A few days had passed since the incident in the woods, and Michael was beginning to realize that running an evil, world-conquering empire was mostly just a lot of sitting around and waiting.

  He was currently seated on a beautifully carved stone bench on the sixth floor of Castle Nightfall. In the game, the sixth floor was known as the Arboretum. It was a massive, magically enhanced biome designed to simulate a limitless outdoor environment within the castle’s suffocating stone walls. Overhead, a perfectly rendered illusion of a clear blue sky stretched on forever, complete with gentle, synthetic sunlight that provided all the aesthetic warmth of a summer day without triggering Michael’s devastating racial debuffs.

  He leaned his chin on his fist, acting the part of the silent, observing lord, but internally, his mind was spinning.

  A hundred yards away, out in the meticulously manicured fields of the Arboretum, Morpheus was conducting a symphony of violence.

  The Dhampir moved with grace, his dark tailcoat snapping in the wind as he effortlessly dodged a sweeping punch. His opponent was Drummond, the newly turned thrall. The former werewolf was a mass of raw, Level 20 muscle. He was fast, feral, and fought with the ferocity of a wild animal.

  Morpheus sidestepped another lunging strike, politely adjusting his cuffs before sweeping Drummond’s legs out from under him.

  "Again," Morpheus commanded. "You are no longer a beast of the dirt, Drummond. You are a weapon of House Sabwat. Raw power without discipline is merely a tantrum. Align your mana. Strike with intent, not anger."

  Drummond groaned, pushing himself up from the grass, his eyes glowing with determination. "Yes, Master Morpheus."

  Michael watched the training with a detached sort of awe. Morpheus was systematically breaking down the werewolf’s primal habits and replacing them with a lethally elegant blend of dark magic, martial arts, and spiritual discipline. It was incredible to watch. It was also a stark reminder that Michael, despite his Level 100 status, didn't actually know how to fight. If he punched someone, they exploded because his Strength stat was mathematically broken, not because he had actual technique.

  A sudden chill in the air pulled Michael from his thoughts.

  From the dark shadows cast by a tree near his bench, Lavius materialized. The Spymaster stepped into the sunlight, her human disguise flawlessly maintained, though her eyes still burned with their innate hunger. She had spent the last three days deeply embedded in the human city below, operating strictly under Michael’s orders to gather intelligence.

  "My Lord," Lavius purred, sinking into a curtsy.

  "Lavius," Michael said, sitting up slightly, projecting his deep, commanding voice. "Report."

  Lavius reached into the folds of her dress and produced a tightly rolled bundle of grey paper. She handed it to Michael with an expression of disgust, as if she were handing him a dead rat.

  "The humans of this era are hopelessly primitive, Master," she explained, dusting off her manicured fingers. "They rely on physical distribution for their intelligence networks. This... thing... is called The Londinium Gazette. It is their primary method of disseminating propaganda and societal shifts."

  Michael unrolled the broadsheet newspaper. The ink was slightly smudged, smelling of charcoal and industrial solvent. Michael’s janitor brain eagerly soaked it in.

  "What have you learned?" he asked, scanning the headlines.

  "First, the surrounding topography," Lavius began. "The forest behind our mountain is locally known as 'The Gallows.' It is entirely infested with low level anomalies, much like the lupine Morpheus is currently beating into shape. The humans struggle constantly to keep the beasts from bleeding into their city borders."

  Michael nodded slowly. "And the city itself? Who holds the reins?"

  "Londinium is a fractured board, Master," Lavius said, a predatory smile touching her lips. "Its power structure is divided between four primary pillars."

  She raised a finger. "First, the Church of Londinium. They serve as the city’s moral and spiritual police. They are fanatics, Master. They actively hunt what they call 'mucks'—their derogatory term for our kind. They patrol the streets in white and silver trench coats, armed with silver-loaded revolvers and blessed sabers."

  Michael’s heart stuttered.

  Silver bullets and holy swords. Got it. Avoid the trench coats at all costs.

  "Noted. Continue."

