Tear It Out or Sign?
“Tear it out or sign the contract?”
Francis Leonal, head of the Leonal Trading Company, had been in an excellent mood lately. “The sight of those northern bumpkins sniveling is truly a pleasure to behold.” Watching the miserable faces of the northerners he had always despised was deeply satisfying. With the war against the Kramkin Duchy severing major roads and rail lines, and food imports from the south cut off, the east had become the North’s sole source of grain.
Being the only supplier meant he could gouge them without consequence, and Francis had seized the opportunity to raise prices. Not merely raise them—he had adulterated the wheat with sand and chaff to inflate the weight, tripled the price under the pretext of rising labor and transport costs, and even traveled north in person to torment the local nobles and commoners with every petty cruelty imaginable.
The fact that they could only swallow their rage and endure it made the spectacle all the sweeter. For Francis, the finest stress relief was always the suffering of others.
“Company head, the shipment for the North is ready.”
While Francis chuckled and tallied the northerners’ lifeblood into his swelling ledger, the chief steward of the Leonal Trading Company knocked and entered the office.
“You followed the usual procedure, I assume?”
Francis closed the ledger and looked up. A smile spread across the steward’s face—the exact smile one would expect from a man whose greed had rotted him from within.
“Of course. We mixed in plenty of sand. Heh-heh.”
“Well done. Keep it up. Ah, and delay the delivery this time. Drag it out.”
Opportunities like this were rare. The imperial and northern forces were exhausted, the roads and rails were severed, and the imperial court—normally the mediator—was too preoccupied with other crises to intervene. Every perfect condition had aligned.
“We must squeeze them for everything we can while we still can. Stall the shipments, and when the North complains and begs for faster delivery, demand extra transport fees on top of what they’ve already paid. They’ll have no choice but to pay.”
“Heh-heh-heh! Of course!”
The steward was still cackling as he turned to leave, but his steps halted the instant Francis’s head snapped up from the ledger.
“Are the transport trucks here already?”
The sound of engines. Something was wrong.
“Did we… call for this many trucks?”
They had only summoned a few dozen. Yet the roar of engines outside was far louder. A sense of wrongness prickled at the back of Francis’s neck.
“Company head! You—you need to come outside right now!”
One of the clerks burst into the office, pale and frantic.
“What is it? Speak clearly!”
“Soldiers! Heavily armed soldiers are disembarking near the company grounds!”
Francis’s eyes darted. Had the northern nobles finally snapped and sent troops? No—they lacked the manpower to spare. They could barely defend the Demon Realm as it was; diverting soldiers over grain would leave their people torn apart by monsters. It couldn’t be the North.
Western or southern forces, then? No. Their own roads are in chaos—they wouldn’t have the strength to reach us this quickly and this quietly. Which means…
A force already stationed nearby.
Imperial troops. Now that I think of it, there was a brigade of beastmen encamped not far from here.
Once the thought of the imperial army crossed his mind, the tension drained from Francis’s body.
The emperor’s authority is crumbling. He needs every ally he can get. He wouldn’t dare touch the Leonal Trading Company, the largest merchant house in the west. The western nobles would turn on him immediately.
His calculations complete, Francis burst into confident laughter.
“Why is everyone so tense? Relax. These are difficult times for supplies. They’ve probably just come to requisition some grain and provisions.”
He rose from his seat with a bold expression.
“I’ll speak with their commander myself—”
The bold expression vanished the moment a massive figure stepped into the office.
“Francis Leonal?”
The man stood just over two meters tall, with thick forearms and a waist that looked capable of tearing a person apart bare-handed. His build was closer to a bear than a man. Yet the true problem was not his size.
What the fuck—his face!
It was the kind of face that could make a man piss himself. Scars. Tattoos. And a natural ugliness so profound that the sheer pressure it radiated defied imagination. The bear-like man smiled at him with that hideous face.
“Commander of the 3rd Mechanized Shock Infantry Brigade, Major General Volka Adrakin. Let’s have a talk about grain.”
Francis Leonal and I sat facing each other on luxurious sofas. Behind me stood the chief steward and my adjutant; behind Francis stood the man I assumed was his chief steward. Francis wore the mask-like smile of a seasoned merchant, revealing nothing. Yet the slight tremor in his fingertips and the unnatural angle of his mouth told me he was deeply unsettled by my face and size.
“Haha! If it isn’t the empire’s war hero, Major General Volka Adrakin! I’ve long heard your name. It is an honor.”
“The honor is mine. I hear you’ve been feeding the starving people of the North. Though I also hear you’ve been forced to raise prices due to transport and labor costs.”
Francis put on a troubled expression, but I could read the calculations flickering behind it with ease.
The imperial court is weak, and the North depends entirely on the Leonal Trading Company for grain. He thinks I won’t dare use force.
If I looted the place outright, the western nobles would immediately use it as leverage against the throne. Francis knew this and was counting on it.
“Don’t even mention it. Those Kramkin bastards cut every major road… Even if we used the rail lines, it wouldn’t be enough.”
“I understand. That’s perfectly reasonable. And labor costs have risen as well?”
“Of course. The only roads left are treacherous and winding. Longer delivery times mean higher wages. It’s maddening, really.”
The chief steward’s fists clenched audibly at Francis’s shameless performance. I already knew the full story from the journey here: wheat mixed with sand and chaff, prices tripled overnight, and the most vicious detail of all—the amount supplied was just enough to keep the North from collapsing, ensuring they could be bled dry indefinitely.
