In Meta Pangaea, communication between different language groups was impossible without translation.
Moreover, these elves came from tribal societies far removed from the Fried Empire’s influence—there was no reason their languages would overlap.
‘What now?’
As Ian pondered, his eyes caught Sera in the crowd, her arms filled with what appeared to be alchemical ingredients—likely returning from gathering monster parts.
“Sera, come here.”
“Yes, Young Master!”
The townsfolk instinctively made way, letting her approach with ease.
“Do you know any translation magic?”
“Ah… no.”
‘Tch. Worth a shot.’
He had planned to have her learn it later, anticipating future contact with elves—but he hadn’t expected them to seek him out first.
Just as Ian was about to resign himself to silence, the lead elf spoke again:
“Grakin. Olgrim.”
“Hm?”
The only intelligible words so far—names Ian recognized.
The elf gestured to his waist, roughly the height of the two dwarves. There was no mistaking it: they were asking for Grarkin and Olgrim.
Ian turned to a nearby soldier.
“You—fetch the town guard captain. Tell him to meet me at my inn.”
“Yes, sir!”
The soldier sprinted off. Ian motioned for the elves to follow.
“Too crowded here. Let’s talk inside.”
Though they didn’t understand his words, they grasped his intent and followed.
An hour later, Grakin arrived—and froze at the sight of the elves.
Unlike the townsfolk’s awestruck reactions, his expression was pure disbelief. Why are they here?
“You came. Step closer.”
Grakin shuffled forward, his face flushed like autumn leaves, reeking of ale.
“Drinking at this hour?”
It was barely noon—far too early for heavy drinking.
“It’s my day off.”
“Fair enough.”
Had it been during duty, Ian would’ve reprimanded him, but dwarves were notorious for their love of drink.
“Sorry to interrupt your break.”
“Not at all. When the Young Master calls, I come.”
Still, his slightly disappointed look suggested he’d been mid-celebration.
“These elves mentioned your name. Do you speak their language?”
“Aye, I do.”
“How?”
Grakin explained: Decades before the settlement was founded, while living in caves, he and Olgrim had traded with elves—food in exchange for weapons and repairs. The elves, wary of outsiders, only dealt with them, and over time, Grakin picked up their tongue.
“I see.”
Now Ian understood how they’d survived this barren land. Hunting alone wouldn’t have been enough.
“Good. Translate for me.”
Grakin cleared his throat and exchanged quick words with the elves before relaying:
“They ask if you’re this town’s leader.”
“Effectively, yes.”
“I am Adin, warrior-chief of the Bear Fang Elves.”
“Ian von Schrantz, heir to Count Schrantz.”
Once introductions were done, the elves cut to the chase:
“Our tribe needs weapons. Swords, bows, arrows—crafted by Olgrim.”
100 swords, 150 bows, 7,000 arrows? Are they preparing for war?
“That’s… a lot.”
Ian mentally recalled through Meta Pangaea’s timeline. The Lizardman invasion? No, that’s years away. Why now?
“And what do we get in return?”
“Food supplies for your town.”
Ian rested his chin on his hand, unimpressed.
“Not compelling. We’re not short on food.”
Thanks to Duke Endran’s “victory gifts,” their granaries were full.
“Besides, I can’t authorize this unilaterally.”
“You can’t even make that decision as their representative? Are you truly their leader? No doubt you’re scheming to squeeze more out of us. Greedy, inferior short-lived vermin—that’s what you humans are.”
The translation came to an abrupt halt.
Grarkin had known how elves viewed other races, but he never imagined they’d openly throw insults—especially not in front of the person they were negotiating with.
Ian watched the dwarf hesitate before asking,
“What’s taking so long with the translation?”
“Well… they’re questioning how someone in your position can’t make such a decision… and doubting whether you’re truly the leader.”
Ian stifled a laugh.
‘I may not speak Elvish, but I know “greedy, inferior short-lived vermin” when I hear it.’
He was well aware that Grakin was softening their words. After all, in Meta Pangaea, those were the first insults players learned when dealing with elves.
“Greedy humans.”
“Inferior creatures.”
“Short-lived vermin.”
The elves had a habit of spitting those words whenever they interacted with outsiders.
‘To insult me to my face—even if they think I don’t understand—what, are they trying to provoke a war? And this is their warrior-chief?’
This wasn’t just a personal visit. Adin was acting on behalf of the Elder Council.
In elven society, a warrior-chief held authority comparable to a knight commander—but given Adin’s reputation, his influence ran even deeper.
For him to openly insult a potential ally was borderline suicidal.
‘Even for a celebrated hero among the elves, this is too much.’
Ian knew exactly who Adin was—the legendary figure who united three elven tribes into a formidable force, the warrior who repelled monster invasions and became a living legend.
‘Typical elves, really.’
There was a running joke among Meta Pangaea players:
“If you want to see true arrogance, look no further than an elf who’s never interacted with humans.”
Adin was lucky.
Ian had heard the insults, but he didn’t particularly care.
‘I could declare war right now, but… that’d be a waste.’
The elves’ forest was rich in rare herbs and wood perfect for crafting high-quality bows.
‘Their branches alone make the best bow material, and their herbs are invaluable for alchemy.’
One insult wasn’t worth throwing away those resources.
‘Still, I’ll repay this favor someday.’
For now, he played along.
“To put it in terms you’d understand—I’m like the son of an Elder, not the heir. Even if I were, I couldn’t trade our weapons without approval.”
Grakin blinked in surprise. Ian’s understanding of elven hierarchy was sharper than expected.
Adin, however, took it as Grakin simplifying the explanation.
“So you do need weapons?” Ian continued. “But even if I had the authority, could you really provide enough food in return?”
“You underestimate us,” Adin scowled.
Ian sighed internally.
‘He thinks I’m playing some kind of trick.’
Of course, to an elf who’d never ventured beyond their forest, human trade must seem like a web of deceit.
“The weapons you want—Olgrim’s work—are worth far more than what you’re offering. We have no shortage of food.”
Adin smirked, mistaking Ian’s words for reluctant compromise.
“Then how much do you need?”
“Enough to feed over a thousand people for three weeks. Can you provide that?”
If Jurdan were here, he’d have calculated the exact market equivalent—but Ian wasn’t that precise.
Still, his rough estimate was more than fair.
Adin and his escort stared in shock.
The sheer scale of human settlements was beyond their comprehension.
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