A few days later, a carriage laden with luggage departed from the Magic Game Experience Store, carrying Lorne and his chosen assistant toward the Norelia Railway Station.
In the early morning, Sunset Boulevard was as busy as ever. A hired carriage wouldn't usually draw any attention, but because it had departed from the most talked-about shop in town, and many had witnessed the silver-haired, red-eyed owner boarding it, the modest vehicle instantly became the focal point of the city.
"Where do you think they're going?"
"I saw luggage; I bet they're heading to the station."
"Obviously. I mean where are they taking the train to? One silver coin says Royal City, the capital." "You're on! I say they're going to the industrial city of Idsey!"
Passersby pointed at the receding back of the carriage, whispering their "distinguished" theories as if they were personal witnesses to a historical turning point.
The carriage splashed through puddles of melting snow. On the sidewalk, a man in black adjusted the brim of his hat and stuffed his hands into his pockets as if cold. A thick scarf covered half his face, leaving only a pair of cold eyes visible behind gold-rimmed glasses. His blue irises reflected the carriage as it vanished into the distance.
He turned into a dark alley, crossed to another street, and expertly found the nearest post office.
"I want to send a telegram," he told the clerk. "Address it to Mr. Freddy Harden, Toy Joy Company, 198 Frost-Dew Avenue, Royal City. The message is: The Great Enemy has arrived."
The clerk gave him a strange look. "And who shall I say is sending it?"
"Me?" The man let out a low chuckle behind his scarf. "Just sign it as Sherwood."
In this era, telegrams were recognized as one of the fastest ways to transmit information.
Sherwood's telegram was encoded by the operator, flashed to the capital's post office, translated back into text onto special telegram paper, and handed to a courier.
Less than ten minutes later, a courier sped from the post office on a bicycle toward Frost-Dew Avenue. He entered the headquarters of Toy Joy and handed the telegram to a sweet-faced receptionist. Upon seeing the recipient's name, her smile instantly stiffened.
A minute later, a young female secretary knocked on the door of the office belonging to Mr. Freddy Harden, Chairman and General Manager of the company. With elegant strides, she placed a tray on Mr. Harden's desk. The telegram sat in the center.
Mr. Harden scanned the telegram and barked at the secretary, "Get Young Mr. Freddy Harden to my office! And get me a coffee!"
By the time the steaming coffee arrived, a young man in a well-tailored suit was already seated in the office. The secretary winked at him, swaying her hips as she left; he responded with a flirtatious smile.
"Can you do anything other than stare at women's backsides?!" Mr. Harden roared, spit flying onto the young man's face.
The young man didn't mind, wiping the droplet from the corner of his eye. "I like her face too."
Seeing Mr. Harden's anger about to erupt like a volcano, the young man cut in, "Dad, why did you call me?"
The father and son shared the exact same name; people usually distinguished them as "Old Mr. Harden" and "Young Mr. Harden."
However, their appearances were worlds apart. Old Mr. Harden was in his fifties and had lost more than half his hair, leaving a shiny dome. Male pattern baldness ran in the family—his father had been bald by middle age, as had his grandfather. His son still had a thick head of hair, but it wouldn't last; once he crossed thirty, the powerful genes would make their move.
Mr. Harden suppressed his rage and said viciously, "Sherwood sent a telegram. The fellow who came up with the Magic Games is coming to Royal City to open a branch."
He always spoke with such displeasure, as if everyone in the world owed him a thousand gold coins.
Young Freddy wore a cynical smile. "What happened with my uncle? I thought with his skills, he'd handle Dungeon Entertainment effortlessly."
"If he had those skills, he wouldn't have failed to notice the mole we planted next to him! What can he do besides rage incompetently?" Old Mr. Harden snorted. "Weren't you tinkering with that Magic Slate recently? Any results?"
"I gave the slate to... professional researchers," Young Freddy said. "I believe they'll provide a satisfactory answer soon. Additionally, I've installed anti-magic metal fences at home and the office to prevent anyone from spying on us with magic."
"Hmph!" The father snorted. "What can those street magicians analyze? If they were that capable, would they be working for you? They'd be in a Mage Tower by now!"
"Dad, you can't say that..."
"Dungeon Entertainment is about to climb all over us!" Old Mr. Harden slammed the desk. The coffee cup and tray jumped, splashing brown liquid onto his white shirt.
"Dammit! This is a new shirt!" He cursed, pulling out a handkerchief to dab the stain, only to make it spread further. "Can't you do something?"
Young Freddy pointed. "Use baking soda, Dad. It works wonders."
"Oh, thanks—I'm not talking about that!"
"You mean Dungeon Entertainment." Young Freddy stretched his long legs lazily. "That's easy. I'll just go and 'grease the wheels' a bit."
"You? Grease wheels?" Harden looked at his son skeptically.
"How many departments do you have to deal with to do business in the capital, Dad? The Chamber of Commerce, City Hall, various trade unions... A little friction at any step, and they won't even be able to open their doors. Most importantly, Dad, what we're doing is perfectly legal. Is it a crime for the relevant departments to follow the rules strictly?"
