Far East Maritime Province Special Tourism Zone Development Project (7) ****
The night of the capital shone more brilliantly than the countless stars.
The banquet hosted by the Imperial Minister of Finance, Marquis Vasiliev, was its pinnacle.
Magical lighting pouring from the chandeliers illuminated the banquet hall as bright as day, and the cheerful waltz played by the orchestra mixed with the laughter of the nobles, echoing merrily.
"Hoho, Marquis Vostok. Come here and have a drink."
Count Orlov, with his bulging stomach, approached Marquis Vostok, shaking the crystal glass in his hand.
A translucent liquid sloshed inside the glass.
"This is quite something, quite something. It's my secret recipe, I added a little ginger to cinnamon and fennel, and the aroma... if you mix a little sparkling water in here, it's good for digestion too."
"Your recipe is quite good as well."
Marquis Vostok smiled faintly and accepted the glass.
By now, 'Mikhail' had become an indispensable item at the capital's banquets.
"But by the way, Your Excellency the Marquis."
Count Orlov lowered his voice and showed a crumpled printout from his pocket.
It was the very announcement that had been tucked into the box used to package the 'Mikhail Blue Label'.
It was also a kind of invitation.
"Far East Maritime Province Development Corporation. What kind of strange name is this? I've never heard of it. And they're holding some kind of auction..."
"Ah, that. They say it's a public corporation to develop the Far East Maritime Province. They attached a grand name like the railroad corporation, but in reality, they're just building a gambling den and a hotel, aren't they? It seems he hasn't come to his senses even after being exiled."
"The auction must be to promote his business, I suppose."
At Count Orlov's frivolous laughter, Baroness Petrova, who was conversing nearby, covered her mouth with a fan and interjected.
"Oh my, Count, you've heard about that too? That drunkard seemed to know a thing or two about the taste of alcohol, and now they say he's completely mad for gambling."
"Indeed. But the way they're looking for partners is even more of a spectacle. A closed-bid auction? What era's method is this!"
Count Orlov clicked his tongue in derision.
"He must have picked up something used back in the days of the ancient empire from somewhere. How classless."
"Still."
Marquis Vostok, who had been quietly sipping his drink without joining the conversation, opened his mouth softly.
"It smells of money."
At that one phrase, the mouths of the two who had been chattering frivolously snapped shut.
Marquis Vostok continued, lightly swirling his glass.
"Whether it's a good-for-nothing or a drunkard doing it. It's a fact that the stakes are high. For a construction project of that scale, there would be enormous profits just from supplying the stone."
"W-Well, that's true, but."
"That's why everyone is scoffing on the outside, but drooling on the inside, isn't it?"
Count Orlov's face hardened slightly, having been hit where it hurt.
Baroness Petrova let out a coquettish laugh and changed the subject.
"Hoho, as expected, Your Excellency the Marquis is different. But wouldn't everyone's true intentions lie elsewhere?"
Her eyes shone slyly.
"In the end, that good-for-nothing is just a scarecrow. The one planning and moving this whole board is that cat girl from the Valeriano Merchant Guild, isn't it?"
"Hmm, that's a valid point."
Count Orlov chimed in as if he had been waiting.
"That woman is no ordinary person. I heard she seized control of the merchant guild as soon as her father died and purged the old fox-like executives in one fell swoop. This business must have come from her head as well."
"Oh my, oh my. Then what does that make His Highness the good-for-nothing Prince?"
"Isn't it obvious."
Count Orlov smiled slyly.
"It seems the poor prince who lost his mother has found himself a very reliable new stepmother. Puhaha!"
"Oh my, Count! You're so blatant."
Baroness Petrova covered her face with her fan and giggled, but her eyes were not smiling at all.
Rather, they glinted like a hyena that had found its next piece of gossip.
"In the end, the key is held by Laura Valeriano."
Count Orlov concluded.
"If we can just sweet-talk that woman, we'll be able to pick up the crumbs of this business, no, even a large chunk of it. I'll have to pay a visit to that auction that's opening soon with a very fine gift."
***
The noise echoing in his ears dug into Johann Steintor's nerves like a blade.
The sound of the guy in the next seat's collar brushing against him.
The sound of someone letting out a dry cough far away.
Even the movement of a single speck of dust floating in the air.
Everything seemed to be mocking him, ridiculing him, suffocating him.
