The Rise Of The Clydon Family-Chapter 28: Subduing the Goldspark Merchant Guild

The meeting had stretched from morning all the way into the afternoon. Carl and the half-gnome named Jupiter had long since been dragged away, yet a faint metallic scent of blood still lingered in the air.

But that didn't dampen the merchants' enthusiasm.

Because the sheer volume of Rus's orders was overwhelming.

Stone, timber, quicklime, construction tools; pigs, cattle, ewes, hens, baking soda, salt, cheap spirits; roses, jasmine, violets, mint; longswords, shields, spears, leather armor, crossbows...

Contract after contract piled up before Rus, while stacks of gold coins poured into the merchants' pockets. Smiles bloomed across every face.

Typically, Goldspark's annual trade volume hovered around 5,000 gold coins. The merchants present today controlled nearly 45% of that business.

And now Rus had handed them orders totaling 1,200 gold coins—nearly half their usual yearly earnings, all in one go.

And that wasn't even counting the wine—Angel's Tear!

Though each merchant had a limited quota, it was still Angel's Tear—fine wine once reserved for nobles alone!

In their eyes, Rus was no longer just a lord.

He was a walking, talking gold mine.

"Now that business is settled," Rus said, turning toward Philip, who'd been sitting silently by his side, "let's move on to my personal requests."

"I need twenty Tier-One magic cores and two sets of large-scale alchemy equipment. Can you get them?"

Philip, the newly appointed guild chairman, had a plump figure and a shiny bald spot in the center of his head. Though not overweight, he was round in the belly and jowls, and when he smiled, his gold-capped tooth flashed in the light.

"Of course, my lord," he beamed. "Any particular magic attribute for the cores?"

"Doesn't matter," Rus replied. "Preferably a good mix."

Philip did a bit of mental math and said cautiously, "The alchemy gear is easy—83 gold coins per unit. I can have both delivered by the start of next month. But magic cores are trickier. Pricing and timelines are a bit unpredictable."

"Oh?" Rus raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"

"Well, Baron, as you may know, magic cores only come from magical beasts. Nord Province's native beasts were mostly wiped out decades ago. These days, the only real source nearby is the Bloodsoaked Heights, where wild magical beasts still roam."

"So supply is unstable, and market prices fluctuate constantly. For example, a common Tier-One Fire Core might go for 3 gold, but a Dark Core could easily fetch 8 or 9—or more."

"Understood," Rus nodded. "Let's average it out at 4 gold per core. That brings our total—including a deposit for the alchemy equipment—to 123 gold coins."

After this last transaction, Rus had barely 40 gold coins left on hand.

But it wasn't money wasted—some of it would come back as taxes from the merchants, and the surge in trade would draw in a wave of itinerants and laborers, boosting Goldspark's economy overall.

Coins sitting in a vault were just metal. Money spent was money working.

"Well then!" Rus clapped. "It's getting late, so I won't keep you all for dinner. Be sure to stay on top of your deliveries. As long as the quality is up to standard, you'll be well paid."

The merchants stood and bowed in unison. "Your will shall be done, Lord Baron!"

One by one, they trickled out. Rus stretched and rolled his shoulders. "Ugh... exhausting."

This kind of merchant wrangling really wasn't supposed to be his job—but right now, he didn't have anyone else to do it.

"My lord," Erik asked carefully, "should I go... find a few women for you?"

Rus gave him a teasing glance. "Oh? Didn't know you had the makings of a court jester."

Erik flushed. "I just thought..."

"I'm messing with you." Rus clapped his shoulder. "I'm giving you all two days off. Go relax, enjoy yourselves."

"But before that—there's one last bit of business."

"Map!"

At Rus's order, Erik quickly retrieved the stored map from Simon and spread it out on the table.

"...What the hell is this?" Rus asked, blinking.

"A map, my lord," Erik said, confused.

"Pff..." Rus sucked air through his teeth. "You sure Viscount John didn't leave me a fake just to mess with me?"

Erik scratched his head. "No, my lord. This is the standard map—used by most army units."

Rus resisted the urge to curse, mentally berating the state of cartography in this world.

Standard? This garbage is standard!?

The lines were crooked, the buildings just little blocks, no elevation, no contour lines—not even a compass rose!

