Marygold the Tycoon (5): The Empire Shatters Piece by Piece
Even if the empire was splintering into fragments, it was no longer Lancel's concern.
The time he'd lived for the empire's glory, fought for his lord's honor, strived to be remembered as a great hero—all of it had long since rotted away to ash and vanished.
War. Empire. Rebellion. Emperor. Old ties. All of it had merely scorched his soul, leaving behind an empty husk.
Nothing more, nothing less.
For him, drifting aimlessly through endless time like a jellyfish, what would have become of him if Marygold hadn't appeared?
What would he be doing now? How would he have lived?
Lancel couldn't imagine it. He had no desire to pry open a stinking pit just to peek inside.
Yes. The reason he was lost in such sentiment now was, predictably, Marygold.
"From now on, we have to take the salt anywhere and sell it. If we keep stockpiling it here, it'll get seized under imperial law for sure. Refuse, and we'll be branded rebels. We need to liquidate it immediately. Even at a loss, no choice."
At Viscount Dante's pointed remark, Marygold, who had been silent, finally spoke.
"What if we go to the war zone and sell there?"
Her words halted dinner in the Dante household.
"We have plenty of money and salt, so I'll gather people and head straight to where the war's broken out. Sell everything quick and come back—what do you think? We can offload it all before it gets taken. And we'd make a killing…."
"Ahem."
Viscount Dante held his tongue. It would definitely turn a profit. No, it might bring in wealth beyond anything they'd earned before.
In this era, this world, merchants made money simply: buy low where it was cheap, sell high elsewhere. Repeat until death.
A war zone was the priciest land of all. Lancel had seen countless wagons roll in, where men valued gold over their lives.
Once the trains ground to a halt, salt prices would skyrocket even more.
Salt that would be confiscated if left alone. Sell safe and cheap, or risk it for a higher price?
Just choose.
"Too dangerous. No one knows what the front lines are like."
"Trust me, my lord."
Marygold thumped her chest.
"Give me a chance to repay your grace."
"I've never seen it as granting grace, Marygold Merchant Leader. Wasn't it mutually beneficial?"
"I don't see it that way, my lord. I feel indebted. Debts must be paid—that's a merchant's virtue. Think of it as for my credit."
Twenty-three-year-old Marygold didn't waver. A bit different from her selves at fifteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty-one.
"I'll sell the salt and return within a year. Even if it's less than expected… better than losing it all to seizure."
Lancel raised a hand and cut in.
"I'll go with you."
"No."
Marygold shook her head immediately.
"…?"
It was baffling. He'd never expected her to refuse his company first.
"I don't want to drag my benefactor into something I started. Trust me, benefactor. I'll come back with wagons full of gold."
Determination gleamed in her eyes. Cocky little thing.
'Was gonna volunteer since the vacation's already ruined anyway.'
Mrs. Dante and the viscount, who'd been listening quietly, chimed in.
"Right, value that precious life of yours. What does a skillless knight think he's doing, showing off?"
"She's got a point, Lancel. If the war drags on, we'll get conscripted eventually. Best to sit tight now."
Their worries were unfounded. Lancel, who'd lounged like mold at home, had the skill and experience to survive any battlefield.
And the Dante house wouldn't be called up for at least two years—though it would happen eventually.
Of course.
'Resets in two years anyway, so no biggie?'
They couldn't know his thoughts.
"I'll scoop up every coin on this continent. Benefactor. Heh heh heh."
"Heading to a war zone and you're this chill."
"It's fine."
Marygold's smile sparkled across the firelight.
"I'm the type who's strong in crises. I've survived plenty."
"Yeah, wonder whose fault that is."
"Anyway."
Marygold sidled closer and grabbed Lancel's hand. She glanced at Mrs. Dante.
The mother sipped her water, pretending not to notice.
"I'll write every day, so reply every day."
Her grip was fierce, desperate, as if etching the feel of her into his memory forever.
"Promise."
"…Yeah."
Hm.
'Did I let it show a bit?'
