Chapter 33: The Bostain Merchants' Desperate Plot
After Marcus departed, Eira didn't just slash food prices—she began selling daily necessities and hunting tools at rock-bottom rates, items she hadn't dealt with before. The Bostain merchant caravans' profits plummeted like the stock of a failed strategist.
“Damn it all!”
The goods handled by Bostain's caravans were divvied up amicably among them, with shared items cartelized for maximum gouging. They raked in massive profits through sheer exploitation, their ironclad cartel leaving no room for outsiders. In Bostain territory, they strutted like kings among the locals, but just beyond, richer merchants abounded. Why couldn't those outsiders break in? Simple: entry was brutal, and rewards meager. Scaling rugged mountains yielded scant returns. Materials from the magic realm were cheaper and better from flatter territories anyway. Thus, Bostain had been abandoned by merchants, letting these locals feast unchecked. Truth be told, no one came to Bostain anyway, so playing merchant was easy pickings—their skills were mediocre at best, excelling only in flattery and dragging others down.
No wonder their huddled councils yielded no real solutions.
“How the hell are they selling at those prices?!”
Incompetent or not, as caravan heads, they knew import costs inside out. Eira's caravan, which had always skimmed minimal margins, was now dumping at near-cost. Worse, high-quality daily goods and clothes—sourced from who-knows-where—drew customers away in droves.
“We need countermeasures, and fast.”
The north's chill preserved stockpiles indefinitely, but if Eira kept this up, every Bostain resident would shun their food for hers. Bankruptcy loomed. Even furs, herbs, and monster byproducts—once sold to them dirt-cheap for lack of buyers—now flowed to Eira's caravan, starving their next ventures.
“How many artisans jumped ship?”
“All the northern natives.”
“Ungrateful wretches!”
The Crystal Ice Caravan's head fumed. They peddled cheap drugs and tools at premium prices, slashed labor costs, then demanded flawless quality—inspecting ruthlessly, docking pay for the tiniest flaw.
“And the herbalists?”
“They've all stopped coming.”
“Those groveling scum, now daring to snub us?!”
Herbalists naturally preferred buyers who paid fair for flawed leaves and didn't bully them into perilous hunts for rarities. But the merchants blamed everyone but themselves, finally sensing crisis amid their self-pity.
Eira had occasionally hauled goods herself with her people, undercutting their extortion to ease locals' burdens. But as the sole proper knight amid myriad duties, volumes stayed low—enough to check rampant price hikes, letting Bostain folk breathe. At first, her food sales seemed a one-off surge. Now, merchants realized: this wasn't mere pressure; she meant to kill them.
They'd endured her jabs only because no replacements existed. But she'd found one—somehow—and showed no mercy.
“No choice now.”
“What do you propose?”
“Even goblins bite when cornered. Send thugs to torch her caravan?”
Eira's food prices matched their import costs from neighboring lands—meaning she profited zilch, practically giving it away. One big hit, and recovery would be impossible.
“We don't know her reserves, but unlimited per-person sales suggest she's burning all her funds. What if fire strikes?”
The Crystal Ice merchant's words lit eyes ablaze.
“Haha, business is fickle—one mishap sinks the best.”
“Then Eira can't be at the caravan.”
A knighted Eira guarding meant no thug horde could torch it; she'd snuff flames with ease, and captures spelled doom. Without her? Frail wounded and widows—easy prey. Merchants hatched vile schemes.
“I'll lure her. Beg Marcus to summon her to the manor, block any word reaching her.”
“I'll hire the thugs. Coin for relocation, and they'll scramble.”
“I'll bribe guards to let them flee. Budget cuts have them eager.”
Praising their “perfect” plot, flushed faces envisioned Eira's caravan in flames.
Strategies sometimes rang hollow. One case: foes too mighty for any plan. Worst: overestimating foes, prepping counters galore—only for idiots to charge blindly.
You'd game every move, brainstorm counters to wreck their ploys, hedge those hedges—pouring sweat. Then they act thoughtlessly, rendering it trash. Effort wasted: utter deflation.