The scale was nonexistent, and the "Administrative Hall" alone took up a fifth of the entire town! If Rus hadn't just walked through the place, he might've mistaken the town gates for city-sized archways.

"...Whatever. Guess I'll make do." Rus sighed. "So—how many troops should we leave here?"

Erik replied, "Per old protocol, we should station a 10-man squad at the western gate to Snow Maple; 5 men to the south; 3 to the east. The northern road connects to Eagle Town, so it doesn't need guards."

"But we only have 22 men total," Rus said, rubbing his temples. "You can't expect me to run the territory with zero guards, can you?"

He tapped his chin. "Alright, then. Two men per gate, rotating day and night. Four on patrol inside the town during the day. That brings us to 16. Leaves six to take back to Eagle's Nest."

Even with drastic cuts, the numbers were tight. Rus scratched his head in frustration. "Not enough manpower..."

At least the Empire was still in peacetime. Nord Province did have bandits and troublemakers, but few dared to directly assault a noble's land.

Except the brutes from the Bloodsoaked Heights. But if those maniacs came, a few guards wouldn't help anyway—Goldspark didn't even have walls. Just a low, flimsy wooden fence around the outskirts.

Seeing Rus's expression, Erik cautiously added, "I agree we should reduce numbers, but the gate guards also collect tolls. Too few men might cause traffic jams."

"...Tolls, huh?" Rus nodded slowly. "Abolish them."

"My lord, the gate tolls bring in 20 to 30 gold per year," Erik said. "If you're worried about manpower, we can hire locals like Snow Maple did—"

"No!" Rus cut him off sharply. "Do it my way."

He'd spent enough time in Moen City to know all the little games.

Tolls were 5 copper per person. That meant 50,000 to 60,000 trips through the gates each year.

That was 50,000 easy marks for crooked gatekeepers.

The official rate might be 5 copper, but guards would charge 8, or gouge desperate people for more.

"Doctor visit? Sorry, emergency toll increase—50 copper."

"Got a cart of fresh produce? Oh dear, who knows what contraband you're hiding? You'll have to wait outside for inspection... maybe in two days."

"Want it expedited? Oh, 50 silver? Of course! Why didn't you say so earlier?"

Such tricks were common—and often the guards made more than the actual toll revenue.

By abolishing tolls and assigning his own men, Rus aimed to set a new precedent while his guards were still uncorrupted.

Free gate entry would become Goldspark's norm, and old abuses would be a thing of the past.

And with more people flowing through town, spending money elsewhere, the overall economy would benefit anyway.

After Rus explained, Erik saluted with admiration. "You're truly farsighted, my lord!"

"Right. Like you even understood what I said," Rus teased.

Erik turned red. He hadn't.

"Well, that's the business done." Rus flipped a gold coin into Erik's hand. "We've all been worked to the bone lately. Get the rotation schedules in place, then gather the guards. I'll give them their bonuses."

"Yes, my lord!" Erik smiled.

Rus took out the chest of silver coins he'd prepared and sat down in the meeting room.

One by one, the guards filed in—confused, then thrilled—each leaving with a grin on their face.

Two silver coins apiece—enough for a few days of fun and relaxation.

The last one was Simon. He accepted the coins and was about to salute, but Rus waved him off. "No need to be so formal. You earned this."

"I was just doing my duty, my lord," Simon said with an embarrassed smile.

"And rewarding you for doing it well is my duty." Rus patted his shoulder. "Go into town, explore a bit. Loosen up. And try not to blush so much when you talk to people."

"Yes, sir!" Simon slapped his chest in salute.

"You..." Rus chuckled. "Go on, enjoy yourself."

Simon left.

Rus uncorked a bottle of Angel's Tear, poured himself a glass, and was just about to enjoy it when the door creaked open again.

"Baron, Guildmaster Philip requests an audience," Simon said.

"Well, that was fast." Rus downed the wine in a single gulp and set the glass upside down. "Let him in."

Philip entered and immediately spotted the half-crate of Angel's Tear in the corner. His throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

That flavor was hard to forget.

Eyes lowered, he said carefully, "My lord, I've come bearing a gift."

But Rus didn't respond. He stood by the window, hand on the sill, gazing out at the town below.

