"That's fast," Slater said, smiling over the rim of his teacup. "You didn't even ask for details."
Zealth leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. "Coming from you, building something usually means disaster with a receipt."
"It is an opportunity," Slater replied smoothly. "A business opportunity."
"That makes it worse."
Slater's smile widened, dignified and shameless at the same time.
Zealth tapped one finger against the polished counter. "Creating a guild is not simple, and we both know that. It is not just coins and members. Guilds need territory rights, noble recognition, trade permissions, tax agreements, political backing…" His gaze sharpened. "And preferably fewer enemies than members."
"Correct."
"And you still want one?"
"Yes."
"Then you're either rich or insane."
Slater's eyes gleamed. "Both, fortunately."
Zealth stared at him.
That was the problem with Slater. He never looked reckless when saying reckless things. He looked like a man calculating how much profit could be squeezed from an incoming disaster.
"Everything is already set," Slater added.
Zealth straightened slightly despite himself. "Already set?"
"Yes."
"Of course it is," Zealth muttered. "Why would a trap wait for me to notice it?"
Slater only sipped his tea.
Zealth exhaled through his nose. "But why? Players can survive perfectly fine without guilds. You can trade, concoct potions, explore, raid, stream, duel, gamble away your dignity—whatever you want. Why put that much effort into building one?"
Slater did not answer at once.
Instead, he turned to the side cabinet, moved with that elegant merchant's grace of his, and poured another cup of tea from a heated flask. The liquid was amber, fragrant, and far too innocent-looking. He offered one to Zealth.
Zealth accepted it with suspicion.
"Is this poisoned?"
"Not for free."
"As expected."
Slater took a slow sip. "Do you truly want to know why?"
Zealth watched him over the rim of his cup.
He hated that curiosity had already caught him. Slater knew it too. The man's smile was calm, patient, and irritatingly certain.
"Yes," Zealth said at last.
"Promise you'll join first."
Zealth lowered the cup.
"There it is. The scam finally removes its hat."
"Promise," Slater repeated.
"No."
"Then I won't tell you."
"I can live without knowing."
Slater tilted his head. "Can you?"
Zealth opened his mouth.
No answer came.
Damn it.
This was how cunning people trapped fools—not with lies, but with curiosity sharpened into bait. Slater didn't need chains. He only needed to dangle one interesting secret and wait for Zealth's common sense to embarrass itself.
Zealth clicked his tongue. "Fine. I'll join."
Slater's smile brightened immediately. "You said it."
"Yeah, yeah. I really hate merchants."
"Everyone does until they need discounts."
Zealth sighed and set his tea down. "Now tell me."
Slater placed his own cup on the counter with care. His expression remained pleasant, but his eyes changed. The easygoing merchant was still there, smiling, polished, almost harmless—but beneath him sat something colder.
Ambition.
Clear, sharp, and dangerous.
"I want to become the antagonist of this game."
Zealth stared at him.
The bell above the shop door swayed faintly from an old draft.
Outside, a cart rolled over stone. Someone laughed in the street. The town continued breathing, unaware that madness had just been politely announced over tea.
Zealth slowly placed both hands on the counter.
"What?"
Slater's smile deepened. "I want to fight every major guild in Jupiter01."
Zealth's mind took a second to process the sentence.
Then another.
Then the meaning arrived wearing steel boots.
"You mean…" He pointed at Slater. "You want to play professionally?"
Slater gave a small bow. "I prefer the term compete on the largest possible stage while monetizing conflict."
"You want to go pro."
"Yes."
"You want to create a guild and fight the strongest organizations in the game. No—" Zealth corrected himself, voice flattening. "In the world."
"Beautifully summarized."
"That is not a plan. That is suicide."
"We don't die."
"Emotionally, I just did."
Slater extended a hand across the counter. "Welcome to the team, Zealth."
Zealth looked at the hand.
Then at Slater.
Then at the ceiling, as if Jupiter01 itself might offer a refund.
"Althea is going to kill me."
"Who is Althea?" Slater asked. "Is she a player?"
"No."
"Then legally, she cannot kill you here."
"That is not how girlfriends work."
Slater kept his hand extended, patient as a contract waiting for a signature.
Zealth cursed under his breath and shook it.
The agreement registered instantly.
A faint system prompt appeared before him.
Guild Invitation Pending:Unnamed OrganizationFounder: SlaterStatus: Pre-Recognition
Zealth glared at the panel.
"Unnamed?"
"We are workshopping."