Daiyen fumed. Among myriad merchant tactics she'd foreseen, they'd picked the most futile, self-damning one she'd dismissed—nullifying her plans.
“Those bastard sons of bitches! Calling themselves merchants? A disgrace!”
Wiretapping via Suhyun's magic, Daiyen raged like Heukgu had never seen.
Meanwhile, Eira's eyes iced over beside her.
“They know orphans are here... and still plan arson?”
Crack!
The sturdy northern wooden cup shattered in Eira's grip, spilling warm red grape wine. Steam rose from the stone floor in chill air, wood shards scattering amid it. Heukgu swallowed hard.
“I planned a painless end, but no need now, you see.”
Heukgu trembled silently behind the furious women. Daiyen had yanked him from warehouse duty—leaving envious Cheonggu and Jeokgu—to standby for eavesdropping emergencies. Now, he yearned to flee back.
Vented, Daiyen moved swift.
“Heukgu, quietly move the kids to Nautilus now.”
“Got it!”
“Eira, mull killing methods later. Prep first: secure escape vehicles, order staff—no firefighting, just evacuate if flames spread.”
“Hah, showed my shame, you see. I'll prepare for fire now, you see.”
Summoned over the late lord's corpse return, Eira walked streets enduring merchants' stares, restraining urges to bash skulls.
She'd planned to leverage silence on the recovery for concessions, striding buoyantly. But beastly merchants soured it.
Originally, she'd extract rights via corpse deal, then squeeze caravans to slow ruin. No need now—they begged the axe.
Recalling pigs offering necks, Eira trudged snow-cloaked roads, tsking limp guards, entering home. Even arrival stirred no nostalgia—utterly changed from grandfather's era.
Winters barely allowed flowers a month; that tended garden? Once the training ground where grandfather and uncles drilled daily. She'd learned martial arts there, as had uncles, grandfather, ancestors—defending the territory. Now plowed for fleeting blooms.
Where fine swords and shields hung? Pricier paintings. Once, outbound family weapons, polished for monster-slaying or folk-guarding—Bostain men's tradition, ever-ready to cleave heads.
The stern, armored patriarch portrait site? Father's smiling in unwearable southern finery.
Viewing his untrained, gluttonous gut, Eira muttered:
“Disgusting.”
Central fads like modern drills or tech? Ignored. Useless luxuries obsessed them. Thin, fluttering fabrics and fragile baubles adorned halls—same layout, alien feel.
Reaching the lord's office, Eira knocked.
Knock knock.
No answer. She smirked derisively.
Summon, then dawdle—central flower-crowned nobles' ploy. But Eira knew its flaw.
“Knock knock!”
Bam!
Her bright, sweet voice belied mana-charged fist—thunderous. Light brown door splintered inward.
Eira feigned dismay: “Such a frail door?”
“Do you know how expensive that was? Southern premium lumber!”
“North has sturdier wood aplenty—wasting on flimsy south? Truly clueless with coin, you see.”
Delaying to cow worked only from strength, needless courtesy. To foes? Rudeness.
Exiled, feuding with lord—Eira needn't tolerate.
“I thought you called over late lord's corpse. If not, tell me quick so I may leave, you see.”
As if swamped, the lord replied:
“Must you bargain over your doting father's body?”
“Ha! Says the man who neither avenged grandfather nor reclaimed him—claiming goblin kills instead, you see.”
Her unveiled contempt twitched his brow. Once family, she'd shown lord respect as patriarch. Now? Naked scorn.
Fury flickered, then ebbed. Unavenged, outsider-recovered corpse? Empire and nobility's contempt, punishment—honor scarred, central ambitions doomed. He yielded:
“What do you want?”
“Logging rights, commoner hiring permits, sundries, you see.”
She proffered draft contract. He donned spectacles, scanned. Heavy asks—not impossible, but irksome. No choice.
“Needs tweaking. Consult steward, return.”
“I'll wait in receiving room, you see. Oh—and if desired, new door for your office. Sturdy northern wood, not frail southern, you see.”