Death rode shotgun as the Black Dragon plunged into the Stillness Corridor—a tax audit crashing into a corrupt corporation's boardroom.
Reality shattered around them like broken glass. A hawk hung frozen mid-dive, wings locked between heartbeats. Shrubs existed in temporal madness—autumn branches withered black while spring buds burst green from the same stem. The speedometer convulsed between 80 mph and negative seventeen, as if the universe had developed accounting errors.
Ethan Su's wrist burned. The skull tattoo pulsed with bureaucratic precision: [REMAINING LIFESPAN: 71:00:00]. Seventy-one hours to locate his father's legal representative. The countdown carved deeper with each passing second.
"This is the Temporal Bandits' hunting ground." Princess Avira's breath fogged the reinforced glass, her aristocratic composure cracking. "They age intruders to dust or regress them to infancy. We must withdraw—"
"My ledger doesn't process refunds." Ethan adjusted his tie with mechanical precision, the gesture as automatic as breathing.
The Black Dragon's armor began to rot. Not from acid or flame, but from decades materializing in seconds. Paint peeled like diseased skin. Chrome dulled to the color of forgotten promises. The metallic tang of oxidation filled the air.
They emerged from temporal distortions—thirteen figures in patchwork clothing stitched from different centuries. Their leader wore a clockwork crocodile mask, brass gears clicking where eyes should be, steam hissing from mechanical joints.
"Well, well." The Clockwork Crocodile's voice ground like rusted machinery. "A dying man with seventy hours remaining. But that scent…" He inhaled deeply, steam venting from his mask's nostrils. "Pure temporal essence. Original time, not the recycled garbage most mortals carry."
Marcus unleashed the six-barrel Vulcan cannon. Armor-piercing rounds shrieked toward their targets—then crumbled to rust mid-flight, oxidized by millennia of artificial aging. The acrid smell of corroded metal filled the cabin.
"In this domain, time is armor." The Crocodile's laugh sounded like grinding gears. "And I am exceptionally well-protected."
He raised both hands. The Black Dragon aged rapidly—metal fatigue spreading like cancer, electronics failing as circuits corroded to green powder. The engine wheezed like a dying man's final breath.
"Surrender the coin, tax collector. Your temporal assets are now under new management."
Avira screamed as the dashboard cracked with age, plastic becoming brittle as old bones.
Ethan stepped into the fractured air.
No weapons. Instead, he produced a gleaming disc from his coat—the 100-year temporal currency inherited from his father's debt collector. The coin caught impossible light, refracting it into colors that had no names.
"Your grasp of temporal asset management is…" Ethan paused, studying the bandits like a senior auditor reviewing amateur tax returns. "Embarrassingly primitive. Allow me to demonstrate proper fiscal policy."
He flipped the coin skyward.
[TEMPORAL MARKET MANIPULATION INITIATED]
[INVESTMENT: 100 Years Original Time Currency]
[LEVERAGE RATIO: 10,000:1]
[INFLATION RATE: 10,000% ANNUALLY]
[SKILL ACTIVATED: Temporal Devaluation]
The coin dissolved into golden motes that spread through the Corridor like economic plague. Reality convulsed as fundamental temporal exchange rates collapsed.
The Clockwork Crocodile charged, oblivious that the market had just crashed around him.
First step: Hair whitened and fell in clumps, scalp mottling with liver spots that bloomed like dark flowers.
Second step: Muscle mass evaporated, skin sagging like melted wax, the stench of rapid decay filling the air.
Third step: Bones became chalk, joints seizing with arthritis accumulated in heartbeats.
He collapsed half a meter from Ethan, body crumbling to ash as hyperinflation liquidated his temporal assets.
"Due to current market conditions," Ethan announced to the remaining bandits, his voice carrying the weight of cosmic bureaucracy, "all movement in this sector now incurs premium temporal taxation. Current rate: one year per step."
One bandit bolted. He managed half a stride before collapsing, aged to death by the cost of motion. His scream cut off mid-note as his vocal cords withered.
The others froze, understanding flooding their faces like bankruptcy notices. They dropped to their knees, not daring to breathe deeply lest they trigger additional fees.
Ethan approached the Crocodile's remains with measured steps—each footfall calculated for maximum efficiency. He activated Asset Liquidation, drawing the bandit's remaining temporal value into crystalline form.
[ASSET RECOVERY COMPLETE]
[EXTRACTED: 35 Years Temporal Currency]
[MARKET VALUE: 350,000,000 Standard Credits]
[INVESTMENT RETURN: 3,500% Profit Margin]
"Acceptable returns." He pocketed the coin, brushing ash from his fingers. "Though overhead costs were substantial."
His system erupted in warnings:
[ALERT: TEMPORAL MARKET MANIPULATION DETECTED]
[REGULATORY VIOLATION: Unauthorized Inflation Control]
[ENFORCEMENT AGENCY: Temporal Audit Bureau]
[STATUS: Tracking Initiated - Priority Alpha]
"Boss!" Marcus's voice cracked with terror. "We got incoming. Big incoming."
Ethan smiled—the expression of a predator who'd just attracted bigger prey. "Excellent. Start the engine, Marcus. We've drawn the attention of more… substantial debtors."
The Black Dragon roared to life, aged components somehow functioning despite decades of artificial wear. As they accelerated past the kneeling bandits, reality began healing itself—temporal inflation slowly returning to normal rates.
Behind them, space tore open like a legal document being shredded.
A figure stepped through—tall, lean, wearing an immaculate business suit and a featureless mask that reflected nothing. He moved with the measured precision of a senior auditor conducting final review.
The Temporal Audit Bureau had arrived.
The figure knelt beside the Crocodile's remains, gathering ash between gloved fingers. He brought it to where his mouth should be, tasting the residue with clinical detachment.
"Temporal market manipulation. Unauthorized inflation control. Illegal leverage ratios." He stood, brushing dust from his suit with mechanical precision. "The inheritor of the trillion-credit debt has been located."
He turned toward the Black Dragon's retreating form, mask reflecting the Corridor's fractured light.
"The taste of violation is… exquisite."
Space folded around him like a balance sheet under audit pressure. When the distortion cleared, he was gone—but his presence lingered like the memory of unpaid taxes.
The Black Dragon raced toward an uncertain future, carrying the most wanted debtor in the universe.
[70:47:23]