The Venetian merchant arrived at my chamber in less than a few hours.
Efficient, as expected of a Venetian.
I recognized him instantly from his attire alone—that absurd, puffed hat, the flamboyant outer coat dyed in expensive hues.
But what truly struck me was something else.
The protruding belly.The cheerful, ever-calculating expression.
Marco of Venice.
A character I had played dozens—no, hundreds—of times in Last Crusaders.
'Seeing him in person feels… strange.'
He looked exactly as I had imagined.
When I stared at him, he bowed first—smooth, practiced.
"It is my honor to meet you, noble Prince Baldwin. I am Marco, representative of the Venetian fondaco here in Jerusalem. I hear Your Highness wished to see me."
"That is correct."
We exchanged a handshake.
"I had heard that Your Highness was remarkably handsome and dignified for your age—but no rumor does justice to reality."
I coughed lightly.
Blatant flattery. First time I'd heard it directed at me like that.
"When we heard of your fall, all within our fondaco were deeply concerned. And the falcon you treasured so dearly… we were saddened to learn of its death."
He gestured subtly.
Servants stepped forward carrying a cage.
Inside was a falcon—sleek, sharp-eyed, clearly expensive.
"A bird personally selected by our Venetian branch. Of excellent lineage. It would honor us if you accepted it."
"Your thoughtfulness is appreciated…"
I couldn't help smiling.
Classic Marco.
He had done his research. He knew the prince was fond of falconry.
Gifts were the fastest way to raise favor with nobles—especially reckless ones.
But I couldn't start by accepting a debt.
And I had no intention of hunting birds.
"I shall accept the sentiment, but not the bird. I doubt I will have time for falconry for some time."
"A pity. Then I shall bring something even finer on my next visit."
Straight to business.
"I summoned you regarding the reconstruction of Eila."
"Eila?" Marco's brows lifted.
He hadn't expected a thirteen-year-old to open with that.
"His Majesty has entrusted me with the matter."
Technically, only the negotiation.
"And I hear Venice has shown interest in the project."
"It is merely under discussion," Marco replied smoothly. "Nothing has been decided."
Liar.
I didn't even need my sixth sense to know that.
In 1181, Venice was already circling Eila like a shark.
"The terms are simple," I said. "An exclusive port concession for twenty thousand dinars annually."
"Holy Mother of God! Twenty thousand per year?"
Marco raised his hands heavenward in theatrical despair.
Impressive performance.
"With all due respect, Your Highness, that sum is excessive. Ten thousand—perhaps fifteen…"
"The region is unstable," he continued. "Risk must be considered."
"I am aware," I replied calmly. "Which is why you've approached the military orders about issuing letters of credit."
Marco froze.
"How—?"
Genuine surprise radiated from him.
Honestly, it wasn't impressive. It was the first move any merchant player made in this situation.
Bills of exchange.
Instead of transporting coin and risking bandits, merchants deposited funds in one branch and withdrew them elsewhere.
In-game, the system worked exactly like that.
Only the military orders—Templars and Hospitallers—had enough fortified holdings to support such a network.
"And yet," I continued, "both the Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller are reluctant to cooperate."
Marco cleared his throat.
"There are… certain difficulties."
"I will resolve them."
I leaned back.
This negotiation was flowing almost too smoothly.
"If Venice accepts twenty thousand dinars, I will petition His Majesty to instruct the orders to provide full financial backing."
"Even if His Majesty commands it, the orders answer directly to the Holy Father…"
"The Pope will not object," I cut in. "This merely formalizes what they already do."
The military orders were effectively Europe's first multinational banks.
Historians would later call them exactly that.
"Even so," Marco insisted, "twenty thousand remains excessive."
Still testing me.
Fine.
"Very well," I said casually. "Then I shall assume Venice declines."
I shifted in my chair.
"I will open negotiations with Genoa or Pisa."
Marco visibly stiffened.
The three maritime republics—Venice, Genoa, Pisa.
Their defining trait?
Mutual hatred.
In-game, riots between Venetian and Genoese merchants could escalate into full-blown street battles.
Hundreds injured.
Sometimes dead.
You didn't negotiate with them through logic alone.
You exploited rivalry.
"Exclusive rights," I continued mildly, "along with tax exemptions. I imagine Genoa or Pisa would find that quite persuasive."
"Those fools lack the capital for such an undertaking," Marco snapped.
"Perhaps. But if they hear Venice seeks monopoly control of Eila… might they not cooperate for once?"
Silence.
"And Amalfi may join them," I added. "Combined funding would suffice. It has happened before."
Now he looked genuinely unsettled.
"Your Highness… I cannot decide alone. Grant me time."
"One day."
I met his gaze.
"You have one day to consult the other Venetian merchants. Until then, this offer remains exclusive to Venice."
Longer would only give him room for counterplots.
"Thank you, Your Highness! I shall return with an answer by tomorrow."
He practically fled.
Quite a difference from his confident entrance.
I allowed myself a faint smile.
Negotiation was easy when you knew the other side's playbook.
'If I were in his position, I wouldn't refuse either.'
Now I just had to wait.
Though…
Had I always been this persuasive?
[Innate Charisma.]
I glanced at my thin reflection in the mirror.
Perhaps I should build some actual muscle.
"Eleven… twelve… thirteen…"
My arms trembled violently.
I collapsed back, gasping.
I could barely manage ten push-ups.
This was absurd.
Even for someone "frail," this was humiliating.
Sweat soaked the cloth in my hands.
I needed to train—but time was short.
As I drank water, a knock sounded.
A maid bowed.
"Your Highness, a knight of the Order of Saint John seeks an audience."
A Hospitaller knight?
Why?
It couldn't be about Marco. That had been less than an hour ago.
"Send him in."
The door opened.
A man entered clad in mail, a black surcoat draped over it, a white cross emblazoned across his chest.
The mantle flowing behind him.
I had seen that uniform thousands of times in-game.
He bowed.
"It is an honor, Prince Baldwin. I am Garnier of the Knights Hospitaller."
"A pleasure, Sir Garnier."
I extended my hand and assessed him quickly.
Late twenties. Broad-shouldered. Muscular.
He radiated disciplined strength.
The Hospitallers—like the Templars—warrior-monks sworn to defend the Holy Land.
Directly under the Pope. Militarily formidable. Financially powerful.
Together, the orders controlled nearly a third of the kingdom's territory.
Saladin executed captured knights without hesitation.
Even in-game, their stats were monstrous.
"May I ask the purpose of your visit?" I said.
Garnier's eyes flicked to the sweat-soaked cloth in my hand.
That look.
I recognized it.
The same look senior cadets gave fresh recruits at the academy.
—Let me show you what real training is.
"It appears you were exercising," he observed with a smile.
"His Majesty has entrusted your formal training to the Hospitallers. Now that you are thirteen, it is time."
"Formal training?"
"Swordsmanship. Horsemanship. Discipline. I had heard rumors you neglected training for falconry…" He smiled wider. "But clearly those were false."
He stepped forward.
"We have brought equipment. If Your Highness is willing, we shall begin immediately."
My mouth went dry.
Immediately?
Here?
"Do not worry," Garnier said reassuringly.
"It is your first day."
"We shall go easy on you."