Charles was stunned. "Huh? Wait, what exactly are those 'rumors' saying?"
Rahman replied, "Pretty much what I just told you: that the hunting squad ambushed the Abyssal Lord and left it on the brink of death. Then Montport cast some escape spell—only to cross paths with you as you were leading a retreat."
"They're claiming it was already barely hanging on, and right then you dropped some huge flashy spell, swiped the kill, and took all the credit."
Charles's expression turned downright furious. "That's complete garbage!"
He really hadn't expected it—even though the crisis had only passed for a week, already some shameless people were out there flinging mud and stealing credit!
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he explained, "It's true the hunting squad ambushed Montport, but that was a trap from the start. Montport immediately summoned a meteor swarm—crippled thirty out of their squad, barely leaving ten, and then summoned a pack of balors and a couple goristros to finish off the rest."
"If it weren't for the archdruid among the Mountain People, Sister Theresa from the Church of the Goddess of Life, and the dwarven Griffon Knights fighting to the last man, the squad would've been wiped out."
"They did show up on the retreat route to help protect the refugees, but by then Montport was already dead—the explosion blew a hole clear through the ground! How are they claiming they took down Montport?"
As he spoke, his anger only mounted. "Taking credit for that is just outright shameless!"
Rahman looked down at him and nodded slowly. "So that's how it was. But tell me—were you fighting alone when it happened?"
Charles shook his head. "Of course not. It's true that my spell was a big spectacle, but taking down the Abyssal Lord was only possible because of teamwork from all sides."
He counted off on his fingers: "Aside from me, there were two mages, two druids from the Mountain People, two barbarians, a warrior, a paladin, and fifteen pastors from my monastery under my command…"
He knew that rationally, anyone who hadn't seen the real battle—looking just at the numbers—might believe the narrative that the big names did all the work and some upstart just swooped in at the end.
So he had to show they had the strength and professionalism as a full team—proving they really were capable of bringing down the Abyssal Lord themselves!
He looked up, eyes suddenly bright. "Oh, right—Prince Rahman, my monastery's Storm Domain Pastors used those Ion Beam Emitters you sponsored."
Rahman's face lit up. "So that's it! I see."
He narrowed his eyes, voice cool. "Sounds like someone wasn't too happy about you getting all the glory—so they're spreading dirt to grab a share of the spotlight."
Charles exhaled slowly, calming down, but his mind was already turning: "Who would do this? The hunting squad's organizers? Investors pulling strings behind some members?"
Or maybe Devils, stirring the pot again?
Honestly, the last seemed the likeliest. After what happened with the Illusionist's Bracers, he'd pissed off Regolas—the cambion wouldn't let this go. Playing dirty behind the scenes… It'd be almost weird if he wasn't!
"No way to say for sure," Rahman admitted. "Rumors are flying from every direction, and it's tough to trace the original source."
Charles found himself quietly cursing—it's always easy to start a rumor but exhausting to clear things up. All it took was a few loud voices, and people would believe anything, no matter what damage it did to your reputation.
Rahman went on, "But that's not even the real problem. The real trouble is, tons of nobles are more inclined to believe this version. After all, that way, their sponsored adventurers get the credit—and they get to bask in reflected glory, too."
Charles fell silent. Real life really was a hell of a lot messier than any game. If something suited people's interests, it'd pass for truth—even if it was a blatant lie.
"But there's no need to waste energy hunting down whoever started it," Rahman continued. "Odds are, there's more than one source. Since this is a media game, we just buy off some news outlets and run a full, professional set of reports painting you in the true light."
"I've already got ties with the 'Times' group—they'll send their writers and journalists to put together an in-depth profile, even make you this year's Person of the Year."
"And whenever you're free, I'd like them to film a documentary series around you, too—the kind future students can watch and study, to let your name live on forever…"
The thought of that scenario made Charles's head throb. "The interviews and features are fine, but a whole documentary? Please, that's too much—not to mention it'd eat up my time…"
Rahman sounded a little disappointed. "If you don't want it, so be it."
