There is a specific smell to dead gods. It smells of ozone, old copper, and the deepest, darkest salt of the ocean.
To mask it, I had ordered industrial diffusers to pump the scent of lavender and sandalwood through the central plaza of Vayne City. It barely worked.
The plaza, usually a clean thoroughfare for my workers, had been transformed into a abattoir.
Hanging from massive cranes, suspended by chains thick as tree trunks, was the carcass of the Leviathan.
It was dead, but it was still impressive. Even cut into sections, the sheer scale of the beast made the onlookers look like insects. Steam-powered golems climbed over its ribs, wielding diamond-tipped buzzsaws to carve away the priceless void-scales.
ZZZZZT-CRUNCH.
The sound of sawing bone echoed off the skyscrapers.
I stood on a raised podium, dressed in a sharp black suit, a gavel made of white gold in my hand.
Below me sat the most powerful people on the continent. They weren't sitting on plastic chairs; they lounged on plush velvet sofas I had imported for the occasion.
To my left, the Dwarven Iron-Lords, their beards braided with gold wire, smoking pipes that smelled of coal. To my right, the Elven High Council, glowing with faint light, looking at the dead monster with a mix of disgust and envy. In the center, the Arch-Mages of the Ivory Tower, clutching their staves. And, looking furious in his dress uniform, General Armstrong representing the Empire.
"Ladies, Gentlemen, and Beings of Ancient Lineage," I began, my voice amplified by the Vayne City PA system.
"Welcome to the sale of the century. Today, we aren't selling land or stocks. Today, we are selling godhood by the pound."
I gestured to the massive slab of armored hide hanging behind me.
"Lot Number 1: The Scales. Indestructible. Resistant to magic up to Tier 8. Lighter than steel. Perfect for airship plating or heavy infantry armor. Bidding starts at five million gold."
"Six million!" General Armstrong barked instantly. "The Empire requires this for the Northern Front!"
"Seven million," a Dwarf Lord grunted, not even looking up from his pipe. "And we pay in refined Mithril, not your paper promissory notes."
Armstrong flushed red. "The Imperial Treasury guarantees—"
"Eight million in Mithril," the Dwarf interrupted.
"Sold!" I banged the gavel. "To the Iron Kingdom."
Armstrong stood up, veins popping in his neck. "Vayne! You cannot sell strategic resources to foreign powers! That armor belongs to the Emperor!"
"The Emperor signed the Maritime Sovereignty Act, General," I reminded him coolly. "Clause 4: 'All salvage recovered by Vayne Corp is the sole property of Vayne Corp.' I'm afraid your credit isn't good here."
The crowd murmured. The humiliation was public. I was arming the Empire's neighbors, and there was nothing they could do about it.
The auction continued.
Lot 2: The Void Sac. A gland containing ink so toxic it could poison a water table for a century. Sold to a cloaked representative of the Assassin's Guild for 3 million.
Lot 3: The Eyes. Lenses capable of seeing through invisibility. Sold to the Elven Council for a pouch of World-Tree Seeds (priceless).
Finally, the golems lowered the centerpiece onto the stage.
The crowd went silent. Even the arrogant Elves leaned forward.
Lot 4: The Heart of the Deep.
It was the size of a carriage. A massive, pulsating organ of purple flesh and glowing veins. It beat slowly—thump... thump—still echoing with the power of the Void.
It radiated enough mana to feel like physical heat.
"This," I announced, resting my hand on the warm surface, "is a tactical nuclear weapon. Or an infinite battery. Depending on how creative you are."
"Bidding starts at twenty million."
"I claim this by Imperial Decree!" General Armstrong shouted, drawing his ceremonial sword. "Baron Vayne, hand that over immediately! That is a weapon of mass destruction! No private citizen, and certainly no foreign power, can possess it!"
The Vayne City security drones overhead swiveled their red eyes toward the General.
"General," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "You are shouting in my city. Sit down, or I will have you removed as a public nuisance."
"You would dare—"
"Thirty million," a raspy voice cut through the tension.
Arch-Mage Xardas, the Master of the Ivory Tower, stood up. His eyes were glowing blue.
"The Tower offers thirty million in Mana-Crystals. We wish to... study it."
Armstrong looked at the Mage. The Ivory Tower was technically part of the Empire, but they were autonomous. If they got the heart, the Emperor couldn't touch it.
"Thirty-five million!" Armstrong screamed, sweating. "The Treasury will—"
"Forty million," Xardas said boredly. "And I will throw in the spell tomes for [Meteor Swarm]."
I smiled. Ancient spells were worth more than gold.
"Sold!" I slammed the gavel down. "To the Ivory Tower."
General Armstrong looked like he was going to have a stroke. He had lost everything. The armor to the Dwarves. The heart to the Mages. The Empire was walking away empty-handed.
"You are playing a dangerous game, Vayne," Armstrong hissed, gathering his cloak. "The Emperor will not forget this slight."
"Tell him to save up," I replied cheerfully. "I have a dungeon full of loot coming next month."
The sun set over the plaza. The guests had departed, their prizes loaded onto airships and caravans.
My bank account—and my inventory—was overflowing.
I stood by the empty crane, watching the cleaning crew hose down the purple ichor from the cobblestones.
"You made a lot of enemies today," Seraphina said, walking up beside me. She handed me a glass of wine. "Armstrong looked ready to kill you."
"Armstrong is a dog on a leash," I dismissed. "And the leash is fraying."
"Excuse me, My Lord Baron."
A figure stepped out from the shadows of a nearby alley. He wore a simple grey cloak, but the boots beneath were high-quality leather.
Nero materialized behind him instantly, a blade to the stranger's throat.
"Peace," the stranger said, not flinching. "I am merely a messenger."
"Let him speak, Nero," I ordered.
The stranger bowed. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a sealed letter. The wax seal bore the crest of a Silver Hawk.
"My Master, Prince Valerian, sends his regards."
I took the letter. Valerian. The First Prince. The "Warrior Prince."
"Your Master is bold," I said. "Sending an envoy to the man who just humiliated his father's General."
"My Master is a pragmatist," the envoy replied smoothly. "He knows the Emperor's health is... failing faster than the public knows. He knows that when the throne becomes vacant, the vultures will circle."
The envoy looked up, his eyes sharp.
"The Second Prince has the support of the Church. The Princess has the support of the Nobles. Prince Valerian... he needs weapons. He needs gold. And he needs the man who owns the ocean."
I tapped the letter against my chin.
"A partnership?"
"An investment," the envoy corrected. "Help him secure the throne, and Vayne Corp will be granted the status of a Grand Duchy. You will be a King in all but name."
I smiled. The Civil War. It was starting right on schedule.
In the game, you had to pick a faction. If you picked Valerian, you fought a military campaign. If you picked the Princess, you played political intrigue.
But I wasn't a player anymore. I was the arms dealer.
"Tell the Prince I am always open for business," I said, pocketing the letter. "But my loyalty isn't included in the package. That costs extra."
The envoy bowed deep. "I will convey your message."
He vanished back into the shadows.
A blue window flashed in my vision, signaling the end of the peace.
[ System Notification: Historical Event Triggered. ]
[ Event: The War of Succession. ]
[ Faction Selection Available: ]
[ A) The First Prince (Military) ]
[ B) The Second Prince (Theocracy) ]
[ C) The Princess (Aristocracy) ]
[ D) Vayne Corp (Profit) ]
I tapped Option D.
"Seraphina," I said, turning back to my tower. "Ramp up production on the combat drones. And raise the price of steel by 20%."
"Why?" she asked.
I looked at the darkening sky.
"Because war is coming. And business is about to be booming."