The most dangerous word in the common tongue is not "War," "Plague," or "Void."
It is "Free."
I stood in my office, watching the holographic stock ticker for Vayne Corp plummet like a stone dropped down a well.
"Subscription cancellations are at 40%," Seraphina reported, her voice tight with panic. "The Northern Legion is refusing the morning shipment of Halo. The First Prince sent a missive stating he is reviewing his vendor options."
"Reviewing his options?" I raised an eyebrow. "He doesn't have options. Without my serum, his army turns into cannibals by lunchtime. Who is he buying from?"
"He's not buying, Boss," Seraphina said, putting a live feed on the main screen. "He's converting."
Location: The Public Square of Oakhaven (Contested Territory)
The feed showed a massive crowd gathering in the ruins of a war-torn city.
On a raised dais of white marble, surrounded by Battle-Paladins in shining silver armor, stood Prince Lysander—the Second Prince. Beside him was the High Pontiff, holding a golden chalice.
They looked magnificent. Radiant. Holy.
"Children of the Empire!" Lysander's voice boomed, amplified by magic. "For too long, you have been preyed upon by the Merchant of Death! Baron Vayne sells you salvation by the drop! He enslaves you with debt! He holds your lives hostage for gold!"
The crowd roared in agreement. They were hungry, scared, and tired of Vayne Corp invoices.
" The Church offers a different path!" the High Pontiff proclaimed. "The Goddess does not charge for her love! Behold!"
He held up a crystal vial filled with glowing golden liquid.
"The Saint's Tears."
"One sip," the Pontiff promised. "And the Void is purged forever. No daily doses. No addiction. No cost."
A soldier from the Northern Legion—a defector—stepped forward. His skin was grey with early-stage corruption. He was shaking.
He drank the vial.
FLASH.
A blinding golden light erupted from his chest. The grey skin peeled away, revealing healthy pink flesh beneath. The purple veins vanished. He stood up, his eyes clear, his posture perfect.
"I am cured!" the soldier cried, tears of joy streaming down his face. "Praise the Light!"
The crowd went insane. They fell to their knees. Defectors from the First Prince's army began throwing their Vayne Corp Halo vials into the mud, rushing toward the stage to receive the free cure.
"It works," Seraphina whispered, terrified. "Lucas, it actually works. And it's free. We can't compete with free."
I narrowed my eyes at the screen. I watched the "cured" soldier. He was smiling. He was waving.
But he wasn't blinking.
"Nothing is free, Seraphina," I said cold. "If you aren't paying for the product, then you are the product."
I turned to the shadows.
"Nero. Bring me a sample."
Location: Vayne Corp Automaton Lab
An hour later, a stolen vial of Saint's Tears sat in the analyzer.
My new research team—the Type-4 Automaton Researchers—didn't need sleep, breaks, or moral qualms. Their metal fingers moved with blurring speed over the consoles.
"Analysis complete," the Lead Automaton droned, its voice a synthesized monotone.
"Report," I ordered.
"Compound contains 40% Holy Water, 10% Mana-Nectar, and 50% Psycho-Active Binding Agent."
"Binding Agent?"
"The compound successfully incinerates the Void corruption," the machine explained. "However, the thermal intensity of the holy magic cauterizes the frontal lobe of the brain. Specifically, the regions responsible for skepticism, rebellion, and individual identity."
I smiled grimly. "A holy lobotomy."
"Subject becomes biologically healthy but psychologically subservient," the Automaton concluded. "Loyalty is hard-coded to the magical signature of the donor. In this case: The High Pontiff."
I looked at the golden liquid. It wasn't a cure. It was a conscription notice.
The soldiers who drank this wouldn't be ghouls, but they wouldn't be men anymore. They would be smiling, happy, unthinking puppets of the Church.
"Seraphina," I said, turning to my assistant. "We're launching a new marketing campaign."
"We're lowering the price of Halo?" she asked hopefully.
"No," I said. "We're keeping the price exactly the same. But we're going to clarify the value proposition."
I handed her the data drive from the Automaton.
"Hack the global feed. It's time for some aggressive brand comparison."
Location: The Imperial Airwaves
The broadcast of Prince Lysander's victory speech was suddenly interrupted. Static filled the screens of millions of VayneComs.
Then, a new video played.
It was footage I had captured via drone of the "Cured" soldiers in the Church's camp.
The soldiers sat in rows, eating gruel. They were all smiling that same, beatific smile.
A woman ran up to one of them—a wife finding her husband. She screamed his name. She shook him. She showed him a picture of their child.
The soldier didn't react. He didn't hug her. He didn't look at the photo. He just kept smiling at the wall, chewing rhythmically.
"He looks happy, doesn't he?" my voice narrated over the footage. Smooth. Reasonable.
"The Church calls this a miracle. They say the cure is free."
The video cut to a diagram of a human brain, showing the burned-out frontal lobe.
"But we know better. Freedom costs gold. Slavery costs your soul."
The screen flashed back to the smiling, empty soldier.
"The Church wants your obedience. They want you to smile and nod and die when they tell you to."
The Vayne Corp logo appeared on the screen—sleek, black, and gold.
"Vayne Corp doesn't want your soul. We don't care about your obedience. We just want your money."
"And in exchange, we let you keep your mind."
The slogan flashed in bold letters:
KEEP YOUR SOUL. PAY THE TOLL. VAYNE CORP: WE'RE EXPENSIVE BECAUSE YOU'RE WORTH IT.
Location: The First Prince's War Tent
Prince Valerian watched the broadcast on his tablet. He looked at the footage of the mindless, smiling drones in his brother's camp.
He looked at his own captains—grumpy, greedy, complaining about the cold, but human.
He realized that if his army drank the Saint's Tears, they wouldn't be his army anymore. They would belong to the Pope.
He slammed his fist on the table.
"Get Vayne on the line!" Valerian roared at his scribe. "Renew the subscription! Double the order! I'd rather be broke than brainwashed!"
Location: Vayne City
I watched the numbers on the stock ticker stop falling. They hovered for a moment in the red.
Then, they shot up into the green.
[ System Notification: Market Dominance Restored. ]
[ Propaganda Victory Achieved. ]
[ New Title: The Honest Crook. ]
[ Effect: Customers trust you more when you admit you are greedy. ]
"Subscriptions are back to 95%," Seraphina said, slumping into her chair with relief. "The First Prince just signed a six-month contract extension."
"Of course he did," I said, pouring myself a glass of whiskey. "Tyrants hate competition. He realized the Church was stealing his pawns."
I walked to the window. The lights of the factory were bright against the night sky.
"Honesty is a terrible policy in life, Seraphina," I mused, watching the smoke rise. "But in business? Sometimes, telling the customer exactly how you plan to screw them is the most comforting thing in the world."
I took a sip.
"Because at least with me, they know the price."