Simon cursed that wicked trickster, even as he rammed his new sword through an orc’s chest and spilled its entrails all over the grass. An arrow bounced off his Overlord armor—which he had disguised as a Dreadnought one with Fiendmask—and Belzemine incinerated an axe-wielder trying to flank him.
Infamous out of all Tribes for their ability to adapt to all kinds of environmental pressures, goblinoids started out as small, gremlin-like creatures that eventually evolved into different forms based on their environment. Orcs were something of the middle of the pack: a bunch of large humanoids with thick brownish skin, strong bodies, and sharp teeth who were not as smart as gremlins, not as tough as ogres, and not as stealthy as bugbears, but versatile enough to be a threat nonetheless. The empire had even begun to build entire platoons out of them by providing them with training and equipment in recent years.
The group raiding the lands of Lord Jordan was far from being imperial-bred elites. Most of them didn’t even carry metal weapons—only a few wielded steel swords or axes they had likely stolen from their victims—but they made up for it with numbers. Forty of them had come down the hill after Simon’s group found their camp, roaring and charging forwards in an attempt to frighten them. Non-Class users would have likely fled in terror at the sight, but Belzemine blasting a third of them with a single fireball had taken the wind out of their sails. Afterwards, Eole took flight to sing, Simon fought the orcs brave enough to stand their ground in melee, and Belzemine incinerated those that tried to flee with long-range fire spells.
Eole’s Hero’s Rime song slightly raised all of your stats!
Belzemine could have easily massacred this group on her own, but Simon insisted that everyone participate equally in order for everyone to gain experience. Since she lacked any offensive abilities, Eole focused on assisting her allies with buffing songs. Her wings allowed her to fly too high for arrows to reach her, and not a single orc managed to get close enough to harm Belzemine.
Simon wouldn’t really call this massacre a battle, but it sadly did wonders for his mood.
He knew, the bastard, Simon grumbled as he cleaved a fleeing orc in two. The Prince knew and set me up!
Was that a rogue’s idea of a prank, to put an Overlord and Paladin in the same room? Had he figured out Simon’s true identity, or been informed by Balzam the way Duchar had been? All Simon could be certain of was that he had been had. They had been lucky to leave the guildhall undetected.
From what Simon gathered, the Monoceros Guild had been founded forty years back after Gargauth crushed the fifth White Unicorn Rebellion and ate the Paladin Crestone. With no one to lead them, support among the movement ebbed as warriors signed on with mercenary companies to make ends meet. Creating the Monoceros Guild had been an attempt to bind the military-minded adventurers together, keep them sharp by providing training, and gather funds for the inevitable day when the Paladin would return to lead them; an opportunity that Balzam Magnos ironically provided when he slew his predecessor and accidentally released the Crestone back into the wild. It had constantly slipped through the empire’s grip since in search of new wielders.
No Paladin had lived long enough to bind the Overlord’s enemies together, largely because candidates kept being assassinated before they could reach their true potential; something that Simon now realized was the result of Balzam’s own foreknowledge. The rumors attributing the Class to Ser Richard of Lore rather than his son were likely an attempt to protect the lad until he could grow into his own.
The Paladin and the Overlord were natural enemies—to the point that some whispered Mardok created the latter Class specifically to oppose the former—but surely conflict wasn’t inevitable. Simon had nothing to do with the empire anymore and remained determined to do good. If the Paladin was as noble as the tales said, then surely the current one would understand their situation and show him mercy.
Hopefully…
Simon was wise enough not to try his luck and decided to keep a low profile. He would avoid the guildhall from now on and rely on Eole to take requests or gather rewards on his behalf.
Once he had finished off the last of the orcs, Simon looked around the hill to ensure they hadn’t missed any. Lord Jordan paid one gold coin per orc scalp or skull, and the Guild would take roughly a fourth of the reward as the middleman's cut.
Simon recalled that the average soldier was paid three hundred silver a year, or roughly one gold coin a month. This one mission would thus cover the equivalent of three commoners’ salaries. No wonder so many people wanted to become adventurers.
But Eole told me that the waitress alone was purchased for two thousand and a half silver, so a hundred gold coins, Simon thought. It would take us two to three more jobs like this one before we can legally purchase one slave, and orc brigand dens don’t grow on trees.