He paused, then added, "Oh, one other thing—if anyone tries to buy your land in South Harbor District any time soon, don't sell. In fact, put all buying on hold for now."
"Snap up as much land as you can, but don't sell. In a year or two, you're going to make a killing."
Charles was startled. "Why's that?"
"Mithral District just approved South Harbor's proposal. Next year they'll start construction on four city railway lines—all originating from South Harbor and looping halfway around the city, east and west," Rahman explained. "Passenger and freight traffic will get a major upgrade, and if the usual historical trends hold, land prices in South Harbor are about to skyrocket."
He grinned. "Can't promise it'll jump as high as the current 200,000 gold houses in Central District, but a three- to five-fold increase is almost guaranteed in the next few years."
The blue dragons had been burned before. Years ago, while holding a vast swath of farmland in Field District, the city council decided to build new roads—ruining farms and rivers. The blue dragons, backed by druids, argued the project would destroy food yields and tank the land's value.
When they couldn't stop it, they sold off the land at rock-bottom prices, thinking they were minimizing their losses.
But then the gold dragonborn swooped in, bought it up, razed the farms, and put up high-rises—making an absolute fortune almost overnight.
It was just one minor defeat in the ongoing rivalry between the blue dragons and the gold dragonborn. But even a small loss taught the blue dragons a lasting lesson—they never forgot it.
Hearing all this, Charles was even more surprised. "That kind of top-secret info—you…"
Rahman smiled slyly. "So get moving now. If you're short on funds, just let me know."
Charles was left with incredibly mixed feelings. It was just so clear: in Liberl Port, the conglomerates were the real power behind everything. Mithral Hall might as well be a sieve—every real secret got handed straight to the business elite first.
With that, he nodded. "Understood. I'll set things up to maximize the profit."
Rahman nodded and turned back to watch the dance, but then, as if having a second thought, looked over again. "Really—are you sure you don't want me to toss in some extra cash and have them do a strip show, just for you?"
Charles looked at the stage where the dancers in white lace moved like a field of blossoming lilies—their beauty testing the limits of his self-control. He forced his swirling thoughts away, lowered his head, and said, "No, really, this is good enough. Besides, I should take in some art for a change."
Rahman looked intrigued.
Soon, the gorgeous dance performance ended, but there were still more shows to come.
The staff stayed excited—an event this grand was rare even for the Blue Dragon Bank. But Rahman seemed tired now and rose to retire to his own chambers.
After Rahman left, Charles didn't plan on lingering. He got up to say his goodbyes, ready to return to the monastery and get on with all the plans he still had to carry out.
But just as he stepped out of the bank, the immaculately dressed blue dragonborn secretary caught up to him. "Priest Charles, please—would you mind signing this contract?"
"Prince Rahman has just purchased the White Swans Ballet Company, and he's decided to gift it to you, hoping you'll always have access to artistic refinement—this is a personal favor from the Prince; please, don't refuse."
Charles: "Uh…?"
He could hardly believe it—he hadn't asked for any of this, but because of Rahman's whim, he was suddenly the owner of a whole company of prim, innocent little white swan ballerinas.
—
Ten minutes later, in a quiet conference room on the Blue Dragon Bank's ground floor.
The principal members of the White Swans were gathered—still in full costume, standing tall in two neat rows, faces taut with anxiety as they awaited their unknown fate.
At the head was their aging broker, her face deeply lined with worry and guilt. She glanced at the nervous girls, her throat working, and finally sighed, full of remorse. "I'm sorry, girls."
When the Blue Dragons first sent their invitation, the ballet's reputation as one of the lesser chromatic dragons put everyone on edge—none of the girls, nor even their leader, really wanted to come.
But the money offered was staggering.
For a grassroots troupe struggling to survive, such a sum was impossible to refuse. Their old owner agreed on the spot: whatever it took, they had to make the dragons happy.
So, they came—though scared and hoping desperately that the dragons would find nothing special about their act and let them leave in peace.
And yet, as some twist of fate, the very thing they dreaded happened: Of all the acts brought in, it was them the Blue Dragons singled out.
