The air in the Grand Banquet Hall smelled like bleach and thunderstorms.
That was the scent of High Inquisitor Malakor. Most people described the smell of Holy Magic as "divine" or "floral," but to a monster like me, it smelled like industrial cleaner. It made the slime inside my stomach churn.
I paused at the entrance, smoothing down my velvet coat. My HUD flickered.
[WARNING: Holy Aura Density at 400%. Bio-form stability decreasing. Do not make sudden movements.]
"Great," I thought. "I’m walking into a microwave."
I pushed the doors open.
The scene inside was framed like a Renaissance painting, if the painter had been depressed. My banquet hall was massive, designed to seat a hundred guests. Currently, it was occupied by twelve men in polished silver armor—the Silver Paladins—standing motionless against the walls. They looked like statues, except statues don’t stare at you with judgment behind their visors.
And at the very center of the long table sat Malakor.
He was sitting in my chair.
He wore pristine white robes that seemed to glow softly, defying the dimly lit room. A strip of white silk was wrapped around his eyes. He didn’t need eyes. Rumor was he could see the "stain of sin" on a person’s soul from a mile away.
He was cutting a piece of steak on the plate in front of him. He did it with the precision of a surgeon.
"You’re late, Duke Arthur," Malakor said. His voice was soft, like silk sliding over a tombstone. He didn’t turn his head.
I forced a smile onto my face, checking the tension in my cheek muscles. If I smiled too hard, my skin might tear, revealing the grey sludge underneath.
"Inquisitor," I said, walking toward him. I made sure my footsteps were loud and confident. "I was just reviewing the quarterly tithes. I assume you started without me? The chef will be delighted you approve of the steak."
Malakor stopped cutting. He placed his knife down. It didn't make a sound.
"I do not eat for pleasure, Duke," he said, turning his blindfolded face toward me. "I eat to sustain the vessel that serves the System. Pleasure is an inefficiency."
"We have so much in common," I quipped, pulling out the chair opposite him. I sat down. The distance between us was about twenty feet of polished oak, but it felt like he was breathing down my neck.
"Sylvia mentioned this was a wellness check," I continued, lacing my fingers together. "But bringing a full squad of Paladins feels less like a check-up and more like a hostile takeover. Is the Church worried about my loyalty? My yield on the Mana Mines is up fifteen percent."
Malakor smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was the kind of smile a shark gives before it decides which limb to bite off first.
"Numbers," Malakor whispered. "You speak often of numbers, Arthur. Gold. Mana. Yields. The System tracks these things, yes. But the System also tracks... deviations."
He picked up his wine glass. The liquid inside rippled.
"There have been reports," he said. "People entering your castle and never leaving. Assassins. Spies. Even a tax collector."
"I have a strict turnover policy," I lied smoothly. "They resigned."
"Did they?" Malakor tilted his head. "Or were they... liquidated?"
My heart—or the mana-core simulating a heart—stuttered. He knew something. Or he was fishing.
[STRESS LEVEL: High. Disguise Integrity: 91%. Suggestion: Do not sweat. Slime sweat is acidic.]
"Inquisitor," I said, leaning back. "I run a business. The Duchy is an asset. I trim the fat. If that’s a crime, arrest every merchant in the Empire."
"It is not a crime to be efficient," Malakor said, standing up slowly. The Paladins along the wall shifted, their hands hovering over their sword hilts. "But it is a crime to be something else."
He raised a hand. The air in the room suddenly grew heavy. The pressure was intense, like being at the bottom of the ocean.
"Let us skip the pleasantries," Malakor announced. "I invoke the Rite of Transparency."
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.