The market in Hierarch Square was humming with the sound of gold changing hands when the atmosphere curdled. A group of scarred men in boiled leather, led by a brute with a notched cleaver, shoved through the crowd. These weren't city guards; they were the "tax collectors" of the Novigrad Underworld.
"New toys, new tribute," the brute spat, slamming his fist onto the Alder Corporation's modular display. "You're on our cobbles, Golems. Ten percent of every crown, or we melt you down for scrap."
The Taskmaster Unit didn't flinch. Its optical sensor pulsed a steady, clinical blue. "Negative. This request is not supported by the legal statutes of the Free City of Novigrad. Your organization lacks the jurisdictional authority to levy tariffs. Compliance is denied."
The brute laughed, looking at his men. "Did you hear that? The tin man wants to talk law. Let's see if he can talk with his throat slit."
He swung the cleaver.
In a blur of hydraulic motion, the Combat AR standing guard intercepted the blow with a metallic forearm. Before the thug could blink, the droid's right arm shifted. A retractable muzzle slid forward from its wrist casing.
BANG-BANG-BANG.
The three 9mm rounds didn't whistle like arrows; they were mechanical thunder. The brute was lifted off his feet, his chest cavity collapsing under the kinetic force. He hit the cobblestones with a wet thud, dead before the echoes stopped bouncing off the cathedral walls. Two other thugs lunged; the droid's sensor turned a predatory red.
BANG. BANG.
They dropped instantly. The air was suddenly thick with the sharp, biting scent of cordite.
"Sorcery!" a nearby Witch Hunter roared, drawing a silver-inlaid sword. A squad of red-capes surrounded the stall, their Dimeritium sensors ready.
The Combat AR lowered its arm, the barrel still smoking. "Negative," the synthesized voice echoed. "No Chaos detected. No Aetheric resonance. This is a purely mechanical propellant system. Integrated firearms. We do not use magic; we use physics."
The Lead Hunter paused. His sensors remained dead silent. No magic. No Witcher Signs. Just terrifyingly efficient engineering. He gestured for his men to lower their swords. "The scum were the aggressors. They violated the Peace. Remove the filth," he ordered. He turned back to the droids. "We will increase the guard around this stall. If one of those 'bullets' strikes an innocent, we will see if your CEO can be reached by a hangman's noose."
******
Back in the North, Aine Aevon watched the live kill-feed on his terminal. He felt a strange disconnect—James Watson would have been horrified, but Aine Aevon only saw a successful security audit.
He leaned back, his long, elven fingers steepled. He was still amazed by the Quasimorph interface flickering in his vision, and more so by his own name. Aine Aevon. To hear the Elder Speech of the Aen Elle come from his own throat still left him dumbfounded.
"The first demonstration of force is always necessary for market stability," he whispered, the haunting baritone of his new voice echoing in the sterile room.
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[MISSION: MARKET PENETRATION 100% COMPLETE]
[TOTAL REVENUE: 12,000 CROWNS]
------
The success of the first shipment was an economic shockwave. Within a week, the Ever-Flame lighters and manganese-steel knives had become the most coveted status symbols in Novigrad. The droids didn't just sell out; they created a secondary market where the items flipped for triple their value.
Back at the Alder Corporation HQ, the atmosphere had shifted from a sterile lab to a humming industrial zone. The Aen Seidhe who had finished their neural training didn't return to the woods as hunters; they returned as Junior Technicians. They moved with a clinical purpose, working side-by-side with the spindly Industrial ARs to oversee the heavy machinery.
Aine Aevon watched from the observation deck as the first batch of Portland Cement and high-fired Standardized Bricks rolled off the conveyors.
"Satisfactory," Aine noted, his melodic Aen Elle voice carrying over the mechanical roar. He had set a revolutionary wage: 50 Crowns per shift. For the elves, who had spent decades living as scavengers and "squirrels" in the dirt, the pay was staggering. It wasn't just survival; it was wealth.
The workers didn't just bank their pay; they became their own first customers. Using their earnings, groups of elven families purchased bulk supplies of the Corporation's own brick and cement. At the base of the black tower, the first "Company Town" began to rise. Gone were the wattle-and-daub huts of the forest. In their place stood sturdy, grey-walled houses with reinforced foundations—the first modern Anarcho-Capitalist settlement on the Continent.
Weeks later, the first massive shipment of building materials reached the Novigrad Docks. The city's Masons' Guild was initially skeptical, but the demand for "Alder Stone" exploded once they saw the results. Builders found they could construct a tower in half the time using the "grey powder" that bonded stone like a dragon's grip.
In the taverns of Hierarch Square, the locals huddled together, their voices hushed with wonder and a hint of fear. They didn't understand what a "Corporation" was—the word itself felt alien on their tongues.
"It's not a guild from Kovir, and it's not Nilfgaardian trade," a merchant whispered. "All we know is the name etched on the crates: Alder Corporation. And the talk from the docks is that it's owned by an Elf. A tall one, with skin like milk and a gaze that freezes the blood."
Aine Aevon watched the reports from his obsidian desk. His personal pocket was still empty, but the Corporate Fund was swelling into a mountain of gold.
"Construction is the backbone of civilization," Aine said, tapping a holographic map of the unclaimed North. "Next, we introduce the Steam Engine. Let's see how the world likes its first Railroad."