Muller Merchant House (2)
A few days earlier, at the massive red-brick factory on the outskirts of Peluah. Amid the deafening roar of machinery that assaulted the ears, Aila's cheeks flushed red as she stared at the mountains of dazzling cotton fabric pouring out without end.
Her emerald eyes swirled with a merchant's ruthless greed and ecstasy.
"Elpanso! This is it! Perfect!"
Aila cried out, rubbing her cheek against the freshly woven, buttery-soft cloth.
"This overwhelming volume! We're opening a massive retail store in Peluah's central market tomorrow under our guild's name. At exactly half—no, sixty percent—of the price of existing handmade cotton fabrics! Even at that, every customer in Peluah will flock to us. We can bankrupt every textile merchant in the city, Muller included!"
Her plan was intuitive and brutal. A so-called "B2C" retail bombardment, selling directly to consumers without middlemen. An ambitious declaration to strangle competitors in one fell swoop, leveraging our crushing cost advantage.
But as I inspected the endless rolls of fabric tumbling out, I snorted derisively.
"Don't talk nonsense. You trying to make us public enemy number one?"
"What? Public enemy?"
"Sure, some cheap sales trick might squeeze a few extra gold coins out of it right now. But think about it, Aila. If you flood the Peluah market at that price, what happens to the hundreds of weavers who've been eking out a living on their looms, and the small merchants who buy and resell that cloth?"
My question halted her cheers in their tracks.
"Hundreds of paupers suddenly cut off from their livelihoods overnight. Where do you think their rage will turn? They'll grab torches and pitchforks, turn into a mob, and come burn our factory to the ground. You gonna shoulder the hatred of all Peluah by yourself?"
The essence of the Luddite movement from Earth's history. Revolutionary technology inevitably drives old-world workers to the brink. Standing there to take the backlash head-on is sheer stupidity.
"W-We could just deploy our guild guards to stop them..."
"Guild guards? You planning to raise an army? And there's an even bigger problem."
I propped my chin on my hand, dredging up the bitter memory of what had ruined the old Carnoble Guild.
"Say we take over the entire Peluah market like you want. Then what? Can one puny city like Peluah absorb our factory's full output? We'd have to ship to other countries and territories. But Aila, looks like you've forgotten what a goddamn nightmare this continent is."
"...!"
"Monster-infested forests, bandit hordes popping up out of nowhere, capricious foreign lords slapping on arbitrary tolls. You expect us to haul wagons ourselves and peddle retail across this deathtrap of a continent? That's insanity."
I gave a wry smile.
"Know why I went bankrupt before? Sent a merchant fleet down the southern routes myself—got pillaged by pirates and stabbed in the back by my own escort captain. Controlling distribution and logistics yourself means swallowing every massive risk that comes with it."
Aila's face went pale. As a merchant, she knew damn well how much of a life-or-death gamble continental logistics were.
"Th-Then what? You gonna let this mountain of goods rot in a warehouse?"
"Nah. There's a super simple fix. We're gonna offload all the risk and just print money."
"Offload the risk...?"
I grinned and laid it out.
"We only do wholesale. No direct sales to consumers. Our job ends the second we load the wagons at the factory gate."
"Hold on, just wholesale? Then who the hell do we sell to?"
"Who else? The peddlers swarming Peluah from other countries, and the big-shot distributors. Our production costs are so low, we undercut the prices they pay established guilds by a mile—a country mile."
In that instant, Aila's emerald eyes lit up like fireworks. Her shrewd merchant brain whirred into overdrive, grasping the full implications.
"Holy shit... Give them a decent—no, a killer—markup..."
"Exactly. They'll hire their own mercenaries, risk their necks hacking monsters, punch through the dangers, and peddle our goods across the continent. Why? Because their pockets will overflow with gold!"
"W-We just sit tight in Peluah, crank the machines, and they become our feet, flooding the whole continent with cotton! Turn them into our subcontractors?!"
Aila clapped both hands over her mouth. It made "hands-off profit" idioms look tame—this was zero risk converging to nil, with profits scaling to continental levels. Demonic genius. Shivers ran through her whole body.
"Yeah. And that idiot Muller's open auction? Everyone there will know it."
That a revolution had hit this world!
