Chapter 68: The Discarded

Chapter 68: Chapter 68: The Discarded

The dark mana in the Guild Master’s office slowly evaporated, leaving behind the smell of ozone and burnt ozone.

Evelyn was pacing. Her boots crunched over the shattered concrete where her sword had cleaved through the hardwood floor. She was radiating a low, simmering celestial heat, her blue eyes still scanning the shadows of the room as if the assassin might drop from the ceiling a second time.

Donald sat on the edge of the mahogany desk. He was casually turning Sylvia’s abandoned dagger over in his hands.

"High-grade carbon steel," Donald noted, examining the blade under the bright, newly installed ceiling lights. "Perfectly balanced. But look at the hilt, Evie."

He tossed the dagger to her. Evelyn caught it out of the air by the handle, careful not to touch the blade. She looked down at the base of the pommel.

Etched into the dark metal, heavily faded but still visible, was a small, intricate red flower.

"A crimson lotus," Evelyn said, her eyes narrowing. "She’s from the Crimson Lotus Guild? I thought Vane sent her."

"He did," Donald replied. He hopped off the desk, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Dragonheart pulled the strings, but she’s local talent. The elite Guilds use independent contractors and black-ops squads for the dirty work they don’t want on their public ledgers. But more importantly, her heart wasn’t in it."

Evelyn scoffed, tossing the dagger onto the desk. "She tried to put a knife through your throat, Donald. She looked pretty committed to me."

"She was terrified," Donald corrected softly. "She didn’t use a lethal opening strike. She used a shadow-slip to try and force a quick, clean kill because she knew if she dragged it out, you would catch her. Someone is holding a gun to her head to make her take a suicide contract against an S-Rank."

Evelyn crossed her arms, the fierce glow in her eyes dimming slightly. "Julian Vane."

"Leverage is the only currency the Capital understands," Donald said, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window. He looked out over the sprawling, smog-choked expanse of Genesis City. "They cut our power. They embargoed our supplies. Now they’re sending assassins into our living room. Julian Vane is trying to turn this fortress into a cage."

Evelyn walked up beside him, looking out at the city. "Then we break the cage. We hit Dragonheart."

"We can’t," Donald said flatly. "Not yet. Julian Vane has a private army of A-Ranks, unlimited political backing, and the entire city’s infrastructure at his disposal. If you go out there and start leveling city blocks to get to him, the Awakener Association will classify you as a national threat. We have a base, Evie. We have the gear. But a Guild is only as strong as its roster."

"Nobody will work for us," Evelyn reminded him bitterly. "Damian made sure of that. The mercenary unions won’t even answer Aris’s phone calls."

Donald smiled. The reflection of his gold mask gleamed in the window glass.

"Aris is calling the wrong people," Donald said. "She’s calling professionals. People with reputations, bank accounts, and families to protect. Vane can squeeze them. But Genesis City has a massive blind spot."

Evelyn looked at him, catching the dangerous, calculating tone in his voice. "Where?"

"Sector 4," Donald said, turning away from the window. "The slums. The elite Guilds chew people up and throw them away when they break. We’re going to go down to the scrapyard, and we are going to hire the monsters the Capital discarded."

An hour later, the heavy Aegis Wards rippled silently as Donald and Evelyn stepped out of the Investment Guild headquarters.

They both wore heavy, dark rain cloaks with deep hoods. Evelyn’s face was completely obscured. If the city realized the Valkyrie was walking through the lower sectors unguarded, panic would ensue. Donald kept his gold mask hidden beneath his hood, the heavy Thunderclap Pile Bunker strapped securely under his sleeve.

Sector 4 was a miserable place.

It was a labyrinth of rusted shipping containers, illegally tapped power lines sparking in the freezing rain, and open-air black markets that smelled of sulfur and cheap alcohol. This was where the low-level Awakeners who couldn’t afford Guild dues ended up.

They walked through a muddy alleyway packed with desperate merchants selling cracked monster cores and heavily diluted health potions.

Evelyn stayed close to Donald’s side, her eyes darting under her hood. Even without her aura flaring, the low-level thugs and pickpockets instinctively parted for them, sensing the terrifying, coiled violence sleeping in the blonde woman’s steps.

"Keep scanning," Donald murmured, his golden [Valuation Eye] flickering continuously beneath his hood.

He was looking at the glowing text hovering over the heads of the miserable people around them.

F-Rank Swordsman. Potential: Low.

E-Rank Healer. Potential: Negligible.

D-Rank Spearman. Status: Missing Arm.

None of them were what he needed. TIG didn’t need low-level fodder; they needed broken elites.

They reached the end of the alley, stepping into a wider courtyard filled with scrap metal and broken Awakener gear.

In the corner of the yard, sitting on a rusted oil drum under a torn canvas tarp, was an older man. He was trying to dismantle a ruined C-Rank mana-rifle, but his hands were trembling violently. They were wrapped in thick, dirty bandages stained with old blood.

