[The Elven Mage Tower - The Northern Foothills]
Archmage Aeloria knelt in the freezing snow, staring blankly at the stripped, hollow shell of her once-glorious tower. Her 500 elite elven scholars shivered around her, clutching their empty pockets.
They were broke. They were homeless. And winter was setting in.
Suddenly, a glowing blue communication crystal dropped onto the snow directly in front of Aeloria. It hummed to life, projecting the immaculate, towering hologram of Victor Thorne in his midnight-blue suit.
"Archmage," Victor's voice cut through the howling wind, smooth and utterly devoid of pity. "I hope the eviction process was handled professionally. My shareholders can be a bit enthusiastic on dividend day."
"You monster..." Aeloria hissed, her lips trembling from the cold. "You stole our ancestral home. You took our life's work. We will wander the frozen wastes and die before we ever bend the knee to a human."
"Dying in the snow is highly inefficient," Victor checked his gold pocket watch. "And frankly, a massive waste of human resources."
Aeloria looked up, confused. "What?"
"I now possess seventy-five million Gold worth of raw mana crystals," Victor gestured with his gold-nibbed pen. "But raw crystals need to be refined, cut, and polished before they can be sold to the Demon Realm franchise. Orcs have terrible fine motor skills. Vampires get distracted. But High Elves? You have spent centuries studying crystalline structures."
Aeloria's sapphire eyes widened in horror as she realized what the human was doing.
"You want us... to process our own stolen crystals for you?!" she gasped, her pride shattering into a million pieces. "We are highborn scholars! We are masters of the arcane arts!"
"You are currently unemployed, homeless, and freezing to death," Victor corrected her, his Tycoon's Aura pressing down on the hologram, suffocating her protests. "The market doesn't care about your bloodline, Aeloria. It only cares about leverage. Right now, your leverage is zero."
Victor tapped the Tycoon's Ledger. A massive, glowing employment contract materialized in the snow in front of the Archmage.
"The Pantheon Group is officially opening the Abyssal Crystal Refinery," Victor announced. "I am offering you and your five hundred scholars immediate employment. You will receive heated dormitories, three basic meals a day, and a starting salary of ten silver coins an hour."
"Ten silver?!" an elven scholar shrieked from the background. "That's minimum wage! We used to charge ten thousand Gold for a single consultation!"
"That was before your company went bankrupt," Victor smiled a ruthless, calculating smile. "You have sixty seconds to sign the contract, Archmage. Or my hologram disconnects, and you can test your highborn pride against the mountain wolves."
Aeloria looked at her shivering people. They were starving. They had no magic. They had no choice.
Tears of pure, agonizing humiliation froze on her cheeks as she reached forward and pressed her thumb against the glowing corporate contract.
"Excellent," Victor adjusted his cuffs, his voice echoing with absolute dominance. "Welcome to the gig economy, Aeloria. Your shift starts at 6:00 AM. Do not be late."