Lucien pushed the tavern door open with two fingers, the wood groaning like it owed him money and knew the bill was coming due.
The Primordial Presence leaked out just enough, nothing flashy, just a low pressure that made the cheap glasses on the tables rattle softly against each other, like they were nervous about being noticed.
The place smelled of spilled ale gone sour, old wood soaked in years of smoke, and that faint metallic tang of ink that never quite washed off skin.
A couple locals at the back table glanced up, then quickly found something interesting in their mugs.
The accountant sat alone near the window, thin as a reed that had been left out in the sun too long, glasses crooked on his nose like they'd given up trying to sit straight.
He smelled of old paper and nervous sweat, the kind that collects in collar creases after too many late nights faking numbers.
When he looked up from his ledger, his eyes widened for half a second, then narrowed, the way someone does when they spot a ghost that still has a pulse and a bad attitude.
Lucien dropped into the chair across from him without asking, elbows on the scarred table, purple-pink hair catching the lantern light at the tips.
The golden scar over his left eyebrow itched once, sharp, like the Greed Bloodline was already tasting the conversation before it started. "Heard you've been counting things that don't belong to you."
The accountant's fingers tightened around his quill, knuckles whitening, but his voice came out steady enough, the practiced tone of a man who lied for a living.
"Lord Voss, I presume. The count sends his regards. Official protection for Eldoria, in exchange for a modest tithe. Ten percent of the harvest. Fair, considering the… improvements you've made to the soil."
Lucien let out a short laugh, low and dry, the kind that started in his chest and died before it reached his eyes.
Ten percent. Cute. Back in São Paulo he'd haggle over delivery fees that cost more than that. "Ten percent? I charge twenty just to let you breathe the same air I'm breathing right now."
The man's left eyelid twitched once, a small nervous tic that gave away more than any ledger ever could.
He adjusted his glasses with two fingers, buying time. "The count is generous. Refuse, and things could become… complicated."
Nyx was already there, invisible fox form perched on the edge of the counter like she owned the place, tail flicking silent against the wood.
Her voice slid straight into Lucien's ear, sweet with that dangerous edge she saved for when someone was trying to play games. "He's lying about the count. The count doesn't even know he came. This one's skimming for himself and using the title like a cheap umbrella."
Lucien's mouth curved that crooked half-smile, the one that never quite left even after the truck ended his old life.
He leaned forward, voice dropping. "Funny thing about percentages. They multiply real nice when you know where the holes are."
The accountant swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing like it wanted to escape.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a sealed document, sliding it across the table with fingers that trembled just enough to notice. "Sign this. Protection is guaranteed. The count's seal is already on it."
Lucien didn't touch it right away.
The Devourer's Gaze kicked in quiet, peeling the fake seal apart in his head, the ink, the wax, the little imperfections that screamed forgery.
The Greed Bloodline uncoiled behind his ribs, hungry and patient, copying the pattern clean before the man could blink.
Then it multiplied, twisting the document into something sharper, undeniable, the kind of proof that could hang a man twice over if it reached the right eyes.
He finally picked up the original, scanned it once, and tossed the multiplied versions onto the table between them.
The papers landed with a soft slap, the forged seals now glowing faint with his own mana, impossible to deny. "Tell the count Eldoria sends him a gift. The real version of his books. The one where you've been helping yourself to more than ten percent."
The accountant's face went pale, the color draining like someone pulled the plug.
Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and he wiped it away with the back of his sleeve, the movement too quick, too jerky. "You… you don't understand what you're doing."
Lucien stood up slow, chair scraping loud against the floor. "I understand exactly. You came here thinking you could skim off my village like it was loose change in your pocket. Next time you count lies, make sure they add up."
He left the man sitting there, ledger forgotten, fingers still twitching around the quill like it might save him.
The glasses stayed crooked. The ale in his untouched mug had gone flat.
Outside the square felt different under his boots, warmer somehow, the air carrying the sweet smell of ripe wheat and woodsmoke from evening fires starting early.
Kids ran between huts chasing each other with handfuls of fruit that had no business growing this fast or this fat, juice staining their fingers sticky.
One little girl offered Lucien a piece without thinking, then blushed and ran off giggling when he took it.
Elara was helping an old woman carry a bundle of firewood, sleeves rolled up, sweat on her neck but her steps steady, the kind of steady that came from choosing to stay instead of running again.
Mira sat on a low bench near the fountain, sharpening new arrows with a small stone, the new bow resting against her knee like it had always belonged there.
She looked up when Lucien approached, short brown hair messy from the wind, eyes narrowing in that way that said she was still weighing every move he made.
He dropped down beside her, the bench creaking under his weight.