Eole was right. As much as Simon welcomed the capital and experience, playing by the rules would get them nowhere.
Simon regrouped with his allies. Eole observed the slaughter with a dark scowl—Simon wasn’t sure if it was the sight of so many bodies that displeased her or the fact they had to exterminate even those that tried to flee—while Belzemine hardly seemed to focus on anything. She had looked troubled since their visit to the Guild, and her skin was much paler than usual. She almost seemed sick.
“You’ve been in a dark mood all day, Belzemine,” Simon noted in elvish. He could guess why. “Did you know the elf that follows Ser Alphonse?”
Belzemine nodded slightly. “Yes, Your Majesty. Her name is Frea. She is a powerful Sage who studied under the Oracle.”
“A Sage, you say?” Simon recalled that it was a highly powerful Vassal Class of the Librarian with advanced spellcasting abilities.
“Frea serves the will of Illusea. She has fought at the Paladin’s side in many White Unicorn Rebellions.”
“I see.” It didn’t surprise Simon all that much. “She must have been sent to protect the current until he could grow into a threat to the Overlord.”
“Are you certain that the boy is the Paladin?” Eole asked him.
“I can’t confirm it for sure unless he dons his Class outfit in front of us, but he felt like the Paladin to me,” Simon insisted. “My Class reacted to his own, and he seemed to have sensed my presence too… which isn’t good for me.”
Eole stared at him with concern. “He and his allies will see you as an enemy to exterminate.”
“Their entire guild—nay, the whole White Unicorn movement—revolves around opposing the Overlord,” Simon confirmed. “I doubt I can expect any quarter from them.”
“I understand your unease,” Eole conceded. “Still, I do think we could try to parlay with them should the worst come to pass. I would vouch for you, and surely this Alphonse will listen. Tales say the Paladin is a just soul and the embodiment of righteousness.”
“And the Overlord is said to be evil incarnate, yet here I stand saddled with it. I won’t take unnecessary risks.” Simon turned to Belzemine. “I will have to ask you to use a Fiendmask to alter your face and hair from now on. It would cause us great trouble if this Frea recognizes you.”
“As Your Majesty wishes,” she replied obediently.
“Now, let us collect the skulls and be done with this quest,” Simon decided. Cutting the heads off of dozens of corpses would be a long and tiresome work, so he figured it was as good a time as any to test his new spell. “Impcantation.”
He waved his hand, and a small circle of fire burned in the grass. The smell of sulfur rose into the air, the miasma condensing into the shape of three small reptilian creatures, each roughly the size of a large dog. The creatures had red-greenish scales, tiny bat wings, and whip-like scorpion tails lashing behind their back. Pointed horns curled back from their twisted, fanged faces.
Imps were the weakest of all demons and, according to Belzemine, naturally servile towards any strong Dark-aligned entity like the Overlord or archfiends. Nonetheless, they were still a mischievous and cruel lot, and the Impcantation spell only compelled them to obey explicit orders; Belzemine drilled him extensively about the danger of giving vague commands open to interpretation or leaving demons unattended.
“Look, it’s the Lord O’ Dark!” one of the imps said upon seeing Simon, speaking in a demonic language only he could understand. The other two whistled and cackled in joy in response. “The Lord O’ Dark called us!”
Their knowledge bothered Simon. Either demons could sense the Dark in him, or the Impcantation spell provided them with information on their summoner. He would have to keep that in mind.
“Answer my call, minions of darkness,” Simon replied in their own tongue before waving his hand at the slaughter. “Behead these orcs and fill our bags with their skulls!”
“Guys, the corpses are still warm!” one of the imps cackled before begging Simon to let them do some mischief. “Can we eat their livers?!”
“Can we shower ourselves in their blood?!” inquired the second imp.
“Can we stick their entrails up their own arses?!” asked the third.
Simon marked a short pause before warily answering, “Yes, you may, but after the job is done. Let that be your payment for a task well done.”
“Yay!” The critters rejoiced before escaping the bounds of their summoning circle and abiding by their contract.
“What did those things say?” Eole asked with a hint of distaste. She had no love for demons, even bound ones.
