The sun was just beginning to bleed over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violet and orange, when the walls of the former Slaver Fortress came into view.

But it didn't look like a prison anymore.

Even from a distance, Damien could see the changes. The jagged, broken battlements had been repaired with smooth grey stone.

The watchtowers were manned not by thugs, but by disciplined Demi-Human guards wearing uniforms embroidered with a golden coin.

Smoke rose from the chimneys of new workshops built in the courtyard. The place wasn't just a fortress; it was a hive.

VROOOOM.

The Fenrir roared down the final stretch of the road, its matte-black chassis eating up the light.

On the walls, a Wolf-kin guard's ears perked up. He leveled his spear, squinting at the approaching mechanical beast.

"Monster!" the guard shouted, ringing the alarm bell. "A black iron beast is charging the gate! Speed… impossible to track!"

"Hold fire!" a sharp voice barked from the command tower.

Cipher appeared on the battlements, his cloak fluttering in the wind. He looked down at the approaching vehicle, his eyes narrowing. He sensed the mana signature inside.

"Open the gates!" Cipher ordered, his voice amplified by magic. " The Master has returned!"

CREAAAAK.

The massive iron gates swung open just in time.

Damien didn't slow down. He drifted the Fenrir through the entrance, the tires screeching against the cobblestones, spinning the heavy vehicle around 180 degrees before coming to a perfect, silent halt in the center of the courtyard.

The engine purred once, then died.

The courtyard went dead silent. Hundreds of workers, freed slaves, hired mercenaries, and merchants, stopped what they were doing to stare.

It seemed that Baelor did'nt come back after the last encounter.

CLICK. HISS.

The gull-wing doors hissed open.

Damien stepped out. He adjusted his coat, looked around the transformed fortress, and smiled.

"Not bad," Damien said. "They even paved the driveway."

"Young Master!"

A chubby blur shot out of the main keep. Barnaby, wearing a silk robe that cost more than a small village, skidded to a halt in front of the car.

He didn't look at Damien. His eyes turned towards the Fenrir.

Instantly they went wide, drool literally threatening to spill from his lips. His [Golden Abacus] ability was flaring so hard his pupils were spinning.

"By the Gods of Commerce..." Barnaby whispered, running a trembling hand over the Dragon-Scale fender.

"What is this? It feels like Mithril... but lighter. And the engine... it smells of Void and Money."

"It's a prototype," Damien said, tossing the keys to Leona. "Don't sell it, Barnaby. It's priceless."

"Priceless..." Barnaby shivered. "I could sell tickets just to let people look at it."

Cipher appeared beside them, moving silently as always. He bowed deeply.

"Welcome home, Young Master. The Northern expansion is proceeding as planned. But... you seem to have brought baggage."

Cipher glanced at Leona's bandaged stump, then at the exhausted expressions on Lyra and Isabelle.

"We brought more than baggage," Damien said. "Barnaby, clear the main warehouse. We need space."

"Space?" Barnaby blinked. "We have plenty of space. The grain silos are empty—"

"Not the silos," Damien interrupted. "The Vault."

…....…

[The Underground Vault]

Ten minutes later, the core team stood in the deepest reinforced chamber of the fortress.

"Is this really necessary?" Barnaby asked, adjusting his glasses.

"The Guild is doing well, Boss. We have a steady income from the trade routes. We aren't hurting for gold."

"You have 'steady income'," Damien said, walking to the center of the empty room.

"I'm about to give you 'War Funding'."

Damien opened his Void Gem.

He didn't pull items out one by one. He opened the floodgates.

RUMBLE.

It started as a trickle of gold coins. Then it became a stream. Then a waterfall.

The loot from the Dragon's Tomb.

Millions of ancient gold coins minted in lost eras. Chalices encrusted with rubies the size of fists. Armor sets made of pure Orichalcum.

Apparently Ignis thought Damien could add some fun to the world and decided to invest in him

CLATTER! CRASH!

The pile grew. It reached Damien's waist. Then his shoulders. Then it buried him.

Damien Shadow-Stepped out of the pile, landing next to a stunned Barnaby.

