The Hundred Reigns

Chapter 119: The Overlord of Crime (3)

Simon had learned a while back that the most powerful currency in the world wasn’t gold, but respect.

A week of ‘administrative reorganization’—or a bloody purge, for those on the wrong side of it—followed Simon’s takeover. Suspected rats, smaller gangs that wouldn’t bend the knee to his new leadership, and previously ignored troublemakers were all eliminated.

Simon had found a rather effective means of corpse disposal besides selling gilded human statues: melting down the gold-petrified bodies at a forge under the Cobweb’s control and extracting their souls while he was at it. The metal could then be recycled and resold as goldenware for a profit, though they would run some tests on it first to confirm whether or not it would appear as counterfeit to magical examinations like gold produced by his Brand of Greed.

This also had the benefit of instilling a servile kind of loyalty in everyone. The Gold Petrify spell had become such a signature move of his that it apparently inspired a nickname among the Rosanne mob: Goldenhell.

Simon felt little to no guilt in acting so cruelly towards criminals. People making a living off selling drugs and extorting others deserved no pity, unlike their victims. He did feel more remorse for the victims of the Cobweb’s trafficking operations, but he had steeled his heart for the task at hand. He had done far worse in the Darkwood, and it was the only way to earn the Prince of Spiders’ trust.

Moreover, this provided him with a welcome excuse to execute and bleed Cobweb operatives. Every dead mook would slightly reduce the Prince’s resources and the crime rate in the long-run.

Simon had promised himself he would wipe them all out, and he would deliver on that oath.

However, Simon was careful to keep such things and other experiments away from Eole for now. He knew his actions would disturb her, even if she knew he was only acting this way to maintain his cover. She didn’t have the benefits of spending multiple reigns stomaching the Cobweb’s cruelty and treachery to understand why Simon hated them so deeply.

“Interesting,” Simon said as he visited the inside of Borky’s Brewery, a monstrous beer production facility atop the local river. A dozen or so employees worked around the clock to manage steaming copper vats producing low-quality alcohol. The fragrance was almost suffocating. “Is booze the only thing that you produce here?”

“That’s where the local demand is, boss,” the owner replied. Adam Borkos, alias ‘Big Borky’, was an orc-blooded human legbreaker and captain of the Rosanne Cobweb mob. He cut a humongous, portly figure enhanced by his tusk-like lower canines, boarish face, and ill-fitted tunic. “Sometimes we spice up some bottles with the dreamshade drugs comin’ from Uyo and Telluria, but old management kept that business mostly separate from the regular stuff.”

Simon nodded in satisfaction. He had been busy with other things lately, mainly scamming Argas Septic of the Copper Dragon inn as he did in his previous Valnean reign, asserting his authority, and investing laundered money towards purchasing forges and weapons in preparation for the civil war he knew loomed ahead, but he was also looking for a place where to practice his crafting now that things were settling down. He had a few ideas that could let him kill two birds with one cursed stone.

“We’ll move some equipment aside in the basement for more… experimental brews,” Simon said. “Is the watch bothering you? I passed by their headquarters on my way here.”

“It’s fine, the chief is a friend and he’s got a tab with us. Invited me to his wedding too.” Borky scratched the back of his head. “I’m a bit worried about supplies now that we’re on bad terms with the Blackhares gang, though. Is it true you denied their offer for a settlement?”

“I don’t negotiate, Borky, I take,” Simon replied. “All the riffraff will learn that Rosanne is a kingdom now, not a democracy. Either they bend the knee and pay tribute, or they’ll die.”

“Bodies bring attention, boss,” Borky warned him. “The watch will look the other way only so long as we don’t make things hard on them.”

“Our bodies will dispose of themselves.” Mostly because he had transformed the Blackhares’ messenger into an undead zombie, and then sent him back with a message that Simon would have their dead’s reanimated corpses eat their fellow gangsters if they didn’t pay him tribute soon. “I’m forging new contacts in the city’s administration that will ensure official investigations are stymied at every turn. Authorities won’t interfere with our clean-up. We’ll move so fast they won’t even have time to mount a proper response.”

“I’m more worried about the Monoceros Guild, boss,” Borky replied with a grunt. “Those Paladin-lovers often crack open our operations with no warning from time to time. Word’s on the street that they have an elf archmage on their payroll too.”

“I’ve heard.” Simon had already dispatched additional cutpurses to keep constant watch over the Monoceros Guild alongside the contacts the Cobweb had already established inside the organization. He knew Alphonse and his party would spend some time in the city and he would ensure no word of Simon’s presence or true nature reached his ears. “Don’t worry, they’ll have bigger fish to fry before long once some news from across the Dragonsea reaches them.”

The Endymian civil war would shift the Monoceros Guild’s focus from local policing to leveling-up and preparing for a future invasion of Magvolia. They would have no time to focus on crimebusting.

