The Golden Gear Guild’s headquarters was a monolith of white rock, every pillar plastered in gold leaf to mask the structural fissures in the stone. Within the Great Hall, thousands of whale-oil lamps hung from the rafters, illuminating the interior with a harsh, flickering glare. But the heavy, rancid stench of burning animal fat—even buried under layers of expensive spices—clung to the back of the throat, a viscous reminder of the city's decay.
“To our guests from afar! To profit! Cheers!”
Pago, the Chairman of the Golden Gear Guild—a Pig-kin so morbidly obese his neck had been entirely absorbed by his torso—hoisted a gem-encrusted gold chalice. His laughter was a wet, grating sound. His layers of adipose tissue shuddered under his purple silk robes like a pile of melting butter.
“Cheers!”
Lined along the massive table were the power-brokers of Rust-Water Port: merchant lords and slave-drivers dressed in gaudy silks, wearing powdered wigs to hide their receding hairlines. Their greedy eyes roved over Jasta’s tailored white suit like predators eyeing a prize heifer.
Jasta held his glass, his face set in a flawless, surgically precise professional smile.
“A privilege, Chairman Pago,” Jasta said, his voice smooth and melodic, as if performing for an opera house. “The Skyreach Caravan is honored by such... lavish hospitality.”
“Hahaha! Think nothing of it!” Pago grabbed a greasy roast monitor-lizard leg and tore into it. A mixture of honey-glaze and heavy grease dripped from his double chin onto the expensive wool carpet, leaving a permanent stain. He wiped his mouth with a silk napkin, his small, fat-squeezed eyes glinting with a low-tier cunning. “But Mr. Jasta, before we talk numbers, I must satisfy a certain... curiosity.”
Pago leaned forward, dropping his voice just enough to ensure every core member at the table was listening. “You are the Storm Queen’s favorite fox. The Silver Fox Chamber is a name that rings through the clouds. Why would a man of your... caliber... stoop to acting as a ‘diplomat’ for a hole like Skyreach?”
The room went quiet. Whispers rippled through the merchants:
“Did he lose a power struggle in the Storm Clan?”
“Impossible, look at the fabric of that suit. That’s top-shelf sky-silk.”
“Maybe the Storm Clan is preparing to annex the rift and sent him as an overseer?”
Pago waved the whispers away, grinning at Jasta. “Don't misunderstand; I don't doubt your vision. I just wonder... is this some master-stroke by Her Majesty Selena? A clever deployment of a puppet?”
Pago was convinced he had solved the equation. In his world, no high-born fox would serve a human. The only logic was that Skyreach was a Storm Clan front, and Jasta was the real architect. Talking to Jasta was, functionally, talking to the Storm Queen.
Jasta paused for exactly one second. He swirled the wine in his glass, offering an ambiguous, shadow-laced smile. “Chairman Pago, you are a man of business. You know that for the sake of Net Profit, we must often wear different masks.”
“Hahahaha! I knew it!” Pago slapped his thigh, his suspicion evaporating. “I told them! Those cat-kin who can barely manage a campfire couldn't possibly build those toys! It’s the Silver Fox Chamber’s engineering after all!” He winked at Jasta—a repulsive gesture of "mutual understanding."
“Since we understand the Supply Chain, let’s talk logistics,” Pago continued, his eyes flickering with greed. “The tricks you showed at the gate—the fire-spitting boxes and the silver coins—are interesting. High market potential. The Golden Gear Guild is willing to... ‘assist’ you. Hand over the cargo. We have the channels, the fleets, and the distribution network across the South. We’ll get you a fair price.”
Pago waved a greasy hand dismissively. “Naturally, we take a seventy-percent cut. As a ‘channel management and protection’ fee.”
Seventy percent.
Standing behind Jasta, Brad’s eyebrow twitched. He was encased in his obsidian heavy exoskeleton, his face a map of scarred intimidation in the lamplight. He crossed his arms, his chest muscles tightening under his tactical vest as he suppressed the Kinetic Urge to slam the Chairman’s head into the soup tureen.
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Jasta, however, didn't even blink. He simply wiped a non-existent speck of dust from his mouth with his handkerchief. “Seventy percent... a ‘reasonable’ figure, were we merely small-time peddlers seeking a roof. But Chairman, you seem to have miscalculated. We aren't looking for an agent. We are looking for a Contractor.”
“A contractor?” The table erupted in mocking laughter.
“Come now!” a thin goblin merchant shrieked. “Everyone knows the cat-kin are hiding in the Silvermoon Rift. That place has nothing but rocks and beasts! They are just scavengers who got lucky with an ancient ruin!”
“Exactly!” a meat-faced slave-driver added, cracking a barbed whip against his palm. “And they chose a hairless human as a leader? What a joke! He should be scrubbing our latrines!”
“Mr. Jasta,” Pago tapped a bone against the table to quiet the room. He looked at Jasta with a gaze full of condescending pity. “You are a refined fox. How can you tolerate being associated with such barbarians? That human, Alex... does he understand commerce? Does he understand Status?”
Pago clapped his hands. “Bring the main course! Let our guests see what real Nobility looks like!”
