Chapter 22: Rational Negotiation Techniques
Three days later, the Guildmaster’s office on the top floor of the Merchant Guild headquarters was cloaked in an eerie stillness, the thick carpet swallowing every sound of footsteps.
Deckard, the master of the room, sat behind his massive desk with his arms crossed, a confident smile on his face as he prepared for the coming negotiation.
Around him stood his most trusted lieutenants—senior merchants who served as both advisors and bodyguards. This office was his fortress.
Before long, a knock came at the door, and a young boy quietly stepped inside.
Zenon von Arkwright.
Accompanied only by his bodyguard, Gray, he strode calmly to the center of the room—as if walking down the corridor of his own mansion.
Deckard’s brow twitched at the boy’s unflinching demeanor.
“Welcome, Zenon-sama. Please, this way.”
Deckard said, gesturing theatrically toward the chair opposite him.
Zenon silently took his seat.
“Well then…”
Deckard began with a practiced merchant’s smile.
“I trust you’ve read the letter I sent. As the Merchant Guild, we wish to help deliver your remarkable new product to the people of the territory. To accomplish that, our distribution network is indispensable. Hence, the terms we proposed.”
His tone was pleasant, but behind his eyes, he was sizing Zenon up like a piece of merchandise.
“Half commission. That’s quite an aggressive figure.”
Zenon said quietly.
“Hahaha! Think of it as a usage fee for the commercial infrastructure we’ve painstakingly built over the years. Hardly unreasonable, wouldn’t you agree?”
Deckard’s underlings chuckled, wearing crude, confident grins. They were convinced they held the upper hand.
They believed Zenon had no choice but to accept—or haggle for a small reduction before conceding.
“I see. A usage fee for infrastructure, you say?”
Zenon murmured, nodding slightly.
“Then let’s begin by discussing how shoddy and corrupt that very infrastructure has become.”
The atmosphere in the room instantly shifted.
The smile vanished from Deckard’s face.
“…I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
He said stiffly.
“Then allow me to make it clear.”
Zenon gave a small signal.
Gray stepped forward and dropped a thick bundle of parchment onto Deckard’s desk with a heavy thud.
On the first page, in bold letters, it read:
‘Internal Investigation Report on Corruption within the Arkwright Merchant Guild.’
“W–what!?”
Color drained from the faces of Deckard and his men.
“Let’s start with you, Guildmaster Deckard.”
Zenon said, his voice cold and steady.
“Three years ago, during the northern village’s famine, you bought wheat from outside the territory and sold it at three times the normal price. You falsified the records and pocketed five hundred gold coins in profit. That’s embezzlement and fraud.”
“Wh–what proof do you have!?”
“The receipt from the royal capital’s jeweler for the necklace you bought your mistress—with that very gold. Here.”
Gray plucked a sheet from the report and waved it lightly.
Deckard’s complexion turned pale as chalk.
Zenon continued mercilessly.
“Next, Malcolm, one of your executives. You’ve been extorting ‘road cooperation fees’ from traveling merchants. Those who refused found their wagons conveniently attacked by bandits. Coincidence?”
“Eek…!”
A plump merchant squeaked in terror at the mention of his name.
“And Boris, in charge of warehouse management—you’ve been selling guild goods on the black market. Last month alone, fifty barrels of fine wine ended up in your personal purse.”
Their crimes were laid bare, one after another.
These weren’t rumors or suspicions—each accusation was backed by exact dates, places, sums, and names, all perfectly documented.
The guild officers could barely remain standing. It felt as though invisible blades were cutting into them, one vital point at a time.
The room fell into dead silence.
Sweat streamed down Deckard’s face like a waterfall.
The fortress he had built over years was crumbling soundlessly under the weight of a single stack of papers prepared by a boy.
“…How… how did you even obtain this…?”
Deckard rasped.
“I told you before,”
Zenon replied coldly.
“If you shake the dust, it’ll fall easily enough.”
His gaze was icy.
“What you’ve been doing isn’t commerce—it’s parasitism. You’re nothing but pests, sucking unearned wealth from the lifeblood of this land’s economy.”
Zenon slowly rose to his feet.
Then, he delivered the final move of the negotiation.
“Now then, Deckard. I’ll give you two choices.”
His voice carried a chill like absolute zero.
“The first—this report goes straight to the guard station. You and your men will be stripped of your assets and spend the rest of your lives working in the mines on the frontier.”
Deckard’s body began to tremble uncontrollably.
“And the second option.”
Zenon continued after a brief pause,
“is that the Merchant Guild will henceforth come entirely under my control.”
It was a whisper straight from the devil’s mouth.
“From now on, the guild’s operations will be overseen by an inspector appointed by me. All unfair tariffs, price manipulation, and obstruction of new competitors will be strictly forbidden. In return, your past crimes will be overlooked, and you’ll be granted exclusive priority rights to sell the new products developed in my territory.”
Profit or ruin.
Heaven or hell.
Zenon’s proposal was brutally simple—and utterly merciless.
“Now, choose,”
Zenon said, gazing down at the trembling Deckard.
“Which is the more rational choice for you as a merchant—the ‘profit’ of joining me, or the ‘loss’ of opposing me? Surely you can calculate that much.”
Inside Deckard’s mind, the scales swung violently.
His pride, his influence, everything he had built weighed on one side.
But on the other—total destruction, a lifetime of slavery in the mines.
There was only one possible answer.
After a long, heavy silence, Deckard collapsed from his chair like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Pressing his forehead to the floor, he spoke in a trembling voice:
“…From this day forth, the Merchant Guild shall become the faithful servant of Zenon-sama…”
It was a humiliating declaration of surrender—
marking the moment when the commerce of Arkwright Territory passed completely
from the hands of the old regime to those of a new, coldly rational master.