The Cost of Doing Business
Malesh lowered his hand, looking at the glowing trench of destruction with absolute, miserable regret. He slowly turned his glare back to the Demon Lord, who was now frozen on his bone throne, staring at the vaporized hole in his army with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"Because of you, I really, really just incurred one more massive loss of our corporate assets," Malesh complained bitterly, dusting off his suit jacket. "I didn't want to use that, but you were speaking way too much, you little dick. Do you have any idea how much unmined ore was inside that mountain?! Because of your fucking soldier, we just lost millions in natural resources hidden in those real estates! You literally made me vaporize my own profit margins!"
Kniya stared at the molten trench, the delusional fanboy excitement finally draining from his face. The reality of the situation had set in. The Demon Lord wasn't going to sit at a negotiation table, and he certainly wasn't going to sign a trade agreement.
"I see," Kniya said, his voice dropping its cheerful tone. He looked the Demon Lord dead in the eyes. "I will offer this one last time. Stand down, accept our infrastructure, and sign the deal. Or we wipe you off the map."
The Demon Lord, snapping out of his profound shock, gritted his razor-sharp teeth. Humiliation and rage boiled over. He raised his hand again, his dark magic flaring to life as he prepared to command his entire vanguard to charge at once.
Malesh immediately raised his hand, his fingers completely glowing with volatile radiation, ready to snap a second time and vaporize the rest of the continent.
"Wait," Kniya said suddenly, reaching out and pushing Malesh's hand down.
Kniya rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a disappointed sigh.
"I think there is absolutely no point in talking right now," Kniya declared, turning his back on the terrifying dark entity. "Malesh, drop it. We should just go."
Filoska rolled her eyes, already tapping her polished heels against the mud. "Finally. My shoes are getting completely ruined in this medieval swamp."
Without a single word of parting, Filoska activated her spatial magic. The air around the four executives violently warped and fractured.
Zzz-crack!
In a blinding flash of purple light, Kniya, Malesh, Filoska, and Salesh completely vanished from the encampment, teleporting directly back to the sterile safety of their corporate watchtower.
The heavy, oppressive silence returned to the forest.
The Demon Lord sat frozen on his throne, his hand still raised in the air to order a charge that had no target. He slowly lowered his arm, his glowing red eyes staring blankly at the empty patch of mud where the four humans had just been standing, and then at the massive, smoking, perfectly circular hole bored straight through the distant mountain.
For the first time in his immortal, terrifying existence, the Demon Lord had absolutely no idea what the fuck just happened.
Rumors in the Tavern
Far away from the radioactive wasteland and the smog-choked industrial cities, the scene shifted to a completely different world—or at least, a part of the world that still clung to its ancient, magical roots.
It was a bustling, lively Adventurer's Guild in one of the last remaining independent kingdoms. The grand, wooden hall smelled heavily of spilled ale, roasted boar, and old leather. Heavily armed mercenaries, traveling mages, and hardened warriors sat around massive oak tables, drinking loudly and swapping tales of monster hunts under the warm glow of magical lanterns.
At a table near the center of the hall, three veteran adventurers were deep in conversation, leaning over their wooden tankards.
"Did you hear the latest dispatch from the border scouts?" the first adventurer asked, lowering his voice as if sharing a dangerous secret. "Those outsiders who fell from the sky three years ago... they actually did it. They completely swallowed the continents of Aethelgard and Vorathia. They formed a single, massive nation out of thin air."
The second adventurer took a long gulp of his ale and wiped his bearded mouth with the back of his gauntlet.
"Aye, the rumors are spreading like wildfire," the second guy nodded. "I heard they staged a massive revolution. Swept the kings right off their thrones and established a completely different kind of rule. They call it a 'democracy.' Though I don't have the faintest idea how a kingdom is supposed to function without a king to lead it."
The third adventurer leaned in closer, looking around to make sure no spies were listening.
"It doesn't," the third guy whispered, shaking his head. "I spoke to a fleeing merchant from the borderlines. He said this 'democratic government' of theirs is completely hollow. It is just ink on parchment to keep the peasants quiet. In reality, the entire territory—the armies, the land, the gold—is entirely run by a single, supreme merchant conglomerate. A massive syndicate."