“Send me your accountant, I’ll give him a slight productivity boost,” Simon said. He would give the man a Brand of Greed to enhance his business acumen. “Buy more vats and hire more workers. We’ll divert some of the production towards medicine and healing potions. Those are going to sell as much as drugs soon.”

“We’re actually mounting a new vat in the next room over, boss,” Borky replied, wagging his thumb at the door. “If you want to take a look.”

Simon did and found himself pleasantly surprised by what he found: a state-of-the-art Musan brewing vat waiting to be assembled. After ordering Borky not to bother him outside of emergencies, Simon went to work on improving the device. He immediately noticed the ‘Bert Trading Company’ logo carved on the copper vat, to his slight annoyance, but powered through it.

His first instinct was to infuse the machine with spells to transform it into a slime-production vat like the one he set up in Magvolia, but another idea crossed Simon’s mind instead: what would happen if he infused a single object with more than one soul? His Devil Forgemaster Perk’s instinct told him that this trail of thought would yield results.

Simon opened up his Inventory and brought out over a dozen soul gems he had stored from past hits. He started to infuse the vat with one spirit after the other, blending them with miasmic sorcery until the device began to change. The keg’s metal bent into the shape of a screaming skull, its legs twisted like gnarling copper roots, and the valves let out dark-colored fumes.

“Can you hear me?” Simon asked the silently screaming metal face. “Are you conscious?”

A single and wholly inhuman voice whispered back, “Yes, my maker.”

Only one voice… had the souls fused somehow? “Are you alone in there?”

“I am a blend and a blender, full of echoes,” the voice whispered back. “What is my name, maker? What is my purpose?”

The souls had apparently fused into a single ghostly entity, one which apparently submitted to Simon thanks to his Unquestionable Ruler Perk. Or at least he assumed as much. He would need to test if this new creature was truly as submissive as it seemed.

“Your name shall be… Blendy,” Simon decided, feeling very proud of himself for thinking of it so quickly. “Your purpose is to make the most potent, the most addictive, the most memorable brews possible. Are you up to the task?”

“That purpose is acceptable… but Blendy would like to brew poison most of all.”

“Good, you’re going to work on one of the most insidious of the lot,” Simon replied. “Make the best, most addictive beer you can.”

Afterwards, Simon filled the vat with sugar, yeast, and water pumped straight from the river. Fermentation usually took a few days, but Blendy supernaturally accelerated the process until Simon could pour out a mug after less than an hour. He tested it on himself to make sure the product wouldn’t kill its consumer, and found himself tasting the sweetest, most delicious beer he had ever tasted.

“Fascinating work,” Silk’s voice called out from the shadows. “Is that soul-infusion an Overlord Perk?”

“Yes.” Simon had expected such a visit, so he wasn’t all that startled. “Can you teleport or something? I’m sure I didn’t hear the door open up.”

“There are always cracks to slip in through, if you know where to look.” Silk walked up until she entered his line of sight. “Can I try it?”

Simon warily handed her the mug, whose contents she tasted.

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“A bit too sweet for me, but it will do well on the market. We’ll test it out to make sure it won’t kill our customers,” Silk decided, setting the mug aside on a nearby worktable. “I cannot believe you just used a dozen or so enslaved souls just to make beer.”

“A productive use for these lowlives, I’m sure you’ll agree,” Simon quipped back.

Silk chuckled slightly. She seemed to find his cold-bloodedness entertaining. “What else can you do with captured souls? Can you meld human souls together into a living body? Harvest their knowledge?”

“I’m not sure,” Simon admitted. He didn’t mind confessing his ignorance on the matter, since appearing too confident and knowledgeable would raise suspicions. “I’m still exploring my Perks.”

“See, that’s an inconsistency that bothers me greatly,” Silk said. “You can cast Tier V spells, yet as far as we know, your daddy dearest denied you both magical training and a Class. How did you get so strong so quickly?”

“Do you really expect me to tell you that?” Simon rubbed his fingers. “For free?”

Silk smiled in amusement at moxie. “What’s your price?”

“I need a steady supply of manaliths.”

“For Firewand to feed on?” Silk scoffed. “I’m not trading an indeterminate subscription for a one-time payment. You’ll need to bring more to the table.”

Simon feigned reluctance by scowling and crossing his arms. “I can… craft things with those manaliths.”

Silk squinted with interest. “Crestones?”

“Vassal ones,” Simon replied, feigning hesitation. “If I have the needed blueprints.”

Silk put a hand on her waist and searched his expression for any hint of a lie. Simon knew she wouldn’t resist the offer, or at least a test run. The Cobweb had been willing to trade with a ‘Darkwood demon’ for the chance of contracting with a Crestone supplier. The technology was a carefully guarded secret after all.

