The morning air of Clockthon felt sharp in my lungs. October 11th. My war of attrition against House Droct was going as calculated. Fear and financial loss were more effective weapons than swords. They were now hesitant to move openly, and of course, this created space to initiate the next step.
I stretched my body on the silk bed in my sky manor. A good night's sleep was a strange thing for me, something I usually thought of as a luxury only enjoyed when everything was under control. This morning, I felt calm. That was a bad sign. Calmness was a dangerous illusion.
After showering and putting on a casual, inconspicuous outfit: linen shirt and charcoal-colored trousers, I left my golden cage. I didn't take a carriage and chose to walk instead, not wanting to waste money. I needed to feel the texture of this city, I needed the information that passed through speech. Scents, faint conversations, even the suspicious glances of city guards were information. The mechanical smell of steam pipes mixed with the expensive perfume of passing nobles. The contrast in this city was clear.
I walked about a kilometer, away from the sterile financial center, heading toward the outskirts at the border of the Trade District. This place was known for its bustling market, where fresh produce from all provinces was traded. Here the air was more honest, filled with the scent of soil, vegetables, and life.
I found my target there. Sitting at a rickety wooden table beside a vegetable stall, a man was playing chess against himself. His bright red hair, most likely the result of cheap alchemical dye, stood in contrast to his simple but clean clothing. He was in his mid-twenties. His brown eyes moved quickly, scanning the chessboard with the intensity of a strategist.
According to the data Magpie gathered for me, the man was a puzzle from the information I received. No official records of his birth. He appeared in Clockthon five years ago from who knows where, then lived by doing odd jobs, acting as a language translator for scholars, sometimes as a breaker of simple mechanical security systems for merchants testing their defenses. He was very intelligent, skeptical, and loyal to no one. A perfect candidate.
"Are you Vashtun Rohnberg?" I asked, standing beside his table.
He looked up, his sharp eyes evaluating me from head to toe. "Yes. And you are? If it's not important, don't bother me."
I leaned in and whispered in his ear, just one word. A codeword I knew was only understood by those who moved in the underworld of information. "Zagan."
His hand, holding a knight piece, immediately froze. He looked at me, his expression changing from annoyed to alert. "What do you want?" he said quietly. "We'd better talk somewhere safer."
He quickly packed up his chessboard, said a brief goodbye to the vegetable vendor next to him, then walked down a narrow alley. I followed him silently. The alley led me to a more run-down area, filled with old wooden buildings. He stopped in front of a house that looked like it might collapse, but was surprisingly clean. The walls were made of reinforced bamboo matting, the foundation wood, and the windows small.
Vashtun opened the door and gestured for me to enter. "Come in."
The interior was deceptive. Though small, with just one bedroom, a bathroom, and a combined kitchen, everything was neatly arranged and functional. The interior walls were made of solid brick, making the room feel cool. I could tell this was the den of a man who knew how to survive, who prioritized function over appearance.
"Sit," said Vashtun, pointing to two chairs facing each other with a table in between.
He went into the kitchen and returned with two cups of strong black coffee on a wooden tray. He placed them on the table between us. "Drink."
I picked up the cup. The aroma was strong and bitter. I didn't drink it. I stood, carried the cup to the open front door, and poured its contents onto a small potted plant outside.
Sizzle.
The plant immediately withered, its leaves blackening and shriveling as if burned by acid. Fast-acting contact poison, masked in the strong aroma of coffee.
I stepped back inside and placed the empty cup on the table. "Don't try anything stupid like that again, Vashtun," I said sharply.
He was surprised, but his surprise quickly turned into an amused smirk. "Haha. Let's call it part of the selection test. So, what's your purpose in coming here, O man who calls me by my alias?"
"I want you," I answered. "Not to work in a factory or industry. I want you to work with me."
"A mercenary?" he asked, sipping his own coffee casually, as if he hadn't just poisoned mine.
"No. Something bigger. We're going to run a scheme that will impact the entire kingdom. We're going to monopolize trade in the underworld. You know what I mean."
He looked at me for a long moment, evaluating. "Sure, I get the concept. But what makes you think you can pull it off? You look like some noble kid fresh out of academy. I doubt you could survive a fight with a single dockyard thug. I need assurance."
"Very well," I said.
I didn't move from my seat. I simply raised my hand, palm facing him. Void Essence gathered, not forming a solid dagger this time, but a needle—very thin and nearly invisible.
Flick.
With a small flick of my wrist, the needle shot silently across the room.
Ting!
The needle embedded itself in one of the wooden chess pieces inside the pouch on the table, splitting it in two perfectly without damaging the pouch.
Vashtun's eyes widened. It wasn't a powerful attack, but one that showed terrifying precision. He knew that if I had wanted, that needle could've pierced his eyeball.
"That's… pretty dangerous," he said, the smirk now gone, replaced by a serious expression. "Alright. What's the deal?"
"You'll be my partner," I explained. "Not a subordinate. A partner. You'll operate in the underworld, build networks, gather information, and carry out operations that require a subtler touch. You'll use a codename. From today, you are 'Milverton.'"
