I Became A Black Merchant In Another World-Chapter 368: Potatoes, Sweet Potatoes, Corn, New World (4)

I had only made a passing joke about the gold rush, yet he immediately recalled the tactics used by those who actually profited from it.

Gold rushes never truly yielded gold for those who sought it.

But the prospectors were so desperate that they recklessly bought supplies at exorbitant prices.

Merchants made a fortune by marking up their goods fivefold, and while 99.9% of the miners ended up destitute, the ones selling them tools and provisions walked away as millionaires.

“Let’s do it. Contact Ericsson in Soros and instruct him to sell the essential survival equipment and livestock at a ‘reasonable’ price.”

“Yes, my lord. But what if their guides fail to locate the Cherokee tribe?”

“That doesn’t matter. They’re the ones choosing to go off and die on their own. It has nothing to do with us.”

“You’re absolutely right, my lord.”

In Korea, if you sold a life jacket to someone intent on jumping into the Han River, you’d end up in prison for aiding and abetting a suicide.

But in the Toscani Empire? Selling a suicidal man a gun or a dagger wasn’t considered a crime. Nor was it seen as an ethical issue.

If someone was foolish enough to die because they fell for a fake lead, that was on them.

Sebastian placed a stack of letters before me.

“These are requests from various nobles, including His Grace the Duke of Visconti and members of the Sforza faction, all pleading for information on the source of cochineal and tobacco. They assume that our family must be involved in the trade.”

“This is ridiculous. The Maasai Confederation is only exporting small amounts—why are they coming to us?”

Under normal circumstances, such a request would be utterly meaningless.

But in this particular case, the actions of these tobacco and ‘red fever’ addicts were entirely justified.

After all, both cochineal and tobacco were being carefully controlled by me.

But here’s the thing—

If I refuse to tell them where I’m getting it from, what can they possibly do?

Absolutely nothing. If they’re so frustrated, they should have charted a route to the New World themselves.

“Knowledge is power.”

“The butler who delivered His Grace the Duke of Visconti’s letter mentioned that the duke wants you to deliver cochineal and tobacco to him as soon as possible. It’s not certain, but if you don’t hand over the tobacco within a month... he might just come here himself.”

“This is madness. I already told them I don’t know anything.”

“My lord, whenever something new and suspiciously lucrative hits the market in the empire, 99 times out of 100, it turns out to be something our family introduced.”

If you are reading this translation anywhere other than Novelight.net or SilkRoadTL, it has been stolen.

“...I can’t even argue with that.”

I had once sold seaweed as an aphrodisiac.

I had scaled up the textile industry by thirtyfold using advanced weaving, spinning, and cotton-processing machines.

I had set up large-scale poultry farms, cutting the empire’s chicken prices in [N O V E L I G H T] half.

Given all that, it was only natural for people to assume that I was behind this latest economic phenomenon.

That was precisely why they were merely sending letters and assembling exploration parties instead of outright demanding that I disclose the source.

I took the letter from the Duke of Visconti and began reading it.

[To my dear Baron Rothschild, my grandson-in-law,

Fabio, I recently came across a company called the Louis Vuitton Trading House, which introduced a dye called cochineal and a product called tobacco.

I have spent a great deal of money acquiring some, but it’s not nearly enough to meet my family’s needs.

Since you are the greatest merchant in the empire, I hope you can personally secure more for me.]

At first glance, it seemed like a completely ordinary letter.

But the handwriting and tone told me everything I needed to know.

A noble of the duke’s status rarely wrote his own letters—his secretaries handled all correspondence, which meant his handwriting was never consistent.

Yet, this letter was unmistakably in his own hand.

Moreover, the tone was unusually gentle.

Even when the duke addressed me affectionately, his writing always carried the arrogance and dignity befitting a noble.

This letter, however, read like a warm request from an old grandfather to his grandson-in-law.

As the saying goes, when someone suddenly acts out of character, it means one of two things—either they’re dying, or they desperately need a favor.

[I’m getting old, and these days, my only small joy comes from smoking tobacco. I’d greatly appreciate any assistance you can provide.]

The underlying threat was clear: If you don’t help me, I will personally come and make a scene.

Deus, have mercy.

I knew tobacco addiction was hard to break, even harder than alcohol.

But for a man as proud as the Duke of Visconti to go this far...

This chapter is updated by freēwēbnovel.com.

“The other nobles’ letters must all be similar.”

“They are, my lord.”

“Sebastian, what do you think would happen if I publicly announced that I was monopolizing the tobacco and cochineal trade?”

“As long as we obscure the true source—just as we do when concealing the origins of our gold—it should be manageable. If we stage some transactions in the Maasai Confederation and allow some gold to exchange hands, people will simply assume that a specialized tribe within the confederation is the supplier.”

“And if I keep the monopoly entirely to myself?”

“Everyone knows about the close ties between the Rothschild family and the Maasai Confederation. If we alone controlled the trade, there would be no immediate cause for suspicion. Of course, political and economic pressure on us might increase, but...”

Sebastian grinned at me.

“My lord, you needn’t dirty your hands with such trivial matters. If you allow it, I, Sebastian, will ensure that anyone who dares to challenge us regrets ever being born.”

Some say revenge is meaningless.

They’re wrong.

If you let yourself be trampled on without retaliating, people will take that as a sign of weakness and pile on even harder.

Even in a workplace, once you’re seen as a pushover, you’ll end up doing all the grunt work while someone else steals the credit.

And in politics?

If I appear weak, I’ll be on the guillotine in a matter of months, and my wives—except for Erica—will be sold off to who knows where.

“We also need to introduce new food supplies—especially potatoes, sweet potatoes, peanuts, and corn. Those crops will be crucial to the empire’s development.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I’m going to host an extravagant banquet and serve dishes made from those ingredients.”

First, I had to make the nobility associate these foods with luxury.

“Tell Baron Conte to have the chefs from Restaurant Rothschild prepare the finest cuisine. And let him know—if he fails, he’ll pay dearly for it.”

I sincerely hoped he wouldn’t mess this up.