Lancel inwardly regretted if Marygold had read his 'vacation' intentions. Even he wasn't that heartless.
"Load it all!"
"Heavy stuff to the back!"
"Hey! Handle your own gear!"
A month of prep later, Mary Merchant Group formed a grand caravan.
Every mercenary in the region signed on as guards—a massive procession.
Marygold's Merchant Group begins its 'Grand Caravan' today.
Mountains, fields, hills, rivers, seas, forests, plains—she'll face countless dangers and trials.
But to become a great tycoon, it's a risk worth taking!
※ From porter to caravan leader. Charisma unleashed.
(Charm, Grace, Emotion, Stamina, Allure UP!!!)
"Letters! Reply for sure!"
She waved from horseback until she vanished from sight, at the head of the endless line.
That day, Marygold set off on her caravan.
12.
Letters arrived the very next day.
August 1st.
Can you believe this? Wheel breaks on the first day—God, this is too much!
Clear skies as we repack the spilled salt offer some comfort. Bodies apart, but benefactor and I share the same sky!
Lancel chuckled and dipped his quill in ink.
August 2nd.
A wheel's one axle—turn carefully. No need for gods; you're just clumsy.
P.S. Technically not the same sky. Weather's cloudy here.
Reply came days later.
August 4th.
Saw homeless wanderers. Without you, benefactor, would I end up like that? No time to whine about a sore butt!
Fun fact: Mouth full of jam keeps hunger away forever.
P.S. Still same sky! I believe it!
August 7th.
Hanged before wandering? Jam fills belly 'cause you're eating it.
P.S. Rain coming—keep salt dry.
Odd feeling. No letters in centuries, maybe. Short notes felt engaging, not tedious.
August 11th.
Hurt feelings, benefactor! Rain falls, yet you worry for salt first? Smart merchants handled it.
Wild boars at dawn two days ago. Salt everywhere—cured 'em into meat. Feasting tonight!
P.S. Sudden question: Why'd you travel, benefactor?
August 16th.
Salt seller worries for salt. Cook boar female, not male—males taste awful.
P.S. Drained stamina from some woman, trip to clear head.
Delays grew with distance, but he sensed when one would arrive. And usually right.
Courier always waited at the manor.
August 22nd.
Nobles demanding tolls on non-their roads? Seeing fine folk like Viscount Dante or you makes these rage-inducing!
P.S. Who was she? Obsessed all day, sleepless. Tell me: relation, who she was!
August 29th.
Still soft. Roads belong to blockers—that's the world's rule. Unhappy? Push with force. Too big for them, they'll yield.
P.S. Woman I can't tell you about.
September 7th.
Aaaargh! Untellable woman?! Just forgot, now head explodes again—please no! Sad now. But pushing on. Will grill you on arrival!
P.S. On return, one wish? Got famous local tea leaves. Just one cup?
September 16th.
Feeding me weird stuff?… [abridged]
August passed, September, October, November…. Winter stripped the trees bare, yet letters came.
Round trips stretched to a month, but they always reached Lancel.
December 1st.
Full winter now, benefactor. Rumors spread—salt and goods selling fast. Snow mixes with salt, disaster! War scary, but focus on profit forgets it.
P.S. Coming home soon. Miss you so much, nearly forgot your face. Returning tycoon—prepare yourself!
Lancel reread December's letter countless times. Date pushed past February.
No next letter. Marygold's news ended here.
The year she turned twenty-four.
"Hm."
Lancel stroked his chin, pondering.
What to do? Wait a year, loop ends. Tycoon or not, rich or not—irrelevant.
Lounge through the year; spring sprouts, June's green thickens. Regression day. Reunion with Marygold, somewhere, somehow.
As long as not dead.
Yes. No need to act. No one pushed him. No duties, obligations. No one ordered, blamed, remembered.
Drift alone in forgotten time, mulling fleeting unease—that was it.
—Benefactor!
But.
"Young master? This late, where to?"
Lancel donned his cloak, mounted.
The head butler approached, puzzled.
What to say? He thought, then smiled faintly.
"To the last place I remember her."