Chapter 15 - Chapter 12: The Art of the Deal Begins

📜 — The First Step

Two years passed quietly.

Not with dramatic upheavals or sudden revelations, but with steady change—growth measured in height marks on a wall, thicker notebooks, sharper eyes, and questions that no longer felt childish.

Lena Dunham turned twelve that spring.

And today, she was here.

The Dunham carriage rolled to a smooth stop in front of a wide stone building that dominated the street.

The Merchant Guild.

James Dunham stepped down first, boots landing firmly on the stone pavement. He adjusted his coat, glanced around out of habit, then turned back toward the carriage and extended his hand.

A much smaller hand took it.

Lena stepped down carefully, her black hair tied neatly behind her, the single pink streak standing out against the morning light. Her pink eyes lifted instinctively—and then froze.

She stood there, silent.

The Merchant Guild was exactly where her memories insisted it would be.

Large, but not flashy. Solid stone walls reinforced with metal brackets, wide doors reinforced to discourage thieves rather than impress nobles. Banners bearing the guild's crest hung from iron poles, faded slightly from sun and weather. People came and went constantly—merchants, apprentices, guards, messengers—each moving with purpose.

In the game, this building had always been important.

This was where early trade routes unlocked. Where reputation systems began. Where merchant-related side quests stacked endlessly if you weren't careful.

She remembered the layout clearly.

The central registration hall straight ahead. Bulletin boards to the left, layered with requests, contracts, escorts, supply shortages. Counters to the right for licenses, permits, and disputes. Upper floors reserved for high-ranking merchants and guild executives—places the player couldn't access until much later.

She remembered thinking, back then, that it was just another system hub.

Now, standing here in person, it felt… heavier.

This wasn't a menu.

This was where money moved. Where influence formed quietly. Where information was traded just as often as goods.

And now—

She was about to register herself here.

James didn't notice her stillness at first. He had already taken a step forward before realizing she hadn't followed.

He turned back slightly.

"Let's go," he said calmly. "We need to get you registered as a merchant."

That snapped her out of it.

Lena blinked, shoulders stiffening as reality caught up with her thoughts.

"Uh… yes!"

Her response came out a little too quick, but James didn't comment. He simply nodded and turned back toward the entrance.

Lena hurried after him, small steps matching his longer stride as they passed through the tall doors of the Merchant Guild together.

The first step had been taken.

📘 — Inside the Guild

The interior of the Merchant Guild was busier than Lena had expected.

She walked beside her father through wide stone halls, their footsteps blending into the steady noise of conversation, shuffling papers, and the occasional raised voice from a nearby counter. Merchants of all kinds passed by—some dressed neatly in tailored coats, others wearing practical clothing stained with ink, dust, or oil. A few guards stood at key intersections, watching calmly without interfering.

Lena didn't speak.

She simply looked around.

The structure matched her memories in a broad sense, but the details were different in ways the game had never captured.

The ceilings were higher than they appeared on-screen, supported by thick beams reinforced with engraved metal plates. Windows were placed strategically to let in natural light without exposing sensitive areas. Notice boards weren't neat UI panels—they were cluttered, layered with overlapping requests, pinned letters, and half-torn contracts. Some notices were freshly written; others looked old enough to have been ignored for weeks.

In the game, everything had been clean and organized.

Here, it felt lived-in.

She noticed how merchants grouped naturally—small traders near the entrance, established merchants closer to the inner halls. Clerks moved quickly between desks, already memorizing faces. There was no glowing icon telling her where to go, no highlighted NPC.

Just people doing business.

James noticed her slowing slightly, her gaze moving from wall to wall.

He smiled.

"You're curious," he said, not stopping his pace.

Lena glanced up at him but didn't deny it.

James continued, voice calm and instructional.

"The Merchant Guild isn't just a place to sell things," he said. "It's a network. If you're registered here, people know who you are, what you trade, and whether you can be trusted."

They passed a counter where two merchants argued quietly over delivery terms.

"Being a merchant means more than buying low and selling high," James went on. "You manage supply, reputation, timing, and people. If your name is good, opportunities come to you. If it isn't, no amount of money will save you."

Lena listened carefully, eyes forward.

James gestured lightly toward the notice boards.

"Those requests? They're how small merchants build connections. Fulfilling them earns trust. Breaking contracts ruins it."

She nodded slightly, committing it to memory.

Inside, she thought calmly:

Well, I don't need too much about basic sales and promotions. I worked in a sales department in my previous life.

She remembered spreadsheets, quotas, negotiations, and presentations that never ended.

Still… this world works differently. It's better to know more than assume.