Overwhelmed by the dragons' cash, their previous manager quickly sold them off, and the Blue Dragons promptly passed them on—to a so-called young nobleman, supposedly so he could enrich his arts education…
After years of surviving in Liberl Port, the broker knew what this meant. It wasn't about the "arts." It was about wanting the girls for his own amusement.
She saw the girls, so young and beautiful, so full of frightened hope, and it tore her up inside. A few tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
The sharp-eyed girls saw their teacher getting misty-eyed and couldn't help getting riled up. The boldest even broke the silence: "Teacher, don't be scared! We won't let anyone push us around—we'll fight if we have to!"
Her words got the rest going: "Yeah! Who do they think we are, trading us like livestock?"
"We'd rather quit dancing than take this kind of humiliation!"
"We can work for a living—don't need to take this!"
...
The girls broke formation, crowding close to their teacher and manager, each more emotional than the last.
Even if she was strict most days, they knew who truly cared for them and who was just here for a fast buck.
Tears streamed down the broker's face, but thinking of the future, she shook her head and forced herself to be calm. "No, girls, get back in line. You can't win this fight with just bravado…"
Some of the girls still wanted to protest, but at that moment, there was a knock on the door: "Mr. Charles has arrived."
The manager hastily wiped her tears and got the girls standing at attention again. A few remained defiant—determined not to give this new owner an inch.
Then the door swung open, and Charles stepped in—not in priestly robes but in a perfectly tailored black suit, his silver hair neatly combed.
He surveyed the room and offered a friendly smile. "Hello, everyone. I'm Nigel Charles, your new ballet company owner."
There was a moment of stunned silence—then, suddenly, wild applause filled the room. Every girl stared at him, a few even swallowing nervously.
They'd prepared for the worst—but never in their wildest dreams had they imagined the new owner would look like this.
Charles raised a hand, signaling for silence. The girls complied instantly, the room going still as stone.
"I'll be honest; I don't particularly know much about dance as an art form," he said. "Prince Rahman—the blue dragon who hosted tonight's feast—just figured I might enjoy it and so he bought the troupe for me."
From the front, the broker sighed deeply.
There it was—the classic speech of the noble: "I never wanted this, but here we are for some reason beyond my control…"
And next? Pick out the prettiest, best-built girls, bring them home by turns, call it "artistic education"...
All at the proper hour for bedtime, too…
"So, I won't interfere with the company's internal decisions. If any problems pop up, just settle it by a collective vote," Charles said. "And by the way, I've noticed the profit split isn't great—going forward, take half my share to improve the dancers' lives."
"My only request: when I need the company's help, everyone comes together on call. That's all."
The broker's head snapped up, astonished.
What?
A new owner who hands over control—and shares the profits?
She'd never expected this was how things would work out!
"That's all from me," Charles concluded. He handed the broker a sending stone. "If you need anything, just contact me with this. It's getting late—don't stay up too long, or it'll ruin your skin. Rest well, everyone. Meeting adjourned."
With that, he turned and left, leaving a room full of dumbfounded girls standing in shock.
What had they just seen?
The most handsome guy ever!
What had they just heard?
He was giving them more money!
"He's so hot!"
The girl who'd first threatened to fight was now wide-eyed, dreamy: "I am completely smitten…"
Her words set off a storm of infatuation:
"Yeah, I've never seen anyone look so good…"
"And he's so kind to us—he cares about us!"
"He says he doesn't understand art, but that's the most artistic thing I've ever seen…"
"God, I want to marry him…"
...
The manager couldn't decide whether to cry or laugh. But a heavy burden lifted from her heart, and she finally felt at ease. "What nonsense. He's a noble who doesn't even blink at spending hundreds of thousands in gold—you really think he'd fall for any of you?"
"A minute ago you were ready to riot, now you're all mooning over him? Get over yourselves—guys like that aren't interested in girls like you!"
"Now, back to your rooms. Get ready for the next show!"
She grumbled, then turned to leave. But as she walked out, she couldn't help but hum a cheerful little tune—her limp step for once lightened by joy.
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