The Man Who Could Draw the Future
“An utterly absurd story… is that what you mean?”
“I don’t care whether you believe what I’m about to say or not. Just listen.”
“Ah—understood.”
Stefan adopted a posture of pure attention, exactly as requested.
His head was spinning, yet the whole thing was not entirely impossible.
Ferda’s story began.
“This is the future I am imagining.”
He made no dramatic flourishes, no attempt to sell the vision. He simply recounted, with quiet precision, the things he had seen, heard, and felt.
Stefan listened, fishing out key phrases one by one.
Carriages that move without horses. Tools powered by mana that need no mages at all…
Stefan had grown up being called a genius, and his merchant’s instincts were razor-sharp. A merchant’s sense was simple: take the profit, discard the loss.
What, then, was Ferda describing?
An empty dream.
By every measure of Stefan’s common sense the tale was impossible—something to be thrown away at once.
And yet… something about it feels plausible.
It was no honeyed whisper meant to lure him into a trap. There was none of the usual swindler’s inflation, none of the careful concealment of inconvenient facts. It felt more like a grandfather telling children a story he had lived—calm, unadorned, simply true.
Even these impossible scenes painted themselves vividly inside Stefan’s mind.
He did not even know what name to give such things, yet one conviction rose unbidden:
This will make money. Absolutely.
His mind had cleared, yet his hands still trembled.
“That’s all. That is the future I am imagining.”
Stefan finally opened the mouth he had kept sealed while he listened.
“That future… it has something to do with the research Your Excellency the Regent is conducting, doesn’t it?”
His heart hammered as he asked. The shock was so great he had even forgotten to stammer.
“Of course.”
“Th-then! Please, tell me what it is! I beg you!”
Unable to contain his excitement, Stefan pleaded.
“Magic Engineering.”
“Magic… Engineering.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, something he had heard once before. The reason it had never stuck was obvious: it had not looked profitable at the time.
If I thought it was worthless then, it should still be worthless now…
For the first time in his life Stefan felt the sharp sting of having nearly missed a product this irresistible.
He could not let it slip away.
“If Your Excellency needs monster corpses for that research, why don’t we help?”
“You mean to cooperate?”
“Yes. We will supply them.”
Ferda leaned back against the chair and asked,
“What do you want in return?”
“We want a hand in the distribution and manufacture of those Magic Engineering products.”
Stefan laid his desire bare. Ferda’s voice grew still more grave.
“Simply distribution and manufacture?”
“I mean a monopoly, of course.”
Stefan answered without hesitation.
A monopoly contract. Whatever the commodity, exclusive control was a formidable weapon.
“I know full well how greedy that sounds. Everything will be adjusted according to Your Excellency’s wishes. I only ask that you grant us exclusive rights to the goods that spin off from the research.”
Stefan pressed his desire for monopoly with open force. Ferda looked entirely uninterested.
“What we are researching will change the world. If you want a monopoly on that, helping the research alone will not be enough. You will have to show real sincerity.”
“What must I do?”
Seizing the moment, Ferda made his proposal.
“I want priority on materials for road development and the advancement of the Archducal domain—and stockpiles of food as well.”
The demands poured out so smoothly that Stefan started.
“You ask for a great deal…”
“Is there a problem when the leader of a nation wishes to pour his strength into that nation’s progress?”
“No problem at all. Haha…”
Outwardly he smiled and played the fool, yet Stefan could not help wrestling with the terms.
Handing over those three things is not impossible.
Among the three siblings, Stefan’s accumulated wealth and stores were overwhelmingly the greatest. Road development would have to be done anyway if they were to remain partners. He had more than enough materials and grain to spare.
What made him hesitate was something else entirely.
Priority…
He knew how terrifying that single word could be. Even if another buyer offered a premium, you would have to grit your teeth, ignore them, and supply at the original price. That was what “priority” meant.
Every merchant instinct he possessed screamed at him to refuse.
“Your expression has soured.”
“Pardon? Pardon??”
“Supplying us first does not sit well with you, I take it?”
“Not at all. How could it?”
Even when the answer was yes, you said no. That was the most elementary rule of the trade.
“Think carefully. Even if you pile up a fortune of millions, nothing is more bitter than dying, is it?”
Stefan flinched.
“A-are you threatening me?”
