Chapter 167 (Part I): The Merchant's Gambit
A Baron's Retreat
Baron Sack awoke before dawn, his chambers still steeped in the chill of lingering nightmares. Since the coup, the former commander of the Imperial City's Guard had traded his sword for a quill, his battlefield for ledgers. Survival, he told himself, is the truest form of victory.
The new post in the Ministry of Finance's Commerce Division was a gilded cage—plush, discreet, and far from the bloody intrigues of court. When Duke Bennett paid an unexpected visit, sipping tea while casually requesting a "minor favor" for a sensitive trade permit, Sack had obliged without hesitation. Better to court the rising star than risk his shadow.
Three days later, Sack stood at the heart of a storm.
The Gilded Menagerie
The shop's sign gleamed under the morning sun: Frostfire Emporium. Nestled at the crossroads of Triumph Avenue, its three-story façade dripped with opulence. Nobles whispered that the true owner was not the publicly listed "Mard"—Bennett's loyal manservant—but the Duke himself, who now moved through the crowd like a wolf among sheep.
Bennett's guest list was a map of power:
Camisero, the new Guard Commander, his smile sharp as a dagger.
Count Biliar, the eccentric noble whose four apprentice mages had once nearly burned down a brothel.
The "Beast of Delanshi Mountain", a mountain of silk and sweat, his arrival announced by the groan of his gold-plated carriage.
Even the Crown Prince Regent's envoy lingered at the periphery, a silent reminder of royal favor.
Magic Guild representatives, led by the ever-sardonic Mage Clark, mingled with military brass and treasury officials. For a day, Triumph Avenue became a mirror of the empire's fractured soul—ambition and fear sipping the same poisoned wine.
A Price Too Sweet
The property's suspiciously low price—200,000 gold coins instead of the expected million—had raised Bennett's hackles. Investigations led to the Beast's shadowy syndicate. A bribe, Bennett mused, or a trap? Either way, he'd claimed the prize, its back-alley wharf and运河-side workshops perfect for laundering more than just furs.
Today, however, was about spectacle.
The Knight's Masquerade
All eyes turned as Lady Rin descended the staircase.
Bennett's "masterpiece" glimmered under enchanted lights:
Breastplate: Carved with faux-celestial runes, its heart-shaped ruby pulsed with a useless but dazzling Light spell.
Pauldrons: Miniature wind charms kept her crimson cloak perpetually billowing—a banner of defiance.
Greaves: Frostwolf leather clung to her legs like liquid shadow, each step a challenge to every nobleman's composure.
"My sworn knight," Bennett announced, savoring the crowd's collective intake of breath. "The woman who braved the Frozen Wastes to bring you these treasures."
Rin's smile was glacial, her armor a lie woven in gold and magic. The men saw a warrior queen; Bennett saw a walking ledger. Every stitch screamed exclusivity, every enchantment whispered unattainable. Let them gawk. Let them crave.
Whispers in Silk
"Twenty thousand for the icefox pelts?" A duchess traced a gloved finger over furs that cost three coppers in the north. "Bargain."
Sack watched the dance of greed, his own palms slick. Bennett's laughter rang too bright, his ease among these vultures unsettling. What game is this upstart playing?
By noon, the till overflowed. Orders piled high for "Frostfire" goods yet to exist. As the Beast waddled forth to propose a "private partnership," Bennett met his gaze and smiled.
Let them think they've bought a piece of me, he thought. Every coin is a shackle.
Chapter 167 (Part II): The Art of Smoke and Mirrors
The Knight's Gambit
Bennett's words hung in the air like a magician's flourish. All eyes swiveled to Rin, her armor gleaming under the chandeliers as if forged from starlight. Count Biliar abandoned his scrutiny of a frostbear's fang. Delanshi, the rotund merchant prince, froze mid-stroke on a firefox pelt, his piggish eyes widening.
"Lady Rin," the Count began with practiced charm, "His Grace claims these treasures were personally retrieved by your hand from the Frozen Wastes. By the gods, one might think beauty and valor conspired to craft you themselves!"
Rin's jaw tightened imperceptibly. She knew the game—Bennett's carefully orchestrated lie demanded her complicity. These pelts and trinkets had come northward via her trade routes, true, but the notion of her battling icewolves was as absurd as snow in midsummer. Yet she stood tall, her sun-kissed complexion and warrior's poise selling fantasies better than any bard.
"Honor guides my blade, my lord," she intoned, fingers brushing a shield forged from subterranean drake scales. "This piece required three beasts slain beneath glacial crevasses. Lightweight, yet strong enough to deflect a fourth-tier knight's strike." A lie wrapped in half-truth, delivered with the solemnity of scripture.
