I TRADE DESIRES FOR POWER

6

Three silver chains burst from the cover of the Soul-Ledger inside Gavin's chest as he sat brooding on the edge of his bed, clamping onto his ribs so hard his skin bruised a deep purple.

The siphoning came without mercy.

The first stream tasted of sweet rose mixed with scalding vapor—the daily interest from Vespera's Succubus contract. The second stream was freezing cold, empty and tasteless—Pip's extracted fear held in the glass bottle. The third stream burned his tongue like molten copper—the lingering heat of Tamsin Rhys's Erotic Soul Curse.

Gavin gripped the coarse cloth of his bedsheet. His teeth gritted so tight his gums bled.

The fractures in his Magic Core were forcibly knit together. Mana pathways that had once been calcified into useless ruin began to reconnect, bound by threads of silver. Gray smoke smelling of iron steam billowed from his nose and mouth.

The veins in Gavin's arms bulged dark and thick. The rotted red hue left by his old wounds was replaced by a hard, metallic silver sheen. He took a deep breath, feeling the cold Soho air fill the bottom of his lungs without triggering the stabbing sensation in his right chest.

[Daily Interest Collection Time.] [Mana Supply Collected: 3 Active Contracts ] [Magic Core Restoration: 15% Total Operational Capacity ]

"Three preys, three flavors," Abraxas swung lazily between the crystal chandelier's arms, his raspy voice bouncing off the low ceiling. "Your breath doesn't smell like a corpse anymore, Gavin. But don't get distracted. Your street rat down below has been waiting so long he's tearing up the tablecloth."

Gavin wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He buttoned his black shirt roughly, snatched a long coat smelling of machine oil, and strode down the creaking wooden stairs.

Pip sat cross-legged on the mahogany counter. His mud-crusted boots rested on the polished edge without a hint of guilt. His hands were busy tearing at a piece of hard, dry bread while his left eye stared fixedly at a grimy scroll stained with ship grease.

"You're ten minutes late, Boss," Pip said without looking up. There was no tremor of fear in his voice. His eyes were flat, cold—the work of the Desire Extraction that had stripped away his dread.

Gavin sat in the wooden chair behind the cash desk. "What do you have?"

Pip tossed the parchment onto the table. SLAP.

"Docklands. Warehouse number seven," Pip bit off a piece of bread with a sharp crunch. "Cassian Montgomery is cornered. He put all his family's remaining liquid cash into buying a smuggled cargo off a North Sea vessel that just dropped anchor."

Gavin unrolled the sheet. A crude map of Soho's harbor was sketched in squid ink. In the right-hand corner, guard rotation schedules and the entry code for the warehouse's iron door were jotted down.

"Raw Mana Crystals?" Gavin pointed to a skull symbol above the warehouse number.

"Two tons," Pip replied shortly. "Raw, unrefined crystals. If Division 9 catches wind, Cassian gets hanged for high treason. But if that cargo makes it to the Mayfair black market tomorrow morning, Cassian clears seventy thousand Sovereigns in pure profit."

Gavin stared at the ink stain on the map. "Seventy thousand... enough to buy back my clan's Emerald Ring at the Vane auction next week."

"Exactly," Pip clapped his small, dirty hands. "Cassian needs that money to seal his contract with the Vanes. He can't afford to fail tonight."

"What time does the ship berth?"

"Two in the morning," Pip pointed out the front window. "An hour from now. The warehouse is guarded by ten mercenary mages hired by the Montgomerys. All of them carrying enchanted rifles loaded with black-lead shot."

Gavin leaned back. His fingers tapped the mahogany desk. Tuk. Tuk. Tuk.

"I don't want Division 9 seizing that cargo," Gavin said.

Pip tilted his head. "Why? If the magic police seize it, Cassian still takes the hit."

"If Division 9 seizes it, Cassian pays a fine, slips a bribe to Inspector Pendelton, and walks away," Gavin's eyes flicked sharply toward the door leading to No. 13's basement. "I want that cargo relocated. And Cassian's guards dead on the floor."

Pip sneered thin. "You've only got the physical body of a first-tier knight, Boss. Ten enchanted rifles will put ten holes through your chest before you even step through the warehouse door."

"I'm not going alone," Gavin stood up. "Follow me downstairs."

The smell of copper, damp air, and rotting pus hit their nostrils the moment Gavin opened the basement's iron door.

In the corner of the room, leaning against a moss-covered stone pillar, stood a broad-shouldered man standing two meters tall. A former Templar of the Order of Saint George—Gideon Cross. Bare-chested, he revealed a torso covered in sacred tattoos that had turned black. In the center of his left chest, an open gun-shot wound from an enchanted bullet oozed a bluish, foul-smelling pus.

