[About 10:00 AM on Day 86]
The certificate of your Guild partnership sits on your desk, a small, unassuming piece of parchment that represents a seismic shift in your power. You have a foothold, but a foothold is not a throne. Your mind, ever the engine of disruption, turns from the tangible world of magical production to the abstract, foundational principles that govern your new partners.
You have given them a revolution in making things. But their true business is not in making; it is in counting.
You summon Factor Arnaud, not with a request, but with a simple statement: "I have devised a method to increase the efficiency of your core business by a factor of ten. I wish to present it to the Matriarch."
The statement is so audacious that Arnaud, for the first time, seems taken aback. He recovers quickly, his training overriding his shock. "I will inform her immediately, Master Janus."
—
[About 02:00 PM on Day 86]
You are once again in the council chamber. The Matriarch and her two colleagues are present, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and deep-seated skepticism. Profit is their religion, and you have just claimed to have found a new, greater god.
"Master Janus," the Matriarch begins, her voice cool. "Factor Arnaud informs us you have another... revolution... to offer. A bold claim. Please, enlighten us."
You don't speak. Instead, you place two objects on the table. The first is a simple wooden frame strung with beads on wires—an abacus. The second is a sheet of parchment, on which you have neatly written out the multiplication and division tables from one to twelve.
"This," you say, gesturing to the Guild's opulent surroundings, "is a palace built on the science of numbers. But your science is slow. It is inefficient. It is prone to the errors of tired minds and clumsy fingers. You pay hundreds of clerks to spend thousands of hours performing calculations that are, fundamentally, simple."
You slide the abacus forward. "This is an Engine of Calculation. It is a physical representation of numbers, allowing for computation at the speed of thought, not the speed of writing." You then tap the tables. "And this is the standardized language for that engine. A universal truth of numbers that, once memorized, eliminates guesswork and error."
You propose a test. Her finest, fastest clerk, against you. A complex problem of compound interest on a major loan. The clerk sets to work with his wax tablet and stylus, his brow furrowed in concentration. You simply pick up the abacus.
Your fingers dance across the beads, a blur of motion. A quiet clack-clack-clack fills the room. Before the clerk has even finished calculating the first year's interest, you announce the final, precise figure.
Arnaud, overseeing the test, quickly checks your answer against a master ledger. He looks up, his face pale with shock. "He is correct. To the last copper."
The three Guild leaders stare, not at you, but at the simple wooden frame on the table. They are not seeing beads on a wire. They are seeing salaries eliminated. They are seeing audit times cut by ninety percent. They are seeing a fundamental acceleration of their entire business, a competitive advantage so profound it is almost unthinkable.
"As with the Flow-Quill," you state calmly, "I am not looking for coin. My work has already provided me with more of that than I need. I am looking for a deeper partnership."
You lean forward, your voice dropping. "I will trade you this second revolution—the tools, the system, and my personal oversight in training your core staff—for a second, larger tranche of share-purchase options, at a pre-negotiated price."
Before they can even fully process this new, staggering proposal, you press your advantage, seamlessly transitioning to your true objective.
"And as a sign of this deepening partnership," you continue smoothly, "I propose we immediately begin our first major expansion. The eastern front is a powder keg. The Duchy of Bourgogne is mobilizing for a massive war. That is a market of immense, untapped potential. I propose we establish a second branch of the Cascade Artisans Guild in Dijon."
You lay out the flawless business logic. It diversifies your production, secures a vital new market, and positions the Guild to profit immensely from the coming conflict, no matter who wins. It is an aggressive, brilliant, and purely profit-driven strategy.
The Matriarch is silent for a full minute, her silver eyes looking back and forth between the abacus, you, and the map of Francia on her wall. She is seeing the future you are building for her: a Guild armed with untouchable monopolies on both magical and financial technology, with its tendrils extending into every corner of the kingdom.
"You are a terrifying man, Master Janus," she says at last, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. "You do not build businesses. You build empires."
She stands, and this time, she walks around the table to you. She places a hand on your shoulder, a gesture of profound and chilling alliance.
"Your terms are accepted. All of them. Arnaud will draft the addendum to our charter for the new share options. He will also begin liquidating assets to fund the establishment of the Dijon branch. You will have your foothold in the Lion's den."