Donald stopped. The [Valuation Eye] interface locked onto the old man, expanding rapidly.

[Target: Garrick]

[Class: B-Rank Mana-Forge Artificer (Level 46)]

[Status: Crippled. Core pathways in hands intentionally severed by A-Rank Shadow Curse.]

[Origin of Curse: Crimson Lotus Guild.]

Donald smiled. "Found one."

He walked through the freezing rain, stepping under the torn canvas tarp. Evelyn followed silently, standing at the edge of the rain to watch their flanks.

Garrick didn’t look up. He let out a sharp, pained hiss, dropping his wrench as a violent spasm wracked his bandaged hands.

"The rifle is junk," Donald said casually. "The mana-housing is cracked. You’re wasting your time trying to salvage the core."

Garrick looked up, his eyes bloodshot and sunken. He glared at the hooded stranger. "I don’t need advice from a tourist. Piss off. If I don’t salvage the core, I don’t eat today."

"You used to be an Artificer for the Crimson Lotus," Donald said, his voice dropping the casual tone.

Garrick froze. His trembling hands slowly balled into fists. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Level 46. B-Rank," Donald continued, reading the golden text only he could see. "You were good. Too good. I’m guessing you refused to forge illegal syndicate weapons, or you figured out your Guild Master was skimming from the expedition funds. So they didn’t just fire you. They had a shadow mage permanently curse your hands so you could never work for a rival Guild."

Garrick stared at him, genuine fear bleeding into his expression. "Who are you?"

Donald reached up and pulled his hood back, revealing the gleaming gold mask.

Garrick gasped, scrambling backward off the oil drum. He hit the rusted tin wall of the stall. Everyone in the city knew the mask. It had been broadcasted on national television just two days ago.

"You’re the Investor," Garrick breathed, his eyes darting to Evelyn, finally realizing who the hooded woman standing in the rain was. "You’re the one who broke the Iron Guild."

"I am," Donald said, stepping closer. "And right now, I’m building a new one. I need an armorer. Someone who can maintain B-Rank gear and eventually scale up."

Garrick let out a bitter, hacking laugh. He held up his trembling, bandaged hands. "Then you came to the wrong stall, kid. The Crimson Lotus severed my mana pathways. It’s dark magic. It’s permanent. If I push more than an F-Rank spark through my fingers, it feels like my blood is boiling. I’m useless."

"I decide what has value," Donald said simply.

He pulled off his dark leather glove.

Donald reached out and grabbed Garrick’s bandaged hand. The old man flinched, expecting pain, but Donald’s grip was firm and steady.

Donald pulled up his internal interface.

[Current Balance: 13,000,000 System Credits.]

[Target Status: A-Rank Shadow Curse.]

[Solution: Holy Purge via System Overload.]

[Cost: -500,000 System Credits. Execute?]

Execute.

"Brace yourself," Donald whispered.

He channeled [Purifying Touch]. But instead of using his own limited Level 16 mana pool, he used the System credits to force a massive, artificial injection of high-tier holy mana directly into Garrick’s ruined core.

Blinding, searing golden light erupted from Donald’s hand.

Garrick screamed, falling to his knees in the mud. The dirty bandages wrapped around his hands instantly burned to ash. The black, tar-like veins that had permanently scarred his skin began to literally boil away, vaporized by the sheer intensity of the celestial investment.

The process took exactly ten seconds.

The golden light faded.

Donald let go of his hand and took a step back, slipping his leather glove back on.

[Transfer Complete. Current Balance: 12,500,000 System Credits.]

Garrick stayed on his knees in the mud. He was hyperventilating, his eyes wide with shock. He looked down at his hands.

The scars were gone. The trembling had stopped.

Slowly, Garrick opened his palms. A bright, perfectly stable orb of dense, blue B-Rank mana flared to life above his skin. There was no pain. The pathways were completely restored.

Garrick looked at the glowing blue mana, tears instantly welling up in his eyes. He looked up at Donald, a man who had just casually cured an incurable curse in the middle of a muddy slum.

"How?" Garrick choked out, his voice breaking. "High Priests can’t even purge that kind of shadow magic."

"I invest in potential," Donald said, looking down at the Artificer. "The Crimson Lotus threw you away to protect their secrets. I just bought your debt. If you want a dry workshop, an infinite supply of raw materials, and the chance to tear down the people who did this to you... pack your tools."

Garrick didn’t hesitate. He wiped his face, extinguishing the mana orb, and bowed his head so low his forehead nearly touched the mud.

"My life is yours, Guild Master," Garrick swore, his voice trembling with absolute loyalty.

"I’m not the Guild Master," Donald said, turning to look over his shoulder.

Evelyn pulled back her hood. Her blonde hair fell around her face, her striking blue eyes locking onto the kneeling Artificer. She didn’t look like a rich aristocrat; she looked like a warrior who understood the exact kind of pain he had just survived.

"Get up, Garrick," Evelyn said, a fierce, welcoming smile crossing her face. "Welcome to the Investment Guild."