Far from the Crimson Veil's joyful seclusion, on the medium-sized Verdant Hollow continent—a land of lush green valleys carved by winding rivers and dotted with bustling trade crossroads that had served as neutral meeting grounds for generations—the Silver Caravan Alliance felt the world's chaos like a sudden shift in the wind before a devastating storm.
Their main outpost, a fortified compound of thick stone warehouses surrounded by high walls and guarded courtyards, had become a hive of frantic activity that never seemed to cease. Caravans returned battered and weary, their wagons scarred from ambushes and guards nursing fresh wounds from fights that had grown increasingly frequent. Warehouses once brimming with neutral Qi stones and essential Dao materials now echoed half-empty, their shelves bare as supplies dwindled and prices for what remained skyrocketed overnight. The air in the compound carried a constant edge of tension, with scouts rushing in with urgent reports and merchants haggling desperately over dwindling stocks.
In the guild's main meeting hall—a sturdy stone chamber lit by Luminescence orbs that flickered and danced in response to the heightened emotions—Toro Vossari, the shrewd Core Formation guild master whose Dao blended Wind and Trade into an instinctive sense for shifting fortunes, paced before his core lieutenants with measured steps that betrayed none of the storm raging in his mind. His hawk-like eyes scanned the scattered reports and intercepted talismans on the table, calculating risks and rewards with the precision of a man who had survived three guild wars by always knowing exactly when to invest heavily and when to withdraw before the losses mounted.
The room was thick with tension. Lena, his sharp-eyed second-in-command who could catch whispers on the breeze miles away, pored over ledgers that showed plummeting stock levels and soaring demand curves. Rico, the ambitious young caravan leader with fire in his veins, fidgeted with barely contained anxiety. Old Harp, the scarred scout whose eye had been lost to a "random" beast attack that smelled too organized, nursed his fresh wound wrapped in blood-stained bandages. Mira the alchemist and the supply overseers sat grim-faced, surrounded by crates of dwindling resources that represented months of careful planning now going awry.
"This isn't random chaos anymore," Toro said at last, his voice low but cutting through the room like a gust through still air. "The shortages are engineered, deliberate, and spreading faster than any natural disaster. Neutral Qi stones—once plentiful enough for any guild to stockpile—have vanished from open markets entirely. Defensive talismans that we could buy by the crate last year now cost triple, and even then, suppliers 'mysteriously' run out. Dao comprehension materials? They're ghosts—gone from legitimate trade, reappearing only on black-market premiums that double prices weekly."
Lena looked up from her ledger, her expression grim. "It's a coordinated move. Powerful forces pushing their agenda through us merchants like knives through soft cloth. Half the raiders we encountered are from Iron Fang clan. Some guilds are spreading various rumors. Shadows of Void dao users are found in the 'accidental' port blockages. They're all in it—bribing merchant guilds, staging raids, fabricating beast tides to mask attacks. The goal is clear: keep everyone off-balance, prevent any single force from consolidating around a potential prodigy."
Rico slammed a fist on the table, rattling ink pots. "Then we fight back! Arm every caravan to the teeth, hire more Core Formation guards, kill the raiders before they raid us!"
Harp snorted, wincing as the motion tugged his wound. "And paint a bigger target on our backs? Small guilds are getting targeted—their warehouses pillaged, their important members dead in 'unfortunate accidents.' Independent merchants like us are prime prey—no clan backing, no empire protection."
Mira swirled a vial of half-finished elixir thoughtfully. "Harp speaks truth. This scale of chaos haven't happened in generations, even during the war of supremacy of the Luna clan. The large scale shortages of goods are escalating tensions among small forces, Beasts and Beastmen tribes are joining in the frenzy, pillaging whatever is left unprotected. Such scales of unrest are not good for us.
Toro stopped pacing, his Dao stirring the air as his mind raced. "Exactly. And that's generally where opportunity hides, in the storm. The world is going to be filled with skirmishes, small and large scale wars, but survivors will rise—swallowing territories, growing into powerful forces overnight. Mid-tier clans use this chance to expand quietly, grabbing land and resources while pretending innocence. Even beast alliances will strengthen themselves through the carnage."
He leaned on the table, eyes gleaming with calculated ambition. "We don't fight blind, and we don't hide like cowards waiting to be picked off. We adapt—and thrive. Double defenses on every warehouses: hire every available Core Formation guard our recent profits can buy, even if it drains reserves short-term. Stockpile aggressively—convert everything we have to neutral or wind-aligned resources for quick adaptation. Spread caravans thin but fast: scout relentlessly, trade where safe, gather intel on who's winning and who's falling."
Lena raised a brow, intrigued. "And when the big players come calling for our services?"
Toro grinned, cunning and bold. "We negotiate from strength. Align ourselves to surviving small forces at premium rates. Buy their temporary loyalty with discounted talismans and shields. When a mid-tier power swallows a region, we become their preferred merchant guild to export their goods at high profits— with exclusive contracts, fat profits. The Luna Clan watches from above; they won't interfere unless someone threatens their dominance directly. We should involve ourselves in their markets, But we should stay below their notice, ride the winners emerging from this bloodbath, and come out richer and stronger than half the mid-tier merchant guilds."
Rico's eyes lit with understanding. "We grow with the chaos instead of drowning in it!"
Harp grunted approval, a rare smile cracking his scarred face. "Shrewd as always, Master. Better to profit from the storm than die in it."
Mira nodded. "We'll need large numbers of communication talismans and every scout sharp. But if we play this right..."
Toro straightened, his presence filling the room like a gathering gale. "Then it's decided. We survive the storm—and emerge on the other side controlling trade lanes others bled to create. The world thinks merchants are soft prey. We'll show them we're the ones who profit when empires fall."
Outside, wind howled through the compound—a promise of the gathering tempest that would soon engulf Lunara.
The merchants had lit the fuse.
And the world began to burn.