Reivan leaned back in his chair, staring at the neat rows of parchment in front of him, each detailing yet another bulk purchase of wool, dyes, and fine cloth. By now, the sheer volume of his transactions was enough to make an entire guild of tailors collectively weep with joy. Or confusion. Likely both.

  Across from him, Sylpkx was sprawled over the couch, lazily tossing a coin in the air. "So, let me get this straight. You're buying wool?" She caught the coin mid-spin and gave him a flat look. "Wool. Like the stuff peasants wear before they figure out that linen exists?"

  Reivan sighed. "Sylpkx, let me ask you something. What do you think happens when a war breaks out?"

  She tilted her head. "People die?"

  "Yes, very insightful. But economically?"

  "Uh... people also die, but more expensively?"

  Garm, who had been standing off to the side polishing an axe, snorted. "Not wrong."

  Reivan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, logistics in war is a nightmare. Armies march, trade routes collapse, local industries crumble. And in the original timeline, the wool trade exploded. Prices tripled because everyone suddenly realized they needed warm, durable fabrics for their soldiers."

  Sylpkx raised a brow. "And you're planning to hoard it all before they figure that out?"

  Reivan grinned. "Exactly. And while they laugh at me for buying ‘peasant fabric,’ they'll be crying into their empty treasuries when they realize they need it."

  The plan was deceptively simple. Buy up as much stock as possible while it was still cheap, wait for war to kick supply shortages into high gear, then sell—not at a one-time premium, but under long-term contracts that would ensure the nobles and merchants couldn’t undercut him even if they wanted to.

  Of course, getting there was half the battle.

  The problem with making a smart investment ahead of time was that everyone around you inevitably thought you were a complete idiot.

  “You’re stockpiling... wool?” Count Estienne drawled, swirling a glass of expensive wine as he tried (and failed) to suppress his amusement. "Really, Sir Reivan, I thought you were shrewder than that."

  Another merchant snickered. "Perhaps he's planning on opening a chain of peasant fashion boutiques."

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  Laughter rippled through the hall. Reivan, ever the gracious target of mockery, merely smiled. "Well, you know how it is. One must always think ahead."

  Lady Isolde, one of the few nobles who didn't actively hate him, gave him a curious look. "You truly believe there's profit in textiles?"

  Reivan nodded sagely. "Lady Isolde, let me ask you something. If war breaks out, where will you buy uniforms for your soldiers?"

  "From the usual suppliers, of course."

  "Ah, yes. And what happens when half their supply is cut off due to disrupted trade routes? And what happens when the Holy Kingdom, who conveniently owns many of those trade routes, decides to double their export taxes?"

  Her expression stiffened slightly. She wasn't a fool. She was already connecting the dots.

  Reivan pressed on. "What happens when nobles, scrambling for military supplies, suddenly realize that someone already controls most of the existing stock?"

  Silence. Then, from one of the younger nobles: "That's absurd. That kind of economic shift would take—"

  "A month." Reivan smiled, lifting his glass. "Maybe less."

  More laughter, but now tinged with uncertainty. They could mock him all they wanted. Soon, their coffers would be his coffers.

  A month later, war officially broke out.

  Reivan watched, entirely unsurprised, as the price of wool skyrocketed overnight. Merchants who had laughed at him weeks ago were now sending frantic letters, begging to renegotiate trade deals.

  The best part? He didn't have to sell immediately. He could have cashed out for an easy profit, sure, but that wasn’t the smart move. Instead, he structured long-term supply contracts—essentially forcing entire guilds and noble houses to rely on him for steady shipments.

  He wasn’t just selling wool. He was selling security.

  "And just like that," Sylpkx muttered as she flipped through one of the contracts, "you turned the noble class into your tenants."

  Reivan smirked. "Long-term stability is worth more than a quick payout. Now they have to play by my rules."

  Garm let out a low whistle. "Gotta admit, boss. That’s devious."

  Reivan grinned. "Oh, Garm. This isn’t devious. This is just business."

  Of course, the moment nobles started realizing just how deep they'd been played, the complaints came rolling in.

  Count Estienne, now considerably less smug than before, practically stormed into Reivan’s office. "You can't do this."

  Reivan leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Do what, exactly?"

  "Price gouging! This is extortion!"

  "Extortion? Count, I’m merely providing a service in a time of great need. You did sign the contract."

  The count ground his teeth. "This is ridiculous. You can’t just own the wool market."

  "Ah, but you see," Reivan gestured to the meticulously stacked contracts on his desk, "I do own the wool market. Well, at least the parts that matter. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to buy from the Holy Kingdom? I hear their prices are quite... unforgiving."

  Count Estienne turned a lovely shade of red. "This isn't over."

  Reivan smiled. "Of course not."

  The count left in a huff. Sylpkx, still perched on his couch, let out a low whistle. "You enjoy this way too much."

  Reivan sipped his tea. "If they’re going to insist on playing politics, I’m just going to play better politics."

  She snorted. "And the next step?"

  Reivan smiled. "Oh, Sylpkx. We're just getting started."