The merchant lords secretly scoffed at Ian’s question.
‘Is he trying to pit us against each other to drive up the price?’
‘Not a bad attempt, but far too transparent.’
‘His scheme is painfully obvious.’
This was exactly the scenario they’d anticipated.
And they’d prepared accordingly.
One of the merchant lords spoke up. “We propose 10 shillings per bundle of Levior. How does that sound?”
“Ten shillings?”
“Yes, ten. A reasonable price, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Our company agrees with that valuation.”
“At ten shillings, we could certainly consider purchasing.”
Surprisingly, none of the merchants engaged in competitive bidding. They’d clearly colluded beforehand to present a united front.
‘Expected, but they’re treating me like a complete fool.’
“Ten shillings is far too low.”
The merchants had anticipated this response and were prepared to negotiate upward.
“Then what price did you have in mind, Lord Ian?”
They assumed he’d propose something slightly above their offer, allowing them to meet somewhere in the middle.
But Ian’s next words sent shockwaves through the room.
He hadn’t gone through all this trouble for mere double profits.
“Four silver coins per bundle.”
“Wha—!”
“Four silver?!”
Some laughed in disbelief, others in sheer amazement. Even Nea, observing from the side, looked stunned.
Demanding eighty times the purchase price was indeed audacious.
Ian remained unfazed by their reactions. “Yes, four silver coins per bundle.”
The outcry was immediate.
“My lord, you purchased Levior for five shillings per bundle! I personally handled those transactions! How does five shillings become four silver?!”
“This is outrageous! Eighty times markup? Let’s settle at fifteen shillings.”
“Four silver.”
“By the gods! My lord clearly doesn’t understand commerce. We’re offering fifteen shillings—three times your purchase price! This is already generous!”
“Four silver.”
“Very well! Twenty shillings then! Four times your cost! Surely this satisfies you.”
Ian didn’t budge. “Four silver.”
“This is madness!”
The merchant lords shot up from their seats when Ian showed no intention of negotiating.
“With these tactics, you’ll find no trading partners!”
“Four silver for common weeds? Preposterous!”
Through their protests, Ian remained stone-faced.
‘Why isn’t he responding?’
Without counterarguments to react to, the merchants eventually exhausted themselves.
When the uproar subsided, Ian finally spoke. “You seem to be laboring under a misconception.”
He delivered the hard truth: “Can you actually source Levior anywhere else?”
“It’s just a weed—it’ll regrow soon enough.”
Ian smirked openly. “True, Levior’s resilient. But will your people last until next summer? That’s the real question.”
The merchants froze. He’d struck a nerve.
A famine wasn’t called “great” without reason—when no food could be found at any price.
Though Levior grew quickly, during peak season they’d uprooted it all to sell to Ian. By the time the famine was certain and rumors spread about Levior being edible, it was too late to stop the trade.
Outside Shrantz, most northern territories had been stripped clean of Levior. Come summer, supplies might replenish, but for now, Schrantz held a monopoly.
In this famine, with Levior the only viable food alternative, Ian held all the cards.
He knew his advantage perfectly—and intended to wield it.
The merchants recalculated furiously, but the math only grew more grim. Schrantz was the sole source of Levior on this scale—the only territory, the only lord with substantial reserves.
They scrambled for leverage but found none.
‘What exactly can you do?’
Levior—the famine’s only solution—belonged solely to Ian.
Perhaps scraps remained elsewhere in the north, but nowhere near enough to feed entire populations. Ironically, they’d helped create this monopoly by enthusiastically selling every sprig to Ian.
Moreover, Ian had actively purchased Levior at premium prices, even cultivating dedicated fields.
“My price is four silver. Non-negotiable. Further haggling means no deal.”
When they realized who truly held the knife by the handle, the merchants groaned in defeat.
“Damnation! Very well—four silver!”
The negotiations had been impossible from the start. The deal was struck.
After concluding his dealings with the merchant lords, Ian lounged comfortably on the terrace, sipping a drink as he examined the new title floating before his eyes.
[Tycoon]
—A model for merchants, one whom all look up to. Your reputation spreads across the continent.
[Effects]
—Permanently increases Command +5
—Grants 10% profit margin in trade deals
—Merchant Favourability +10
—Noble Favourability +10
Ian couldn’t help but grin at his newly acquired title.
‘This was one of the hardest titles to get back then. Now it’s practically free.’
During his gaming days, Tycoon had been one of the most elusive achievements—awarded only after completing a single trade worth 10,000 gold.
Countless players had tried and failed to obtain it.
Ian himself had once stubbornly played as a merchant—a class he didn’t even enjoy—just for this title.
The forums had been flooded with posts celebrating the achievement, with desperate players begging for tips in the comments.
But what was once a near-impossible feat, requiring both skill and luck, had become trivial after the Levior famine solution was discovered.
Official stats showed that only 0.01% of players had earned it before—but after the Levior recipe spread, over 50% of active players obtained it.
By the end of Meta Pangaea’s lifespan, practically every dedicated player had it.
“Good heavens. I never imagined we’d make this much money.”
Nea, who had assisted Ian throughout the negotiations, was still reeling from the sheer scale of the profit.
The numbers were beyond anything she had imagined.
In just ten minutes, Ian had secured 11,800 gold.
‘Though, sadly, not all of it is mine.’
He sighed wistfully.
Taxes had to be paid, loans repaid with interest, and investors compensated.
After all deductions, he’d likely pocket 7,000–8,000 gold—still an obscene amount for any individual.
‘And the merchant lords will keep coming back.’
The money would keep flowing until the next harvest.
By then, he’d easily have over 10,000 gold in his personal coffers.
‘Money problems? Gone forever.’
As he chuckled to himself, envisioning his rosy future, Nea spoke up.
“Watching you negotiate made me realize something.”
“Hm?”
“Couldn’t you have sold it for even more?”
They had a monopoly.
The merchants had to buy—they were desperate.
If he had pushed further, they might have paid gold per bundle rather than silver.
Yet he had stubbornly stuck to 4 silver.
“Ah, that?”
Ian waved it off casually.
“People are starving. If I priced it any higher, how would commoners afford it?”
The wealthy could manage, but the majority would be left with nothing.
‘And more importantly, the backlash would be catastrophic.’
The merchant guilds weren’t charities.
They’d resell Levior at inflated prices, leaving the people no better off despite the supply.
‘And all that blame? It’d land squarely on me.’
He’d seen it happen—not to himself, but to other players.
Those who had gotten greedy, squeezing every last coin from the famine.
When prices soared beyond reach, the people starved even though the empire could have saved them.
The result?
Public outrage.
Nobles and peasants alike turned on those players, their wealth stripped away in territorial wars.
In the worst cases, revolutions erupted, and the greedy merchants were the first to be hanged.
If Levior hadn’t been an option at all, the blame might have been avoidable.
But when salvation existed—only to be withheld for profit?
That was a death sentence.
So players had researched the optimal price—one that maximized profit without triggering revolt.
And the answer?
4 silver per bundle.
Prices would rise the farther it traveled, but one bundle could feed a family of four for four months.
Stretched thin, it might last half a year.
‘Not like anyone would eat more than necessary—unless their taste buds were broken.’
People would endure it to survive, but nobody would enjoy it.
And that was exactly how Ian wanted it.
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