She believes she is sanctioning a brilliant business expansion. You know you are building a pipeline. A secret channel, under the Guild's own protection, through which you will funnel a river of gold and power directly into the hands of the man who would be king.
The establishment of your dual revolutions—one magical, one mathematical—is not a swift or simple affair. It is a two-month grind of meticulous planning, ruthless execution, and political maneuvering conducted in the highest echelons of power. As the gears of your grand machine turn, the world outside continues its inexorable march toward war, unaware of the new economic weapon being forged in its heart.
When the dust finally settles around Day 150, the landscape of power in Francia has been irrevocably altered.
FACTION REACTIONS - Circa Day 150
The Guild of Coin (The Matriarch): The Matriarch's admiration for you has evolved into something approaching fanatical trust. The implementation of Systematic Calculation (the abacus and tables) has sent a shockwave of efficiency through her organization, cutting auditing times by 80% and all but eliminating clerical error. Profits have skyrocketed. The Dijon branch, according to the ledgers she sees, is a resounding success, securing a vital new market and posting impressive—if not earth-shattering—returns. She now views you as her indispensable grand strategist, the architect of a new golden age for the Guild. She does not see the dagger being placed at the King's back; she sees only the glint of its golden hilt.
Duke Charles of Bourgogne (The Lion): The Duke is triumphant. Through the secret pipeline you have constructed, a river of untraceable gold and, more importantly, a steady supply of healing scrolls flows directly into his war chest. His armies are better supplied, his soldiers' morale is higher, and his treasury is swelling, all without a single new tax on his people. He sees you not merely as an agent, but as a force of nature, a war unto himself who is winning the conflict in the shadows long before the first major battle. Your value in his eyes is now immeasurable.
King Philippe IV (The Crown): The King's court is a nest of growing paranoia. Royal intelligence reports a series of deeply troubling, if disconnected, events. The Guild of Coin's profits and influence are expanding at an unnatural rate. The Mageocracy has become their quiet, resentful partner. And most disturbingly, this newly empowered Guild has established a major foothold in the capital of his chief rival, Duke Charles. The King's spies see the smoke but cannot find the fire. They sense a conspiracy, a tightening net, but can produce no concrete evidence of treason. This frustration makes the King increasingly volatile and prone to miscalculation.
The Mageocracy of the Silver Marches: The Conclave ratified the Guild's "offer" out of sheer necessity. They are now the humiliated majority shareholders in the very venture that has subjugated them. Their artisans are being retrained with Flow-Quills under Guild supervision, their old way of life dismantled. They are a wounded, bitter power, forced to comply while their envoys and spies search desperately for a weakness in your new empire, a way to reclaim their stolen destiny. They are a coiled snake, waiting.
THE TIMELINE OF AN EMPIRE - Day 87 to Day 150
Phase 1: The Foundation (Orléans - Days 87-120)
The first month is a whirlwind of implementation in Orléans. You do not teach the abacus to every clerk; you train the masters. You select a core group of twenty of the Guild's senior auditors and accountants—men and women whose pride is as sharp as their minds. There is initial resistance, the scoffing of old masters who trust their own intellect over a "child's toy."
You break their pride with a series of public challenges. You, with your abacus, consistently outperform their entire team, solving complex fiscal projections in minutes that take them hours. The undeniable proof of the system's superiority silences all dissent. By the end of the month, this elite cadre has mastered Systematic Calculation and has been tasked with disseminating it throughout the Guild's entire network. The financial revolution has begun.
While you are turning the Guild's heart into a ruthlessly efficient engine, Factor Arnaud is a whirlwind of logistical activity. Using a web of shell corporations and blind trusts, he acquires a prime piece of real estate in Dijon's mercantile district. It is a masterpiece of corporate camouflage; on paper, a wealthy textile guild is simply expanding its operations.
Phase 2: The Pipeline (Dijon - Days 121-150)
You travel to Dijon, not as a clandestine agent, but as a respected Shareholder of the Guild of Coin, overseeing a major corporate expansion. Sir Kaelen arranges a "chance" meeting with Duke Charles, where you brief him on the true nature of the Dijon branch. The Duke's approval is swift and absolute.
The "Cascade Artisans Guild - Dijon Branch" opens for business. It is a stunningly modern facility, a carbon copy of the Orléans workshop. Production begins, and so does the deception.
