A tuxedo is just armor made of silk. A ballroom is just a dungeon with better lighting and more expensive wine.
"Stop fidgeting," Cian hissed, adjusting my bow tie. "You are strangling yourself."
"I prefer the sewer," I grumbled, pulling at the stiff collar. "The sewer is honest. It smells like sht because it is sht. This place smells like lavender, but underneath, it smells like blood."
We stood at the entrance of the Grand Winter Ball. It was the social event of the season. Every Noble House in Babylon was here. The chandeliers were made of floating mana crystals. The music was played by a phantom orchestra. The wine flowed like water.
"Remember your cover," Cian whispered as the herald announced our arrival. "You are Aren Vance. A distant cousin of House Vance. A scholar from the Southern Isles. You are my consultant."
"Why House Vance?"
"Because they are extinct. No one can check."
"Smart."
"Presenting! Cian Aurelius, Heir to the Golden Scales! And his guest, Master Aren Vance!"
We stepped into the light. Hundreds of eyes turned to us. They weren't looking at me. They were looking at Cian. Rumors of House Aurelius's financial trouble were widespread. The vultures were circling, waiting to see if Cian would crack.
But Cian looked impeccable. He wore a suit of white and gold, radiating confidence. I wore black. Midnight black. Simple, sharp, and blending into the shadows.
"Smile," Cian muttered through his teeth. "And don't eat anything with your hands."
The Shark Tank
We navigated the room. It was a battlefield. Every conversation was a duel. Every compliment was a veiled insult.
"Ah, young Aurelius," a fat man with a purple sash intercepted us. Baron Thorne. An ally of House Valerius. "I heard about your... adventures in the North. Buying shares in a failing glass mine? Risky. Very risky. Is your father losing his touch?"
Cian stiffened. "Opportunity often looks like risk to the uninitiated, Baron."
"Hah! Or maybe desperation looks like opportunity," Baron Thorne laughed loudly. Other nobles chuckled. "Tell me, is it true you are selling off your family heirlooms to pay the Iron Bank?"
It was a public humiliation. Cian's face flushed. He opened his mouth to retort, but anger clouded his judgment. He was about to say something defensive, which would make him look weak.
I stepped forward. I held a glass of champagne. I looked bored.
"Baron Thorne," I said, my voice calm but projecting perfectly over the music. The Baron looked at me, confused. "And who is this nobody?"
"Aren Vance," I said with a polite bow. "I couldn't help but admire your sash. Purple silk. Imported from the Eastern Colonies, yes?"
"Why, yes," the Baron puffed out his chest. "Very rare."
"Indeed. The Eastern Colonies... specifically the Indigo Isles," I continued, swirling my wine. "I read an interesting report recently. The Indigo Isles are currently under a trade embargo due to a... slave labor scandal."
The room went quiet. Using products made by slave labor was a massive taboo in Babylon's high society. It was social suicide.
"I... what?" The Baron stammered. "Nonsense!"
"Oh, it is widely known in the South," I lied smoothly. (It was actually obscure game lore found in a side quest). "In fact, I believe the Royal Council just passed a decree stating that anyone caught importing Indigo Silk would be subject to a 50% Tariff and an Ethics Investigation."
I took a sip of my drink. "But surely, a man of your stature paid the tariff? You wouldn't be wearing contraband at the Winter Ball, would you, Baron?"
The Baron turned pale. Every eye in the room was now looking at his sash with suspicion. If he admitted it, he was a criminal. If he denied it, he was incompetent.
"I... I must have been misinformed by my tailor!" The Baron choked out. "Excuse me. I need to... change." He practically ran out of the ballroom.
Cian stared at me. His mouth was slightly open. "Did you just accuse a Baron of human rights violations to win an argument?" he whispered.
"I just saved you from a PR disaster," I whispered back. "Also, the embargo is real. He's going to get fined tomorrow."
Cian shook his head. A small smile appeared. "Remind me never to debate you."
The Dance of Shadows
The night wore on. We separated. Cian went to charm the investors. I went to the buffet table. The shrimp were excellent.
As I ate, I watched the room. I was looking for threats. And I found one.
In the corner, surrounded by sycophants, stood a tall man with silver hair and cold, grey eyes. Lord Valerius. Torian's father. The Head of the Glass Monopoly. He wasn't looking at the dancers. He was staring directly at Cian. The look wasn't angry. It was hungry.
