Lucien walked into the count's garrison like he was late for a boring meeting he never agreed to attend.
Nyx stayed invisible on his shoulder, her weight light but her tail occasionally brushing the side of his neck like a reminder she was first in everything.
Elara trailed a step behind, dressed plain as a servant girl with her hair tied back and a tray balanced on one hand she'd grabbed from somewhere.
Mira had stayed back in the village, eyes on the road, new bow ready in case things went loud.
The main hall smelled of old stone, polished wood, and the faint sour edge of wine that had been left out too long.
Torches burned steady along the walls, throwing light that made everything look more important than it was.
The count sat at the head of a long table, smile fixed like it had been practiced in front of a mirror that morning.
Next to him stood the invited cultivator—level eighteen written all over the way he held his shoulders, the kind of arrogance that came from winning fights against people who couldn't fight back.
The cultivator's eyes landed on Lucien and narrowed. "So this is the village boy playing lord. Cute."
Lucien dropped into the chair across from the count without waiting for permission, elbows on the table, purple-pink hair catching the torchlight at the tips.
The golden scar over his left eyebrow itched once, sharp. "Cute. That's new. Usually they go straight to scared."
The count cleared his throat, fingers tapping once on the arm of his chair. "Let's keep this civil, Voss. You were summoned for a conversation. Not a spectacle."
The cultivator snorted, stepping forward, the air around him shifting with a weak wind technique that smelled like cheap cologne mixed with sweat.
"Civil? This orphan thinks he can claim territory in your lands and you want civil?"
He threw a punch wrapped in compressed air, fast for someone his level but still slow enough that Lucien saw the hitch in the follow-through.
Lucien leaned back just enough. The fist whistled past his face, ruffling his hair.
He didn't stand. Didn't even raise his voice.
The Devourer's Gaze kicked in quiet, copying the technique clean, the Greed Bloodline taking the pattern and multiplying the force before sending it back in a lazy flick of his wrist.
The cultivator flew backward, slamming into the stone wall with a dull thud that knocked dust from the ceiling.
He slid down, coughing once, eyes wide like he'd just realized the script had changed pages without telling him.
The count's face went pale, one hand gripping the edge of the table hard enough that his knuckles showed white.
A small bead of sweat rolled down his temple and he wiped it away quick, like it embarrassed him.
Lucien pulled the stack of multiplied documents from the Infinite Chaos Treasury and tossed them onto the table.
They landed with a soft slap, the forged numbers and signatures clear under the torchlight.
"Your accountant's been skimming ten percent for seasons. I just brought the receipts. Consider it a housewarming gift. Eldoria's mine by right of greed. You can keep pretending you still own the road if you want. Or we can make it official."
Nyx's voice slid into his ear, invisible and sweet with teeth behind it. "He's sweating the good kind of fear. Tastes like overripe fruit left in the sun."
The count stared at the papers, fingers trembling as he flipped through them.
The cultivator stayed on the floor, breathing hard, pride cracking louder than his ribs probably wanted to admit.
Lucien leaned back in the chair, that crooked half-smile still stuck on his face.
He could feel the Greed purring low, satisfied but already bored, waiting for the next bite.
After a long silence the count exhaled through his nose, sharp.
"Eldoria will be listed as specially protected territory. No extra taxes. No unscheduled visits. In return… you keep whatever games you're playing inside your own borders."
Lucien stood up slow, rolling his shoulders once. "Deal. But if I smell your men sniffing around my dirt again, the next receipts will have your name on them."
He left the hall with a small official pouch of gold coins heavier than it looked, the count's reluctant nod following him out like a bad aftertaste.
Elara fell in step beside him as soon as they cleared the gate, her servant disguise already fading into something more practical.
Nyx stayed invisible but her tail brushed his neck once, warm and possessive.
The walk back felt lighter, boots kicking up dust that smelled of dry earth and distant rain that never quite arrived.
The sun sat low, painting the fields that weird orange that made everything look richer than it was.
Lucien's level had ticked up somewhere quiet during the short fight—nothing dramatic, just another warm layer settling under his skin.
Halfway home Nyx materialized on his shoulder again, ears perked.
"Someone followed us. The scent's the same as that burned caravan. Not the count's men. Older. Hungrier."
Lucien didn't stop walking. Just felt the Greed stir sharper, the golden scar itching like it smelled competition again.
Elara's hand brushed her sword hilt.
The village came into view ahead, small fires already lit for evening, the faint sound of the flute carrying on the wind like the place had decided to keep celebrating whether trouble was coming or not.
He rolled his neck once, purple-pink hair catching the last of the light at the tips.
The pouch of official gold clinked soft against his side.
The documents were already planted where they'd do the most damage.
And now something with the wrong smell was trailing them home like it thought it could steal colors it hadn't earned.
Lucien's mouth twitched that same crooked smile.
Some invitations ended in polite handshakes.
Others just handed you the next thing worth swallowing whole.
The village lights grew closer, the flute notes thin but stubborn, and the air carried that faint metallic tang of whatever decided to follow them back.
He kept walking.
Three days had turned into whatever came next, and he was already pricing the interest.
The pouch felt heavier than it should. The scent on the wind felt older than it had any right to.
Nyx's tail tightened around his neck once, Elara's steps matched his without missing a beat, and the Greed purred low, patient, ready for whatever stupid mistake decided to knock on the door next.
The flute played on behind the walls, the harvest baskets still half-full near the fountain, and Lucien pushed the crooked shack door open with two fingers, the wood groaning like it knew the night wasn't done talking yet.
He dropped the pouch on the table, the gold clinking loud in the quiet space.
Elara lit the lantern. Nyx shifted human and stole the first piece of bread from the shelf.
The air inside smelled of cold ashes and the promise of whatever scent was still trailing them from the road.
Lucien sat on the edge of the straw mattress, purple and pink eyes reflecting the flame, the golden scar itching sharper now.
Some cultivators got invited to test monsters.
Others just walked straight into the trap wearing their own colors.
He leaned back against the wall, the straw creaking under him, and let the Greed settle in for the long wait.
The night pressed against the crooked walls, thick and warm, while the village outside kept breathing a little easier because the dirt under its feet had already learned whose side it was on.
Lucien closed his eyes for half a second, the scent on the wind still lingering at the back of his throat.
Tomorrow the interest would start compounding again.
The lantern flame dipped once, throwing long shadows that danced across the sagging roof like they knew the game had just changed rules.
He smiled anyway, small and crooked, the kind that started in traffic jams back home and never learned when to quit.
Some summons ended with gold and polite nods.
Others just delivered the next meal on a silver platter and didn't realize the platter belonged to him now.
The bread tasted better after that.
The night kept breathing outside, the flute finally fading into quiet, and the four of them sat in the small shack with the weight of whatever followed them home sitting heavy in the air between them.
Lucien took another bite, the crust rough against his teeth, and thought about how back in São Paulo he'd never imagined turning a polite invitation into something that tasted this much like profit.
The pouch of gold sat on the table, official seal still pressed into the leather.
He left it there.
There were bigger things to collect before the sun came up again.