You and Louie implement a system of dual ledgers.
The Guild Ledger: This is the official record, shown to Factor Arnaud and the Matriarch. It details a healthy, successful business, producing and selling scrolls at a respectable volume, turning a significant but believable profit.
The Shadow Ledger: This is the truth. The Dijon workshop is producing at nearly double its official capacity. This massive surplus of scrolls, along with roughly sixty percent of the branch's actual gold profits, is systematically siphoned off. It is laundered through a dozen small, untraceable transactions—recorded as "spoiled inventory," "shipment losses," and "clerical write-offs."
This river of untraceable wealth flows directly into the hands of Duke Charles's most trusted quartermasters, with Sir Kaelen acting as the silent, deadly liaison. You have built a direct pipeline from the heart of the Francian economy into the war machine of its greatest enemy.
[CURRENT STATUS - Day 150]
Your efforts have borne spectacular fruit, both for your partners and for yourself. The Guild is more profitable than ever, and a significant portion of that new wealth is now yours by right of ownership.
Your Ledger is updated from Level 4 (Stable) to Level 9 (Locally Influential).
New Title Acquired: The Architect. Within the inner circles of the Guild and the Duke's court, you are no longer just Janus. You are known as the man who builds empires from the ground up.
The world is on a knife's edge. The armies of the great powers are maneuvering for war. The siege of Bordeaux has begun in the south, and Blackwater Keep has fallen in the north. But here, in the heart of it all, you have established your own silent, third front—a war of economics and logistics that may well decide the fate of the kingdom before a single sword is drawn in the east.
[About 08:00 PM on Day 150]
The evening is cool in Dijon. In your private quarters atop the Cascade Artisans workshop, the ledgers are closed, the scribes dismissed. The only sounds are the crackle of the hearth and the distant murmur of the war camp outside the city walls. A half-empty bottle of fine Burgundian wine sits on the table between you and Louie.
He has been quiet tonight, staring into the flames, the weight of your shared conspiracy a heavy cloak on his broad shoulders. He has followed you, trusted you, and become a weapon in a war far from the home he yearns to protect.
You break the silence, your voice calm and measured. "Louie. It is time we spend our wealth to contribute to home."
He stops polishing the hilt of his longsword. He turns to you, and for the first time in weeks, the cold mask of the soldier slips. The name of his ravaged duchy, Aquitania, hangs unspoken in the air between you. A raw, vulnerable hope flickers in his eyes.
"Home..." he says, the word a rough, unfamiliar sound. "Janus, I thought... I thought our path was here. In the east. With the Duke."
"It is," you affirm, your gaze steady. "But a weapon is useless if it is never aimed at the true target."
You lean forward, your voice dropping, drawing him into the new strategy.
"We don't just send money, Louie. We send a message. We have a fortune now, wealth that is ours alone, separate from the Guild and the Duke's pipeline. We will use it."
You lay out the plan, its political elegance as sharp as any blade.
"We approach Duke Charles. We tell him that as loyal Francians and prosperous businessmen, we are horrified by the King's inaction in the south. We wish to use our personal funds to hire mercenaries to defend Aquitania from the Asranid scourge. We are not asking for his coin, only for his official recognition—his blessing. He shall be the patron of patriots who care for the kingdom, a stark contrast to the King who abandons his people."
Louie stands up, his chair scraping against the stone floor. He paces once, then twice, his mind grappling with the audacity of the plan. He understands immediately. This is not charity. It is a political masterstroke.
"Every sellsword we hire," he says, the words coming faster as he grasps the full scope, "every village we save, every Corsair ship we burn... the credit will not go to us. It will go to the Duke. To the 'Lion of the East' who cares for the south when the King in Paris does not."
He stops and looks at you, his face a mask of awe and fierce, burning loyalty. A hoarse sound escapes his throat, and he clenches a gauntleted fist.
"You remember," he says, his voice thick with an emotion you have not heard before.
"After all of this... Orléans, the Guild, the spies... you still remember why we started."
"I have not forgotten," you say simply.
"Yes," Louie says, his voice ringing with a newfound, iron resolve.
"Yes. We speak to the Duke. We do this."