James glanced at her again.

"You don't have to rush," he said. "Learning the rules first is smarter than charging in."

"I know," Lena replied quietly.

They continued walking through the halls together, the noise of the guild surrounding them as Lena prepared herself for what came next.

---

📘 — Registration Desk

The registration area of the Merchant Guild was quieter than the outer halls.

Wooden counters were arranged in a neat line, each staffed by a clerk with stacks of ledgers, ink bottles, and stamped documents. Behind them, tall shelves held records dating back decades—merchant names, trade categories, disputes, successes, failures.

James stopped in front of an open desk.

A middle-aged man sat there, glasses perched low on his nose, scanning a document with practiced speed. He looked up—and paused.

His gaze shifted from James to Lena.

"…This is the applicant?" the clerk asked.

James nodded calmly.

"Yes. My daughter."

The clerk studied Lena more closely now—not dismissive, but cautious.

"She's young," he said plainly. "You understand that merchant registration is not ceremonial. Once registered, she will be held accountable under guild law."

Lena kept her posture straight and said nothing.

James answered evenly.

"I understand. And so does she."

The clerk turned his attention to Lena.

"Very well," he said. "Answer me directly, then."

He dipped his pen into ink.

"Why do you want to become a merchant?"

Lena didn't answer immediately.

Inside her head, her thoughts moved quickly.

This isn't a game dialogue choice.

This is a screening question.

She remembered job interviews from her previous life. Questions that weren't asking for passion—but judgment.

She spoke clearly.

"Because goods don't sell themselves," Lena said. "And value isn't just in the product—it's in how people perceive it."

The clerk paused mid-writing.

Lena continued.

"A merchant who understands people can sell even common items properly. Someone who doesn't will fail, no matter how rare their goods are."

Silence followed.

The clerk looked at her again, this time with visible interest.

"Hm," he muttered. "Most children say money. Or freedom."

He leaned back slightly.

"Then tell me this," he said. "If two merchants sell the same product at the same price, how do you outperform the other?"

Lena answered without hesitation.

"By controlling attention," she said. "Presentation, placement, reputation, and timing. If customers remember you first, they'll come to you first."

The clerk's pen slowly resumed moving.

James watched quietly, a faint smile forming.

The clerk closed the ledger.

"…You're serious," he said. "More than most first-time applicants."

He slid a form across the desk.

"Choose your initial trade category."

Lena looked down at the list.

Alchemy. Logistics. Raw materials. Equipment sales. Brokerage. Advertising.

She didn't hesitate.

"Advertising," Lena said.

The clerk raised an eyebrow.

"That's not a popular choice," he said. "Most think it's supplementary."

Lena nodded.

"That's exactly why."

The clerk let out a short breath through his nose—half amusement, half approval.

"Very well."

He stamped the document firmly.

"Lena Dunham," he read aloud. "Registered merchant. Specialty: Advertising."

The sound of the stamp echoed softly against the desk.

James placed a hand on Lena's shoulder.

"It's official," he said.

Lena looked at the stamped paper.

This wasn't a system notification.

This wasn't a tutorial step.

This was real.

And quietly, she knew—

She had just entered the game from a completely different angle.

---

📘 — Observation Day

James left shortly after the registration was completed.

"I'll be back before sunset," he told Lena. "Stay inside the guild building. Don't wander outside alone."

"I won't," Lena replied quickly.

Once he disappeared into one of the inner corridors reserved for noble merchants and large-scale contracts, Lena was left on her own.

She didn't mind.

In fact, this was exactly what she wanted.

---

The Merchant Guild was divided more clearly than she'd expected.

Not by walls—but by behavior.

Lena stood near one of the central halls, pretending to read a notice board while quietly observing the flow of people.

On the upper floor balconies, noble merchants conducted business.

Their stalls weren't loud. No raised voices. No flashy signs.

Instead, they relied on presence.

Clean counters. Polished materials. Uniformed attendants. Family crests displayed subtly but unmistakably.

Customers approached them instead of being called over.

Status sells itself, Lena thought.

A noble merchant didn't need to convince anyone of quality. Their name did the work for them. Even when their goods were ordinary, the assumption of superiority followed automatically.

She watched one noble vendor barely speak as an assistant handled everything—from explanation to payment.

Efficient. Controlled. Distant.

Then Lena shifted her attention to the ground floor.

That was where common merchants gathered.

The difference was immediate.

Voices overlapped. Merchants called out prices loudly. Banners hung from stalls with bold lettering. Samples were placed right at the edge of counters, sometimes pushed into passing hands.

"Fresh shipment!"

"Best quality for the price!"

