The Principles of Investment (4)
Cleio lay sprawled on the bed, his tie loosened, and gave a weary nod.
Pretending to be an ambitious young entrepreneur had been a tremendous strain.
Still, I somehow pulled it off. Haaah…
"So now it's my turn to hear the real story?"
"Of course—and I'd like to ask for your help as well…"
"Judging by that hesitant tone, you're not going to tell me unless we do it properly—with a confidentiality clause and another [Covenant] magic formula, right?"
"This time, I'll be the one to cast the spell."
"You, of all people—the one who's never gone near a business deal—actually memorized that complicated formula?"
"I'm a student, after all."
"Ha! You only use that excuse when it suits you."
Before the ether on the contract's [Covenant] sigil had even cooled, Dione shoved her chair back with a crash. Forgetting all decorum, she nearly climbed onto the bed to grab Cleio by the collar.
"Tiflaum Mine? In Duvris?!"
"Within two months, the Mining Bureau will announce its projected extraction yield."
"Tiflaum, the mineral of which only fragments have been found so far? A full vein would be worth a fortune!"
"Indeed. But according to the information I've obtained, the vein extends only through the royal territory known as the King's Forest, at the northernmost tip of the Pintos Mountains. Any Tiflaum mined there will belong to the Crown."
"So there'll be nothing left for us."
Dione understood instantly.
And though he couldn't tell her yet, the manuscript stated that Tiflaum would be declared a strategic resource—its refining and smelting industries nationalized for wartime production.
Investing in the industrial sector would barely recover the principal.
"Exactly. But real estate is different. The transport and logistics volume to Duvris will explode, and the current central station is hemmed in by government offices—there's no room for expansion."
"Which means… they'll have to build a new terminal station!"
Cleio nodded.
"…And you know exactly where it'll be built."
"More precisely—in the Oreils District."
"Oreils, hmm. The northeast sector. Good location, but complicated zoning. Plus, the royal estate sits right in the middle—how will they find space for a full-scale station?"
"That royal estate will become the station. The Crown Prince will sell off royal land for the station and depot to win over public favor and secure the business world's support."
"My goodness!"
"Once construction is announced, land prices around it will skyrocket. I'd like you to handle the purchases on my behalf. What do you think?"
He checked the "memory" of his [Promise] spell several times to confirm.
In just a few years, Lundane East Station would become the terminus for trains carrying Tiflaum from Duvris—transforming the area into the hub of industry and logistics.
A three-hundred-meter Melchior Boulevard would stretch out before the station, and at its end would rise the de Neige Est Hotel, facing the terminal.
In the original manuscript, the Minister of Commerce—having learned of the prince's intentions in advance—secretly bought up the surrounding land under false names, then rented it out to Katarina at a tidy profit for her hotel project.
Those details were recorded meticulously because the righteous protagonist party later uncovered the minister's corruption.
Better that I use that money myself than let it fund some crooked politician who'll end up assassinated.
And that wasn't all.
By the latter half of the story, land values in Lundane—now the safest place in Albion—would soar beyond imagination.
This is the last chance to board the train.
Dione's lips parted soundlessly for several seconds before she gave the expected reply.
"That was worth a secrecy oath indeed. Where on earth do you get such information? You do have proof, right?"
"I do. I'll reveal it in due time."
"All right, I'll trust you. Once we return to the capital, we'll draft a formal contract—not just for the land purchases, but for ongoing property management as well. That's what you want, isn't it?"
"You're one step ahead of me, Lady Dione. That makes things move quickly. Once we're back, I'll mark the lots to acquire on the cadastral map. Let's call it a night for now."
"Goodness—it's already past three."
"Get some sleep."
Perhaps because the tension was gone, Cleio's eyelids were already drooping.
As Dione turned off the gas lamp and stepped toward the door, a question occurred to her.
"By the way, Ray—how did you even know the Duvris deposit was Tiflaum before the survey results came out?"
Half-asleep, Cleio mumbled whatever came to mind.
"…Think carefully about where you sent your knights to capture me."
"Don't tell me you were in the Pintos Mountains for a geological survey?"
"Something like that…"
"Then I owe you an apology. I made a terrible mistake not understanding your intent."
No reply came. Only the sound of even breathing.
Under the dim parlor light, Cleio's profile still looked so young—like a completely different person from the one awake.
The day after the party, they returned to the capital.
Behemoth, meowing for a souvenir, was placated with the champagne Chel had gifted.
After sleeping an entire day to recover, Cleio awoke to find Dione ready and waiting, all preparations complete.
The two sat close together in his bedroom, heads bent over paperwork.
Thinking ahead to the future, Cleio insisted they attach the highest-grade penalty clause to the contract.
The current transaction would involve five million dinars, but their future ventures could easily reach fifty million.
"You're quite the stickler, young master. Is all this really necessary for a real-estate deal and a management proxy?"
"When it comes to money, even blood ties mean nothing. Besides, we won't be parting ways after a single deal, will we?"
"Oh my, listen to you sounding all cryptic."
"I trust Lady Dione as a long-term partner… and I hope that trust isn't one-sided."
"Fine, fine. We'll sign the top-grade penalty contract. If one of us breaks it, both our lives are forfeit."
Thus, the two formally signed an Aether-Engraved Contract.
On parchment dusted with powdered mana-crystal, they inscribed overlapping sigils of [Covenant] and [Fulfillment]—a genuine magical instrument.
Once activated, the formula branded itself upon both signers' hearts.
If either party failed to [Fulfill] the [Covenant], their heart would stop.
They agreed to add clauses later by mutual consent, and Cleio locked the document in his safe.
