Chapter 3

“Starting today,” he said, “the tobacco fields in the Eastern Belt are designated as a National Production Zone. Parts of the territory will be managed directly by the state. Other areas will be opened through limited partnerships with entities deemed capable of maintaining economic stability and distribution security.”

No names were mentioned. No public appointments were made. Only a single closing sentence caused the entire room to tense.

“The state will not tolerate armed conflict in its management.” Outside the building, cigarette smoke hung thicker than usual.

The declaration was delivered without applause.

The President stood behind a dark wooden podium, flanked by national flags and the insignia of the Ministry of Trade. His voice was flat, almost administrative, as if he were announcing a routine budget revision rather than a decision that would redraw the map of power.

The AURA meeting took place far from the city center, inside an old building that looked like an abandoned archival office. Inside, screens glowed with maps of tobacco fields, port routes, and distribution points.

Omar sat at the end of the table, hands folded, listening.

“If the zone is opened,” one AURA official said, “CROCUS is the most logical candidate. They already control the eastern routes.”

“And BOOM,” another added. “Their record is clean. Fast. Efficient.”

Several heads nodded. The name BOOM always carried a note of respect.

Diaz stood, arms crossed. “Together, they’ll be very strong.”

“Strong enough to disrupt the balance?” someone asked.

Omar finally spoke. “No.” The room fell silent.

“Not yet,” he continued calmly. “This is a business consolidation, not a coup. We give them space. We observe how they move.”

His gaze settled on the map displayed on the screen. “But we don’t place the country’s future in the hands of a single syndicate.”

Everyone understood what he meant.

“Prepare alternative routes,” Omar said. “Reserve warehouses. Secondary distributors. If CROCUS fails, the state must not fall with them.”

Diaz nodded slowly. Plan B was already in motion. Omar smiled faintly. “Contact Snow. We’re ready to begin the harvest.”

The CROCUS meeting room lay underground, a former tobacco fermentation warehouse converted into a command center. Its walls were lined with digital maps, distribution lines cutting through the eastern territory like veins. The scent of dried leaves still lingered in the air, mixed with the chill of the air conditioning.

Snow stood at the center, her dark coat open. With a single touch on the panel, the map shifted into a network: fields, warehouses, small ports, land transit points.

“This is the Eastern Belt,” she said evenly. “Three main routes. We maintain two existing lines. One new route, this one, we open quietly.”

Bana leaned against the table, eyes fixed on the newly marked red line.

“The question is simple,” he said. “Do we move now, or wait for AURA’s direction?”

Several heads immediately turned toward Frost, Potlord's right hand. Frost didn’t rush to answer. He took a sip of his coffee, then spoke. “Structurally, we should wait. AURA is the balancing force. They don’t like surprises.”

Snow raised an eyebrow slightly. Almost imperceptible, but enough.

“Should,” she repeated softly. “But we’re not new players. We have warehouses. We have people. We have experience running distribution without noise.”

One senior official cut in, his tone bolder than usual.

“Then why don’t we try operating without AURA?”

The room went still.

Snow shut down the map. The lights dimmed, leaving only their faces suspended in shadow. She looked at them one by one, not sharply, not angrily, but long enough to make each person feel measured.

“Listen to me carefully,” she said at last.

“We are strong. But strength without discipline is an invitation to be destroyed.”

She walked slowly.

“AURA is not a chain. They are an umbrella of stability. As long as we stand beneath it, the rain doesn’t turn into a storm.”

Bana exhaled and nodded faintly. Frost lowered his gaze for a moment.

Snow stopped at the end of the table.

“So this is the decision,” she said. “We prepare everything. Mapping, logistics, manpower. But we don’t move first.” She looked around the room.

“Be good partners. We listen to AURA. And if they remain silent for too long…”

A thin, dangerous smile appeared.

“…we’ll already be ready to choose our own path.”

No one objected. On the screen, the map lit up again. The tobacco routes waited... calm, orderly, like embers untouched by wind.

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