“You don’t want to know,” Simon replied as the imps began to literally rip orc heads off their bodies with their teeth and claws. “They will linger until their task is complete and their reward claimed, which shouldn’t take long.”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Eole shook her head. Was that remorse Simon spotted in her gaze? “We shouldn’t have taken the request.”
“Don’t tell me you’re mourning orc bandits of all people?” Simon inquired.
“They are living creatures, same as you and I. They could have changed their ways one day, yet dead, they bring nothing to the world.”
“That may be true, but rehabilitating goblinoids takes a lot of time and resources we do not have.” Even Louis’ attempts to incorporate them into the army had mixed success and involved massive purges. “In the short term, their demise will make the local peasants safer and bring us some coins.” Simon let out a sigh. “Though our current profits won’t help much in freeing the slaves.”
“I fear you are right,” Eole lamented, though she didn’t lose hope. “I have asked the shifters in the Copper Dragon staff, and they told me the owner is as shrewd and cruel as he is old. Threatening him won’t work–”
“Wait.” Simon’s head perked up. “How old are we talking about?”
“Old enough to have a foot in the grave.” Eole squinted at the question. “Why?”
Simon stroked his chin. It was a wild idea, but a potentially profitable one. “I may have a plan to free the Copper Dragon’s slaves without spending a single coin.”
“A plan?” Eole asked, before the imps’ antics distracted her. “Wait, why are they ripping open the orcs’ belli–” Her hands moved to her mouth in horror. “By the gods!”
Simon winced, and wisely decided not to summon imps in Eole’s presence again.
After the imps completed their work and departed back to the Abyss—causing Eole to throw up her breakfast in disgust while at it—the group recovered their pay at the guild, then arranged a private meeting with the Copper Dragon’s owner, a certain Argas Septic. Simon was careful to interrogate the staff on the man prior to their rendezvous, and every tidbit of information they gathered hardened his resolve.
The man who welcomed them in one of the inn’s backrooms looked exactly as Simon had imagined: a jaundiced and hunched bald vulture of a man with sagging skin, whitening eyes, and a near toothless mouth. The wealth of his robes, rings, and necklaces hardly covered his scrawny figure, though the two hardy thugs he kept around as his bodyguards more than compensated for his physical weakness.
“Welcome, Mr. Legredo,” Argas Septic said with a sharp voice when he welcomed Simon and his allies inside his study. It was well-furnished, with fine carpets, leather chairs, a wooden desk, and a painting of a handsome young man hanging over the wall; Septic’s own portrait from better days.
“Thank you for agreeing to this meeting,” Simon replied. He was the only one to sit, with Eole and Belzemine standing behind him. “Especially on such short notice.”
“How could I not?” Argas gave Eole a crooked, lurid smile as one of his bodyguards served them cups of wine. “My halls are full of visitors wishing to see the beautiful shifter songstress that follows you around…”
Eole scowled in disgust at his stare, and Simon himself remained stone-faced. “I will be straight and to the point,” he said. “I wish to purchase your fine establishment and all of its staff. Preferably tonight.”
Argas nearly choked on his wine. “Quite the bold proposal,” he said, shifting in his seat. “I would be more than willing to trade some of my… employees… but the Copper Dragon is not for sale.”
“Surely there must be a price that would change your mind.”
Argas scoffed. “I have built this place with my own sweat and toil, and I am not long for this world. I will die under this roof. If my daughter wants to sell her inheritance away, you will have to negotiate with her once I am gone; and I intend to stick around for a few more years, thank you very much.”
“A few more years is a very short time,” Simon replied, knowing his moment had come. “What if I told you that you could have a century ahead of you?”
“I would call you a fool and a liar.” The old man snorted in disdain. “If you are one of those alchemists peddling me another elixir of youth, you can take the door.”
“No, I have no potion to offer.” Simon glanced at the thugs near the door. “Can these human guards of yours keep their tongues?”
“Yes.” Argas frowned with suspicion. “Human guards?”
Simon smiled, and then triggered his Fiendmask spell to undergo a drastic transformation. He changed his skin into blackened scales and let ram horns sprout from his head, alongside illusory wings, claws, and fangs. His face shifted into a ghastly, ghoulish skull with blazing eyes.
