Zeke had been mistaken.
He had assumed that after his impressive display, it would be easy to come to an understanding with the Ironhide family. But that had been a miscalculation. Instead of his propositions being met with simple favor, he found himself thrust into a wholly unexpected situation. Rather than smooth negotiations, he was bombarded by an overwhelming avalanche of offers and enticements from several of the elders, each eager to sway him in their favor.
Some of these offers, Zeke was sure, would even result in a net loss for the Ironhide family. But it seemed the dwarves were unconcerned with such trivialities. Their singular focus was to secure him, no matter the cost.
The spectacle he had put on seemed to have shattered even the seasoned composure of these master craftsmen. Their once-pragmatic demeanor had been replaced with an unrelenting drive to sway him, throwing all manner of incentives his way. And to his surprise, it was working.
Even though Zeke only needed to secure a single contract with the dwarves, he found himself sorely tempted by the wide variety of the Elders' offers. Beyond raw materials, tools, components, and labor, the possibilities seemed endless.
For the first time in a long while, he felt uncertain about whether he had the funds to finance everything he desired.
While he had never regretted placing a bounty on the four great families of the empire, the monthly expenses it incurred claimed a significant portion of his earnings. Until now, that had never been a concern. But as he stood before the wealth of opportunities laid out before him, he felt, for the first time, a faint twinge of regret.
Personnel, Materials, taxes—Zeke quickly ran the numbers in his head.
As per the merchant council's stipulations, he would be committing to a ten-year contract. Fortunately, neither side was required to produce the full amount upfront. Unfortunately, even the annual expenses alone exceeded what he could currently afford. What he desired would cost him several million gold per year—more than his total earnings from the Gondola's sales.
That didn't mean he was out of options though. Just because he lacked the income to afford the trade now didn't mean he wouldn't have the earnings when the time came. After all, he had no intention of letting those materials gather dust in a warehouse.
His goal was to expand his network and multiply his revenue by utilizing the abundant manpower at his disposal in Korrovan. With dwarven instructors, the thousands of Chimeroi under his command could become a veritable gold mine—if everything went according to plan.
But plans rarely survived first contact with reality.
There were countless obstacles that could hinder his ability to sell his products, and if any of them materialized, he would find himself in a precarious position. While his recent successes had earned him goodwill with the dwarves, he had no illusions that it would last if he failed to uphold his end of their agreements. Trust was everything to them, and a stained reputation was nearly impossible to restore.
In the end, it all came down to a gamble—a wager on his own ability to turn this investment into hard coin before the debt came due.
Zeke's eyes swept over the list once more, doubt flickering at the edges of his resolve. If he had the time to oversee every detail personally, he wouldn't have hesitated for a second. But with everything else demanding his attention, he couldn't afford to be dashing from place to place, putting out fires.
He would have to entrust this endeavor to his subordinates.
The real question was: did he have enough faith in David and the others to stake his entire fortune on them?
Taking a deep breath, Zeke signed the contract. He reminded himself that his success had never been his alone. While he had set everything in motion, his rise had been built on the shoulders of those who had stood by him, working tirelessly to bring his vision to life. To doubt them now would be the height of disrespect.
And if he lost this gamble?
Then he would rebuild.
With his recent advancement to the Grandmage level and the vast network of connections he had cultivated, starting over wouldn't be nearly as daunting as it once was. Even if the worst came to pass, he had no doubt—he would rise again.
His actions were met with approval from the dwarven Elders, their eyes gleaming with newfound respect. As one of them took a copy of the signed document, another immediately shoved a heavy mug into Zeke's hands.
"Not bad, lad," the dwarf said, clapping Zeke on the shoulder with the force of a sledgehammer. "Th' young should be bold!"
Zeke didn't so much as flinch under the blow. His body was anything but fragile—his compressed blood made his mass far greater than his lean frame suggested.
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The elder blinked in surprise, glancing at his own hand as if wondering whether he had somehow held back.
Unbothered, Zeke raised the mug to his lips and tilted it back. In one smooth motion, he drained it dry, slamming the empty vessel down with a satisfied exhale.
"How could I play coy when you've dangled so many tempting offers in front of me?" Zeke said with a smirk.
As he had gone over the numbers, a realization struck him—this wasn't just a generous offer. The Ironhide family hadn't made this deal on a whim. It was too precise, too perfectly aligned with his current needs while still pushing beyond what he could comfortably afford.
It felt as if someone had taken a detailed look at his accounts and crafted an offer designed to test his resolve—giving him everything he needed, but at a price just out of reach. That, more than anything, seemed exactly like something the dwarves would do.
The real question was how they had gained such detailed insight into his circumstances. Edna had already hinted that she knew exactly why he was here, but now it seemed the Ironhide family had an even deeper understanding of his financial limits.
Were their intelligence-gathering capabilities truly this terrifying?
