Father is a Goldmine (4)
Father makes money. Correction: Father makes a ton of money.
If Father just gave the word, I could launch all sorts of ventures exploiting him. The photos of him we're selling right now, for one. Or the badge scheme I pitched to Queen Carmen.
And that's not all. There's endless potential.
Up until now, I'd presented Father with all sorts of business proposals.
-Rejected.
Some got shot down outright.
-Even if those hacks offered a fortune, crossing swords with them would insult everything I've built as a swordsman.
One idea: sparring matches with a Sword Master.
Charge a full year's salary per bout, and people would flock from across the nation.
Burning every coin earned from a year of hard labor on a single duel with one man? Facing off against Crimson Gibraltar makes it worthwhile.
From the kingdom's perspective, toppling the realm's strongest knight brings bragging rights.
Nostrum is a land of knights. While the Empire stuffs horses onto racetracks and rides bikes and trains, our kingdom honed mounted lance combat between man and beast to its absolute limit.
In a nation like that, a shot at the strongest knight? They'd bite.
A low-rank official's salary is pocket change to a real knight.
What’s a yearly salary to one might be a month's pay to another. Or the price of a once-in-a-lifetime thrill. To the payer, it's valuable spending.
And we'd scout talent with real martial prowess.
Challenging Father with a sword guarantees a baseline of skill. Perfect for recruiting knights.
Of course, there's one massive caveat.
He can't lose.
If a hundred challengers came and Father beat every last one without a single defeat...
One loss, and every Gibraltar-based plan crumbles.
My schemes all hinge on Father being the unbeatable swordsman—not even the crown prince dares scheme against him.
I know dozens of masters, but who knows? A monster could pop up.
But if Father suddenly fell to some unknown Sword Master I'd never heard of? Better not to try at all.
So, vet the challengers carefully, and it's a solid revenue stream.
Limit it to "acquaintances." Lady Mente. Marquis Claydoll of the Empire.
Those who've lost to him before—and will again—can buy challenge letters freely.
Hell, slap betting odds on it, and we'd rake it in.
Gambling with guaranteed wins lacks thrill, but as a money-maker? Unbeatable efficiency.
Father might not go for it, though.
-Why the hell would I mix blades with those thugs?
It's not even about the money.
-This is Crimson Gibraltar. Pride of the man called the continent's strongest.
"Scared?" won't fly. His skill's too overwhelming, and buyers won't expect to win anyway.
That orc sweep exposed the gap too clearly. Shame.
To beat Crimson Gibraltar, you'd need to butcher three thousand orcs in under thirty minutes.
Proven feats turned into poison.
With the kingdom—and even the Empire—knowing his true might, challenge letters and sparring fees might flop.
That's why the duel business got nixed on the spot.
-What about a Gibraltar-hosted martial tournament?
Two: Arena in the gorge.
-That... could be fun.
This one hooked Father.
-Out-of-towners flooding in with roughnecks rubs me wrong, but for talent scouting? Decent.
The capital hosts tournaments yearly. Small prizes, but commoner adventurers and mercenaries love 'em.
-Prize size scales with entrant quality. Dangle Lady Mente's salary, and even the capital's valor knights would show.
-You clear it with her first?
-Father.
-Kidding. My sympathies to Mente, nearly robbed of her contract pay.
-But I won't waste coin frivolously.
-We rig the winner. If Robert takes it, the prize doubles as his bonus.
-Lose, and it's a loss.
-You're not entering, so...
-Then hold it when you're at least seventeen.
-Ah. Scratch that plan.
Selling Father? Fine. Selling myself? No.
-Or when Noir hits seventeen. Younger’s too soon.
-Perfect.
If Father won't sell, peddle Noir. The tournament's on hold till a winner's ready, but the proposal sits pretty in Father's drawer.
1. Father's guided spars for profit.
2. Tournament draws crowds; Gibraltar ringer wins.
I'd pitched others too.
Seems like hoarding kingdom gold, but Empire customers mean talers piling up.
Dust gathers into mountains, some say.
Over time, Gibraltar vaults fill with talers.
Currency must circulate. But if Gibraltar just hoards without releasing, the Empire gets prickly—no matter the amount.
Sports. Gambling. Drugs. Smuggling. Et cetera.
The moment it surges through shadows, not sunlight...
Go ahead, print talers to fill the gap.
The more they print to match what's buried in Gibraltar Gorge, the deeper the Empire's vicious cycle.
Time's on my side.
Originally.
Mold starts small on food.
Time is my ally.
Ignore it, let it spread, and it ruins everything.
Those talers?
Lucky they're just paper.
Later.
When imperial banks crumble one by one, dump 'em from the sky for promo.
'Gibraltar Gorge Taler Bonfire.'
Stuff fireworks, burst 'em overhead.
Why fireworks?
"I want to see fireworks!"
Because Astasia said so.
* * *
"Festival!!"
Astasia wants a festival.
"Let's have a festival!"
"What's this sudden festival talk?"
"Festival!"
She's yelling it out of nowhere, but I know.
"If you won't hold one—"
"You'll throw a tantrum till I do?"
"A t-tantrum?! I've never heard that from my parents!!"
