A sharp knock rattled the heavy oak door.
My "Secretary," Sylvia, didn't wait for an answer. The heavy doors swung open, and she marched in.
Sylvia was the only person in this castle who (A) actually did her job, and (B) terrified me slightly. She adjusted her glasses, her heels clicking on the floor with the rhythm of a ticking clock. She was holding a stack of parchment thick enough to beat a goblin to death with.
"My Lord," she said, not looking up from her papers. "We have a situation in the lobby."
I leaned back, trying to look casual. I casually hid my left hand under the desk; it was starting to look a little translucent again. "Define 'situation', Sylvia. Did the peasants bring pitchforks again? I told the guards to monetize that. Five copper admission fee for riots."
"No pitchforks, sir. It's the auditors."
I froze. My stomach—or the pocket of acid where my stomach should be—did a flip. "The tax collectors?"
"Worse," Sylvia said, finally looking up. Her face was pale. "The Church. The Inquisition is here."
The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. The holographic ticker in my vision turned a violent, flashing crimson.
[CRITICAL ALERT: External Audit Initiated.]
[THREAT LEVEL: Hostile Takeover.]
[ENTITY DETECTED: High Inquisitor Malakor.]
I kept my face perfectly still. Panic is overhead cost; it doesn't generate revenue. "Malakor? The blind guy who smells sin?"
"He says he’s here for a 'wellness check' on your soul, My Lord," Sylvia said, her voice trembling just a little. "He’s brought the Silver Paladins. They’re parking their armored carriage in the rose garden. The gardener is weeping."
I swore under my breath. The Church wasn't just the religious authority here; they were the Board of Directors for the entire reality. And Inquisitors were the glitch-hunters. If they found out I was a monster piloting a meat-suit, they wouldn't just kill me. They’d delete me.
"Okay," I said, standing up. My left leg felt a little wobbly, like gelatin that hadn't set, but I forced it to hold my weight. "Sylvia, reschedule my 2:00 PM oppression of the serfs. We have VIP guests."
"Sir," Sylvia hesitated. She looked at the desk where my finger had dripped earlier. A tiny smear of slime was still there. She stared at it, then looked at me. She didn't ask. She never asked. That’s why she was on the payroll. "You... look a bit pale. Are you sure you're up for this? Malakor has a reputation for... peeling layers off people."
"I'm fine," I lied.
[Humanity Integrity: 12%]
The number was dropping. Stress did that to me. The more stressed I got, the harder it was to convince my cells they were supposed to be skin and bone, not hungry sludge.
"Sylvia, hand me my coat. The velvet one with the high collar."
"Yes, My Lord."
She fetched the coat. As I slid my arms into it, I felt my forearm shift, turning into liquid inside the sleeve before solidifying again. It felt like wearing a wetsuit filled with soup.
"How do I look?" I asked, turning to her.
Sylvia paused. She reached out and straightened my tie. "Like a man who’s about to lie to God, sir."
"Perfect," I grinned. My teeth felt a little too sharp for a second before I dulled them. "That’s my core competency."
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.