Harden said, "You know that won't solve the problem forever, right?"
Young Freddy drawled, "Dad, I just need time. Give me a little more time."
Harden stared at his son, trying to find any sign of a joke. He could never tell if his son was just talking nonsense or using a cynical tone to mask his true intentions.
After a long silence, he let out a loud "Ha!" His mouth split wide, revealing teeth so perfect they looked fake. His son joined in the laughter. Father and son looked at each other and roared with miral, the office filling with a twisted sense of joy.
"Then I'll leave it to you! Don't disappoint me!"
Harden rang the bell for the secretary.
Young Freddy stood up lazily and sauntered out of the office. As he passed the secretary, he blew her a kiss. She was about to ask if he was free for lunch when a lion-like roar came from the office: "Bring me some baking soda, or I'll use your face to scrub this shirt!"
Young Freddy returned to his own office. The exaggerated smile vanished instantly, like a mask being removed.
Expressionless, he opened a drawer and took out a checkbook. He wrote down several figures—the amounts needed to bribe the staff at City Hall and the Chamber of Commerce. Opening a shop in the capital was a complex process; commoners often missed a form or filled in a detail wrong. Usually, City Hall would kindly remind them to fix it. But that kindness, when driven by money, could vanish entirely.
"Go back to Norelia, Dungeon Entertainment," Young Freddy whispered to himself. "At least that way you can enjoy your final days."
One day later. Evening. Royal Emblem Railway Station, Royal City.
The Norelia Express stopped at Platform 9. The train was supposed to arrive yesterday, but a "situation" on the tracks had delayed it until now. Passengers trampling over each other to disembark were all wearing scowls, cursing the incompetent railway bureau, the cowardly Royal Army, and the dining car chef—whose horrific cooking turned an unpleasant trip into a literal hell.
Among the passengers was an outlier. "She" was a tall lady wearing an ankle-length trench coat and black silk gloves. Oversized sunglasses covered most of her face, and the rest was covered in overly white foundation. Her lips were a shade of crimson so vivid she looked like she had just eaten a child.
However, the people of the capital were sophisticated and unfazed. This was the largest city in the Coastal Kingdom and one of the most prosperous on the continent; eccentrics from all corners of the world gathered here. A heavily made-up "woman" was nothing to get excited about.
The "woman" adjusted her wide-brimmed hat and turned nervously to the silver-haired man behind her. "Oh, Lord Lorne, this is the capital's station! I didn't expect it to change so much!"
The silver-haired man hopped off the train carrying luggage. "Is that so? What did it look like before?"
"A graveyard."
Lorne: "..."
After a day and night of travel, Lorne had finally arrived in Royal City with his assistant, Ghoulster .
To be precise, it was Ghoulster wrapped in a slime.
The reason he chose Ghoulster among all the monsters was that Ghoulster was the only one who had been to the capital. In his previous life, he was a bard whose footsteps had crossed the continent, including the capital. Though centuries had passed, Lorne believed Ghoulster's memory would be somewhat useful in an unfamiliar city.
Since many had seen "Mr. Ghoulster the Magic Scientist," they needed a new face to prevent people from linking Ghoulster to Lorne.
Puji could cover the skeletal frame to act as muscle and use its flexible shape to form new features. On top of that, Ghoulster suggested that to truly separate himself from "Mr. Ghoulster," he should subvert everyone's impression—not just a disguise, but a gender swap.
And so, he slathered his face in makeup and stuffed two small slimes into his bodice. Just like that, he was transformed into Lorne's secretary, "Miss Ghoulsty."
Lorne, however, suspected the "preventing suspicion" part was just an excuse. Ghoulster probably... just wanted to try cross-dressing.
"Let's just get to the inn," Lorne said weakly.
"Of course, of course. You're exhausted. I'll call a carriage for you."
A carriage soon arrived. The driver helped them with their luggage and asked, "Where to, sir and madam?"
"The One-Legged Chicken Inn," Ghoulster said.
He turned to Lorne eagerly. "The shop isn't large, but it's very cozy. The landlady's cooking is top-notch. Of course, she's long dead, but I saw the travel brochure; the inn is still running."
"A hundred-year-old establishment!" Lorne felt a surge of respect.
Only the driver looked at them with a suspicious eye.
"The changes in this city are simply massive," Ghoulster said, gazing at the streets outside with a hint of nostalgia. "So many houses, so many people. Heavens, can you believe two million people live here? But I have to say, I like it better the way it is now."
"Miss, you're an optimist!" the driver shouted. "Many locals, especially the elderly, think this place is getting worse. Bad weather, bad air, and too many people!"
"But I love the weather here!" Ghoulster exclaimed. "Look at that thick fog, that smog—it protects me from the poison of the sun. Is there anything more beautiful in the world?"
Driver: "?"
"And the air here is perfectly to my liking! So foul, so choking—it's simply heart-refreshing!"
Driver: "??"
"And the people!" Ghoulster pointed out the window. "Look at those crafty, scheming capitalists! Those listless, grief-stricken office workers! The beggars full of despair! The poor children forced into child labor—Oh, I'm simply inspired! A few more days, and I'll surely write a masterpiece of realistic tragedy. I've even thought of the name: Les Misérables of the Universe!"
