Investigation

The choice I made was in the silence of my office, amidst piles of map papers and stacks of reports. The gamble I took now wasn't simply because I wanted something without thinking, I had mapped out my thoughts beforehand, carefully. Opposing The Consortium now would be strategic suicide. I lacked resources, influence, and most importantly, information about them. Accepting their offer, even if it meant placing a leash around my own, granted me access to a higher playing field. I could learn more there before I could make full use of it. Also, there was one thing I had to obtain, something beyond an Immortal Sovereign, mentioned as the Crownless Heaven!

As dawn approached, I left the harbor district. The morning wind was sharp, carrying the scent of wet stone typical of the early day. Clockthon began operating once more. The first steam trains hissed in the distance, and workers began to flood the streets. I slipped away through paths I had studied, heading toward the Financial District.

I arrived in front of the Wool Exchange Building just as the sun first touched the city's tower peaks. With permission from a guard who seemed to have received instructions, I was escorted to a private steam elevator. The ascent felt slow; each mechanical chime of the elevator gave me more time to think within my thoughts, naturally to prepare myself for the upcoming negotiation.

The rooftop remained the same, a stone platform overlooking the entire city. The fog had thinned, revealing Clockthon in all its intricate and brutal splendor. This time, it wasn't just one figure waiting for me. There were two.

The white-haired woman I had previously met stood there, her dark coat fluttering slightly. Beside her stood a man whose presence seemed to swallow all the surrounding light. He was very tall, perhaps over two meters, with a solid build that didn't match his clearly advanced age.

As I approached, both of them turned to face me.

The man had hair as white as snow, just like the woman, but it was cut short and neat. His pale blue eyes watched me with a piercing gaze, it didn't feel like that of an analyst, but more like a hired killer searching for weaknesses. His thick white beard was neatly trimmed, making him look unmistakably like a patriarch.

"So, you're the young man who's captured Miraille's interest," said the old man. His voice was deep and authoritative, the voice of someone used to giving orders and seeing them carried out without question. "You're handsome enough for her, boy."

I, now a young man forged through eight years under Gerald Vahtrein, had a firm and proportional posture. I wore tailored three-piece suits more often than casual clothes. That had become my new uniform, another mask.

"Miraille?" I asked politely, my eyes on the woman. "Are you referring to the lady beside you?"

The old man burst into loud laughter, his booming voice echoing across the quiet rooftop. "Of course! She didn't introduce herself to you?! How outrageous!"

"Edric, stop it," said Miraille, patting the old man's back with mild irritation. Her tap had no effect on the giant man.

"Enough," I said, cutting through their theatrics. "Time is a valuable commodity. Sir and Madam, I am here to deliver my decision."

"Oh, is that so?" asked Miraille, one eyebrow raised.

"I will accept The Consortium's offer to join under the banner of the Wool Exchange Building," I stated clearly. "But with two conditions."

Silence enveloped us briefly. Edric stopped laughing. His face returned to a cold mask of authority. "You, a new player, dare to make demands of us?"

"A new player whom you personally invited to this rooftop," I replied. "If I held no value, I wouldn't be here. And my value comes with a price."

Miraille gave a thin smile. "Very well. We'll hear them."

"First condition," I began, "Doyle Acquisition will operate with full autonomy in terms of acquisition strategy and asset management. You may supervise, you may audit the books, but the final operational decisions will be mine. I will not allow your internal bureaucracy to cripple my efficiency."

Edric snorted. "Autonomy. That's a big word for a young man."

"A necessary word for optimal results, to be more precise," I corrected. "Second condition. I need access. Full access to all The Consortium's archives, trade data, intelligence reports on noble houses, profiles of key players in every guild. I cannot optimize a system if I do not understand its every component. Information is the foundation of every rational decision."

Those two conditions were the core of my strategy. Autonomy to act, and information to plan those actions. I was trading my limited freedom for the promise of greater gains for them.

Miraille and Edric exchanged glances, a wordless conversation passed between them. I waited, showing no sign of restlessness.

"Access to our archives is out of the question," Edric finally said. "That information is our lifeblood. Giving it to you is like handing a knife to a stranger."

"A stranger who will now be your partner," I said. "How can I generate profit for you if I work in the dark? Can a surgeon operate without seeing the patient's organs? The information I request isn't meant to destroy you, it's my way of understanding the market we all play in. My knowledge will be your gain, too."

"He does have a point, Edric," said Miraille softly. "His logic is solid. There's risk, but the potential gain is far greater."

Edric stared at me for a long time, his blue eyes piercing, as if trying to read every hidden intent in my mind. I returned his gaze unwaveringly.

"Very well," Edric said reluctantly. "Operational autonomy can be granted, within reason. Information access will be given gradually, based on trust and performance. Don't expect to read my wife's love letters on the first day."

"That is acceptable," I replied. The negotiation was complete. I had secured what I wanted, albeit with limits.

