Chapter 723: Business and Ambition

The silent, temperature-controlled magic array shielded the castle from the bleak, biting wind outside. Shields adorning the walls gleamed after being polished to a shine. Luxurious classical tapestries depicted symbols of heroes, monsters, and gods. Precious incense, crafted by the fairies, quietly diffused a delicate, pleasing fragrance from a bronze censer. The glow of magical crystal lamps spilled down from the ceiling, casting warm reflections in the gilded teacups, where the bright red liquid shimmered softly.

The gray elf Wenna lifted her teacup, gently swirling the distinctly textured liquid inside. Her pale eyes reflected scattered points of light. “These goods are from the Typhon Empire? That’s… certainly novel. What exactly are they?”

“Textiles, mainly textiles, along with dyes and clear quartz,” Bertram smiled. “High quality, ample supply—our friends among the Western Plains tribes should appreciate them.”

“Setting everything else aside, I am indeed interested in textiles,” Wenna said, raising her eyes. “May I see some samples?”

Bertram stood with a smile and nodded to the attendant beside him. “Of course. Here they are—open it.”

The attendant opened a wooden chest containing the samples. The guests from the Ogure tribe cast curious glances. Bertram stepped forward and pulled out a piece of white fabric, holding it out to Wenna. “Madam, please have a look.”

Wenna reached out and took the fabric, examining it with a mix of anticipation and curiosity. But within seconds, her expression shifted to one of surprise and disappointment. After a brief silence, the gray elf chieftain frowned and shook her head. “My friend, I was just praising human artisans for their creativity in the arts… but now I find myself confused.”

She looked up at Duke Bertram with curiosity. “If I may be frank—does the distant Typhon Empire lack craftsmanship? You can see that while this fabric is sturdy, its weave and pattern are utterly tasteless. Even an apprentice who just learned to weave could produce something like this. It’s…”

“Sixteen silver shields,” Bertram interrupted suddenly.

“What?” Wenna blinked, momentarily stunned.

“Sixteen silver shields,” Bertram repeated with a smile, lightly tapping the wooden chest beside him. “That’s a total of one hundred and sixty marks.”

Wenna’s ears twitched involuntarily. “…Are you joking?”

“The last time I quoted you prices for alchemical potions, you had the same reaction,” Bertram shook his head and sat back down in his high-backed chair, his expression serious. “This is the real price. As you can see, these fabrics are indeed tasteless in weave and pattern because they’re machine-made. With current machinery, this is the best quality we can produce. They won’t appeal to the upper nobility, but in terms of price… they will definitely be popular among the middle-class citizens and common folk.”

“Machines… this isn’t the first time I’ve heard that word,” Wenna’s earlier surprise and disappointment faded, replaced by thoughtful consideration. “If they’re machine-made, I can understand the price. But I have a question—even if they’re machine-made, you still have to transport these fabrics all the way from distant Typhon to the western border. After such a long journey, can the price really remain so low? From what I understand, even transporting a single stone from your country’s east to west costs a fortune.”

“We’re building new roads, and brand-new transportation technology allows for rapid delivery of bulk goods,” Bertram explained. “Of course, transportation costs still exist. The profit margin on these fabrics is extremely thin, but the Franklin family has always sought long-term business partners. Our principle is small profits and quick turnover—you should be aware of that.”

Bertram’s expression was open and sincere, his smile warm and genuine.

Wenna studied Bertram’s smile, then fell silent for a moment before speaking. “You’re very sincere when it comes to business… So, you’re basically just transporting cheap Typhon fabrics westward and selling them to us… That’s quite different from the alchemical potions.”

“The essence of trade is turning distance into profit. Transportation costs money,” Bertram nodded. “But regardless, these fabrics will surely create great value in your hands. After all… setting aside taste, their quality is excellent and fully justifies the price.”

The gray elf’s eyes narrowed slightly—a habitual gesture when she was thinking.

“Elves love art. Elegance and taste are elements we hold dear,” she said after a few seconds of contemplation, her pale eyes sparkling faintly. “My friend, there is no doubt—gold coins are the most tasteful thing in this world.”

“That suits your personal style perfectly—and mine as well,” Bertram’s smile blossomed. “If all goes well, we can officially start accepting textile orders next spring. The exact quantities can be negotiated. The alchemical potions will be supplied according to the previously agreed schedule, unaffected by the textile orders. As for payment…”

“Half in gold coins, half in grain and medicine,” Wenna volunteered. “Our king has agreed to your terms, and we understand the troubles the An… Cecile Empire is facing. As old friends, we’re happy to help. The first shipment of grain will arrive at the border before winter.”

“Please convey my thanks to the Gray Elf King,” Bertram stood and said sincerely. “We will never forget every help from our friends.”

Wenna rose and returned the gesture, then glanced toward another chest. “These must be other samples?”

“Yes, allow me to show you…” Bertram began.

…

The blazing sun gradually sank westward, the sky painted with increasingly brilliant hues of sunset clouds. Unnamed birds chirped against the backdrop of clouds and sky, hastily returning to their nests. Wenna, leaving the castle, brushed back the hair from her forehead and glanced back at the Franklin family’s classical, ornate castle.