Driver: "???"
The carriage arrived at their destination—The One-Legged Chicken Inn.
Getting out of the carriage, Lorne stared at the inn and immediately felt the urge to run back to the station and flee this cursed place.
A hundred-year-old establishment indeed! Every brick and tile exuded the ancient aura of history. If Lorne ever decided to switch careers and film horror movies, this would be the prime location: the shattered roof, the cracked walls, the creaking wooden door, and the landlady's face faintly visible in the window—she was missing several teeth, had a fleshy tumor on her nose, and her hair was as dry as straw. She looked exactly like an old witch!
Even a thief wouldn't visit this place! One, they wouldn't find any money; two, they might be scared to death just by looking at the landlady!
Ghoulster also looked at the inn in surprise. "Oh, it's changed here too—"
"I'd rather sleep on the street," Lorne whispered.
"—it's become even more beautiful!" Ghoulster sang like he was performing an aria. "Don't you think those cobwebs are full of artistic flair? The sound of the wooden door is so pleasant. And the dark corridors, the moth-eaten carpets, the rusted iron pots—it reminds me of home!"
Lorne staggered back a few steps in shock. He finally understood why Ghoulster's bard career was such a failure. This guy's "underworld aesthetics" were far too avant-garde for humans. That noble who hanged him back then might have actually been seen as a hero by the common folk for ridding the world of a nuisance!
"Maybe we should find another inn?" Lorne turned back to the carriage.
He was only in time to see the carriage's rear disappearing into the night. Their luggage had been tossed on the ground by the terrified driver.
"Ah, he hasn't taken the money yet." Ghoulster held his wallet with nowhere to put it. "He actually drove us this far for free. The people of Royal City are getting kinder and kinder!"
Lorne clutched his forehead. It seemed they had no choice. They would stay here tonight and find another place tomorrow after finishing their business.
I am a Dungeon Demon King, he thought. My home is no less dark and terrifying than this place. I'm not afraid!
"Welcome, honored guests..."
A raspy voice came from the dilapidated inn. The door groaned and shrieked as it swung open, revealing half an old face covered in wrinkles, scars, and tumors. The landlady, clutching a blood-dripping kitchen knife, gave them a ghastly smile.
"Please, come in. I'm killing a chicken. We're having a whole-chicken feast tonight. My little shop will surely make you feel right at home."
Since Lorne and Ghoulster were technically a man and a woman, they took two rooms. Lorne really wanted to share a room with Ghoulster for courage, but when he knocked on the skeletal poet's door, it said: "No, Lord Lorne, I am a lady of virtue; you will ruin my reputation!"
"You are neither a lady nor a human; what reputation!" Lorne said bitterly.
"We must act the part!"
With that, Ghoulster reached into his nightgown, fumbled around his chest, and pulled out his left "breast"—a small slime.
"If you're scared, take this."
"I'm not scared!"
On the first day, Lorne, clutching the small slime, was woken up by the inn's "gentle" wake-up call—specifically, the sound of the landlady sharpening her knife. He politely declined the landlady's breakfast (heaven knows what was in it) and walked a block away to eat at a restaurant. Today, he was going to register at the Chamber of Commerce, while Ghoulster went to scout for shop locations and a better hotel.
A foreign merchant doing business in the capital had to jump through many hoops: first, register with the Chamber of Commerce, find a suitable storefront, get a business permit from City Hall, get a seal made, open a bank account, renovate, hire staff, insure them, and pay taxes.
The Royal City Chamber of Commerce was a private guild organized by local merchants. Like most guilds, its functions were to organize regular activities, set industry regulations, unite to pressure the government or other guilds when necessary, and strike down its own members with an iron fist. And, of course, the most important function: collecting membership fees.
Although membership was technically voluntary, anyone who didn't join would be severely marginalized. Thus, the first thing a merchant did upon arriving in Royal City was to pay their respects at the "mountain," a step that even preceded getting a permit from City Hall.
Norelia didn't have a Chamber of Commerce. As a city of academics, its merchants weren't as clannish as those in the capital. When Lorne walked into the opulent building where the Chamber was located, he clearly felt several hostile gazes land on him.
Suppressing his irritation, he walked to the nearest window.
"Hello, I want to register..."
The clerk looked up and scanned him impatiently. "Your number hasn't been called yet."
"What?"
"You need to take a number first!" Finding that Lorne didn't even know the rules for queuing, the clerk's tone became even colder. "Go over there and take two identical number tags, then give one to the clerk at window A01. She will assign your number to another clerk. When it's your turn, the broadcast will notify you."
With that, she lowered her head to read the day's newspaper while chewing a sandwich.
I didn't expect the other world to use a numbering system. Human society, no matter which universe, always seems to converge in its development trends.
Lorne did as he was told, took a number, and waited quietly in the hall. He stared at the wall clock; he had never felt a clock move so slowly. This building might as well have been enchanted with a barrier; time seemed to flow slower here than outside.
After about an hour, a loud shout came from window B25: "Number 1024! Is Number 1024 here!"
