Chapter 56: Opening Trade Routes (I) Duke

“Please, go ahead.” The words that had almost left his lips were swallowed back, and Weilin stared blankly at Wesk before finally speaking.

With a slightly apologetic air, Wesk explained, “I would like to ask you to recommend my second son, Duke.”

“Oh?”

Weilin looked past Wesk at the young man standing tall and proud behind him, scrutinizing him from head to toe.

“Mid-Bronze strength, quite average.”

Duke heard Weilin’s words and felt a pang of disappointment, but he did not let it show. He stood motionless behind his father.

“In that case—”

Wesk didn’t hold out much hope, and was ready to steer the conversation back to business.

But at that moment, Weilin waved a hand to interrupt him. “However, I can give your second son an opportunity. If he can pass my trial, I’ll take him under my wing and cultivate him.”

“What kind of trial, if I may ask?” Hope flickered in Wesk’s eyes at this turn of events, and he couldn’t help but ask eagerly.

“He’ll spar with one of my caravan guards. I’ll make my decision after that.”

On hearing this, Wesk agreed at once and enthusiastically led Weilin to the training ground at the heart of the castle.

Guided by their host, Weilin and Raimondo arrived at a training ground of more than sixty square meters, with racks of various weapons lining the sides.

“Remember to suppress your strength to match his,” Weilin turned to Raimondo and instructed.

“Yes, my lord.”

Raimondo nodded, selected a suitable wooden sword from the rack, and took off his linen coat, revealing a white shirt underneath.

Having received his father’s approval, Duke also removed his coat, took the wooden sword handed to him by a servant, and stepped into the center of the training ground.

“Give it your all. Don’t lose in a single move—it would greatly embarrass your father,” Raimondo said, suppressing his strength to mid-Bronze, sizing Duke up and offering him a word of advice.

“Thank you.”

Duke’s eyes sharpened with resolve. He gripped the wooden sword in both hands and began to slowly channel the battle energy within his body.

In contrast, Raimondo watched Duke with utter nonchalance, making no unnecessary moves, waiting for his opponent’s attack.

Duke was the first to strike, launching an attack at Raimondo, but it was easily parried.

Watching from outside the training ground, Wesk’s eyes grew grave as he observed the clash. He was well aware of his second son’s abilities—stronger than some high-Bronze knights in his own territory—yet he was being handled with ease by a caravan guard of equal rank.

Noticing Wesk’s shifting expression, Weilin smiled and said, “Baron, your son’s ability is quite good. Compared to the average Bronze knight, he’s already above par.”

Wesk shook his head, replying, “Weilin, he can’t even defeat one of your caravan guards. It’s really…”

“No, that’s not a fair comparison,” Weilin responded. “Raimondo is the caravan leader, handpicked by me. He’s also received our family’s full knightly training, which naturally puts him above what a lesser noble’s training can achieve… Forgive me for putting it that way.”

“Not at all, please continue.”

Wesk didn’t feel slighted; the reality of hierarchy was what it was, whether spoken or unspoken.

“The heirs trained by lesser nobles often can’t compare with the knight training in our family. For Duke to reach this level is already commendable—he just lacks some essential guidance.”

Hearing this, Wesk felt much more at ease. At least it meant Weilin wouldn’t refuse to take his second son. He quickly offered a compliment: “The Ex family is renowned for its knightly tradition. I’ve always admired your strength. Thank you for recognizing Duke’s potential.”

Weilin nodded, saying nothing further, quietly watching the two men’s duel.

As time passed, Duke’s stamina waned. Gasping for breath, he stared at his opponent, shaken—his years of hard work seemed to count for nothing.

In the brief exchange, he could clearly feel Raimondo was holding back.

Based on his own judgment, had Raimondo gone all out from the start, Duke would have been defeated within three moves.

A ringing sound.

Duke’s sword was knocked flying from his hand. He collapsed to his knees, exhausted, and managed to say, “My lord, thank you for showing mercy.”

“Your fundamentals are lacking, but you have perseverance. You just need some proper guidance.”

As the duel ended, Wesk and Weilin approached. Duke tried to stand, bracing himself, shamefaced. “Father, I lost.”

“It’s all right. You did your best.” He had expected his father to be disappointed, but instead saw a gentle, loving expression—something he hadn’t seen in many years.

“Duke, are you willing to follow me?” Weilin stepped in front of Duke, his tone warm.

Duke was stunned.

Seeing his son hesitate, Wesk kicked him in the knee, forcing him to kneel.

Realizing what was happening, Duke prostrated himself and loudly declared, “Greetings, my lord!”

Weilin helped him to his feet. “Say your farewells to your father. Tomorrow morning, come find me at my residence—you know where it is.”

“Yes, my lord.” Duke responded swiftly, bowing deeply.

Afterward, Raimondo, as the caravan leader, discussed further details of the salt trade with Wesk’s steward, finalizing the purchase agreement.

After lunch, Weilin bid farewell to Wesk. With Raimondo and two caravan guards, he left the castle, intending to explore the commercial district of the small town to see if anything piqued his interest.

“My lord, they’ve offered a much better purchase price than before,” Raimondo reported as they walked away from the castle.

“Oh? Tell me more.” Weilin was somewhat surprised.

Raimondo produced a business contract from his pocket and handed it to Weilin, explaining, “Previously, the price you negotiated with Baron Grosvenor was twenty-five copper coins per pound for refined salt and ten copper coins per pound for coarse salt.

“This time, the steward and I agreed on thirty copper coins per pound for refined salt, and twelve copper coins per pound for coarse salt—a full twenty percent increase.

“They’re purchasing one ton of refined salt and three tons of coarse salt, with a contract to repeat this transaction every three months.”

“Interesting.” Weilin smiled as he looked at the contract bearing Wesk’s signature.

At the previous rate, the total payment would have been 110 gold coins, but now, with the new agreement, it amounted to 132 gold coins—a full twenty-two gold coins more.

However, the other party had added a condition: within Grosvenor and the surrounding territories, Weilin was not to sell salt to any other noble.