Chapter 41
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 41
Chapter Title: Herb Merchant in a Romance Fantasy?
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Middlemen meant you could never escape the brand problem.
Without the name "Strav Mountain," no matter how good the quality, it was dismissed as a fake.
No. It might all just be excuses.
Word must have spread in the merchants' gatherings: some guy from the north showed up with loveblossom.
Then someone probably said a word.
"Don't raise the price."
"He has nowhere to sell it anyway."
"Hold out, and he'll dump it at half price."
Collusion.
No evidence. But all three places said the exact same thing: "Not from Strav Mountain."
Too consistent. Scripted, almost.
Screeech.
I turned at the sound of the door opening.
It was Celine.
"You're back."
I said shortly, then gazed out the window again.
Since coming to the capital, Celine had been wandering around outside a lot.
Markets, theaters, sightseeing spots—she was checking them all out.
I didn't know her exact age, but she seemed the type to enjoy that sort of thing.
She plopped down across from me, crossed her legs, and propped her chin on her hand.
"How'd it go? The apothecaries."
"Total wipeout."
"Wipeout?"
"All three said the same. Won't buy because it's not from Strav Mountain."
Celine's eyebrow arched.
"But the effects are the same, right?"
"Even if they are, no sale. No brand."
"Brand?"
"Name. Trust. That stuff. Sell at half price or don't sell at all, they said."
"So what now? Gonna unload it cheap?"
"Harvesting costs next to nothing. The Kuman tribesfolk dig it up themselves. Half price still turns a profit."
It wasn't wrong.
No loss—pure gain. Didn't hit the target, but plenty profitable.
Compromising was fine. Fold here, and no one would complain.
But.
"No. Something I could sell for double or triple at half price? That's a loss."
Celine tilted her head.
"Loss? But harvesting costs nothing. Tribesfolk handle it."
"It's opportunity cost."
"Opportunity cost?"
I sighed.
"...It's a thing."
Celine's eyes narrowed.
"Not even gonna explain?"
"Too annoying."
"What?"
"Takes an hour to explain. And you might not even get it."
"Hey."
Her voice dropped, laced with irritation.
"I'm not dumb, you know?"
"I know. Still annoying."
Explaining past-life knowledge point by point was exhausting.
"So what's the plan?"
"Sell direct to the end users."
"End users? Skipping the apothecaries?"
"Yeah."
"How?"
"Target the capital's high society."
"High society?"
"We're in the capital. Gonna snag an invite to a ball or party."
"Then what? Sell drugs at the party?"
"Experience the effects yourself. If you don't like it, no charge."
Celine's expression turned odd.
"...Handing out free samples?"
"Samples. Just a taste."
"Taste?"
"Feel the effects firsthand, and opinions change. Strav Mountain this, northern mountains that—doesn't matter."
Celine nodded, seeming to get it.
But she soon frowned.
"Where do you hand out free samples, though?"
"At the party."
"Not just any party. High society's cliquey as hell. No invite, you're turned away at the door. Even as a Krushtein, showing up out of nowhere gets you suspicion first."
She was right.
High society ran on more than status. Connections. Reputation. Prior mingling.
Those opened doors.
I was ten.
A bastard popping up from the north.
Normally, no entry to proper high society.
But...
"Sis."
"What."
"I'm never marrying some princess type. You know that, right? Told you a million times. Hate the idea of serving a higher-status woman."
Celine nodded.
"Yeah, yeah. My ears are sore from it."
"But for now, I'm a candidate for the princess's hand."
"True."
"Gonna use that."
"Use it?"
"Talk to Duchess Clara. Get participation rights somehow."
Celine froze.
"Hold up. That old hag. She tried to kill you, remember?"
"Yeah."
"Poison sandwich. Dawn assassin. All her doing."
"Exactly. Guilt'll make her help."
Celine's mouth half-opened.
"...You're serious?"
"Yep."
"Begging the woman who tried to kill you?"
"Not begging. A deal. She wants me tied to the imperial family. If I'm cooperative, she gives something back."
"What're you getting?"
"Ball invitation."
"Which ball?"
"Winter Debutante."
Silence.
Celine stared at me.
Eyes full of disbelief.
"...What?"
"Debutante. Noblewomen's high society debut ball. It's coming up soon."