"Limited stock—don't miss it!"

Some exaggerated. Some begged. Some argued openly with customers.

It was chaotic—but alive.

Common merchants couldn't rely on reputation alone. They competed through volume, price, and persistence. If they weren't seen or heard, they were ignored.

Lena watched one merchant loudly advertise a discount, only for a customer to leave anyway—then stop at another stall with better display, even though the price was higher.

So it's not just about cost, she thought. It's about confidence.

She compared it instinctively to her past life.

Corporate branding versus street-level sales.

Nobles were brands.

Common merchants were individual sellers fighting for attention.

Neither approach was wrong—but they served completely different audiences.

Lena folded her arms, eyes moving constantly.

The game simplified this, she realized.

In Light in the Elements, merchant NPCs were just menus. Nobles had better items. Commoners had cheaper ones. No nuance.

But here—

People reacted to tone, presentation, and trust.

She noticed something else too.

Noble merchants rarely interacted directly with commoners.

And common merchants avoided noble stalls unless invited.

An invisible line.

That gap… Lena thought, that's where advertising matters most.

Not shouting.

Not prestige.

But translation.

She stepped closer to a stall selling basic potions. The merchant had good stock, decent prices—but a messy display and no explanation beyond "effective."

Customers glanced, then moved on.

Same product, Lena thought. Wrong message.

Her fingers twitched slightly.

Ideas were already forming.

By the time James returned later that day, Lena was still standing in the hall—but her expression had changed.

She wasn't just curious anymore.

She was calculating.

📗 — Twin Troubles

"Lady Lena?"

The voice came from behind her.

Lena paused, then turned around.

Standing a short distance away were two familiar figures—similar in face, height, and build, but impossible to confuse once you looked twice.

One wore green-accented merchant robes, his expression sharp and calculating.

The other favored red, his posture relaxed but his eyes always restless.

Silas and Dorian.

The "Twin Troubles."

Lena straightened instinctively.

(Ah. Father's business partners.)

She dipped her head politely.

"Good afternoon, Sir Silas. Sir Dorian."

Dorian blinked, then grinned.

"Well, she's as polite as ever," he said. "But that doesn't answer my question."

Silas folded his arms, gaze already scanning the surroundings before returning to her.

"Why are you alone in the Merchant Guild?" he asked. "Did something happen?"

Dorian leaned closer, lowering his voice.

"You didn't get lost, did you? This place eats adults alive."

Lena shook her head quickly.

"No, I'm not lost."

Both men paused.

She continued calmly.

"I'm waiting for my father. He has a meeting."

Dorian relaxed slightly—then frowned.

"…Then why are you in the registration wing?"

Lena answered without hesitation.

"Because I already registered."

Silence.

Silas's eyes widened.

Dorian's jaw dropped.

"…Registered?" Dorian repeated slowly. "As in—merchant registered?"

Lena nodded.

"Yes. Today."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

"WHAT?" they said at the same time.

Dorian ran a hand through his hair.

"Wait, wait—James actually let you do that?"

Silas stared at her more closely now, his earlier composure cracking.

"You're twelve," he said flatly. "Do you even understand what being a merchant involves?"

Dorian clicked his tongue.

"This is ridiculous. I didn't even let my son touch guild paperwork until he is sixteen."

Silas exhaled sharply.

"My daughter is your age," he added, voice tight. "And I would never bring her here for registration."

Lena blinked once—but didn't back away.

"I'm aware of the responsibilities," she said evenly. "That's why I wanted to register early."

Dorian crouched slightly to meet her eye level.

"Wanted to?" he echoed. "This wasn't forced?"

"No," Lena replied. "It was my decision."

Silas exchanged a look with his brother.

"That man," Dorian muttered. "He's either extremely confident or completely insane."

Silas rubbed his temple.

"Does Amelia know?" he asked reflexively.

Lena shook her head again.

"Mother knows I'm here. She supports it."

That only made things worse.

Dorian straightened up.

"James is really raising her differently," he said. "No wonder her eyes look like that."

Silas looked back at Lena, expression conflicted—part concern, part reluctant respect.

"And what exactly did you register as?" he asked.

Lena answered simply.

"Advertising."

The twins froze again.

"…Advertising?" Dorian repeated.

Silas narrowed his eyes.

"That's not a common choice," he said slowly.

"I know," Lena replied.

The hallway grew quiet.

For the first time since approaching her, neither of them spoke out of worry alone.

Something else had entered the mix.

Interest.

📗 — Questions and Chaos

The hallway felt smaller somehow with Silas and Dorian flanking her.