By noon, the ground floor lay picked clean.
Gold and Greed
Delanshi cornered Bennett near a rack of enchanted daggers, sweat beading his jowls. "A million gold," he hissed, "to borrow your living jewel for a month! My emporiums in the capital—"
"Careful, my friend." Count Biliar materialized like smoke, clapping the merchant's shoulder. "That's no mere jewel—it's a crown in waiting. Observe how she glances at our duke." His chuckle carried knives. "Lay a finger on his future duchess, and you'll find icewolves gentler than His Grace's wrath."
Bennett smirked, watching Rin parry fawning nobles with glacial grace. Mard's sales ledger burned in his pocket—300,000 gold already, and the sun hadn't touched the spires.
The Armor's Truth
Camisero's fingers traced the filigree on Rin's pauldron. The new Guard Commander's voice dropped to a conspiratorial rasp. "This gilded coffin wouldn't stop a drunkard's dagger. Yet…" His thumb brushed a sapphire inlay. "Ten years playing the invisible man for His Highness. Now I crave visibility. This folly—how soon can you craft another?"
Bennett masked his surprise. The man who'd outwitted a prince desired this? A trinket for peacocks?
"A week," he lied smoothly. "Consider it a token of—"
"No charity." Camisero's eyes hardened. "Ten thousand gold. Let the court know the Shadow has become the Sun."
Whispers from the Tower
Mage Clark waited until the wine flowed freely before striking. "The Guild requires eighty thousand gold's worth of frostspider silk annually," he murmured, sealing their pact with a handshake that crackled with static. "In return, we'll divert our stock of voidshard crystals—enough to power a small army of artificers."
As the mage turned to leave, he paused. "Chairman York Zog's words: 'Never forget you wear the robe beneath the crown.' The College project… proceeds apace."
Bennett's pulse quickened. So the old wolf finally howls.
Curtain Call
Rin found him at dusk, her armor shed for a simple tunic. "Thirty-two nobles proposed marriage," she deadpanned. "Delanshi offered a duchy. Biliar a fleet."
"And you?"
"Told them my heart's already claimed." Her smirk mirrored his own. "By the thrill of swindling fools."
They laughed as the moon rose over Triumph Avenue, its light gilding a kingdom built on lies, lust, and the alchemy of human want.
Chapter 168 (Part I): The Weight of Gold and Shadows
A Golden Dawn
The shop's doors had closed, but the scent of greed lingered like perfume. Mard stood trembling before Bennett, the ledger in his hands a holy text of profit. "Sixty-eight thousand four hundred and sixty gold, my lord!" The old servant's voice cracked like aged parchment. "Lady Rin alone accounted for thirty-eight thousand! If only we had more like her—"
"Enough." Bennett waved a hand, sunlight glinting off his signet ring. The numbers meant nothing. Gold is just another kind of leash.
Outside, the Beast of Delanshi Mountain's carriage still blocked half the street, its gilded wheels a silent promise of future negotiations. But Bennett's mind churned elsewhere—on Mage Clark's parting words, whispered like a curse beneath the clink of goblets: "Never forget whose robes you wear."
Choices in Twilight
Mard's tears surprised him. The old man's loyalty burned brighter than any ledger's sum. "You've carried me since I could crawl," Bennett murmured, gripping the servant's shoulder. "Do you truly wish to abandon silk sheets for desert storms?"
"Where you go, my lord, I follow." No hesitation. No calculation.
For a heartbeat, Bennett saw the ghost of his father in Mard's weathered face. Loyalty is the rarest currency, he thought bitterly. And I've squandered none of it here.
"Prepare another set of armor," he ordered. "More jewels, less steel. Let fools buy the idea of valor."
The Chessboard Revealed
Rin arrived as shadows swallowed Triumph Avenue, her parade-day grandeur replaced by a mercenary's practicality. "You want me to rule this gilded cage?" She snorted, tossing her gauntlets onto the accounts table. "Better a sword than a shopgirl's smile."
"The sword stays." Bennett traced a map of the Northwest Territories. "But your smile bought us a legion's ransom today. Keep dazzling them until I've secured our retreat."
Her eyes narrowed. "And the pirates?"
"Let them taste land for once. A drunken sailor makes a fine warehouse guard."
They shared a laugh sharpened by exhaustion. When Rin left, Bennett stared at the cold dregs of his tea. Magic schools. Royal schemes. And I'm the mule carrying both crowns.
The Regent's Gambit
Dawn found Bennett in the palace's Hall of Mirrors, each gilded reflection mocking his precarious balance. Prince Regent Chen—no, just Chen now—greeted him with a brother's warmth and a viper's smile.