---
[About 03:00 PM on Day 151]
Getting an audience is no longer a challenge. Your message to Sir Kaelen is answered within the hour. You are not told to wait; you are summoned.
You are escorted directly to the Duke's solar. He is not standing over his war maps this time, but is seated in a high-backed chair by the fire, a goblet of wine in hand. He greets you not as assets, but as valued allies.
"My serpents return," he says, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. It is the smile of a man who is winning. "Come, sit. Have some wine. Your Dijon branch has proven more... effective... than I could have ever dreamed."
Sir Kaelen pours two goblets and hands them to you. The Duke watches you, his flint-grey eyes sharp and curious. He knows this is not a social call.
"What new venture brings you to my door?" he asks. "What new poison do you wish to brew?"
[About 03:01 PM on Day 151]
You hold the heavy crystal goblet, swirling the dark red wine within but not drinking. The firelight glints off its surface, casting dancing shadows. Louie stands a respectful pace behind you, a silent pillar of steel and hope. The Duke waits, his expression one of polite, predatory curiosity.
You do not begin by speaking of mercenaries or money. You begin with an appeal to a shared, idealized identity.
"My Lord Duke," you say, your voice calm and resonant in the quiet solar. "Before we were partners in this venture, we were Francians. Louie's home is Aquitania. My interest is in a strong, united Francia. And right now, Francia bleeds."
You let your gaze drift to the great map on the table, to the southern coast where the symbols for the Asranid fleets cluster like hungry wolves.
"The King, in his wisdom, has chosen to focus his might here, on your border. And in doing so, he has abandoned the south. Aquitania burns. Its people are slaughtered or carried off in chains. This is a stain upon the honor of the crown."
You turn your attention back to the Duke. "Through our... ventures... Louie and I have acquired significant personal wealth. It is a fortune built on opportunity, and we now see an opportunity to serve the realm in a way the King will not."
You lay out the core of the plan, each word a carefully placed stone in a new foundation of power.
"We wish to use our own funds to hire mercenaries, equip them, and send them south to fight the Corsairs. A private army, dedicated to the defense of Aquitania."
The Duke's smile has vanished, replaced by an intense, analytical stillness. He leans forward slightly, his wine forgotten.
"We do not ask for your coin, my Lord Duke," you state, driving home the most crucial point. "Your war chest is for the great war to come. We ask only for your name. We ask for your public patronage. For you to be seen as the benefactor of loyal businessmen who would not stand idly by while their countrymen suffered."
You take a slow, deliberate sip of your wine, letting the implications settle.
"Imagine the stories, my Lord. The tales told in every tavern from Bordeaux to Paris. Not of us—we will remain in the shadows, simple financiers. The stories will be of the Duke of Bourgogne, the Lion of the East, the only great lord of Francia who answered the south's cry for help while the King in his capital did nothing."
Silence.
The only sound is the crackling of the fire. The Duke stares at you, but he is no longer seeing you. He is seeing the narrative you've just crafted. He is seeing the hearts of the people turning from Paris to Dijon. He is seeing a crown, not won by swords, but by popular acclaim.
A low chuckle escapes his lips. It is a quiet sound, but it builds, rumbling up from his chest into a full, booming laugh of pure, unadulterated delight. He throws his head back and laughs, a conqueror who has just been handed the keys to the city without a single drop of blood being spilled.
"By the gods," he roars, slamming his goblet down on the table. "This is better than poison. This is a coronation in the hearts of the people."
He rises from his chair and strides towards you, his eyes blazing with a terrifying, brilliant energy. "Janus, they call you the Architect. They are wrong. An architect builds walls. You build legends."
He claps a heavy hand on your shoulder, his grip like iron. "You shall have more than my name. You will have my authority."
He turns to his ever-silent captain. "Kaelen! Fetch the scribes. You will draft a Letter of Marque and Patronage for Janus and his associate, Louie de Braisechant. It will grant them the authority of the Duchy of Bourgogne to raise and fund a mercenary force for the express purpose of defending the southern territories of the Kingdom of Francia. Seal it with my personal seal."
He turns back to you, his grin wide and wolfish.
"Let the King sit on his throne and count his coins. We shall be in the south, buying the loyalty of his people with their own safety. Go. Unleash your dogs of war. I want to hear the sound of Aquitanian cheers for the Lion of Bourgogne."