Chapter 10: Foundation of the Future
The fields beyond Ylmare swayed gently in the wind, golden under the afternoon sun. Once, this land had been used to graze fat, lazy goats and grow forgettable barley. Now, a new sound echoed across the field — the rhythm of hammers, the groaning of timber, and the sharp bark of orders being shouted.
Farhan stood with arms crossed, surveying the bustling site.
Dozens of workers moved like ants, carrying planks, hoisting beams, digging trenches. A rectangular frame already outlined the structure's skeleton — thick wooden supports set in precise rows, like ribs awaiting flesh.
"This will be your headquarters?" Garron asked, stepping beside him.
Farhan nodded. "Warehouse and storefront. Multi-purpose. The first one."
Garron raised an eyebrow. "You think they'll let you operate this openly?"
"Velistra's permit holds," Farhan replied. "For now. And the more visible I become, the harder it'll be to silence me quietly."
Behind them, Denel walked up, holding a small stack of parchments. "Schematics arrived from the engineer in Eltros. He made a few changes to account for weatherproofing."
Farhan scanned them briefly. "Good. We'll need roof insulation if we start storing electronics."
Denel smirked. "Still amazed you can summon things with a flick of your fingers."
"It's not magic," Farhan replied, tapping his phone, "just convenience… weaponized."
—
By the week's end, the warehouse stood proud — modest in height, but impressive in design.
Two floors. Reinforced walls. A raised stone foundation with anti-flooding runnels. Farhan's personal touches included wide sliding doors (for carts), an office with a hidden compartment, and a basement-level "vault" for more sensitive imports.
He named it: The Merchant's Hearth.
When it opened, it wasn't just locals who came.
Word had traveled far.
A horse-drawn caravan arrived from the neighboring city of Draymoor. With it came jewelers, smiths, even a curious apothecary who had heard tales of Farhan's "flavorless healing elixir that stings like a demon's kiss" — antiseptic.
The first day saw a crowd large enough to draw city guards.
The second saw long lines before dawn.
By the third, local merchants were taking notes.
—
Velistra visited on the fourth day.
"You're trending, Lord Rahman," she said with a wry smile as she stepped into the shop's office. Her long black coat was dusted from travel.
Farhan smiled. "Don't call me lord."
"You'll be one soon enough."
He handed her a cup of imported black tea. She sipped, eyes widening.
"This… this is divine."
"Premium Darjeeling," he said. "From Earth."
She gave him a long look. "You could rule a kingdom with tea like this."
"I'd rather rule a market."
Velistra chuckled. "Spoken like a true merchant."
She handed him a scroll. "A noble from the South — House Rivenhart — wants to strike a deal. They control coastal trade routes and offer access to ports your wagons can't reach."
Farhan's eyes gleamed.
It was time.
—
With the Merchant's Hearth stable, Farhan made his next move — expansion.
The first trade route he opened was a direct line from Ylmare to Draymoor. It was expensive, requiring bribes for road passage, guards for bandit territory, and logistics management. But once operational, it allowed weekly shipments.
He used the route to export sealed food packs, toolkits, solar lanterns, and sewing kits. He also began experimenting with basic irrigation equipment — plastic piping, hose heads, pressure sprayers — to appeal to farmers suffering under the kingdom's dry spells.
On Earth, these items were cheap. In the magical world, they were revolutionary.
—
But not everyone was pleased.
The Guild of Craftsmen, now desperate, tried another tactic: sabotage by imitation.
They hired enchanters to mimic Farhan's tools, selling magical knockoffs of screwdrivers and ratchets. The tools were pretty — inlaid with gemstones, engraved with runes — but poorly made.
When the enchanted wrench heads shattered during heavy use, blacksmiths began to grumble.
And when a fake lantern caught fire during a merchant council meeting, panic spread.
Farhan didn't need to retaliate.
His reputation did it for him.
—
Meanwhile, Garron and Denel expanded their internal network.
Garron trained a few trusted locals — including a mute orphan boy with lightning-fast hands — to act as runners and informants. Denel crafted smoke-tagged scrolls that could be triggered to call for help. They placed one in every storeroom.
One night, Denel brought Farhan a wrapped cloth package.
"What's this?" Farhan asked.
"Protection," she said.
Inside was a short sword — curved, single-edged, and balanced for speed over strength. The handle was wrapped in leather, the blade engraved with a small symbol: a gear surrounded by a ring of fire.
"I commissioned it from Baret," she explained. "A merchant's knife."
Farhan turned the blade in his hand.
"I'm not a warrior," he said softly.
"No," Denel replied. "But in this world… even merchants must learn to fight."
—
Later that week, an unexpected visitor arrived.
She wore a hood, walked with a limp, and had a voice that barely rose above a whisper. But her eyes — sharp and golden — missed nothing.
Her name was Rina, and she brought a message.
"You've impressed the wrong people," she said, sitting in Farhan's office. "The Black Dune Syndicate is watching."
Farhan paused. "Black Dune?"
"A shadow guild. They control illegal trade in the western provinces — poisons, smuggled enchantments, slave contracts."
He frowned. "Why would they care about me?"
"Because you're making money outside their channels. And because House Rivenhart… used to owe them favors."
Farhan leaned back. "Is this a warning?"
"No. It's an invitation."
She slid a coin across the desk — black as coal, marked with a slit eye.
"They'll approach you soon. When they do… choose carefully."
And with that, she vanished into the night.
—
Farhan stared at the coin long after she'd gone.
Was this how empires rose?
Brick by brick… and threat by threat?
He clenched his fist.
"Let them come," he whispered. "This is only the beginning."