“It must be very difficult. I understand. That’s why I’ve come to offer some assistance with this grain transaction.”
I produced the imperial standard trade contract the chief steward had prepared in advance.
“Read it. These are the supply terms we require. I look forward to doing business with the Leonal Trading Company for a long time.”
Francis accepted the document. Moments later, his face twisted.
“A one-year long-term supply contract at nine crowns per sack of wheat? Major General Volka, do you even know the standard market price for a sack of wheat in the west?”
I smiled. The chief steward was a capable man. The moment I mentioned a grain deal, he had already gathered every piece of information I needed.
“I believe it’s around fifteen crowns per sack.”
“Then how can you offer nine? We cannot accept this price.”
“Please don’t get angry. The biggest issues are labor and transport costs, aren’t they? My brigade will cover all labor and transport expenses. We’ll even load the sacks from your warehouse onto the trucks ourselves.”
I tapped the contract still in Francis’s hands.
“It’s not a bad deal. All you have to do is sign and open the warehouse doors when the time comes. How convenient.”
Francis finally dropped the mask.
“Listen here, Major General Volka. Just because people call you a war hero doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want. This is robbery. Plain and simple. You won’t find a single merchant house in the entire empire willing to accept these terms. And you expect us to?”
I kept smiling.
“Once you subtract transport, labor, and management costs all the way to the North, nine crowns is a fair price. After all, you’ve been charging the northerners forty to fifty crowns per sack while citing the same labor and transport issues.”
“Ah. Now I see. You’re here for revenge, aren’t you, Major General? You want us to swallow the losses because we profited too much before?”
Francis snorted and flung the contract back at me.
“At this price, you’ll get nothing. The cost remains fifty crowns per sack. If you don’t like it, there’s no deal.”
“Is that so.”
Now that he had shown his true colors, it was my turn.
I stopped smiling and let the anger show.
“After bleeding the North dry all this time, you still can’t let go of your greed?”
Francis flinched for a moment, then sneered.
“That’s right. I haven’t. So what are you going to do about it, Major General? Threaten the company with the soldiers outside? Go ahead. The western nobles will love it. ‘The imperial army attacked a western trading house.’ Haha! We both know how that ends.”
“Threaten? I don’t need to.”
“What?”
I turned my head.
“Adjutant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mobilize the brigade. Seize the warehouse and load every sack of wheat onto the trucks.”
“Understood.”
The moment my adjutant moved to leave, Francis shot to his feet.
“Stop right there, you four-legged bastard! This is looting! Major General Volka—looting! Do you think I’ll just sit back and let this happen?”
“You won’t. You’ll tell the western nobles, and they’ll use it to pressure the imperial court.”
I stood and stepped closer, looming over him.
“What you need to understand is that the western nobles will only oppose the throne through political means. They’ve suffered too many losses to raise an army. And as you know, politics is a long, tedious game.”
I knew exactly how terrifying my face was. I let the killing intent pour out. Both Francis and his steward turned deathly pale.
“We’ll send trucks and soldiers every single day to strip your warehouse bare. By force. And we won’t pay a single coin.”
“Y-you insane bastard…!”
“That’s right. I’ve gone mad. The North is on the verge of collapse, and I have to feed my people and my soldiers. It would be stranger if I stayed sane. So the question you should be asking yourself right now is this.”
I placed a hand on Francis’s shoulder and squeezed. Bone creaked. His face went from pale to corpse-cold.
“Do you really think the western nobles will recover the grain my brigade takes from you? Even if they try through political channels, how long will that take? Do you honestly believe they’ll go to war with the Hellhound Brigade—a ten-year elite unit—just to protect one merchant?”
“……”
“Your loss will only be used as a political tool. They won’t bother recovering it at their own expense. That’s how nobles are. Am I wrong?”
Francis had no answer.
I held the long-term contract out to him once more.
“Francis, head of the company. I’ll give you one last chance. Will you accept nine crowns per sack, or will you be stripped of everything for free?”
“You… you thieving bastard.”
“Not the kind of thing to say when you’ve been selling sacks full of sand and chaff for fifty crowns. The North has all the evidence. If this turns into a political fight, that evidence will serve as the empire’s justification. Don’t think you’re the only one who can use politics.”
I suddenly roared at both of them.
“I am Volka Adrakin, Grand Duke of the North! I have a duty to protect my people! Francis Leonal!”
Combined with my thuggish appearance, massive frame, and thunderous voice, the effect was devastating. The steward collapsed to the floor, a dark stain spreading down his trousers. Francis remained standing, but his body trembled as if seized by a fit.
“Sign it.”
Francis said nothing. With shaking hands, he took the contract and signed. I folded it neatly and tucked it away, then reined in my killing intent.
“I look forward to doing business with you for the next year, Francis. Ah, and one more thing—this is now a legal transaction, so the western nobles won’t be able to use it against the throne. Don’t worry too much. We’ll pay exactly as agreed.”
I gave his shoulder a couple of pats, then turned to my adjutant and the chief steward.
“Load the proper sacks of wheat onto the trucks. Nothing mixed with sand or chaff.”
The chief steward looked as if a decade of indigestion had finally cleared, while my adjutant smirked and saluted.
“Understood.”
For the next year, at least, we wouldn’t have to worry about food. The immediate crisis was over.