'Damn it… Damn it…!'
Kung! Kung! Kung!
His heartbeat traveled up his spine and struck his head.
The cold sweat running down his back was disgusting.
Everyone in this place was his enemy.
'If it weren't for Jan, that son of a bitch….'
That disgusting bastard who strutted around, trusting in his backing from a count's family.
Just because he gave a smaller bribe than that bastard of an illegitimate son, he had lost all the business partners he had inherited over generations overnight.
Thanks to that, unsold stones were piling up like a mountain in his warehouse, rotting away.
On the verge of bankruptcy.
No, already bankrupt.
That's why he had bet everything on this bid.
He had barely managed to make the deposit by putting up all the merchant guild's assets as collateral and even taking out a private loan.
The edge of a cliff.
There was nowhere left to retreat.
"Number 97."
An emotionless voice called his number.
At that moment, Johann's world stopped.
All the noise vanished, and only that voice echoed in his mind.
…Number 97.
It was the number assigned to him.
Creeeak…
The sound of him rising from his chair seemed unusually loud.
His legs were as heavy as lead.
The gazes of those around him became hundreds of awls, piercing his entire body.
The few steps towards the dark room.
They were remarkably similar to those of a cow being led to a slaughterhouse.
Clack!
The door opened, and closed.
Perfect darkness and silence.
Only a single small magic lamp illuminating the desk.
And below it, a single sheet of white paper and a pen.
'I have to write.'
Johann picked up the pen with a trembling hand.
But his fingers did not listen to his brain's commands.
They just trembled foolishly.
'How much should I write?'
His mind went white.
If he bids a high price, he's out. This chance is over.
If he bids a low price, even if he wins, there's no profit.
No, he'll even take a loss!
Even if he participates in this huge project, in the end, he'll just slowly wither and die!
'There's no answer…!'
This was madness.
The fact that there wasn't even a time limit was driving him even crazier.
If only there had been a time limit.
If only a countdown had been possible!
In this seemingly eternal torture, his reason was wearing away.
"Keuk… Euuuk…."
He tore at his own head with the hand holding the pen.
What little hair he had left was pulled out and scattered.
"Damn it… Fucking hell…!"
Inside the dark room, the air seemed to tremble.
No, what was trembling was Johann Steintor's field of vision.
The tip of the pen hesitated above the paper.
'How much… How much should I write…!'
It felt like his brain was burning away.
'God…! God, please…!'
It was right at that moment, as he cried out to God.
Suddenly, a forgotten voice echoed in his mind.
A swaggering voice, always soaked in alcohol.
The only superior he had ever respected during his days as a conscript.
A man born as the fourth son of a minor viscount family, who had become a cavalry officer.
Lieutenant Colonel Ernest.
It was on a harsh winter night.
He had had an affair with his superior's wife, and when the fact was discovered, he did not dodge the glove thrown by the enraged superior.
Rather, at the end of a duel that everyone witnessed, he pierced his superior's heart.
And then, wiping the blood-stained sword carelessly, he chuckled at the man he had just killed.
"Pathetic bastard."
That night, he gathered all the unit members and drank all night long.
He laughed, talked, and sang as if he owned the world.
And at dawn, on his way back to the barracks completely drunk, he fell asleep in the snow.
Lieutenant Colonel Ernest froze to death just like that.
Everyone pointed their fingers at him, calling him a fool.
But Johann thought he was the coolest human being of all.
Because he lived as he spoke, and died as he spoke.
The words he used to say like a habit.
The words Johann would repeat like a charm whenever he fell into the pit of despair.
"Hey, Steintor."
One night when a blizzard was raging, after hunting a wild boar together and tipping glasses in front of a bonfire, Ernest had said.
"When a bullet is fired, does it fear being shattered?"
He finished his words, tipped the bottle to his mouth, and grinned.
For a moment.
All the calculations and anguish that had bound Johann's mind scattered like fog.
That's right.
A bullet does not fear.
The reason for a bullet's existence is simply to be fired.
Whether it hits the target, misses, or shatters against a rock.
That is not the bullet's concern.
Wasn't he the same right now?
I have already been fired.
The moment I entered this dark room, I had already become a bullet.
And now, I'm hesitating, fearing that I'll be shattered!
'I was foolish.'
