Chapter 25: War is Brewing

The glow of wealth clung to the village like golden mist. Lee-oh's once quiet mountain settlement now thrummed with the sounds of hammers, bubbling cauldrons, and trade wagons rolling in from foreign lands. What began as a humble sect had morphed into a living economic engine. Inside the stone hall of the Alchemist Merchant Sect, crates of potions were being inventoried, priced, and sealed for export.

Lee-oh stood at the center, his arms crossed, eyes scanning the ever-growing network of logistics and ledgers. Daey-ib approached with a slate of numbers etched in chalk, grinning. "The elixirs exported to the North alone earned us forty-two thousand points this week. Add that to the southern trades… We can double the level of the main training hall."

But something tugged at Lee-oh's instinct. He handed the slate back and moved to the war table. A freshly delivered intelligence report lay open, and its contents made his smile fade.

The Southern Coalition, long believed to be preparing for a head-on assault against the East, had just rerouted their troop formations. Not north. Not east. West.

Straight toward Lee-oh's region.

Daey-ib leaned over the map, reading the same lines. "They weren't after the Eastern coast. They're targeting us."

Lee-oh clenched his jaw. "Of course. We've drained their economy dry—selling cheap, potent potions while monopolizing their luxury herbs. We made them dependent, now they want their revenge."

"But they don't know we knew," Daey-ib said, tapping the map where spy scouts had marked the Southern army's movement. "They think we're still just traders. Not warriors."

Lee-oh's mind turned like the gears in their new potion refinery. "Then let's make sure they never get the war they want."

The next move wasn't military—it was economic warfare.

Within a day, Lee-oh issued secret orders: flood the Southern marketplaces with overstocked goods. Sell potions, swords, artifacts—everything—at 20% of their market price. Drive the value of the Southern currency into the dirt.

"Price collapse?" one of the elders asked.

"No," Lee-oh replied. "Economic collapse."

Daey-ib, grinning with capitalist glee, took charge of distribution lines. Within two weeks, caravans disguised as neutral merchants slipped into Southern cities, offering miracle pills for a fraction of the cost. Local healers couldn't compete. Blacksmiths lost contracts. Guilds folded.

The Southern lords, alarmed by the crash in local businesses, delayed their military campaign to stabilize the economy. They didn't realize the hand choking their coffers was the same one they underestimated months ago.

Meanwhile, back in the heart of the sect, Lee-oh funneled the mounting points into upgrades. Pillars of light surged through the Sect Core. New training grounds appeared overnight. The alchemical garden tripled in size. And for the first time, the Merchant Tower—a massive, spiraling structure at the center of the village—was activated.

From there, Lee-oh broadcast new offers to every surrounding nation:

"Neutral trade routes available. Prices fair. Security guaranteed. In war, we sell peace."

And peace they bought.

Even the Western guilds, known for their suspicion, began to send envoys to secure trade deals. Lee-oh sat in gilded robes now, no longer a struggling cultivator, but a full-blown tycoon surrounded by advisors and emissaries. He had become a king without a crown, a warlord without bloodshed.

But peace, like profit, was fragile.

A courier ran in one night, face pale.

"Lee-oh, urgent message from the Northern Front."

He took the scroll and read it aloud. His eyes narrowed.

"The Southern Army has withdrawn its troops. Their markets are in disarray—but a secret treaty has been signed. The Southern generals have allied with the Western rogue clans."

Daey-ib cursed. "They're not giving up. They're just changing tactics."

Lee-oh's lips curved into a cold smile. "Then we'll change the board."

He stood, turning to the massive map of the continent that now dominated the strategy hall.

"We built factories, farms, and foundations. Let them come. Every sword they raise will cost them ten gold. Every breath they take will fill our coffers."

He slammed his palm onto the Western border. "Prepare the merchants."

And then to the South.

"Prepare the traps."

The war hadn't begun, but the battlefield had already shifted.