Seldon Calvin sat in the black-gold carriage adorned with the family crest, fingers clutching an "Autumn Harvest Statistical Report" still slling of ink.
Inside the carriage, an expensive dragon scent burned, but even so, the strange sll seeping in from outside stubbornly penetrated the wooden walls.
Seldon frowned slightly, pulling the velvet curtain of the window to open a gap.
The street outside was more bustling than ever.
Heavy grain carts lined up one after another, forming a long line, the ruts making the cobblestones creak.
From the split openings of the burlap sacks spilled golden grains, so plump they seed ready to overflow—an authentic harvest, devoid of any exaggeration.
He glanced down at the report in his hand.
A 30% increase in production over the previous year, yet only a 15% warehouse entry rate.
"Damn it." The quill pen scraped harshly across the paper, leaving a glaring red line.
This wasn’t an error in accounting; Seldon knew very well that the grain hadn’t disappeared.
As the carriage slowed at an intersection, he saw the grain carts turning not towards the comrce district of the Calvin Clan, but uniformly into the harbor area, owned by the Church Court.
Docked at the pier were white grain ships from the Holy City, their hulls so white they were almost blinding, like a row of sea beasts quietly baring their fangs.
The grain was unloaded bag by bag, disappearing into the depths of the ship’s hold.
Seldon was not angry about the grain being taken away.
What angered him was that the grain hadn’t passed through his hands, allowing him to make a profit.
The carriage continued forward, entering the busiest main thoroughfare of the capital.
Along both sides of the street, every fifty steps, stood a brand-new Golden Feather Flower statue.
The statues were entirely gilded, the leaves spread gracefully as if in eternal bloom.
But as Seldon peered through the curtain gap, he couldn’t shake off an inexplicable chill in his heart.
The roots of the flower weren’t simply embedded in the stone base.
He distinctly saw so kind of dark red vein extending down from the base, disappearing beneath the ground.
Occasionally, the golden leaves would barely move, like lungs, expanding and contracting.
As the carriage passed the statues, the commoners on the street slowed their actions uniformly as they passed by these flowers.
They no longer bowed in prayer as in the past, nor did they show any reverence.
It was a kind of animalistic rigidity.
Just like a herd of herbivores instinctively drawing back at the scent of predators near a water source.
Seldon let out a cold snort, pulling the curtains shut.
"Tasteless decor," he comnted inwardly, "that old zealot Salomon turned a good comrcial city into a nouveau riche’s garden."
Suddenly, the carriage slowed down, a clamor of voices rising, mixed with prayers, cries, and a near-ecstatic murmur—it was the Church Court’s soup distribution tent.
Seldon leaned forward, seeing the street jam-packed, impassable.
Under the simple white cloth tents, rows of nuns passed bowls of golden soup to the common folk.
He instinctively glanced around.
In a year of overflowing warehouses, yet the people on the street were emaciated, their eyes sunken, as if long drained of moisture like withered grass.
What they scrambled for was not bread, nor wheat cakes.
It was just that bowl of soup.
Seldon was about to sneer, but the next scene froze his expression.
A tattered dock laborer took the bowl of soup and greedily gulped it down.
One mont, he hunched his back, struggling to stand upright.
The next mont, he suddenly straightened.
His pupils dilated, his complexion quickly flushing an abnormal red.
The previously withered muscles swelled as if inflated, veins bulging beneath the skin.
He tilted his head back, letting out an ecstatic roar, "Praise the Crown! I can do the work of ten n!"
The surrounding crowd burst into a near-worshipful cheer.
Seldon’s back broke out in a fine layer of cold sweat; even after seeing it several tis, it still sent chills down his spine.
What was this?
Alchemy Potion? Divine liquid? Or so sort of modified drug?
What about the cost? Was the formula complex? Could it be mass-produced?
If the Calvin Comrce Association could get hold of the formula, sell it to miners, loggers, construction crews...
How many tis the profit of grain trading would it be?
At that thought, the chill in his heart was quickly replaced by a familiar irritation.
Irritation that such a thing hadn’t gone through the market, through the comrce association, through himself.
"Giving such a good potion to these consumables is a complete waste," Seldon muttered under his breath, with not a trace of pity in his tone.
The carriage continued to slowly roll down the bustling avenue, the wheels crunching rhythmically over the cobblestones.
Just then, a soft, restrained knock ca from outside the carriage.
"Young Master." It was the voice of the family steward.
The carriage made a brief stop by the roadside, the window pushed open slightly from outside, and a gloved hand passed in a small wooden box. The box was sealed with the Church Court’s wax, a thorn crest clearly visible.
"This is the paynt just settled by the Church Court," the steward’s voice was low, carrying a hint of hesitation, "personally overseen by Bishop Salomon."
Seldon did not respond imdiately, signaling the steward to leave.
The window closed again, the velvet curtain falling, sealing off the noise from outside.
Only then did Seldon reach for the box, placing it on his knee and unlocking the clasp.
No crisp sound of gold coins clattering.
The box was neatly stacked with a pile of coins.
Neither Gold Coins minted by the Empire nor consistently valuable Silver Coins.
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