“Done, if you can prove you can pull it off,” Silk conceded, “Now tell me the truth.”

Simon nodded and then lied. “Have you heard of the Inheritor Class?”

Silk’s face remained unreadable. “No.”

“Oh, really?” Simon smiled smugly. “The Inheritor is an Overlord Vassal Class, whose only purpose is to inherit the Overlord Class once the current wielder is slain. Its Perks focus on passively gaining a portion of the sitting Overlord’s experience and knowledge whenever they level-up.”

Silk’s eyes widened in understanding, and then disbelief. “That’s impossible,” she said, “No one has managed to create an Overlord Vassal Class.”

“Yet my father succeeded,” Simon replied, knowing they had absolutely no way of confirming or denying his story. “He didn’t want to risk his Class falling into the hands of our House’s enemies, so he set me up as a spare and backup plan. I wasn’t being ignored or kept from power. I was being kept out of sight.” He feigned annoyance, clenching his fist. “And then that old bastard got himself killed at the worst possible time. Some of the Vassal Class’ experience transferred over to the Overlord, but it wasn’t enough.”

“How did your father even create this supposed Vassal Class?” Silk asked, her tone laced with skepticism.

“As if I would tell you,” Simon replied. “You asked how I became so strong so quickly, now you know. Don’t think you can try your luck and steal my Class either. It won’t end well.”

Silk kept a blank face. Simon had the sneaking suspicion she didn’t believe him, but his story was plausible and difficult to completely dismiss… doubly so since his father always seemed to know everything in advance. Shabram had grown convinced he could see the future after working under him for years, and the Cobweb had likely witnessed his inhuman foresight or secret plots.

Doubt had crept up, and that would be enough.

“The gold you harvested from your melted employees gives off a miasma signature,” Silk said all of a sudden, changing the subject. “It can also be dispelled with magic, in which case it reverts to flesh and bone… which is rather inconvenient.”

Simon scowled, having feared something like that since his Brand of Greed’s gold also looked counterfeit. “Is that so?”

“Yes. We’ll still sell it as counterfeit gold, but in places with fewer spellcasters and checks. Coins turning to bone and flesh would immediately launch an investigation.” Silk snorted. “You are a prodigy, Simon, I will give you that… but like all prodigies, you’re rash, arrogant, and think you are above consequences.” She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s fine. You did come here to be mentored, after all.”

Of course she enjoyed playing on his ignorance. Simon took it as a good sign. Appearing too competent would raise too many alarm bells. “Am I doing well so far?”

“You are doing well… but you are too brutal and too heavy-handed,” Silk criticized him. “It’s okay to strike hard early to establish your reputation, but keep it up too long and you’ll inspire hatred and loathing rather than fear. Tone down the murders and executions as soon as you’ve wiped out the Blackhares, or find yourself a patsy.”

Simon frowned. “A patsy?”

“It is safer to rule from the backstage than on the stage itself, as our Prince does,” Silk replied. “You shouldn’t be here, supervising operations yourself, or dealing with the likes of Septic.”

“Should I find my own Silk then?” Simon mused. “Who are you really? Are you even Valnean?”

“I have no interest in discussing my past with you, but you are right about one thing.” Silk smiled back. “Every ruler should have his own me.”

Simon spent the rest of the day experimenting with Blendy and other applications of soul-powered crafting. He confirmed that his ability to infuse any item with one also applied to potions and other consumables. Attempting to transfer a ruffian’s soul into a litter of beer unfortunately resulted in a berserk alcohol slime that had to be put down for the workers’ safety, but Simon wouldn’t let that setback stop him. The only real limit seemed to be that the soul’s vessel had to be inanimate prior to the infusion.

Afterwards, Simon returned to the Gold Butterfly in the evening. The establishment was full at this time, with the smell of dreamshade hovering in the air in flagrant defiance of the city’s laws. Hundreds of clients caroused at gaming tables under the watch of burly bouncers, costumed female waiters—who also doubled as escorts and prostitutes for wealthier patrons—and canny croupiers. Half of the latter were expert cheaters and Spiders who masterfully lulled their marks into betting ever higher before leading them to ruin. It was already a profitable operation, and flow of coins would increase even further now that Simon had put a Brand of Greed on the manager.

The star of the night was the winged woman singing on the stage, her enchanting voice bedeviling all guests as much as her beauty did. Simon had crafted her a beautiful, magical backless red dress—since clothes apparently counted as ‘armor’ for his Devil Forgemaster Perk. It also had the benefit of increasing her natural kish enthralling abilities by letting her ignore Resistance to the Charm ailment. A silver butterfly mask covering the upper part of her face completed her costume.

