Marriage??
"Muller, with that conventional wisdom rattling around in your head, of course it's impossible."
I shot Aila a glance. She fetched three rolls of plain cotton fabric, boldly stamped with the Carnoble Mark, from the cart she'd prepared in advance and rolled them onto the platform.
"But machines are different. They don't know fatigue, and the inputted gear ratios and meshing cogs allow zero deviation even after ten thousand rotations."
I unfolded the certificate and handed it to the chairman.
"These three bolts of cloth from our Carnoble factory were produced on different days, on different lines... yet all three measure exactly ten spans in length and three spans in width, with less than half an inch of error."
"H-half an inch? That's nonsense!"
Muller bellowed, but the moment the council inspectors stepped forward with wooden rulers and spread out the bolts...
Gasps of astonishment erupted from their lips.
"My god... Chairman! All three lengths are perfectly identical—not a single hair's breadth difference! The widths are uniform too, and even the thread density looks identical under the light, like a single sheet of paper!"
The entire chamber filled with shock. The absolute standardization of machines—something no human hand could achieve in a lifetime. A moment that proved perfect control worthy of divine awe.
I strode toward the trembling Muller.
"Well, we've now proven that the Carnoble factory can perfectly comply with this legislation. So now..."
I yanked another roll of fabric from my bosom and slammed it to the floor right in front of his nose.
"Shall we examine the true nature of this 'premium luxury' item your guild's been peddling at exorbitant prices to foreign peddlers?"
"H-how did you get that...!"
Aila had bought it herself yesterday from one of Muller's retail shops, paying in gold coin. The lavish label proudly declared: Ten spans in length, Peluah's finest handmade fabric.
I pulled out my custom-made thin metal tape measure.
Charak! The sharp metallic snap echoed as it unspooled, gliding over Muller's cloth. At the mark I pointed to, the inspectors' and councilors' faces hardened coldly.
"...Nine spans and two inches."
I read the measurement in an icy voice.
"The label says ten spans, but it's actually nine-two. Short by a full eight inches. The width narrows in the middle—barely enough for a pillowcase—and the thread density is a mess; light pours right through."
I seized Muller's greasy collar and dragged him to the front of the platform.
"Councilors. Is this the 'natural variation from human hands' that Head Merchant Muller just described?"
Silence. A suffocating hush descended.
I tightened my grip on his collar and roared, shaking the chamber to its foundations.
"No! This is blatant fraud tarnishing Peluah's commercial honor—a theft, plain and simple, pocketing gold for eight inches of missing cloth!"
"N-no! That was the weaver's mistake... I had nothing to do with it!"
Muller squealed like a pig at slaughter, thrashing about, but the councilors' eyes had already turned ice-cold. Most of them were major wholesalers who bought fabrics in bulk for export. They'd just witnessed with their own eyes the horrifying truth: how much gold they'd been fleeced by backward merchants like Muller, all under the excuse of handmade limitations.
To be precise... They must have known.
Yet they'd turned a blind eye. Why? Because Muller's guild dominated the cotton trade.
In fact, Muller's measurements were relatively honest and accurate compared to other guilds.
But now...
Perfect me had appeared as the alternative.
From their perspective: Was there any need to keep Muller's guild around? Any reason to use unreliable, inconsistent cotton?
The savvy merchants grasped the situation in an instant.
"Muller... you bastard! Selling out Peluah's credit?!"
"Seize that fraud's warehouses for a full audit—now!"
"I fully endorse Acting Head Merchant Carnoble's proposal! False labeling must be punished immediately!"
Outraged shouts rained down from the councilors.
And finally—thwack! Thwack! Thwack!—the chairman's heavy gavel struck like an executioner's blade across Muller's neck.
"In the name of the Peluah Commercial Council, we enact the [Mandatory Labeling of Cotton Fabric Quality and Specifications] immediately! Furthermore, all Muller guild inventory is seized, and a comprehensive audit for false labeling is ordered!"
"N-no... my guild... my gold..."
Thud. Released from my grip, Muller collapsed, foaming at the mouth in a dead faint.
Self-inflicted doom. His own regulatory blade had severed his neck.