Lorne straightened his hair and walked to window B25.
"What business?" the clerk behind the window asked.
"New member registration. I represent Dungeon Entertainment Technology Co., Ltd..."
Upon hearing "Dungeon Entertainment," the clerk's head snapped up.
This morning, the section chief had suddenly called him into the office and instructed him that if anyone from Dungeon Entertainment came to register, he was to make their life miserable.
"This is the wish of the big figures upstairs," the chief had said with a knowing look. "This is your reward for 'strict adherence to duty'."
He handed the clerk an envelope containing a two-silver-coin bill. For a clerk with a meager salary, this was an extremely lucrative side hustle. The chief promised that if he could delay the registration for half a month, he'd get another silver coin.
"Very well, sir. You need to fill out some forms."
Lorne looked at the stack of forms the clerk handed him—it was an inch thick. He wondered if the capital's definition of "some" was different from Norelia's.
"Fill out all of them?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course." The clerk looked at him like he was a naive child asking a stupid question. "Once filled, take Form F92 to window B10, Form S1090 to window H07, Form M6381 to window N36... Then go to window A02 to get Registration Form 12. Once that's filled, bring it back to me, take the checklist to the payment window, then give the receipt to window P3. After that, go to window B10 for the receipt of Form F92, to window H07 for Version 6 of the Authorization Consent, and to window N836 for Version 4 of the Rights and Obligations Disclosure. Once those are filled..."
In that moment, Lorne recalled the horror of being dominated by tedious, complex administrative procedures in his previous life.
The clerk's voice was like a curse, but worse. His words contained no magic, yet they were enough to make a person's brain boil—even a wizard couldn't achieve that!
Gritting his teeth, Lorne filled out the forms and sent them to the corresponding windows one by one. But when he went to window A02 to get the registration form, the clerk there was actually chatting with a colleague! They were cracking nuts and giggling like a bunch of chattering squirrels. When Lorne, frowning, asked "May I have the registration form?", the fellow pulled a long face and hung a "Service Suspended" sign right in the window.
After waiting half an hour, Lorne finally got the damn form. He returned to window B25 and shoved the form in, only to hear the clerk say: "I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid the materials you provided are incomplete."
"What do you mean 'incomplete'?" Lorne raised his voice. "I brought everything you asked for!"
"Did you bring the Environmental Protection Commitment?"
"What is that?! I've never heard of such a regulation!"
"It was just released yesterday." The clerk looked at him with a smug expression. "The local pollution is getting worse, so our Chamber is calling on all members to protect the environment and manage pollution. Registering members must sign the commitment."
After repeating "don't get angry" a hundred times in his head, Lorne forced a smile and asked, "Where do I get that commitment form?"
Another half hour later, Lorne, having finally filled out the commitment, returned to window B25.
"I'm sorry, sir," the clerk said again. "I'm afraid you didn't bring the Storefront Sanitation Guarantee. You know, to protect the capital's..."
"Why can't you say everything all at once?!"
"I've fulfilled my duty to remind you, sir."
With that, he pulled down a "Lunch Break" sign and started eating from his lunch box.
The clock struck 12; everyone in the Chamber went to rest.
After struggling until the afternoon, Lorne finally finished the damn guarantee. He went to the payment window and was about to pull out his wallet when the clerk said: "I'm sorry, we don't accept cash."
"What?!" Lorne nearly screeched.
"Our anti-counterfeit lamp is broken. Until it's fixed, we've suspended cash payments to prevent receiving fake bills," the clerk said solemnly.
"Why didn't you say so earlier?!"
"You didn't ask."
Veins popped on Lorne's forehead. "Do you take checks?"
"No, sir. At the moment, you can only do a bank transfer. Once I confirm the transfer has arrived, I can issue a receipt. Also, we only support Western Trust Bank."
"Is Gulf Bank not okay?"
"No. We only interface with Western Trust Bank."
"But I don't have an account at that bank!"
The clerk shrugged. "You can open one. Turn right outside and walk one block; there's a branch of Western Trust Bank."
"How about this," Lorne forced a smile. "I'll go buy you an anti-counterfeit lamp, and then you take my cash. How's that?"
"That's against regulations, sir. I suggest you hurry; banks close earlier than we do."
Clenching his fists, Lorne sprinted to the branch at his fastest speed.
The moment he walked in, he was stopped by a chubby lobby manager.
"Sir, the numbers for today have all been taken."
Lorne stared at the empty hall. "But you have no customers! Every window is empty! And it's still far from closing time!"
"Regulations, sir. Please come back tomorrow."
Those words were like a sharp dagger, completely snapping the last string in Lorne's mind.
"I've had enough! I am... fucking... done!!"
He grabbed the lobby manager by the collar and hoisted him high into the air.
"I didn't want to do this! I wanted to be a law-abiding citizen! You forced me!!!"
The first thought that jumped into the manager's head was: Oh, so this is what the world looks like from a height of 1.9 meters.
Then, staring at the silver-haired man holding him up with one hand, he let out a scream like a terrified marmot.