Eole concluded her performance to the wild applause of the crowd, though she neither smiled nor waved to them in return. She elegantly walked down the stage’s stairs upon spotting him, and took his arm as he guided her to the backrooms.

“I hate them,” Eole whispered in kish, her voice dripping with disgust. “I hate the way these people look at me, as if they could see through my clothes.”

“They won’t dare to touch you, I promise,” Simon replied. He had assigned her bodyguards, and most Spiders believed she was his slave-mistress and thus untouchable. “Just bear it a little longer. These people are this city’s elites. The more subliminal messages you can plant in their minds, the faster they’ll ruin themselves and the quicker they’ll fall under our sway.”

Simon’s plan for Eole was simple: use her song to loosen their clients’ inhibitions to ensure they ruined themselves at the gaming tables, at which point their tabs and debts could become levers to pressure them into doing whatever the Cobweb wanted. Rumors of a winged songstress had already lured many curious city officials to the Golden Butterfly.

Eole had drawn a line at using her powers on her fellow shifters, but otherwise gone along with the plan. Simon recalled that she had tried to charm him the first time they met so that he would lift her slave crest, so she had no issues using her powers on those she perceived as criminals and oppressors.

“All the shifter employees at the Copper Dragon were slaves sold by Vouivre, Simon,” Eole complained. “They’re used as prostitutes and gladiators.”

“I warned you as much. The slave trade is a kraken whose tentacles stretch worldwide. It will take more than local revolts to trouble the waters.”

Eole scowled in frustration, but didn’t contest his claim nor say a word. She had begun to truly realize the vastness of the Cobweb’s influence, who could import slaves from one continent and ship them to another in bulk… and it spooked her to her core.

The two moved to the Gold Butterfly’s main office, where Belzemine was busy working behind a desk on a seat draped in wyvern scales. The elven archmage had accumulated a small pile of notes with assorted diagrams. A small, mirror-shaped amethyst pendant sat on it.

“Your Majesty,” she said upon presenting him with the pendant. “I have completed the Soulsnap Amulet as you asked for.”

“Excellent,” Simon replied upon seizing it. “We’ll run some tests later.”

A strong or very strong elemental affinity usually granted some resistance to damage of that type, but resistance wasn’t immunity. Casval-Nodens had managed to attack Simon by exploiting his connection to Shabram’s Devil Brands in the previous reign, and the more of those he spread around, the greater the risk that another one of his enemies would exploit that vulnerability.

Belzemine’s Soulsnap Amulet should take care of that problem. The device was designed to redirect any Soul-based attack targeting Simon straight back at the sender, though Belzemine warned him that this kind of item would eventually reach a limit if overstrained. Simon hoped it would at least buy him enough time to ‘cut the connection’ with the compromised branded individual.

“Otherwise, I have made progress on our summoning spell research,” Belzemine said upon showing him her papers. “I unfortunately do not think we can lower it below Tier V at a minimum. It would also need to be a diabolism spell, considering Your Majesty counts as a demon rather than an elemental or eidolon.”

“That’s… unfortunate,” Simon replied. His plan was to develop a relatively low-tier spell that would allow his followers across the world to summon him in a pinch, which would let him teleport across vast distances the same way the Cobweb used their Attic to travel around. “Tier V is relatively high and diabolism is a restricted school of magic. What’s the issue?”

“The more different and the stronger types of creatures a given conjuration or diabolism spell can call, the higher its Tier,” Belzemine replied. “For example, the Impcantation spell is relatively low tier because it is limited to calling a small number of imps. Your Majesty is unfortunately too powerful to be targeted by such a spell.”

“Would you be capable of casting this spell, Agnes?” Simon asked, his elf companion nodding. “Duchar should be able to do the same, and some imperial intelligence agents on Shabram’s payroll too… I suppose I can settle for a Tier V spell for early tests.”

“As Your Majesty wishes,” Belzemine replied, lowering her head in penance. “I have no excuses for my incompetence.”

“I wouldn’t call assisting me in inventing a whole new spell on short notice incompetence, Agnes,” Simon replied, ignoring Eole’s displeased expression. He had already shared with her some insight on Agnes’ issues, but disagreed about how to handle her. “You did well.”

Agnes showed no hint that she was pleased or displeased, with Eole crossing her arms. “What next, Simon?” his kish friend asked. “Once you have that spell, what will you do?”

“I will put it to the test with an agent in Telluria.” If Duchar would kindly agree to follow through with my orders rather than stubbornly stonewall me. “Agnes can then summon me again.”

Should that experiment work, then Simon would follow it through by sending imperial agents with the spell across the world in future reigns to ensure he could travel around and operate quickly. This might even serve as a way to escape doomed battles…

“Otherwise, Silk said something truthful. I need a local representative… a voice.” Simon smiled at Belzemine. “How would you feel about becoming the Mouth of Simon, Agnes?”