  "The second pillar is the Royal Navy," she said dismissively. "I gathered very little on them, as they possess the least influence within the city walls. They pose no immediate threat to our infiltration. Their eyes are cast outward, concerned entirely with global dominance, star-charting, and hunting Krakens in the deep oceans."

  "And the third?"

  "The Royal Society of Hunters," Lavius said with disdain. "It is not a military branch, but rather a gentleman’s sport. An elite, heavily guarded club for the wealthy and the magically talented. They do not hunt for mere coin. They hunt for 'Prestige' and 'Scientific Discovery,' frequently organizing expeditions into the perilous 'Grey Moors' outside the city to excavate rare minerals and magical artifacts."

  Michael leaned forward. "How does one enter?"

  "One does not simply walk in," Lavius sneered. "Application requires a formal sponsor from an existing member and a verified, massive display of talent. They pride themselves on exclusivity."

  Thank you, Blackworth, Michael thought, letting out a silent sigh of relief. The mustachioed man from the forest had unknowingly handed them the golden ticket.

  "And the final pillar?" Michael asked.

  Lavius’s eyes darkened slightly. "The Coal & Cog Syndicate. They are the true masters of Londinium’s economy. They control the sprawling coal mines beneath the earth and the massive factories that power the city’s lights, trains, and rudimentary machines. They employ half the city and own the other half. They are untouchable."

  Michael carefully rolled the newspaper back up. The Church, the Navy, the Hunters, and the Syndicate. The world was vastly more complex than a simple game server. If he misstepped, he wouldn't just be fighting a boss; he would be declaring war on entire socio-economic infrastructures.

  "Excellent work, Lavius," Michael praised. "You have illuminated the board perfectly. Give me a moment to process this."

  "Your will, Master," she whispered, stepping back into the shadows and vanishing entirely.

  Left alone, Michael rubbed his temples. Using his magic straight up was a catastrophic liability. If he walked into the Royal Society and accidentally sneezed a Tier 10 spell, blowing the roof off their pristine white building, he would be instantly flagged as an anomaly. If anyone in that Lodge was half as suspicious as Blackworth but twice as competent, they would realize Count Mikhail was a monster.

  He needed to limit himself and register as a standard, slightly-above-average Battle Mage.

  To do that, he needed a conduit to bottleneck his own power.

  Michael tapped his temple, bringing up his mental interface. He navigated past his stat page and opened his Spatial Inventory.

  A grid appeared in his vision, containing thousands of items he had hoarded over ten years of playing Romanov. He scrolled past the Staff of the World Ender (Blue Tier) and the Scepter of the Stars (Green Tier). If he walked into a gentleman's club holding a staff that actively dripped dark matter, he would be arrested on the spot.

  He kept scrolling down, down, down, past the blues, the greens, and the oranges, until he finally reached the absolute bottom of his inventory: The Red Tier.

  Red Tier items were the lowest rarity in the game—literal junk loot dropped by Level 1 slimes that players usually sold for copper coins. Michael selected a basic Apprentice's Wooden Staff. Its stats were abysmal. In fact, for a Level 100 High Mage, equipping it actually applied a negative modifier, actively reducing his magical output by 25%.

  Perfect, Michael thought, materializing the staff into his hand.

  It was a ugly piece of brown wood.

  "This doesn't exactly scream 'Wealthy Foreign Noble,'" Michael muttered to himself.

  Focusing his mana, he cast a basic Tier 1 Transmutation cantrip. The gnarled wood instantly smoothed out, reshaping itself into a sleek, polished black wood. He capped the top with an unadorned silver knob.

  In seconds, the junk staff had been disguised as a standard, elegant silver headed walking cane. It could serve as his magical conduit, limit his terrifying output, and perfectly accessorize his Count Mikhail persona. Simple. Unassuming. Boring.

  "Lavius," Michael called out.

  The Spymaster stepped seamlessly back out of the shadows.

  "We are heading downtown to the Lodge today," Michael instructed, leaning his weight onto his new cane. "You will accompany me and act as my healer, registering alongside me."

  Lavius looked genuinely horrified at the prospect of healing humans, but she bowed her head. "If you command it."

  "I do," Michael said. He reached into his inventory again and pulled out an elegantly woven black velvet cloak. "And you will wear this."

