Chapter 180: Chapter 180— Merchant Calculations II

In Valdris, power followed wealth.

Noble houses existed, but they answered to merchant dynasties. Titles carried prestige; capital carried authority. Military strength wasn’t cultivated through generations of martial tradition—it was funded, contracted, and expanded as needed. Armies could be assembled the way other nations assembled trade fleets.

Valdris didn’t believe in glory. It believed in leverage.

Its national philosophy was simple: economic dominance outlasted military victories. War burned resources. Markets absorbed them. Where other nations trained soldiers to seize territory, Valdris acquired influence through debt, trade agreements, and quiet ownership. Steel conquered land. Coin conquered systems.

Violence was inefficient unless it protected profit.

There was a saying in Valdris, repeated in counting houses and council chambers alike:

Many people fear Seekers because they build power on the mind’s weaknesses.

But money has a spirit of its own.

And sometimes, it breaks minds faster than any mental manipulation ever could.

It wasn’t poetry. It was an acute observation.

Where Seekers twisted thoughts, money reshaped incentives. Where mental domination provoked resistance, wealth invited cooperation—then dependency. A blade could force obedience for a moment. Financial pressure could secure it for a lifetime.

Valdris understood something other nations often dismissed: people resisted threats. They rationalized profit.

And once someone convinced themselves a decision was in their own best interest, control became unnecessary.

They would defend the system that constrained them.

That was the true power Valdris cultivated—not armies marching beneath banners, but markets shifting beneath feet.

“Luckily, we already have operatives in both countries’ educational institutions,” Prince Merchant Davos said, steepling his fingers as if discussing routine trade routes rather than political sabotage. “Students we’ve sponsored. Teachers we’ve compensated. Administrators whose cooperation we’ve secured. Let’s activate those assets. Let’s see how this little performance unfolds from the inside.”

He didn’t sound angry. He sounded practical.

In Valdris, that was more dangerous.

“What exactly is the objective this time?” Thalia asked, folding her arms. Her tone was sharp, but controlled. “What are we trying to gain through this intelligence push?”

“Information,” Corvus replied immediately. “Real information. Not the Republic statements. Not some diplomatic summaries. Their actual capabilities. How they train. What standards they enforce. The quality of their students. Their institutional culture. Everything the Senate would prefer remain obscured because knowledge enables counter-strategies.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“If they’re inviting Ashmar and Solhaven into their Academy, they’re either confident enough to display their strength—or arrogant enough to think it won’t matter. Either way, we need to see the machinery up close.”

Davos nodded. “And information isn’t our only advantage.”

His voice cooled further.

“There’s also an opportunity.”

Thalia’s gaze sharpened. “Explain.”

“Our people in Ashmar and Solhaven don’t just observe,” Davos said. “They could influence. Small pressures here and there in the right places. Minor complications that accumulate. Encourage skepticism among the faculty. Feed doubts to promising students. Raise logistical ’concerns.’”

He made a faint, dismissive gesture with his hand.

“Nothing dramatic. No overt interference. Just some friction.”

Corvus understood immediately. “Enough to ensure the joint initiative becomes more trouble than it’s worth.”

“What’s the budget allocation looking like?” Corvus requested.

“Fifty thousand gold coins to set things rolling,” Davos proposed. “Distributed among our existing assets. Bonuses for actionable intelligence. Larger compensation for successful disruption operations.”

“Approved,” the Council voted unanimously.

Valdris didn’t build noble houses through generational military dominance. Didn’t establish territorial control through Champion-level guardians. Didn’t maintain power through traditional structures.

Around the Council chamber, the understanding was instinctive, reinforced by decades of success.

Noble houses create splinters in command, they knew. Ideals create division. Purpose creates disagreement.

Every military power fractured along ideological lines eventually. Pride clashed with pride. Honor contradicted ambition. Generals resented politicians. Nobles competed for prestige. Even shared purpose became a point of conflict when interpretations diverged.

But money?

Money did not argue.

Money did not take offense.

Money did not demand ideological alignment.

Money unifies.

It transcended philosophy, It bypassed culture, It ignored rhetoric and it spoke in outcomes.

A soldier might question an order.

A patriot might resist a threat.

But very few people refused an opportunity when it was presented attractively enough.

Money speaks a language everyone understands, the Council reflected. Regardless of culture. Regardless of doctrine. Regardless of national pride.

Ashmar valued discipline.

Solhaven valued strategy.

The Republic valued power.

Valdris valued leverage.

And leverage required liquidity.

The Council continued coordination—identifying specific operatives, allocating resources, developing strategy that would transform the Republic’s diplomatic initiative into an intelligence-gathering opportunity.

All that glitters in Valdris was actually gold.

And they had no qualms in shoving it down your allies’ throats until they betray you.

That was their weapon.

That was their defense.

Surrounded by militarily superior neighbors, Valdris had never pretended it could outfight them. It did not train legions of Adepts to dominate the battlefield. It did not boast of invincible warriors.

Instead, it asked a quieter question:

How expensive is loyalty?

Because everything had a price.

Some people required coin.

Others required influence.

Others required opportunity, protection, prestige, or silence.

The form varied.

The principle did not.

We make betrayal more profitable than loyalty,

the Council understood.

You did not have to convince someone their nation was wrong.

You only had to make alignment with Valdris advantageous.

You did not have to destroy alliances.

You simply had to introduce better offers.

Over time, fractures formed naturally.

Ambitious administrators accepted “consulting fees.”

Promising students received “scholarships.”

Influential instructors gained “research grants.”

Nothing dramatic. Nothing explosive.

Just incremental shifts.

And incremental shifts, compounded over years, altered outcomes more effectively than any battlefield victory.

That was how Valdris had survived.

Not through intimidation.

Not through martial glory.

But through relentless, systematic compensation.

They transformed potential enemies into paid assets.

They transformed rivals into clients.

They transformed threats into transactions.

So when news came that the Republic had excluded Valdris from its educational exchange—inviting Ashmar and Solhaven while pointedly ignoring them—the Council did not panic.

They calculated.

The Republic thinks exclusion creates isolation.

They had misread the board.

Exclusion did not weaken Valdris.

It clarified the objective.

They’ve given us a target, Thalia thought. A program. A timeline. A network of participants.

Clear parameters.

If the Republic wished to parade its Academy as a symbol of unity, Valdris would examine that unity’s price tag.

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