RIPPLES ACROSS RAVENSBURG
Reivan Valcrest had officially become a problem.
At least, that was the general consensus across nobles, merchants, and mercenaries alike after the bandit massacre near Ravensburg. The incident should have been a simple skirmish, a routine mercenary job, another page in a noble’s military logbook.
Instead, it had become a legend.
Word spread faster than wildfire.
By the time Reivan returned home, half the city was already whispering about the young merchant’s son who had outmaneuvered a bandit group without lifting a sword. Some stories even claimed he had orchestrated a flawless ambush with nothing but a glance.
Reivan, of course, was losing his mind.
"I just wanted to sell grain," he muttered, head buried in his hands as he sat in his family’s small study.
Across from him, Sylphy sat cross-legged on the windowsill, idly tossing an apple in the air. "Well, that ship has sailed. Now you’re a ‘tactical genius.’"
"I tripped into that ambush by accident," Reivan groaned. "How is that genius?"
Sylphy smirked. "Do you want the truth, or do you want to keep pretending this will all blow over?"
Reivan didn’t respond. He already knew the answer.
And the worst part? People were reacting.
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THE NOBLE COURT REACTS
Viscount Roderic stood before the gathered nobles in Ravensburg’s central estate hall, watching as heated discussions broke out among them.
"We should bring the boy further into noble affairs," one baron insisted. "A mind like his is wasted on mere trade."
"No," another noble scoffed. "He’s dangerous. If he’s truly that skilled, he could upset the balance of power."
Roderic remained silent, watching the uncertainty spread.
Reivan Valcrest had shaken the board. Whether by intent or accident, he had proven that he was not some idle merchant’s son. He was something more.
And now, the court had to decide what to do with him.
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THE MERCENARY UNDERWORLD REACTS
Deep within a dimly lit tavern filled with cutthroats and sellswords, a group of mercenaries sat around a battered table, drinking and muttering among themselves.
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Dain, the scarred veteran who had once dismissed Reivan as just another noble’s pawn, was no longer so sure.
"The Red Fangs swear by him," one mercenary said, swirling his drink. "They’re treating him like some warlord in disguise."
"It’s nonsense," another grumbled. "A merchant’s son? Pulling one over on seasoned bandits?"
Dain tapped his knife against the table, silencing the group. "It doesn’t matter what we think. What matters is that people believe it."
The others fell silent.
Dain leaned forward. "And that means we have two options: Either we align ourselves with him… or we eliminate him before he becomes a real problem."
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THE HIDDEN FORCES TAKE NOTICE
Far beyond the city of Ravensburg, in a shrouded mountain stronghold, a lone figure read through a detailed report with a frown.
"Reivan Valcrest…" the woman murmured, tracing the name with a gloved finger.
She was draped in black ceremonial robes, her face hidden beneath the shadow of a hood. Around her, dozens of masked figures knelt in silence, waiting for her decree.
The report detailed everything—his mercantile origins, his supposed strategic genius, his sudden rise in influence.
The faction she led thrived on secrecy. Any individual capable of disrupting the balance of power—even by accident—was a potential threat.
"Investigate him," she ordered, voice cold and measured. "And if he is a danger… remove him."
The kneeling figures vanished into the darkness.
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REIVAN’S ATTEMPT AT DAMAGE CONTROL (FAILS MISERABLY)
Back at home, Reivan was deep in crisis mode.
"Alright, let’s review," he said, pacing. "I’m being praised by nobles, feared by mercenaries, and now there are probably assassins watching me. How do I fix this?"
Gerald, sitting in his usual spot with a cup of tea, looked completely unbothered. "You can’t."
Reivan stared. "Not helping."
Gerald took a sip. "Then stop pacing and accept reality. You’re already a player in this game, son. There’s no stepping back now."
Reivan groaned, turning to Sylphy. "Please tell me you have something helpful."
Sylphy grinned. "Start charging people for your ‘strategic advice.’ If they’re going to assume you’re a genius, you might as well profit."
Reivan stared at her in horror. "That’s… actually a brilliantly awful idea."
Sylphy shrugged. "I’m just saying, if you’re going to be a fake mastermind, you might as well be a rich one."
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A NEW REPUTATION FORMS
In the following weeks, Reivan tried to lie low.
Unfortunately, his name had already spread too far. Nobles, merchants, and mercenaries actively sought him out, desperate for even the smallest hint of insight.
And the worst part? He accidentally gave great advice without meaning to.
* "You should reconsider investing in iron shipments." (Iron prices crashed the following week.)
* "Your soldiers rely too much on formation tactics." (The noble who listened won his next skirmish by being unpredictable.)
* "Trade routes will be disrupted soon." (A conflict between two dukes proved him right.)
Each time he opened his mouth, it seemed to confirm his reputation.
By the end of the month, he had gained a dangerous new title among the elites:
The Merchant Oracle.
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ELSEWHERE…
In a darkened chamber, the noblewoman from before sat with a report in hand.
"He’s growing too fast," she murmured.
Her cloaked informant nodded. "Shall we intervene?"
She smiled. "Not yet. Let’s watch a little longer."
She tapped the parchment, staring at Reivan Valcrest’s name.
"After all," she whispered, "what’s more dangerous than a genius?"
She smiled wider. "A genius who doesn’t even realize what he is."