He signaled to a servant. The servant nodded and moved towards Cian with a tray of drinks. I narrowed my eyes. [Skill: Analyze] on the servant. [Name: Unnamed Servant] [Status: Nervous] [Item in Hand: Wine Glass (Spiked)]
Poison? No. Too obvious. Truth Serum? Possibly. To make Cian spill his secrets in public. Or maybe just a strong emetic to make him vomit on a Duchess.
I moved. I didn't run. Running attracts attention. I intercepted the servant just as he reached Cian.
"Oh, excuse me," I said, bumping into the servant. "My apologies, sir!" "No, my fault. I am so clumsy." In the confusion, I used [Sleight of Hand]. I swapped the spiked glass on the tray with my own empty glass.
The servant, flustered, continued to Cian. "Wine, my Lord?" Cian took a glass. (A safe one). "Thank you."
I walked away, holding the spiked glass in a napkin. I walked straight to Lord Valerius.
He saw me coming. He didn't know who I was, but he recognized the "Scholar" who had destroyed Baron Thorne. "Master Vance, is it?" Lord Valerius said, his voice like grinding stones. "You have a sharp tongue."
"And you have clumsy servants, Lord Valerius," I said, placing the spiked glass on the table next to him. "This wine seems... spoiled. I thought I should return it to the sender before anyone got sick."
Lord Valerius looked at the glass. Then at me. His eyes narrowed. He realized I had intercepted his move. "You are a very attentive friend to the Aurelius boy."
"I protect my investments," I said coldly.
"Investments can fail," Lord Valerius stepped closer. He towered over me. "Especially when they attack established powers. Tell Cian... the North remembers. The Glass Market is volatile. Accidents happen."
"Accidents like thermal explosions?" I asked innocently.
Lord Valerius flinched. "You tread on dangerous ground, boy."
"I like the danger," I replied. "It keeps the price high."
Lord Valerius laughed. A dry, humorless sound. "Enjoy the ball. The music stops eventually." He turned and walked away.
The Terrace - Midnight
I found Cian on the balcony, looking out over the glittering city. He looked exhausted. "I hate them," Cian said quietly. "All of them. They smile and they stab."
"That's politics," I said, leaning on the railing.
"I saw you talking to Valerius," Cian said. "Did he threaten us?"
"He tried. I threatened him back."
Cian sighed. He looked at me. "You know... tonight... you fit in better than I did. You handled Thorne. You handled Valerius. You act like you were born for this." He paused. "Who are you, Aren? Really? A C-Rank commoner doesn't know about Indigo Silk embargoes. A student doesn't stare down a Lord."
I looked at the moon. "I'm just a guy who pays attention, Cian."
"Liar," Cian said without heat. "But... thank you."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out two envelopes. "While you were playing hero, I was working. I secured two invites to the closed auction next week."
"The Black Market Auction?"
"The Grey Market," Cian corrected. "It's where the real power is sold. Rare artifacts. Illegal spells. And... something caught my eye in the catalog."
He showed me the listing. Item #404: The Heart of the Chimera. Description: A preserved mana-core from an ancient biological experiment. Origin unknown.
My heart skipped a beat. The Heart of the Chimera. In the game, this was a legendary crafting material. It was the key component needed to upgrade the Mana Centrifuge to Level 2. Or... to build something even crazier.
"We need that," I said instantly.
"I know," Cian grinned. "But the starting bid is 50,000 Gold."
"We have 50,000 Gold?"
"We have 30,000," Cian said. "We are short."
"Then we have a week to make 20,000," I said, pushing off the railing. "Get the carriage, partner. We need to cook."
Cian groaned. "I just put on a tuxedo."
"Take it off," I said, walking back inside. "The ball is over. The shift starts now."
The carriage ride from the Upper District to the Industrial Sector was a descent through the strata of society. We watched the marble streets turn to cobblestone, and the cobblestone turn to cracked mud.
Inside the velvet-lined cabin of the Aurelius private coach, the silence was thick. Cian was slumped against the window, undoing his silk tie with aggressive jerks. The "Prince" mask had melted away, leaving behind a tired, angry young man.
"You realize," Cian muttered, kicking his expensive dragon-leather shoes off, "that what we are attempting is impossible. The auction is in six days. To make 20,000 gold in net profit... we would need to sell four hundred units of Premium Tonic. We don't have the raw materials. We don't have the glass."