* And now.
The central square of Peluah was shrouded in suffocating silence.
At my command, the canvas covers were yanked off the wagons in unison. Piled high on dozens of carts that had barged into the square were blindingly white mountains of cotton fabric. Flawless weave, impossible to mimic by human hands. Before that overwhelming volume and quality, the merchants who'd just been flattering Muller and praising handmade textiles gaped like fish.
My voice boomed across the square.
"I hear Muller's foreman just demanded a three-year monopoly contract. But here's the thing—the output on these wagons? That's what one day in our factory produced. No need to hang our necks for that pathetic trickle of handmade crap."
"O-One day?! Impossible!"
As the merchants erupted in shock, I pulled a document from my pocket and waved it.
"The Carnoble-Golden Fleece alliance doesn't play dirty with retail. No back-alley haggling over bolts of cloth. We go pure wholesale. Hardcore wholesale."
"Wh-What's the deal? Unit price?!"
One heavyweight merchant gulped and shouted desperately.
I locked eyes with Aila atop the wagon, flashed a devilish grin, and declared:
"Price? Exactly one-tenth of what Muller's foreman just called out."
Silence. Stifling silence swept the square.
It was unbelievable. Muller's 35 coins wasn't outrageous. Average wholesale for cotton was around 30. A bit pricier for Peluah's premium stuff? Fair enough.
But one-tenth?
That means... how much exactly?
Merchants who calculated numbers like breathing froze up at the absurd figure.
3 coins? No, 3.5?
Their brains stalled. They gave up and asked me outright.
"How much exactly?"
"Three coins flat. Three silver pieces."
And in that moment, as the true value clicked in their heads, an explosive roar erupted.
"Three coins?! You're insane! That's possible?!"
"My god, that quality at that price? Might as well be free!"
Truth be told, they might've called me a sucker. At ten coins, they'd still scramble over each other to pay up, grinning ear to ear. No reason to dump it at this ridiculous bargain-basement price.
But I had a clear, urgent motive.
Toward the frenzied merchants, I drove the nail home firmly.
"One rule, though. We hand off at the factory gate—that's it. Hauling this mountain across monster-ridden borders, blasting through bandits, securing your networks? All on you."
The core of modern B2B: ruthless risk transfer and division of labor.
Why go this far? Peluah's cotton market is too damn small.
Fine for a handful of handloom artisans scraping by. But for me, spewing factory-scale output via steam engines? A laughably tiny pond.
If Peluah needed 1 unit total, I was pumping out 10—no, 100—daily.
And cotton takes up way more space than you'd think.
Unable to sell locally, I'd need endless warehouses leased or built for 10x, 100x the volume. Plus, fabric's vulnerable to moisture, mold, fire, rats' teeth. Stockpiling is a ticking time bomb devouring fixed costs.
Machines slashed labor costs, but fixed expenses lingered: bulk cotton buys, belt maintenance, factory overheads. If goods pile up without turning to cash, the books show asset mountains—but tomorrow's payroll and cotton bills bankrupt you.
Classic "black bankruptcy."
Produce brilliantly, but poor turnover kills the factory.
That's industry's brutal truth.
Supply limits. One way to break them.
"Sell our goods in your territories at whatever markup. I promise: you'll rake in fortunes you couldn't dream of."
Create demand. Say they snap it up at this steal. Where to offload the flood? Inside Peluah? Competing with my 3-coin wholesale?
They'd pivot to foreign lands and territories still gasping at 30+ coins. Sell at 20? Massive windfall!
Ever wonder why Britain's Industrial Revolution sparked empire-building frenzy, pounding on Africa and Asia's doors? Unsellable output would've crushed them. Imperialism's root? Overproduction.
So I declare boldly: Buy. Scatter. Sell across the continent!
Your greed will be the lifeblood keeping my factory humming.
"Will you board this money-printing revolution?!"
My shout ended, and—
Riiip! Shrrrip!
Muller's monopoly contracts tore to shreds in their hands, fluttering like snow. Amid the paper blizzard, their mad roars exploded.
"Who signs trash like that?! Foreman Aila! Get my wagon over here now!"
"Me first! I'll take three times the quoted load—in cash right now! Gold's right here!"