"Now for the situation report. The lots you marked yesterday belong to twelve landowners. There are twenty-one tenants remaining. After the Oreils fire two years ago, most left—but a few have nowhere else to go. To buy out the entire area by your deadline, we'll need extra compensation and relocation funds."
"How much more are we talking?"
"Roughly ten percent over market value. Shall we proceed anyway?"
"I'll entrust the full 5.5 million dinars to you. Use your discretion to handle compensation as well. Pay the tenants generous relocation fees—no noise, no trouble. The deadline is what matters most."
"Wow—cash up front, no loans involved."
"I don't even have collateral—how could I possibly get a loan? And if we wait for a loan review, the whole plan will fall apart."
"So, speed and decisiveness. I understand. Fortunately, cash still holds the most power. I'll report back as soon as there's progress."
"Thank you, Lady Dione."
"Don't thank me yet. If you're planning to stay in business from now on…"
Dione's tone shifted—from "partner" to "instructor."Cleio felt that familiar chill of foreboding creep over him.
"I'm entrusting everything to you, Dione. I won't step forward myself. And don't you dare try to make me do anything else."
"Even if you don't go into business, you must learn to dance. It's a gentleman's basic education. How have you survived this long without learning social dance? Do you know how mortified I was at the last ball? It's already too late to start learning your steps—come on, we have a long road ahead!"
"I'm earning money precisely so I don't have to do things I hate. What kind of nonsense is dancing? Accept the limitations of your pupil, Lady Dione."
"Excuse me?! That's the most ridiculous excuse I've ever heard. You can't expect every ball to go like the last—"
"Enough!"
Leaving Dione—who looked ready to start a dance lesson that very instant—Cleio swiftly slipped out of the bedroom.
He'd always had terrible rhythm; even if he tried, dancing was hopeless.
But Dione moved faster than he expected. Throwing all dignity aside, she came pounding down the central staircase two steps at a time, her sharp voice chasing after him.
Flustered, Cleio missed a step.His momentum carried him forward, body lifting off the ground as if launched.
It happened too suddenly for him even to shout "Help!"Without a proper chant, no defensive spell activated.
Cleio instinctively braced for impact—But before he hit the ground, a blur of motion shot out like lightning and caught him.
"Are you all right?!"
A red-haired girl with wide, startled eyes—it was Isiel Kishion.
"Isiel? What are you doing here…"
Though her arms were slender, she caught him with ease. The way she'd infused her body with ether for [Enhancement] had clearly advanced since last time.
It had only been a few weeks, but her appearance had matured, too. Her longer red hair brushed against his cheek, tickling the tip of his nose.
Isiel, who had instinctively cradled him in her arms, quickly composed herself. Her expression turned impassive as she loosened her hold.
"You seem fine."
Thud!
"Ouch."
Ignoring Cleio's groaning, Isiel stepped back.Moments later, Dione came practically flying down the stairs, fussing over him like a mother hen.
"Are you hurt anywhere? Oh, what a disaster! I'm so sorry, young master! I'll call a physician immediately!"
The commotion woke the household's other resident.From under the stairs, Behemoth the cat sprang up, tail flicking indignantly as he scolded the humans who'd ruined his nap.
"Weeeowwww? Weeeeeoooooong—(Why disturb this noble being's slumber, you ignorant humans—)"
The grand staircase was now a scene of chaos:a sulky girl, a frantic lady, a thoroughly embarrassed boy, and a grumpy awakened cat.
"Cleio! I see you've been having so much fun you forgot all about me?"
A new voice joined the racket, raising the chaos level even higher.
It was Arthur.
After the mansion's reopening, the first guest being a prince seemed to delight Mrs. Canton.She brought out her finest china and an array of exquisitely crafted sweets.
Unfortunately, the prince in question didn't touch the treats—he was too busy laughing.
Behind him, Isiel stood silently, clearly unwilling to engage in such trivial banter.
"Hahaha! So you tripped running away from a dance lesson? That's the funniest thing I've heard all summer. Pretending to be clever, yet you lack even the most basic refinement!"
"Exactly! Your Highness, perhaps you could talk some sense into him."
"If he doesn't listen to you, Lady, what chance do I have?"
Though it was their first meeting, Arthur and Dione were trading jokes like old friends.
Lounging on the sofa, Cleio finally cut through their cheerful chatter with a scowl.
"Enough laughing already. Why did you even come here?"
It had been weeks since they'd last met, and Arthur—like Isiel—looked sharper, his very presence honed.
If the manuscript holds true, he should be undergoing military training in the Kishion viscounty right about now. Looks like it's been brutal.
Arthur, unfazed by Cleio's scrutiny, just smiled and reached into his coat.He pulled out an ornate envelope embossed with gold foil.
On the front, in elegant script, were the words:"To Cleio Aser."
"Here. Take it. It's an invitation to His Majesty's Birthday Celebration."
"Why are you giving that to me?"
"Apparently, students who've distinguished themselves at the Royal Capital Defense Academy receive an invitation. I only learned about it yesterday."
Cleio quickly flipped through the "manuscript" in his mind—but there had been no mention of any birthday celebration.
Which meant there was no reason to attend.
Besides, wasn't King Philip supposed to be deathly ill by now? Barely able to leave his bed, and yet they're throwing a birthday party?
Without even touching the invitation on the table, Cleio shook his head.
"I'm not going. Tell them I'll decline."
"Just as I thought you'd say."
"Then why bother coming?"
"Because whether you want to or not—you'll end up going to that celebration."
Arthur's words carried absolute certainty.
The Promise sigil on Cleio's wrist flared, glowing faintly white.
[―User's Narrative Intervention Rate has increased.]