“Give it to me straight,” said Mr Tyrell after the procedure. He had been awake the whole time, giving feedback about what he was feeling, which had been in line with what Michael felt when he healed his own injuries. The only difference was the sensation of something shrinking, probably the cancer being destroyed before the surrounding tissues were repaired, but they wouldn’t know more until Dr Kavins had his way with Mr Tyrell. It was another clause in their agreement.

The oil magnate was gripping Michael’s arm with surprising strength now that he was healed. “That wasn’t a medical procedure at all.” He said gravely, but not with a threatening tone, “that nanomachine fuckery, it’s all bullshit, isn’t it?”

“Pretend it’s a dungeon boss. One you defeat with cunning,” Old Dave’s words echoed in his mind.

“We keep up the pretense.” Michael said calmly, almost sounding uninterested and aloof. “Less prying eyes, this way. It’s an innovative process.”

“Innovative my ass. You don’t cure cancer in one day. Trust me, I know a lot about it. You tend to do extensive research when you are slowly being killed by something. Not even that slowly, not with brain asshole cells going all kinds of wrong. I looked around; there was no mention of a miracle cure anywhere up until a few days ago. I almost didn’t believe it.”

“Yet you are here.” Michael said calmly.

Mr Tyrell snorted, making a face. “I came to see what the hype was about. No, that’s a lie. Listen, a dying man has no luxury to be skeptical. Either it worked or it didn’t, I was a dead man anyway. So tell me, is it magic?”

Michael’s façade crumbled for a moment.

“Ah, so it is magic.” The man stated.

“How can you say it with so much certainty? Do you have proof it even exists?”

“People like the Illuminati and all that shit? Nah. But,” he held up a finger, “while the story might be bogus, there’s a grain of truth to it. You don’t go around my circles without seeing some oddities. Still, to cure cancer…”

“Yes. It was magic.” Michael stopped him, trying to regain control of the conversation, “that’s why it’s imperative that you keep your mouth shut about it,” Michael said, leaking some Presence into his voice.

“I will. I’m no asshole, you saved my life, boy. I just wanted to know. I researched you. Your security is not that tight that I couldn’t get someone in. It’s better than I thought, but it’s still shit. I can help you with that, by the way.”

“Go on.”

“You were normal, just a poor teenager who got kicked out by asshole parents. Up until you were not. How?”

“Secret.” Michael said, but he smelled an opportunity. One he had let escape when he healed Mr Naoshida and which had kept him up at night for the last few days. Let’s see if he bites. “Let’s just say I stumbled upon a way to gain these powers.”

“The property you want to buy,” the oil tycoon’s eyes shone with dangerous light. “I understand now. I couldn’t make sense of it before, I thought it was just a random purchase to suit your strange fancy. Now,” he pulled Michael close, yanking at his arm while still lying in bed, “is there a way for others to get this power you have?”

“Maybe.” Michael kept it vague. “But it’s dangerous. Deadly, even. I was lucky.” His mind was firing rapidly, ideas forming. It was true that if he approached this as if it was a dungeon fight, his mind was clearer, able to dissociate the events from their gravity. The toll would come later. “You would have to fight, put your life in danger. I can act as an escort, reduce the danger considerably, although not completely. You would be the first, other than me, to be granted a chance.”

Tyrell’s eyes lit up even more. “Ha! I knew it was worth the money the moment I saw you.”

“No need to butter me up. It’s going to cost you. A lot.”

“Not just money,” Old Dave chose that moment to barge into the room. Of course, he was listening through the security cameras. “Old Dave, pleasure to meet you in person, Mr Tyrell.” The old man said with a flourish, “I’m Mike’s agent, so to speak.” He turned serious. “If we give you this chance, you will have to work with us. For us.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Besides,” Michael added. “It’s not like you brave the danger once and you get powerful all of a sudden. The more power you want, the more trips to hell you gotta take.”

“And we,” Dave interjected, “control access to this hell. Security isn’t tight right now, no need to draw attention, but soon it will be.”

“Not like we need a deterrent,” Michael said, surprising even himself, “Mr Tyrell, you just got your life back. Hell is dangerous, do you want to risk all you built just for a sliver of chance? Of do you want to work with us and have a much safer route to power?”

