Always Invest with Caution
A one-shot turnaround.
Some people call it the desperate flailing of someone who's got nothing left to lose.
Others call it the mindset of a man who loses at gambling every single time.
"What else was I supposed to do?!"
Having shouted that, I ran my hands over the big money box sitting on my desk, unable to hold back the grin spreading across my face.
"Anyone who mocks the one-shot turnaround has obviously never pulled one off!"
Our estate, which had been one step from bankruptcy, had in a single stroke secured enough capital to run smoothly for the next three or four months — with plenty to spare.
And that wasn't all. We'd distributed supplies to the peasants and the soldiers to shore up morale, and the bandits who'd been causing trouble in the area had vanished completely.
Three birds with one stone. Of course, since I couldn't exactly claim credit for wiping out the bandits myself, I'd pinned it on hallucinogenic mushrooms — but still, it felt good.
"Truly, a life of abundance brings peace of mind. As they say."
Just then, someone knocked on the door several times in quick succession. Apparently my stern warning that absolutely everyone must knock before entering my office — for fear of stumbling into magic — had taken root.
"Come in!"
"What's gotten you so worked up all by yourself?"
"Excuse me? I can't even get a little excited? Anyone would be happy to come into unearned income like this."
"You seem unaware that unearned income disappears just as easily as it arrives."
Laura fired back without even looking at me, set the stack of documents and books she'd carried in under her arm down on the desk beside me, and hurriedly took her seat.
"How relaxed you must be, with your workload suddenly grown so much heavier."
"What do you mean, my workload grew? Why?"
At my question, Laura fixed me with a look that said you can't actually be this dense… Wait — didn't we just avert bankruptcy?
"If you simply keep your money enshrined in a box like that, does it get up and move around on its own? Does it multiply?"
"No."
"Glad we agree. Which means you need to decide where that money goes and invest it. Don't get comfortable just because you dodged bankruptcy this once. All you've done is push this month's ruin back to next month."
Investment. The word stung the back of my neck the instant I heard it. To be more honest, it was a word I couldn't stand the sight of.
In my past life, I'd been bewitched by the smooth talk of an acquaintance who called himself a "cryptocurrency trader" and put money into stocks, only to get thoroughly burned — and the rest isn't worth repeating, because the profanity would start flowing. Let's leave it there, damn it.
"Are you feeling unwell, my lord?"
"Yeah. My chest, my head, and my memories hurt a little."
"Never mind. Just look at these."
Ignoring Laura's continued disapproving stare, I began sifting through the documents she'd placed on the desk one by one.
"I've brought the more worthwhile of the investment proposals that have come in from merchants… but I'd like you to go through and cull them once more, my lord."
"You want me to cull them?"
"You are the ultimate decision-maker. For now, at least."
"Why is there always something tacked onto the end of your sentences?"
I followed her words and paged through the proposals, but for a commercial illiterate like me, my filtering criteria came down to one of two things: either it was too complicated for me to understand, or it was suspiciously, outrageously generous toward us.
Most of the latter were just people planning to grab a quick score and bolt. In particular, I scrutinized anything bearing the words "risk-free" and "guaranteed principal."
Anyone who's been burned knows the truth. There's no such thing as a risk-free investment, and "guaranteed principal" is pure nonsense!
"Well, well… you're not entirely without an eye for this, it seems."
"What?"
Deliberately ignoring my question, Laura gathered up the proposals I'd rejected. What was that…? Or was I just imagining that I'd somehow just been tested?
The documents Laura had just handed over contained several traps she'd planted. Nothing sophisticated — but exactly the sort of thing that the dim, hopeless Reus she thought she knew could never have avoided.
Fortunately, the man had some bitter experience(?) under his belt, and he'd sidestepped every one of her snares — which only deepened Laura's suspicions.
'If only he handled his work like this all the time, why does he insist on playing the fool? How on earth did I end up in this position?'
Laura had always wanted to leave this rural backwater. It was a dream she'd carried since she first learned to walk — to go to the Free City and live the glamorous life of an educated woman.
And her preparations had been coming along steadily. She saved money diligently, and studied just as hard at reading and writing, the basic refinement of any city intellectual.
Things would surely have gone even better — if her family hadn't suddenly been struck by a plague. Her father and mother died in agony with no time even to attempt a cure, and Laura was no exception.
The one who reached out a hand to her then was the former lord of this estate — the man who'd held it before Reus. He provided her with the support she needed to recover.