From that day, Peluah's market ecosystem flipped completely.
Muller's guild, caught with false specs, was slapped with astronomical punitive fines. Wholesalers from across the continent who'd bought from them demanded returns en masse—"It wasn't ten spans!"—forcing Muller to liquidate his remaining warehouses, mansion, and even the silk robes on his back at fire-sale prices to pay his debts. News of the pot-bellied pig, half-bankrupt and chased into Peluah's back alleys, no longer concerned me.
What mattered was the massive butterfly effect from the law I'd pushed through.
"Hey, how can I trust these dimensions stamped on the cloth?"
"Aigoo, sir! This bears the Carnoble Mark! Even the council certified it as error-free machine-woven fabric!"
"Oh, yeah? With the Carnoble Mark, no need to remeasure. Give me ten rolls!"
Peluah's de facto standard. Fabrics without the Carnoble Mark became trash no one trusted for specs.
Every wholesaler and distributor shoved our factory's standards down throats as the baseline for deals: our ten spans, our density, our shrinkage rate. That became the continent's common sense—and law.
Rival guilds couldn't match our crushing production costs, nor handmade the legally mandated perfect specs. They smashed their own looms in despair and surrendered.
The Carnoble factory didn't just dominate Peluah—it monopolized the entire continent's cotton market.
*
Clink. Two crystal goblets brimming with ice chimed merrily in midair.
Top floor of the Golden Fleece Guild headquarters, the head merchant's office. Aila had piled incoming gold bills mountain-high and was rolling in them, shrieking in ecstasy.
"Insane! Elpanso! We're the richest on the continent now! Since the council passed that law, foreign peddlers won't even set foot in Peluah without the Carnoble Mark!"
Not the richest, surely. But no need to spoil her joy.
Her emerald eyes sparkled as she raised her glass to me.
"Be honest. You planned it all from the start, right? Even when that idiot Muller poked at us with fire inspections and tax audits, you had this law in mind to crush him in one blow!"
Sunk deep in the plush leather sofa, I savored a sip of amber liquor and smirked.
"Who knows. I didn't expect Muller to dig his own grave that deep. But Aila, whether commerce or engineering, truth is singular."
"A guy stabbing with a knife is just gutter trash. Know who really devours the market?"
She held her breath, leaning in.
"The one who reads the essence of the rules first... and builds his own colossal castle atop them. So competitors climb the walls and legally choke to death."
Muller's barrage of regs and audits became my factory's state-certified seal of perfection.
My single regulation guillotined the old era clean.
"Ha... you're one scary bastard."
Aila shook her head in disbelief, but a rapturous smile she couldn't hide bloomed on her face.
"So, great Acting Head Merchant Carnoble. You've vacuumed up the continent's gold with cotton—what's next? Isn't it time to start that 'steam engine' you mentioned before?"
At her teasing prod, my gaze drifted to the weathered wooden box in the office corner.
The box cradling the miracle-working pendant. And in my mind, writhing blueprints of steam engines and steel furnaces.
Cotton was just the beginning.
The true industrial revolution snowball—set to reshape the world—was just starting to roll.
"Get ready, partner Aila."
I downed the rest of my drink and grinned like a beast.
"This time, we'll redraw the continent's map."
My ironclad declaration hung in a pleasant silence.
Moonlight filtered through the window, mingling with the soft mana stone lamps, caressing Aila's red locks.
Whether from the strong liquor or the euphoria of triumph, her pale cheeks flushed peach-pink.
She swirled the ice in her glass with a clink, then—in a small, drowsy voice from our snot-nosed childhood days, not her usual sharp edge—dropped it casually.
"Hey, Elpanso."
"Yeah."
"We've seen each other at our best and worst since we were kids. I was there when you were that delinquent wreck, and here I am now, watching you devour the continent like a monster."
What's with the sudden sentiment? I turned, and her emerald eyes locked onto mine, gaze oddly sticky.
"So, here's the thing."
"What."
"If... by twenty-five, neither of us has anyone..."
"Has anyone?"
Aila cleared her throat with a ahem, averting her eyes as she mumbled.
"Wanna just... marry me?"
"...Huh?"