After graduation, I bid farewell to all the Fravikveidimadr. For the past eight years, they had been monitoring me and registering me under the Essence Keeper Order, allowing me to move about freely. They rejected the idea at first, but after a few offers, namely, that I would return with something they could use for experimentation, they eventually agreed. Cunning minds, as expected. Even so, they'll continue checking in on me every few months to make sure I don't lose control.
Three weeks have passed since graduation day. Just enough time for the name Welt Rothes, the unremarkable cadet from the Royal Military Academy of Clockthon, to be thoroughly buried beneath the mountain of royal bureaucracy. In this world, if you don't stand out, you are forgotten. And being forgotten is a luxury I paid dearly for.
I now occupy a modest office on the second floor of a warehouse I recently acquired in the harbor district. This place stands in stark contrast to the paranoid grandeur of the academy. The air here is thick, saturated with the scent of salt, rotting fish, and the tar of endless ship repairs. The once-sturdy wooden walls have been weathered by time and sea winds, and from my window, I can see a maze of docks, towering cranes that resemble skeletal monsters, and ships from every corner of the world docking and departing.
The harbor district is the heart of Clockthon, its economic artery and its sewer line. Here, wealth flows in, and poverty festers in the muddy alleys. The perfect place to begin what I have in mind.
My shell company, Boyle Acquisitions, has no official ties to me. My lawyer, Finch, is the only point of contact, and all communication goes through a complex chain of intermediaries. On paper, I'm just a mid-level operations manager, hired to oversee the company's assets in this district. Fake identity, fabricated résumé, everything meticulously crafted.
These past three weeks have been spent consolidating control. I've studied every detail of the properties I've taken over, dilapidated warehouses filled with goods from bankrupt minor noble houses, several cramped homes occupied by dockworkers, and a seedy tavern that's always crowded. They're not glamorous assets, but they're useful nonetheless. I fired the corrupt former managers, renegotiated lease contracts with the merchants, and implemented an efficient inventory system based on the logistics principles from my previous world.
Every day is a monotonous yet vital routine. I wake before dawn, review the ledgers, walk through my properties, observe the flow of goods and people, then spend the rest of the day in my office, planning the next steps. It's dull work, work that Evolvers obsessed with Essence power and combat would never understand. They see power as something spectacular, a burst of energy. I see it as systemic control, deliberately invisible.
That evening, I was reviewing the cash flow reports from the tavern The Rusty Anchor when I heard a commotion downstairs. It wasn't the usual drunken brawl, there was a note of organized anger in it.
I walked to the window and looked down into the warehouse yard. A group of around twenty people had gathered at the main entrance. They weren't raiders. From what I could see, they were workers, dock laborers, along with a few women and children. Their faces bore a mix of desperation and resolve. They carried no weapons, of course, such things are illegal for people like them, just a few crude banners made from old sackcloth.
"GIVE US BACK OUR JOBS!"
"BOYLE ACQUISITIONS ARE OPPRESSORS!"
"THE VARNER HOUSE NEVER FIRED US!"
The Varner House, one of the minor noble families whose assets I absorbed after they failed to repay their debts to the Merchant Guild. I had liquidated their inefficient, loss-making fish-packing operation, one of the properties I gained in that transaction. From a business standpoint, it was a logical decision. Their workforce was bloated, the equipment outdated, and they'd been operating at a loss for three consecutive quarters.
I observed the leader of the group, a man in his late forties, his build forged by a lifetime of labor, not military training. His face was hard, with a square jaw and pale blue eyes fixed sharply on my warehouse. He wasn't shouting like the others. He simply stood there in silence, the embodiment of cold defiance. There was intelligence in his bearing, perhaps a kind of stoicism, native to this world.
I descended to the ground floor. Two hired guards, former mercenaries, stood nervously by the door, hands resting on their sword hilts.
"Open the door," I ordered.
"But, Mr. Rothes," one of them hesitated, "they might force their way in."
"They won't," I replied calmly. "Their leader doesn't want a riot. He wants negotiation. Open it."
Reluctantly, the guard unlatched the heavy bolt. I stepped outside, standing on the threshold, facing the crowd. Silence fell instantly as they caught sight of me. I was young, dressed plainly like a clerk, certainly not someone who looked like a noble or a wealthy merchant. They looked confused.
"I am Welt Rothes, the operational manager of Boyle Acquisitions in this district," I said in a flat, clear voice, loud enough for all to hear. "Who speaks for you?"
The man I had been watching stepped forward. He gave me a long, assessing look.
"My name is Dave Vance," he said. His voice was gravelly and deep, the voice of a man who only spoke when necessary. "I was the head steward of the late Lord Varner. These people are the ones you've driven to starvation."
"I haven't starved anyone, Mr. Vance," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. "The Varner fish-packing operation was shut down because it was unprofitable. It was an unavoidable business decision. Keeping it running would've only led to further losses for everyone involved."
"A business decision?" Vance scoffed, a bitter, cynical smile creeping across his lips. "Is that what you call these people's lives? For three generations, the Varner family gave them work. It wasn't much, but it was honest. We took care of each other. Then your company came out of the shadows, like a ghost, bought up the debt, and within a week, everything we built was destroyed."
