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"Hahaha—did ye call her Granny Yennefer?! Gods, you're bold, Gustave! I'd never have imagined ye saying something like that. Even Ciri, as mischievous as she is, never dared call her that! Hahaha!"
Knowing that the quickest way into the heart of someone who doesn't offend easily is through bold joking—especially since he intended to work with Yennefer in all sorts of matters from now on—Gustave didn't dwell on the thought of becoming a mischievous boy. Instead, he answered Cerys smugly:
"Of course! That little shit Ciri is nothing compared to me! What? She can only tease someone by flashing her status?! Ptui! What a coward! Just look at me! No matter who they are, I'll flip them off all the same! Even the gods! I spit in their eyes!"
"Hahaha—aye, flip them off all the same! So fuck ye, Fre—"
"Eits, eits, eits!!! Not Her! If you're going to flip off the gods, don't pick the one who's actually nice! Here—if you want to curse, just use the name of that dung-fueled Eternal Farting Fire! How about that?!"
"Hahahaha!! Stop, I need to breathe! Hahahaha—Eternal… Eternal Farting—Hahahah!"
Testing it, and noticing that the gods' gaze on him was now confirmed to have vanished—because there was no reaction the moment he smeared their name, leading him to deduce that the insult needed to spread far and wide before the enemy gods would react—Gustave now understood something crucial.
For the foreseeable future, whatever "destiny" tried to steer this world came only from their instinctive reactions rather than any direct interference. So, choosing not to think too much about it—especially since he was currently in the company of his betrothed—he simply smiled and laughed alongside Cerys.
—
Arriving at the relatively large shop on Forge Street, in Ironmongers' Alley near Adalia's Central Square—right beside Zoltan's blacksmith shop—Gustave found both places unusually empty.
His maids' shop had suffered ever since the recent overhaul of the board of directors, an arrangement he and Yennefer had agreed upon. As for Zoltan's place, it was always deserted, because Cintra had far better blacksmiths, leaving him to make only nails, hinges, hooks, and other small wares.
But Gustave wasn't focused on Zoltan—not yet. His entire mind was fixed on seeing his maids upstairs, the main headquarters of their crumbling soap enterprise.
After all, Matta Hu'uri had created a new business that blatantly copied the structure and framework his maids had built, and it had become far more popular thanks to Matta's stronger connections. That was why, for now at least, his own soap enterprise hadn't attracted much attention—especially considering its main figurehead had been asleep for three years.
Feeling Cerys pat his back and reassure him with, "They're still the same maids of yours," Gustave finally gathered enough courage to go upstairs. Cerys clearly noticed him frozen at the entrance, unable to move out of guilt, and nudged him forward.
When Gustave reached the top, he found his maids—now seemingly having grown their full wings—arguing professionally and intensely about how to revive the enterprise, using bits of modern economic jargon he had accidentally slipped into conversations with them years ago.
The sight made him smile. Even after three long years, his maids had become even more feisty and cunning—experience and skill gained from navigating all kinds of scenarios while he slept.
Rosemary: "Our production is crawling, and we cannot hope to revive anything while we still fail to meet even the minimum output. I am telling you—set the workflow in proper order, shutter that old manufactory, and put the staff through retraining. All else comes after."
Brenna: "Oh, please, Rosemary. You cry 'efficiency' as though the word itself summons buyers. Our trouble is not the craft but the attention. Thanks to that wiggling witch, no one cares for our soap now. Our brand has grown dull. What we truly need is a rebranding campaign, bold outreach, and a full renewal of our image."
Mira: "And who shall pay for this dream of yours?" She taps the spreadsheet. "We bleed coin with every passing week. A rebrand without capital is little more than a coffin with finer paint. What we require is a controlled contraction—cut the three weakest product lines, lessen the warehouse lease, and press for cheaper supply contracts. If you want revival, then the hemorrhaging must cease first."
Delilah: "And in doing so, destroy the formulas as well? The very formulas His Highness created—and that woman stole." She folds her arms. "If we slash the materials, we slash the quality. And once the quality falls, our last edge vanishes. You speak of revival that—"
She froze mid-sentence, eyes widening.
"Your Highness!!! You're awake!!!"
Seeing all four of them spring up so quickly that they forgot their crutches and wooden prosthetic limbs, causing them to fall one by one, Gustave moved as fast as he could to steady the first two, saying, "Easy there…" before rushing to help the rest.