"We aren't selling Tonic," I said, staring at the flickering gas lamps passing by outside. I was still running the calculations in my head. The numbers were glowing in my mind like neon signs.
Cian looked at me, his eyes bloodshot. "Then what are we selling? My kidney?"
"We are selling volatile waste," I said.
Cian sat up. "Excuse me?"
"The sludge," I explained. "The byproduct of the centrifuge process. The heavy, red toxic matter that gets separated from the Aether. We've been storing it in barrels because it's too dangerous to dump in the river."
"Because it's explosive!" Cian nearly shouted. "It's highly unstable Mana-Nitrate! If you shake it too hard, it blows a hole in the floor!"
"Exactly," I smiled. "And do you know who loves things that blow holes in floors?"
Cian paused. The gears in his merchant brain turned. "The Tunnel Miners," he realized. "Or... the Siege Engineers."
"The Mining Guild has been complaining about a shortage of blasting powder for weeks," I said. "And the mercenaries heading to the Border Skirmishes need explosives. We have twenty barrels of highly potent, liquid explosive sitting in our basement. We just need to package it."
"It's illegal," Cian whispered. "Selling unlicensed explosives is treason."
"So is overthrowing the potion market," I countered. "We repackage it. We call it 'Aether-Fuel'. We sell it to the Gray Market brokers at dawn. Quick cash. No paper trail."
The carriage stopped. We had arrived at the warehouse. "It's dirty money, Aren," Cian said, grabbing his shoes.
"Gold doesn't have a smell, Cian."
The Grind
We entered the warehouse. The air inside was stale and hot. Zane was asleep on a pile of crates, the Iron-Breaker sword hugged to his chest like a teddy bear. He woke up instantly when the door opened, his hand tightening on the hilt. "You're back," Zane grunted, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "How was the party? Did you eat all the shrimp?"
"Get up," I ordered, taking off my tuxedo jacket and throwing it onto a chair. I rolled up the sleeves of my dress shirt. "We're working."
"Now?" Zane looked at the clock. "It's 2 AM."
"The auction is in six days. We need to process the Red Sludge."
For the next four hours, the warehouse became a factory of death. Cian, still wearing his formal trousers and a silk shirt stained with grease, manned the pumps. He looked ridiculous—a aristocrat doing manual labor—but he didn't complain. He knew the stakes. If we got the Heart of the Chimera, we could build a Bio-Reactor. We could automate everything. We could be free.
I worked the alchemy table. I had to stabilize the explosive sludge just enough so it wouldn't detonate in the bottle, but not enough to lose its power. It was like performing surgery on a bomb. One wrong mix, one spike in temperature, and the warehouse—and the three of us—would be a crater.
"Temperature is rising!" Cian yelled over the roar of the machine. "Chamber 2 is at critical!"
"Vent it!" I screamed back. "Don't let it hit 400 degrees!"
Cian pulled the emergency lever. Steam hissed violently, filling the room with a crimson fog. Zane was hauling the heavy lead-lined barrels, his muscles straining under the weight. He stacked them by the loading dock. "That's ten barrels!" Zane shouted. "How much is this worth?"
"1,000 gold a barrel on the black market!" I yelled. "Keep moving!"
We worked until the sun came up. We worked until our hands were blistered and our mana pools were dry. We worked until the beautiful silk clothes we had worn to the ball were ruined by chemical stains and sweat.
At 7 AM, the last barrel was sealed. Twenty barrels. 20,000 Gold worth of liquid destruction.
I collapsed onto the concrete floor, my chest heaving. Cian slid down the wall next to me. His face was covered in soot. His blonde hair was a mess. He looked at his ruined hands. He looked at the barrels. Then, he started to laugh. It was a hysterical, exhausted laugh.
"My father..." Cian wheezed between laughs. "My father thinks I'm sleeping with a Duchess right now. If he could see me... making bombs in a warehouse with a commoner..."
"He'd be proud of the profit margin," I rasped.
Zane sat on a barrel, eating a cold ration bar. "So," Zane chewed loudly. "We have the boom-juice. Who do we sell it to without getting arrested?"
I closed my eyes. "We don't sell it to a person," I murmured, my mind drifting to the game's NPC database. "We sell it to The Mole."
"The Mole?"
"The Quartermaster of the Thieves Guild," I said. "He buys anything. No questions asked. But he's paranoid. Meeting him is harder than breaking into the bank."
I opened my eyes and looked at the ceiling. "Get some sleep, boys. Tonight, we go deep underground."