Season 3 chapter 19
The Retail Escalation
"Okay," the shopkeeper said, tapping his fingers on the counter. "The total for all those books you got is exactly 80,000 credits. There is absolutely no discount."
Kniya's capitalist instincts instantly flared up. He was one of the richest men in the Republic, but paying 80,000 credits for comic books in a dusty shack felt like a total scam.
"Eighty thousand?!" Kniya yelled. In a flash of pure, unhinged corporate aggression, Kniya reached into his suit, pulled out his gold-plated handgun, and aimed it directly at the shopkeeper's chest. "We will not give you a single credit! You are going to give us our books for zero cost, boss!"
The shopkeeper didn't even flinch. Without breaking eye contact, the old man calmly reached under the register, pulled out a heavy, double-barreled shotgun, and pointed it right at Kniya's face.
"You are going to pay for these books," the shopkeeper growled, "or you are going to highly regret it."
Malesh let out a tired sigh. He reached behind his back, reached under his tailored suit jacket, and completely inexplicably pulled out a massive, fully loaded, military-grade RPG rocket launcher.
Malesh hoisted the heavy green tube onto his shoulder and aimed the explosive warhead directly at the shopkeeper's head.
"Put the shotgun down," Malesh ordered flatly.
The shopkeeper looked at the RPG. He let out a dark chuckle.
"I knew that you entitled rich bastards were going to do this," the shopkeeper said.
With a loud, heavy mechanical CLUNK, the shopkeeper used his foot to kick a hidden pedal behind the counter. A massive, belt-fed, heavy military machine gun mechanically rose from beneath the floorboards, automatically locking its crosshairs directly onto Malesh's chest.
"That is why I have a mounted machine gun," the shopkeeper stated coldly. "So now... you are going to pay, or you are going to die."
Malesh stared down the barrel of the heavy machine gun. He looked at the RPG on his shoulder. He looked at Kniya's golden handgun.
"Okay. This is truly intense," Malesh admitted, completely dropping his aggressive stance. He awkwardly lowered the massive rocket launcher. "Yeah. We were just kidding. None of these weapons are real. You know, this is just a very realistic toy gun. Wait a minute, shopkeeper... you have real guns?! Can't you even see that we are just pointing fake, plastic guns at you for a prank?!"
The shopkeeper kept his finger on the trigger, his eyes narrowing. "I thought you were completely serious about this thing."
"No, no, no!" Malesh lied smoothly, hiding the very real, highly illegal RPG behind his back. "It is not like that at all! We are happy paying customers!"
Kniya hastily holstered his golden gun, completely sweating.
"Yes! We love the economy!" Kniya cheered nervously. He pulled out his wallet, quickly counting out 40,000 credits in high-denomination bills and throwing them on the counter. "Malesh! Pay your half!"
Malesh grumbled, pulling out his own wallet and throwing down another 40,000 credits, splitting the exorbitant bill exactly 50-50.
"Thank you for your business," the shopkeeper said, lowering the shotgun and kicking the pedal to hide the machine gun.
"Thank you!" Kniya yelled, grabbing his massive bundle of Demon Lord novels. Malesh grabbed his ancient flatulence tome, and the two trillionaires practically sprinted out of the tiny store, terrified of the heavily armed retail worker.
The Commute Back
Ten minutes later, the massive R-12 armored sedan was cruising safely back toward the Seistain Main Hub.
Kniya was driving with one hand, deeply engrossed in volume one of That Time the Demon Lord Became President.
In the passenger seat, Malesh was carefully flipping through the delicate, ancient pages of Rare Edition 6969. After reading three chapters, Malesh let out a loud, deeply disappointed sigh.
"This novel is not so good," Malesh complained, closing the heavy leather book. "The specific biological ways that are mentioned in this book are not like what I expected. The technique is severely flawed. I wanted actual, tactical methods."
Kniya slammed his comic book shut and glared at his business partner.
"Please don't read that literal shit in front of me, you idiot!" Kniya yelled. "Keep your dark arts to yourself!"
Malesh simply rolled his eyes, tucking the book away as the towering glass skyline of their corporate headquarters finally came into view.
