The crackdown on smuggling gangs did nothing to stop the Claire Family from selling their foamy malt wine.

Each passing day was agony for the head of Semos Trading Company.

Ordinary malt wine had to be shipped elsewhere to sell. Sales plummeted. Some batches had already spoiled, forcing desperate disposal efforts.

Grute herbs piled up in warehouses. He dared not brew more ordinary malt wine.

At the same time, he had to take out loans to buy even more Grute herbs.

Other merchants, including Sloke Trading Company, sensed trouble and stopped bulk purchases.

To block the Claire Family from acquiring Grute, Semos had no choice but to double down.

Every single day now added to his crushing debt.

Without a miracle, bankruptcy was inevitable.

In a short time, the Semos patriarch’s hair turned completely white.

Just then, his son Ron burst into the office. His face was pale with fear.

The old man thought he was seeing things. But Ron’s terror didn’t fade. He just stared back, dumbstruck.

“What is it?” the Semos patriarch asked, forcing his voice steady.

Ron snapped out of his daze. “Father… the Claire Family… announced an investment drive.”

“Investment?” The old man frowned. “What kind?”

“Breweries. They’re sharing their recipe and techniques. Partnering with brewers to make foamy malt wine.” Ron swallowed hard.

The Semos patriarch’s brow furrowed deeper, but he wasn’t alarmed yet.

“It’s natural they’d give up their secrets. They’re desperate. Once the Count intervenes—”

“No!” Ron cut him off sharply.

“Their recipe doesn’t require Grute herbs!”

“What?” Semos froze, wondering if age had dulled his hearing.

He leaned forward urgently. “Say that again.”

“Their foamy malt wine—renamed Claire Beer—doesn’t need Grute herbs at all, Father! We’ve all been played!” Ron cried in anguish.

The Semos patriarch went rigid. He slumped back in his chair, all strength draining from him.

“No Grute herbs?”

“No Grute herbs?”

“How…?”

“Why…?”

“What makes them different?”

He muttered incoherently, lost in a daze as if witnessing a phantom.

“We’ve all been tricked!” Ron gripped the table, wanting to smash his head through it.

“Everyone’s dumping Grute herbs outside right now.”

“No… it’s a trap!” The old man clung to hope, eyes pleading with his son.

“They’re spreading rumors to crash prices… then buying cheap?”

Ron hesitated. “I don’t know. But brewers are flooding their estate seeking partnerships. They’re not buying Grute at all…”

“Maybe… maybe they’re just waiting for prices to drop further?” The Semos patriarch grasped at straws.

Ron shook his head miserably. “Father, even if it’s a trap—they’ve already won. Everyone’s selling. They can buy all they want now. We can’t lock them out anymore!”

The Semos patriarch froze again. Then fury erupted.

“Traitors! We go to the Count immediately. We must stop this dumping!”

He shot up, snatching his coat.

Ron didn’t stop him. Panicked himself, he saw no other option.

Outside the trading company building, the streets teemed with people hawking Grute herbs. Fear etched every face.

Many had bought high during the “Grute Bubble,” betting on rising prices. Now trapped, they slashed costs to cut losses.

If Grute prices kept falling, bankruptcies would spread far beyond Semos Trading.

Watching through the carriage window, the Semos patriarch actually laughed—a dry, ugly sound. Wrinkles deepened into grotesque folds.

He mocked these blind, foolish sheep.

Ron watched his father, heart heavy with sorrow.

Finding comfort in others’ misery changed nothing. His own ruin was still coming.

The carriage rolled on. Streets overflowed with Grute sellers. Panic spread faster than any plague.

Would appealing to Count Gorde even work now?

Even as lord of these lands, Gorde couldn’t control the market.

Unless… force was used.

Yes. Only force remained.

This territory belonged to the Count. The Claire Family operated under his rule.

Ron silently accepted this truth—the only solution left.

They arrived at Gorde’s castle in Fokxas—a fortress rivaling a minor palace.

Lanche had once lived here.

To this land, Gorde was king. His castle reflected that power: vast, imposing, guarded by knights and soldiers.

The Semos pair faced no resistance entering.

Inside, Count Gorde’s face was stormy. Beside him, Lucien frowned deeply—they already knew the city’s turmoil.

Father and son dropped to their knees. The old man wailed, “My lord Count, save us!”

Tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks. Regret choked him.

If only he hadn’t pressured the Claires so hard when they launched their new wines… If he’d let the market work… He might have obtained distillation secrets peacefully.

But regrets were the loser’s lament. Too late now.

“And how exactly should I save you?” Gorde’s icy glare cut through the room. “Worthless fools!”

His roar silenced everyone.

“Mobilize the merchants!” Ron gritted out. “All losses were caused by the Claire Family. They must pay!” He lifted his head.

“They disrupted the market! Lured honest traders into reckless speculation! Punish them! I beg Your Grace’s justice!” He slammed his forehead down.

The Semos patriarch jolted awake. *Thud. Thud. Thud.* His head struck the floor. “Justice, Your Grace! Justice!”

Gorde studied them. His expression softened slightly.

At least this proposal… resonated with him.