"Milverton?" He repeated the name, tasting it. "Where'd you get such a weird name?"
"From an old story," I answered. "About a man who was the king of all blackmailers. A man who built an empire on others' secrets. Sounds fitting for you."
He chuckled. "I like it. So, what's my compensation?"
"Twenty percent of all net profits from our operations. Access to unlimited resources. And most importantly, a stage to showcase your true skills, not just being a hired lockpick."
It was an offer he couldn't refuse. Not simply because of the money, I could read his ego, and that was his weakness. I offered him the chance to be a major player, not just a pawn.
"I'm in," he said after a moment of thought. "But I have my own terms. I don't report to you. We work as partners. Any major strategic decision must be discussed together. I'm not your lapdog."
"Acceptable," I replied. I did need a partner, not a servant. A servant would obey. A partner would innovate. "Your first task, Milverton. I want you to infiltrate the Dockworkers' Union internal communication system. I want to know every detail of their secret dealings with House Droct. I want the name of every captain they've paid, every official they've bribed. I want a full map of their little kingdom."
"A rather heavy opening task," he said with a crooked smile. "I'll get it done."
"Before that, your name?" Vashtun asked.
"You can call me 'W,' or if you want something longer, call me James," I answered.
My first recruitment for the Grand Plan of Hundreds was complete. Vashtun 'Milverton' Rohnberg was now the head of my shadow operations.
Over the following weeks, I refocused on Doyle Acquisition, using it as the perfect facade. The acquisition of small shipping companies continued, now with more aggressive methods. With information from The Consortium, I could anticipate House Droct's movements and buy key assets just before they did. Our economic war intensified, still without the public eye noticing, which was good.
One night, while reviewing reports in my sky manor, I received another message. This time not from The Consortium, but from my contact in Fravikveidimadr. An emergency call.
"Subject Nolhome critical. Come to West Wing facility immediately. Captain Dales' orders."
I moved quickly. I arrived at the underground medical facility in less than an hour. The atmosphere was tense. Elias and several other researchers were panicking, running around Silas's isolation chamber.
I looked at Silas through the observation glass. He was lying on the bed, his body convulsing violently. The energy field around him fluctuated wildly, radiating waves of pure suffering.
"What happened?" I asked Elias.
"We don't know!" he replied, his face pale. "We were doing routine diagnostics, trying to map his Channel. Suddenly, he started absorbing all the latent 'suffering' in the facility. Pain from other patients, anxiety from the staff, even emotional residue from previous experiments. He can now absorb all sorts of emotions. If this continues, he'll explode!"
"Explode?"
"Conceptually," Elias clarified. "He'll release all the suffering he's absorbed in one psychic blast that could incapacitate or even kill everyone within a kilometer. We have to stop it."
"How?"
"The only way is to cut his connection to the source of suffering. Someone must enter the energy field and 'shut it off' from the inside. But anyone who enters will be directly exposed to all that suffering. It would shatter a normal mind in seconds." Elias looked at me. "Captain invited you because you're not normal, Mr. Rothes. Your Essence can, in theory, neutralize his energy. Go!"
I understood now. They were testing me, under the guise of an emergency. They wanted to see how my power interacted with Silas's. They wanted data, again and again.
I looked at Silas suffering inside the isolation room. I remembered the bread he gave me years ago. I could remember kindness in this cruel world, but even so, I couldn't be ruled by emotion.
I couldn't let him be destroyed for their data.
"Open the door," I told Elias.
I stepped into the isolation room. The air inside was heavy, filled with screams of pain so thick they were almost tangible. As the door closed behind me, I was immediately assaulted by thousands of silent screams, thousands of images of suffering. A soldier losing his leg, a mother mourning her child, a patient fearing death, and emotions like them.
All of it slammed into my consciousness like a storm. I felt my mind begin to crack under the pressure.
I gritted my teeth, focusing all my will. I didn't resist it, and instead forced myself to let it in, then channeled it into my aperture. The indigo sea within me surged as it absorbed the raw suffering energy. It felt like swallowing shards of glass.
I slowly walked toward Silas. I placed my hand on his sweaty forehead. "Silas," I whispered. "Listen to me. Let go. You don't have to bear it all. Don't be an idealist, come on."
I channeled my Void Essence into him to provide silence. I created an empty space inside his mind, a shelter from the storm of suffering he had absorbed.
Gradually, his convulsions subsided. The energy field around him began to stabilize. The voices in my head faded.
I had succeeded. But at a cost: now I also carried part of that suffering, now attached to my soul. It couldn't be erased, maybe someday.
As I turned to leave the room, I saw Dales Verneth standing behind the observation glass, watching me with an unreadable expression. In his hand, he held a data recorder.
I had given them the data they wanted. Very valuable data. But I had also shown them something else, that I was willing to take risks for something beyond logical calculation. Because I was the most humane person in a world full of bastards.
And I knew, in that moment, that to them, that made me far more dangerous than before. Because a machine with feelings is a machine that cannot be predicted. And unpredictability is the one thing truly feared by those who crave control.