The Gene of the Ancients (Rogue Merchant Book #2): LitRPG Series Roman Prokofiev (top ten books of all time .TXT) 📖

making money. I was willing to sell the goods at prime cost, so he wouldn’t get any clients.

A day later, we left the battleground full of bodies, with crows circling the skies above it. I had killed thirty lots for good, decreasing the markup to 1-3%, while the remaining eight were desperately fighting for air, thrashing around at 10-20%. I had cut off Zampotil’s market by dumping, buying and reselling his key items in scores. The war was vicious, and I had spent eighteen hours in the capsule — I couldn’t let myself be distracted. When I finally crawled out to sleep, I zoned out almost immediately, but even in my dreams I was haunted by rows of numbers and curves of sales graphs.

Upon logging in the next morning, I saw that the Phoenix trader had launched a massive counterattack. He had changed tactics, lowering the prices and trying to buy out almost all of my stuff at the lowest price. His goal was clear: push out the new challenger from the market and regain leadership. But the price had already been brought down, and a trader willing to restore the former rates had his work cut out for him.

No big deal. I wasn’t upset. By buying everything out, he reimbursed my expenses. Funny thing, that whole endeavor even made me a small profit — nothing special, but ten or fifteen thousand, in total. In the meantime, my auction agents in the Bazaar were buying out more of that stuff for me. I ordered the delivery of a fresh batch, including the lots introduced by Zampotil in an attempt to recoup for his losses. All he had managed to achieve were a few days of reprieve, while my cargo was moved. I was ready for a long-lasting trench warfare that was supposed to kick the Phoenix trader out of the stock market, or, rather, force him to assess the damage to his enterprise and the potential aftermath of our confrontation.

A day later, the market froze in an agonizing suspense. The majority of appealing lots that used to provide for my opponent were now on the verge of prime cost. I didn’t care about it much, as I would return my investments anyway. The point was, while I was in Fairs, the Reds would make no money on those goods. Zampotil didn’t seem to do anything, neither putting up new lots nor updating the prices on the old ones. Was he tired of fighting? Did he run out of steam? It sure seemed like that.

And so, I decided to write him a letter. Not from my own account, of course, but via my alt created for the very purpose.

Hi, buddy. Aren’t you tired of butting heads? What if we tried to make a deal?

 

His reply was almost instantaneous.

Who the hell are you? Who do you belong to? You do know that you’re squatting, right? Guess what happens if you do something like that!

 

Just as I had expected, his first reaction was trying to put pressure on me and try to intimidate, the same thing he had done back then during the arrows operation. So I’m squatting, then? Yeah, right. Pushing away his persistent attempts to start a personal chat with me, I sent him another letter.

I see you aren’t ready for a constructive dialogue yet. Write me when you are. Mail only, my PMs are blocked.

 

Alright, moving on. I even liked tormenting him. Thing is, I knew that Zampotil had lots of stuff on his hands, both his own and bought from me, and couldn’t sell it for a profit. He had been unable to sweat it out and had realized that I wouldn’t simply backtrack, that I needed something. Now he was most likely doing his utmost to research my alt, who had a crystal clean record, trying to find out more about that character to put pressure. I also knew that he wouldn’t find anything at all.

The letter arrived in two hours. Zampotil wrote, What do you want?

 

Pleased as punch, I replied,

I know how awful it feels when someone tries squatting on your territory. Now you know that, too. Let’s make a deal: I leave yours alone, and you leave mine.

 

His answer was immediate.

What are you talking about?

 

I spent some time on wording my demand. Eventually, I decided to limit myself to one line. He was no fool; he would get it.

Stop buying from carebears in the north.

 

This time, I had to wait a long time. I almost thought that Zampotil had decided to resume the trading war, having mustered his strength, but eventually, he wrote to me.

I see. I know who’s behind you. HotCat, isn’t it? I’ve recognized your hand. You’re getting into a very unpleasant business, dude. Should I contact the Watchers?

 

That was to be expected, too, so I happily drummed up a response,

What counts is not the knowledge, but the proof.

 

Innocent until proven guilty, wasn’t it? Even if the Phoenix clan ratted me out to the Watchers, what evidence did they have that it was HotCat who had barged into their business? None. An anonymous trader in Fairs, correspondence with a random account, assumptions and conclusions by Zampotil. HotCat was clean as a whistle and could calmly deny all allegations and insinuations. And my opponent couldn’t help but realize that, too. If he turned out to be stubborn as a mule, I could sit there a few more weeks, driving down their prices and blocking the income from Dorsa’s biggest auction.

Everything’s simple, my friend. As soon as you say yes, I’ll magically disappear. If you break your promise, I’ll come back.

 

Zampotil didn’t say anything. He was probably counting the profit he had lost in the course of my attack and potential gain from buying stuff from our tenants, estimating what was