"So," Dorian started, crossing his arms, "explain this to us. You're twelve. You registered as a merchant. Advertising, no less. Do you even know what that entails?"

Silas stepped closer. "Do you understand taxes, supply chains, contracts, guild rules? What makes you think you can manage—"

Lena held up a hand calmly. "I'm aware of the rules and basic operations. And yes, I've studied supply chains, marketing strategies, and contracts. I understand the difference between direct and indirect promotion, and I can handle initial bookkeeping."

Dorian blinked.

Silas's jaw dropped slightly.

"You… what?" Dorian finally managed. "You actually know that stuff?"

Lena nodded once. "I worked in an office in my previous life. I managed sales reports, drafted advertising proposals, and dealt with client negotiations. That experience gives me the framework to start small but stable."

Silas and Dorian exchanged glances.

(Ah… now it makes sense why James picked her over Thomas.) Silas thought silently.

(Right. Political studies won't make Thomas a competent heir in business.) Dorian added to himself.

Before either of them could speak again, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"Everything alright here?"

James stepped into view, hands casually tucked into his coat pockets.

Dorian's face twisted. "James! What are you doing? Why are you letting her—"

James raised a brow, interrupting casually. "Letting her what? Stand here? Register as a merchant? She wanted to. You think I'd stop her?"

Silas groaned. "You're insane!"

Dorian slammed a hand on the wall. "This is reckless!"

James shrugged, deadpan. "Not really. She's competent. Unlike Thomas. At least she doesn't spend all day reading about parliamentary procedure."

Dorian groaned again. "That's rude!"

Silas shook his head. "Completely inappropriate!"

James waved a hand dismissively. "It's called honesty. You should try it sometime."

The twins sputtered, flustered, and began arguing with him, each talking over the other while James remained completely unfazed, staring at them as if they were children.

Lena, standing to the side, pinched the bridge of her nose slightly and thought:

(Here we go again.)

She sighed inwardly and shook her head at the absurdity of it all.

📗 — A New Rival Emerges

Night had settled over the city, and within the quiet, candle-lit office of the merchant guild leader, Marquis Aldric Veyron sat hunched over paperwork. His robes draped elegantly around him, a small pile of reports stacked neatly at his side.

As he scribbled figures and notes, one report caught his eye: Lena Dunham – Registration as Merchant.

He raised a brow and glanced toward his aide. "Hmm… Dunham? That name rings a bell. What's this about?"

The aide adjusted his posture, careful to remain formal. "Your Liege, it appears the Baron's daughter has officially registered as a merchant. She answered all the clerk's questions with… surprisingly clever responses."

Marquis leaned back slightly, fingers brushing his chin. "Clever, you say? How clever?"

"She even sold… unusual inventions that gained popularity in the capital prior to registering officially," the aide continued.

"Ohh," Marquis said with sudden recognition, his eyes drifting to a small contraption resting on the corner of his desk. "You mean those strange things with strange names—like toasters, electric fans, refrigerators… and that coffee maker."

He lifted the coffee maker, turning it over with a fond expression.

The aide, standing silently, thought deadpan to himself: (Ugh. Right. His Liege has been complaining nonstop about not having coffee. But ever since he heard rumors about that coffee maker from the store, he sent a servant to buy it and has been obsessed with it. Me, too, I guess…)

A sip of coffee warmed the aide as he continued his mental note, while Marquis's eyes glimmered with a mix of amusement and curiosity as he studied the report. "Interesting," he murmured, brushing his chin thoughtfully.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened to reveal a young boy, fourteen, with neatly kept brown hair and brown eyes. He carried himself with the confidence of youth but something in his posture suggested urgency.

"Oh, Christopher" Marquis said casually, masking his curiosity. "And what brings you here at this hour?"

The boy straightened. "Nothing important, Father. I was hoping to gain access to the guild's library tonight. I want to… improve my knowledge. To become a better merchant."

Marquis raised an eyebrow, observing him quietly. (This is unexpected… Normally, he acts confident, assuming he will naturally become the best merchant like me. Yet now… he seems restless.)

"Alright," Marquis said finally. "You may go to the library, but don't stay up too late."

"Yes, Father!" the boy replied eagerly, bowing sharply before stepping out.

As he walked down the hallway, he paused briefly, processing what he had overheard just outside the office door—his father discussing Lena Dunham, the Baron's daughter, and her cleverness in registering as a merchant.

He clenched his fist, feeling a spark of competitiveness ignite. (That girl… a twelve-year-old Baron daughter is already making waves? No… I can't fall behind. I'll become the best merchant, no matter what it takes.)

He continued down the hall, each step more determined than the last.

---

To be continued