Chapter 11: A Deal in Shadows
Night fell over Ylmare like a heavy curtain. The streets were quieter than usual, as if the city itself sensed something unseen lurking just beyond the torchlight.
Inside the Merchant's Hearth, Farhan sat at his desk, eyes fixed on the black coin Rina had left.
It felt heavier than it should.
"The Black Dune Syndicate," he muttered. "What kind of organization sends messages through cloaked strangers and cursed-looking tokens?"
Denel knocked softly before entering, carrying a leather-bound ledger. "Today's profits," she said, placing it down. "Also, one of our couriers didn't come back from Draymoor. Garron's checking."
Farhan nodded grimly. "Could be bandits. Or a message."
He didn't say from whom. He didn't have to.
Denel eyed the coin on the desk. "That from her?"
"Yes. An invitation."
She looked at him carefully. "If you accept… you might never leave again."
"I don't plan on accepting," Farhan said. "But I will listen."
—
The next night, the invitation arrived.
No messenger. No letter. Just a single word scrawled across his storefront wall in red chalk:
**MIDNIGHT.**
—
At exactly midnight, Farhan walked alone into the old warehouse district — a part of Ylmare long since abandoned after a fire gutted half its buildings.
He wore plain traveler's clothes, his sword at his side, and a miniature stun baton in his sleeve — one of the few weapons he'd smuggled in from Earth through his cheat.
The meeting place was easy to spot. A single building, freshly swept, with a lit lantern outside. No guards, no signs of a trap — which, of course, made it more dangerous.
He entered.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and shadow. Curtains hung from the rafters like theater drapes, and at the center sat a man cloaked in black, his face hidden beneath a mask of silver bone.
"Farhan Rahman," the man said without preamble. "Online Merchant. Importer of wonders."
Farhan didn't respond. He stepped forward calmly.
"You're bold," the masked man said. "Coming here alone."
"I do my own negotiations," Farhan replied.
The man chuckled. "We like that."
He gestured toward a low table, where two cups of tea steamed faintly. Farhan remained standing.
"No drink?"
"I don't sip poison."
"A wise merchant," the man said. "Let's speak, then. I am Sarn, emissary of the Black Dune Syndicate."
Farhan crossed his arms. "You've been watching me."
"Correct. Your tools, your lanterns, your miracle medicines — you've disrupted three markets and two smuggling rings. That makes you either a threat… or an opportunity."
Farhan's expression didn't change. "I'm not joining your network."
Sarn didn't flinch. "We didn't ask you to. We want a deal. You import goods — we protect your routes. We tax your earnings — in return, no syndicate touches your business. No poison in your tea. No fire in your warehouse."
"Protection money," Farhan said flatly.
"A trade of services."
"And if I say no?"
Sarn tilted his head. "Then accidents happen. Goods vanish. Buyers get spooked. Permits are revoked. Not by us, of course… but things unravel."
Farhan stared him down. "And if I say yes?"
"You become a made man. A player in our world. Your goods flow faster. Your enemies disappear. You climb."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Farhan said, "I'll think about it."
Sarn nodded. "You have three days."
—
Back at the Hearth, Farhan met Garron and Denel in the basement vault.
"No surprises?" Garron asked.
Farhan shook his head. "They offered protection. At a price."
"And?"
"I said I'd think about it."
Denel leaned against the wall. "You planning to accept?"
"No," Farhan said. "But I'm planning to pretend I might."
—
For the next two days, Farhan made no moves.
He went about his business. Visited a few shops. Ordered more inventory through his phone — including pepper spray, padlocks, and steel-mesh storage bins. He also discreetly met with Velistra.
"They approached you?" she asked, alarmed.
"Yes."
"And you didn't inform me?"
"I'm informing you now."
She scowled. "You need to understand — if the Black Dune is involved, you're playing with wolves. Political wolves."
"I'm aware."
"You're still new to this world. One wrong deal—"
Farhan met her gaze. "I'm not naive. But I didn't come here to beg nobles for scraps. I came to build something. If I back down now, I lose everything."
Velistra studied him for a long moment. Then she sighed.
"There's a magistrate in Eltros," she said. "Lord Haverin. He's run three operations against the Black Dune in the past. Quietly. Successfully. If you're serious… you'll need allies like him."
"I'll send a message."
—
On the third night, Farhan returned to the warehouse district.
Sarn was waiting.
"Well?" the masked man asked.
Farhan smiled. "I've decided."
He pulled something from his sleeve and tossed it onto the table — a tiny black camera. Earth-made. Flashing red.
"Smile for the authorities."
Sarn froze.
Before he could speak, the warehouse doors burst open.
City guards swarmed in. Behind them, a tall man in crimson robes stepped forward — Lord Haverin.
"Sarn of the Black Dune," he declared. "You are under arrest for conspiracy, extortion, and black-market trafficking."
Sarn hissed. "You played us."
Farhan stepped forward. "No. I beat you at your own game."
Sarn lunged — but Garron was faster.
With a clean, brutal strike, he slammed the pommel of his sword into Sarn's temple. The masked man crumpled.
As guards restrained the rest of the syndicate operatives hidden nearby, Haverin turned to Farhan.
"You're either very brave… or very stupid."
"Hopefully a bit of both," Farhan replied, breathing hard.
Denel joined him, a crossbow slung over her shoulder.
"Warehouse's clear," she reported. "Three fake merchants, two poison vials, and one snake pit in the back. Real charming setup."
Haverin raised an eyebrow. "You intend to keep doing business here?"
"Absolutely."
The magistrate smiled faintly. "Then I'll make sure the paperwork clears."
—
Later, back at the Hearth, Farhan sat in his office, bruised but satisfied.
"That was reckless," Denel said.
"Necessary," Farhan replied. "Now the message is clear: I don't bow to bullies."
She handed him a cup of warm tea. "You're making enemies faster than allies."
"Then I'll just need stronger allies."
He looked out the window, where the street lamps flickered. In the distance, dawn was rising.
A new day. A new empire. And Farhan Rahman — Earth-born, online-armed — was just getting started.