her son.
“Davy,” she said firmly to her son. “Apologize. Now.”
The boy groaned dramatically. “…Sorry your face got messed up, dude.”
Now the whole family was staring at Zeke. The father—mildy amused. The mother—pleading, but also embarrassed. And the son—reluctantly apologetic.
“…Apology accepted,” said Zeke.
Silence.
The father broke it with a sigh, shaking his head before disappearing briefly into the nearby hut. When he returned, he carried a folded scarf in one hand.
“Here,” he said, holding it out toward a now dumbfounded Zeke. “You look half-dead, kid. And those bruises around your neck aren’t doing you any favors either. If anything, you look like a criminal, and I’m sure the last thing you want is anyone antagonizing you, no?”
Zeke supposed he had a point. He looked at the scarf; long, dark brown, worn, but clean.
The man continued, quieter now. “We really can’t hire you… wish we could. But things’re bad enough already.”
Zeke hesitated before taking it. “…Merci.”
Thank you.
The man nodded once. “Good luck.”
Zeke wrapped the scarf loosely around his neck and lower face before stepping away from the shipyard, his pace slower now as his thoughts turned over what he’d heard.
Fishing routes failing…
Delayed lumber shipments…
Raised harbor taxes…
Idle boats…
Empty docks…
His eyes drifted toward the center of town again, narrowing slightly.
“…That’s not normal,” he murmured.
Things like that don’t just HAPPEN without reason , he thought almost automatically. And, annoyingly, that thought came with a memory attached to it.
Zeke had been younger then. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Old enough to stop getting overwhelmed in unfamiliar ports. Young enough that Norman still made him tag along whenever the Consortium conducted business in person and he couldn’t get anyone to “babysit” him. The town they were in had smelled different than Palo. Less salty. More smoky. It was the kind of place where every storefront looked occupied and pleasant yet every merchant and customer somehow still looked miserable.
At the time, Zeke hadn’t understood why. But Norman had.
“Look around,” the older man had said as they walked through the crowded streets.
Zeke remembered rolling his eyes. "I am looking around."
“No. You’re looking at buildings.”
The response had earned him an annoyed glare. Norman hadn’t cared.
“What do ya’ see, boy?”
“A market.”
“What else?”
“People.”
Norman snorted. “Congratulations. You’ve discovered civilization.”
Zeke had briefly considered punting him into a fire. Instead, he’d looked again. At the market. The merchants. The workers. The customers. Eventually he’d shrugged.
“I… I don’t get what you’re trying to get me to see, Monsieur.”
He’d tried to be as respectful about it as possible, but he was already mentally preparing himself for another one of Norman’s rants about how he would’ve died if Norman hadn’t fished him up and prevented the rest of the merchants from throwing him overboard. A rant that usually went along the lines of “Blablabla—and that’s why you better keep yourself useful to me .”
But what Norman said instead surprised him.
“Then let’s try looking again.”
That particular memory remained strangely vivid because for one rare moment, the man was… not disappointed by Zeke’s very existence. The man had been patient with him, looking at him with that same look he had when he first saw Zeke—that look he didn’t think he’d ever understand.
Norman crouched beside Zeke and pointed toward a fishmonger arguing with a customer. “Look over there. What do ya’ see?”
“A fishmonger.”
“And?”
“…He’s angry?”
Norman had sighed.
“Look at the fish.”
Zeke had. Then frowned.
“…There’s not many. They’re all small.”
“Good.”
Norman pointed again.
“Now that baker.”
Zeke looked, now understanding the assignment.
“…Long line.”
“That carpenter.”
“…No customers.”
“That tavern.”
“…it’s empty.”
Norman’s grin had appeared then. A rare, genuine one. A grin that always seemed to vanish before Zeke could figure out what it meant.
“There ya’ go. Right’o boyo. Those little bits and pieces… those little things nobody pays attention to… those are the things that you oughta’ always look for.”
At the time, Zeke hadn’t understood. Now, he did. The buildings had never mattered. The people hadn’t either. It was the movement between them that mattered. That flow. That way drachma traveled from one hand to another. That way goods moved. That way everything seemed to be connected. Moving parts of one big, economic machine. Moving parts that almost nobody paid attention to. Norman had stood and ruffled Zeke’s hair hard enough to nearly knock him over. “Folks always like to think they know why their economies are failing. But you wanna know somethin’, boy? You oughta never listen when dem’ folks say what the problem is.”
Zeke remembered swatting the hand away immediately. “Cause they lie?”
“Nah. Worse.”
Norman paused, looked toward the sky; the sun’s rays hitting his sunburned skin in such a way that he almost looked unreal, but all the more intimidating.
“They guess.”
The memory lingered for a moment longer before shattering. Because a loud shout had echoed from somewhere deeper in town. Soon, another followed. Then several more. Zeke blinked, the present snapping back into focus.
That didn’t sound good. And judging by the volume of it, someone was probably guessing. Zeke followed it and found himself looking at a crowd gathered near the center of town, surrounding a raised platform where a balding man in expensive clothes was trying—and failing—to maintain control of the situation.
That must be the Mayor, Zeke thought.
“…I’m telling you, the situation is temporary!” the mayor insisted. “The Dark Sea storms disrupted our trade routes! Once the currents normalize—”
“The currents were fine before the taxes!” someone heckled.
More followed.
“My boat hasn’t left harbor in a week!”