"And this," Damien waved his hand again.

Heavy crates thudded onto the floor.

"High-grade Mana Crystals from the Dwarven Deep Mines. Mithril ingots refined by Grandmaster Orin himself. And..."

He placed a small, sealed box on the table.

"Three vials of Dragon Blood. Highly diluted, but potent enough to turn a mortal into a superman."

Looking at the diluted remains from what he used to cure the king, Damien wondered just how effective these vials would be

Silence.

Barnaby swayed. His eyes rolled back in his head. He clutched his chest.

"I... I think my heart stopped," Barnaby wheezed.

"Boss... this is... this is the GDP of a small empire. Where did you get this?"

"I made a dragon firend," Damien said casually.

He looked at his team.

"This is our war chest. We aren't just a merchant guild anymore, Barnaby, we're much more than that, more than you can ever imagine."

"However," Damien's expression turned serious.

"Gold is just potential. We need to turn it into influence."

He pulled a stack of parchments from his coat pocket, the sketches he had drawn during the nights in the Dwarf Kingdom.

"Barnaby, Cipher. Look at this."

He spread the blueprints on the table.

They weren't weapons. They were designs from Blue Star.

The Mana-Weave Loom: A machine designed to mass-produce fabric that could regulate temperature and change color.

The Cooling Box (Refrigerator): Using simple frost runes to keep food fresh indefinitely.

The Memory Theater: A design for a massive projector screen and acoustic

"What... what are these?" Barnaby asked, picking up the design for the Loom.

"This looks like Elven silk, but... mechanical?"

"It's Fashion," Damien said. "And Convenience."

Damien pointed at the Cooling Box.

"Right now, Nobles use Ice Mages to keep their cellars cold. It's expensive and inefficient. We are going to sell them a box that does it for a tenth of the price."

He pointed at the Theater.

"And this... this is how we win the people. We aren't just selling goods. We are going to sell Culture."

"We will record plays. Concerts. Stories. And we will broadcast them. We will control what they see, what they hear, and what they want."

Damien looked at Isabelle.

"Isabelle will handle the manufacturing side. She has an eye for detail."

"I do?" Isabelle blinked. "I mean... yes! Of course, Young Master!"

"And Leona..." Damien turned to the Lioness.

Leona was leaning against the wall, trying to open a water skin with one hand and her teeth. She struggled, frustrated, until the water spilled over her tunic.

She growled, throwing the skin down.

"I'm useless," Leona muttered, hiding her ruined arm behind her back.

"I can't even drink water without making a mess. How am I supposed to help you build an empire?"

The room went quiet.

Damien walked over to her. He picked up the water skin.

"You aren't useless, Leona," Damien said softly. "You are wounded. There is a difference."

He reached into his Void Gem one last time.

He pulled out a heavy, lead-lined box. He placed it on the table.

"I didn't just bring back gold," Damien said.

He opened the box.

Inside, resting on black velvet, was a mechanical arm.

But it wasn't just metal. It was a masterpiece of Hephaestus's engineering and Brokk's rune-crafting.

It was black, made of the same Dragon-Scale alloy as the Fenrir. The fingers were tipped with Mithril claws.

And in the center of the palm, glowing with a soft, ominous purple light, was a fragment of Valerius's Void Core.

"The Void-Gauntlet," Damien whispered.

"I designed it with the Prince. It connects directly to your nervous system. It runs on your Beast Aura."

He looked at Leona.

"It doesn't just replace your hand, Leona. It upgrades it. The Void Core allows you to touch things that aren't there. You can grab ghosts. You can crush barriers. You can tear through magic itself."

Leona stared at the arm. She reached out with her good hand, tracing the cold metal.

"For me?" she whispered.

"For you," Damien assured.

"We have a lot of work to do tonight," Damien announced to the room.

"Barnaby, inventory the gold. Cipher, update the spy network. Leona... let's get you fitted."

He looked at the map on the wall, specifically at the Northern Tundra and the Central Continent.

"Tomorrow, we go our separate ways. But tonight... the Black Thread rises."

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