Seeing their limbs partially restored—and knowing that in another year or two they would be as good as new—and noting that even Rosemary no longer needed her respiratory machine, only her wheelchair, Gustave was overwhelmed.
He wanted to say something, anything, to atone for his blunder of not explaining his madness in detail beforehand, which had created this situation in the first place.
But he couldn't find the words to apologize, caught between their warm welcome and their worried questions—especially after they pulled out Regis's ring, which had been growing hotter day by day like molten lava back then.
Delilah: "Your Highness?! How are you right now?! Were Lady Sorceress Yennefer and Master Alchemist Regis able to heal you?! Are your curses completely gone?! I–I was worried t-that you would be g-gone forever… a-after we pulled o-out the ring on your f-finger… I–I am sorry, Your Highness…"
Rosemary: "Pardon my rudeness, Your Highness! Although we know your story about the machine gods is not true after hearing it from Master Regis, I still believe you will be our hope for the future of civilizations, just like you said back then. So please d‑don't die on us, Your Majesty— I mean, Your Highness…"
Mira: "Yes, Your Highness. Don't die on us. B‑because I heard from Master Vesemir of New Kaer Morhen, when he was teaching the self‑defense class at the university, th‑that many monsters are popping up everywhere in the world. And even Queen Calanthe and the nobles themselves already said there will be an invasion from the most powerful and cruel kingdom in the s‑south. I–I am scared, Your Highness."
Brenna: "Your Highness?! Tell me anything that can make me kick that bastard wiggling witch! I'm willing to do anything just to trample that bitch into the ground!"
Laughing his ass off at the sight of the furious Brenna, Gustave—who earlier had wanted revenge himself on Matta Hu'uri and the nobles on the board of directors of his maids' soap enterprise—now instead decided to give them the platform, so he wouldn't take that satisfaction away from his maids.
So, saying "Alright, alright," to calm their overwhelming questions, worries, and pleas, Gustave answered them one by one and finally gave them advice on how to get revenge on everyone who had wronged them—using, for example, every scamming technique from Earth's India that he could think of.
Things like hiring someone to act as a loyal customer and leave believable fake reviews that would spread into rumors—not smearing the product too heavily, but just badly enough to linger in people's minds. For instance, claiming that long‑term use of the soap he made back then could cause skin cancer because it was only a prototype and not fully safe.
And considering that this was technically true—since he really had made the soap as nothing more than a prototype—Gustave knew that angle would be something his maids could reliably lean on.
After that, he also introduced several other insidious methods they could use: predatory pricing for mutual destruction, since they planned to overhaul everything anyway; reporting every instance of regulatory harassment to the monarch, knowing Matta Hu'uri likely never cared about the common folk producing the soap.
And most importantly, creating "fake" compliance standards that were not fake at all. He would craft something so sophisticated that their rivals could never hope to copy it. That alone would give his maids the platform they needed to utterly crush the ones who had stolen from them.
But because he knew that, in the long term, such scam‑like techniques could never sustain a lasting enterprise, he reminded them that these methods should only be used against those who stepped far beyond the bounds of respectable competition.
Because he knew clearly that legitimate business would always be more profitable in the end, even if this world was painfully backward for its common folk.
After all, no matter how foolish a populace might seem, it was only a matter of time before they sensed something amiss if a product was built on short‑term, artificially inflated tricks—just like Ubisoft back on his Earth.
After that, he continued talking with them about their experiences over the past three years.
How, even with missing limbs, they had remained enthusiastic about expanding the enterprise, only to realize they had been manipulated by Matta Hu'uri, who never cared about their condition, and eventually about their meeting with the three divine animals that Calanthe had ordered them to find.
Turning to the fallen gods who had gambled on his side, he asked once again, "So these are the divine animals that miraculously regenerated your bodies, yeah?"
"Yes, Your Highness. But I hope you can keep these cute animals a secret. Queen Calanthe said that if they were ever made known to the public, it could start a great war across the Continent."
Nodding, Gustave clearly understood that fallen gods were essentially godsend materials for mages, monarchs, and many alchemists. He knew how valuable—and how brittle—they had become after falling from their divine kingdom in the Ethereal Plane.
And considering that their instinctive reaction seemed not to restore their previous strength, but to transfer their Power to his maids, he realized it must have been worth the gamble on him for them to decide to do this in the first place.