"A syndicate?" the first guy asked, raising an eyebrow. "What are they called?"
The third adventurer frowned, trying to remember the exact translation. "I think... I think they call themselves A.S.S."
For a brief second, the table was dead silent. Then, the first and second adventurers completely lost their composure, bursting into roaring, table-slapping laughter.
"A.S.S.?!" the first adventurer wheezed, nearly spilling his drink everywhere. "What in the gods' names kind of title is that?! Who in their right mind conquers two entire continents and names their glorious empire A.S.S.?"
"These other-worlders might be powerful, but their naming sense is absolutely absurd!" the second guy laughed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Imagine marching into battle and dying for the A.S.S. syndicate.
The Arrival of the Chosen
While the three men laughed, the perspective slowly shifted, panning a few tables back toward the darkest, quietest corner of the bustling guild hall.
Sitting there was a young man who looked like he fundamentally belonged in a completely different reality from the gruff, mud-stained mercenaries around him. While everyone else wore dented iron, stained tunics, and worn leather, he was clad in impossibly pristine, master-crafted silver-blue armor that seemed to naturally catch and reflect the ambient light of the room. A perfectly tailored, flowing white cape rested over his broad shoulders, completely untouched by the grime of the tavern. Leaning against his chair was an impossibly oversized, heavily enchanted broadsword covered in pulsing, glowing blue runic inscriptions—a weapon that defied all standard laws of physics and hummed with a quiet, lethal power.
He had striking, perfectly styled hair that defied gravity, and his eyes held a quiet, resolute, overwhelmingly righteous determination. He didn't just look like a strong fighter; he radiated an intense, undeniable aura of destiny. He was the quintessential anomaly, a walking legend among common brawlers.
He had been listening to the conversation about the A.S.S. Corporation in absolute, brooding silence, his gloved fingers rhythmically tapping against the wooden table.
Slowly, he stood up. As he moved, the heavy, chaotic noise of the tavern seemed to naturally part around him, seasoned veterans instinctively stepping aside to clear his path. He gripped the hilt of his massive broadsword, hoisted it onto his armored back with effortless grace, and walked straight toward the front reception desk, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the floorboards.
The guild receptionist—a young woman in a neat uniform—looked up as he approached. Her eyes were wide with pure panic, the color completely drained from her face, and her hands were trembling violently as she held a rolled-up, red-wax-sealed parchment bearing the King's personal crest.
"Sir!" the receptionist gasped, her voice cracking with sheer desperation as she saw him. "Thank the gods you are here! We just received a catastrophic emergency commission directly from the Royal Court!"
The young man stopped at the counter, his expression stoic, unreadable, and completely unwavering in the face of disaster.
"Please, you have to help us," the receptionist pleaded, leaning entirely over the wooden desk, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. "The Demon Lord is actively mobilizing! He has gathered a massive army of monsters, dark mages, and beasts, and is preparing to march on the neighboring kingdoms. Our border is directly in his warpath. If he isn't stopped, our entire kingdom will be brutally burned to ash. We desperately need you to take this quest... we need you to defeat him and save us all from absolute annihilation!"
The young man didn't speak a single word. He simply looked down at the terrified receptionist, his eyes burning with absolute, unwavering resolve that promised total salvation.
He gave a single, firm, heroic nod.
He turned away from the desk, his cape fluttering dramatically, and looked back toward the shadows of the guild hall. His diverse, highly skilled party—an elegant elven archer stringing her bow, a seasoned cloaked mage adjusting her staff, and a towering heavy knight tightening his gauntlets—were already standing up from their seats, waiting in perfect synchronization for his command.
"Gather your gear, everyone," he said, his voice calm, commanding, and laced with absolute, unbreakable certainty. "Let's go."
Without another word, the young man turned and pushed open the heavy oak doors of the guild, leading his legendary party out into the blinding sunlight to save the world, completely unaware that four men in tailored suits had just visited the Demon Lord exactly ten minutes ago.