The heavy oak doors swung open. A line of shivering Cat-kin slave girls, barely clothed and wearing heavy mana-suppression collars, entered the hall. Each carried a massive silver platter holding a translucent, twitching live fish.
“Crystal Lung-fish,” Pago announced proudly. “The lungs must be sliced while the heart still beats. It is a delicacy of the highest order. And...” he grabbed the nearest girl, his greasy hand wandering over her trembling form as she let out a muffled whimper of terror, “...watching these once-proud predators serve us? That is the scent of Power, is it not?”
The hall filled with the lewd laughter of merchants and the suppressed weeping of slaves. Jasta looked at the girl. She was young—no older than Mia back in Skyreach. Her ears were red and swollen from physical abuse.
Jasta’s gaze drifted across the table. He saw the dried blood on the platters. He saw the rot in the souls beneath the silk. He saw the black carbon smoke from the oil lamps staining the frescoes on the ceiling. There was no cold brilliance of electrical light here. No rhythmic roar of an assembly line. No upward Industrial Vitality. There was only decay. A gold-plated corpse, rotting from the inside out.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Jasta?” Pago chewed a piece of lung, his mouth full. “No appetite? Or are you considering my offer? Leave the human barbarian. Join us. If you sign, this little cat-kin is yours tonight.”
Jasta stood up slowly. The warmth vanished from his expression, replaced by a cold, clinical indifference—the look of a man staring at un-recyclable industrial waste.
“Chairman Pago,” Jasta said, his voice dangerously calm. “I came here expecting to negotiate with the captains of a merchant empire.” He scanned the room, his gaze like a scalpel. “But I was wrong. I see only a swarm of flies feasting on a carcass.”
The laughter died instantly. A piece of fish fell from Pago’s mouth. “What did you say?!” he bellowed, his fat neck turning a shade of purple. “You dare insult the Golden Gear Guild?!”
“Insult?” Jasta let out a soft, sharp laugh. “No. I am stating a Technical Fact.” He pointed to the smoking lamps. “You take pride in luxury, yet you cannot even engineer a lamp that doesn't choke you. You claim power, yet you can only find it by tormenting the weak. You mock Skyreach for being ‘barbaric’? In the city I serve, the people are Laborers, not slaves. My Lord doesn't wear silk, but the machines he builds could level this rotting hall in five seconds.”
“That is Civilization.”
Jasta turned his back on them. “And you? You are the dregs of a dying era. The air here is foul. It nauseates me.”
“KILL HIM!!!” Pago shrieked, hurling his gold cup at Jasta’s head. “HACK THESE FOOLS TO PIECES!”
Crash! Dozens of Guild guards drew their blades, the sound of steel filling the room.
“Finally,” Brad muttered. He had been a statue until this moment. He stepped in front of Jasta, facing the charging guards. He lifted his right leg—clad in a heavy hydraulic-assist combat boot—and slammed it down.
BOOM————!!!
[Skill Activated: War Stomp]
It wasn't magic. It was the synchronized physical burst of an S-grade Strength stat and a high-pressure hydraulic feedback loop. The marble floor shattered. Shards of stone became shrapnel. A visible shockwave rippled through the hall. The ten-meter solid oak dining table snapped in half, sending soup, wine, and twitching fish flying into the faces of the merchant lords.
“AAARGH!” The merchants tumbled over each other on the slick floor. The guards were thrown back, their armor denting under the Kinetic Pressure.
“Who’s first?” Brad grinned, baring his teeth with a thug’s malice. He reached for the hilt of his Buster Sword. The aura of a man who had walked through literal battlefields froze the hearts of the house-guards. No one moved.
Jasta didn't look back at the chaos. He walked toward the exit with measured steps. Passing the shivering slave girl drenched in soup, he stopped. He pulled an aluminum coin from his pocket and placed it on her tray. A Sky Credit. It glinted with a cold, silver brilliance.
“Keep this,” Jasta whispered. “Soon, this coin will be worth more than all the gold in this room. When that day comes... come to Skyreach.”
He pushed the doors open and stepped into the night. Brad gave Chairman Pago—who was currently covered in gravy and shrieking—a single-fingered salute. “There’s your answer. Seventy percent? Dream on.”
SLAM. The doors closed. The feast was over. The war had officially moved to the streets.
Question of the Day: The Golden Gear Guild will retaliate tonight. How should Jasta and Brad defend the trade wagons?
?? A) The Barricade: Set up a defensive perimeter in the Slums.
Result: Siege. Use the local narrow alleys to negate the Guild's numbers. High chance of gaining more refugee followers, but risks civilian casualties.
?? B) The Decoy: Sacrifice one wagon to lure them into a trap.
Result: Attrition. Fill a wagon with alchemical "surprises" from Kaelas. Wipe out the Guild's elite enforcers in one big boom.
?? C) The Offensive: Strike the Guild's warehouses immediately.
Result: The Engineer's Choice. Don't wait to be attacked. Go straight for their logistics. Burn their stock and replace it with Sky-City goods by morning.
Follow and Rate for more industrial madness!