What’s the first thing a gamer does after beating a game on the highest difficulty with the easiest method?

  Most would write a guide or upload a gameplay video. There’s nothing wrong with this—it’s just a common way to satisfy one’s ego.

  “Merchants share the same goal as most people: making money,” Arno said casually to his three subordinates—Blair, Alma, and Richard—revealing a secret they’d struggled to grasp. “There are many ways to make money, but they boil down to two categories. First: war profits. Manipulating conflicts, selling weapons, supplies, and slaves. The dividends of war far exceed ordinary business. These are either brilliant madmen or geniuses—not every rich man can start a war and profit from it.”

  “The second is peace profits: steady, incremental business. They don’t seek instant riches but long-term stability. These merchants crave peace more than warmongers, as peace means no risks, lower labor costs, and higher profits. Take the men meeting in the merchant guild hall nearby—they built their wealth on peace.”

  Arno tapped the table, his voice sharp. “Every caravan brings them steady income. War brings military blockades and bandits, cutting off their profits. So when they sense a controllable threat growing, they act to snuff it out.” He smiled. “But here, in Pramisburg, I make the rules.”

  “Under no circumstances can Pramisburg descend into chaos!” The Bell Province Merchant Guild chairman had arrived two days prior, alarmed by the city’s unraveling “dark order” as underground factions clashed. Standing at the head of the table, he raised his hands, roaring, “No one—no one—is allowed to disrupt our business, not even nobles!”

  He was explaining the guild’s sudden intervention in local affairs. Merchants preferred neutrality to avoid trouble, but this time, the chairman’s move had displeased some. Both Harvey and the mercenaries were dangerous foes; while the guild had suppressed the violence for now, a single opening could unleash hundreds in bloodshed, making caravans afraid to travel alone.

  “Use your brains—if the strongest local factions annihilate each other, what happens next?”

  A merchant interjected, “Isn’t that good? I’m sick of paying protection fees. Their fall means saved expenses.”

  The chairman spat in disgust. “Nonsense! The collapse of major factions brings chaos. Without alpha wolves to enforce order, lesser gangs will break all rules. Imagine countless small factions battling for power—who do you think they’ll target for wealth? Us."

  “They’ll raid our caravans mercilessly. Even if you pay one gang, a hundred more will emerge. Every step will cost blood. Hiring more guards means heavier costs, reduced cargo capacity, and higher casualties. Your profits will halve—at least. Byron merchants who once came to Bell will hesitate, forcing us to travel to Byron for goods, wasting tens of thousands of gold each year.”

  “And!” He sneered, “Someone is clearly manipulating this, but the fools outside are blind to it.”

  Gasps filled the room. Even among these merchants, only a few had noticed the scheme. The “million-gold deed” had distracted everyone, its timing so perfect it defied scrutiny.

  Some paled, realizing Arno was far more cunning than he seemed. A strong, ambitious city lord would wreck Pramisburg’s twisted commerce—he was a roadblock to their profits.

  Orlando’s commercial and agricultural taxes were the empire’s backbone, but past city lords had been weak, their decrees confined to the mansion. Merchants paid minimal “protection fees” (sometimes less than 1%) to local bosses instead of taxes. If Arno eliminated those factions, he’d restore full taxation—a 20% tax vs. 1% was no choice at all.

  Mention of money sharpened their minds instantly.

  “Let’s pool gold to hire Black Clerics to kill Arno,” someone hissed.

  The chairman exploded, “Are you insane? He’s a Golden Noble—equal in blood to the Emperor, Chancellor, and Marshal. Kill him, and we’ll all hang from the city road tomorrow, you fool!”

  Another suggested, “What if we back a harmless local faction to oppose the mansion?”

  The chairman nearly erupted. A major taboo for merchants was meddling in politics—nobles would seize any excuse to plunder them. These idiots were handing nobles a noose.

  With two proposals shot down, they waited for the chairman’s plan.

  “I’ll visit the city mansion tomorrow,” he said, slamming the table. “Until we have answers, all of you keep your heads down.”

  “What about Harvey and the mercenaries? The million-gold deed could turn them on us,” a merchant ventured.

  The chairman rubbed his temples, exhausted by the stupidity.

  “If you’re not complete fools, spread word today that the deed is worth only 10,000 gold, not a million. In three days, this will die down.”

  A brilliant move. Arno’s scheme relied on the “million-gold” myth—scale it down, and even the dead Hutt and Les would’ve reconsidered. Harvey’s slave trade alone netted over 3,000 gold yearly, capturing 7,000 slaves at pennies each, sold for 10–20 times profit. A 10,000-gold deed paled compared to his stable income and Byron raids.

  Why risk everything for a worthless trinket when he could stay a local tyrant?

  And the chairman had an ace up his sleeve—a move to pull the rug out from under everyone.