Chapter 10: The Bank of Progress
The Church of the Silent Gods had stood in the center of the lower tier for three hundred years. For three hundred years, it had been a place of weeping, fasting, and shivering in the dark.
Not anymore.
Father Silas stood behind the heavy oak altar, his arthritic hands resting flat against the polished wood. The ambient temperature inside the massive stone cathedral was a perfect, balmy seventy-five degrees. The blinding, perpetual light of the Hearth-gem Austin had left on the altar cast sharp, majestic shadows across the nave, completely washing out the pathetic, flickering Tinder-marks that used to line the pews.
Silas looked up at the towering, faceless stone statue of his old deity. For the first time in his eighty years of life, he didn't feel a shred of guilt or fear looking at it. He felt exactly what Austin had described: bad business.
"Take it down," Silas commanded, his voice echoing clearly through the vaulted ceiling.
A dozen heavy, rhythmic grunts answered him. Captain Thorne and his defected Heavy Guards, stripped of their cumbersome blackened steel plates and wearing only their padded leather arming doublets, hauled on thick hemp ropes. With a deafening, satisfying CRACK, the massive stone statue of the old god tilted forward, crashing into the stone floor and shattering into a hundred useless pieces.
"Clear the rubble," Silas ordered, picking up a heavy, leather-bound ledger. "I want four distinct lines formed down the center aisle. Copper, iron, quartz, and miscellaneous old-world magitech. And bring me the scavenger girl. Elara!"
Elara jogged up the steps to the altar, her face scrubbed clean of soot for the first time in years. The terrifying Frost-Blight was completely gone from her brother, and her eyes burned with absolute, undying loyalty to the Artificer.
"Yes, Father Silas?" she asked, looking at the glowing Hearth-gem with sheer reverence.
"You are no longer speaking to a Father, child," Silas corrected gently, a small, wry smile touching his wrinkled lips. He tapped the heavy ledger. "I am the Chief Executive of the Bank of Progress. And Austin tells me you know the difference between high-yield scrap iron and rusted slag better than anyone in this tier."
Elara blinked, standing a little taller. "I've scavenged every ruin within five miles. I know what metals can hold a magical charge and what will just melt."
"Good," Silas said, sliding a wooden stool next to the altar. "Then you are my Chief Appraiser. Sit. The doors open in five minutes. The Lord Artificer is currently locked in the forge building a stockpile, but we have five thousand starving people out there who need light. We trade fairly, we trade efficiently, and we record every single transaction."
Captain Thorne jogged up the aisle, wiping sweat from his brow. "The rubble is cleared, Chief Executive. But... there's a situation outside. The crowd is getting restless. And it's not just peasants anymore."
Silas's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
"The minor merchants," Thorne spat the word like poison. "The ones who used to run the grain stalls and the minor lumber yards under the Charcoal Guild. They saw the Baron's army get flattened yesterday. They know the old economy is dead. But they don't want to stand in line with the miners. They're demanding to speak with the head of the church."
Silas closed the heavy ledger with a loud, authoritative THWACK. He didn't tremble. The Hearth-gem pulsing on the altar seemed to resonate with his newfound purpose, feeding a microscopic trickle of Austin's divine confidence directly into the old man's soul.
"Open the doors, Captain," Silas said coldly. "Let us show them how the new economy operates."
Thorne signaled his men. The massive, iron-reinforced doors of the cathedral groaned open, spilling the golden light of the church out into the permanently sunlit streets of the domed lower tier.
The line of peasants stretched for blocks, all clutching pieces of scrap metal. But at the very front of the line, completely ignoring the queue, stood a group of five wealthy, fat merchants wearing heavy, ostentatious furs that were completely unnecessary in the new heat. They were flanked by a dozen hired thugs gripping heavy cudgels.
Leading them was Lord Malakor, a notoriously cruel grain merchant who had spent the last decade gouging the lower tier for stale bread.
Malakor sneered at the broken pieces of the old god's statue on the floor and marched straight up the center aisle, his thugs fanning out aggressively behind him. The peasants in the front rows shrank back in ingrained fear.
"Silas!" Malakor barked, slamming his fist onto the wooden altar, completely ignoring Elara. "What is the meaning of this circus? A golden dome over the slums? The Heavy Guard acting as bouncers for a beggar-priest? The Charcoal Guild is in ruins, and my storehouses are useless!"
