Silas drew another languid pull from his cigar, the tip flaring like a tiny, spiteful sun as he inhaled with the effortless grace of a man who’d been courting lung cancer longer than I’d been alive.
The smoke hung in the air between us—thick, aromatic, carrying notes of expensive tobacco mixed with something sweeter, maybe vanilla or cherry wood, the kind of scent that probably cost more per inch than most people’s daily wages.
He held it in his lungs for what felt like an eternity before exhaling slowly through his nostrils, twin streams of gray that curled and twisted in the humid air like ghostly serpents seeking prey.
Then he dove into the story.
"It started three years ago," Silas began, "Lloyd came to me with a proposal. He wanted to renovate the old Crimson Pearl—you remember that establishment, yes? Beautiful building, prime location in the mid-tier, but falling apart from decades of neglect and a series of owners who’d run it into the ground through sheer incompetence."
He gestured with his cigar, drawing patterns in the smoke. "Lloyd convinced me he could restore it to glory, turn it into the crown jewel of mid-tier brothels, attract clientele from the inner circle who wanted something more intimate than the Pantheon but more upscale than the street-level establishments."
Silas paused to take another pull, letting the tension build like a conductor holding a note past comfort.
"I fronted him the money. Two hundred thousand crowns—enough to purchase materials, hire craftsmen, cover permits, bribes, and all those little expenses that add up when you’re trying to operate legally in a fundamentally illegal economy. The terms were generous, almost absurdly so. Ten percent interest annually, five years to pay it back, with the understanding that once the Crimson Pearl was operational, I’d receive fifteen percent of gross profits until the debt was settled."
He smiled that too-tight smile again, teeth catching the light in ways that made them look sharper.
"But then things got... complicated. The renovations took longer than expected—structural damage that hadn’t been identified in initial inspections, materials that arrived defective or not at all because suppliers suddenly disappeared or decided they didn’t want to work in that district. Costs ballooned. Lloyd came back asking for more, and like a fool—because I believed in his vision, believed in his talent—I provided it. Another hundred thousand. Then another fifty after that. And another seventy-five when the city unexpectedly changed building codes and everything had to be redone to meet new standards that seemed specifically designed to bankrupt small developers."
Lloyd had gone progressively paler with each number Silas dropped, his skin taking on a grayish quality that suggested either impending vomit or complete systemic shutdown.
"By the time the Crimson Pearl finally opened—eighteen months behind schedule, might I add—Lloyd was into me for four hundred and twenty-five thousand crowns, plus accumulated interest that had compounded beautifully over those delays." Silas’s orange eye pulsed brighter, the veins around it darkening. "And do you know what happened six months after opening? After I’d waited so patiently, so generously, for returns on my investment?"
He didn’t wait for an answer.
"The Crimson Pearl burned down. Completely. Nothing left but ash, dreams, and a very suspicious fire investigator who suggested that maybe, possibly, someone had arranged for accelerant to be spread through the building to collect insurance money that would theoretically cover debts to impatient creditors."
Silas leaned forward slightly, his mangled face somehow more disturbing in the flickering light. "Insurance that, as it turned out, Lloyd had let lapse three months prior because he couldn’t afford the premiums."
The crowd gasped—some quietly, others with theatrical horror that implied they were enjoying this drama more than they probably should’ve.
"So now we arrive at the present," Silas continued, straightening back to his full height which was considerable for someone so slim. "Lloyd owes me the original four hundred and twenty-five thousand, plus three years of compounded interest at ten percent annually, plus penalty fees for missed payments, plus compensation for my lost investment returns had the Crimson Pearl remained operational. By my accounting—and I assure you, my accountants are very thorough—the debt currently stands at approximately six hundred and thirty thousand golden crowns."
He let that number hang in the air for a beat
Lloyd, to his credit, tried to salvage the situation with the only resource he had left—the pile of coins scattered around him on the floor. He gestured at it with trembling hands, his voice coming out hoarse.
"Take it. All of it. Everything I won tonight. It’s... it has to be at least three thousand crowns here, maybe more. Consider it a down payment, a show of good faith that I’m serious about—"
Silas’s laugh cut him off—high and nasal, genuinely amused in the worst possible way. "Three thousand? Oh, Lloyd. Sweet, delusional Lloyd." He shook his head, smoke trailing from his nostrils. "That’s pocket change. Tip money for my guards. The amount I spend on cigars in a month."
