Brexton could see the line of people long before he reached the access road. It snaked around the corner for three blocks, forcing ground dragons and carts and pedestrians to use only one side of the road, causing blockages. He walked past everyone in line, the equal mixture of well-dressed business folk and addicts drawing excited gasps and cheers and then silence when they saw the “fury” in Brexton’s eyes.

This line led to a narrow, inconspicuous access road, which was now the most conspicuous area in Theovale. He entered the alley and pushed all the way to the front, where he paused before a well-dressed woman in a colorful hat, drinking out of a rombar, a classy flask currently popular amongst the elite.

“Brexton!” she said haughtily, only to freeze when she saw his expression. “Oh… Brex~ton,” she flashed him an awkward smile. “We thought you’d never show. We’ve been waiting here for—”

Brexton glanced at the flask. “Give me that.”

“This?” the woman smiled nervously, eyes darting to the watching crowd. “I think it would be obscene for us to share—”

“Give it to me.”

She gave it to him.

Brexton took a drink. It was raskberry wine, as sweet and tart and ineffective as always. A drink for men and women who plan on riding after dinner—not the type you would find at a gambling den on a weekday.

He savored it and then looked at her. “Leave.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I said… leave. Now.”

“W-Wait. Why?”

“Why?” Brexton chuckled and looked at the silent people in line. “Can anyone tell me why I’m asking for this woman to leave?”

All stayed silent until his eyes landed on them. Then, they sputtered out incoherent answers, political in nature—saying a lot to say nothing.

“Since no one’s willing to admit the obvious, I’ll tell you. It’s because you’re standin’ single file in our secret alleyway, broadcasting the location of our secret door to our secret gambling den. And you all think that’s okay?”

“Brexton…” The woman flashed him another nervous smile. “Everyone knows where this place is. I see cops gambling here every time I come.”

“Yes… Easea. That’s what’s known as a bribe. You pay a cop, and they pretend they never saw an alley that people always seem to walk into and disappear, only to come out two hours later, sexed up and reeking of booze.”

Brexton grinned, and a few people laughed. Then his eyes turned cold. “But how the fuck’s a cop gonna pretend he didn’t see… this?” He presented his hand to the line. They fell silent again. “Now get out,” he said.

She shivered, glancing at the flask and then turning with mechanical movements, grabbing her escort and disappearing into the night.

“I want fifty hawks from idiots who threatened my establishment for business!” Brexton yelled. “Ten from the locals. Refuse to pay or leave, and you can forget ever coming back. Pass it on… Now follow me!” He turned to the wall, smirking internally as he pressed his hands against the bricks. A distorted ripple spread through the wall, and the illusion giving it a rough texture disappeared, giving way to a metal door tattooed with runes.

Brexton knocked twice. An eye slot opened and shut, followed by the door swinging open, revealing a burly man with a neck tattoo of a raven.

“Mr. Brex,” he whispered. “Where’s you been? People’ll’ve been sayin’ things.”

“Grib,” Brexton said, grabbing both of the man’s meaty shoulders.

“But Mr. Brex. They’s sayin’—”

“Grib.”

The bouncer fell silent.

“Tonight, all these people are the same. They’re equally worthless. If they’re wearin’ something nice, charge ‘em fifty hawks to enter. If they’re regulars, take ten. And if anyone refuses, break their fuckin’ knee caps. Grib… listen to me. This’s the one night in your lifetime where you’ll get to treat rich swans as swines… so make it hurt.”

Grin developed a stupid grin, bouncing lightly on his feet. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Then I’ll’s do it.”

“Good.” Brexton slapped the man’s hairy cheeks and then walked down the stairs as Grin barked orders. As Brexton walked, the raging drumming beats from a live band got louder, followed by stringed instruments with bass, both fast-paced, creating a feverish rhythm that matched the energy of the locals, who were throwing golden coins on card tables or playing dice or betting on games unsettling to watch. One man won a hand and collected his prize—a wild and sloppy kiss from an undercover escort—which led him to the floor to dance under the claps and cries from patrons, unaware she planned to bleed him dry. Others tapped their feet rapidly from the tempers they were high on, while lines to the bar remained long, preceded by floors wet from sticky cocktails.

This was The Nest, one of the many gambling dens the Claustra family owned throughout the five domains.

Brexton walked to the bar, people walking out of his way like he was a god. The person sitting on a stool got up, leaving their drink behind, and Brexton pushed it away. The bartender walked up with a glass of amber spirits. He rocked it back and exhaled, shivering. The bartender tried to refill it, but he put his hand up to stop her, unscrewing the flask and pouring the contents into the empty glass instead. This drink wasn’t about the taste.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The bartender leaned across the bar. “Fair warning—Rokun’s pissed.”

“That’s because he’s an idiot.”

“Just warning you.”

“Duly warned.”

Once she left, he pondered the wild and surreal circumstances that surrounded Mira Hill.

Two diamond requests… Brexton thought. He knew she used two because Request and Reward-based delivery requests wouldn’t provide a diamond reward to deliver platinum equipment, and because his family worked in multiplanetary info broking—he knew what each grade of information suppression request did.

The question was why she went through such extensive lengths to suppress her information. Family protection was one thing—but hiding everything about her meant that she had secrets. That started with the reward she won for taking first in the multiverse-wide Trial of Worth that year.

He didn’t know she won—but everyone knew.

Normal people couldn’t even get one diamond reward doing standardized tests. Let alone two. In fact, people getting diamond requests before becoming a fifth evolution were so rare that they made interplanetary news. Mira won, and that would certainly spark robbery attempts during the Black Harvest, where someone to learn the reward was an item. He wondered if the Oracle had warned her about that.

