The cobblestones clicked beneath his boots as he walked through Tradespire's winding streets. The elegant mansions of the Second Circle loomed on either side, their windows aglow with warm light that seemed to mock his cold fury.
He had been a fool to think words could counter whispers, that logic could defeat favors. Azra had spent weeks preparing the battlefield, and Zeke had walked straight into the killing ground.
No more foolishness.
Soon, the distant sound of chanting grew louder as he neared his estate. The protesters. Three days now, and their numbers showed no sign of waning. If anything, their songs had become more polished.
"We stand on guard for Tradespire's soul..."
The words drifted through the night, professional voices carrying perfect harmony. Zeke’s hands curled into fists. How much was Azra paying them? Or perhaps no payment was needed at all. Just the promise of Imperial favor, the suggestion that their ‘patriotic duty’ would be remembered.
As he rounded the final corner, the full spectacle came into view. Dozens of them stood in neat rows before his gates. Braziers burned at intervals, casting dancing shadows over their self-righteous faces.
The sight of it, the sheer absurdity, finally snapped something inside him.
How much longer would he allow this charade to continue? How long would he let these soft-bellied merchants pretend to be concerned citizens while his people endured their harassment? He had been so focused on maintaining his position, on playing by the rules, that he had forgotten a fundamental truth.
He was exactly the savage they claimed him to be.
Had he not strangled men with ropes of their own blood? Had he not strolled on fields of severed limbs? Had he not decimated his enemies by forcing them to slaughter their own kin?
The only reason these people dared to taunt him at all was that they didn’t even truly believe the words they spoke. It was time they learned the truth…
The protesters noticed him approaching, and their chanting swelled with renewed vigor. Several near the front began moving to intercept him, their faces twisted with the ugly pleasure of righteous harassment.
"Lord von Hohenheim!" The same well-dressed spokesman from before pushed forward, voice dripping with false concern. "The citizens of Tradespire deserve to know what you—"
Zeke stopped walking.
The spokesman faltered mid-sentence, something in Zeke's stillness triggering an instinctive alarm. The golden eyes that swept across the crowd held none of their usual warmth, none of the careful control of a Merchant Lord maintaining his image.
They held the cold assessment of a predator deciding if the prey was worth the effort.
"You know," Zeke said, his voice carrying easily despite its quiet tone, "I've been very, very patient with you."
The protesters nearest him instinctively stepped back. Even through their paid bravado, some primal part of them recognized the danger.
"Three days," he went on, taking a slow step forward. "Three days of your songs. Your accusations. Your pathetic theater."
"W-we have every right to be here!" someone stammered from the crowd.
"Is that so?" he asked casually, his fingers closing around the amulet hanging around his neck, the artifact Maximilian had crafted to suppress his draconic nature. "Then, how about I keep you company for a while?"
He pulled.
The chain snapped with a sound like shattering bells, and then—
Reality twisted.
The aura that erupted from Zeke was invisible to the eye, yet everyone in the crowd felt it slam into them like a physical blow. It was the presence of something ancient and terrible, the kind of pressure that bypassed conscious thought and spoke directly to the hindbrain's most primitive part.
The spokesman dropped first, his knees cracking against the cobblestones. His mouth worked soundlessly, eyes wide with incomprehension. Around him, the carefully staged protest dissolved into chaos.
Some whimpered and squealed, animal noises born of pure terror. Others simply collapsed where they stood, their bodies unable to remain upright under the presence of an apex predator. The acrid scent of urine rose as several lost control, their dignity forgotten in the face of overwhelming dread.
A woman near the back tried to flee but managed only three steps before her legs failed. She crawled for a moment, whimpering, before even that effort drained away.
The professional singers, whose trained voices had tormented his household for days, now produced nothing but strangled gasps and broken sobs.
Within moments, the entire crowd was on their knees or sprawled across the ground. Not one spoke. Not one moved.
For the first time in three days, blessed silence returned to the estate.
Zeke regarded the writhing mass of humanity with the detached curiosity one might reserve for a collection of insects. These were the people who thought to pressure him? These soft creatures, who had never known real hardship, who played at conflict like children with wooden swords?
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He stepped over the spokesman’s trembling form without so much as a glance. Others scrambled weakly to clear his path, dragging themselves aside despite uncooperative limbs. The mighty concerned citizens of Tradespire, reduced to their most base selves by nothing more than his presence.
“…I’ll be back in the morning,” he said lightly, almost hoping they would still be there when he returned.
The gate swung open at his approach. Beyond them, his household guards stood at attention, their faces etched with profound relief. Captain Morris stepped forward, his weathered features breaking into the first genuine smile Zeke had seen in days.
"My lord," Morris said, his voice thick with emotion. "Welcome home."
Zeke nodded, noting the dark circles under the captain's eyes, the tension that had aged him years in mere days. His guards had endured the mockery, the songs, the constant harassment, yet maintained their discipline. They had obeyed his orders not to engage, even as their honor was dragged through the mud.
"Call me if they start singing again," Zeke said simply.
Morris glanced over Zeke’s shoulder at the silent, prostrate crowd. A few were beginning to stir, crawling away on hands and knees, but none dared to stand. None dared to speak.
"Understood, my lord." There was deep satisfaction in his tone. "Shall we... remove them?"
"No need. Let them serve as a warning to the others."
As he passed through the gates, more of his household staff appeared, maids, footmen, crafters, all wearing expressions of barely contained joy. They had been prisoners in their own home, too afraid to venture out lest they face the mob’s judgment.