"Your storehouses held hoarded wood, Malakor," Silas replied evenly, not backing away an inch. "Wood is obsolete. Progress waits for no man."
Malakor's face flushed purple. He reached into his heavy fur coat and slammed a massive, clinking leather pouch onto the ledger. It spilled open, revealing hundreds of gleaming gold and silver coins.
"I don't care about your philosophical drivel, old man," Malakor spat. "I know how this works. A new power rises, a new tax is collected. The Baron is locked in his keep, which means this tier belongs to whoever controls those glowing rocks. I am buying your entire stock. All of it. I will distribute the light, and I will set the prices."
Elara gasped, her fists clenching. He was trying to instantly rebuild the monopoly they had just destroyed.
Captain Thorne rested his hand on the hilt of his broadsword, waiting for the order to strike.
Silas looked at the pile of gold coins. A week ago, that amount of gold could have bought the entire church ten times over. Now, it was just soft, heavy metal that couldn't hold a thermal-loop equation.
Silas reached out and calmly swept his arm across the altar.
The heavy gold and silver coins flew off the polished wood, clattering uselessly onto the stone floor and rolling into the gutters.
Malakor froze, his jaw dropping in absolute shock. "Are you mad?! That is a fortune!"
"That is trash," Silas corrected, his voice dropping to a dangerous, thrumming register that carried the unmistakable weight of divine authority. The Hearth-gem on the altar flared, casting Silas in an imposing, terrifying silhouette of golden light. "The Lord Artificer does not trade in vanity. You cannot forge an Aegis-Core out of gold. You cannot build a Mana-Lathe out of silver. Your currency is dead, Malakor. Your authority is void."
"You arrogant old fool!" Malakor screamed, his thugs raising their cudgels. "I'll beat you to death and take the stones myself!"
SHING.
Twenty Heavy Guards instantly drew their broadswords, the ringing steel echoing through the cathedral. They stepped out from the shadows of the pillars, completely surrounding Malakor and his thugs.
"No," Silas commanded, raising a hand. The guards stopped, though their blades remained leveled at the merchants' throats.
Silas leaned over the altar, his eyes burning with the fire of a true zealot of Progress.
"This is a bank, Lord Malakor," Silas whispered, though every word struck like a hammer. "We deal in raw materials, utility, and undeniable salvation. If you want a Hearthstone, you will strip off those useless furs, you will walk out to the old-world ruins, you will dig through the freezing mud with your bare hands, and you will bring me ten pounds of workable iron. Just like every other soul in this tier."
Malakor looked at the deadly steel surrounding him. He looked at the glowing gem, the broken statue, and the terrifying, unyielding face of the priest he used to mock. The reality of the new world finally crushed his arrogance.
He slowly backed away, his hands raised, his face pale with terror. "You... you're all insane. The Baron will slaughter you all!"
"Next!" Silas roared, completely dismissing the merchant.
Malakor and his thugs scrambled backward, practically tripping over themselves to flee the church, leaving their useless gold scattered on the floor.
The crowd of peasants erupted into deafening, riotous cheers. The sight of the untouchable rich being forced to play by the exact same rules as the starving miners was the most intoxicating thing they had ever witnessed.
A frail miner stepped up to the altar, nervously placing a sack of cloudy quartz before Elara. She appraised it instantly, nodded, and Silas stamped his ledger. He handed the man a glowing Ember-coin.
As the man clutched the stone to his chest, weeping with relief, an incredible thing happened.
Silas felt a profound, invisible shockwave ripple through the cathedral. The structured, organized, undeniable fairness of the exchange didn't just generate a wild burst of belief; it generated a dense, refined, continual stream of pure divine energy.
Far away, deep inside the blacksmith's forge, Austin gasped, dropping his hammer. The chaotic, overwhelming flood of belief he had been riding had suddenly sharpened. It was no longer a wild river; it was a perfectly engineered aqueduct, pouring highly refined, organized divine power directly into his core.
Austin threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing over the mechanical whine of the Lathe.
His CEO was perfect. The bureaucracy of the heavens had officially been established. And the God of Progress was ready to build his next miracle.