In my mind, I sighed internally with the weight of someone who’d just confirmed their worst suspicions.
Of course
I’d already figured this out beforehand, actually—had suspected it the moment I’d seen him operating games with hundred-crown entry fees in a hot spring rather than at some exclusive private venue where the real money congregated.
It was quite common really, watching people like these fall into massive debts through astronomical spending habits—maintaining appearances required expensive clothes, expensive venues, expensive everything—combined with lavish lifestyle costs and the kind of poor financial management that came from believing your income stream would never dry up.
And being an estate developer? That was basically asking for potential lawsuits to arise like mushrooms after rain.
One unhappy client, one structural failure, one inspector who decided your bribe wasn’t generous enough, and suddenly you were facing legal fees that could bankrupt kingdoms.
The crowd around Lloyd began whispering again, their voices rising in that particular frequency that spoke of judgment mixed with schadenfreude, watching someone else’s disaster with the relief of knowing it wasn’t happening to them.
Lloyd saw it—could probably feel it, the shift in the room’s atmosphere—and realized that maintaining his reputation required playing this cool, required not breaking down, begging, or showing any of the genuine terror that was clearly racing through his system.
So he stood, brushing scattered coins off his coat and pants with movements that tried to project casual confidence despite his shaking hands, and put on the act for the crowd.
"Silas, surely we can discuss this privately," he said, forcing his voice into something resembling its normal theatrical tone. "There’s no need to air financial matters in front of—"
"I don’t care about privacy," Silas interrupted flatly, his orange eye fixing on Lloyd with predatory intensity. "I care about collection. Your debts need to be repaid. Whether that happens through gold or through blood is entirely up to you, but one way or another, I’m leaving here satisfied."
He snapped his fingers—a sharp, crisp sound that cut through the ambient noise like a gunshot. Just then, the two massive bodyguards at his sides advanced with synchronized precision. Their footsteps landed heavy and purposeful, floorboards groaning in protest under their combined weight, each thud a promise that Lloyd’s evening was about to take a very sinister turn.
One of them reached Lloyd first—the one on the right, slightly taller than his companion, his shirtless torso gleaming with oil or sweat that made his muscles look like they’d been carved from marble by someone with very specific anatomical obsessions.
He raised his fist high, clearly preparing to bring it down with enough force to rearrange Lloyd’s facial features, his arm cocking back in that telltale windup that telegraphed violence.
The punch flew—fast, heavy, aimed straight at Lloyd’s perfect nose with enough force to turn it into modern art.
Only to be stopped dead.
His fist hung suspended inches from Lloyd’s face, caught mid-air by a hand that hadn’t been there a heartbeat earlier. The sudden halt sent a visible jolt up the guard’s arm, his massive frame rocking slightly from the momentum he no longer had anywhere to put.
It was me, naturally.
Because apparently I’d decided that getting involved in debt collection disputes between highly influential men was good decision making—the same flawless judgment that had already gifted me a life of glorious chaos, public nudity, and zero regrets.
Poor future me. He was going to have some explaining to do.
But present me?
Present me was already grinning like an idiot.
The bodyguard began to stammer, his voice coming out confused and slightly panicked as his brain tried to process what had just happened. "W-where—how did you—where the fuck did you come from?!"
The crowd surrounding us couldn’t even believe their eyes at what they’d just witnessed, their collective gasp sucking the air from the room and quickly filling it with frantically rising whispers.
"Did you just see that—?"
"I couldn’t see him move—!"
"He just... appeared—"
I answered the man by ducking low—using my smaller stature to my advantage—and drove my fist straight into his gut with every scrap of enhanced strength I could funnel down my arm in that razor-thin instant before contact.
The impact was pure, vicious satisfaction—knuckles slamming into resistance, then punching through it, sinking deep into soft flesh that had clearly grown complacent behind years of intimidating people who never hit back.
