The business acumen of many merchants matched that of Ralf; thus, in less than a day, they all arrived at the same grim conclusion—doom was nigh.

To be precise, they were teetering on the brink. As monopolists of certain supplies in the region, their assets were largely in the form of inventory rather than coin. It was the cycle of buy low, sell high that fattened their purses.

Now, thanks to Alaric’s and their own efforts, their once-thriving cycle had been dead in the water for nearly four days. If they let Alaric continue, bankruptcy loomed inevitable. Instinctively and without discussion, they came to an agreement—reopen now.

Commands were rapidly relayed down the chain, many shops in City of Gath flicked their "Open for Business" signs back, and merchants, wary of lazy workers, descended upon their shops to take the helm. Everyone knew clawing back even a fraction of their costs rested on this last-ditch effort.

We just need our regulars back.

---

In the East District, former distribution hub, merchants now eagerly awaited their loyal customers.

Rafael, a cloth merchant, dealt primarily in wholesale fabric trades within the East's market, primarily catering to those nestled between commoners and nobles in societal standing.

For a commoner able to save a couple of gold pieces a year, a good life meant not starving, freezing, or dying from illness—a simple garment was enough.

Rafael disdained such meager business opportunities.

And though he yearned to serve the elite of the North District, Ralf, with his deep pockets, had long monopolized these upper echelons of society. Thus, Rafael and his clientele remained perennially mid-tier.

This demographic had a penchant for showy frugality—flaunting poverty on a literally ‘material’ level.

Indeed, the income disparity within the West District far exceeded that of the South. A ten-gold savings meant a South to West migration: from being someone to becoming a nobody.

Upper West District denizens, with yearly savings of fifty to a hundred gold, could consider North District ascension after a few years.

South District peasants could wear sackcloth and still strut; North District's elite had status, no need for flashy attire. It was the West District folk who favored gaudy fabrics to tout their modest wealth.

Rafael had cornered this market, maintaining steady partnerships with seventeen or eighteen tailors.

He spent an agonizing afternoon seated on a hard stool, watching the sun dip without a single regular in sight. Sweaty and ashen as the dark cloth behind him, he simmered like a volcano ready to erupt—not a soul dared remind him it was time to pack up.

Finally, Rafael mustered a grin, leaped from his perch, and hailed a passerby, “Bogart! Open for business! Won’t you come to have a look?”

Bogart, a tailor and a regular, didn't seem to be heading for Alaric's Emporium, reigniting Rafael's hope.

Startled by the shout, Bogart, the passerby, ambled to Rafael's stall with a smile, “You’re looking rather lean, Mr. Rafael. Few days off?”

“Aye, noticed the notice, did ya? Felt off the past few days, didn’t eat well. Better now, so here I am,” Rafael glossed over the strike with a forced smile before swiftly changing the subject, “Anyway, let's not dwell—take a peek at the new fabrics, shall we?”

Rafael shooed away his clerk, taking over the presentation of ostentatiously plush new materials.

“Look at this, Bogart my man, fresh from the Southern Duke's lands. Feel this softness…”

Bogart’s face was a mix of bemusement and amusement.

In bygone days, Rafael had never shown such enthusiasm. A visit to his stall meant lackluster clerks and shortchanged lengths of fabric. But at Alaric's, courteous staff, home delivery convenience, and fair measures greeted Bogart. And to top it all, the prices beat Rafael’s by a country mile.

As a tailor, Bogart valued the cost of cloth above all, followed by reputation, with convenience coming in last.

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Alaric's Emporium had fulfilled his trinity of desires: quality fabrics at lower costs, impeccable service, and doorstep delivery.

Damn it, Alaric's practically a saint and who the hell is Rafael again?

Despite this, Bogart felt compelled to end his sorry saga with Rafael on a dignified note, “Mr. Rafael, your fabric's quality seems unquestionable. Pray tell, is the price just as pleasing?”

Rafael’s grin grew wider, “For others, it's six silvers per span, but for an old friend like you, five will do. How much do you need?”

Bogart dropped his gentile facade and donned a debt collector’s scowl, “Your momma!” He socked Rafael in the gut, bellowing, “You swindler, Rafael! Alaric sells the same stuff at three seventy-eight a span, and here you are, trying to charge five? Have you no shame?”

“I...” Rafael doubled over, his breakfast and lunch threatening a violent reunion, unable to mutter more than a syllable.

“To hell with ya!” Another swing from Bogart landed on Rafael’s face, “Ten bloody years I've bought cloth from you, and heaven knows how much gold you’ve bilked!”

Rafael hit the dirt, the world spinning, his day’s meals erupting forth as his stall toppled with Bogart’s curse still echoing, “Don’t you ever let me see your sorry ass again!”

