Tax rebates?

  Subsidies?

  As a legendary merchant, Sarkomo didn’t believe anyone’s commercial acumen could surpass his—even the Capital Merchant Guild chairman earned only his disdain. Yet now, he found himself perplexed. Tax rebates meant refunding taxes, but how was that different from lowering tax rates? Subsidies were even more foreign—since when did rulers hand out gifts instead of extorting fees? Had the Light God truly descended, turning nobles into doves?

  Uncertainty forced Sarkomo to humble himself, even on his home turf.

  “Trade is simple: buy low, sell high, profit from the margin. That’s the core of every business,” Arno said, glancing at Sarkomo, who nodded. Arno sipped his steaming tea, savoring the warmth. “Trade itself is neutral, but the goods traded can be beneficial or harmful. Rebates and subsidies exist to promote the former.”

  He paused, finger raised. “For example…” A glance at Sarkomo. “The Imperial Academy recently made breakthroughs in dragon crystal research, but the empire lacks reserves. Importing dragon crystals from Byron to speed up research? That’s a good commodity. I’d offer rebates and subsidies, as it strengthens the empire.”

  Byron, closer to Dragon Island, held exclusive rights to sell dragon crystals and bones.

  “Or grain. Orlando is poor for farming; our harvests barely feed our citizens. Importing foreign grain to feed the hungry? Good commodity—rebates and subsidies apply.”

  Sarkomo frowned, now grasping the concept. “My lord, does this mean there are also taxes to discourage certain goods?”

  Arno shrugged. “Protective tariffs—for luxuries, drug bricks, or species that threaten domestic ecosystems.”

  “Luxuries? But they’re bought by nobles and merchants.”

  “Luxuries waste wealth. The elite should contribute more to imperial growth.” Arno wore the guise of a concerned patriot, making Sarkomo’s teeth ache.

  The merchant pressed, “Who defines ‘good’ versus ‘bad’?”

  Arno tapped his chest, unapologetic. “I do.”

  Madman. Sarkomo’s mind raced. If Arno’s policies took root, the Capital would notice—not for disrupting markets, but for inventing a new tool to control guilds. Arno would regain favor, especially with the royal family. He was sacrificing merchants to feed the ruling class.

  Yet opportunity lurked: monopolies. If he could corner a “good” commodity, he’d become a titan. Sarkomo realized this young noble was as cunning as old schemers from the Capital, perhaps more so. How had such a man been exiled? Luck, perhaps—his luck.

  Gazing at Arno’s calm demeanor, Sarkomo had a sudden idea. His eleven-year-old granddaughter was unbetrothed. A noble’s mistress or concubine held influence, even if not a legal wife.

  “Are you married, my lord?”

  Arno frowned, baffled by the sudden question. Merchant daughters could never be noble wives. “No.”

  Sarkomo’s heart raced. Unmarried meant his granddaughter had time to win favor—married nobles’ wives might see her as a threat.

  “I have a granddaughter, a rare beauty. I’ll send her to attend you—pour your tea, warm your bed. Winters in Pramisburg are harsh, especially slipping into a cold quilt.”

  Arno weighed the benefits: aligning with the Bell Guild through a pawn, not a political marriage that might clash with Capital alliances. “Very well.”

  A new deal was struck.

  The eleven-year-old girl in Bell’s capital had no idea her grandfather had “sold” her hundreds of miles away for influence. Tragic? Perhaps. But in this world, such transactions were simply business.

  After idle chat, Arno dismissed Sarkomo and pondered dealing with mercenaries and Harvey. The merchant’s intervention had shifted plans, but Arno, armed with knowledge from another world, thrived on outwitting greedy natives.

  Days of negotiation calmed Pramisburg. While small killings continued in the shadows, the city now felt like a dying man soaking in the autumn sun—languid, reeking of decay.

  Wise men traced the chaos to Arno. A dominant city lord would reshape the city, for better or worse. One truth prevailed: cross him at your peril. Just ask Hutt and Les, now forgotten in unmarked graves.

  “Y-you mean the city lord wishes to see me?” Harvey trembled. Nights had been restless—every thought of Hutt left him uneasy. With the “million-gold” deed back in Arno’s hands, logic returned: Arno had reported the deed, sparking the bloodshed.

  The carriage that had carried death now waited at the mansion gate, cleaned but forever stained in their minds.

  Harvey slipped two silver coins into a servant’s pocket. “Why does he want me? Should I hide?”

  The servant grinned, loyal now thanks to the bribe. “He wants to buy slaves. You’re the city’s largest trader—he asked for you by name.”

  Harvey relaxed. Not here to punish me. “I’ll offer him a discount.”

  Strangely, Arno had never threatened anyone, always maintaining noble grace. Yet nobles and merchants alike feared him as a monster. Such was the curse of competence in a city of cowards.