But before the girl who'd clawed her way back from death's very threshold could even finish expressing her gratitude—
"Sign it."
"…I'm sorry?"
"There. You're my aide and secretary now, effective immediately. You'll help with whatever work I assign you. Understood?"
"W-wait, just a moment, my lord! What on earth is this—?!"
"Hm~? Do you have some complaint? After I saved your very life?"
The former lord forced her to sign an absurdly one-sided contract, effectively binding her to this estate for life.
The reason was simple. She could read and write. He'd put a collar around her neck as, in practice, his document handler.
Of course, the former lord himself shuffled off this mortal stage not long after, anticlimactically done in by food poisoning… but the contract Laura had been made to sign still lay somewhere in the office where his successor, Reus, now kept residence.
Since the thing was a farce to begin with, she could simply have ignored it, burned it, or run. And yet—
'Because I still don't know what sort of man the new lord is. That's all there is to it.'
Once she fully understood Reus's character and whatever schemes might be lurking beneath the surface, she vowed she would march into the office that very day, find the contract, burn it, and flee.
…That was the plan, at least. In reality, Laura found herself unable to leave, unsettled by the way Reus handled every task just well enough to keep her off balance.
They say a true calling is called as such because only heaven knows it. During her years bound here against her will, her talent and sense of duty as an aide had bloomed to their fullest — and if that was her misfortune, then so be it.
"In fact, there are merchants waiting outside to explain their investment proposals in person. Shall I show them in?"
"…The merchants came here themselves? Show them in."
'If that was the plan, why didn't you just bring them in the first place?' I started to protest, then decided to let it go.
Some time after Laura left, she returned — with a merchant trailing in behind her.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Reus of Crow's Head Valley. Louis, of the Reyuda Merchant Guild, at your service."
Audacity practically poured from the first merchant's eyes. Even meeting him for the first time, I could feel the confidence radiating off him.
"H-hello, my lord. I'm, er, how should I put it… I used to be a traveling peddler, you see… Y-yes. The name's Nerga."
The second merchant was the polar opposite. Bent bow-backed, voice creeping in low, cowed expression — his lack of confidence was plain at a glance.
Starting with those two, eight more merchants filed in one after another to offer their greetings. All thoroughly unremarkable faces.
Ten in total. I had no idea what they expected to get investment for in this rural backwater — but apparently money draws rumors like flies, and there's no hiding it. The old saying holds true.
When I was asked whose proposal I'd like to hear first, I answered that we'd go in reverse order of arrival, and the merchants' investment presentations kicked off at once.
"Now then, my lord! The venture I've brought before you today may rightly be called the salvation of this very land! And that is…!"
Yes. Of course. Anyone who opens with such grandiose fanfare is one of two things.
Either the business is realistically impossible, or it's a snake-oil pitch from someone planning to take the money and run.
"And you claim this 'dueling arena venture' can realistically generate worthwhile returns?"
"Absolutely! People are always starving for spectacle! In such an atmosphere, if you run an arena where two warriors battle with their very lives on the line — and people wager on it — everyone will throw money into the pot!"
"You're not factoring in at all that your 'two warriors' are a rhinoceros beetle and a stag beetle, are you? Making bugs fight each other for amusement is something children do, occasionally. More to the point — why beetles of all things?"
"W-well, because if people fight, it's scary and dangerous and they get hurt?"
"Rejected."
The very first proposal amounted to: [Build a rhinoceros beetle versus stag beetle arena. Use it to provoke people's primal urges and get them to gamble. Then get rich.]
Setting aside the fact that even a financial illiterate like me could see this could never constitute a real business — I wanted to punch the man who'd come here expecting investment for it. The fact that he was dead serious made it that much more infuriating!
As for the proposals from the merchants who followed, how should I put it… they'd clearly worked very hard preparing them, and not a single one was anything remotely resembling a "business."
The worst of the lot was the eighth man.
"Now, look here! Once we've drawn in a huge crowd of people like this and completed our triangular profit structure — why, the money makes itself! All you need to do, my lord, is keep breathing!"
"So what you're telling me is… this is the 'business' you dreamed up?"
"Precisely! You start at the lowest Bean tier, steadily build up your sales points, then graduate to the Wheat tier, then the Barley tier… The key is instilling hope in those below — the dream that anyone can climb, step by step! Ah, of course, the very top tier is split between Your Lordship and myself."
