[HOST INTEGRITY: 20%]
[LOCATION: DEPARTMENT OF SPIRITUAL COMMERCE (BRANCH 4)]
[TIME: 9:00 AM]
Hell wasn't fire and brimstone.
Hell was fluorescent lighting, linoleum floors, and a "Take a Number" machine that was out of paper.
Ren and Jian stood in the lobby of the Department of Spiritual Commerce. It looked like a DMV from the 1970s that had been submerged in a swamp. The walls were a peeling shade of beige. The air smelled of stale coffee, photocopier toner, and the slow, agonizing death of hope.
"Ren," Jian whispered, clutching his backpack straps. "We're skipping a math test for this? My mom is going to kill me. And then I'll end up here for real."
"If we don't get a Merchant Permit today," Ren said, scanning the room, "the Department will seize the factory, liquidate the incense, and fine me 50,000 Spirit Coins. Your math test is irrelevant."
Ren looked at the queue.
It wasn't a line of people. It was a line of centuries.
Standing in the velvet ropes were ghosts from every era. A headless soldier from the Qing Dynasty was arguing with a drowned sailor from the 1920s. A modern businessman with a tire track across his face was checking his spectral watch every five seconds.
Ren walked up to the ticket dispenser.
He pressed the button.
CLICK.
A slip of paper printed out.
[NUMBER: G-4,092,105]
[NOW SERVING: G-12]
"Four million," Jian squeaked, looking at the number board. "Ren, the board says 'Now Serving 12'. We're going to be here until the sun explodes."
"That's the point," Ren said, crumpling the ticket. "The system is designed to force attrition. They want you to give up and operate illegally so they can fine you later. Fines are more profitable than fees."
Ren didn't go to the back of the line.
He walked straight to the front.
"Ren!" Jian hissed. "You can't cut! That samurai looks like he wants to chop us up!"
Ren ignored him. He walked up to Counter 4.
Behind the thick, bulletproof glass sat a clerk.
It was a Ghoul (Class C). Its skin was grey and leathery, its eyes sunken into dark pits. It was typing slowly on a computer that looked like it ran on DOS.
"Excuse me," Ren said, tapping on the glass.
The Ghoul didn't look up. "Take a number. Wait for your number to be called."
"I have an inquiry regarding the Veterans' Priority Clause," Ren stated.
The Ghoul stopped typing. It looked up, its jaw unhinging slightly in a yawn.
"Veterans' Priority only applies to deaths occurred during the Great Wars of the last century. Please read the pamphlet. Next."
Ren didn't move. He leaned in closer to the glass.
The 20% health restoration from the pill meant he wasn't wheezing anymore. He stood straight. His eyes, usually dull, sharpened into needle points of green light.
"I am not talking about the last century," Ren said. His voice dropped an octave, resonating with a strange, harmonic distortion. "I am referring to the Northern Insurrection of the Ninth Age."
The Ghoul blinked. "The what? That's not in the database. Kid, move along before I call Security."
Ren placed his hand on the counter.
"Open your terminal," Ren commanded.
"Open the Imperial Archives."
"Search for Decree 404."
The Ghoul hesitated. The sheer confidence in Ren's voice triggered an instinctual bureaucratic fear—the fear that the person yelling at you might actually know the rules better than you do.
"Kid, the Imperial Archives are locked. I don't have clearance for—"
Ren slammed the Tiger Seal onto the counter.
THUD.
It wasn't a magical attack. It was an ID check.
The Seal glowed with a dull, blood-red light. The ancient characters carved into the stone—AUTHORITY—flared against the glass.
The Ghoul's eyes widened. It looked at the Seal. It looked at Ren.
"That... that's a Warlord-grade artifact. Where did you steal that?"
"I didn't steal it," Ren said coldly. "I am the signatory. Now. Search. The. Decree."
The Ghoul's fingers trembled as it typed.
Click-clack-click.
The green text on the monitor scrolled rapidly. The Ghoul hit a firewall, then another.
Then, a window popped up.
[ARCHIVE RETRIEVAL: SUCCESS]
[DECREE 404: WARTIME ECONOMIC MEASURES]
[STATUS: ACTIVE (NEVER REPEALED)]
[TEXT: "ANY OFFICER OF RANK 3 OR HIGHER HOLDING A SEAL OF COMMAND IS GRANTED IMMEDIATE COMMERCIAL LICENSE TO FUND THE WAR EFFORT."]
The Ghoul's jaw actually fell off this time. It caught it with one hand and snapped it back into place.
"It... it says Active," the Ghoul stammered. "But this law is 2,000 years old. The War Effort ended when the Empire fell!"
"Did anyone file the paperwork to officially end the war?" Ren asked.
The Ghoul checked the screen. "Uh... no. The final treaty was lost in the fire of 300 AD."
"Then the war is technically ongoing," Ren smiled. It was the smile of a shark who had just found a hole in the shark cage. "And I am funding it. Issue the permit."
The Ghoul looked at the line of angry ghosts behind Ren. It looked at the ancient law on the screen.
It looked at Jian, who was trying to hide behind a potted plant.
"I... I need a supervisor override for a retroactive permit this old."
"Do you?" Ren leaned in. "Do you want to wake up a Supervisor to tell them that you are refusing to follow a Direct Imperial Decree? Do you want to explain why you are obstructing the 'War Effort'?"
The Ghoul paled (turning a lighter shade of grey).
"No. No, that sounds like a lot of paperwork."
The Ghoul typed furiously.
A printer whirred.
A fresh, golden document slid out of the slot in the glass.
[ITEM ACQUIRED: CLASS-C MERCHANT PERMIT]
[VALIDITY: INDEFINITE]
[TAX BRACKET: EXEMPT (WARTIME CLAUSE)]
Ren picked up the document. He checked the seal.
"Exempt from taxes," Ren noted. "Excellent. Bureaucracy loves a vacuum."
He turned around.
The line of 4,000,000 ghosts was staring at him. The headless soldier looked furious. The modern businessman looked jealous.
Ren didn't care. He walked past them, tucking the permit into his blazer.
"Let's go, Jian," Ren said. "We have a business to run."
Jian scurried after him, dodging the glare of a wet nurse ghost.
When they got outside into the fresh air, Jian exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for an hour.
"Ren," Jian gasped. "How... how did you know that would work?"
"The Underworld has changed rulers a dozen times," Ren said, holding the golden permit up to the sun. "Kings rise and fall. But the Rules? Nobody ever deletes the Rules. They just pile new ones on top."
Ren put the permit in his inventory.
"I am the only one who remembers the bottom of the pile."
[SYSTEM ALERT]
[QUEST COMPLETED: LEGITIMACY]
[REWARD: UNLOCKED 'MARKETPLACE' FEATURE]
[NEXT OBJECTIVE: SECURE THE FIRST SALE]
Ren looked at the notification.
"We have the product. We have the license."
Ren turned his gaze toward the grates in the sidewalk—the vents that led down into the city sewers.
"Now," Ren said, "we find the addicts."