"You dragged me into political suicide and don't even have a name?"
"Names are delicate investments. We cannot simply change things here whenever we regret them."
Zealth's brow twitched. "Don't quote the game's worst design philosophy at me."
Slater smiled. "Then don't regret so loudly."
Zealth released his hand and crossed his arms. "Who is the lucky lord sponsoring this disaster?"
Slater's expression brightened in a different way.
Not cheerful.
Pleased.
"The Humadlays."
Zealth froze.
For a moment, even the shop felt quieter.
"The exiles?"
"They are not exiles anymore," Slater corrected smoothly. "They have a state now."
"A struggling state," Zealth said. "I've passed through that territory a few times."
"All young states struggle."
"Theirs struggles with extra enthusiasm."
"Still, they endure."
"They also sit in the middle of a power struggle. They'll drag us into their problem."
Slater lifted his cup again. "Naturally. We will be cooperating with the former royal family."
"And Palcosa will target us."
"Let that damn kingdom try."
Zealth stared at him.
Slater drank his tea as if he had not just named one of the most politically dangerous factions in the region.
The Humadlays.
Once, they had been the royal family of Palcosa. Then came the rebellion, the current king, and the Maharlika guild's intervention. The Humadlays were cast out, stripped of authority, and left to survive with nothing but their remaining loyalists and a grudge deep enough to poison generations.
For years, they existed like ghosts along the western marches—too weak to reclaim the throne, too stubborn to disappear.
Recently, rumors said they had seized land near Alphton Forest and declared a small independent state.
A state trapped between old enemies and wilderness.
A state desperate enough to sponsor player power.
Zealth understood too quickly.
"The King of Palcosa will watch us," he said.
Slater nodded. "Yes."
"No. Not just the king. The nobles. The royal army. The guilds tied to Maharlika. Merchant alliances. Temple factions. Almost everybody with a sword, a title, or a reason to impress the crown."
"Almost," Slater said. "Not all."
"And you want to partner with the Humadlays."
"Yes."
Zealth held his stare for a long moment.
Then smiled without humor. "You didn't mean antagonist as a joke."
Slater's smile sharpened. "I rarely joke about profit."
"This could make us enemies of half the kingdom."
"Half is a conservative estimate."
"Not helping, dude."
"Conflict generates attention," Slater said, counting each point with calm precision. "Attention generates recruits. Recruits generate power. Power generates territory. Territory generates taxation. Taxation—"
"Generates your happiness?"
Slater placed one hand over his chest. "My heart sings."
Zealth sank onto the customer stool near the counter and dragged a hand down his face.
"I came here for a sword."
"You received a sword."
"And accidentally joined a rebellion."
"Opposition," Slater corrected. "Language matters."
"Slate."
"Yes?"
"I hate this."
"No, you don't."
Zealth wanted to argue.
He really did.
But the worst part was that Slater was not entirely wrong.
A guild. Politics. Professional competition. War against established powers. It sounded insane, reckless, expensive, and fully capable of ruining his already unstable life.
Still, something sharp stirred inside him.
Interest.
Damn it.
Slater noticed, of course. His smile softened into something almost friendly, though still too calculated to be trusted.
"You want to be more than a failed streamer," he said.
Zealth looked at him.
The words were too direct.
Too accurate.
Slater continued calmly. "And I want to be more than a merchant creating potions for players who think bargaining is a personality. We both need a larger stage."
Zealth leaned back, eyes narrowing. "You're very annoying when you're right."
"I charge extra for being wrong."
The bell chimed.
Mira returned carrying a small wrapped box in both hands. She looked even more tired than before, which was impressive for someone who had only been gone a short while.
"Old Ren had one," she said, placing the box on the counter. "Seal charm. Temporary suppression. Expensive. Also, he said if it backfires, it's not his fault, your fault, my fault, or the goddess' fault."
Slater nodded approvingly. "Excellent."
Zealth eyed the box.
"How much?"
Mira looked at Slater.
Slater looked at Zealth.
Zealth immediately disliked both of them.
Slater smiled. "For guild members? Discounted."
Zealth closed his eyes.
"I already regret this."
Slater's voice turned bright again, all danger hidden beneath polish. "Then welcome properly."
Zealth opened one eye. "To what?"
Slater spread his arms slightly, black suit immaculate, smile full of life, greed, and future problems.
"To the wrong side of history."
Zealth stared at him.
Then sighed.
"I hope this works."
Slater's grin sharpened.
"It will."