The R-12 Return
The heavy, military-grade tires of the massive R-12 armored sedan let out a sharp squeal as Kniya aggressively whipped the vehicle into its designated VIP spot deep inside the subterranean garage of the Seistain Main Hub.
He threw the heavy car into park and cut the deafening engine. The sudden silence in the concrete cavern was almost jarring.
"See? That wasn't a total waste of time," Kniya declared cheerfully, popping open his door and carefully grabbing his massive, incredibly expensive bundle of That Time the Demon Lord Became President novels.
Malesh stepped out of the passenger side, tightly clutching the ancient, leather-bound Rare Edition 6969 to his chest. He smoothed out his tailored suit jacket, looking entirely unimpressed.
"It was a complete logistical nightmare," Malesh corrected deadpan, walking toward the private corporate elevator. "We were almost gunned down by a minimum-wage retail worker with a belt-fed machine gun. And the biological techniques described in this ancient manuscript are practically obsolete. I overpaid."
"You are just angry because the book doesn't give you instant tactical abilities," Kniya mocked, pressing the glowing button to call the elevator. "Meanwhile, my literature is already establishing profound sociopolitical world-building in chapter two. It is a masterpiece of democratic fiction."
"Demons do not vote, Kniya," Malesh sighed heavily as the gold-plated elevator doors slid open. "They are a strictly authoritarian species. Your comic is geopolitically flawed."
The two trillionaire Managing Directors stepped into the luxurious elevator, immediately falling back into their comfortable, chaotic rhythm of relentless bickering as the high-speed car launched them toward the top floor.
The Weight of the Choice
Across the city, the air in Filoska Vinten's apartment was suffocatingly thick.
She stood frozen in front of her heavy front door, her hand hovering over the brass doorknob. Her reflection in the hallway mirror showed a woman on the absolute brink of collapse. There were dark, heavy bags under her eyes from six straight days of total insomnia. Her immaculate corporate composure had completely evaporated, replaced by the visceral, paralyzing terror of a cornered animal.
She closed her eyes, but the darkness offered zero relief. The moment she shut her eyelids, the image violently flashed back into her mind: the glossy polaroid photograph of her little brother, tied to a cold metal chair in a pitch-black room, a dark bruise swelling on his cheek.
Leon Debestez's voice echoed in her skull, dripping with absolute royal malice. I will kill the most precious person of your life. Do this without any failure.
Her breath hitched in her throat. Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely feel her own fingertips.
I have to do this, she thought, a tear finally breaking loose and tracing a hot, devastating path down her pale cheek. I have absolutely no other choice.
Filoska grabbed the doorknob, turned it, and stepped out of her apartment.
The Invisible Threat
The moment her expensive heels clicked against the concrete of the Seistain sidewalk, a violent chill ran straight down her spine. She didn't turn her head. She didn't dare look over her shoulder. But she could feel it. The heavy, invisible, suffocating weight of being watched.
She knew the nameless, faceless royal operative was out there, lurking somewhere in the shadows of the bustling federal capital. Watching her every single step. Waiting for her to either execute the trap or make a fatal mistake.
The commute to the Kavilson Steel headquarters felt like a waking nightmare. Every pedestrian on the street looked like an assassin. Every passing motorcycle made her heart slam against her ribs. The towering glass structure of the Seistain Main Hub finally loomed overhead, looking less like a place of employment and more like a massive, high-tech tomb.
Filoska walked through the opulent lobby in a total trance. She badged into the private executive elevator.
The doors slid shut, sealing her inside. The digital floor counter began to tick upward.
Floor 20.Floor 40.Floor 60.
The agonizingly slow hum of the elevator cables sounded like a literal countdown to her own execution. She stared blindly at her pale reflection in the polished gold doors, terrifiedly wondering if the assassin was somehow already waiting for her on the roof, or if he had been disguised as the lobby barista.
With every number that lit up, the invisible crushing weight on her chest grew heavier. She was a Vice President. She was a professional. But right now, she was just a terrified sister about to lead the two men who trusted her into a highly classified royal death trap in the Grand Royal Park.
Floor 85.
The elevator slowed to a smooth, silent halt. The soft, melodic chime rang out, sounding exactly like a funeral bell.