  He handed her the Hood of Concealment. It was a Blue Tier item. Michael knew that Lavius’s inherent [Aura Suppression] was strong, but her demonic energy was so potent, so deeply ingrained in her coding, that a highly trained human hunter might still catch a whiff of brimstone. The hood completely blocked out all magical tracking, rendering the wearer entirely mundane to any magical or technological scans.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Lavius took the cloak reverently, draping it over her shoulders and pulling the hood up. The chill that always accompanied her completely vanished.

  "Come," Michael said, turning toward the doors of the Arboretum. "Let us go be ordinary."

  They took a hired steam carriage from the outskirts of the city, riding up the steeply paved, cobblestone avenues. Downtown Londinium was geographically elevated, built on a massive plateau that rose high above the thick yellow smog that blanketed the lower districts. Up here, the air was crisp, the architecture was pristine white marble and polished brass, and the streets were lined with gas lamps and manicured trees.

  It was beautiful and also bathed in direct sunlight.

  As Michael stepped out of the carriage, gripping his silver headed cane, the system warning flashed in his peripheral vision.

  Warning: Direct Sunlight Detected. All Stats Reduced by 50%.

  Michael braced himself, but to his surprise, he didn't stumble. The crushing, cement-like weight he had felt a few days ago in the woods wasn't there. His body had already acclimated to the debuff. It didn't hurt; it merely made him feel like a normal, albeit incredibly strong, being.

  More importantly, he made a massive realization. When they had been riding through the lower districts, beneath the city’s thick industrial pollution, the debuff hadn't triggered. The smog acted as an artificial canopy. The pollution of this hyper-capitalist nightmare was actually protecting him.

  "Master," Lavius whispered, stepping up beside him, her face shadowed by the Hood of Concealment. "Our destination."

  Michael looked across the wide avenue.

  Sitting proudly on Grim Oak Street was a massive, imposing building of white marble. Massive oak doors with polished brass handles served as the entrance. Above the doors, carved into the stone, was a colossal black shield—the logo of the Royal Society of Hunters.

  As they approached the entrance, Michael noticed a man slumped against the iron fence bordering the Lodge. He was dressed in soot-stained rags, missing a leg, and holding out a trembling, dirt-caked hand.

  "Alms for a veteran of the moors, m'lord?" the beggar rasped, his voice rough from coughing.

  Michael’s steps faltered. In the real world, back in 2048, Michael lived in grinding poverty. He knew what it was like to be invisible, to be stepped on by the corporate elites. His janitor's empathy violently overrode his aristocratic persona.

  Without thinking, Michael reached into his spatial inventory, pulled out a gold coin and gently dropped it into the beggar's palm.

  The beggar stared at the gold piece, his jaw dropping. "B-bless you, m'lord! The Saints bless you!"

  "Buy something warm," Michael said softly.

  "Disgusting."

  Michael turned his head.

  A few feet away, a group of passing nobles—dressed in extravagant silks and top hats—had stopped dead in their tracks. They were glaring at Michael. Not just glaring, but looking at him with revulsion.

  Panic seized Michael’s throat in an icy grip.

  Oh god, his mind raced. Did I do magic? Did the debuff slip? Is my aura showing? They know! They can see I’m a monster!

  Before the confrontation could escalate, Michael grabbed Lavius by the elbow and practically dragged her up the marble steps and through the doors.

  The interior of the Royal Society of Hunters was breathtaking.

  It was the ultimate gentlemen’s club dialed up to eleven. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cherry wood cigar smoke and aged brandy. Polished mahogany floors stretched across a massive lobby filled with plush, dark red leather armchairs. Men and women in tailored suits and extravagant hunting gear sat in small circles, laughing and drinking.

  But the most striking feature was the walls. They were lined with the taxidermied heads of mythical nightmares. Giant scaled basilisks, multi-eyed arachnids, and the massive, spiraling horns of beasts Michael couldn't even name.

  It was intimidating as hell.

  Michael forced his shoulders down, puffing out his chest, and walked toward the grand reception desk at the back of the room. Lavius trailed a step behind him, keeping her head perfectly bowed to hide her disgust.

