CH1041 · Rewrite
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Chapter 1041: A Strange Wound

“A vertically integrated conglomerate…” Roland murmured.

“What?” Victor blinked. “If you have questions about the plan, I can explain it again—”

“No, thank you.” Roland waved a hand. “I find it interesting. Feasible, even. I only want to know how long it will take you to raise the capital.”

Victor’s eyes brightened. “I knew you would understand. Forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty, but if you were a merchant, you would own a great Chamber of Commerce.”

It might have sounded like an insult in another kingdom. Here it was the sincerest compliment a man of Dawn could offer.

The model Victor had described reminded Roland of vertically integrated corporations from his previous life—businesses that controlled production, supply, and distribution under a single roof. He had never expected to encounter the concept articulated this clearly, by this man, in this world.

What an interesting person.

More than that: an opportunity. In the past few years, his domain had expanded rapidly and brought with it a tangle of management problems. Most of the industries in Graycastle were run directly by the Administrative Office. Officials spent their days managing people and funds; departments swelled and grew slow. Because the officials’ personal fortunes had nothing to do with whether these state enterprises turned a profit, they worked to the king’s orders and tried to keep things stable—no more, no less. Useful in the early stages, when quick centralized action mattered. Ill-suited to everything else.

That was why Roland had confined himself to heavy industry. There were not enough workers, not enough trained administrators, to develop light industry as well. An expansion project as simple as another steam engine assembly plant still required enormous capital and a trained workforce. It was easy to give an order. It was not always easy to carry it out.

But here was another option.

Private investment. Let the businessmen organize things themselves. He had no reason to turn down a man who had arrived before Roland had even thought to invite him.

Foreign company, he noted. Profits flowing back to the Kingdom of Dawn. He did not mind it much. The production would remain in Graycastle. The jobs would remain. The tax base would grow.

After reaching a preliminary agreement, Roland walked Victor to the castle gate. “When you’re ready, I’ll arrange for the new cotton seeds. But I need to say this in advance: if another merchant comes to the Administrative Office asking for the same seeds, we’ll sell them at the same price. I want as many goods on the market as possible. Lower prices benefit my people. I hope you understand.”

“I understand, Your Majesty.” Victor’s confidence was easy, unhurried. “Merchants of Dawn do not fear competition. My father always said that from the moment we are born, the contest has already begun.”

Roland stopped him at the last moment. “One more question. My minister found that you paid taxes to Longsong Stronghold six years ago. It would have been simple to avoid. Why didn’t you?”

Victor considered it. “At the time, the lord promised to provide convenience and protection for merchants who paid. He honored that promise—he kept the road between Border Town and Longsong Stronghold safe for us. I am happy to pay for a stable environment. It is good for business.” A slight pause. “Unfortunately, most of my peers would rather spend large sums on merchandise than on stability and security.”

Roland watched him go. What a serious businessman. He’ll serve as an example for every private entrepreneur in Graycastle.

He turned back toward the office.

“Your Majesty.” Nightingale’s voice dropped suddenly at his ear, tight with something he almost never heard from her. Anxiety. “Lightning is back. She seems to have gotten into serious trouble—”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I only just received word from Sylvie. Maggie brought her back—took her straight to the hospital.”

Roland’s chest went cold. “She’s hurt? Take me there now.”

“Yes.” Nightingale reached out and pulled him into the Mist.


They arrived fast.

His first sight through the hospital door eased something in him: Lightning lay without bruises, without blood, her breathing slow and even. Whatever had happened, she was past the worst of it.

Then he noticed Nana.

She stood at the bedside with her hands in her lap, staring at them as though she had never seen them before. None of the quiet satisfaction that usually followed a healing. Only a tight, confused frown.

Maggie crouched beside the bed, wiping sweat from Lightning’s forehead. She flinched when Roland entered—the look of someone who feared they had done something unforgivable.

Lightning herself lay curled against the pillow, cold sweat on her brow, murmuring faintly. A nightmare just below the surface.

“How is she?” He looked at Nana. “Where’s the wound?”

Nana raised her head. Slowly, she pointed to her own chest.

“Nightingale.”

Nightingale stepped forward, lifted the girl gently, eased off the windbreaker, and began to unbutton her blouse. When the collarbones came into view, she stopped.

“Your Majesty—this is—”

He leaned in. A thumb-sized mark, a few centimeters below the hollow of Lightning’s throat. Eye-catching against white skin, but only a scratch. Normally a witch’s body would close such a wound without treatment. For Nana, healing it should have taken less than a thought.

Nana’s voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

“I can’t heal her. No matter what I try, the wound will not close—as if my ability has simply stopped working.”

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