Human screams were so beautiful at this moment. Lorne's ears felt like they were hearing heavenly music. He bared his white teeth and said, "I want—"
The manager wailed, "You can have whatever you want! Money? The vault is on the third basement level; the code is Left 2, Right 7, Left 9. We have insurance, so please help yourself..."
Lorne said, "—to use your telephone."
Manager: "?"
As it turned out, violence is wrong—but sometimes it really does solve problems.
Lorne was invited into the manager's office at the fastest speed possible. He was served hot tea, a plate of cookies, and a Western Trust Bank mascot plushie that looked like a cat that had been punched in the face. They probably hoped the ugly cat would calm him down, but the truth was Lorne just wanted to punch all their faces until they looked like the cat.
He took out the letter of introduction from Yvette's grandfather. Besides an address, there was a telephone number. The recipient was the Marshal's "friend who knows a bit about business."
"Alright, friend who knows a bit about business. I'm counting on you."
Lorne dialed the number on the rotary phone. After a few beeps, a soft female voice answered.
"Hello, how may I direct your call?"
"0024," Lorne said.
"Very well, billing starts now. Connecting you to the National Department of Commerce and Trade, Office of the Secretary of Commerce and Chairman of the Trade Commission."
The Chairman of the Royal City Chamber of Commerce was waiting to clock out.
As the Chairman, he was also the head of a massive textile trust. While his position was technically elected, it was really just a game of musical chairs played by the directors of the city's largest corporations.
The Chairman was a busy man. He only spent one day a week at the Chamber, leaving the actual heavy lifting to the Executive Commissioner. His plan for the evening was to play a game of cricket with some friends, including Young Freddy Harden. A few days ago, Young Freddy had asked him for a "favor," backed by a 500-gold-coin fee and a promise to vote for him in the next election.
The Chairman didn't care much about the 500 gold, but he cared deeply about the vote. He accepted the task and promptly handed it—along with 250 gold—to the Executive Commissioner.
The Executive Commissioner was the backbone of the Chamber. While the Chairman was a figurehead, the Commissioner made the gears turn. He spent his days accompanying the Chairman to high-society events, rubbing shoulders with the wealthiest tycoons in the capital. To them, he felt like a duck that had accidentally wandered into a flock of peacocks.
He felt it was fundamentally unfair. Why did these people get to lounge around, attend balls, and play cricket while money rained down on them? Why did he work tirelessly only to afford a modest terraced house and public schooling for his children?
When the Chairman gave him 250 gold to "create some obstacles" for a certain merchant, he took the money gladly. He considered it a hard-earned bonus. Of course, he wasn't going to do the dirty work himself. He called his secretary and gave her 50 gold to handle it discreetly.
The secretary, in turn, thought her boss was a complete idiot. He constantly droned on about how much he loved his wife and children, yet whenever she walked past his office and accidentally showed a hint of ankle, his eyes would stick to her like flies on flypaper.
When he handed her 50 gold to harass a newcomer, she didn't feel a thing. She went to the Section Chief of the service windows, gave him 10 gold, and told him to "be clever about it."
The Section Chief despised that arrogant woman. He believed she only held her position by charming the Commissioner. He spent his days imagining what sordid things happened behind closed doors. She just had to smile to get her way, while he could barely get the Commissioner to look at him even if he offered to lick his boots.
He took the 10 gold. He hated the woman, but the money was innocent. He converted it into silver coins, used a quarter of it to "reward" the clerks in the hall, and kept the rest as a "consultation fee."
Now, the clerk at Window B25 had finished his day's work. Every number had been called, and the merchant from Norelia was stuck at the payment stage. The closing bell was about to ring; the merchant would have to come back tomorrow and repeat the whole nightmare. That silver coin was the easiest money the clerk had ever made.
He looked toward the door, wondering how to spend his coin. Maybe a bottle of wine?
Just then, a Phoenix S3 steam-powered carriage pulled up in front of the Chamber.
It was the latest high-end model from the Phoenix Company. The clerk had only ever seen it in magazines. These cars weren't sold to the public; they were custom-built only for royalty, high-ranking dukes, and top government officials.
The black lacquer made the sleek vehicle look as elegant as a piano, and the roar of the engine was a symphony of steel. The Phoenix "Rising Bird" emblem sparkled on the hood, capturing the gaze of everyone in the building.
The clerk immediately signaled the Section Chief. Seconds later, the Chief sprinted to the Commissioner's office, was shoved aside by the secretary, who then reported to the Commissioner. The Commissioner then scrambled up the stairs to the top-floor office.
The Chairman, who had been about to leave, bolted upright and rushed downstairs, nearly knocking over several employees. By the time he reached the hall, the security guard was bowing deeply as he opened the door for the guest.
The Secretary of Commerce and Chairman of the Trade Commission walked in with a brisk pace. He looked like a seal that had been forced into a tuxedo, but no one dared say it to his face. He was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.
"Honored Excellency! What an unexpected surprise! Forgive our lack of preparation!" the Chairman gushed.
He was promptly shoved aside by the "seal-like" minister. His back hit the Commissioner, the Commissioner hit the secretary, the secretary's seven-centimeter heels stepped on the Section Chief's foot, and the Chief knocked over several clerks.