  Sitting behind the counter was a woman with wire rimmed glasses and hair tied into a severely tight bun. She was stamping a stack of papers.

  "Name and business," she said, not even looking up.

  "Count Mikhail of House Sabwat," Michael said, using his deepest, most resonant voice. "And my companion, Countess Lavius. We are here to register."

  The receptionist paused and slowly looked up, her eyes flicking over Michael’s expensive suit, his silver-headed cane, and Lavius’s mysterious hood.

  "Edith," the woman introduced herself dryly. She pulled a massive leather bound ledger toward her and flipped it open. "Registration requires a sponsor and a verified display of talent."

  "I was sponsored by a man named Blackworth," Michael provided confidently. "A few days ago. In the Gallows."

  Edith ran a finger down the ledger and stopped, tapping a line of ink. "Ah. Yes. Blackworth. He filed the report yesterday. A Level 10 Lesser Werewolf dispatched with a single, unidentified incantation. He listed you as a 'freakishly competent anomaly.'"

  Michael winced internally.

  "Very well," Edith sighed, pulling two small, rusted iron keys from a drawer and sliding them across the polished mahogany counter. "Welcome to the Royal Society, Count. You are officially registered as Coal Rank."

  Michael stared at the rusted, ugly little keys. "Coal Rank?"

  "The lowest tier," Edith explained. "Colloquially known as the 'Soot Hands.' Usually reserved for desperate laborers, disgraced military, or poor sods trying to hunt giant rats in the sewer grates for a copper piece. You are not permitted in the main lounge, you cannot purchase the aged brandy, and you cannot take contracts above Level 10."

  Michael felt his aristocratic pride—or rather, the pride he was pretending to have—take a massive hit. He was a Level 100 Progenitor, a god among men, and he had just been handed the equivalent of a mall cop badge and told to go hunt rats.

  "I see," Michael said stiffly, picking up the keys and handing one to Lavius. "How do we elevate our standing?"

  "Complete contracts," Edith said, pointing a pen toward a massive corkboard across the room plastered with papers. "But be warned, Society policy dictates that Coal Ranks have a high mortality rate. For insurance purposes, you are not permitted to accept a contract unless you are accompanied by a full party of four."

  Michael nodded tersely. "Understood. Thank you, Edith."

  "Don't die, Soot Hand," she replied, already looking back down at her paperwork.

  Michael walked over to the contract board, his cane clicking against the hardwood. Lavius walked beside him, her hands clenched tightly into fists.

  "Master," Lavius whispered, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Allow me to rip her spine out through her throat. Just a little. Please."

  "Restrain yourself, Lavius," Michael muttered.

  He scanned the board, looking for a job that wouldn't draw too much attention. He spotted a slightly weathered parchment near the bottom.

  Contract: Extermination / Investigation

  Location: Middle District (Rust Belt)

  Target: Unknown Apparition / Ghostly Entity

  Reward: 50 Silver, 10 Society Merit Points.

  It was perfect. A low level ghost hunt in the industrial district. He grabbed the paper, signed Count Mikhail and Lavius at the bottom of the party roster, and pinned it back up.

  Now, they just had to wait for a team of desperate Soot Hands to join them.

  Michael and Lavius took a seat at a small, rickety wooden table near the back of the room—the designated area for the lower ranks. An hour passed. Michael practiced looking brooding and mysterious while internally agonizing over whether he had left the stove on back in his apartment in the real world, before remembering his apartment was gone.

  "Excuse me."

  Michael looked up.

  Approaching their table was a group of four individuals. They looked like they had stepped straight out of a bizarre, steampunk-fantasy circus.

  The man at the front was tall, lean, and dressed in a perfectly tailored, red duelist’s coat. A polished, intricately guarded saber hung at his hip. He had high cheekbones and a vain smirk.

  "Are you the ones who claimed the Rust Belt contract?" the duelist asked.

  Michael stood up, leaning on his cane. "We are. I am Count Mikhail, and this is my healer, Lavius."