Elara joined them a minute later, wiping her hands on her tunic before leaning her shoulder against his side, warm and solid. "You're turning them into accomplices," she said quietly, voice carrying that stubborn softness she got when she was half-proud, half-worried. "The whole village. I like it."
Lucien bit into the fruit, juice sweet and sharp on his tongue, the kind of taste that reminded him nothing here came free anymore.
"Accomplices beat scared peasants. They'll fight harder when the next wave comes if they think the dirt belongs to them too."
Mira tested the edge of an arrowhead with her thumb, a small bead of blood welling up before she sucked it off. "The accountant left in a hurry. Looked like he'd seen his own grave walking around with purple hair."
Nyx appeared then, shifting human beside them with her tail curling lazy around Lucien's ankle under the bench.
She stole a piece of fruit from his hand without asking, biting into it with a grin that showed tiny fangs. "He smelled like fear and cheap ink. Good combination. Makes the lies taste better when they break."
The four of them sat there as the square emptied slow, lanterns flickering to life one by one.
Old Tomás swept his step again, slower this time, nodding toward Lucien like the respect had settled in his bones and decided to stay.
A woman called her kids in for supper, voice carrying across the packed dirt with less edge than usual.
Even the fountain seemed to pulse quieter, the Eternal Seed doing its work underground, turning bad soil into something that made people stand straighter without knowing why.
Lucien felt the weight in his chest, not heavy like a burden, but the good kind, the kind that came when loyalty grew roots instead of just fear.
It was more dangerous than points ever were. Harder to multiply, easier to lose if he got sloppy.
Random thought hit him sideways—back home loyalty meant liking the same comment section drama. Here it meant kids sharing fruit and old men nodding like he was part of the walls now.
The accountant's horse hooves finally faded down the road, the man riding like the devil was chewing his heels.
He left something behind though, a small leather pouch "forgotten" near the tavern steps, coins clinking soft when Lucien picked it up.
The Greed Bloodline hummed approval, converting it quiet into points without any blue box screaming about it.
[Greed Points +9,300.]
No fireworks. Just the warm rush in his veins like the first decent hit after a long dry spell.
Back at the shack the lantern was already lit, the air thick with leftover soup smell and Nyx's sweet-ozone trace.
Lucien pushed the door open, expecting the usual damp straw and quiet.
Mira beat him inside, bending down to pick something off the floor near the table.
A sealed letter, wax still warm, the count's mark pressed sloppy like it had been done in a hurry.
She turned it over in her hands, brow furrowed. "He dropped this on purpose," she said, voice low. "The accountant. Said the count already knows about the purple-haired monster waking up in the village. Wants to meet it before it grows teeth."
Lucien took the letter, the paper thick under his fingers, the seal cracking slightly when he broke it.
Inside the handwriting was neat, too neat, the kind that came from someone who practiced threats until they looked polite.
Elara leaned in to read over his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck.
Nyx's tail tightened around his leg once, possessive and sharp. Mira stayed close, the new bow still in her other hand, knuckles white.
The night pressed against the crooked walls, the village outside going quiet except for a distant dog barking at nothing.
Lucien folded the letter slow, the Greed stirring warmer now, mixed with that uncomfortable tightness that came when his people got dragged into the next mess.
He looked at the three of them, purple and pink eyes reflecting the lantern light, the golden scar itching like it approved the coming headache.
"Guess the count wants a conversation," he muttered, mouth pulling that crooked smile anyway. "Hope he brings better lies than his accountant."
The letter stayed on the table, wax crumbs scattered like cheap confetti.
Outside, the wheat fields rustled in the dark, growing faster than any normal dirt had a right to.
Lucien rolled his shoulders once, feeling the multiplied power settle in his bones, and thought about how back in São Paulo he'd never imagined negotiating with fake seals and purple hair while three girls watched him like the night was just getting started.
Mira broke the silence first, voice dry. "You gonna answer him?"
Lucien tossed the folded letter into the corner, where it landed soft against the straw. "Eventually. Right now I'm more interested in what he thinks a monster looks like."
The lantern flickered, throwing long shadows across the sagging roof.
Nyx stole another piece of leftover bread from the shelf, Elara's shoulder stayed pressed against his, and Mira kept turning the new arrow in her fingers like she was already calculating the next shot.
The village slept uneasy that night, but not from fear of the count.
It slept like something that had started believing the dirt under its feet belonged to someone who collected more than just coins.
Lucien closed his eyes for a second, the Greed purring low, already bored with the letter and looking ahead to whatever stupid mistake the count made next.
Tomorrow was going to taste like profit. Or at least like someone else's mistake he could swallow whole.