In short, he looked very much like a demon of myths.
Argas spilled his wine and sank into his chair, while his guards gasped and drew their swords. Belzemine caused both of their blades to heat up with a wave of her hand, forcing them to drop their weapons. Eole smiled maliciously and folded her wings, and Simon had to admit she could look rather sinister when she wanted to.
“Why such fear?” Simon chuckled darkly, doing his best impersonation of his father’s dark moods. “You take no pain to hide your dread, but surely you must have expected one of us to visit you one day.”
“You…” Argas coughed in fear and horror, his eyes sinking into his skull; something that clearly filled Eole with quiet glee. “You are…”
“A demon from the Abyss, yes.” Simon joined his fingers in an authoritative pose to better sell the lie. The bodyguards were now too frightened to say anything. “Worry not, I am here for business, not slaughter. You see, I am something of a merchant too, Mr. Septic. I trade in souls, youth, and years of life.”
A little glint of greed pierced through the old vulture’s fearful gaze. “Years of life?”
“Yes, hence my proposition. It lies within my power to grant you a hundred years of youth… for a fair price.”
The old man glared back at him. “You expect me to sell my immortal soul for a hundred years?”
“Who said anything about your soul, old man?” Besides, Simon was pretty sure the Abyss would have him for free anyway. “As I said, I want your establishment and all of its staff. You may reincarnate once you pass on.”
“Why?” The shrewd old man asked, his fingers shaking on his chair’s armrests. “Why my inn?”
“You must have heard stories of vampires and fiends requiring invitation to enter a household,” Simon said. “There is a kernel of truth to those tales. I need an estate in your city to work most of my sorcery here. By ancient laws of magic I must abide, and this den of sin shall serve my purpose well. I sense I will do good business under this roof.”
That was complete hogwash, but Argas bought it line, hook, and sinker. Simon opened his palm and summoned the Brand of Lust in the air.
“I can grant a taste of youth to anyone bearing this mark,” Simon explained. “Would you care for a test?”
It was an obvious bait, and the old man was too shrewd to take it… and greedy enough to consider it. He turned his gaze at one of his bodyguards, a middle-aged thug with graying hair.
“Walder,” Argas said. “Try on our guest’s brand.”
The man winced. “Boss, with all due respect–”
“I’ll pay you triple.”
“As I said, it is only a taste,” Simon added. “It will fade away quickly.”
The bodyguard, Walder, clenched his jaw but eventually pulled up his sleeve. Simon applied the Brand of Lust to his arm. The effect was immediate. The man’s hair turned from grey to black, old scars and patches of skin fading away. Half his years were shaved away in an instant, replaced with newfound vigor.
“I cannot believe…” Walder muttered to himself as he touched his face. “The pain in my back and the aches are gone…”
Argas, who had witnessed everything with rapturous attention, could no longer hide his desire. He turned his head to his younger portrait, probably imagining himself restored to his lost glory and empowered by the wisdom of his years.
“So?” Simon asked. “Do we have a deal? The Copper Dragon, its staff, and slaves for a new century.”
“It will take time,” Argas said, trying to delay so he could think things through. “If I show my face with sixty years shaved off, people will talk and–”
“I do not care,” Simon replied coldly. “That will be your problem to deal with. Pass yourself off as some estranged bastard coming to visit his father or the sort. It is a very popular tale among my clients.”
“But–”
“I have other potential associates to visit should you refuse my offer. If you say no, we shall not meet again.”
It was a lie, but the old man was desperate enough for a taste of his lost youth to let the opportunity go to waste… and too greedy to settle for a century. “A hundred years isn't enough," he said sharply. “You can give more.”
“Greedy, are we?” Simon chuckled darkly. This discussion was going even better than he expected. “It is within my power to extend your life beyond a century, but your establishment is worth less than what I so generously offered you.”
“I have other assets,” Argas insisted. “A manor, land, contacts…”
“They might earn you a handful of decades, no more.”
Argas longingly hesitated, and then asked with a little hint of shame, “Can I sell you my daughter’s soul?”
How could a human being actually say that? Simon was thankful that the Fiendmask helped him hide his contempt, and that Eole didn’t understand the common tongue enough to comprehend what this heartless fool had just offered.