  "Splendid," the duelist said, offering a theatrical bow. "I am Christopher. Duelist of the first order. My fighting style relies on high speed, precision, parries and ripostes with absolute finesse. We are Iron Maiden. An established Coal Rank party."

  Christopher didn't even look at Michael as he spoke as his eyes were entirely locked onto Lavius. He flashed her a blindingly white smile. "I must say, it is a rare delight to find a woman of such exquisite and delicate beauty slumming it with the Soot Hands. I look forward to defending your honor in the field, my lady."

  Lavius stared at Christopher. Her eyes were entirely dead. For a brief, terrifying second, Michael thought she was going to unhinge her jaw and bite the man's head off.

  Instead, she offered a perfectly flat and neutral response. "How kind."

  "Quite," Christopher beamed, utterly oblivious to his proximity to death. He pointed to the people behind him. "Allow me to introduce the rest of my ensemble."

  A young woman with wild, frizzy hair and ink-stained fingers suddenly shoved past Christopher. She was holding a grimoire—a weapon that didn't exist in Romanov, making her an unknown variable.

  "I'm Freya! Arcanist!" she said, speaking entirely too fast.

  Before Michael could introduce himself, Freya stepped directly into his personal space, her nose almost touching his chest. She was staring intensely at his silver-headed walking cane.

  "Oh, my stars," Freya breathed, her eyes widening behind thick goggles. She reached out, her fingers hovering millimeters from the wood. "The resonance... the density. This is no ordinary walking stick. It’s an anomalous artifact! The mana pathways are entirely inverted! Where did you get this? Can I dismantle it? Can I scrape a sample?"

  Michael leaned back, internally reeling. I disguised it as a cane so people WOULDN'T look at it! Why is she analyzing my garbage-tier stick?!

  "It is a family heirloom," Michael said quickly, pulling the cane away. "And no, you may not dismantle it."

  Freya pouted, clutching her grimoire tightly. "Fascinating. A blend of chemistry and occultism, I bet..."

  "Ignore her, she lacks boundaries," a new, raspy voice said. "I am Blanche."

  Stepping out from behind Freya was the third member that gave Michael a genuine shiver down his spine.

  She wore a leather apron covered in dozens of small, bubbling glass vials and syringes. She was an alchemist. Her hair was stringy, her posture was hunched, and her eyes were wide, unblinking, and entirely creepy.

  She looked at Michael’s face, then at Lavius's hands.

  "Pale," Blanche muttered, pulling a small, empty glass vial from her belt and tapping it against her chin. "So pale. The dermis lacks any standard circulation. Severe anemia. Possibly a marrow deficiency. I could make you a tonic. Just... need a comprehensive blood analysis, a little prick and a few drops to see what makes you tick."

  Michael’s poker face almost shattered. Blood analysis?! She wants a blood sample from a Vampire Lord?!

  "We are quite healthy, thank you," Michael said, his voice notably stiffer than before. He took a deliberate step away from the creepy alchemist.

  "We'll see," Blanche whispered, uncorking the vial and sniffing it, never breaking eye contact with Michael.

  "And finally," Christopher said loudly, reclaiming the spotlight. "Our Ironclad, Arthur."

  A loud sound echoed through the lodge.

  Stepping forward was a literal walking tank. Arthur, the Ironclad. He was a massive man entirely encased in a bulky, steam-powered brass and iron exoskeleton. Thick tubes hissed with pressure, venting hot white steam from his shoulders. He carried a breaching shield on one arm, and a terrifying, steam-powered piston-hammer in his other hand.

  Arthur looked at Michael through the narrow slit of his iron visor and said absolutely nothing. A loud hiss of steam vented from his back, sounding suspiciously like a sigh.

  Michael stood there, looking at the snobbish duelist flirting with a sadistic demon, the boundary-lacking arcanist trying to dismantle his disguised junk-stick, the terrifyingly creepy alchemist trying to steal his blood, and a silent, giant steampunk robot.

  Great, Michael thought, letting out a long breath. Just great. I have the worst possible team in existence.

  "The Rust Belt awaits, Count," Christopher said, drawing his saber an inch from its scabbard. "Let us go hunt a ghost."

  Michael gripped his cane. "Lead the way."