Chapter 67: Guarding the Door for Greed
On the northern side of Shadow Valley, deep beneath a skin of cold stone and dripping grime, an underground hall lay hidden like the throat of some enormous beast.
Broken pillars jutted from the ground like fangs. Thick clusters of dark red optical fibers coiled around them in dense knots, pulsing faintly in the dark like blood vessels feeding a sleeping organ. Massive cultivation tanks lined the walls, each filled with pale green nutrient fluid. Inside them, unknown biological tissues expanded and contracted with a wet, rhythmic motion, their dim glow painting the chamber in a sickly light.
Three gray robed figures stood before a long laboratory bench with their heads lowered.
"The preliminary contact was interrupted by force."
The one in front spoke in a dry, scraped voice.
"Mr. Pale is every bit as troublesome as the reports suggest. This subordinate did not dare to probe any deeper."
Behind the bench stood a man in a pristine white research suit. He did not turn immediately. A complex observation lens covered his right eye, and the tiny gears mounted behind it clicked at a restless frequency as he reviewed the projection floating before him.
This was not Reed.
This was Morin, the true handler of The School in Shadow Valley.
At last he swiped the holographic image away and turned around. The projection had shown an aerial view of the district around Hodell's workshop.
"Judging from the data, he does not appear to be a Hybrid maintained by suppressive potions," Morin said.
His fingertips tapped against the metal tabletop, each light tap sharp enough to make the three subordinates instinctively tense.
"Interesting. But he cannot be allowed to enter the Inner City carrying secrets we do not understand."
His compound lens narrowed, reflecting a cold line of light.
"Shadow City is a swamp of three way conflict. There are too many arrays, too many eyes, too many rules. Once he steps through those gates, our cost of investigation rises several times over."
One of the gray robed figures hesitated before speaking.
"He has laid out an extremely sensitive perception web around the workshop. Ordinary infiltration is unlikely to succeed."
Morin's expression did not change.
"That is why I have no intention of infiltrating."
He straightened, his voice growing colder.
"Deploy the Hunter Squad. Take the equipment. Use this window before he leaves for the Inner City to tear apart every layer of his defense and record his gene sequence."
Then he paused, and when he spoke again, his tone was flat enough to chill the room.
"If he resists, leave him one breath. No more. No less."
He looked at the three men beneath him.
"No matter who this Mr. Pale really is, it is better to kill the wrong beast than let the right one escape."
"Yes, Lord!"
The three gray robed figures bowed deeply.
A moment later, their bodies dissolved into the shadows and slipped into the ventilation channels like smoke.
Morin remained where he was, staring at the empty tunnel mouth for a long time.
His lens turned once with a faint mechanical whine.
"Mr. Pale," he murmured. "Let us see what you are."
Back in the workshop, Sparrow still had one hand clamped around his old wrench. The earlier visit from The School had left his face pale.
"Sir... those people just now..."
"Go invite Homan," Hodell said.
He stood beside the maintenance rack on the second floor, fingers resting against White Crow's silver gray plating as if he were soothing a living creature.
Sparrow blinked. "Invite... Homan?"
"Yes." Hodell's gaze remained fixed on the armor. "Tell him I plan to place this family estate on the gambling table."
Only then did he turn slightly, the mask reflecting a band of cold light.
"And ask him whether he dares to take the bet."
Sparrow swallowed and ran.
Half an hour later, Homan appeared in the workshop via projected communication, his face lit by the faint blue shimmer of the crystal.
"Sir, about the Ranking Festival. The last time you cut the call a little too quickly, and there are still some details we should discuss."
"Hollow pleasantries are a waste of both our time."
Hodell lounged in a floating chair, one leg crossed over the other, his tone unreadable.
"The Polar Merchant Guild shut down my pass channels because you think my assets are attractive and my temperament is inconvenient. Am I wrong?"
Homan's smile twitched.
He did not deny it.
Business was business. Hodell was strong, useful, and profitable, but he was also solitary, impossible to leash, and too willing to upset the board. Men like that were excellent temporary partners and terrible long term neighbors.
"Since you want something," Hodell continued, "then I will offer you something better."
He flicked a finger, and a prepared asset ledger unfolded in midair between them.
"My workshop. My liquid funds. My inherited industrial holdings. Everything currently under my name can be placed under the Merchant Guild's trust agreement."
Homan's pupils widened.
That was not a casual promise. That was his entire foundation in Shadow Valley.
It was equivalent to placing his life and fortune in the Merchant Guild's hands.
"And the price?" Homan asked. His voice had turned dry.
"A wager."
Hodell leaned forward.
"If I fail to enter the top ten of the Ranking Festival, or if I die inside the city, every asset just listed becomes the property of the Polar Merchant Guild."
Homan stared at him.
Hodell's voice remained even.
"But if I survive and secure a ranking, the Merchant Guild will open the Crimson Vault to me and pay an additional reward worthy of its greed."
Homan did not answer immediately.
For a merchant, this deal reeked of blood and profit in equal measure.
