Reivan had never considered himself a farmer. In fact, his knowledge of agriculture was limited to whatever side quests and supply management systems he had encountered in the game. But as it turned out, when you placed a medieval economy in front of someone with a basic grasp of supply chains and modern logistics, you suddenly became the smartest person in the room.

  His latest venture had started when he realized just how utterly inefficient noble estates were when it came to food production. The aristocrats loved to brag about their vast lands and rolling fields, but when it came to actually running them, they relied on generations of tradition rather than, you know, logic.

  For starters, half of them still thought letting rats nest in grain silos was just part of nature’s cycle. And don’t even get him started on how they stored grain—sometimes in damp cellars, sometimes in sacks left out in the open, and in one particularly horrifying case, inside an old temple because “the gods will protect it.” Spoiler: they did not.

  And that was just storage. Farming itself was a disaster. Crop rotation? Practically nonexistent. Soil management? What was that? Oh, and let’s not forget the noble custom of throwing extravagant feasts while their peasants starved because “a lord must demonstrate his wealth.”

  Reivan had seen enough. If these people wanted to be stupid, that was their problem. If they wanted to pay him to be smart, that was his opportunity.

  The first step was easy—buy up as much grain as possible. The moment he saw signs of a bad harvest coming (and by signs, he meant actual farmers grumbling about unusual weather patterns), he made sure every last bit of surplus grain was in his warehouses. He even secured cheap stocks from neighboring regions, knowing full well that when the inevitable shortage hit, everyone would come running.

  The second step? Storage. Using the most basic modern knowledge, he introduced standardized grain storage techniques—sealed containers, raised platforms to keep things dry, and even a rudimentary ventilation system to prevent rot.

  When he suggested these ideas to the local nobility, they laughed. Why waste money on storage when you could just grow more next season? Oh, how he looked forward to their inevitable panic.

  Then came the masterstroke. He didn’t just hoard grain—he structured exclusive contracts with key trading houses. If you wanted access to his stockpiles, you had to commit to long-term agreements, ensuring that he wouldn’t just make a single killing but a sustained fortune over the next few years.

  It worked beautifully.

  The bad harvest struck like an executioner’s blade. The smaller landowners, who had once mocked his investments, found themselves without enough grain to feed their people. The larger noble estates had stockpiles, but mismanagement and spoilage meant their reserves were dwindling fast.

  And just like that, Reivan wasn’t a mere merchant anymore—he was the grain supplier.

  The complaints were, of course, immediate and endless. Noblemen whined about the prices, accused him of hoarding, and grumbled that a mere merchant shouldn’t have this much control over their economy.

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  Reivan smiled through all of it. “Of course, my lords. You are always welcome to find alternative suppliers.”

  They had none.

  His warehouses were full. Their silos were empty.

  So they paid.

  And paid handsomely.

  Even Count Estienne, who would rather be caught in peasant rags than admit Reivan was smarter than him, was forced to buy grain from him at inflated prices. And oh, the satisfaction of watching his reluctant signature land on those contracts was worth more than gold.

  The profits were obscene. Reivan reinvested quickly—buying better warehouses, expanding distribution networks, even hiring competent administrators to ensure efficiency. Because unlike these bumbling nobles, he wasn’t about to let a sudden windfall go to waste.

  But of course, just when things were going perfectly, the Emperor had to get involved.

  The summons came at an inopportune time—right as Reivan was enjoying a particularly excellent meal. He stared at the sealed letter, sighed, and pushed his plate away with a deep sense of loss.

  “I’m guessing ignoring this isn’t an option?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Sylpkx, lounging in the corner, snorted. “Sure. If you want to wake up mysteriously dead.”

  “Fine.” Reivan groaned, standing up. “Let’s go see what his imperial majesty wants.”

  The Imperial Palace was just as intimidating as last time—an architectural wonder designed to remind visitors just how insignificant they were in the grand scheme of things. Reivan wasn’t intimidated. He’d already survived one meeting with the Emperor. This time, he just had to make sure he didn’t accidentally get labeled an economic threat.

  The throne room was just as grand as before, and the Emperor himself—Lucien Thorne—was waiting with that same unreadable expression.

  “Reivan,” he greeted, voice measured. “You have been busy.”

  Reivan gave a polite bow. “Your Majesty, I assure you, everything I do is for the prosperity of the empire.”

  Lucien’s lips twitched slightly, just for a moment. “Prosperity is a useful word. Some might say you have made yourself indispensable.”

  “I prefer ‘efficient,’ Your Majesty.”

  Lucien studied him for a long moment. “There are those who feel your influence is growing too quickly. That a single merchant should not have so much control over essential supplies.”

  Reivan feigned concern. “I would be the first to agree, Your Majesty. But surely, the problem lies with those who failed to prepare?”

  A beat of silence.

  Then, a quiet chuckle. From the Emperor.

  Lucien leaned back slightly. “Tell me, Reivan. What is your endgame?”

  Reivan chose his words carefully. “To keep things running, Your Majesty. If food shortages lead to riots, if trade collapses, the empire suffers. I simply… ensure things remain stable.”

  Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “And yet, those who hold stability in their hands often find themselves shaping the world itself.”

  Reivan smiled. “I prefer to think of it as making suggestions to those in power.”

  Lucien exhaled, something almost amused in his expression. “You walk a dangerous path.”

  “I walk a profitable one, Your Majesty.”

  The Emperor considered him for a long, weighted moment. Then, he nodded. “Very well. See to it that your influence remains… beneficial. We will speak again.”

  Reivan knew a dismissal when he heard one. He bowed again and left, feeling Sylpkx’s amused stare burning into him.

  “Well?” she asked once they were outside.

  Reivan exhaled. “I think I just convinced the Emperor that I’m not too dangerous. Yet.”

  Sylpkx grinned. “Great. So when’s your coronation?”

  “Don’t even joke.”

  She laughed. “You do realize what’s happening, right? You’re not just making money anymore. You’re shaping the entire kingdom’s economy.”

  Reivan sighed. “Yes. And that’s exactly why I’m worried.”

  Because this wasn’t just about grain.

  This was about control.

  And everyone in power was starting to realize that Reivan might just be holding more of it than they did.