“What a big deal this business is…” the gray elf murmured to herself.

A Red Valley tribesman walking beside her frowned. “They must be making even more profit.”

Wenna shook her head. “In business, don’t focus on how much others make. No one comes to do business to lose money.”

The refined human beside them spoke up. “Still, the price of those fabrics is surprising. After such a long transport, the price remains so low… It’s hard to imagine just how cheap the Typhon Empire sells them to Cecile.”

“Yes… truly hard to imagine…” Wenna looked back again, her gaze sweeping over the centuries-old castle.

Craftsmen were busy on a platform beside the castle, installing a strange magical device whose purpose was unclear. The device had a metal base and a massive crystal.

Such an ancient castle—it felt as old as the land itself.

Yet she sensed something young was quietly growing here.

Goods from the distant east, from the other side of the continent… that was truly a long journey.

…

Bertram Franklin stood by the window of the reception hall, watching the guests from the Ogure tribe board their own carriages and gradually disappear around a bend in the road. Only then did he lower his gaze.

A young man in a royal blue coat, wearing a golden brooch on his chest, entered the room and stood respectfully behind Bertram. “Father.”

“Eleven,” Bertram turned and smiled gently at his eldest son. “You must have heard everything clearly from the next room. Judging by your expression, you have questions.”

The young man named Eleven stood straight. Newly of age, he was still accustomed to following his father’s every word, but he already had many thoughts and doubts of his own. “Yes, Father—why did you immediately admit that the fabrics came from Typhon?”

Bertram looked quietly at his son. “Why not be honest?”

“You taught me that when you can monopolize a supply, keeping the source secret is one of the key ways to maintain monopoly and ensure profits. We import textiles from Typhon and resell them to the Ogure tribe. Essentially, it’s just reselling. If we didn’t say anything, the Ogure wouldn’t know, and we could raise prices a bit more. But now, the gray elves already know the source. Sooner or later, they’ll confirm the approximate export price from Typhon. Transparency of costs is the biggest taboo in business…”

Bertram patiently waited for his son to finish, then shook his head. “The fact that you think of this shows you’re seriously learning what I’ve taught you. But the fact that this is all you think of shows you’ve only scratched the surface.

“First, we want long-term business—nation-to-nation business. That requires stability, not short-term windfalls. The gray elves aren’t an isolated people; they will find out the source eventually. While from a business perspective, keeping the source secret isn’t deception, if we manipulate prices too much, we’ll damage our partners’ trust—and thus future business.

“Second, even if I reveal the source, we needn’t worry about losing this business. Cecile is the only northern continental route maintaining east-west trade. To the south lies the Gondor Wasteland; to the north, wastelands, mountains, and harsh winters. For Typhon’s goods to reach the Ogure tribe, they must pass through our route—unless the elves or spirits find a way to break the ocean blockade and reopen the northern circumnavigation route.

“Third—and most importantly—do you really think His Majesty the Emperor wants me to sell these goods to the Ogure tribe at near zero profit just to sell textiles?”

The young duke’s son blinked in confusion, then his expression turned thoughtful.

Bertram Franklin chuckled, shaking his head. “What we’re really selling… is the railway.”

Eleven’s eyes widened.

Bertram’s gaze shifted away from his son to a nearby shelf, where a gift from Emperor Gawain Cecile, given before leaving Saint Suniel City, was displayed.

A model of the first freight magi-powered train.

Exquisitely crafted, lifelike, the work of the empire’s chief master craftsman, Saint Nicholas Egghead.

Yet the model was so strange, its purpose and artistic value unclear, that Wenna’s attention had been drawn entirely to the gaudy magical ornament nearby, missing this true symbol of the imperial era.

But Bertram was confident it wouldn’t be long before the kings of the Ogure tribe noticed it.

“Eleven, perhaps I’ve been too fixated on shaping you into someone like me. I’ve overlooked your true talents and interests.”

“Father?” The young duke’s son looked surprised, then a little anxious. “Father, I’m not…”

“Don’t be nervous, my boy,” Bertram said, shaking his head. “You still make me proud. But now, you need to push yourself even harder to keep pace with the era His Majesty is shaping. Magic technology, railways, the magical network broadcasts, alchemical industries… The new age is full of things we don’t fully understand ourselves—neither the tutors in the castle nor the scholars scattered across the lands can teach you these.

“The Western Territories are too far from the empire’s heart, too distant from new technologies and knowledge, and too removed from what you’d call a truly ‘civilized society.’

“We can’t just sit at home waiting for civilization to come to us. We have to reach out and grasp it ourselves.

“His Majesty is building more educational institutions in the imperial capital, Cecil City, including a new Imperial Academy. I’ve already ordered that five hundred bright young minds be selected from across the Western Territories to study there. You will go too—as the leader of the scholarly group, heading south. The old noble era is over; the Franklin family no longer rules this land directly. But you still carry the responsibility to fight for the interests of this land and its people.

“I’m sure the Ice Duchess up north is doing the same—we never fall behind.”

Eleven met the Western Duke’s gaze quietly, then after a long moment, bowed deeply. “Yes, Father.”

(End of chapter)