"The world changes," I said. "What worked in the past doesn't guarantee success in the future. Sentiment can't pay wages or buy bread."
"We're not asking for sentiment anymore," Vance retorted, his eyes flashing dangerously. "We're demanding justice. You took our livelihood. You need to give it back."
"I can't reopen a loss-making operation," I stated firmly. "It wouldn't be logical."
"Then give us other jobs," he demanded. "These warehouses aren't empty. You're moving goods, I can tell. You need hands to lift them. My people are hard workers."
I had already considered this. Hiring them would be the easiest way to resolve the issue. But it would set a precedent. Would I be expected to take in every laid-off worker whenever I restructured an asset? It was inefficient. Then again, letting a group of angry, desperate people camp outside my property wasn't good for business either.
This was my first test. Not a test of combat or military strategy, of course, but one of the subtler games of power. Vance wasn't a foolish enemy. He used social and moral pressure to force my hand. He had transformed the laid-off workers from mere numbers in my ledger into real human problems standing at my doorstep.
"I'll consider it," I finally said. "But I'm not making any promises. Disperse for now. A crowd like this draws the wrong kind of attention."
"We're not leaving until we get a real answer," Vance replied stubbornly. "We'll be here tomorrow, and the day after that. We'll tell every ship that docks, every trader that passes, how Boyle Acquisitions runs its business."
He knew exactly where to press. Reputation. In the world of commerce, reputation is everything. A company seen as cruel and unstable would struggle to find partners.
I held his gaze for a moment. I could see the resolve there, the loyalty to his people, and a deep resentment toward me and everything I represented. He wasn't just an emotional complainer. Dave Vance was a leader, and that made him dangerous.
"Fine," I said. "Give me until tomorrow morning. I'll review my needs and see if there are any positions available. But if the answer is no, it's final. Come alone at dawn. We'll talk."
Vance hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Tomorrow at dawn."
He turned and signaled to the crowd. With a few murmurs and dissatisfied glances in my direction, they gradually dispersed, melting back into the bustle of the port district.
I returned inside the warehouse, the heavy door closing behind me. The guards looked relieved. I, on the other hand, felt a strange flicker of excitement. This was more engaging than simply balancing books. This was a real problem, with unpredictable human variables.
That night, I didn't sleep. After what had happened, I got to work. I wouldn't just resolve the issue with Dave Vance, I would leverage it. I spread out a detailed map of the harbor district on my desk, along with all the documents relating to Boyle Acquisitions' properties and my competitors' operations.
First, I needed to know more about Vance. I couldn't rely solely on what I had seen. I sent a coded message through a trusted courier to one of my cultivated informants, a senior clerk at the Civil Registry who had access to poorly guarded archives. I wanted everything on Dave Vance: employment history, family, affiliations, debts, anything he could dig up.
While I waited for a reply, I began drafting a plan. Plan A was simple: hire a few of Vance's people for manual labor at minimum wage, just enough to make him leave. That would solve the short-term issue but reveal a weakness. Plan B was more complex.
I reviewed my assets. I didn't just own warehouses. I also owned a tavern, The Rusty Anchor. It was moderately profitable, but had a poor reputation, a haven for smugglers and drunks. But what if I could change that? What if I could create something new from the ashes of the Varner fish operation?
My mind worked quickly, connecting seemingly unrelated dots. The laid-off workers needed jobs. I needed loyal, manageable labor. The harbor district lacked one thing: a clean, decent place for dockworkers to eat, one not run by thugs or selling watered-down alcohol.
An idea began to take shape. I would hire them, but also empower them within a system entirely under my control.
By dawn, the courier returned with a thin envelope. Inside was a brief report on Dave Vance. It confirmed my suspicions. He was a man with an impeccable record. He had worked for the Varner family since he was sixteen, rising from footman to head steward. His wife had died of fever a few years ago. He had a fifteen-year-old daughter, Claren, who worked as a dishwasher at an inn in the merchant district. Vance had no debts, no criminal record. He was respected in his community. One detail caught my eye: he had once led a minor resistance against the dockworkers' guild when they tried to extort Varner's laborers. He wasn't someone who could be intimidated.
That made him more dangerous—and more valuable.
Just as the first light touched the tops of the harbor cranes, Dave Vance arrived, alone as promised. I met him in the same courtyard.
"I have an offer for you," I said without preamble.
He narrowed his eyes, wary. "I'm listening."
"I'm not reopening the fish packing operation. And I won't hire your people as common warehouse labor," I began. He tensed, thinking I was about to turn him down. "I'm offering something different. I'll convert one of the unused small warehouses into a public kitchen and dining hall. We'll provide affordable hot meals for dockworkers, clean, fast, and efficient."
Vance stared at me, confused. "A public kitchen? What's in it for you?"
"It's business, Mr. Vance. There's demand, and I intend to supply it. I'll provide the initial capital—renovation, equipment, first round of supplies. In return, Boyle Acquisitions will take fifty percent of the net profit. Forty percent will go to wages, for your people. The remaining ten percent will be reinvested into the business."