The bodyguard made a noise that defied classification—somewhere between a punctured accordion and a man realizing his organs had filed for divorce—before folding in on himself and hitting the floor. He collapsed in a heap of whimpers and wheezes, hands clawing uselessly at his stomach while his mouth worked soundlessly, opening and closing like a fish who’d just discovered the concept of consequences.
The crowd stepped back in shock, creating a wider circle around us, nobles pressing against each other in their haste to avoid being accidentally involved in whatever was about to happen.
Lloyd began to speak—probably to protest, thank me, or ask what the hell I thought I was doing—but I cut him off with a raised hand and a grin so deliberately smug it deserved its own warning label. The kind of smile that said relax, I know exactly what I’m doing, while quietly filing paperwork in my head for the possibility that I absolutely did not.
"The only reason I’m doing this," I announced clearly, making sure Silas and everyone else could hear, "is to ensure you make good on your deal. Can’t collect that sponsorship if your unconscious or dead, and I didn’t win fair and square—well, mostly fair and square—just to watch my prize get pulverized by hired muscle before I could cash in." I glanced at the second bodyguard who was now approaching with considerably more caution. "So consider this a business investment. I’m protecting my assets."
The second guard—stockier than the first, with a neck so thick it looked like someone had just stacked heads directly on his shoulders without bothering with the connecting bit—came barreling toward me, bellowing with the kind of roar that suggested he was either deeply upset about his partner’s sudden career change into "floor decoration," or merely seized every opportunity to vocalize his emotions at maximum volume.
And that’s when the real fun began.
I moved.
Not with panic or desperation, but with the calm, almost irritating grace that comes from having nearly died often enough that your body starts treating violence like a familiar routine rather than an emergency.
My feet skimmed the ground as I sidestepped his charge, elven sight stretching the moment just enough for me to appreciate the geometry of his mistake. Time didn’t stop—it merely became polite, granting me a few extra heartbeats to read his trajectory, make minor corrections, and watch him commit wholeheartedly to the worst possible decision.
He swung a haymaker that would have reduced my skull to an abstract concept if it connected, all brute force and zero subtlety, an attack clearly designed by someone who believed violence was most effective when applied loudly. I was already ducking beneath it, feeling the wake of his fist stir my hair as it passed close enough to qualify as flirting.
I pivoted on my left foot, let his momentum do the hard work for me, and slipped behind him like an afterthought. Then I drove a precise kick into the back of his knee—nothing flashy, just a quiet reminder that joints are contractual agreements, and his had just been breached.
He managed to catch himself before fully face-planting, which was genuinely impressive given his size and the fact that his leg had just reneged on its professional obligations. He spun with surprising speed, too—proof that mass and momentum occasionally cooperate when fueled by wounded pride.
His elbow came around in a vicious arc aimed squarely at my temple, the kind of follow-up that assumes your opponent is either stunned, slow, or stupid. I dropped into a crouch just in time, scraping my bare ass against the floor in a maneuver I immediately classified as undignified but results-oriented, then rolled back and sprang to my feet several meters away.
The first guard was up again now, hauling himself off the floor with murder in his eyes and what I assumed was an all-encompassing ache everywhere else. He charged from my left while his friend came straight at me, clearly attempting a pincer maneuver—textbook, coordinated, almost admirable in its optimism.
It would’ve been a beautiful tactic if I hadn’t spent the last several weeks learning that "fair fighting" was just a marketing term people used right before they died.
I sighed, made my decision, and activated my arousal spell.
The chaos energy poured out from my core, spreading in an invisible radius that encompassed both guards.
The effect was immediate.
I watched their pupils dilate, their breathing deepen, their movements becoming slightly less coordinated as blood began redirecting to areas that were decidedly unhelpful during combat.
Massive bulges formed in their fine tailored white trousers—growing larger with each passing second, straining against fabric that hadn’t been designed to accommodate combat-induced erections. Gods, I could see small dark spots forming at the front where pre-cum began seeping through in embarrassing patches.
They stumbled slightly, their attacks losing precision as their bodies betrayed them with biological imperative that didn’t care about professional obligations or looking competent in front of their employer.
I danced between them on light, irreverent feet, making an absolute mockery of their attempts to so much as graze me.