No more.
Zeke made his way to his study, his thoughts already shifting from the immediate skirmish to the greater war. The protesters were a symptom, not the disease. Azra remained, weaving his web of influence, turning Tradespire’s elite against him one gathering at a time.
He settled behind his desk as Akasha materialized beside him, her projection watching him with cold, calculating eyes. “After tonight’s events, probability of social recovery is negligible.”
"I know," Zeke said aloud. He pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him and picked up his pen. "Show me the sales figures. Full analysis."
The numbers appeared in the air, stark and merciless. Orders were down, contracts canceled, and future prospects bleak. The trend was undeniable, and collapse loomed closer than he had allowed himself to admit.
“He hurt us deeply,” Zeke murmured, his mind already working. “…But as always, there is a lesson in pain.”
Akasha stared at him, unblinking, her silence making it clear she was waiting for him to elaborate.
“I’ve tried to undo the damage Azra caused, to keep the business afloat with all my might. And yet, this is the result.” He pointed at the projected numbers. “What does that tell you?”
“Host cannot match the Empire’s influence,” Akasha stated, but Zeke was already shaking his head.
“If Azra accused the baker’s boy of being an elven spy, would the citizens stop buying bread?”
The Spirit stayed silent, though Zeke felt the pull on his core deepen as she worked to parse the meaning behind the metaphor.
“Is the product at fault?” she asked at last.
Zeke smiled, pleased with the leap of logic she’d made. “You’re on the right track. But it isn’t the product itself. It’s the market we’ve entered.” He gestured to the latest sketch of the Gondola, the current iteration of the airship displayed before them.
“Our product remains the best option available. In terms of engineering, quality, luxury, and ease of handling, we remain leagues ahead of the competition. And yet, our most valued customers canceled their order without hesitation. Do you know why?”
This time, Akasha had an answer ready. “Host’s customer base is limited to the luxury market. Products offer prestige, not necessity. When social standing is compromised, demand collapses.”
"Exactly." Zeke’s quill scratched across the parchment, rough diagrams beginning to take shape. "We’ve been selling to the wrong people."
His airships were marvels of engineering: stable, efficient, capable of carrying impressive loads. But he’d marketed them as status symbols, floating palaces for merchants to flaunt their wealth. The moment owning one became a social liability, their value had vanished.
"What if we stripped away the luxury?" he murmured. "…Focused on pure function instead?"
Images sharpened in his mind. Not the gilded vessels that floated through Tradespire’s skies, but something simpler. Stronger. Not something people merely wanted, but something they needed.
Akasha watched in silence, waiting until the outline of his idea began to take form before speaking. “Host’s plan is… ambitious.”
Zeke winked at her, a faint smile playing at his lips. Mentally, he reached for the servant waiting outside. "Summon Jettero and the senior engineers. Tell them to bring their drafting materials."
"The hour is late," Akasha observed.
"It doesn’t matter. We'll work through the night." Zeke's eyes gleamed with renewed purpose. As he waited for his team to arrive, he gazed out the window at the city lights below. Somewhere out there, Azra was no doubt plotting how best to capitalize on tonight’s victory.
Let him.
By morning, all his carefully laid plans, his connections and intrigues, would be meaningless. That was how Zeke had chosen to play the game. If Azra blocked his path, Zeke would simply sprout wings and soar through the sky.
The engineers arrived within the hour, Jettero at their head, grumbling as always about his disrupted sleep. But when Zeke laid out his vision, the old man’s eyes gleamed with interest.
"You’re talking about changing everything," Jettero said, chalk already dusting his fingers as he sketched rough calculations on a slate. "The entire design philosophy would need to shift."
"Then shift it." Zeke spread out the sketches he’d been drafting. "Armor plating here. Reinforced hull structure. Modular components for easy repairs."
"The Mana requirements alone..." one of the younger engineers began.
"…Will stay the same," Zeke cut in. "Strip out the decorations. We’re not building for comfort anymore."
The workshop erupted into motion, debate sparking, ideas clashing and merging, quills scratching furiously across parchment. With each iteration, the designs moved further from the elegant vessels that had made their name and closer to something altogether more practical.
The hours blurred together. Tea appeared at steady intervals, courtesy of Akasha managing the mundane tasks. By the time dawn painted the eastern sky, they finally had a complete set of designs.
“…How long for the prototype?” Zeke asked, though weariness hung heavy over everyone in the room.
Jettero studied the plans, eyes narrowing in thought. “A week for the hull. It’s the simplest to convert. The rest… about a month, maybe less if we can source the materials quickly.”
“Do it. I’ll get us what we need,” Zeke pushed back from the table, his body stiff and aching after hours hunched over parchment.
The old engineer gave him a long, measured look. “This is a risky move, boy.”
“I have faith.” Zeke’s golden eyes burned with certainty. “Once people see what these can do, demand won’t be the problem. Production will.”
The engineers filed out, exhausted yet invigorated by the night’s work. Alone again in his study, Zeke lingered over the final designs, running his fingers across the lines and curves as he envisioned them brought to life. No more begging for the approval of Tradespire’s elite. No more relying on their fickle whims.
In truth, Azra had done him a favor. By exposing the weakness in his business, the spider forced him to evolve. What emerged would be stronger, leaner, impossible to ignore.
Through the high windows, morning light spilled across the technical drawings. The Gondola was dead, just as he had planned. But from its ashes, something far more formidable was already rising.
You don’t want my products anymore? he thought, addressing the absent lords and ladies of Tradespire.
We’ll see about that.