“Ha!” Tyrell boomed. He laughed, holding his belly, “hahahaha,” he wheezed, “you got balls kid.” Then he was suddenly serious, staring at him in the eye. “You’re damn right I don’t want to die. But I will gladly sacrifice all my material possessions, and place myself in your debt, if you can promise me power like you have. Healing is not all you do, is it?”

“No, Mr Tyrell.” Michael said succinctly. “It’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Call me Travis. We are going to be partners from now on. Now tell me, what is it that you need?”

Michael left handling mundane matters to Old Dave. Their priority would be to secure the land around the dungeon, using the oil magnate’s considerable connections to pull some strings and finalize the deal. Old Dave was muttering in delight when he left the room, having drafted an agreement with Travis, saying how the man’s connections dwarfed even his own, reaching all the way up to Congress.

Michael knew that he could not trust Tyrell the way he trusted Old Dave, though, and Dave knew as well. After they secured the land, the plan was to rush construction of a gravel road leading from the highway to the dungeon along the shortest path, all obstacles be damned. The cabin plan was trashed, as without a road they would have needed to bring in materials and supplies by helicopter, bringing too much attention to the place far too early. Travis’ input had been invaluable on that point, his expertise showing.

The real fun would begin after the road was completed. The recent cash injection would make sure they could proceed for now, and more money could always be made by healing more people.

Both Michael and Dave agreed not to milk Travis for petty cash. It was better to make the man feel indebted to them as much as possible, and his favors were worth much more than just money. Eventually they planned to rope him in completely, but as Dave said: one step at a time.

“Once you take him to the dungeon, make sure he sees your strength and understands that if he wants more than just a taste, he has to bide by the rules.”

“Which are?” Michael asked.

Old Dave held up one finger after the other. “Magic is to be kept secret. He must help us in any way he can, and in return we will help him and his family in times of need. I also promised priority healing for anyone he recommends, at full price of course, which will make him want to keep us happy and satisfied. Lastly, he is to keep prying eyes away from us. Just normal building activities happening in the plot we have, nothing strange. The protection won’t last long, not after we move with the later stages of the plan, but any help is welcome.”

Michael hummed, appreciative of Dave’s competence. As for him, his job was to accumulate more strength until he was strong enough to be a deterrent in and of himself. If possible, or rather it was imperative that he became a powerhouse before they caught the eye of other powerful individuals. Not just people with magic, be it secular or from the new dungeons, but also organizations, multinationals, organized crime and the thing that scared Michael the most: shady organizations like the CIA.

Luckily Travis can pull strings in the Congress. I wonder if maybe the president has a sick relative I could heal?

Michael was almost disgusted at the thought, rapidly blaming it on Old Dave’s cynical nature rubbing on him.

***

To think I live in a shithole like this, Michael thought as he quickly grabbed his karate bag at home, in the dungeon, I am a king. At least, I am cosplaying as one. In the real world, I am a millionaire, although I can’t show it around yet. But to everyone else, to my dad, to those assholes at the dojo… I’m still a nobody, still trash. I need to be patient.

He looked around, taking in the sight of the messy apartment he had grown to hate over the many months he had lived here. It was moldy, wet, damp and cold in the winter. There were windows, but they overlooked the garbage bins and the parking lot, the view otherwise covered by other buildings that encroached all around like tall giants.

But eventually, he would have a house in the forest all for himself. More like a mansion, those designs were crazy. There would also be housing for all the security they were going to hire, as well as spaces to expand and fortify, to do research, and much more. Old Dave was having fun with it. Not like it’s his money we are going to spend.

It was still hard to believe how much things had changed in the last couple of weeks. The dungeon, then meeting Old Dave, the shootout with the mafia—it still weighed heavily on his mind, the worry of what might happen with the Bulgarians and with the now-disappeared Carmela—then meeting all those rich people, the last of which had been intense, to say the least. It was easier if he channeled his dungeon-king cosplay persona, but the backlash of that act had been him lying almost catatonic in the back of the car while he was driven back home from the Saint Hernest care facility, struggling to hold his nerves in check.

I need to let off some steam. Lawyer-guy better behave tonight.