Hodell's current wealth was already significant. If he died, the Guild would feast. If he lived and reached the Crimson Vault, they would lose much less than the value of what they stood to gain from his estate. It was a gambler's contract written by a man who understood exactly how greed operated.
"Sir," Homan said at last, "you are playing with fire."
"And you are merchants. Since when did fire stop being good for business?"
"The top ten of the Ranking Festival are not ordinary seats," Homan said quietly. "Those places are held by monsters. Real monsters. If you die, the Guild profits. That is true. But if you live and demand access to the Crimson Vault..."
"That is the premium attached to risk," Hodell said. "You may refuse, of course. Then I will take this proposal elsewhere. The Truth Society. The Abyssal Cult. I do not imagine either of them would mind listening."
The words were delivered without force.
But Homan immediately understood the knife hidden under them.
If the Guild refused, all its previous maneuvering would become meaningless. Worse, it might push Hodell directly into the arms of a rival.
"I must report this to my superiors," Homan said through gritted teeth. "But before that, there is something else. If you intend to stand in the Ranking Festival, you first need to stay alive long enough to reach it. The Truth Society has not forgotten the laboratory. And there are others moving in the dark."
"Yes," Hodell said. "That brings us to the second matter."
His gaze sharpened.
"If my interests are now tied to the Merchant Guild, then before you harvest my estate, you have an obligation to ensure its integrity. I have no intention of being harassed by outsiders before the Festival begins."
Homan stared at him for a long moment.
Then he understood completely.
Hodell was not asking for protection.
He was forcing the Merchant Guild to protect its own future inheritance.
If this contract were signed, then anything under Hodell's name would effectively become reserved assets until the Ranking Festival concluded. Any outside interference that killed him too early would be interference against the Guild's own prospective property.
A slow, involuntary smile touched Homan's lips.
"Brilliant," he said. "It seems hiring the Polar Merchant Guild to guard your door is a privilege even Shadow City's old nobles do not enjoy."
Hodell's eyes did not move.
"I am not hiring you to guard my door."
He tapped the projected contract.
"I am hiring you to guard your greed."
A new holographic document unfolded, already complete down to the final clause. It was a standard magical contract by Liuli Star's legal conventions, which meant one thing above all else.
It would bite.
"Sign when you've made up your mind," Hodell said.
Homan let out a breath that sounded more like surrender than agreement.
He stored the contract away carefully.
Then the projection faded.
The workshop sank back into stillness.
For a few seconds, Hodell sat in silence, fingers tapping against the armrest.
Then he reached out and activated another communication device, this one black and veined with dark crystal.
Carlos's face flickered into view.
"Mr. Pale," the Truth Society supervisor said at once, sounding more irritated than cautious, "if this is about your earlier materials request, then I suggest you learn patience. The Society does not operate according to your whims."
"Carlos," Hodell said mildly, "I suggest you first check whether your internal confidentiality agreements have become scrap paper."
Carlos's mechanical eye clicked once.
Hodell continued before the man could interrupt.
"Three scavenging rats came to my workshop door a short while ago. Sharp noses, dead eyes, and a very specific interest in my body. Why don't you guess what happens if they make me feel threatened? Do I die quietly and keep your secrets sealed? Or do I throw that laboratory data into the market as the price of survival?"
For the first time since the connection opened, Carlos went completely silent.
Through the projection, even the fine grinding of gears inside his prosthetic eye was audible.
"So," Hodell said, his tone still calm, "ask yourself whether you would prefer that data to remain leverage or become common property for the entire valley before the Ranking Festival begins. I have no obligation to clean your mess for free."
He cut the call immediately.
Half an hour later, the answer arrived.
And it arrived in style.
What stood outside Hodell's workshop afterward was absurd enough to be remembered for years.
On one side, three heavily armed Magic Guided Armored Vehicles belonging to the Polar Merchant Guild had locked into formation, their energy cannons glowing with restrained lethality. Homan himself sat in the lead vehicle, staring toward the workshop like a man guarding the richest vault in the valley.
On the other side, Truth Society Falcon detectors hovered in the air, releasing layer upon layer of arcane threads that spread like a spider's web over the district.
Two major powers.
Two separate escort formations.
One workshop.
Hodell stood on the upper balcony and looked down at the scene, expression hidden behind the faceplate of White Crow. The silver gray exoskeleton was fully equipped now. Liquid arcane gold flowed through its grooves in slow lines, and pale purple steam escaped from the spinal vents with every measured breath.
Below, Homan sat in the command cabin of his lead vehicle, eyes fixed on the Truth Society formation through a long range crystal scope.
"How did that old fox Carlos move so fast?" he muttered.
His fingers drummed nervously against the seat.
In his eyes, the Truth Society's posture was far too aggressive to be simple compensation for a damaged lab. He even suspected that somehow they had learned of the trust agreement.
Do they want to take him?
Or worse, do they want to take what he knows?
At the same time, inside the lead escort carrier on the other side, Carlos was equally tense.
He watched the Polar Merchant Guild's cannon mounts turn ever so slightly and ground his teeth.