“No. Not a threat—merely a word about your future. Herman Pascal is rather advanced in years, is he not?”
“Ah…”
Stefan understood at once. He recalled the matter he had set aside for later.
My hateful brother and sister…
Merchit and Tilda. The two of them had been pressing him hard, had they not?
“Is there any proposal more attractive than becoming master of the company, even if it means swallowing a loss?”
“M-master of the company…”
To Stefan, the Pascal Trading Company was everything—not merely wealth, but life itself.
“To the same degree that you cooperate with me, I will cooperate with you. Everything Herman Pascal built, and everything you have grown the company into, will become yours alone.”
Stefan took out the scales of his heart and weighed what Ferda demanded, what he had shown, and what Stefan himself would have to give up.
By every measure the deal was overwhelmingly against him.
The Archduke—no, the Regent—could become the man who stands at my back.
Ferda Valdrova.
At first Stefan had dismissed the connection as mere networking. Boasting of ties to the figurehead husband of Baldrova would only earn laughter; people would think him so desperate he was clutching even a rotten rope.
Most had undervalued the man, and Stefan had believed them.
But that is not so.
Seeing him now was different. Here sat a man who shone with a radiance nearly equal to the Emperor’s. Even as Stefan faced him and reeled in astonishment, the suspicion that he was still undervaluing him would not leave.
This man knows how to draw the future.
Not the childish sketches of blustering nobles, but lines so rough yet so clear that the shape itself stood unmistakable. He possessed both conviction and the ability to match it.
The one thing I could never possess.
Absolute charisma—something Stefan had never owned. The words rose unbidden in his throat:
I want this. Unconditionally.
Yet he did not speak them. A true merchant always answered one beat late; that was the shortest road to becoming a great one.
“May I ask one question?”
“Speak.”
“I have an older brother and a younger sister. Why did you not choose them instead of me?”
Ferda answered with blunt honesty.
“I’ll be frank. Attaching myself to them would gain me nothing.”
A cold, calculating judgment.
“And you are lonely and isolated. That makes you perfect to use.”
“Ugh…”
Ferda’s candor was so complete that Stefan, who had meant only to probe, found himself thrown off balance instead.
“So I am making you an offer. Will you steel yourself to take the losses and survive, or will you simply be pushed aside?”
Stefan realized how short his own thoughts had been. To have tried to test a man like this…
“I will do it.”
Then he added the words he had almost forgotten.
“I will do it without fail.”
Stefan dropped to his knees and bowed deeply. Ferda leaned forward and extended his hand.
“I look forward to working with you.”
“The debt is mine, Your Excellency the Regent.”
Stefan thought to himself that no matter who came offering what, no proposal would ever set his heart racing the way today’s bargain had.
The territory of Count Consilus.
Today a soldier who had been someone’s father and someone’s husband died. He had bought time for the farmers against monsters that had raided the fields, and met a glorious end.
Priests sprinkled holy water over the body and performed the rites; the soldiers raised their swords in tribute to his death.
Even for the funeral of a common soldier, Count Consilus himself attended. The lord, aged past any hope of lifting a blade again, never missed a soldier’s funeral; he always came to honor the dead.
It was his usual practice, yet today was different. When every rite had ended, Ulvera Consilus still did not leave. He remained, gazing at the grave.
“Arwen…”
He called the name of the knight standing behind him.
“Speak, my lord.”
“What word from the Empire? What became of the letter we sent?”
Arwen answered in a reluctant, forced voice.
“They say it will take time. Supplying the soldiers inside the Empire comes first…”
“First… is it.”
Ulvera Consilus stroked his beard.
A man whose life had been a tightrope walk, he rarely showed emotion. In a place where today’s outburst could mean tomorrow’s death, he had always practiced the art of smiling genially. If today failed, there was tomorrow; if tomorrow failed, the day after.
“Those dogs worse than curs…”
Even Count Consilus could no longer keep smiling.
“Supplying the soldiers inside the Empire comes first? Are we not subjects of the Empire as well? We on the very front lines live every day under the threat of monsters! Does the Emperor fear a little public disorder so much that he arms only his city guards?”
“Please compose yourself, my lord.”
“Truly lamentable. I have never lived a life I could call upright, yet I believed I had never lived a shameful one! But today I feel shame for the first time!”
