Building A Business Empire From Scratch In Another World

Astheria Merchant Guild – High Noon

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In the bustling heart of Astheria's trade district, the Merchant Guild Hall loomed like a titan of commerce, its marble columns intricately carved with scenes of legendary merchants from ages past.

The vaulted ceilings resonated with the delightful clink of gold coins and the rustle of parchment as deals were struck across polished mahogany tables. But today? Today was different.

A tempest brewed as five furious nobles stormed through the massive bronze doors, their entourages trailing behind them like dark clouds on an ominous day.

At the forefront marched Lord Alaric Duskbane, his jewel-encrusted rings glinting dangerously as he slammed his fist onto the reception desk.

"Where is Guildmaster Orlon? Summon him at once!" he bellowed.

The young clerk behind the desk turned pale but stood resolutely in place. "M-my lord, the Guildmaster is in a private meeting..."

"I don't care if he's in bed with the queen!" Duskbane roared, spittle flying from his lips. "Tell him that the Alliance of Trade Nobles demands an audience!"

From above, a calm voice floated down like a soothing balm amidst chaos.

"Now now, Lord Duskbane. There's no need to terrorize my staff."

All eyes turned upward to see Guildmaster Orlon leaning casually against the gilded railing, his emerald-green robes shimmering with protective enchantments.

Adjusting his spectacles, he smiled warmly, silver streaks in his beard catching the light just so.

"Though I must say," he continued as he descended the spiral staircase slowly and deliberately, "I'm flattered you'd visit in person. Usually, you just send threats by courier."

Duskbane bristled at Orlon's nonchalance when they reached eye level. "Enough games, Guildmaster! As of today, all your suppliers are to cease business with Morningstar Enterprises."

Orlon blinked innocently. "Oh?"

Baroness Veyra Sablethorn stepped forward next, her venomous smile revealing sharpened canines that could rival any beast's bite.

"Every farmer, vintner, and butcher under guild contract will face noble sanctions if they continue supplying those upstart restaurants."

The guildhall fell utterly silent; apprentices froze mid-step while senior merchants clutched their ledger books tighter than ever before.

Even enchanted accounting orbs hovering near the ceiling seemed to pause their calculations in disbelief.

Orlon stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I see... And if we refuse?"

Lord Cedric Drakemere chuckled darkly from somewhere in back: "Then your trade permits will be… reevaluated."

He leaned forward slightly; there was menace in his tone. "Such a shame if your caravans kept getting delayed at city gates."

A tense silence hung thick in the air until suddenly, Orlon burst into laughter!

The nobles exchanged bewildered glances as the guildmaster wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

"Oh my, this is just too rich!" Orlon exclaimed, reaching into his robes to produce a scroll sealed with the guild's insignia. "Tell me, my lords... do you recognize this little gem?"

Duskbane snatched it from Orlon's hands, his beady eyes darting across the text until color drained from his face.

"This... this is the Silverpeak Agricultural Investment Pact!" he stammered.

Orlon nodded cheerfully, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Signed by you lovely nobles just eight months ago! Such generous terms you offered the farmers, guaranteed purchase quotas and penalty clauses for any contract breaches..."

His smile turned razor-sharp. "And most interestingly, Article Seven: 'No signatory may interfere with guild-approved trade partners.'"

The blood drained from five noble faces simultaneously, what had they done?

Lady Isolde Montclair was the first to regain her composure. "You... you tricked us!" she accused.

Orlon pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Me? The humble guildmaster? No, no, my lady! You were simply so eager to profit from those grain tariffs that you didn't bother reading the fine print."

He leaned in conspiratorially and added with a wink, "Though I must confess... Lord Morningstar did suggest the wording."

What happened next would echo through merchant taverns for decades:

Lord Duskbane suffered an apoplectic fit and had to be carried out by his guards.

Baroness Sablethorn accidentally shattered a 500-year-old vase with a poorly aimed fireball spell.

Lord Hale simply turned and walked straight into a wall, too stunned to notice what was happening around him.

The ensuing legal battle would later be dubbed "The War of the Fine Print."

As the nobles retreated in disgrace, Orlon turned to his head clerk, a young woman bearing Dawncrest family features who had been quietly observing everything unfold.

"Send word to Lord Morningstar," he murmured with satisfaction, "Phase One is complete."

The clerk nodded vigorously as her quill danced across parchment. "And Phase Two?" she asked eagerly.

Orlon's eyes gleamed like polished steel as he watched the last noble carriage disappear into a cloud of dust.

"Let the harvest begin."

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Obsidian Veil Tavern – Midnight

Nestled deep within Astheria's Ironweald District lies the Obsidian Veil Tavern, a place where cobblestones are stained with secrets better left unexamined and shadows thrive like weeds in cracked pavement.

Unlike Silverpeak district where luxury reigned supreme, one establishment thrived in the shadows: the Obsidian Veil.

Its crooked signboard creaked ominously in the wind, while soot-blackened windows hinted at secrets best left unspoken.

This place was so obscure that it didn't even grace the pages of city maps.

Inside, the air was thick with the stench of cheap ale and even cheaper blood.

Mercenaries, clutching fresh bounty notices like prized possessions, hunched over sticky tables, their laughter mingling with hushed whispers from women draped in frayed silk,each word a venomous promise to men who wouldn't see dawn's light.

Amidst this chaos, a hooded figure slipped silently up the back staircase.

Cedric Drakemere paced like a trapped beast in what could only be described as the tavern's "clean" room, a cramped ten-foot-square chamber that smelled of mildew and despair.

His usual serpentine composure had shattered; sweat clung to his expensive tunic as he wrestled with anxiety.

Suddenly, the door burst open with a bang.

"You incompetent worms!" The voice that followed was sharp as a blade wrapped in velvet,feminine yet furious, laced with an unsettling edge.

She slammed the door shut behind her; its lock clicked into place with an eerie finality.

Cedric stumbled backward. "M-my lady, I can explain..."

"Explain what?" she shot back without raising her voice, a tactic more terrifying than any scream.

"How you turned simple sabotage into a spectacle? How Duskbane's fool is currently singing to the city guard? Or how Morningstar now owns half your supply lines?"

As her hood shifted slightly, Cedric caught sight of her lower face, lips too red and teeth too sharp for comfort.

His bladder betrayed him.

Just then...

BOOOOM!

An explosion rocked the room, sending Cedric flying across it like a ragdoll.

The door flew off its hinges amidst splintered wood raining down as Zephyr stepped through swirling smoke, twin daggers, "Silence" and "Solitude",dripping with blood from six guards who'd been stationed outside.

The hooded woman remained unfazed. "Ah. The attack dog arrives."

Zephyr grinned coldly, his eyes glinting like ice shards. "Lady Nyssa. Or should I call you the Duke's left hand?"

A tense silence hung between them before chaos erupted.

Nyssa moved first; her cloak billowed dramatically as she vanished only to reappear behind Zephyr, stiletto aimed precisely at his kidney.

Zephyr pivoted just in time; Solitude screeched against her blade.

"You're slower than your reputation," Nyssa taunted, her dagger grazing dangerously close to his throat.