Reivan had expected many things after cementing his hold over trade—jealous nobles, cutthroat competitors, maybe even another assassination attempt (though, honestly, he was getting bored of those). What he had not expected was to become a problem for the imperial treasury itself.

  For the first time in history, someone was making too much money, and apparently, that was his problem now.

  It started with a simple observation. Most nobles ran their estates like drunken sailors gambling with their last coin—excessive spending, ridiculous debts, and zero understanding of how money actually worked. Meanwhile, Reivan had single-handedly transformed the empire’s economy. Through grain storage monopolies, textile control, and now luxury goods, he had maneuvered himself into a position where, if anyone wanted anything of value, they had to deal with him.

  And that was when the problems began.

  A few nobles started whispering that his financial control was “concerning.” Then those whispers turned into murmurs. And then, before Reivan could blink, some bureaucrat had written a very polite letter stating that the empire would be “reviewing all large-scale trade operations to ensure economic stability.”

  Ah. So this was what being a financial superpower felt like.

  He handed the letter to Sylpkx, who read it over before giving him a slow, amused look. “Congratulations. You’ve officially made too much money.”

  Reivan sighed, rubbing his temples. “I should’ve stuck to selling turnips.”

  Garm, sitting across from them and munching on roasted meat, grinned. “Nah, this is way more fun. Besides, what’s the worst they can do? Tax you into oblivion?”

  Reivan stared at him. “Yes. Exactly that.”

  Because that was the real issue. The empire needed noble taxes to function, and with Reivan essentially controlling trade, he had inadvertently disrupted their taxation model. The Emperor himself wasn’t the type to panic, but his advisors? The treasury officials? The ones who liked their gold flowing in neat little streams? They were undoubtedly sharpening their bureaucratic daggers, preparing to carve a sizable chunk out of his earnings.

  Reivan had two options.

  One, pay the taxes and let the empire tighten its grip on him.

  Two, break the taxation system itself.

  Obviously, he was going with option two.

  Which meant he needed leverage.

  His first move was to preemptively control how he was taxed. If they wanted a cut of his wealth, they’d have to play by his rules. So he called in every merchant under his influence and proposed something radical: a banking system.

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  Not the crude moneylending the nobles were used to, where debts were enforced with swords and intimidation, but an actual structured financial institution. Merchants could deposit their wealth for safekeeping, nobles could borrow in structured loans, and—most importantly—taxes would now be filtered through his system first.

  The merchants loved it. The nobles were suspicious. And the treasury? They were about to have an aneurysm.

  By the end of the month, half the noble houses had borrowed from his bank rather than liquidating their own assets to pay the empire’s seasonal tax. Why sell your family’s land when you could get a loan at a reasonable interest rate?

  That was when the real panic started.

  Because now, Reivan wasn’t just controlling goods.

  He was controlling debt.

  Which meant he controlled power.

  The treasury officials, now fully alarmed, began pushing for an emergency tax reform. They wanted to implement direct taxation, bypassing nobles entirely. It was, on paper, a good idea—except for the fact that most nobles were already too deep in debt. If the empire forced direct taxation, half the aristocracy would collapse financially.

  And that was when the Church got involved.

  Because, of course, when money was involved, so was morality.

  Reivan had been expecting this move. He had disrupted trade, restructured wealth, and now, he was threatening centuries-old financial traditions. So it was only natural that the Church began pushing the idea that “excessive profit” was a sin. That his control over the economy was not just dangerous but immoral.

  It was a clever move. The commoners were already wary of merchants growing too powerful. A little propaganda, a few well-placed sermons, and suddenly, Reivan was the villain. Not the nobles hoarding wealth. Not the Church itself, which sat on untaxed land and collected donations like a bottomless pit.

  No, he was the problem.

  Which meant he needed a new strategy.

  So he did what any good businessman would do.

  He bought public favor.

  The next morning, across the empire, a series of charitable donations were announced. The Reivan Trade Fund for Agricultural Development. The Merchant’s Endowment for Public Works. The Economic Stabilization Grant for War Widows.

  Every major city woke up to find that, somehow, money had been set aside for infrastructure, food programs, and farming initiatives—funded by the Reivan-led banking system.

  And just like that, the narrative changed.

  If the Church wanted to claim he was too powerful, they now had to explain why they weren’t the ones feeding the poor. Why they weren’t the ones repairing roads, funding orphanages, or stabilizing the economy.

  Suddenly, nobles who had been whispering about him started defending him. Because if the empire shut him down, they would lose access to their loans. If the Church undermined him, commoners would start asking why they weren’t providing financial security.

  And that was when Reivan knew he had won.

  The empire couldn’t afford to crush him.

  The nobles couldn’t afford to betray him.

  And the Church? They had overplayed their hand.

  A week later, an imperial decree was issued—Reivan’s banking system would not be dismantled. Instead, it would be regulated by an imperial financial council.

  Which, conveniently, he already had half the members in his pocket.

  Sylpkx, reading the decree, let out a low whistle. “So, you’re officially running the empire’s economy now?”

  Reivan sighed. “I really did just want to sell turnips.”

  Garm laughed. “Yeah, but now you own the whole damn farm.”

  Reivan rubbed his temples. “This is fine. Everything is fine. As long as I don’t get any more problems—”

  A knock at the door.

  A royal messenger entered, bowing deeply. “Sir Reivan, His Majesty requests your presence at court.”

  Sylpkx grinned. “Oh, this is going to be good.”

  Reivan exhaled. “Fantastic.”

  Because if the Emperor was personally calling him in, it meant one thing.

  He had just gone from being a merchant to a threat.

  And now, the real game was beginning.