Zeke had always believed he'd done a decent job keeping his plans and movements under wraps. But if that were true, why did it feel as though every detail of his strategy was public knowledge?
"Ha! Good lad!" another elder barked, laughin' heartily. "I wish our own young ones had half th' guts ye got at yer age."
Zeke shook his head with a modest smile. "That's too harsh. We humans mature much faster—it wouldn't be fair to compare your youths to me."
One elder snorted dismissively. "No need t' sugarcoat it, heir von Hohenheim. Drogar's near fifty winters old, an' he still lost twice in a row."
That brutally direct remark soured the mood instantly. Drogar, his parents, and their kin all bristled at the comment, their expressions darkening. Yet, despite their anger, they couldn't refute the truth. A loss was a loss.
It seemed that even among dwarven families, factional politics reared its ugly head from time to time. However, Zeke had no intention of being used as a wedge between rival factions. He needed to put a stop to this before it escalated.
With a theatrical sigh, he tilted his head back as if in lamentation. "At fourteen, I bested the young scions of the empire and claimed the title of greatest genius. In Tradespire, I stood toe to toe with the elites of the Bloodsword family and the granddaughter of the Eternal Witch, Aurelia Thorsten—yet I remained undefeated. Not even the gladiatorial battles in Korrovan could present a true challenge."
Zeke finally lowered his gaze, locking eyes with the dwarf who had made the earlier remark. "In my opinion, Elder, losing to me is no disgrace. If anything, it's a badge of honor—for I do not compete against just anyone."
His words silenced the crowd, leaving them momentarily at a loss for how to respond. The stillness was finally broken by a raspy chuckle from Edna Ironhide. "I knew ye were a cocky one, ye brat, but I didn't realize it was t' that extent."
Zeke shrugged, a grin tugging at his lips. "I can't help it if an honest account of my achievements sounds like bragging."
Many in the crowd shook their heads in wry amusement, but Zeke had accomplished exactly what he intended. The simmering tension had been neatly dispelled, and the atmosphere had noticeably eased. Even those who still viewed Drogar's defeat as a disgrace found it difficult to voice their objections now.
Of course, this was only a temporary fix, but that didn't concern Zeke. As far as he was concerned, the family could feud to their hearts' content—just not while he was being used as a pawn in their squabbles. He had no issue with the power struggle itself; in fact, he understood its necessity. Without healthy competition, any organization would inevitably stagnate and decay.
There was, however, another reason Zeke had chosen to act. His gaze shifted to Erlin Ironhide, who happened to be looking at him at that very moment. With a subtle wink, Zeke made sure to convey to the man that he had intentionally protected his reputation. It was the second time he had helped the Ironhide family save face, but this time, it was specifically Erlin's branch he had defended.
Erlin's broad smile was unmistakable, a clear expression of gratitude. That was all Zeke had hoped for. After all, he still needed the man's support to make introductions to the scholar, and every ounce of goodwill would be invaluable as he prepared to tackle such an uncertain and risky task.
Afterward, the festivities returned to their original purpose, with everyone offering their congratulations to Zeke and Drogar for their impressive performances in the drinking competition. Even members of the other factions didn't hesitate to commend the outcome. After all, when measured against all dwarven competitors, Drogar had claimed the top spot.
In a way, Zeke's victory seemed to matter less than it might have if they had lost to someone else. As an outsider, his win didn't jeopardize their standing or prestige nearly as much—if at all. At least, it didn't seem to influence the mood at the party.
The ale flowed like a river into the early morning hours, and even Zeke was astonished at how much the elders could consume. Their bodies seemed to possess an almost supernatural resistance to alcohol—far beyond what most humans could ever hope to achieve. Only due to Zeke's own vastly larger volume of blood was he able to keep up with their remarkable capacity.
By the time the last of the elders finally stumbled out of the hall, Zeke felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder. He turned to see Erlin standing behind him, a satisfied smile stretched across his face. The hours of praise heaped upon his son had clearly done wonders for his mood. The man barely seemed able to contain the pride swelling inside him.
"Ye've done a lot fer me an' me lad," Erlin said, looking up at Zeke with an affection that bordered on the adoration a grandfather might have for his favorite grandson.
Zeke smiled but didn't deny Erlin's words. Now was not the time for modesty.
Erlin gave a knowing nod, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a hastily scribbled note. "Take this t' th' Tower o' Lore. It'll get ye in. Tell 'em I sent ye, an' me uncle'll meet with ye."
Zeke took the note with reverence, slipping it carefully into his robes as if it were a precious gem. In many ways, it was. This was something money couldn't buy, something that could only be gained through the right connections. His heart raced at the thought of finally obtaining the answers to a question that had haunted him for years.
That treasure—the ancient relic of the Giger people, who had even managed to enslave a dragon—would soon reveal its secrets to him.