“My brother lost two shipping contracts!”
“Nobody’s buying fish!”
“My lumber’s rotting on the docks!”
“It’s your fault, Mayor Clutch!”
Mayor Clutch visibly flinched.
“No, no, you’re not understanding—”
"Oh, we’re understanding just fine, you LIAR!!!"
The shouts were now all overlapping. Competing with each other.
Zeke stopped near the edge of the gathering, the puzzle pieces slowly clicking together in his head as he thought about everything he had heard and witnessed in Palo Town before this very moment. He briefly thought of Norman—that man would’ve already figured out why this was happening by now. Would most definitely lecture Zeke for still guessing. Just what was he missing…?
“Nobody even stops here anymore!” said someone. And at that moment, everything clicked.
Zeke blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“…Ah.”
The sound escaped him before he could stop it. A nearby fisherman glanced at him. Zeke immediately looked away.
"…N-Nothing. Carry on, Monsieur."
The fisherman kept yelling.
Zeke slowly lifted a hand to his bruised jaw. “…Seriously?”
Those words came out quieter, because he genuinely couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
One merchant blamed the fishermen.
The fishermen blamed the mayor.
The mayor blamed the storms.
The tavern owners blamed the merchants.
The merchants blamed the harbor fees.
The shipbuilders blamed everyone.
And somehow, someway, every single person involved was looking directly at the problem while simultaneously refusing to acknowledge it.
Zeke stared at them.
Then at the half-empty docks visible beyond the square.
Then back at them.
For a brief moment he almost laughed. Because all this was just so, so, so stupid. Painfully, spectacularly, STUPID. The sort of stupid that would’ve earned him a smack upside the head from a Norman-in-a-good-mood for not noticing it immediately.
But a part of him suddenly remembered Ryan calling him a coward. And another part remembered being nearly strangled yesterday.
The second part won.
“This isn’t my problem,” he said immediately.
Because to hell with sticking his nose in some town he’s only been in for two hours’s politics. Doing that would instantly shoot him up into being on everyone’s radars. The Knights Proxy might be starting to clock him for desertion. Norman was probably pissed off and looking for him. And Ryan O’Neill… he might catch wind of Zeke in the rumormill, and if the man was serious…
Zeke swallowed.
There was absolutely no version of this situation in which involving himself would benefit him in the long-run.
I need to go back to looking for a job, he thought. But suddenly, just as he was turning away, a loud crack echoed through the square.
Everyone froze.
A woman in a teal suit stood beside the mayor, one hand still extended from where she had apparently slapped him.
The mayor stared at her.
The crowd stared at her.
Zeke stared at her.
“I told you this would happen!” the woman shouted, pointing directly at Mayor Clutch.
The crowd immediately erupted again. Before she could lunge forward again, a second woman grabbed her by the arm.
"Tilly! Stop! Please!"
The newcomer had lilac hair and large round glasses held together with tape at the bridge. When Tilly didn’t look at her, she tried again. “Tilly! You cannot assault the mayor! The Grand Navy will arrest you!”
Tilly glared at her.
“I absolutely can, Lilly. And I’ll fucking do it again.”
“Tilly!”
The mayor wisely took a step backward.
Several Grand Navy marines immediately started moving toward them.
The crowd began shouting louder. Then the mayor started trying to shout above them. And Tilly started shouting louder than the mayor. And Lilly looked about three seconds away from developing a headache and just dying on the spot.
Chaos.
It was complete chaos.
Zeke watched for a moment longer than he intended.
The fishermen looked angry.
The merchants looked exhausted.
The shipbuilders looked worried.
Everyone was afraid.
Everyone was panicking.
For a brief moment, Zeke found himself thinking about the shipyard from earlier. The father. The mother. Davy. The worn scarf around his neck.
The fish that weren’t selling.
The lumber that wasn’t moving.
The empty docks.
The people suffering because of it all.
"…Tch! C’est stupide!”
This wasn’t his town!
This wasn’t his problem!
But this was all too much. Sooner or later, someone innocent was going to get hurt. Badly. Zeke had to do something.
He thought about it as he walked. Not how to solve it, really. That part was stupidly easy. The difficult part was solving it without becoming attached to the solution. Without becoming attached to the town. To the people. To the unwanted attention it would throw onto him. Because that was where trouble started.
By the time Zeke came up with a half-baked plan, the shouting behind him had faded into background noise. Tilly was probably still trying to throttle the mayor. Lilly was probably trying to stop her. The Grand Navy marines were probably regretting every life choice that had led them this moment.
None of that concerned Zeke. What concerned him was a far more pressing issue. “…I need something to write with.”
Finding paper would be easy. But his pen was broken. And unfortunately, good ideas had an annoying tendency to disappear if they weren’t written down: an unfortunate condition for being human.
Behind him, Lilly happened to look up. “What?”
Her glasses slid slightly down her nose as she turned toward the voice. For just a moment, she caught sight of a young, white-haired man disappearing into the crowd, a worn brown scarf wrapped around his neck and face.
Then he disappeared into the crowd.
Lilly frowned slightly.
Something about that voice… Something about the way he’d mused to himself about looking for something to write with… She couldn’t quite place why, but for some reason, she found herself watching the crowd long after he’d disappeared into it.
Notes: Davy and his parents were created by g4mer0zaurus_rex (Drakosar)! Thank you for giving me the chance to write about them. 
[NEXT (Coming Soon!)]