His Oracle helped him cheat regularly—he wondered how strong someone had to be before an Oracle argued that a diamond information request and platinum security request were a good use of resources. Or, maybe the Oracle had a vested interest in hiding the secrets in the forest. It was uncertain.

Yet there was something that was certain—Mira was a freak of nature, and he wondered what it would be like to make contact with her during the Black Harvest. He knew she’d come—assuming she survived.

Brexton sighed dreamily, tracing the rim of his cup. I can’t wait to see what you do to the bandits.

“Brexton!” A large man broke him from his reverie, pushing through the crowd. He looked put together, sporting a trimmed beard and a built body with a constitution. If only he wasn’t remarkably inept, he would be a successful man. “What the fuck are you doing?” his uncle Roken asked. “First you keep up legacies. Now you’re extorting them?”

“Extorting them?” Brexton snorted, taking a drink. “I can piss this much gold.”

“Then what're you doing?”

“Pissing them off.”

“That’s the problem!”

“No—it’s not.” Brexton turned to the rich crowd looking around the gambling den in disgust, waiting for him to say something. “Look. The more people that’er here… the more heated they are… the more they’ll bid.”

“Bid? What the hell are they bidding for?”

“On who’ll know first.”

“You’re not givin' it to the Dante?”

Brexton slammed the raskberry wine. “Nope.”

“Are you insane?”

Brexton looked at his uncle. “No. This… uncle. This’s what you call good business.” With those words, he walked to the stage, where the drummers had long since dropped their sticks. The searing crowd cooled, and countless eyes looked up at him. He waited for their undivided attention. He spoke.

“There’s two types of people here tonight. There’s the people who came here to feed their vices…” he gestured to a sweating gambler, eyes bloodshot and delirious. “And the well to do business folk tryin’ to capitalize on the results of this year’s Trial of Worth. Well, I’ll tell you a good deal for waiting—and then I’ll charge you for the rest. So let’s start with the obvious.”

He created a white wall of illusionary mana on the stage and displayed a recreation of the public notification that everyone got that morning. It was the following notification:

—---

The rankings of this year’s Trial of Worth will not be displayed due to a request. Information on individual performance may be ascertained by speaking to participating neophytes directly.

—---

“You may be wondering what the type of information request’s necessary to shut down a multiverse wide announcement,” Brexton smiled. “But you’ll have to pay for that. It’ll be cheap, but we don’t work for free.”

The crowd jeered.

“But I will tell you more than you deserve. This request and the Domain Quest are likely related.” He pulled up the diamond-level request to drop off supplies into the forest. “After this insane announcement, everyone tried to get information on this neophyte, only to be given rejection after rejection. All information requests previously made were refunded, and all Guide information on her was deleted, leaving only the people that physically recorded the information with it. You can’t even verify if someone’s in the forest right now, and the system warns you that this suppression will exist after the neophyte’s death. It’s eerie.”

Most agreed.

“Luckily, the Claustra family has all that information and more. We won’t give it freely, but we feel duty bound to warn you about something a lot of people have already found out the hard way. This neophyte’s name is Mira Hill—a freshly integrated neophyte from our crop—and you should not fuck with her family. Doug, Tanya, and Tyler Hill, as well as their dog, Gatsby, are off the menu. That’s because Mira paid the Dante family for two years of security detail, and the Oracle, by virtue of the request, is feeding the Dante information about people plotting against the family for extortion, blackmail, or coercion purposes. Since this went into effect.”

Someone tapping a hawk against a card table nervously suddenly stopped. The influential people shivered, turning to rocks, fearful that they made the wrong move.

“Two people are dead and thirteen are ‘permanently maimed.’ No agency’s gonna punish the Dante, so there’s no recourse to action. Even we aren’t touching it… that’s how bad it is… But.” Brexton’s lips curved into a sinister grin. “Mira Hill is on the menu. In fact, Mira’s puttin’ herself on the menu. Or, rather… her patron god’s puttin’ her on the menu.”

The house exploded in a wild and depraved frenzy as previously nervous business folk pushed toward the stage, spilling drinks on each other, crying out that they would pay for the information first.

“That’s right! Mira Hill’s earned a legacy. I know ‘cause I’ve gotta patron god, and the patron gods ‘round Dranami are talking about a certain god accepting a certain pupil in Areswood Forest—negotiating business deals. And considering!” He had to yell to speak over the rabid crowd. And considering! that the only people here with legacies are me and Hadrian… you’ll only get this information from me!”

That only inflamed the sentiment. Hadrian Dante also had a legacy—but he was hired to protect Mira’s family, so he couldn’t sell their secrets—not that he’d sell his advantage, anyway.

“So let’s get started. The name of the god claiming to be Mira’s patron god’s goin’ for a million hawks. Informed speculation on the Black Harvest is goin’ for a hundred thou. Minor profiles are ten. If you’re not prepared to pay—start gambling or get the fuck out. I gotta business to run.”

People who prided themselves on being cultured and civilized pushed and screamed and hit one another as they moshed to the front, screaming extravagant monetary bids to be the first to obtain the information. These people needed to be put down like a pack of rabid animals, but right now, the sight of them made Brexton’s heart sing. This windfall would make the Claustra Family a name brand in the multiverse as people scrambled to buy resources and raw ingredients from the Eternal Goddess’ pupil—

—and Brexton Claustra planned to ride this wave to the top.