CHAPTER 44: 44

The Merchant’s Manor

The sun hung low over Caerywn, the capital of Velmora, as the final golden hues of the day bathed the city in a warm, regal glow. Ivory towers caught the light like spears of flame, and banners along the high walls fluttered gently in the breeze.

But beneath the grandeur of the capital’s skyline, a quieter, narrower road wound its way toward the aging manor of House Crydias.

The carriage—black, lacquered, and crested with the faded emblem of the merchant house—rumbled gently through the wrought-iron gates. As it passed, they closed behind with a sharp clang, barring the estate from the outside world. No common eyes would witness what followed.

Virellen stood at the foot of the marble staircase leading to the manor’s main doors. She was no longer garbed in her maid’s attire. Instead, she wore a fitted gown of storm-gray silk and high boots of ash leather, subtle jewelry adorning her ears and wrists.

Her posture was elegant, her shoulders straight, and her expression carried both mischief and the restraint expected of a noblewoman.

The carriage door opened. Alaric stepped out first, his coat long and simple, his presence heavy in the air like a stone dropped into still water.

Behind him, the girls descended one by one.

Aurevia, poised and regal, stepped with pride. Her white hair was tied back in a braided crown, and her crimson eyes flicked briefly over the grounds with cool judgment.

Cellione, bold and confident, gave a soft whistle as she looked up at the aging architecture, violet eyes sparkling beneath golden locks.

Last came Serineth, quiet as ever, clinging softly to Cellione’s sleeve. Her green hair had been brushed to silk, her blue eyes cautious but calm.

Around each of their necks were tattoo-like seals, intricate and ornamental in design—curling patterns that wrapped like fine inked lace. They were beautiful at first glance.

But anyone who had lived in the capital long enough would recognize them for what they were: slave seals.

But no strangers saw them. The gates had closed behind the carriage. Only a few overworked staff remained within the Crydias estate to observe them—servants in plain garb, none younger than middle age, their faces lined from long hours and years of quiet servitude.

They looked, paused, then turned away. There was no outrage. No greeting. Only silence.

Aurevia, Cellione, and Serineth did not seem bothered. On the contrary, they stood as though the seals were emblems of victory. Aurevia’s neck arched with defiance.

Cellione smirked. Serineth’s fingers brushed her own seal for comfort—not shame.

"Master,"

Virellen greeted Alaric with a curtsy and a practiced smile.

"Welcome to House Crydias."

Her tone was light, but the formality rang clear.

"Mistresses,"

She added, dipping her head slightly to the three girls.

Cellione raised a brow.

"So noble now, aren’t you?"

Virellen’s lips quirked.

"Someone has to represent us properly. My father’s debts left us short on reputation... and shorter on staff."

As they ascended the stairs and stepped into the entrance hall, the signs of decline became plain.

The Crydias estate had once been grand—tall ceilings, chandeliers of crystal and bronze, pillars lined with crestwork. But dust dulled the trim, the red carpet had faded to rust, and silence clung to the halls.

Paint cracked along the upper arches. A tapestry hung lopsided on one wall. Still, the bones of wealth remained, hollowed but proud.

Waiting at the end of the hall was a tall, elegant woman in her early forties. She wore a high-collared black dress with silver fastenings, and her dark auburn hair was twisted into a tight bun.

Her features were sharp, her eyes colder than her daughter’s—but not unkind.

"Lord Alaric,"

She greeted.

"I am Lady Maristella Crydias, mistress of this household."

She gave a deep, noblewoman’s bow—just enough to show respect without groveling.

"Your visit honors us, though I must apologize for the lack of staff. We have... prioritized essentials."

Alaric met her gaze and gave a slight bow of his own.

"I appreciate the invitation. You needn’t apologize."

Lady Maristella’s eyes flicked toward the girls behind him. Her gaze paused briefly on their necks. There was no outward reaction—only the tightening of her lips before she nodded once.

"Very well,"

She said.

"Then please, come. Dinner awaits."

And so they stepped deeper into the heart of the manor—past worn velvet curtains and quiet portraits of a lineage long proud and now quiet. The dining hall doors creaked open.

Despite the peeling walls and the silent corridors, the long table was set with care—candles lit, wine decanted, and food still steaming.

The house may have faltered. But for tonight, it would stand tall.

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

The dining hall was longer than it needed to be. A lavish table stretched down its center, the polished wood untouched by wear, though the atmosphere carried a subtle tension—like old dust swept under a fine rug.

Alaric sat at one end of the table. Across from him, seated in matching dignity, was Caelthorn Veyron Crydias, the head of the Crydias merchant family.

To Caelthorn’s right sat his wife, Maristella Vyrena Crydias, her expression quiet and unreadable. Virellen was seated beside her, unusually well-behaved for once.

At Alaric’s end, the three girls—Aurevia, Serineth, and Cellione—sat composed, eating silently, as though the air demanded reverence.

Dinner passed in near silence. Even after the last bite was swallowed and the plates cleared, the weight of anticipation lingered.

Then, finally, Caelthorn spoke. His voice was calm, though it carried the wear of someone who had once barked orders across trade routes.

"Well then, Lord Alaric,"

He said, setting down his cup.

