Just then, the tribal chief returned, his face was unreadable as he glanced over the gathered buyers. Ignoring the tension in the air, he cleared his throat and addressed the crowd calmly:

"Friends, this year's rules will be slightly different. I will no longer interfere in the negotiations during tonight's festival. Each household in the tribe will deal with you individually. I, and the other elders, will not intervene."

The announcement sent a ripple of unease through the crowd. Adam, still new to these dealings, didn't react immediately. But the expressions on the faces of the other buyers changed sharply. For them, any deviation from the established protocol was cause for concern—especially when a newcomer like Adam had just arrived. They quickly crowded around the chief, demanding an explanation.

Watching the scene unfold, Deadshot raised an eyebrow. When no one was paying attention, he leaned over to Adam and muttered, "What the hell just happened? Why did the chief's attitude shift so suddenly?"

Adam glanced briefly at the tribal chief, who was now trying to pacify the agitated buyers, and answered in a quiet, deliberate tone, "Nothing major. Before we entered the village, I told No. 1 and Jason to take the horse team and parade it slowly through the village. Let everyone see what we brought—medicine, salt, liquor, even building supplies. Why trek down the mountain for days when the goods can come to your door? That kind of convenience speaks for itself. It plants the idea: trade directly, skip the middleman."

Deadshot nodded slowly, impressed. But he quickly picked up on something.

"And the chief? The elders? You didn't leave them out, did you? What incentive did you offer them to go along?"

Adam replied with a slight smile, "Simple. I told No. 1—if the chief cooperates, he gets all the horses. Over thirty of them. He can use them to dominate the mountain routes. But if he refuses, or tries to cut us out, then we burn the supplies and push the horses off the cliff. Not a single saddle left behind."

He shrugged, "It's not even our money—it's Black Mask's. A few hundred grand to manipulate a village economy? Cheap. Either way, the chief has to weigh the cost of losing face with his people. If they want what we're offering and he gets in the way, they'll turn on him. He doesn't have money or guns to hold power—just reputation."

Deadshot let out a low whistle, "Damn. You really do think like a Gotham capitalist."

As dusk settled, the jungle village transformed. A massive bonfire made from hollowed tree trunks lit up the night. The full moon festival had begun. Villagers brought out fruit wine and circled the flames, their eyes drifting toward Adam's caravan, where barrels of imported rum gleamed in the torchlight. Compared to the harsh, bitter liquor they clutched, the golden cane spirit seemed like liquid treasure.

Then, as if on cue, Jason hopped up onto one of the wagons. He popped open a barrel of rum, dipped a ladle, and poured some into a metal dish. Calmly, he crouched in front of Miss Isley, who winced as he cleaned the blisters on her feet with the alcohol. The girl had spent days on horseback, and the mountain trails had taken their toll.

That one gesture—simple, practical, and unintentional—set the village ablaze with envy. The sweet, syrupy aroma of the rum wafted over the crowd, igniting thirst. Some villagers twitched with longing. Were it not for the armed guards flanking the wagons, they might've rushed the caravan.

Now, whispers surged through the camp. Men began urging their wives and daughters to start negotiating—fast—before someone else got the goods first.

Deadshot chuckled beside Adam, "Tell me that part was your idea too. That little wine stunt? You just baited half the damn village."

Adam smirked and replied, "That? No. That was all Jason. Kid's got instincts."

Norton grinned and said, "Well, your apprentice is going to be dangerous. A few more years, and he might outmaneuver both of us."

Adam glanced over at Jason, who was still fussing over Ivy's bandaged feet. He nodded slowly.

"He just might. Which means I need to step up, or I'll be the one getting replaced."

While the two of them chatted comfortably, No. 1 was tangled in negotiations with eager villagers. He was sweating under pressure, overwhelmed by the haggling. He kept casting side-eyes at Adam and Deadshot, clearly wishing he could clone himself. But this entire operation had been sanctioned by Black Mask—Adam was explicitly told not to get too involved in the trade, lest he learn too much and eventually cut into the business himself.

As the fire roared and music began, the tribal chief approached Adam once again, this time with a more formal tone.

"Mr. Adam," he said, "our festival is beginning. May I invite you to join me and observe the ceremony?"

Adam nodded politely and said, "Of course. It would be an honor."

The chief led him to a circle near the center of the village. A wide pit had been dug into the ground, surrounded by thorny stakes—clearly to keep something inside from escaping. Around it, villagers gathered excitedly, fruit wine in hand, whispering about what was to come.

As Adam took his seat, the chief leaned closer and muttered, "I imagine you'll be leaving with full hands and fat pockets tonight. That's fine—it's good for young men to be ambitious. But don't overreach. Greed rarely ends beautifully."

Adam raised an eyebrow, catching the veiled warning.

He didn't respond directly. Instead, he changed the subject with casual detachment, "You know, I noticed something. From here, it takes days just to reach the foot of the mountain. No real roads. No cars. No infrastructure. This isolation—it cuts you off from the civilized world. And when that happens, whoever controls transportation…"

He paused.

"…controls everything."