"Welcome to The Consortium, Mr. Rothes," said Miraille, extending her hand. Her hand was cold, but her grip was firm. "Starting today, you are the Head of Asset Acquisition and Restructuring. Your subordinate, Finch, will report to you, and you will report directly to the both of us."

"I understand," I said. "My first task?"

"House Droct," said Edric, a cruel smile forming on his face. "They've been too noisy lately. They're obstructing our expansion in the northern transport sector. Your acquisition of a few small shipping companies has angered them. Use that. Destroy their influence in the harbor district. Do it your way, clean, efficient, and if possible, legal. We want to see how an 'archon' operates."

My first task was to declare war on the military faction led by Cassian's father. They weren't giving me an easy job. They threw me straight into the wolves' den. This was both a test and a way for them to eliminate a rival using my hands.

"I'll see it done," I said.

I left that rooftop with a new status and a near-impossible mission. I was no longer playing solo. I was now part of a greater group, I could think of it as a machine I could use for my own goals, as long as I was smart enough not to get crushed by its gears.

The next few months were intensive work. I no longer lived in a warehouse. The Consortium gave me a penthouse atop one of the tallest buildings in the Financial District, or perhaps I should call it a golden cage, equipped with a personal data terminal directly connected to their internal network. From here, I could see all of Clockthon sprawled like a personal game board.

My work against House Droct was not done through direct confrontation. That would have been suicide. I used more subtle methods. Information warfare and logistics.

Through the Magpie's network, I spread carefully designed rumors. I had already accounted for the psychology of the general populace there. Rumors about delayed iron ore shipments from the north, causing mild panic among blacksmiths dependent on House Droct's supply. Rumors about the declining quality of the steel they produced. Rumors about a high-ranking Droct officer with an embarrassing gambling habit.

Simultaneously, through Doyle Acquisition, I offered exclusive contracts to small merchants and shipping companies previously suppressed by House Droct. I offered better prices, more efficient schedules, and most importantly, protection from extortion. One by one, they began switching to my network.

I didn't assault House Droct's fortress. I merely dried the moat around it, cutting off its supply lines and sources of revenue. It was a war of attrition fought with ledgers and coded messages, not swords and Essence.

Amidst all of this, my physical training with Gerald Vahtrein continued. It became my only escape from the world of corporate intrigue. Honest physical pain felt refreshing after a day of dealing with lies and manipulation. My strength progressed rapidly. My Aperture was now eighty percent filled. I learned to channel Void Essence not just for recovery, I needed it to sharpen my senses to inhuman levels. Perhaps I could detect differences in heart pressure, lies, and things like that.

One day, after an especially grueling training session, Gerald offered me a drink at an old tavern near the military barracks.

"You're getting stronger, kid," he said while gulping his beer. "But there's something else about you. You don't fight like a soldier, I see you fighting like a machine. Every move calculated. No anger, no spirit. Just efficiency. And to be honest, that disturbs me."

"Feelings are a luxury I cannot afford, Lieutenant," I replied, only sipping water.

"That'll be your weakness one day," he said. "Someday, you'll face an opponent you can't calculate. One driven by something you can't measure. And on that day, all your logic will mean nothing."

His words echoed in my mind. He was right. I had already faced one such opponent, Forre. And I lost.

That night, I received a message from Irene. True to her nature, she would never use official channels. Instead, she sent it via a small note slipped beneath my penthouse door. Just one sentence:

"He's in the Lower City. Emergency medical district. They call him 'The Healer.'"

Silas.

A man from my past. Apparently, Fravikveidimadr no longer kept him under the academy, they moved him elsewhere. The Lower City, a slum outside Clockthon's main wall, where refugees, the sick, and society's outcasts gathered. It was essentially a lawless city even the city guards avoided.

And they called him "The Healer"?

This was a new anomaly, a variable that didn't align with my initial data. Fravikveidimadr wouldn't place a research asset as vital as Silas in such a place without reason. Had they lost him? Or was this part of a larger experiment?

I stood before my panoramic window, gazing at the lights of the Lower City, which looked like festering wounds in the distance. My war against House Droct, the construction of the Doyle Acquisition, my games with The Consortium, all of it felt like abstractions compared to this. I could assume this was something tied to the boy's childhood, something dark.

I couldn't ignore it. Silas, whatever role he played now, was a hole in my knowledge. And I hate holes.

I opened a hidden compartment in the wall. Inside was a simple set of travel clothes and an expressionless white porcelain mask. The identity of Welt Rothes, the manager, would be left behind tonight, for a while.

I had to go to the Lower City. I had to see it with my own eyes. I had to know what they had done to him, and what he had become.

I stared at my reflection in the window. The face of a calm young man, but with eyes that held the secrets of two worlds and the weight of a plan that could either shatter or rebuild everything.

Gerald was right. One day, I'd face something I couldn't calculate. Maybe tonight was that night.

I put on the porcelain mask. "Let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes," I whispered to myself in the silence of the luxurious penthouse. Tonight's journey wasn't part of the plan. This was something else. Something personal. And that made it far more dangerous.