"What was it you wished to discuss?"

Alaric leaned back slightly, the faintest of smiles touching his lips.

"I’ve heard about your situation,"

He said bluntly.

Maristella flinched, just barely. But Caelthorn? He only nodded, waiting.

"But I don’t care,"

Alaric continued, tone unwavering.

"Let’s set that aside. I didn’t come here to console you. I came here with an opportunity—one that could turn the market on its head."

Caelthorn raised an eyebrow.

"And how, exactly, do you plan to do that?"

Alaric didn’t miss a beat.

"By creating something new. But first... we need to fix your reputation. It’s the first wall we knock down. And I already have the blueprint for that."

He reached for his drink, letting his words settle.

Caelthorn tilted his head.

"I’m listening. What blueprint?"

Alaric’s smile deepened.

"A restaurant."

Caelthorn blinked. Maristella furrowed her brow.

"A... restaurant?"

"Yes,"

Alaric said.

"It doesn’t sound like much, and honestly—it isn’t. But the recipes? Those are."

He gestured toward Virellen with a slight nod.

"You can ask your daughter. She’s tasted them."

Virellen’s lips curled with amusement, though she said nothing.

"I believe it’ll be a massive success,"

Alaric went on.

"And here’s the twist—our target isn’t the nobles. It’s the common folk. They’re the majority. And we’re not aiming for a monopoly... we’re aiming for a revolution."

Caelthorn narrowed his eyes.

"Revolution?"

"Exactly,"

Alaric said.

"Let me simplify it. You open a restaurant with my recipes. It becomes a hit. Even with your current reputation, it pulls crowds because the food is unlike anything else. People start noticing. Word spreads. Your tables fill. And then..."

He leaned forward, voice sharpening.

"Your competitors panic. They start pressuring you to reveal the recipes. Maybe even threaten your business. But instead of giving in, we release a rumor—we’re selling the recipe."

Caelthorn chuckled dryly.

"So you bait them."

"Not just bait. We hold an auction. Sell the recipe to ten buyers. That’s it. The money you make might not be groundbreaking, but that’s not the point. It’s the shift. The perception. Your family’s name will start to recover."

Maristella finally spoke, quietly.

"And what stops them from copying the food and cutting us out?"

Alaric looked directly at her.

"Because we’ll leave out one key ingredient in every dish—labeled as a trade secret. Anyone who wants the true flavor... will have to buy from us. Always."

Virellen looked delighted now.

Caelthorn exhaled slowly.

"So you’re planning to seed the market with our recipes, let others replicate them, and still keep control through that one missing link."

"Exactly,"

Alaric said.

"The ingredient will be exclusive. We’ll have control of supply. And when others start experimenting, some dishes will fail, some will improve. But they’ll still depend on that one thing we own."

He spread his hands.

"Even if our restaurant closes down, the industry will rely on us. That’s our foothold."

Caelthorn stared at him.

"You think the commoners will bite?"

"They’re hungry for change,"

Alaric replied.

"They’ve eaten the same slop for years. What if every district had different flavors? New trends? A food culture built from nothing. People experimenting. Competing. Innovating. But at the center of it... us."

He leaned back.

"And this is just the beginning. Food is the foundation. After that, we’ll move into the fields. Medicine. Materials. Mana conduits. Whatever comes next."

Caelthorn crossed his arms, the wheels clearly turning.

"And what do you need from me?"

"Trade routes,"

Alaric said.

"You become the road through which we reach the world. Simple."

Silence fell again. Caelthorn closed his eyes, leaning back into his chair, deep in thought.

"I need time to think,"

He murmured.

But Alaric’s smile faded.

"No,"

He said.

"You don’t have the time. Or the space. This is not just a chance—it’s an opportunity. I could go to any merchant house. What you need to do... is say yes. I’ll handle the rest."

"And if you’re worried about threats—about enemies striking you down because of your success—don’t. Even if the royal family declares war, they wouldn’t lay a finger on your family. That’s my promise."

Caelthorn’s eyes widened slightly. Then he laughed, dry and surprised.

"Hah... You’re right. I really don’t have room to hesitate, do I?"

He leaned forward, serious once again.

"All right. But before I agree, what are the terms of profit?"

"For the food phase,"

Alaric said,

"I take nothing. This is an investment. I believe it has a one hundred percent success rate. You can fund it on your own and keep the profits."

Caelthorn blinked.

"Nothing?"

"For now. But once we move forward—1% per product."

Caelthorn nearly choked.

"One percent?! That’s—!"

Alaric raised a hand, calm.

"One percent is generous. Think. If a product sells for ten million gold, one percent is a hundred thousand. And if hundreds of such products exist? That’s what I’m talking about."

Caelthorn exhaled.

"You really think you can create something worth that much?"

"That’s why I’m here."

Caelthorn rubbed his temples.

"I’m not objecting. Just... stunned."

"Then breathe,"

Alaric said with a grin.

"And tell me—do we have a deal?"

Caelthorn met his gaze... and nodded.

"We do."

"Good,"

Alaric said.

"You handle the paperwork. I’ll help you launch. Recipes will be prepared soon. Let’s make some history."

-To Be Continued