CH366 Pangean-style Employment Contract II

***

As expected, Havel Landomas couldn't be bothered to properly read the contract—or at least, that's what it looked like.

He gave the parchment a lazy, cursory glance before turning to Alex.

"Do you think I'm an Elf?" he suddenly asked.

Alex raised a brow. He hadn't expected that question from someone like Havel. Not knowing how to respond, he simply tossed it back.

"Are you an elf?"

"No." Havel shook his head. "My race is called the Noble race."

"Then, you're a Noble," Alex replied without missing a beat.

A faint smile tugged at Havel's lips. He was about to sign the document when Alex suddenly stopped him.

"Do you hate the elves?" Alex asked.

Havel tilted his head. "Why? Are you worried?"

"Yes," Alex said bluntly. "One of my fiancées is elven. I can't have a dangerous element near her."

A flicker of surprise crossed Havel's eyes. He had assumed Alex was worried about offending the elven race—or worse, the mighty Elarion Empire they ruled. But it seemed Alex's concern was far more personal.

"No," Havel finally said. "I just hate being called an elf."

"That's fine then." Alex withdrew his hand from the parchment, letting the so-called Noble sign it.

Meanwhile, Silver Blackbolt was combing through her own parchment meticulously, her eyes scanning every line for hidden clauses or unfair demands.

"All satisfactory?" Alex asked once she finished.

"Hmm." Silver nodded lightly.

She pressed her hand to the parchment, channelling her energy to finalise the contract.

Once all four had signed, Alex turned to the Agoge Master and handed him a golden placard.

"Keep this safe. You can collect your payment from any Golden Palace branch with it," Alex said.

The Agoge Master raised a brow. "You're not going to discuss the price?"

Alex smiled—pleasantly, but with an unmistakable edge.

"Why? Planning to overcharge me? You'll get your payment if your price is reasonable. If not... you'll get nothing. So, think carefully before naming your demand."

The Agoge Master swallowed his retort and nodded. "I will keep that in mind."

He accepted the placard quickly, clearly eager to leave—especially with Drake's silent pressure hanging over him.

Once the man was gone, Alex turned back to his four new followers. He handed each of them a smaller placard engraved with the Enclave emblem.

"They'll lead you to your accommodations. Get some rest for today," Alex instructed. "I'm not sure when you'll have that luxury again."

As if remembering something, he added, "Also, make a list of the weapons and items you'll need. I'll see to their procurement."

He placed a blank sheet of parchment before them.

Drake folded his arms. "What now?"

"I'll check on the other candidates I mentioned yesterday," Alex replied. "Do you want to come along?"

Drake gave him a flat, pointed stare—one that made Alex chuckle.

"There's something else I need to handle," Drake said curtly, then turned and walked away.

Alex watched him go, wondering what the Legend had to do within the Enclave, but he eventually shrugged it off.

After sending his new followers to the quarters he had arranged, Alex scanned through the sheet containing their requested items.

He crossed off everything he already possessed, sealed the parchment with a pulse of mana, and stepped out of the main spire into the bustling city outside its gates.

His first stop was the Golden Palace Headquarters, where he dropped off the request list for procurement. Then, with that errand done, he made his way towards Agrut's Orc Tribe estate within the city.

He didn't even make it past the gates before he was met with a boisterous welcome.

If not for the obvious differences in size and… facial structure, one might have mistaken Alex for a fellow orc given how enthusiastically they greeted him.

Agrut's tribe belonged to the Brownskin Orcs—a rare subspecies distinct from their Greenskin cousins of the Ironmourn Desert.

From afar, without seeing their faces, one could easily mistake a Brownskin Orc for a large human. Unlike the brutish Greenskins, the Brownskins leaned more towards the magical professions, with their intellect being several folds higher.

In fact, the average Brownskin Orc could easily rival a low-tier Greenskin Shaman in intelligence.

That wasn't to say Greenskins were dull—far from it. Higher variants like Orc Guardians and Orc Lords possessed both might and cunning. But when compared to the Brownskins, they were undoubtedly more… brutes than scholar.

"Young Master Alex! You're here!"

The booming voice belonged to Grand Mage Agrut himself.

The orc's tusked face split into a wide grin as he clasped Alex's hand in greeting—completely unconcerned about the difference in their formal ranks.

They met before the grand entrance of the property's main building, sunlight glinting faintly off Agrut's bronze ornaments.

"Master Agrut, I'm here to meet the youth we discussed," Alex said.

"I understand. He's been looking forward to meeting you as well." Agrut gestured for someone to step forward.

A shorter, younger orc—barely two metres tall—approached. His brownish skin had a faint lustre to it, and his eyes gleamed with restrained confidence.

"Young Master Alex, this is Mordor Doomcrusher," Agrut introduced proudly. "He's the most promising youth of our tribe's current generation. He's well on his path to becoming a competent tribe Shaman."

"Nice to meet you." Alex extended his hand.

"It's an honour to meet you, Young Master Alex," Mordor replied, shaking it respectfully.

"Tell me," Alex began, "what can you do? Your spells, abilities—anything that'll help me gauge how you might fit into my team."

"As a Shaman," Mordor said with a hint of pride, "I specialise in debuff and debilitating magic. I can cast some buffing spells as well, though they're weaker compared to my curses." He hesitated briefly, then added, "I also have some skill in swordsmanship."

Alex blinked. "Wait, what? Swordsmanship?"

"Yes," Mordor confirmed, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed.

Alex turned to Agrut, who sighed like a weary father.

Normally, Shamans served as the backline anchors of an orcish warband—controlling the tide of battle with precise buffs and curses while being protected by frontline warriors. Most focused purely on their spellcraft, and those few who trained in melee usually favoured staves, turning their magical staffs into deadly bludgeons when forced into close quarters.

Some eccentric ones even picked up archery to remain effective once their mana reserves ran low.

But a Shaman who trained with a sword?

That was almost unheard of. Not impossible—but rare enough that most considered it reckless.

Agrut and the other elders had long tried to steer Mordor away from this dangerous path, but the young orc's stubbornness had outlasted their patience.

Alex could only sympathise.

"I hope you're not expecting me to convince him otherwise," he said flatly.

Agrut shook his head. "No. At this point, the boy can only learn the truth on the battlefield. If his path is wrong, the lesson will be costly. That's why…" Agrut's tone grew more serious, "…he'll need strong teammates—ones who can protect him if things turn dire."

Alex immediately understood what Agrut was hinting at.

An interplanar expedition.

**(16/70)**

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