"First time for me, then."
Astasia's face flushes red with anger.
"Treating me like a child!"
"You are a child."
"Then you're not?!"
"I'm a kid too, but I know festivals don't happen without reason. Sit, first."
I calmly offered her the sofa across from me.
"Why the sudden festival craving? Fireworks, no less."
"Uh, um..."
"Someone's birthday?"
"Th-that's... a secret!"
She crosses her arms, turns away. Clearly a birthday surprise, but she can't spill.
"A surprise gift. Got it."
Not hers. Mine?
Wonder if.
My birthday's ages away, but after twenty, I got gifts yearly—from someone.
"Princess."
"S-sudden 'princess'—!"
"If it were my birthday, what would you gift me?"
"......When is it?"
Astasia fidgets, asks cautiously.
"N-no, don't misunderstand! It's not like I'm uninterested or anything—I've just never heard! That's why I'm asking now—don't get the wrong idea!"
"No misunderstanding. It passed, anyway. Birthdays are top secret in Gibraltar."
"Huh...? Why?"
"Birthdays invite not gifts, but assassins."
"Uh...."
Astasia's face stiffens.
"S-such...?"
"Some Gibraltar ancestors got poisoned wine as 'birthday gifts' and died."
"......."
"Can't send killers? Gifts from unknowns can still assassinate. Zero percent chance? No."
One percent, and it's a Gibraltar hit. Especially if they think tails won't trace back.
"Relax. Empire never poisoned us via gifts."
"Pardon?"
"Empire's not the only Gibraltar hater. Kingdom has plenty foes inside."
"...Kingdom nobles tried assassinating Gibraltar?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
"We're too good."
The world.
Sometimes has absurd reasons.
"Jealousy drives some to tank the nation."
"Can't... comprehend. Why?"
"No need. They're beyond normal sense."
Kill a hero out of envy.
"That's why we distinguish normal from insane."
Ordinary folk can't imagine it, but their deeds remind us humans vary.
"You've been here a while—no parties or celebrations. That's why."
"Didn't realize it was that bad."
"But it's doable."
"...Pardon?"
"Your request? How could I refuse."
Astasia perks up from her slump.
"Especially since it's for a 'friend' you cherish."
"Ehehehe...."
Too bad, not mine.
"For reference, mine's the last day of March."
"Young master?"
"Yes."
"But you said not to tell Gibraltar birthdays carelessly. I-I...."
"You gonna poison my wine as a gift?"
"No!!"
"Then we're good."
I raised my somnus tea toward her.
"And for your birthday, I'll handle it. Worry not."
"Never told you mine."
"April fifth."
"......."
Today: November seventh.
"For Princess Naria's birthday, I'll prepare properly."
November eleventh.
Four days away—Naria's birthday.
* * *
"...So, for those reasons, a small festival on the eleventh."
"Rejected."
Father shot it down instantly.
"Father."
"You know Gibraltar's curse and still propose this?"
"Yes."
I pitch; he vets risks and vetoes. Father's role.
"Gibraltar sees incidents at every festival or banquet."
"Not when Ruby was born."
"First time. And not zero incidents."
"Drunks smashing glasses and brawling? Mundane."
"Incomprehensible."
Father gravely pushed back the 'festival plan' I'd offered.
"Hiring capital wizards for fireworks?"
"Sounds good, right?"
"It does. Haven't seen one since the capital."
Kingdom-Empire gap starts with 'magic.'
"Empire's those..."
"Fireworks."
"Right. Crude compared to lighting magic fireworks—stunning, I know."
Kingdom's magic boasts five centuries; most things get magicked away.
That's why daily life lags the Empire.
Magic's for elites. Solving crimes via residue, wyvern taming, mana-charged blades cleaving walls—all mana blessings.
"You wouldn't pitch this lightly... The imperial granddaughter wants it?"
"Yes."
"Hmm...."
Father drummed the desk, then...
"...Then utmost caution for safety."
Like he had no choice, he took the plan.
"Truly grateful, Father."
"Feels more sincere than usual."
"Many reasons, but using Queen Carmen's gift here means bigger returns later."
Lucky Astasia gave perfect cover.
"Father's five million gold is yours, but my share's not fully mine."
"...A gift for Princess Naria?"
"More like testing me. Father."
I puffed my chest proudly.
"Think I'd throw a baseless festival just 'cause Astasia wants fireworks? It's for Naria's birthday."
"......."
"Need a pretext? 'Family pride' is best."
I pointed out the window to the training grounds.
"Noir manifested aura. Plenty for a feast."
"True, but..."
Father sourly eyed Noir dashing across the grounds.
"Your brother's mana-sensitive but no aura."
"Father."
I clenched my fist at him.
"Make it happen."
"......."
"And our proud ancestor, Count Cardian Gibraltar, said it."
"Yes. Gibraltar's hero— aura at ten."
Father glanced at me slyly.
"You..."
"The family's glory is Noir's."
"Fine. If that's your will, summon the kingdom's top mage. Flashy, safe explosions. Aura issue..."
Father rose slowly.
"If it won't happen, make it happen."
Gazing at the training grounds.