Wanting to communicate with them, Gustave then realized that, like any animal of their respective species, they could not possess any real intelligence. Only through Morrigan—because she was a raven—could he communicate, since, as a Dawnwalker, his vampire DNA inherited from Regis allowed him to speak with ravens.
"Morrigan, right? So care to tell me why you want to leave your throne and become mortal once again?"
"So it's true, just as Queen Calanthe said! They are divine animals!"
Ignoring Delilah's excited shrieking, Gustave focused on what Morrigan the raven was saying.
"Morrigan? Morrigan?! Yes, yes! Morrigan! My name—my name! Morrigan! Why, though? Why leave the throne? Kreve boils me! Yes, yes! That's it! Kreve boils me with his fire! That's it! That's it!"
Understanding that perhaps the world Up There is a very cruel place—where even lesser gods are treated as meals by the Eternal Fire, now confirmed to bear the true name Kreve, much like Melitele and Freya—Gustave asked many questions.
His questioning was so unusual that Cerys and his maids looked at him oddly, prompting him to explain that Regis could do the same thing. Only then did they finally understand how he could communicate with a raven. But he soon realized that he gained little beyond what he had already divined: it seemed their memories were lost when they fell into mortality.
Because of this, he began thinking and devised a way to partially restore their strength so that they could at least communicate like normal beings.
"Everyone, clear the table. I want to draw something with my blood."
"Gustave?! Are ye trying to summon a demon?! Don't—please don't! If Yennefer finds out, it'll be the end of us!"
"Relax, Cerys. It's not Goetia. It's just—hmm, how do I put this? Strange… This is the first time I'm doing something purely guided by my natural talent. Anyway, just trust me—it's not to summon demons. It's a different kind of Ritualistic Magic that blends Rune Magic, Elder Speech Incantations, and my own symbolic creation."
Looking up at the sky with his [Knowledge] ability—which had now strengthened enough to perceive the history and constellations of the past three days, though not the entire past—Gustave took a dagger from Cerys's waist and cut part of his index finger. He used the blood to draw symbols, patterns, and runes that even his logical mind could not comprehend.
Trusting his instinct—which stemmed from being a Beyonder of Sequence 8 and possessing the Dawnwalker Blood of Witchcraft, a combination that granted him prodigious talent in Ritualistic Magic—Gustave let the right side of his brain take over, finally experiencing what it felt like for ordinary mages to channel magic purely through intuition.
After finishing the symbols on the table, Gustave moved swiftly into the kitchen, gathering all kinds of materials—salt, paper, charcoal, and other items that his instinct told him would be useful for what he intended to do.
When the preparations were complete, he said, "Everyone, put the divine animals into the circle. Oh, and yes, if you want to enter my mind palace, just touch the triangle symbols on the edges."
"By the will of Sphera Mundi. Káelm llinge thu'raes valyn cáelm caed llinge. Tedd te aen'drean yeá zael, voryn thalor kisai, ulmaer drelith vaen'kor. Aenye that burned everything into the ground! Moigh that provided us with overflowing life! Nolla that shaped us into what we want to be! Veath that fills our lungs with consciousness!
"I hereby declare this place the Currency Club!"
"Wait! Don't, Gustave! That's a dreadful name!"
"I hereby declare this place the Token Club!"
"No! It still doesn't sound right!"
"Cerys!!! I can't hold much longer!!!"
"I… I don't know… maybe Coin… Wait!!! No, that's not—"
"I hereby declare this place the Coin Club! For whoever shall call upon this place will find their own way! May those who pray: the steampunk metropolis that doesn't belong to this era; the advancement and progress above the clocktower; the society of orchestral music that wields enlightenment—may they be guided by the Coin Member! Aen adhart! Aen daetre! Aen 'ere!"
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References may break immersion. Just go ahead to the next chapter.
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References
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Except for "Aen adhart, Aen daetre, Aen 'ere" and "Aenye, Moigh, Nolla, Veath," the Elder Speech is just mumbling.
Aen = For
Adhart = Forward
Daetre = Behind
'Ere = Here
So, if put into a sentence, it would be: "For the Future, For the Past, and For the Present."
As for the other Elder Speech words, they are simply the elemental language of the elves: Fire, Water, Earth, and Air respectively.
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