A very faint smile appeared on Johann's lips.
It was a strange sense of liberation.
Seueuk—
His hand was no longer trembling.
It moved without hesitation.
The tip of the pen touched the paper, carving out the numbers.
The price at which he could dispose of all his inventory, leaving only the bare minimum of profit.
That was the only bullet he could fire.
"...."
Johann looked down at the numbers he had written without a word.
And then he put down the pen and quietly folded the paper.
A small box in the dark room.
He pushed the folded paper into that dark hole.
Tuk!
With a light sound, Johann's bullet was fired.
Kkiiik—
Johann opened the door of the dark room and stepped outside.
His back was still damp with cold sweat, and his legs were trembling.
But strangely, his heart was at peace.
***
Laura Valeriano placed the last bid document on the table.
There was not a hint of hesitation in her gesture.
"The results are out, Your Highness."
"So?"
Mikhail asked without even opening his eyes, lying sideways on the sofa.
Only his fingers were tapping at the bunch of grapes placed next to him.
"The one who proposed the lowest price is the Steintor Merchant Guild. It's a much lower amount than even the lowest price we had anticipated."
"Oh yeah? Good. Then we can sign a contract with them."
Mikhail said, tossing a grape into his mouth.
His tone was as light as if he were choosing a dinner menu.
"Impossible."
Laura's voice cut through his words like a blade.
Only then did Mikhail open his eyes into slits.
His languid eyes turned to Laura's hardened face.
"Reason?"
"The Steintor Merchant Guild. It's currently on the verge of bankruptcy. Its financial soundness is at the lowest level, and it barely managed to make this bid's deposit by taking out a loan with all of the guild's assets as collateral."
Laura held up another bundle of documents.
"Entrusting a large-scale contract to such an insolvent company is like carrying a time bomb. It's safe to say they have zero ability to fulfill the contract."
"Hmm."
Mikhail closed his eyes again.
A grape seed popped from his mouth.
"What about the other guys?"
"Most of them wrote down amounts within the expected range. Among them, several are much more stable in terms of creditworthiness and scale than the ones we previously did business with. We can proceed with a contract right away."
"Boring."
"Your Highness. This is a business. We're not doing this for fun."
A very faint hint of annoyance was mixed in Laura's voice.
"Right, it's a business."
Mikhail sat up.
From among the bid documents scattered on the table, he picked up a particularly tattered sheet of paper.
It was from the Steintor Merchant Guild.
"But you see."
Mikhail fluttered the paper and looked at Laura.
"I think this guy is the best."
"Your Highness!"
Laura raised her voice without meaning to.
"You can tell just by looking at the submitted documents. The financial plan is a mess, and the supply schedule is unrealistic. It's just filled with a desperate obsession to win this bid."
"That's it."
Mikhail grinned.
"Desperate obsession."
He got up from his seat and approached Laura.
And then, he spread Steintor's document in front of her eyes.
"The other guys' documents are obvious. They were all prettied up by guys like lawyers or accountants. Caked with calculations to minimize losses and maximize profits."
His finger pointed to a faint stain on the paper.
It was probably a sweat stain.
"But this document is different."
Mikhail's voice sank low.
"This one is screaming. To be saved. To please be given this chance. That it will offer everything it has, so please choose it."
His eyes shone playfully.
"Could there be another guy as desperate as this one?"
Laura was at a loss for words for a moment.
She looked back and forth between the document in Mikhail's hand and his face.
She couldn't understand.
This good-for-nothing prince, what part of the document was he even looking at?
"Well-fed guys betray you anytime. If you give them tastier food, they'll bite their master anytime."
Mikhail whispered in Laura's ear.
"But a guy hanging on the edge of a cliff is different. He'll grab the hand I offer with all his might. He'll never let go."
He took a step back from Laura and threw himself onto the sofa again.
"I like that. It's very easy to handle, isn't it?"
"…Have you decided?"
Laura barely managed to ask.
"Yeah. Let's go with this guy. By the way, how are the preparations for the auction house coming along?"
"Of course, as you commanded. The preparations are perfect."
"If you say so, then there won't be a problem."
Mikhail said that and then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
The auction house was nothing more than a pretext.
Las Vegas, or Macau.
He was truly looking forward to seeing how the atrocious advanced civilization of the 21st century would ravage this romance fantasy world.
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