Restart:Untalented Man

A group of individuals sat in an opulent room. Their attire, marked by its quality and refinement, together with the air of authority that clung to them, spoke of privilege and influence.

Anyone can immediately distinguish them from the common people who thronged the squares and alleys of the city.

Inside this chamber, an atmosphere of tension hung heavy in the air. The silence was profound, broken only by the hushed rustling of papers and the occasional sigh.

Each occupant's eyes remained unwaveringly glued upon the stack of documents meticulously spread across the polished wooden table before them.

As the documents were perused and scrutinized, the gravity of the situation became increasingly evident.

The papers bore the weight of the decisions they were about to make.

In a quiet corner of the same room, near the tall windows, stood a man with an inscrutable expression.

The sunlight that filtered through the window make his expression visibly clear to others.

His demeanour was starkly contrasting with the impassioned fervour of the streets outside.

While the city echoed with the cries of revolution, he remained unmoved.

His face was an unreadable mask.

As the rousing speech continued to echo through the room, the man slowly turned his attention away from the window and faced the assembly of individuals seated around the table.

His voice was measured as he inquired, "Have all of you made your decision?"

The question hung in the air, and a collective sense of hesitation descended upon the room.

Each person around the table displayed a range of emotions; furrowed brows, tense jaws, and wary glances exchanged between them.

Some appeared contemplative, their fingers idly tracing the edges of the documents.

As one individual bravely spoke up, it became clear why hesitation hung heavy in the air. "Look... sir," he began, his voice tinged with both concern and resolve, "I don't think we can agree to this."

The man look up and directed his gaze toward the speaker, his expression still enigmatic. "Why?" he inquired, his tone betraying neither sympathy nor empathy.

The concerned individual sighed, feeling the weight of responsibility resting on his shoulders as he explained, "Agreeing to your terms means that we would have to let go of all our farmland and the grain processing plant that we have. Those are our primary sources of income. What are we going to do if we sell all of these to you?"

The man's response was unyielding, his voice carrying a tone of detachment. "Not my problem, though," he retorted. "With the amount I offer, you can easily start other businesses."

"But still..." one of the individuals began to speak up. The hesitation in his voice mirrored the collective uncertainty that filled the room.

The man fixed his gaze on the small and medium grain producers gathered around the table.

His stern expression began to surface. 

"Look..." he said, "I think you don't understand the impact of your actions."

There was a tense silence in response to his statement, and then one of the producers ventured, "W-what do you mean?"

His next words cut through the room like a chilling wind. "Do you think His Majesty doesn't know that you're holding stockpiles of grain from being released to the market?" he asked pointedly.

At those words, a collective pallor descended over the expressions of everyone in the room.

Their faces turned ashen, drained of colour, as the realization settled upon them like a heavy shroud. 

"His Majesty's eyes are everywhere. He is well informed about your action, but he hasn't taken any further action on you...yet. He knows that all of you are pawns, merely following orders. And as a merchant, it is understandable that you're prioritizing profit even at the expense of people's starvation. That's why he sent me to give you a chance to save yourselves. For the last time, sell your farmland and everything else related to it before it's too late."

The small and medium-sized grain producers exchanged apprehensive glances, acutely aware of their limited resources and the formidable power of the king.

They understood that if the king decided to exert pressure on them, they would have little chance of withstanding it.

After a prolonged silence, one of them finally decided to sign the document.

He did so with a sense of resignation.

His expression was a mix of hope and fear. "I hope His Majesty doesn't go back on his words," he murmured.

The man nodded in response, offering a semblance of assurance. "I can guarantee that."

Others promptly follow in his footsteps.

With the document signed, the fate of the small and medium-sized grain producers was sealed.

They are safe... at least for now.

They had chosen to comply with the King's directive, hoping that it would be enough to protect them from the punishments. 

This situation was not unique to Vofors alone. In towns and villages scattered throughout the kingdom, similar scenes were unfolding.

Riz was on a relentless buying spree of farmlands, all without attracting too much attention.

....

At the capital, the information regarding the successful acquisition of farmlands began to trickle in.

Satisfaction was visible on his face as he reviewed the reports, each confirming that his directive had been met with little to no resistance.

It was, in many ways, the outcome he had anticipated, given the circumstances.

After all, they had done something bad and naturally wanted to save their own skin.

Seated at a desk in his office, Riz studied the documents. "Merchants are the same everywhere, in every era," he mused aloud, carrying a sneer of contempt in his voice.

Riz leaned back in his ornate chair.

Soon enough, he would wield considerable influence in the market.

He intended to marshal this new power to combat the businessmen forces that had long manipulated prices, causing suffering to his people.

These people had played their games for far too long.

It's time to put them back in their place and set them as an example for others.