"I know that."
Celine raised a hand.
"But debutantes aren't scrappers like us. Real deal noble ladies. Status on par with Ernst, not you or me."
"I know."
"Earl houses, marquis, dukes. Their daughters. The men tagging along too."
"I know."
"You gonna sell loveblossom to them?"
I nodded.
Celine's face grew complicated.
"...Can I be honest?"
"Shoot."
"Ladies and the young lords there for them... you think they'll buy that?"
"Why not?"
"It's debutante night. Once-in-a-lifetime. Guy shows up hawking virility pills? Ruins the vibe."
Not wrong.
Debutante was the ladies' stage. Purity and elegance were everything.
Hawking loveblossom there?
Perfect recipe for crazy bastard label.
"That's why I'm not selling it as a virility pill."
"Huh?"
"Men's health supplement."
This wasn't spur-of-the-moment.
Three days and nights of pondering.
Conclusion reached. Time to execute.
"Let's go."
"Where?"
"Duchess Clara's mansion."
Duchess Clara's mansion.
The golden eagle carved on the gate gleamed in the afternoon sun.
"Please wait a moment."
The servant bowed. Polite angle. Eyes cold.
They led us to a waiting room.
High ceiling. Marble floor. Paintings on the walls. Lavish.
"Old lady's late..."
"Yeah."
Making us wait was standard. Easiest way to remind us of our place.
"How long?"
Celine whispered.
"Brace for an hour."
I pulled a book from my pocket. Leaned back in the chair and opened it.
30 minutes passed.
Servant brought tea. Single cup on a silver tray. Steam rising.
Sweet aroma brushed my nose, but I didn't touch it.
Poison? Test?
No reason to drink either way.
Five sparrows died last time. Not forgetting that.
1 hour passed.
Door opened. Same servant.
"Enter alone."
I closed the book. Stood.
Nodded to Celine.
Wait here.
Parlor door opened.
Old woman by the window. White hair. Wrinkled face. Hand holding teacup was aged, but her eyes...
Viper eyes.
"Sit."
Didn't even turn. Staring out the window.
Went to the opposite chair. Sat. No leaning back.
Only then did Duchess Clara turn her gaze.
"Long journey."
"Yes."
"Here for the marriage talks?"
"No."
"Then?"
"I have a request."
Clink.
Teacup met saucer. Small sound, sharp in the quiet room.
"Request?"
"Yes."
"Of me?"
Her eyebrow rose. Amusement or mockery unclear.
"I need a debutante invitation."
Silence fell.
Duchess Clara's fingers paused on the teacup handle.
"Why?"
"Business."
Snicker.
Laugh leaked out. Lips curved, eyes didn't.
"Duke's son playing merchant?"
"Not merchant. Investor."
Fingers traced the cup's rim. Slowly.
"Wordplay."
"Truth."
"If I refuse?"
I kept my expression steady.
"Then I refuse the marriage too."
"Threat?"
"Deal."
"Deal?"
"You want me as much as I want something."
Someone might ask why go that far.
Simple answer. Massive market.
Strav Mountains recover in 20 years. In that time, build Northern loveblossom as new brand.
Monopolize the empire's virility industry.
Body ten, mind not.
So I knew.
Grown men eat anything for virility.
Loveblossom top-tier. Proven effects, no side effects.
If it vanishes from market?
They hunt it desperately.
Problem: time. New groves might appear. Secure brand first.
That's why crawling to this hag.
But... unreadable.
What was she thinking? Anger? Interest? Or answer decided, just dragging it out?
Silence stretched.
"Amusing child."
Hag turned. Opened drawer. Took something out.
Envelope on the table.
"Invitation."
Hand moved. Stopped.
"Conditions?"
Duchess Clara's lip curved.
"Sharp as ever."
I knew. No freebies from this hag.
"Dance with the princess at the ball. That's the condition."
"...Just one dance?"
"The first one."
First dance.
Ball's climax. All noble eyes on it.
Dance there with princess? No mere candidate. De facto fiancé. Empire sees it that way.
Shit.
"Understood."
Voice stayed calm.
"Wise."
Picked up envelope. Paper light under fingers. Contents heavy.
As I turned to leave.
"Oh, and."
Feet stopped.
"Princess dances well. Hope you don't embarrass yourself."