"Goldspark Town... what a fine place."

Compared to the bleak and battered Eagle's Nest, Goldspark Town was a vision of prosperity—its wide streets could accommodate three carriages riding abreast, with large, even bluestone slabs underfoot.

Lining the streets were orderly rows of shops—clothing stores, jewelry stores, barbers, general goods. Their storefronts were tidy and tasteful, each signboard uniquely styled with obvious care.

"Guildmaster Philip," Rus said suddenly, "you're a local merchant. Have you ever wondered—why, in a remote corner of Nord Province, a place like Goldspark Town could become so bustling?"

Philip froze, caught off guard. "My lord, I... I've never really thought about it."

Rus stepped forward and slung an arm casually over Philip's shoulder, pulling him gently to the window. In a low, slow voice near his ear, he said, "The answer is right in front of us."

Philip instinctively glanced at the hand on his shoulder—he remembered vividly how Rus had used that very hand to slice open Carl's throat with ease.

A cold sweat began to bead on his brow, and fear sharpened his focus. He turned his gaze down to the crowded streets.

Even at dusk, the thoroughfares teemed with life. People walked in twos and threes, chatting and laughing, slipping in and out of the various shops lining the road.

Each person emerged changed—carrying a basket of bread or a jug of wine, donning a new hat, or perhaps sporting new shoes or a fresh outfit.

"My lord... all I see is... people?" Philip said uncertainly.

"Exactly," Rus replied, gripping his shoulder. "That is the answer."

"Goldspark has 3,237 registered serfs," he began, rattling off figures like they were etched into his bones. "An equal number of freemen, give or take. Every day, over two hundred outsiders pour in. Altogether, the town's permanent and transient population easily exceeds ten thousand."

"And with that many people—especially those coming and going—comes a steady stream of money and goods, flowing from all directions. That's what keeps Goldspark alive."

"They work, they earn, they spend. The money they spend becomes someone else's income, which they then use to buy goods, and so on. That's the most basic logic of commerce."

Rus's voice was deep and magnetic, each word carrying weight, drawing Philip into a way of thinking he'd never considered.

It might not have been a perfectly accurate economic theory, but to Philip, it felt like scales falling from his eyes. The world unfolded in a brand-new light.

"I think... I understand now, my lord!" he gasped. "That's why you rejected our offer to lower prices! You're brilliant—compared to you, I'm no better than a blind mole!"

"Don't sell yourself short, Guildmaster Philip." Rus's voice slithered into his heart like a devil's whisper. "From what I've seen, your talent, temperament, and integrity far outstrip Carl's."

"But then... why was he the chairman, while you were just a background figure? Why did no one else dare to show up, while you were the one who brought me the deed to Carl and Jupiter's shops?"

Philip's eyes widened. That was the gift he'd brought—but he had never told anyone about it. Not even his own wife. How had the baron known?

"Are you from Goldspark originally?" Rus asked.

"Yes, my lord!" Philip responded quickly. "My parents were traveling merchants. They settled here, and I inherited their shop."

"No wonder," Rus chuckled. "You see, it's not that you're not smart—it's that your view is too narrow."

"Carl ruled the guild because he had the Fox Family behind him. His predecessor, Chairman Baden, had the support of the Luke Family."

Philip's eyes lit up in realization. "So the other merchants refused to jointly manage Carl's stores with me because they feared retaliation from the Fox Family. That's why they made me bring the deeds to you alone!"

Just like Rus said—Philip had always focused on short-term, surface-level gains.

To him, Rus assigning the shops to be jointly managed by the guild was a gesture of goodwill, not genuine relinquishment. Bringing the deeds to him felt like offering loyalty, a small price for protection.

Merchants weren't serfs, but they had little standing. To nobles, they were sheep to be shorn—or butchered. Offering gifts was the only way to avoid being bled dry.

But now that Rus had lifted the veil, Philip finally understood the truth.

The other merchants hadn't refused to help him. They'd set him up—used him to throw a hot potato at Rus.

And that meant... he'd just dumped a problem onto the baron's head.

The image of Rus's calm, murderous smile flashed through his mind, and cold sweat poured from his balding head. With a thump, he dropped to his knees, slapping his own face.