His brow furrowed as he processed that. "And who will run it?"
"You," I said. "You'll be the operations manager. You'll handle staffing, procurement, and day-to-day operations. Your salary will come from the profit share. The better it performs, the more you and your people earn. In short, you won't work for me, you'll work with me, as a junior partner."
Silence fell between us as Vance digested the unexpected proposal. I could see the conflict in his eyes, his suspicion of me versus the very real opportunity I was offering. I wasn't just offering jobs. I was offering dignity, responsibility, and a share in success.
"Why?" he asked finally, his voice low. "Why are you doing this? It sounds too good to be true. What's the catch?"
"There is no catch," I answered truthfully. "Only logic. First, it resolves your protest permanently and rebrands Boyle Acquisitions from 'oppressor' to 'community investor.' Second, it creates a new revenue stream from an idle asset. Third, it gives me a workforce bound to me through shared success, not weekly wages. Their loyalty will be to you, and yours, through this contract, will be to me. It's efficient."
I let him think. I didn't try to push him. I had already cast the bait. Now, I just had to see if the fish would bite.
"I need assurance," he said after a while. "A written contract, notarized by a public clerk. Everything clearly spelled out."
"Of course," I agreed immediately. "I already prepared a draft." I signaled to one of the guards, who brought over a leather folder. I handed it to Vance. "Read it. Take it to any clerk you trust. If the terms are exactly as I said, we have a deal."
He took the folder, his calloused fingers tracing its edge. He didn't open it right away. Instead, he fixed me with a hard stare, trying to intimidate me.
"If you try to deceive us—" he began.
"If I were to deceive you," I cut him off, "you'd be back here with more people, and my reputation would be in ruins, which would cost me far more than any petty gain from tricking a handful of workers. As I said, it's just logic."
He nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied with that simple explanation. It was a language he understood, by that I didn't mean kindness, but rather a form of self-interest I had already calculated beforehand.
"I'll return before noon," he said, then turned and left, the folder clutched tightly in his hand.
I watched him go. This was the first step in building my power network at the grassroots level. Vance, with his integrity and influence, would become an invaluable pawn. Through him, I wouldn't just control a soup kitchen; I'd scale this to the point of having ears in every corner of the dockside district. I'd know gossip, cargo movements, who owed what to whom, what secrets were buried in the taverns. Information is power, and I had just planted a listening post at the heart of the city's artery.
As I returned to my office, a slight vibration echoed through my nadir circuits. It wasn't like a surge in power, something else entirely. A cold, quiet satisfaction from executing a plan perfectly. This was a different kind of power from Essence battles, but no less intoxicating.
Yet as I sat back at my desk, I noticed an envelope lying on top. It hadn't been there before. Made of expensive parchment, sealed with red wax bearing a symbol I didn't recognize, a raven perched on a scale.
My heart beat a little faster. My guards wouldn't let anyone through. Whoever placed this here slipped past them unnoticed. That meant they were extremely skilled.
Carefully, I broke the seal and unfolded the letter. The handwriting was elegant and firm.
"Mr. Rothes,
An impressive move with the Varner workers. Clever and efficient. However, the dockside district is a fragile ecosystem. Every action you take will create ripples you cannot predict.
You have drawn the attention of entities far larger than desperate protestors.
Boyle Acquisitions is a new name, but your methods, acquiring distressed assets through financial leverage, are not. We've observed similar operations for years.
We want to know who is behind this dull shell company name. We want to know your true objective.
An invitation. Tonight, at the stroke of midnight. Come to the rooftop of the Wool Exchange Building in the Financial District. Come alone. We need to speak about the future of investment in Clockthon.
Do not see this letter as a threat. Perhaps you may view it as recognition.
You have entered the game. Now it's time to meet the other players."
There was no signature.
I read the letter again and again. This was a rapid escalation. I'd hoped to stay under the radar for months, perhaps even years. But my maneuver with Vance, designed as a local solution, had acted like a beacon for anyone watching.
A raven on a scale. I didn't recognize the symbol from any major noble family. A trade guild, perhaps? Or a more esoteric faction? Whoever they were, they had resources and intelligence. They knew about Boyle Acquisitions. They knew about me as the "manager." And they were skilled enough to bypass my security without leaving a trace.
A chill ran down my spine. It was adrenaline. Excitement. I had spent eight years playing it safe inside the academic cage. I missed this. The game where the stakes were real.
William Salwors had warned me the game wasn't over. Roshtov had warned me the outside world wouldn't be easily fooled. And now, this invitation was proof of that. I had moved my first pawn, and the unseen player across the board had responded.
I looked out the window. In the distance, the grand central clocktower loomed over the city, its tireless mechanism ticking onward.
My grand plan to "fix the world" had always seemed like a distant, theoretical idea. But now, I was dealing with real people with real wills, Dave Vance fighting for his people, and this mysterious faction guarding their territory.
I burned the letter over the candle until it was nothing but ash.
Midnight. Rooftop of the Wool Exchange Building.
I would come. Of course I would come.
The prelude was over.
The real game had just begun.
And, to my surprise, I was looking forward to it.