"Out. Out. OUT."
I lost it mid-presentation and chased the merchant out by hurling a quill at his head. This bastard just tried to make me the figurehead of a pyramid scheme!
"Are you quite all right, my lord?"
"Not even slightly."
One dose of that nonsense would've been enough to turn my stomach; eight in a row had profanity churning at the root of my tongue. Worse, a few of them skirted dangerously close to being outright criminal.
I honestly couldn't tell anymore whether these were passionate merchants come purely for investment — or hipster assassins trying to kill me by way of my wallet.
"They didn't bring a niche market, they just brought a niche and dropped it on my desk. Damn the lot of them."
"I… I do apologize."
"Why are you apologizing? They're the ones who spouted the nonsense."
"I read through the proposals myself, thinking they'd benefit the estate… they were merchants I selected personally."
Good grief? Laura, you have a genuine talent for processing official documents, but when it comes to sizing up this kind of thing, you really are… utterly hopeless, aren't you? I could see the tips of her ears going faintly red.
Nobody's good at everything, of course. But heavens — I never imagined someone as capable as Laura could have such a terrible eye for investments.
Amid an awkward atmosphere I couldn't quite put a name to, the next merchant entered. It was the very first one.
"Hm? Weren't you… Louis, was it?"
"He swapped his turn. Said he couldn't settle his nerves unless he went last."
Come to think of it, that Nerga fellow did look painfully timid at first glance. Louis, who'd entered ahead of the others, held out a pristine proposal from under his arm.
"Oh?"
After the previous eight who'd done nothing but talk with their mouths, this was a quantum leap.
It was a properly made proposal — clean, quality paper, crisp lettering — proof that his guild membership hadn't been a lie.
The profits obtainable through the aforementioned venture, when converted into hides, are estimated at approximately 80 to 90 hides.
Primary Trade Good:Salt
'Pretty convincing stuff, actually.'
In this world, currency had spread to a fair degree, but it hadn't yet permeated society's broader conventions. The closer you got to the capital — the imperial heartland — the livelier the money economy, but out here… well.
Even our own estate still ran briskly on barter. Roof repairs went for a few sheaves of straw, timber for a few sheaves of barley, two cuts of meat for a bundle of firewood — roughly that sort of thing.
Louis's proposal had accounted for this, neatly itemizing the returns both in currency and in barter equivalents, which made it far easier to grasp.
Moreover, the trade good itself inspired confidence. It would be no exaggeration to say there has never been a moment in human history when salt wasn't important. Rome supposedly paid its soldiers' wages in salt, after all.
At this rate, I could just go right ahead — okay, thank you! Okay, let's sell salt! — and sign on the dotted line… or so I thought.
'What is this…?'
Something was nagging at me. A strange wrongness had wound itself around my hand, whispering that I shouldn't just meekly sign, and it wouldn't let go.
"What say you, my lord?"
"…Very impressive indeed. I'll make my decision after I've heard the last gentleman out as well."
"Of course."
I laughed — for no particular reason — sent Louis on his way, and ushered in the final merchant, Nerga.
He came in with anxious eyes, gnawing at his fingernails, and then stood there in silence for a long, long while.
"Er… is there nothing you wanted to say?"
"Yes! Ah — no, not 'yes'!! It's, um, th-that is, w-well, you see—!"
At my gentle prodding, Nerga jolted so violently I almost regretted speaking to him at all. Thrusting a hand into his coat, he rummaged wildly here and there before producing a single sheet of paper and holding it out.
The grubby, crumpled sheet — folded and unfolded so many times it was one crease away from tearing clean along the fold — read:
Investment Propozal.
This here iz about a bizness what can keep bringin in profitts frum a littel nich, witout needin much efort, i swar.
Scrawl-headed spelling from top to bottom, and content so garbled I couldn't tell what the man actually wanted. By any common-sense measure, the right move was to hand it back and show him the door.
And yet I read it slowly, several times over, managed to puzzle out its meaning — and finally understood the true nature of the wrongness I'd felt earlier.
'That's the LTM event, isn't it! No wonder my hand wouldn't move back there….'
The infamous bait-and-switch event that took players who'd cleared the tutorial and were walking the path of lordship — and cold-cocked them square in the back of the head.
That notoriously vicious event, the kind no one who'd ever been burned by it could ever forget, had come looking for me in the flesh.