The Minister, oblivious to the domino effect he had caused, walked straight to the payment window. A silver-haired man was sitting on the bench, looking quite annoyed.
"Oh, you must be Mr. Lorne Dungeon!"
Lorne looked up. He didn't recognize this man, but judging by his attire and the worshipful looks of the crowd, this was the "friend who knows a bit about business."
A satisfied smile slowly bloomed on Lorne's face.
"Mr. Secretary, I am truly honored that you came in person."
"Not at all! You are a guest of Marshal Hornbury, which makes you my guest!" the Minister said warmly, shaking Lorne's hand. "You should have called me the moment you stepped off the train."
"I didn't want to trouble you..."
"It's no trouble! If the Marshal found out I neglected you, he'd roar my head off!" The Minister made a face. "Come, Mr. Lorne, please join me at my humble home. My wife has prepared a simple meal."
He pulled Lorne close and lowered his voice. "Also, my grandchildren will be there. Ever since the Marshal's granddaughter gave them a Magic Slate, they've become your most loyal fans. Could you give them an autograph? I'm an old man; I can't say no to children..."
"Of course, Excellency. I love interacting with players. Their young minds spark my creative passion. However..." Lorne sighed perfectly.
The Minister raised an eyebrow. "However?"
"I haven't finished my paperwork today. I could come back tomorrow, but I'd have to start the process all over again. I want to follow the rules, but I'd hate to trouble these kind staff members any further..."
—No! You aren't troubled at all! the Chairman roared internally. Lorne's words were impeccable, but the Chairman could hear the pure "green tea" hypocrisy in every syllable. He wanted to shake the Minister and scream that he was being played, but he knew it would only make him look bad.
"That's not a problem at all!" the Minister laughed, his belly shaking like a happy seal. "Robinson! Robinson!"
A well-groomed young man in a sharp suit stepped out of the crowd. He looked like the definition of an "honor student"—someone from a good family who had received an elite education and naturally stepped into high society.
"Your orders, Excellency?" he asked.
"Help Mr. Lorne with his paperwork and assist him in setting up his branch. I know you're good at dealing with these departments. Don't disappoint me."
Robinson looked at the Minister in surprise. "How long shall I assist him, sir?"
"Until Mr. Lorne no longer needs you."
With that, the Minister snatched the briefcase from Lorne's hand, stuffed it into Robinson's arms, and linked arms with Lorne. "Let's go, Mr. Lorne. Tell me more about these Magic Games. My grandkids won't stop talking about them. Do you think we could export the Slates to other countries..."
As they walked away, Robinson gave the Chairman an impatient look. "You heard the Minister."
The Chairman stood straight, trembling as he whispered "Yes," then looked at the Commissioner. The Commissioner looked at the secretary, the secretary at the Chief, and the Chief at the clerk. The clerk just looked back innocently.
Five minutes later, Robinson walked out of the Chamber with freshly stamped documents and ordered his driver to follow the Minister's Phoenix S3.
Robinson was a thorough young man. He not only explained the various regulations (and the unspoken "rules") of the capital but also, after seeing the "historic" One-Legged Chicken Inn, insisted on finding them a new place to stay.
"But I like this place!" Ghoulster protested. "The landlady is making Newt-Eye Soup for dinner!"
"What kind of soup?" Robinson asked.
Lorne said, "If I were you, I wouldn't ask."
Robinson drove them to a luxury hotel that hosted foreign dignitaries. Along the way, he mentioned that the railway delay was caused by a Blue Dragon awakening in the coastal hills. Apparently, a Red Dragon in the Sulfur Volcanoes was waking up too.
"The Minister suggested the Marshal send the army to deal with them," Robinson said. "Miss Ghoulty, why is your cheek twitching?"
It wasn't
The Chairman of the Royal City Chamber of Commerce was waiting to clock out.
As the Chairman, he was also the head of a massive textile trust. While his position was technically elected, it was really just a game of musical chairs played by the directors of the city's largest corporations.
The Chairman was a busy man. He only spent one day a week at the Chamber, leaving the actual heavy lifting to the Executive Commissioner. His plan for the evening was to play a game of cricket with some friends, including Young Freddy Harden. A few days ago, Young Freddy had asked him for a "favor," backed by a 500-gold-coin fee and a promise to vote for him in the next election.
The Chairman didn't care much about the 500 gold, but he cared deeply about the vote. He accepted the task and promptly handed it—along with 250 gold—to the Executive Commissioner.
The Executive Commissioner was the backbone of the Chamber. While the Chairman was a figurehead, the Commissioner made the gears turn. He spent his days accompanying the Chairman to high-society events, rubbing shoulders with the wealthiest tycoons in the capital. To them, he felt like a duck that had accidentally wandered into a flock of peacocks.
He felt it was fundamentally unfair. Why did these people get to lounge around, attend balls, and play cricket while money rained down on them? Why did he work tirelessly only to afford a modest terraced house and public schooling for his children?
