THE BEGINNING OF A ‘SIMPLE’ BUSINESS PLAN
Reivan stared at the mountain of supplies piling up in his family’s warehouse, arms crossed, deep in thought.
"This is getting out of hand," Gerald muttered, rubbing his temples. "We’re a merchant family, not a military outpost."
"No, Father, we’re preparing for… things." Reivan waved vaguely at the crates of grain, iron, textiles, medicinal herbs, and barrels of preserved fish stacked to the ceiling.
"You mean the war you swear you’re not involved in?" Gerald deadpanned.
Reivan nodded sagely. "Exactly."
Gerald groaned.
Sylphy, who had taken up residence on one of the crates, idly spun a dagger in her hands. "So, remind me again—why are we stockpiling enough goods to support a small nation?"
"It’s simple," Reivan said, pacing. "When war officially breaks out, supplies will become ridiculously expensive. If we control the stock early, we’ll have leverage over every faction without actually being involved in the fighting."
Sylphy blinked. "So… war profiteering."
"No!" Reivan protested. "It's strategic economic planning."
Gerald buried his face in his hands. "This is why nobles keep watching you, son."
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THE NEWSPAPER THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING
Later that day, Reivan sat in his study, flipping through a freshly printed Ravensburg Gazette—one of the few papers that circulated among merchants and scholars.
And then he saw it.
“A Rising Star in the Empire – The Hero of the Age Emerges!”
Reivan’s breath caught. The protagonist.
The article detailed a young knight prodigy, a rising war hero beloved by the people and already displaying unnatural levels of charisma, skill, and bravery.
In other words, the game’s protagonist had entered the main stage.
Reivan leaned back, staring at the ceiling. It’s happening.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
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A REMINISCENT GLIMPSE OF A PAST LIFE
For a moment, Reivan wasn’t in a medieval world.
He was back in his old apartment, a dimly lit room stacked with instant noodle cups, a PC glowing in the corner, and a poster of Age of Dominion’s hero hanging on the wall.
He had played through every possible route, memorized every hidden ending, and laughed at how stupidly powerful the protagonist could get.
Back then, it was just a game.
Now? It was his reality.
And that hero? He was about to set the world on fire.
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NOBLE PARANOIA INTENSIFIES
Meanwhile, in the capital, Viscount Roderic sat in his study, reading a detailed report from Ravensburg.
"More grain shipments? Increased imports of iron?" He tapped the paper. "Valcrest isn’t a military house. What is he playing at?"
His steward shifted nervously. "Perhaps… a mercenary coup?"
Roderic sighed. "If only. No, this is too calculated."
The nobleman leaned back, rubbing his chin. If Reivan Valcrest was truly planning something… they needed to find out what.
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THE CRIMINAL UNDERWORLD GETS SUSPICIOUS
In a dimly lit tavern, Dain sat across from a notorious smuggler, a woman with cold eyes and a scar running down her jaw.
"Valcrest is buying up supplies like a warlord preparing for a siege," Dain muttered. "And I don’t like it."
The smuggler took a slow sip of her drink. "He’s a merchant. Merchants stockpile."
"Not like this," Dain growled. "He’s either playing a deeper game, or he’s about to make a very costly mistake."
The smuggler leaned forward. "And what do you plan to do about it?"
Dain smirked. "Nothing… yet. Let’s see what the ‘Merchant Oracle’ does next."
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REIVAN’S ATTEMPT AT ‘LYING LOW’ (FAILS AGAIN)
Back at home, Reivan sat across from Gerald, Sylphy, and Garm, now unofficially part of their meetings thanks to his mercenary loyalty.
"Alright," Reivan began. "We need to expand operations. More storage. More trade routes. More middlemen."
Gerald groaned. "Son, we’re already one step away from looking like a rogue trading empire."
"Exactly!" Reivan said brightly. "That’s why we need plausible deniability. We’ll work through intermediaries. Keep our name out of it."
Sylphy smirked. "So, more crime."
"Not crime!" Reivan protested. "Strategic outsourcing!"
Garm leaned forward. "And what do we do if some noble decides to call us out?"
Reivan paused. Then, with a completely straight face, he said, "Deny everything."
Gerald groaned again. "We’re all going to be executed."
Sylphy snickered. "At least we’ll be rich first."
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MEANWHILE, ELSEWHERE…
A noblewoman sat in her candlelit study, tapping a delicate finger against a sealed letter.
"He’s not just stockpiling," she murmured to her informant. "He’s preparing for something."
Her shadowed informant bowed. "Shall we intervene?"
She smiled. "No. Let’s watch a little longer. Let’s see how far he goes."
She ran her fingers over the parchment, whispering one name.
"Reivan Valcrest…"
As the candlelight flickered, the royal crest of the Empire gleamed on her desk—marking her not as just any noblewoman, but the Empire’s Crown Princess and next in line to the throne.