A massive two-meter blade—the Greatsword of Radiance—lay beside the wooden cot. Its silver cross-guard was crusted over with rust and old bloodstains.

Gideon looked up, his glowing red eyes piercing the basement gloom.

"Did you bring a potion or an executioner?" Gideon's voice was hoarse, like rusted iron scraping against stone.

Gavin didn't answer. He threw a glass bottle filled with a dense silver liquid—the pure extract of the Erotic Soul Curse, neutralized by the Soul-Ledger.

Gideon caught the bottle mid-air. His movement was terrifyingly fast despite his chest letting out a cracking sound of suppressed agony. He looked at the bottle, then at Gavin.

"I don't have Sovereigns to pay for medicine," Gideon said coldly. "My weapon is rusted through. And Division 9 put a thousand-Sovereign bounty on my head in Mayfair."

"I don't want your money," Gavin said, stopping a meter from the cot. "I want your oath."

Gideon let out a bitter laugh. He coughed short and hard, spitting blackish blood onto the stone floor. "A Templar's oath? My oath died the day the Order cast me out just to protect the rapist noble-born whose neck I severed."

"I don't need an oath to your rotten god," Gavin pointed toward his own chest, where the Soul-Ledger hovered invisibly beneath his clothing. "A Templar's Oath of Fealty to this shop for ten years. You become No. 13's enforcer. In exchange... the bullet poison in your chest vanishes tonight, and this place becomes off-limits to Division 9."

Gideon stared at the silver bottle in his hand. The flesh around his wound was darkening further, creeping toward his carotid artery. The giant gritted his teeth, popped the cork off with his teeth, and downed the contents in a single breath.

GULP. GULP.

WHOOSH!

Dense white steam billowed from Gideon's mouth and ears.

The giant roared in suppressed pain. His ribs flexed. The bluish pus clogging his chest exploded outward, splashing against the stone wall with a sizzling hiss. Instantly, fresh pink muscle fibers wove together, stitching the gunshot wound shut until his skin smoothed over within seconds.

Gideon surged to his feet. His physical power flared, blowing the damp air out of the basement. He snatched the Greatsword of Radiance from the floor, twirling the heavy weapon effortlessly with one hand before slamming its tip into the stone floor.

BAM!

The granite floor cracked two centimeters deep. Gideon dropped to one knee before Gavin.

"Bound by oath," Gideon hissed, his eyes blazing with wild submission.

[Enforcer Contract Signed.] [Skill Transfer Successful: Combat Memory Transfer (Templar Sword Mastery Level 1) ]

A strange sensation jolted Gavin's brain. Hundreds of combat memories—angles of slashes, instincts to dodge chain strikes, lethal thrust trajectories, and the muscle memory of holding a heavy blade—locked automatically into his nervous system and arm muscles. His body naturally adjusted its stance: shoulders dropping slightly, feet spreading three centimeters wider.

Gavin balled his left hand into a fist, feeling his grip significantly firmer and more controlled.

"Rise, Gideon," Gavin said coldly.

Gideon stood up, his height casting a heavy shadow over Gavin. He grabbed a black leather cloak from the cot, strapping the sword belt across his chest. "Who's the target?"

Pip appeared at the basement doorway, waving the Docklands map. "Ten of Montgomery's hired mages. Plus two tons of raw magic crystal."

Gideon grinned viciously, flashing a row of white teeth. "Mercenaries? They usually start screaming fast once their throats are cut from behind."

"Their rifles carry black-lead shot," Gavin said as he turned and walked back upstairs. "Break their front line within the first ten seconds."

"Two seconds is enough, Boss," Gideon replied, following right behind him with heavy boot steps.

The front room of No. 13 was dim. Outside, the rain poured harder, rattling against the front windowpane.

Gavin pulled his long coat from the wooden rack. He slipped a silver pocketknife into his inner pocket and anchored the invisible chain of the Soul-Ledger inside his chest.

Pip was already standing near the main wooden door, spinning a thin iron wire between his fingers. Gideon stood behind them both, his massive sword wrapped in a filthy black cloth to keep it from reflecting the streetlamps.

Gavin took hold of the dragon-head handle of No. 13. He turned his head slightly toward Gideon and Pip.

"No prisoners. No witnesses," Gavin said flatly.

Gideon pulled his hood low, casting his scar-carved face into shadow. "Speaking to the Order, I've already forgotten how to leave people breathing."

Pip sneered, pulling his wire until it let out a sharp click. "I'll handle the warehouse locks."

Gavin pulled the wooden door inward and stepped out into the pouring rain, followed by the two figures behind him as they moved swiftly into the blackness toward the Docklands east.