"Homan, that parasite... Why has he brought this level of firepower?"
He could not shake the suspicion that the Merchant Guild knew something. Perhaps they had learned about Core 09. Perhaps they intended to use Hodell as leverage. Perhaps the entire Guild had already wrapped its claws around him.
Neither side trusted the other.
Neither side could afford to move first.
The air between them was tight enough to split.
Then the workshop doors opened.
A deep pressure release hiss echoed through the district as Hodell stepped out from the shadows behind the threshold.
This time he was fully armed.
White Crow clung to him like a second skeleton, graceful and ominous all at once. The silver gray plating shimmered faintly under the polluted sky. His new faceplate was flat, pale, and unreadable, turning him into something halfway between a nobleman, a mechanical executioner, and a ghost.
He looked neither left nor right.
"Let's go," he said.
His amplified voice rolled down the street like cold metal striking stone.
What followed was a procession that deserved a place in the Wasteland's history.
For several kilometers, the broken wilderness was illuminated like daylight by overlapping fields of magical firepower. Energy cannon arcs loomed overhead. Detector webs drifted through the air. And in the center of it all walked a lone masked figure with calm, unhurried steps, as if all of this killing intent existed merely to escort him to dinner.
Deep in the ruined high ground beyond the convoy, several gray robed watchers clung to the rocks like parasites.
One of them wiped sweat from his temple.
"Detectors are deployed. Interference frequency is adjusting. If we strike now..."
He fell silent.
In his sight, the convoy beneath them was obscene.
The Polar Merchant Guild's armored vehicles advanced in a wedge formation, each one capable of leveling a block. The Truth Society's Falcons filled the sky, casting down detection grids dense enough to expose even hidden breath patterns. If they launched an assault now, they would be turned into paste before reaching the target.
"Report," he said hoarsely into the communication line.
Morin's voice came through a moment later, flat and steady.
"The situation?"
"The target is escorted by both the Merchant Guild and the Truth Society. Firepower density exceeds projected tolerances. Direct seizure probability is below thirty percent."
There was a pause on the other end.
Then Morin said, "Do what must be done."
The lead watcher understood immediately.
As the convoy passed through the narrowest section of the ruins, he activated the Spectral Stripping Array.
The effect was immediate.
The Merchant Guild's cannons swung half a degree as their systems detected an illegal scan signature from the Falcons above. At the same time, the Truth Society's detector net registered hostile locking behavior from the Guild's weapons.
Two organizations already on the brink of mistrust found themselves staring down the barrel of instant war.
Energy gathered.
Warning lights flashed.
Homan's finger hovered above the fire command.
Carlos's did the same.
And then Hodell stopped walking.
He turned only slightly, enough for the mask to angle toward both sides at once.
"I suggest," he said evenly, "that everyone moves their fingers away from the triggers."
His voice was not loud.
But it cut through the pressure like a blade.
"Find the source first."
The words hit both men like cold water.
Homan's expression shifted first. Carlos reacted a second later.
Neither of them was stupid. Both instantly realized something had tampered with the battlefield.
Neither fired.
The convoy resumed.
The gray robed watchers in the ruins did not dare try again.
At last, the final stretch of dead ground opened before them.
The road beneath their feet changed from broken rock to polished slabs of dark aurora stone. Ahead loomed the gates of Shadow City, towering like the closed jaws of some giant machine.
The alloy walls were dozens of meters high. Every scratch on them pulsed with suppressive inscriptions. Beyond the gates, one could already glimpse the distorted glow of neon and condensed mana.
Outside lay the Outer City's noise, rot, smoke, and hunger.
Inside waited something colder.
Cleaner.
Crueler.
The pressure in the air reached its peak.
"Identity verification," boomed a massive city gate construct, its voice like stone grinding against steel.
Hodell walked forward alone, leaving both escort forces behind him.
On the induction platform, layer after layer of detection energy swept across White Crow's armor and his concealed signature beneath it.
Behind him, Homan and Carlos both held their breath. When their eyes met, each saw only loathing and suspicion in the other.
The construct paused.
Then its systems aligned with the registered pattern.
Verification complete.
The inner gates opened.
Hodell stepped through.
The world beyond was entirely different.
Neon burned through the acid mist in hard, bloody colors. High towers pierced the sky, their surfaces covered in glowing energy lattices. The roads were immaculate. The air was dry, filtered, and cold. Everything felt wealthier, sharper, and more dangerous.
Behind him, the steel gates began to close.
Before the gap vanished entirely, Hodell looked back once.
Outside stood two exhausted powers, each guarding its own greed.
Inside waited the city that thought it had prepared the arena for him.
His hand brushed lightly over White Crow's mirror bright bracer. Reflected there was the soaring shadow of a neon tower stabbing into the cloud layer.
Then a faint, cruel chuckle escaped from beneath the mask.
"You've closed the door this tightly," he said softly.
"Good."
His eyes lifted toward the city's heart.
"Until my debts are settled, no one leaves the table alive."
.....
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