"My lord, have mercy—!"

"Alright, enough wailing." Rus sighed, looking at the now-empty space beside him. He bent down and picked up the dropped deed box. "I never said I wouldn't take them."

"You... you mean...?" Philip wiped his tears in confusion.

Why would Rus accept a problem he clearly recognized?

"Because I'm a noble," Rus said, voice firm. "A baron of the Empire. The Fox Family might retaliate against you with assassins or thieves, but against me? They can't—and they won't dare."

Philip still didn't understand. The Foxes were a count's house, while Rus was just a lowly baron. That gap wasn't just two ranks—it meant a chasm in wealth, power, and status.

"You're not a noble," Rus said calmly, "so you don't need to understand. Just know this—our interests are aligned."

"The more prosperous Goldspark becomes, the more the guild earns. The more you earn, the more taxes I collect."

"As long as you remain loyal to that shared goal, you'll stay guildmaster as long as you like."

This time, Philip understood.

He immediately raised a hand to the sky and declared, "I, Philip, swear by the Lord of Light! From this day forward, I am your loyal hound, guarding your gold and serving at your feet. The Goldspark Guild shall support your every decision!"

"Alright, alright," Rus waved a hand, half amused. "No need to kneel everywhere. You're not a kid. Isn't your cowardice a bit much?"

"Well... I've always been timid," Philip grinned sheepishly. "And easily influenced. This whole thing with the deeds—it was those bastards who egged me on!"

Rus smirked. "No wonder your nickname's 'Floppy-Ear Rabbit.' Guess some nicknames are just too accurate to be wrong."

"But hey—being easily influenced isn't all bad. You could call it soft-hearted. Or you could call it open-minded."

Then, Rus shook his head and clicked his tongue. "Shame, though. Touching someone's money is always harder than touching their soul."

Philip blinked. "My lord, I... I don't follow."

"Then think about it yourself. This isn't a school," Rus said with a faint smile. "When you figure it out, you'll stop being such a pushover."

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"I will reflect deeply on your wisdom!" Philip bowed again. "If there's nothing else, may I take my leave?"

He turned and strode out, only for the smile to vanish from his face the second he passed through the door.

Thank the heavens. I lived.

"Wait."

Rus's voice made his stomach clench again. He gulped and spun around, slapping on his best smile. "Yes, my lord?"

A wine bottle flew through the air. Philip barely managed to catch it.

It was a whole bottle of Angel's Tear.

"Thank you, Lord Rus!" he beamed.

"Knew you'd been eyeing it since you walked in," Rus said with a wave. "Now go."

Cradling the bottle, Philip hummed a cheerful tune as he left the government hall, strolled down the street, and slipped into a quiet alley out of view. Only then did he let out a long breath and slump against a wall.

"Bloody hell... that man is terrifying..."

From the moment he walked in to the moment he left, the entire conversation had been choreographed by Rus.

He—a merchant worth several thousand gold, nearly fifty years old—had been completely toyed with by a man barely twenty.

Was Baron Rus... really only twenty?

His mastery of people, his command of nuance and emotion, and his high-level strategic thinking... Philip was awestruck.

Wait... was even my visit to him part of his plan?

"No, impossible! No one could plan that far ahead!"

He uncorked the Angel's Tear and took a careful sip. The rich wine eased his nerves.

"They say Baron Rus is of low birth, a vile scoundrel with no honor—but that's obviously slander. Probably spread by the nobles themselves to tear him down."

"But still... he's got no foundation. That's why he's going out of his way to win me over like this."

His breathing steadied, and a new clarity lit his eyes.

Being used isn't so bad—being useful means you stay alive.

"A brutal, greedy wolf is dead. Now in his place... stands a sharp, ruthless lion."

Philip's gaze gleamed with fervor.

A lion wouldn't stoop to scavenge from minnows like them—but if they followed closely, they might feast on scraps from his table.

"And since I've hitched myself to this chariot," Philip murmured, "I'd better make sure I'm strapped in tight."

He chuckled to himself. "Time to figure out how to flatter him properly next time."

Then his eyes lit up.

"Little Bee, was it? He said a name can be wrong—but not a nickname..."

He rubbed his chin, eyes full of ideas.