"Your frostbear pelts caused quite the stir," Chen remarked, feeding koi in an onyx pool. "The Guild Chairman's new cloak reeks of desperation."
Bennett kept his voice light. "Desperation breeds generous patrons."
"Indeed." Chen's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Which is why our… educational project… requires your unique perspective."
The proposal unfolded like a poisoned scroll: Bennett as chancellor of the Imperial Magic Academy, bridging Crown and Guild. A bridge both sides will burn, he realized, sweat seeping through his silks.
Echoes of Betrayal
"You flatter me, Highness." Bennett bowed low, hiding his fury. "But surely Master York Zog—"
"—hates courtiers more than fire hates water." Chen's laughter chilled the room. "Whereas you, dear friend, have a gift for making poison taste like honey."
As noon bells tolled, Bennett fled through marble corridors, the Regent's parting jest ringing in his ears: "Do visit the Northwest soon! Revolts make such tedious houseguests."
Only when his carriage passed the Guild's obsidian spire did he let the mask crack. "Loyalty," he spat, tearing the chancellor's seal from his sleeve. "The first lie they teach princes."
Chapter 168 (Part II): The Crown's Gambit and the Saintess' Shadow
A Prince's Calculus
The morning sun cast long shadows over the palace's ivory corridors as Bennett probed Prince Regent Chen with the caution of a surgeon. To his surprise, the young ruler laid bare his plans for the Imperial Magic Academy like a gambler revealing his final card.
"One hundred students in the first cohort," Chen said, tracing the rim of his goblet. "Half to the Crown, the rest divided among the Guild, nobles, and military. The Guild demands parity, but I'll not let them leash what I create."
Bennett masked his thrill. So the dance begins. The academy was meant to shatter the Guild's monopoly, yet Chen's "compromise" reeked of desperation. He fears rebellion from both mages and aristocrats.
"Your role," Chen continued, "is to convince York Zog that supporting my half-share benefits his ilk. Promise Guild favor in future allocations—so long as my fifty remain untouched."
Bennett bowed, hiding a smirk. You want me as your blade against the Guild? Then I'll carve my own price.
The Saintess Cometh
As Bennett stormed from the palace, frustration sharpened his steps. The Guild's paltry overtures—Mage Clark's token purchases, their glacial silence—insulted him. Let York Zog crawl to me, he seethed. I'll—
A funeral-white carriage halted his rage. Drawn by ghost-pale steeds, its silver-paneled doors bore the royal briar rose entwined with the Sun Cross of the Holy See. Guards knelt; even the driver wore the神殿's sacred white.
"Saintess Verona," whispered a trembling attendant. "The late Grand Prince's daughter."
Bennett froze. So the fallen prince's blood still flows. The carriage window cracked open—a sliver of darkness within, a gaze colder than frostspider silk.
"A puppet princess turned saint?" Bennett murmured. "How… convenient for Chen."
The carriage rolled onward, its shadow lingering like a threat.
Games Within Games
Chen's "gift"—a modest townhouse in the capital's silk district—reeked of irony. Once the Grand Prince's nest, now Bennett's gilded cage. Mard awaited at the gates, wringing his hands.
"The Guild sent word, my lord!" The old servant trembled. "Chairman Zog himself will oversee your magic certification in three days' time!"
Bennett laughed—a sharp, brittle sound. Certification? After all I've done?
He stormed into the study, maps of the Northwest sprawled like battle plans. Chen wants me leashed. The Guild wants me neutered. But this "certification"…
A knock. Rin leaned against the doorframe, her sea-worn grin cutting through his fury. "Heard the Saintess paid you a visit. Pretty thing, if you like icicles for company."
"Focus," Bennett snapped. "The Guild's move—"
"—is a feint." She tossed him a scroll sealed with Zog's sigil. "Certification requires witnesses. Half the nobles in the capital will attend. Perfect stage for… renegotiations."
Bennett unrolled the parchment. Listed beneath his name: Count Biliar. Delanshi. Even Camisero.
Ah, York, he thought, fingers brushing the wax seal. You old fox. Turning my trial into your theater.
The Saintess' Gaze
Nightfall found Bennett atop the roof, staring at the palace's distant spires. The Saintess' eyes haunted him—not the frosty disdain he'd expected, but something raw. Grief? Rage?
Mard's voice drifted up, brittle with worry. "My lord, you'll catch your death!"
"Death's busy elsewhere," Bennett murmured.
Somewhere in the palace, a woman who should've been queen knelt before altars. Somewhere in the Guild's obsidian tower, an old man sharpened his knives. And here he stood—a fourteen-year-old duke, chess piece and player both.
"Three days," he told the stars. "Let's see whose mask slips first."