Port Royal was no longer a city. It was a grave.
A massive wall of water, generated by the thrashing of the Leviathan just offshore, had smashed into the harbor walls ten minutes ago. Now, the streets were waist-deep in churning, grey foam.
But the water wasn't the worst part.
"Hold the line! For the love of the Gods, hold the line!"
A frantic lieutenant screamed as he fired his crossbow into the surf.
From the foaming waves, shapes emerged. They were humanoid, but wrong. Their skin was pale and bloated, fused with jagged coral and glowing blue barnacles. They moved with a jerky, puppet-like unnatural speed, dragging themselves onto the wet cobblestones.
The Drowned Legion.
They didn't roar. They didn't scream. They just made a wet, gurgling sound as they lunged, dragging soldiers and civilians alike back into the dark water to join the collective.
In the harbor, the Imperial Navy—the mighty wooden galleons with their grand sails and mana-cannons—were snapping like toothpicks. The Leviathan's tentacles, massive pillars of translucent water, rose and fell like hammers, crushing hulls and drowning crews in seconds.
Inside the Naval Command Tower, the highest point in the city, Grand Admiral Armstrong watched his life's work disintegrate.
The window shattered as a piece of debris flew through it. Rain and sea spray lashed his face.
"Communications!" Armstrong roared at his mage officer. "Where are the reinforcements?! Where are the Battle-Mages?!"
"The signal towers are down, Admiral!" the mage screamed, clutching a dead crystal. "The static... it's jamming everything!"
Armstrong looked at the carnage below. He was going to die here. The Empire's navy was going to die here.
Then, he remembered.
With a trembling hand, he reached into his soaked coat and pulled out a slim, black rectangle.
The VayneCom.
It was glowing. The signal bars were full.
He tapped the screen.
Location: Vayne City War Room Status: Secure. Climate Controlled. Espresso Served.
The room was quiet, save for the hum of the servers and the soft hiss of the espresso machine.
On the main wall-screen, a high-definition live feed showed the destruction of Port Royal. It was horrific. It was tragic.
It was also a fantastic negotiating position.
I sat in my leather chair, watching a zombie drag a screaming baker into the ocean. I took a sip of my coffee. Perfect crema.
"Connection established," Seraphina announced, tapping her console.
The audio feed crackled to life.
"Baron Vayne! Answer me, damn you!"
Admiral Armstrong's face filled a secondary monitor. He looked like a wet rat. Blood was streaming down his forehead.
"I'm here, Admiral," I said calmly, setting my cup down. "I can see the situation is... suboptimal."
"Suboptimal?!" Armstrong shrieked. "We are being overrun! The Calamity is real! It's eating the fleet! Send your drones! Send your ships! I know you have them!"
I leaned forward, clasping my hands.
"I'm looking at the logistics, Admiral. Deploying the Vayne Corp fleet is a significant expenditure. Fuel, ammunition, wear and tear on the hulls... my shareholders would be very concerned if I intervened without a guaranteed ROI."
On the screen, a tentacle smashed into the side of the Command Tower. The camera shook violently.
"Expense?!" Armstrong roared, clutching the table for balance. "People are dying! The city will fall in an hour! Are you haggling over gold while the world burns?!"
"I don't want gold, Admiral," I said softly. "Gold inflates. I want equity."
I swiped a finger across my desk.
A digital document appeared on Armstrong's VayneCom screen.
[Contract: The Maritime Sovereignty Act]
"I want the ocean," I stated.
"What?"
"The contract is simple," I explained. "Vayne Corp receives a 100% tax exemption on all maritime trade for the next ninety-nine years. We gain full ownership of all salvage recovered from this battle—including the Leviathan's corpse. And, crucially..."
I paused for effect.
"...Vayne Corp receives Command Authority over the Imperial Navy during all Class-S crises."
Armstrong stared at the screen, his eyes bulging.
"You want to privatize the navy? You want to own the sea lanes? That is treason! That is a coup!"
"It's not treason if the Emperor signs it," I countered. "And looking at the water level in your office... I'd say you have about three minutes before the Drowned Legion comes knocking."
"I won't do it! I won't sell the Empire's honor!"
"Then you will die with it."
I reached for the button to end the call.
"Wait."
A third voice cut into the channel. Heavy. Tired. Resigned.
[Caller ID: Emperor Aldric III (Listening)]
The Emperor had been on the line the whole time.
"Your Majesty!" Armstrong gasped.
"Sign it, Armstrong," the Emperor's voice rasped through the speakers. "The galleons are wood and canvas. Vayne's ships are steel and fire. We cannot fight this war with honor anymore."
There was a long pause.
"Give the merchant his ocean."
Armstrong closed his eyes. He looked defeated, broken by the reality of a world that had moved past him.
He pressed his thumb against the screen.
[Biometric Signature Accepted.] [Contract Validated.]
The document on my desk glowed gold. The System registered the shift in global power.
"Pleasure doing business," I said, standing up.
I turned to Seraphina.
"The ocean is now Company Property," I announced, adjusting my cufflinks. "We can't have squatters damaging our assets."
I tapped my earpiece.
"Execute Protocol: Stormbreaker."
Location: Port Royal Airspace
Above the burning city, the heavy grey storm clouds suddenly parted.
Not by wind, but by displacement.
A shadow fell over the harbor, larger than the Leviathan, larger than the city itself.
The Vayne Corp Sky-Fortress [Stormbreaker] descended.
It was a monstrosity of engineering—a converted heavy-lift airship encased in mithril plating, bristling with magitech cannons. It hummed with the power of a micro-fusion reactor.
Admiral Armstrong looked up through his shattered window, his mouth falling open.
"What in the hells..."
The bay doors on the underside of the Stormbreaker opened.
"Drop the hammer," my voice echoed from the ship's massive speakers.
THOOM. THOOM. THOOM.
Hundreds of black cylinders rained down from the sky. Magitech Depth Charges.
They hit the water and sank instantly.
Three seconds later, the ocean didn't just boil; it erupted.
A chain reaction of underwater explosions rocked the harbor. The shockwaves pulverized the coral-zombies instantly, turning the Drowned Legion into floating debris.
The Leviathan shrieked—a sound that shattered glass for miles—as the depth charges detonated against its submerged bulk.
Then came the Torpedo Drones.
Sleek, shark-like automatons dropped into the water, their engines whining as they sped toward the wounded beast, leaving trails of neon-blue bubbles.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.
The Leviathan recoiled, its massive tentacles flailing as chunks of its void-flesh were blown apart. It realized, perhaps for the first time in eons, that it was not the hunter.
It was prey.
Back in my office, I watched the monster retreat into the deep, bleeding black ichor.
"The immediate threat is neutralized," Seraphina reported, her eyes glued to the tactical map. "The city is safe. Casualties are high, but the asset is preserved."
I nodded, watching the fires burn.
"Good. Send a salvage team to collect the zombie remains. I want to see if that coral can be used for armor plating."
A golden notification window appeared in my vision, shining brighter than the flames.
[ System Notification: Contract Fulfilled. ]
[ Asset Acquired: The Imperial Ocean (Maritime Rights). ]
[ New Title: Admiral of the Void. ]
[ Effect: All water-based entities fear you. Trade routes generate +200% Passive Income. ]
I smiled.
I hadn't just saved a city. I had just bought the highway that connected the world.
"Send the bill to the Palace," I told Seraphina. "And include a surcharge for the ammunition. Premium delivery rates apply."