Simon pretended to consider the offer without a word. Balzam Magnos’ silence had always been ten times more terrifying than his words, and Argas sank deeper in his seat with each passing second.
“If she were younger, that would have been possible, but alas, she is her own person now,” Simon replied. “However…” He knew he held Argas by the pants when his head perked up. “I have plans for this city, and someone like you could be of use. For each year you shall spend in my service, I shall reward you with three more years of youth.”
“Five,” Argas immediately countered.
Simon pretended to consider it. “Four, if you convince your daughter to fall into my employ as well.”
“Deal.”
Simon snapped his fingers, which was the signal for Eole to place a piece of paper on the desk. She did so with the largest smile in the world. Although she couldn’t understand the language they used, the action more or less confirmed their ploy had worked, something which filled her with delight.
“I have taken the liberty of pre-writing our contract for this fine establishment,” Simon explained. “Your terms of employment will be covered in a separate document once you secure your daughter’s agreement as collateral. It goes without saying that neither you nor your guards shall speak of this, nor of my true identity.”
Argas frowned and checked the terms. “Where do I sign?”
“Here.” Simon pointed at a spot below the text. “And not with ink.”
That whole contract was, of course, wholly unnecessary, but good theatrics helped sell the lie. Argas grudgingly asked one of his bodyguards to cut open his thumb with a dagger, after which he signed his name on the contract. Eole covered her mouth as he did so, probably to suppress her laughter.
Simon put the Brand of Lust on Argas’ arm and watched him morph back into the spitting image of the portrait hanging on the wall.
“Young again… young again!” Argas boasted as he all but bolted out of his seat in joy. He jumped in place, grinning and touching his face like a newborn rediscovering the smoothness of his skin. “I had forgotten how it felt to walk without a limp!”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Simon said, turning to the bodyguard he had branded earlier, Walder. “I only promised a taste.”
The man collapsed as Simon drained the life out of him through the Brand of Lust, startling his employer and colleague.
It was Simon’s first time doing that, and it was frighteningly effective. He could feel the lifeforce and vigor of the man deserting him through the brand and now filling his own flesh. It offered no benefits since he had no wounds to heal, besides a sinister thrill akin to drinking alcohol.
Simon stopped short of killing him, but Walder looked like he had aged twenty years in an instant; in short, bringing him back to square one.
“The contract is ironclad, but there shall be no betrayal on your part,” Simon informed a rather shocked Argas. “Do we have an understanding, Mr. Septic?”
The man glanced at his newly aged bodyguard, then nodded sharply. “Yes, we do.”
“You will keep your mouth shut, the both of you,” Simon informed the guards, with the fresh one helping the drained one stand back up. “Do you understand? This did not happen. I am a human merchant who purchased this place fairly. Do you understand?”
The two guards didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir,” they meekly said at once. “Yes, boss.”
“Good. Then you may take the rest of the night off to settle your affairs. I expect to see you all in my new office tomorrow morning.” Simon glanced at the portrait. “You can keep the painting.”
Argas and his goons wisely didn’t linger long, leaving Simon and his allies alone in the office. Eole quickly confirmed that they were gone… and then exploded in laughter.
Simon had never heard the kish laugh, and he found it to be such a gentle, melodious sound, almost like a waterfall. He wished to hear it more often.
“So?” he asked his comrades in Elvish. “How was I?”
“Your Majesty’s acting was amazing,” Belzemine said. Even she couldn’t help but crack a small smile.
“You should consider a career as a bard, Simon,” Eole mused in between fits of laughter. “You have a true talent for it.”
“Thank you kindly.” Simon dropped his disguise and sat in his new chair. He found it extraordinarily comfortable, and not just because of the rush of a new level-up that accompanied it. It’s good to be the boss.
Level 25 Overlord Perk: Unquestionable Ruler II (Passive): Lower-leveled undead, demons, and sentient monsters instinctively see you as a figure of authority to be obeyed.
They had a base, a front, and a profitable infrastructure with ties to the slave trade they intended to dismantle. The real work could begin.
“Now that’s settled,” Simon said as he opened the desk drawer and quickly found what he was looking for: the registry of slave sales. “Time to change this place’s management.”
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