After flipping Rafael’s stall and cussing to his heart's content, Bogart vanished into the gathering crowd as Rafael’s dumbstruck clerks finally approached, shouting, “Murder! Murder!”

---

Word of Rafael’s beating traveled fast within the merchant circles. Fearful of being next, all once-brave shopkeepers fled home; those already indoors didn't dare venture out. No one desired a reunion with the regulars now.

Indeed, merchants had considered adjusting their prices upon reopening, but either they lacked comprehensive knowledge of Alaric’s Emporium, or they clung to the hope that they still had market space.

Nonetheless, admitting defeat by dropping prices seemed like confessing guilt—the antithesis of pride.

It was business as usual for the merchants' collective thirty shops until Rafael’s comeuppance.

The next day, from ingots to lumber, from fabrics to vegetables, prices plummeted.

Far from helping, this cheaper pricing backfired worse than before.

Merchants found themselves in a quandary akin to yellow mud in their trousers—it was a mess either way.

Lowering prices meant acknowledging their crooked past—none who shopped there could be anything but foolish. Maintain the status quo, and they were unrepentant con artists.

Soon enough, every commoner knew the outrageous markup they'd contended with all along.

They could’ve outright robbed us! Instead, they had the cheek to give us goods! Damn them all!

Within three days of reopening, the strikers’ reputations were soiled beyond recovery. Not even family members dared step outside, lest they get dirty looks—if not worse—in some back alley.

As penny-wise commoners, they'd sooner earn the wrath of their neighbors than shop again at those stores.

And like that, seven days passed.

During this week, the happiest people in the City of Gath were the hundreds of employees in those deserted shops. Paid a pittance for their day-to-day, they practically vacationed, no customers, no bosses. A paid leave they wished would never end.

But the striking merchants were at their wit’s end. Stockpiled goods were stiff, and the money trail cold. What now?

Deep down, they all knew. They were thoroughly thrashed in this one-on-many commercial brawl. To minimize losses, they had but one option: unload their stagnant inventory at cutthroat prices and call back every dime. As for the buyer of the goods, it was the unspoken name on every tongue.

While the merchants were up to their necks in inventory woes, the victor of this mercantile fray was busy playing the proverbial lapdog.

In the courtyard at number two, Cloister Street, Murphy, walking his dog in blissful ignorance, acquired another—Alaric, the biggest lapdog of all.

Alaric tailed Murphy, deferentially chiming in, “Mr. Murphy, your plan's a smash hit. I'm sorry for my past brashness and hope you'll overlook it.”

“It's nothing, Mr. Alaric. As an economic advisor to Lord Toras, these schemes are child's play. You wouldn’t take pride in eating a meal, would you?” Murphy bristled, constructing a new persona for his shiny new ego.

"You're right. I'm utterly in awe of your skills. It comes as no surprise that Lord Toras would..." Alaric was an eager bootlicker but never forgot to kiss up to his own dear boss, Lord Toras.

Murphy's skin crawled; he shot Alaric a serious glance, “Let’s keep it informal—we’re all Lord Toras' men. Just 'you' will do.”

“Understood.” Alaric bowed slightly.

“Back to business, we're reaching the climax of this drama soon?”

“Should be in the next few days.” Alaric nodded.

Hasty footsteps approached, and a man in servant's attire pranced through the courtyard, careful not to disturb the pristine greenery and incur unknown misfortune.

“Boss, a letter for you,” the servant extracted an elegantly sealed envelope from his bosom, stamped with the Guild insignia inscribed, “To the Chairman, Personally.”

Hearing "boss," Murphy deduced this was a short-term contract servant from Alaric's house—in Heracles Kingdom, life-long contracted servants referred to their employers as 'master'.

Alaric took the letter, dismissing the servant with a wave.

As he glimpsed the seal, a chuckle bubbled up, “Look at this, Mr. Murphy. That seal's got the Guild member's crest. Seems like someone's paying their respects to the Chairman—with just a hint of desperation.”

Murphy couldn't help but snicker, “Go on, read it.”

“Sure thing.” Alaric tore open the letter less ceremoniously, his voice lively with mischief, “‘Dearest Mr. Alaric, it's been too long... Mr. Murphy, mind if I skip the crap?”

“By all means.”

Here goes... "Count Reed Guild was founded on mutual assistance principles, and despite the years, I believe that core remains. It's undeniable we've failed as merchants, but as guild members, we now need your aid...” He scoffed, “Putting on airs to the very last, huh?”

Looking up apologetically at Murphy, Alaric added, “Pardon my tongue, Mr. Murphy.”

Murphy waved off the concern with a chuckle.

“So they want to save face, uh? Let 'em stew for three days. See if they can hold out that long.”