The smell of ozone and rotting ambition always smelled the same. It smelled like copper.
Cyrus Vane adjusted the cuffs of his long, charcoal-grey coat. It was raining–a miserable, freezing drizzle that turned the dirt road leading to the Blackiron Fortress into sludge. Most men would have been shivering. Most men would have been terrified to stand before the gates of Warlord Kael, the man who had supposedly decapitated a frantic Wyvern with his bare hands.
Cyrus was not most men. He was an Auditor.
He stepped over the corpse of a guard, careful not to get mud on his polished boots. He didn't carry a sword. He didn't carry a staff. In his left hand, held casually like a newspaper, was a thick, black leather-bound tome. The cover seemed to swallow the light around it, and if one looked closely, the leather had a texture suspiciously similar to human skin.
Thud.
The massive iron gates of the fortress were kicked open from the inside.
A brute of a man stepped out. He was seven feet of muscle and scars, encased in armor that glowed with a pulsating, crimson magical aura. This was Warlord Kael. The "King of the Borderlands."
"I was told a single man was walking up my road," Kael rumbled, his voice shaking the puddles on the ground. He hefted a massive greataxe that hummed with heat. "I expected a hero. Or an assassin. Instead... I get a tax collector?"
Cyrus stopped walking. He pulled a pair of spectacles from his pocket and placed them on his nose. Instantly, the world shifted.
He didn't see a warlord. He didn't see armor.
He saw Numbers.
Floating above Kael's head was not a name, but a ledger status.
[Subject: Kael of the Iron Blood]
[Patron Deity: Malacath, God of Brutal Strength]
[Contract Type: Strength in exchange for Lifespan]
[Debt Status: DEFAULTED]
[Outstanding Balance: 15 Years of Life]
Cyrus sighed. "Technically, I am a Liquidator. But 'tax collector' works if your vocabulary is limited."
Kael's eyes narrowed. The crimson aura around him flared. "You have a sharp tongue, little man. Do you know who I am? I have burned villages! I have slaughtered knights! The God Malacath himself blesses my skin with iron!"
"He did," Cyrus corrected, opening the black book in his hand. The pages rustled without wind. He pulled a quill from thin air; the tip of it was wet with fresh red ink. "But you stopped paying your premiums, Kael."
"Premiums?" Kael laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "I offer sacrifices of blood every full moon!"
"Malacath adjusted his rates three months ago due to the inflation of faith in the Southern Continent," Cyrus said, his voice bored. He ran a finger down the page. "You missed the memo. You are currently in arrears. And the penalty for defaulting on a Strength Loan..."
Cyrus looked up, his eyes cold and void of empathy.
"...is total asset forfeiture."
"Die!" Kael roared.
The Warlord moved faster than a human should. The ground exploded under his feet as he launched himself forward, the greataxe swinging down with enough force to split a tank.
Cyrus didn't dodge. He didn't block. He simply wrote a single checkmark in the book.
[authorize_repossession: Strength_Attribute]
SNAP.
The sound wasn't magic. It was the sound of reality breaking.
Mid-swing, the crimson aura surrounding Kael vanished.
It didn't fade; it was ripped away. The massive greataxe, which Kael had been swinging as if it were a twig, suddenly regained its natural weight.
Kael's muscles, artificially inflated by divine magic for years, instantly remembered that they were just human meat. The momentum of the heavy axe was too much for his unenhanced body.
CRACK.
"ARGH!"
Kael screamed as his own shoulders dislocated under the weight of his weapon. The axe dropped harmlessly into the mud, dragging the Warlord down with it. He fell face-first into the sludge, writhing in confusion.
"My strength..." Kael gasped, trying to push himself up, but his arms trembled like jelly. "What... what did you do?"
Cyrus walked forward calmly. The rain didn't seem to touch him; it curved around his coat as if repelled by the aura of the Book.
"You borrowed power you couldn't afford," Cyrus said, looking down at the broken man. "Malacath has sold your debt to me. I have collected the collateral."
Cyrus held up his left hand. A small orb of swirling crimson energy hovered above his palm. It was the condensed essence of Kael's strength–years of cultivation, years of blessings, all distilled into a marble-sized ball of loot.
"Please..." Kael wheezed, terror finally dawning in his eyes. He looked at the book. "I'll pay! I have gold! I have slaves!"
"The Book of Ruin does not accept currency of the mortal plane," Cyrus said, closing the tome with a heavy thud. "However, you still owe a balance of fifteen years of life. The strength was just the interest."
Cyrus knelt, bringing his face close to the mud-stained Warlord.
"And I always clear the ledger."
He placed his hand on Kael's forehead.
[Transaction: Complete.]
Kael's scream was cut short as his body withered. In seconds, his skin turned grey and papery. His hair fell out. His eyes clouded over. He aged fifteen years in a single heartbeat, collapsing into a heap of old bones and loose skin.
Silence returned to the road.
Cyrus stood up. He felt a rush of energy flow from the Book into his own veins—his commission. A tiny fraction of the lifespan he had just harvested. It wasn't enough to buy his freedom, not yet. But it was enough to keep him alive for another week.
"One down," Cyrus whispered to the rain. "Three million to go."
He turned his back on the fortress. He didn't care about the gold inside, or the bandits who were likely watching in horror from the walls. They were small fish. Their debts were negligible.
Cyrus checked the next page of the Book of Ruin. The ink was already swirling, forming a new name, a new target.
[Next Audit: The Bishop of High Garden.]
[Debt: The purity of 1,000 innocents.]
Cyrus adjusted his coat. "Looks like I'm going to church."