1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 164 The Hyena's Fangs

"Price reduction!"

Muradbey's roar echoed through his luxurious study, causing the pendants on the crystal chandelier to clink softly. His usually pampered face was now contorted with bulging veins, and his eyes were bloodshot, making him look like a trapped wild beast.

"If he lowers his price by 30%, I'll lower it by 40%! If he dares to lower it by 50%, I'll transport goods for those bastards for free! I want to see how long his little bit of British gold coins can burn!"

Enraged, Muradbay immediately launched the most direct and brutal counterattack. He ordered all his fleets to seize customers at prices lower than Helios Shipping, regardless of cost. In his view, the commercial war ultimately comes down to who has the deeper pockets. As long as he could withstand the first wave of attacks, his decades-long foundation in Smyrna and his massive cash flow would be enough to wear down this outsider.

However, he soon realized that he was terribly wrong.

From the very beginning, this war was not an equal contest.

"Sir, Sun God Shipping's latest quote is 10% lower than ours."

"Then lower it again! Another ten percent lower than them!"

"Sir, they've lowered their prices again... now they're 20% lower than us."

"Damn it! Follow me!"

No matter how low he pushed the price, the next morning, the price list outside Petaras would always show an even lower, outrageously low number. Murad felt like a boxer fighting an invisible sea; every punch he threw with all his might vanished without a trace, while every wave his opponent created was enough to engulf him.

He burned real gold and silver from his own vault.

Behind Petaras is the unlimited credit of the entire Greek national bank.

This is Murad's private coffers, a war waged against a nation's finances.

Worse things followed.

Having lost his most experienced captain and a large number of skilled sailors, Murad's fleet began to suffer a series of accidents. A cargo ship laden with silk, while departing port, struck a reef amidst gasps of alarm because the new captain was unfamiliar with the waterways and sea conditions. Half of the valuable cargo was submerged, resulting in heavy losses. Another ship bound for Egypt, due to crew error, broke its mainmast at sea and had to return to port in disarray for repairs, becoming the laughingstock of the entire dock.

With efficiency greatly reduced, Petalas's golden axe cleaved at the other leg of the Murad Empire.

The chief pilot of Smyrna Port suddenly announced a month-long leave of absence, citing his wife's serious illness. His replacement, the deputy, was always a step behind in managing Murad's fleet, either missing the tides or assigning them to the most remote berths. The port's largest fuel suppliers also began using "short supply" as an excuse to delay or even refuse to refuel Murad's ships with coal and fresh water.

Murad's once mighty fleet, which had swaggered through the Aegean and Eastern Mediterranean, now mostly sits empty in port. Unable to set sail or generate profits, they are like gaping wounds, draining enormous sums of money daily in maintenance and berthing fees.

Panic, like a plague, began to spread wildly within Murad's business empire.

Petalas' offensive goes far beyond that.

He lured away not only captains and sailors with money. Murad's most trusted accountant, a colleague of twenty years, vanished overnight with several key business ledgers, only to reappear in the "Sun God Shipping" office the next day. The warehouse manager handed over the inventory list of Murad's goods to Petaras intact.

What humiliated him most was that one of Murad's mistresses, his favorite Armenian dancer, had also turned every roar and decision Murad made in his study into intelligence reports on Petalas's desk because she had accepted a priceless pearl necklace from Petalas.

Murad felt like a naked giant, all his business secrets and every weakness of his empire laid bare before his adversary's blade.

He was completely drained.

After receiving yet another report of his fleet running aground, Muradbey finally lost his temper. He stormed into the residence of his greatest protector—the governor of Smyrna—with several large chests of gold coins.

"Your Excellency!" Murad almost cried out, embellishing Petaras's various "misdeeds," "That British company, they're engaging in malicious competition! They're trying to ruin Smyrna's shipping order! You must step in and punish them!"

The white-haired governor of Smyrna listened slowly, stroking his gray beard. He nodded repeatedly to appease the enraged Murad, but in his heart, he was plotting something else entirely.

This Murad, who usually bullies others in Smyrna under his protection, has long been a source of resentment for him. Now, a company with British ties has arrived—perfect. Let this hyena fight the British lion. Let them fight to the bitter end, and then he can clean up the mess.

Thinking of this, the governor's face softened into a kind smile, and he personally poured Murad a cup of hot tea: "Murad, don't be anxious. The empire's commercial dignity cannot be violated. However, the other party is, after all, a British company, so we must be cautious in our procedures."

He accepted Murad's heavy boxes of gold coins, patted his chest, and assured him that he would "thoroughly investigate the matter." Then, he merely sent two minor officials to the Sun God Shipping office for an afternoon of tea, and that was the end of it.

This road is also blocked.

Less than two months.

Muradbay's financial chain was on the verge of collapse. He sat alone in his empty study, staring at the alarming deficits in his ledgers. The vast business empire his father had left him was crumbling at a visible pace.

The French red wine on the table tasted bitter, like bile, in his mouth.

For the first time, a hyena-like light of despair and madness shone in his eyes.

He understood. In business, he had lost. Completely and utterly defeated. Since money couldn't buy victory, he would buy it with blood.

Muradbey slowly stood up, walked to the wall, and took down a short, gleaming, oiled scimitar from behind an oil painting.

If the rules at the card table are no longer working, then let's use rules outside the card table to end this game.

He gripped the hilt of his knife tightly, facing the door, and growled in a hoarse, distorted voice:

"Someone come here!"