When the Chairman gave him 250 gold to "create some obstacles" for a certain merchant, he took the money gladly. He considered it a hard-earned bonus. Of course, he wasn't going to do the dirty work himself. He called his secretary and gave her 50 gold to handle it discreetly.
The secretary, in turn, thought her boss was a complete idiot. He constantly droned on about how much he loved his wife and children, yet whenever she walked past his office and accidentally showed a hint of ankle, his eyes would stick to her like flies on flypaper.
When he handed her 50 gold to harass a newcomer, she didn't feel a thing. She went to the Section Chief of the service windows, gave him 10 gold, and told him to "be clever about it."
The Section Chief despised that arrogant woman. He believed she only held her position by charming the Commissioner. He spent his days imagining what sordid things happened behind closed doors. She just had to smile to get her way, while he could barely get the Commissioner to look at him even if he offered to lick his boots.
He took the 10 gold. He hated the woman, but the money was innocent. He converted it into silver coins, used a quarter of it to "reward" the clerks in the hall, and kept the rest as a "consultation fee."
Now, the clerk at Window B25 had finished his day's work. Every number had been called, and the merchant from Norelia was stuck at the payment stage. The closing bell was about to ring; the merchant would have to come back tomorrow and repeat the whole nightmare. That silver coin was the easiest money the clerk had ever made.
He looked toward the door, wondering how to spend his coin. Maybe a bottle of wine?
Just then, a Phoenix S3 steam-powered carriage pulled up in front of the Chamber.
It was the latest high-end model from the Phoenix Company. The clerk had only ever seen it in magazines. These cars weren't sold to the public; they were custom-built only for royalty, high-ranking dukes, and top government officials.
The black lacquer made the sleek vehicle look as elegant as a piano, and the roar of the engine was a symphony of steel. The Phoenix "Rising Bird" emblem sparkled on the hood, capturing the gaze of everyone in the building.
The clerk immediately signaled the Section Chief. Seconds later, the Chief sprinted to the Commissioner's office, was shoved aside by the secretary, who then reported to the Commissioner. The Commissioner then scrambled up the stairs to the top-floor office.
The Chairman, who had been about to leave, bolted upright and rushed downstairs, nearly knocking over several employees. By the time he reached the hall, the security guard was bowing deeply as he opened the door for the guest.
The Secretary of Commerce and Chairman of the Trade Commission walked in with a brisk pace. He looked like a seal that had been forced into a tuxedo, but no one dared say it to his face. He was one of the most powerful men in the kingdom.
"Honored Excellency! What an unexpected surprise! Forgive our lack of preparation!" the Chairman gushed.
He was promptly shoved aside by the "seal-like" minister. His back hit the Commissioner, the Commissioner hit the secretary, the secretary's seven-centimeter heels stepped on the Section Chief's foot, and the Chief knocked over several clerks.
The Minister, oblivious to the domino effect he had caused, walked straight to the payment window. A silver-haired man was sitting on the bench, looking quite annoyed.
"Oh, you must be Mr. Lorne Dungeon!"
Lorne looked up. He didn't recognize this man, but judging by his attire and the worshipful looks of the crowd, this was the "friend who knows a bit about business."
A satisfied smile slowly bloomed on Lorne's face.
"Mr. Secretary, I am truly honored that you came in person."
"Not at all! You are a guest of Marshal Hornbury, which makes you my guest!" the Minister said warmly, shaking Lorne's hand. "You should have called me the moment you stepped off the train."
"I didn't want to trouble you..."
"It's no trouble! If the Marshal found out I neglected you, he'd roar my head off!" The Minister made a face. "Come, Mr. Lorne, please join me at my humble home. My wife has prepared a simple meal."
He pulled Lorne close and lowered his voice. "Also, my grandchildren will be there. Ever since the Marshal's granddaughter gave them a Magic Slate, they've become your most loyal fans. Could you give them an autograph? I'm an old man; I can't say no to children..."
"Of course, Excellency. I love interacting with players. Their young minds spark my creative passion. However..." Lorne sighed perfectly.
The Minister raised an eyebrow. "However?"
"I haven't finished my paperwork today. I could come back tomorrow, but I'd have to start the process all over again. I want to follow the rules, but I'd hate to trouble these kind staff members any further..."
—No! You aren't troubled at all! the Chairman roared internally. Lorne's words were impeccable, but the Chairman could hear the pure "green tea" hypocrisy in every syllable. He wanted to shake the Minister and scream that he was being played, but he knew it would only make him look bad.
"That's not a problem at all!" the Minister laughed, his belly shaking like a happy seal. "Robinson! Robinson!"
A well-groomed young man in a sharp suit stepped out of the crowd. He looked like the definition of an "honor student"—someone from a good family who had received an elite education and naturally stepped into high society.
"Your orders, Excellency?" he asked.
"Help Mr. Lorne with his paperwork and assist him in setting up his branch. I know you're good at dealing with these departments. Don't disappoint me."
Robinson looked at the Minister in surprise. "How long shall I assist him, sir?"
"Until Mr. Lorne no longer needs you."
With that, the Minister snatched the briefcase from Lorne's hand, stuffed it into Robinson's arms, and linked arms with Lorne. "Let's go, Mr. Lorne. Tell me more about these Magic Games. My grandkids won't stop talking about them. Do you think we could export the Slates to other countries..."