When the first guard threw a punch, I swayed left with movements that were almost musical, letting his fist pass so close I could feel the rush of wind. When the second lunged for a grab, I vaulted clean over him, flipping through the air with the casual confidence of someone who knew the laws of physics were on my side today, landing behind him with nothing but a whisper and a faint sense of personal satisfaction.
The crowd was going absolutely wild—some cheering, others gasping, a few making sounds that implied they were significantly more aroused by this display than appropriate—their reactions building into a cacophony that made the whole thing feel like performance art rather than actual violence.
I could feel my heart beating steady and strong, counting the seconds I’d need for my disappearing ability.
One. I dodged a double-team attempt that would have crushed me between them. Two. Flipped over someone’s back using their bent posture as a springboard. Three. Landed in a crouch and immediately had to roll forward to avoid a stomp that would have broken ribs. Four. Came up swinging, landing a solid hit to someone’s jaw that made my knuckles sing with impact. Five.
I disappeared.
The world bled of color, sound dampening into something distant and unimportant as I slipped into that familiar smoke-and-shadow in-between, where reality became more of a suggestion than a rule. From there, the guards stopped being men and turned into clumsy silhouettes, all sharp edges and obvious intentions.
I dropped low and flowed forward, sliding under the first guard’s smoky outline, rolling neatly between his legs like this was all part of a rehearsal he very much hadn’t been invited to. I came up behind him just as my few seconds ran out, snapping back into reality with one hand already charging my shock spell.
Then I reached out and gave him a little slap on the ass—gentle, almost playful, the kind of pat you’d give a friend for encouragement—but the shock spell traveled through his body like lightning through a metal rod, finding the path of least resistance straight to his already overstimulated cock.
The effect was catastrophic.
In that very instant, he erupted—massive, forceful jets of cum blasting through the thin fabric of his trousers with the urgency of a dam finally giving way. Thick white blooms spread across the pristine white material in abstract, damning patterns that no amount of tailoring or discreet laundering would ever fully erase.
A groan tore from his throat—half agony, half helpless ecstasy—before his knees buckled. He sank to the floor in a trembling heap, hands clutching desperately at himself as aftershocks rippled through his body.
The second guard, witnessing his partner’s spectacular collapse into a whimpering, cum-soaked heap, tried to come up on me from behind with desperation.
I caught his arm with both hands as it came hurtling toward my head, fingers locking in with the practiced certainty of someone who had made a hobby out of other people’s mistakes. His momentum did the heavy lifting for me—I merely redirected it, like correcting a poorly thrown argument.
Then, with all my enhanced might—channeling every ounce of my strength through muscles that screamed in protest—I roared. Not with words, just pure exertion given voice. Then I pivoted, dropped my center of gravity and sent him sailing clean over my shoulder in a textbook hip toss.
He hit the floor with a crash that rattled the room and sent coins skittering in every direction. He lay there groaning, body visibly negotiating with itself over whether breathing was mandatory and if consciousness was really worth the maintenance.
Both guards were defeated.
I dusted off my hands with exaggerated satisfaction, rolling my shoulders to work out the pleasant ache of exertion, before glancing at Lloyd who stood frozen in place like someone had hit pause on his personal reality.
He wasn’t just in shock. He was in full cognitive cardiac arrest, his brain flatlining as it tried to reconcile what he’d just seen with his understanding of how the universe was supposed to behave and coming up completely empty.
I then glanced at Silas, expecting anger, threats, or immediate retaliation from whatever backup plan he’d prepared. But instead—
His cigar had dropped to the ground, forgotten, still smoldering slightly where it lay on the polished floor. His jaw was hanging wide open—completely slack, like someone had removed whatever mechanism usually kept it closed—and his orange eye was pulsing so rapidly it looked like it might explode from his skull.
His normal eye was equally wide, the two mismatched orbs creating an expression of such complete, utter disbelief it might’ve been comedic if it weren’t so deeply unsettling.
The room had gone completely silent again.
No one moved. No one spoke. Every noble, merchant, and vaguely interested bystander fixed me with the stares of those who’d seen me perform a miracle, commit a war crime, or somehow manage to do both at once.
I grinned, because what else was I supposed to do?
"So," I said brightly, turning back to Llyod, "about that sponsorship?"