When Count Consilus had heard how the soldier died, something inside him had crumbled. The sword the man raised against the monsters had snapped at the critical moment. It was standard-issue gear he had used for a full five years. It could have broken at any time.
Count Consilus knew how vital military strength was. At the very least he had never neglected the training of his soldiers for the sake of his own domain, and he had always insisted that those above set the example so that their spirits remained firm.
Yet even the firmest spirit was powerless before inadequate supply.
The heart of the Empire enjoyed peace; the frontier lived in a state of perpetual war. Casualties from monsters were a constant, grinding fact of life.
“Forgive me…”
Count Consilus seized the soldier’s grave and sank to his knees.
“Forgive this incompetent old man… I failed you.”
“My lord, incompetent? This is entirely our own inadequacy!”
“Yes—my fault!”
“My fault!”
Arwen dropped to his knees; every soldier under him followed. Count Consilus wept openly for a long while. When at last he rose with Arwen’s support, he began to walk again—toward his residence.
Then he heard the commotion beyond the gate. It was loud enough to carry through the high, thick walls.
Instead of continuing to his quarters, Count Consilus questioned the gate guards.
“What is happening?”
“Loyalty! We were just about to seek you out, my lord!”
“Me?”
“Yes. Outside, a long line of carriages has cut through the forest. They look like merchants, but we find them suspicious and have not admitted them…”
“Merchants seem suspicious?”
“They claim to be from the Pascal Trading Company.”
Suspicious indeed. A house the size of Pascal would never come this far into the extreme east. The guards must have taken them for bandits or rogues in disguise.
“Understood. I will go myself.”
A murderous light entered Consilus’s eyes. If they were bandits, he vowed, he would draw his blade on the spot and paint the ground with their blood.
He opened the side gate and stepped outside. In front of the main gate a well-dressed middle-aged man sat astride a horse.
“I have come to see Count Consilus. Our carriages are waiting out in the open forest—a dangerous situation. Might you open the gate?”
“The man you are looking at is Count Ulvera Consilus himself. Show proper respect.”
At Arwen’s warning the middle-aged man started violently, leapt from his horse, and dropped to his knees.
“Ah—forgive me! This lowly one’s eyes were dim. Count, pardon my rudeness.”
“It is nothing. Who are you people? Dragging so many carriages into a place like this is enough to frighten anyone…”
“My introduction is late. We come from the Pascal Trading Company.”
“I heard that much. Do you have proof?”
“Here it is.”
The man produced his credentials. The imperial seal and tokens confirmed beyond doubt that he belonged to the Pascal Trading Company.
“Why have you come here?”
“We have come to inquire about establishing a branch in Count Consilus’s territory.”
“If the Pascal Trading Company wishes to open a branch… you mean you have interest in trade this far east?”
The surprise deepened. Opening a branch meant an intention to stimulate commerce throughout the surrounding region. Yet there was no rational reason for a great merchant house to invigorate trade on the extreme frontier. Their business was far safer expanding from the stable center in every direction rather than risking the dangerous east.
“Orders came from above. We are to give highest priority to supply of materials, road improvement, and the like, and to establish an eastern branch. For that purpose your domain was judged the most advantageous location. If Count Consilus grants permission for the branch, we have made every preparation to begin at once.”
Count Consilus stared blankly at the endless line of carriages that had forced their way through the forest.
“So you came intending to build an entire castle?”
“Haha, not at all. We have building materials, yes, but we also heard you have received no supplies of late. Therefore, in place of the Empire, our company has selected the finest of our stock and brought it to provision you.”
“Supplies…!”
Count Consilus strode to the rear of a carriage and looked at the cargo.
“Hah!”
His wrinkled eyes flew wide.
Inside the carriages lay things far more precious than mountains of gold.
Every single demand of mine that was ignored… is here!
Weapons, maintenance consumables, and food that could be stockpiled. From the smallest necessities to the most critical items—everything was packed into those wagons.
Count Consilus lifted one of the supply swords. Unquestionably top grade. A weapon solid enough that it would never snap halfway through a fight with a monster.
“Why would Pascal… bring business this far east?”
He had to know. No matter what, he needed an answer before he could rest.
The man replied,
“It is a venture proceeding under agreement with the proxy of the Archduke of Valdrova.”