As they walked away, Robinson gave the Chairman an impatient look. "You heard the Minister."
The Chairman stood straight, trembling as he whispered "Yes," then looked at the Commissioner. The Commissioner looked at the secretary, the secretary at the Chief, and the Chief at the clerk. The clerk just looked back innocently.
Five minutes later, Robinson walked out of the Chamber with freshly stamped documents and ordered his driver to follow the Minister's Phoenix S3.
Robinson was a thorough young man. He not only explained the various regulations (and the unspoken "rules") of the capital but also, after seeing the "historic" One-Legged Chicken Inn, insisted on finding them a new place to stay.
"But I like this place!" Ghoulster protested. "The landlady is making Newt-Eye Soup for dinner!"
"What kind of soup?" Robinson asked.
Lorne said, "If I were you, I wouldn't ask."
Robinson drove them to a luxury hotel that hosted foreign dignitaries. Along the way, he mentioned that the railway delay was caused by a Blue Dragon awakening in the coastal hills. Apparently, a Red Dragon in the Sulfur Volcanoes was waking up too.
"The Minister suggested the Marshal send the army to deal with them," Robinson said. "Miss Ghoulsty, why is your cheek twitching?"
It wasn't Ghoulsty's face twitching; it was Puji, the slime covering the skeleton. Hearing that humans wanted to kill dragons—who were basically just "babies" under a thousand years old—sent Puji into a shivering panic.
"Don't be afraid, Miss," Robinson misunderstood. "We have cannons and dynamite now. Those big troubles will be solved soon. Miss, are you alright?!"
Terror made Puji "vomit," causing a large amount of transparent slime to spray out from under Miss Ghoulsty's sunglasses. Lorne quickly slapped a handkerchief onto Ghoulster's face.
"Look at you, Miss Ghoulsty, crying tears of joy!" Lorne rubbed the face hard.
"Oh! Yes!" Ghoulster sobbed. "I can't stop the tears! I must tell my friends in Norelia this good news!" (So they could go save the poor dragons!)
The next day, after rejecting Ghoulster's artistic criticisms of the hotel's decor, they went to look at shop locations. Robinson was desperate to finish this task so he could return to the Minister's office and defend his position from the "vultures" eyeing his job.
They looked at seven locations. Lorne rejected them all—too small, too remote, too old, too loud, and finally, "insufficient sewage system."
"Mr. Lorne, you can't be this picky," Robinson snapped. "The prices in the capital aren't like Norelia. What kind of place are you looking for?"
Lorne pointed to a magnificent building nearby. "What's that place?"
"Luxe-Val Square."
Lorne adjusted his hat. "Let's go have a look."
Luxe-Val Square was the heart of the capital's high-end commerce. Department stores, neon lights, and luxury boutiques lined the streets. It was the most expensive real estate in the city.
They found a shop with a "For Rent" sign. It used to be a cafe but was now covered in dust. A woman in lavish clothes descended the stairs to greet them.
"I am Caroline Poole," she said with deep pride. "Please, address me as Baroness Poole."
The Baroness was a relic of the old nobility. Her family had once been heroes, but they had failed to keep up with the industrial revolution. After generations of squandering their wealth, this shop was all they had left.
"I have an interest in renting this place, Baroness," Lorne said.
"I must know your business first," she said warily. "I only rent to decent people. Someone once wanted to open a... night club. Such moral decay! I won't have it."
Instead of explaining, Lorne pulled out two decks of cards.
"It's a game called 'Anti-Feudalism'," he explained. "It takes four people. Since there are four of us, why not a round?"
Robinson was annoyed. Why was he, a top secretary, playing cards with a bankrupt noble and a foreign merchant? But as the game progressed, his annoyance turned to shock.
The game was deep. One person played the "Feudal Dictator" while three played the "Revolutionaries." It required intense strategy, card counting, and silent cooperation among the allies. It was a simulation of political and military maneuvering!
By the end of the round, the Baroness was hooked. "Can we play another?"
They played until sunset. The Baroness, having just won a round, stood up and cheered before realizing her lack of decorum and blushing.
"I understand your product now," she said. "This game deserves to be known across the capital!"
"Then shall we sign the contract?" Lorne asked.
"Today! But," she added, "you must give me a deck of cards. I want to teach everyone."
"Don't worry about that. I recommend our new product—the Magic Slate: Online Version." Lorne pulled out a black slate. "With this, you can match with players anywhere, anytime."
"Magic! Like the mages of the Heroic Era?" Her eyes lit up.
"Wait, Mr. Lorne," Robinson interrupted. "The rent here is 50 gold coins a month!"
"I'll take it for three years," Lorne said casually. "Do you accept Gulf Bank checks?"
Robinson was stunned. "Can you really make a profit selling cards and slates?"
Lorne looked at the young secretary with a meaningful smile. "I sell more than that, sir."
"Then what exactly is your business?"
"I sell dreams and happiness," Lorne smiled. "And your 2D 'husbands' and 'wives'."