Toran returned at dawn, looking less like a gang lord and more like a nervous merchant.
He entered the warehouse office, his mechanical arm whirring softly. He dumped a heavy, greasy sack onto Rylan's desk. It hit the wood with the dull, satisfying thud of low-grade spirit coins.
"Sold out," Toran reported, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Every dagger. Every reinforced shield. The Pit-Fighters went crazy for them. They call it 'Ghost-Steel' because it's light but hits heavy."
He counted two thousand common units from the sack. Lyra checked the sales list against the weights before allowing Rylan to discuss how to spend it.
Rylan didn't touch the money. He looked at Toran's face.
"You look scared, Toran. Did someone follow you?"
"Not... exactly," Toran hesitated. "But word traveled fast. The Iron-Blood Syndicate heard about the sale. They control the weapon trade in the Smog District. They don't like freelancers."
Rylan leaned back in his chair, wincing slightly as his shoulder adjusted. "Competition is natural. Did they send a threat?"
"They sent an Auditor," Toran said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He's outside. Waiting."
Rylan's eyes narrowed. In the underworld, an "Auditor" wasn't an accountant. He was an assassin in a silk suit.
"Let him in," Rylan ordered. "And Toran... keep your arm charged."
The man who entered the warehouse looked entirely out of place in the Slag District.
He wore a pristine grey robe embroidered with silver thread. His hair was oiled and pulled back. He held a folding fan made of black iron. He walked with a casual, fluid grace that screamed Cultivator.
[Ding! Target Analysis.]
[Target: Vargas (Syndicate Auditor).]
[Cultivation: Qi Condensation (Late-Stage).]
[Affiliation: Iron-Blood Syndicate.]
[Threat Level: High (Political/Combat).]
Vargas stopped in the center of the room, ignoring the looming Earth-Kin guards. He snapped his fan shut and bowed slightly to Rylan. It was a mockery of respect.
"Mr. Sterling," Vargas said, his voice smooth as oil. "You have made quite a splash in our stagnant little pond. Taking over the Gear-Grinders. Flooding the pits with unsanctioned tech. Bold."
"I see a market, I fill it," Rylan said, remaining seated. "Is the Syndicate looking to buy?"
"The Syndicate is looking to tax," Vargas corrected gently. "You are operating in our shadow, Mr. Sterling. The standard fee for unsanctioned manufacturing is 60% of gross profit. Plus the rights to your Artificer."
Mei, standing in the corner, stiffened.
Rylan laughed. It was a cold, dry sound.
"Sixty percent?" Rylan asked. "And my Artificer? You might as well ask for my sword while you're at it."
Vargas smiled, but his eyes remained dead. "We could take that too. But we prefer partners. Refuse, and the Syndicate will simply embargo your supplies. No coal. No steel. No food. You will starve in this warehouse."
It was a valid threat. Rylan had the ore, but he needed the city's infrastructure to survive.
"I have a counter-offer," Rylan said.
Toran had brought the tournament notice with the sales ledger. It named Korg and recorded the broken weapon from his last match. Rylan placed the notice where Vargas could see that he was bargaining from a report, not pretending to know the Syndicate's private thoughts.
Vargas raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"I don't accept that demand," Rylan said, standing up. He activated his Imperial Aura, letting a fraction of his early Foundation pressure weigh down the room.
Vargas flinched. He sensed it instantly—Rylan's cultivation was higher than his own. The "rogue armorer" was a Foundation expert, above Vargas's late-Qi realm.
"However," Rylan continued, dialing back the pressure just enough to let Vargas breathe, "I am willing to pay a... consultation fee."
"What kind of fee?" Vargas asked, his voice tighter.
"The Blood-Pit Tournament is in three days," Rylan said. "I know the Syndicate sponsors a champion. I hear he lost his last match because his weapon shattered."
Vargas's expression darkened. It was a sore spot. The Syndicate had lost face.
"I will outfit your champion," Rylan proposed. "Mei will build him a weapon that won't shatter. Armor that won't break. If he wins, I keep 100% of my profits, and the Syndicate grants me 'Preferred Merchant' status. I buy materials at cost."
"And if he loses?" Vargas countered.
"You recover your material costs from our sales. No ownership of Mei. No transfer of the workshop. You've seen the prototypes; judge the gear on a test before the fight."
The room went silent. Lyra looked at Rylan as if he were insane. Toran looked ready to faint.
Vargas tapped his fan against his chin. He calculated the odds. A free upgrade for their champion? A chance to regain face? And if it failed, they got everything anyway.
"Our champion," Vargas said slowly, "is a berserker named Korg. He breaks everything he touches. If your 'Ghost-Steel' fails him, he will die."
"It won't fail," Rylan said.
Vargas smiled again, this time with genuine amusement.
"Done. You have two days to deliver the gear. Do not disappoint us, Mr. Sterling. The Syndicate does not give second chances."
"And the equipment fee?" Rylan asked before the fan opened again.
They settled on twenty-four thousand common units on victory, with merchant access in addition. Vargas had the terms written on the reverse of the tournament notice and sealed it. He was buying a chance to win his own larger bets and retain a useful supplier. Mei would fit and test the gear before any obligation went beyond that trial.
He bowed again and swept out of the room.
As soon as the door closed, Lyra exploded.
"Are you crazy?" she hissed. "Korg? I've heard of him! He's a monster! He fights Ogrewolves bare-handed! He'll snap anything Mei builds!"
"Then Mei needs to build something unsnappable," Rylan said calmly.
He turned to Mei. She was pale, shaking her head.
"Master... I can work with Spirit Ore, yes. But to withstand a berserker's Qi? I need a catalyst. Something to bind the ore so it flexes instead of breaking."
"What do you need?" Rylan asked.
"Blood-Iron Essence," Mei said. "Or... bone dust from a Foundation Establishment beast."
Rylan looked at the sack of coins Toran had brought.
"Toran," Rylan said.
"Y-yes, Master?"
"Take the money. All of it." Rylan pushed the sack toward him. "Go to the Black Market. Buy the bone dust. I don't care what it costs."
"But Rylan," Lyra interjected, "that leaves us with nothing. No food money. No bribes."
"Money is just fuel," Rylan said, looking at the map of the city on his wall. "We are betting the house, Lyra. Because if we win, we don't just survive in the Slag District."
He stabbed his finger onto the map, directly on the Smog District.
"We move up."
He turned to Lena.
"And Lena... brew your strongest stimulants. I'm going to need to stay awake for two days. I'm helping Mei with the forging."
"Your shoulder..." Lena warned.
"Will hold," Rylan said. "Because it has to."