Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World
Chapter 85 85: Iron Hearth

"Hey, old man," the thug hissed, voice low and thick with threat. "Where's the protection money?"

The fruit vendor stiffened.

His weathered hands trembled as he reached for a small pouch hidden beneath his stall. His eyes darted around the crowded street, silently pleading for help—yet no one met his gaze. No one dared to speak. The entire street had learned long ago to look away when trouble walked by in boots and smiles laced with cruelty.

"I—I paid last week," the vendor stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

The thug grinned, flashing crooked teeth.

"And this week?" he said mockingly. "Iron Hearth's getting busier, yeah? That means profits go up. That means our protection costs more too."

"I-I can't," the vendor said, his voice shaking as he clutched the pouch to his chest. "Please, sir… I don't even make enough profit. If I give more, I won't have anything left to buy food for my family."

One of the other thugs scoffed loudly and stepped forward. Without warning, he brought the flat of his hand down on the table with a sharp crack that made several nearby merchants flinch.

The stall rattled.

A few apples tumbled to the ground and rolled into the street.

"You think we care about your sob story?" the man barked. "This isn't a charity. If you're doing business here, you pay. That's how it works."

The vendor's shoulders slumped, the fight in him extinguished.

He slowly pulled the pouch from beneath his tunic and handed it over with shaking fingers, his eyes fixed on the cobblestone below.

Unwilling. Defeated.

The thug snatched it with a sneer and tossed the pouch in the air, catching it with one hand like a child with a toy.

"See?" the thug said to his gang with a sneer, tossing the pouch of coins into the air before catching it again. "Wasn't so hard."

He leaned closer to the fruit vendor, the smile still playing on his lips.

"Next time, be more prepared. Don't make us chase you down or whine about your empty belly. You make us look like we're greedy or something."

The group behind him laughed loudly—harsh and mocking.

As if to add insult to injury, one of the men casually grabbed an apple from the vendor's display, took a bite, and tossed the half-eaten fruit back onto the stall.

"Payment for our time," he joked.

They moved on, heading toward the next row of merchants like vultures seeking fresh prey.

The vendor watched them go, his face tight with frustration. His hands balled into trembling fists, and his lips barely moved as he muttered under his breath.

"What do you mean, I make you look greedy…? You're nothing but greedy. A pack of leeches preying on the weak…"

He said it just loud enough for himself to hear—but not enough to invite retaliation.

From a shaded corner of the street, Arthur stood silently, arms folded behind his back. He had watched the entire interaction, every cruel word and dismissive gesture.

Of course, he had recognized what they were.

He wasn't naïve.

The gang moved with precision. Too clean, too practiced. This wasn't a random group of thugs—it was an operation. Likely part of a larger extortion ring operating under the illusion of protection, and no doubt enabled by either a weak local authority… or a corrupt one.

But Arthur didn't intervene right away. Not yet.

Observe first. Understand the pattern. If you cut the branch, the rot remains. But if you find the root…

He watched as the gang approached another vendor—this one a young man selling brass hinges and iron locks. The same routine began again: casual intimidation, subtle threats, and inevitable payment.

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

He needed to know how far this extortion network extended. Who they were working for. Whether it ended at the street level or climbed higher—to a rogue guild, a rival noble, or even a bribed city official.

Only once the group moved on, vanishing behind the next market lane, did Arthur finally step forward.

He approached the fruit vendor slowly but deliberately, his cloak fluttering faintly with every step.

The vendor, still visibly shaken from the recent encounter, looked up as Arthur came to a stop in front of his stall.

"Oh—great sir," the man said quickly, straightening with a nervous smile. "What can I get you? Apples? Dates? I even have imported pears from the southern orchards—very rare this time of year."

Arthur said nothing at first. Instead, he reached toward a basket and picked up an apple—smooth, crimson, and warm from the sun. He turned it in his hand, inspecting it with a discerning eye.

"Not bad," Arthur murmured, "no blemishes. Firm skin. Good color."

The vendor gave a slight nod, still unaware of who stood before him. That wasn't surprising. Arthur had never made many public appearances in Iron Hearth, and even in Eldoria, few commoners truly knew what their king looked like. He didn't parade around in ornamental armor or wear a gilded crown in public. For most, the name Arthur Tesla was a symbol, not a man.

"I try to keep my stock fresh," the vendor said, relaxing slightly. "Comes straight from the northern orchards, handpicked. I only sell what I'd feed my own children."

Arthur gave a soft hum of approval. "A good standard."

He looked the man in the eye now, his tone shifting subtly.

"Tell me—what do you know about the group that came to collect your… 'protection payment' just now?"

The vendor's expression darkened. His shoulders tensed again, the lines on his face tightening as he glanced over his shoulder, half-afraid the thugs might still be within earshot.

Arthur waited, silent and composed.

The vendor hesitated, then sighed.

"They come every few days. Always the same ones—five of them, sometimes more. They call themselves 'Iron Shields,' but they don't wear any real insignia. No registration with the guilds. They don't answer to the city watch either."

"Iron Shields?" Arthur repeated, his voice thoughtful. "A self-made name, then. How long have they been operating here?"