Chapter 141: The Merchant Coalition
The Merchant Coalition, Freeport.
The Grand Council Chamber.
"SILENCE! I demand absolute silence!"
Speaker Valerius's roar was deafening, yet it was barely a ripple against the tsunami of panic filling the hall.
Silas, a merchant who had been the most vocal supporter of the Theocracy's Crusade, sat slumped in his velvet chair. The color had drained from his face, leaving him looking like a man who had already been buried.
"It's over... everything is lost," Silas whimpered.
Marcus, a portly merchant sitting nearby, turned on Silas with a snarl, his shouting spraying spittle across the other man's fine silk robes. "Shut your mouth, Silas! If it wasn't for your 'pious' lobbying, we'd still be counting our gold in the safety of our vaults!"
Silas surged to his feet, arms flailing wildly, his voice distorted by raw terror. "How was I to know?! Five Tier 6 powerhouses! Millions of allied soldiers! How is it possible that not a single soul made it back?!"
Just then, the heavy oak doors of the chamber were slammed open. A messenger burst inside, stumbling over his own feet as he scrambled toward the central table.
"R-report... Urgent report..."
The clamor died instantly. Every eye in the room locked onto the man, searching for even a microscopic glimmer of a miracle.
The messenger gasped for air, clutching a scroll of parchment as if it were a holy relic. "Final battle report... confirmed..."
Valerius stepped down from the high dais, snatching the scroll from the messenger's trembling hand. He unfurled it, his eyes darting across the jagged script.
A few seconds passed. Valerius's arm began to shake. The parchment slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the floor like a dying bird.
Marcus watched the Speaker's reaction, his voice a cautious, fearful test. "Mr. Speaker?"
Valerius offered no response. He turned and walked back to his seat, collapsing into the chair as if his bones had turned to lead. Marcus reached down and retrieved the scroll.
The council held its collective breath.
Marcus stared at the words, then read them aloud in a flat, hollow drone.
"The Alliance... has been annihilated."
The words were a physical blow to everyone present. Marcus continued, ignoring the gasps of the crowd.
"No survivors."
A graveyard silence swallowed the hall.
Suddenly, in a far corner, an elderly merchant clutched his chest and slid from his chair, his body hitting the stone floor with a heavy, final thud.
"Quick! Get a healer!"
"What good is a priest now?! What we need is a damn gravedigger!"
The panic detonated once more.
"The supplies we sent to the Theocracy! The undead will know!"
"They'll come for us! They're going to march on Freeport!"
"We'll be dried out and hung on the city walls like salted fish at the docks!"
"Flee! We have to flee! My ship is in the harbor—I'm leaving now!"
A scrawny merchant screamed and lunged for the door, only to be yanked back by his collar. "Flee where?! Tell me, what country is left to hide in? Is there a single safe harbor left on this continent?!"
Another merchant proposed a desperate idea. "Maybe... maybe we can do what we've always done. Offer their Monarch mountains of gold to compensate for our... 'oversight'."
"No!" another barked. "The Evernight Empire is not like the kingdoms of the past. They have zero interest in our coin! My caravans report that their officials refuse all bribes. Men who tried to offer 'gifts' were thrown directly into the oubliettes!"
"If they mark us as enemies, they'll hunt us to the ends of the earth!"
Silas suddenly grasped at a phantom straw. "The Dragon's Nest! We can seek refuge in the Dragon's Nest!"
Marcus whirled on him. "Is your brain stuffed with Goblin dung?! The Nest belongs to the Great Dragons! Being a slave to a Dragon—polishing scales and scrubbing gold—is better than being turned into a bone-rack, but it's still a death sentence! Dragons can sleep for decades; they'll wake up, see us, and turn us into a mid-afternoon snack!"
"I'd rather take my chances in a cell under Evernight than become a Dragon's dessert!"
"Then what?! Are you happy to watch your assets be seized and your family sold into the pits?!"
"Who said they'd sell our families?!"
"That's how it works in the bard's tales!"
The Council Hall had devolved into a common marketplace brawl. Merchants shoved, cursed, and pointed fingers. Some were already mentally auditing how much of their fortune they could sew into their clothes. Others were in the corner, praying to a hundred different Spirits. A few were already drafting their final wills.
"SHUT UP! ALL OF YOU!"
Valerius slammed his fist onto the table with the force of a hammer.
This time, the silence held. Valerius stood up, his eyes cold as he scanned the room. These men—the masters of the continent's wealth—now looked like beaten curs.
"Running is a death sentence," Valerius stated. "We are merchants. A merchant does not enter a trade they are guaranteed to lose."
He leaned forward, his voice low and vibrating with a strange, magnetic intensity.
"We have not yet lost all our chips. The order of this continent is being rewritten as we speak. The Evernight Empire is the only law that matters now."
"We must adapt to the tide. We do not fight it."
Marcus spoke up cautiously. "But Mr. Speaker... they have their own guilds. Their model is entirely alien to ours. They... they don't need us."
"They don't need enemies," Valerius corrected sharply. "But they will always have use for tools. We are not a military organization; we are not their direct adversary. We made a mistake—an expensive one. Now, it is time to show them our true value."
Valerius tapped the table rhythmically.
"Prepare to bleed, gentlemen. It is time to cut our own flesh to survive. The Evernight Empire has won the war, but they cannot possibly digest this much land and population in such a short time. That is our opening."
"We will use every asset the Coalition possesses to declare our stance."
"First: Public Sentiment."
"Mobilize every bard we control. Every theater troupe. Every wandering minstrel. Send them to every town, every village, and every tavern on the continent to sing of the Evernight victory."
"No... not a victory. Sing of Libertation. They are the bringers of a New Order. They are the light of dawn that ended the rot of the Theocracy. Take every crime, every scandal, and every drop of corruption the Church ever committed and weave them into epics."
"We must make the world believe this war was not just just—it was inevitable."
The room was deathly still. The merchants understood: they were to sever themselves from the past and become the most fanatical cheerleaders of their new masters.
"Second: Logistics."
Valerius held up a second finger.
"The Evernight Empire must rebuild. They need materials. They need transport. Organize every fleet and every caravan under our banner. We will transport stone, timber, and grain for them at a total loss if we have to. We must become the veins through which their empire functions."
"They don't need our gold, but they do need our efficiency. We must show them that with the Coalition's help, the cost of governing their new territories will drop by half."
Silas spoke with a trembling voice. "Speaker... this... this is essentially handing over our entire life's work..."
"No," Valerius shook his head. "It is an investment. One that we must win."
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