Chapter 15: Words of Power
The next morning in Ylmare dawned with a gray mist rolling over the cobbled streets, but Farhan Rahman's determination was blazing. Inside the Merchant's Hearth, the building buzzed with activity — assistants loading supplies, scribes copying notes, and apprentices running errands.
At the center of it all, Farhan sat cross-legged on a rug, surrounded by parts and blueprints.
Before him, in an open crate newly delivered from his "Online Shopping" menu, rested a gleaming marvel of machinery: a portable offset printing press.
Its slick black frame bore the insignia of an Earth-based Japanese manufacturer, its components cushioned in foam and sealed in plastic. Most people in this world wouldn't even be able to guess what it did — but Farhan knew this was his next game-changer.
"Lyssa," he called, "has the ink shipment arrived yet?"
Lyssa entered the room with her ever-present ledger. "The alchemist guild's inkmaster delivered the sample batch. But it's… primitive. You might want to refine it."
"We will," Farhan said, standing up. "But first, we make a prototype run."
Denel approached from the hallway, arms folded. "Are you really doing this? Putting printed words into people's hands?"
Farhan met her gaze. "They need more than goods, Denel. They need ideas. Knowledge. And no sword can silence the written word once it spreads."
She smirked. "And here I thought you were just a merchant."
"I still am," he said, lifting the roller component into place. "But merchants deal in value. And knowledge is the rarest currency of all."
—
Setting up the printing press took the better part of the day. Farhan had to dismantle parts, explain mechanisms, and teach his staff how to apply pressure and spacing for type alignment. It wasn't magic — but to the people watching, it might as well have been.
By nightfall, the first test page had been printed.
It was rough. Ink bled in patches, the spacing was uneven, and the letters lacked elegance. But it was a start.
Arlin, who had been skeptical at first, held up the sheet with reverence. "And this... can be copied again and again?"
"As many times as you want," Farhan replied. "No scribes needed. No noble gatekeepers. Just words — for everyone."
—
By the end of the week, Farhan's team had printed the first run of *The Common Voice* — a simple four-page newspaper with blocky illustrations and basic fonts. It covered trade news, local prices, weather patterns, and a short tale serialized under a pen name.
The headlines were bold:
"Bandits Fail to Break Merchant's Spirit
"What is a Printing Press? How It Works!"
"Honest Prices: A Weekly Market Watch"
The response was immediate — and overwhelming.
Children gathered at street corners to read aloud. Farmers folded the papers into their pockets to share at taverns. Even scholars at the mage academy requested copies for their archives.
"This is dangerous," Denel muttered one evening, watching a young boy recite prices from a worn copy. "You're arming the poor with knowledge."
Farhan nodded. "And now they'll ask why bread costs ten silver when it's only worth five. The illusion breaks."
—
But not everyone was pleased.
Inside a brooding estate on the western edge of Ylmare, Lord Veynar threw a goblet across the room, wine splashing across the floor.
"Printed news? He's publishing *market transparency*?" he spat.
Beside him, Kordis leaned forward. "We can burn the warehouse. Silence his press."
Veynar shook his head. "No. He wants us to attack. He gains sympathy. But what if we attack from *within*?"
Kordis raised an eyebrow. "You mean…?"
"Turn the public. Accuse him of foreign influence. Corruption. Tie his machines to demontech. Let the mob do what we cannot."
—
The smear campaign began subtly.
Posters appeared overnight, nailed to alleys and tavern boards: "Beware the Magic Machines", "Metal Demons Walk Among Us", and "Where Does the Merchant's Power Come From?"
Rumors spread that the printed ink caused blindness. That the thermal blankets contained cursed threads. That the Merchant Prince's goods whispered at night.
But Farhan was prepared.
In the next issue of *The Common Voice*, he printed an article titled *"Lies and Shadows: The Price of Change"*. It featured testimonials from orphans warmed by the blankets, farmers who doubled their crop yields with LED grow lights, and a healer who used antiseptics from Farhan's inventory to save lives.
Instead of denying the attacks, he exposed the methods — and mocked the fearmongering.
The people loved it.
—
Soon, Farhan was holding open forums in the plaza. Anyone could come, speak, ask questions. He explained his products, shared knowledge, and never once hid behind status.
A young girl asked him one day, "Mister Merchant, do you think people like me can one day run a shop too?"
Farhan knelt and handed her a miniature ledger.
"You already have," he said. "Now you just need to believe it."
—
Behind the scenes, however, Farhan was making quiet moves.
He expanded his Earth inventory with educational kits: DIY chemistry sets, math workbooks, solar calculators, and laminated world maps.
He hired apprentices — not from noble families, but from the slums, from orphanages, from the fringe.
He was building more than a business.
He was building a generation.
—
Late one evening, as Farhan sat reviewing contracts by lanternlight, Denel approached with a sealed envelope.
"It's from the capital," she said. "Royal seal."
Farhan opened it.
His eyes scanned the contents, then narrowed.
"Well?" she asked.
"The king has summoned me. To present my goods before the Crown Council."
Denel blinked. "That's either an honor… or a trap."
Farhan folded the letter. "Either way, it's an opportunity."
She smirked. "You're not afraid, are you?"
Farhan looked out the window toward the distant capital's silhouette on the horizon.
"Only of silence. As long as I have a voice, I'll speak. As long as I have a press, I'll print."
He turned back to his desk.
"And as long as I have trade… I'll keep building."