Reivan had long since accepted that his life was just a series of increasingly ridiculous power struggles. First, it had been survival. Then, it had been trade. Now? Now he was apparently going to take over the empire’s financial system.

  Lovely. Just lovely.

  The issue had started, as all things did, with nobles being incompetent. The empire’s taxation system was outdated, inefficient, and full of corruption. The treasury was bleeding money, and yet, somehow, the noble houses were still lining their pockets. War had only worsened things, and Reivan had begun noticing a pattern—the empire’s economy was starting to wobble. And an empire with shaky finances? That was an empire waiting to collapse.

  So, naturally, Reivan decided to do something about it.

  Not out of the goodness of his heart, of course. No, Reivan had no intention of saving the empire for free. But what he did want was control. Because as long as the empire dictated taxation, they dictated how much power merchants like him could have. The only way to even the playing field was to control the banks.

  It started small. Just a few trusted merchants pooling their wealth for loans, keeping their excess gold stored in secure locations instead of vaults that could be seized by nobles on a whim. Then, he introduced promissory notes—pieces of paper that represented stored value, allowing traders to conduct business without the need for heavy chests of gold.

  Naturally, people thought it was insane.

  “What sort of fool would exchange real gold for a piece of paper?” a noble had sneered at one of Reivan’s earlier demonstrations.

  Reivan had simply smiled. “The kind of fool who doesn’t want to be robbed on the road.”

  Slowly, but surely, the idea caught on. Merchants, who were always the first to embrace practicality, began using the system. A silk trader could now carry thousands of gold coins in value without the risk of losing everything to bandits. A grain supplier could guarantee payment without ever touching physical gold.

  Then, the nobles came sniffing around. Not out of trust, mind you. No, they came because they were desperate.

  Count Halvor was the first to break. He had suffered a bad harvest, over-invested in mercenaries, and had the financial acumen of a turnip. He needed a loan, but the imperial treasury was offering outrageous interest rates.

  Reivan, being the ever-so-helpful businessman, offered him a much more reasonable deal.

  “It’s just a simple loan,” Reivan had assured him. “With reasonable repayment terms. And in return, I’ll hold some of your land as collateral.”

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  Halvor had scoffed at the idea at first. But when it became clear that his choices were either deal with Reivan or declare bankruptcy and lose everything to debt collectors, he relented.

  And then, just like that, the dam broke.

  One noble borrowing money from Reivan was an embarrassment. Two was a curiosity. Three? A trend.

  Suddenly, everyone wanted in. Not just for loans, but for security. Nobles began depositing their wealth in Reivan’s system rather than keeping it in personal vaults, where it could be seized during political turmoil.

  It was beautiful.

  Unfortunately, not everyone was pleased.

  The imperial treasury was starting to feel the heat. It was one thing for a merchant to be wealthy. It was another thing for that merchant to become the de facto source of loans for the empire’s noble class.

  Then there was the Church.

  “This is heresy,” Bishop Gregor had declared in one of his infamous public speeches. “Money should not breed money! Usury is a sin! The faithful must reject such corruption!”

  Reivan had, of course, expected this. The Church thrived on controlling economic dependency through religious donations and forced tithes. If he was the one loaning money instead of them, they lost power.

  So he simply did what he did best—argued them into a corner.

  “Ah, but Your Holiness,” Reivan had said with an easy smile, “isn’t tithing essentially a mandatory tax on the faithful? One that must be paid, no matter their financial situation?”

  “That is entirely different,” Gregor had huffed.

  “Is it?” Reivan had tilted his head. “If a poor farmer is struggling to survive, yet still must pay a tithe to the Church, are you not demanding wealth from the weak? At least I only offer loans to those who voluntarily accept them.”

  The gathered nobles, many of whom owed him a lot of money, had muttered in agreement. Victory.

  And then, of course, the Emperor summoned him.

  Sylpkx had laughed herself half to death when she heard.

  “I think this is a new record,” she had snickered. “From ‘upstart merchant’ to ‘economic threat’ in less than a year.”

  Reivan groaned. “I don’t even want power. I just don’t want to get crushed under someone else’s stupidity.”

  “Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

  The meeting with the Emperor was surprisingly casual, if not for the gargantuan tension in the air.

  “You have done something remarkable,” Emperor Lucien had admitted, sipping his wine. “You’ve made the nobility dependent on you without holding a single official title.”

  Reivan nodded. “It’s a talent.”

  “But you must realize this cannot continue indefinitely.” The Emperor studied him carefully. “The empire itself is not built to allow a private merchant to become its banker.”

  “Then maybe the empire needs to change.”

  Lucien exhaled slowly. “You are a frustrating man.”

  “I hear that a lot.”

  There was silence for a long time before the Emperor finally spoke again.

  “You’ve created something dangerous. But also… useful. You will continue your operations.”

  Reivan blinked. “…I will?”

  Lucien smiled faintly. “Yes. But on my terms.”

  Which, frankly, was the best outcome Reivan could have hoped for. Because at the end of the day, it didn’t matter who was officially in charge.

  As long as everyone needed his system, he had already won.

  And so, Reivan the Merchant became something even greater—Reivan, the Empire’s Banker.