The Copper Dragon takeover proved to be an even better investment than Simon expected.

  The transition happened smoothly. Leticia Septic, daughter of the now officially deceased Argas Septic—and who proved equally eager to sell her services to a demon for youth as her father—revealed his will to the world, which entrusted his business to his ‘long-term business associate’ Simon and part of his wealth to his ‘newly discovered long-lost nephew,’ Argas the Younger. The old man kindly asked his daughter to emancipate all his slaves on his deathbed, a request which she magnanimously granted.

  “You think like a human who sees hardly a year ahead,” Simon had replied when the Septics questioned his decision. “The seeds we plant today will bloom in decades to come. We shall make this place a haven for those seeking shelter and salvation, so when I choose to come to them clothed in light, they shall sell me their souls as surely as the devout answer to their god.”

  “So this is how a demon thinks,” Leticia had replied with a hint of awe in her voice. “I should learn from your patience.”

  It was astonishing the kind of nonsense Simon could get away with by faking wisdom and foresight. His accomplices simply assumed that an ancient, demonic being like him simply knew what he was doing. Simon had heard how some venerated the Overlord before the Reformation, and he believed the tales now.

  A good week passed since that fateful night, during which Simon, Eole, and Belzemine peacefully oversaw the transformation of the Copper Dragon from a den of vice to a much better establishment.

  After emancipating the slaves, most agreed to stay on as paid employees for the time being, since they lacked accommodations or didn’t even know the local language in some cases. Eole had more or less settled into the role of manager and even begun practicing the Valnean tongue to ease her people’s transition into their new lives.

  The next issue they had to solve was the monetary one. Most of the Copper Dragon’s profits came from its prostitution, ‘dogfighting’—an euphemism for underground slave gladiatorial combat—and Dreamshade drug-running. Simon had put an end to these activities, and invested in monster pit fighting instead. His newly enhanced Unquestionable Ruler Perk allowed him to easily pacify creatures the Monoceros Guild put bounties on, which he then compelled to fight in gladiatorial battles in the Copper Dragon’s backrooms for the entertainment of visitors and gamblers alike. The change from shifters to more impressive direwolves and hydras was a wild success. Simon’s Perks allowed him to fix fights at his leisure as well to ensure income stayed consistent.

  The plan was simple: use the cash generated by this new venture to exfiltrate slaves and use the Copper Dragon as a ‘washdish’ that could help them disappear. The Septics had already provided information on some Valnean abolitionists who could assist in the whole endeavor by providing either papers or smuggling services.

  Everything was going so well… until a morning when Simon woke up sweating up a storm, a sharp pain in the back of his skull. He nearly fell off his bed in his confusion and barely caught himself.

  He had heard a scream in his sleep, a wail in the night, half a nightmare and half a call echoing in his head; a familiar voice.

  “Shabram?” Simon called out telepathically to his ally. “Shabram, is something happening?”

  No answer. No feedback.

  A shiver traveled down Simon’s spine. It wasn’t that Shabram refused to respond; the Brand of Sloth was gone. He couldn’t sense it. Either some power had managed to remove the brand from Shabram, or…

  No, no, she can’t be dead, Simon told himself. The empire’s spymaster, assassinated? Ridiculous. There has to be another explanation. Maybe she’s in an area that blocks telepathy, or using a divination shield that’s keeping me out.

  Simon told himself that all morning, though he couldn’t quell that awful feeling in his chest. It continued to press on him even after put on clothes and moved to his office to begin another day of administrative paperwork.

  He found someone waiting for him there, sitting in his chair.

  “Simon,” Silk of the Cobweb said, greeting him as if he were an old business partner who hadn’t called in a while. Her pipe released spicy smoke into the air. “I hope you take visitors without an appointment.”

  The freshly decapitated head of Argas Septic sat on the desk.

  Simon stared at it for a second, then closed the door behind him and put on his false Dreadnought armor. This amused Silk more than anything. “I am not here to fight you.”

  “How did you get in here?!” Simon snapped, his sword drawn. His office was carefully guarded; how could no one see her sneak in? Moreover, the fact that he didn’t sense Argas’ death bothered him.

  It seemed that only the Brand of Sloth allowed him to check on others by virtue of the telepathic connection it provided. Other marks provided no feedback upon the wearer’s death.

  “I walked through the front door.” Silk inhaled from her pipe. If she was afraid of a confrontation, she hid it well. “You know the Prince could blow the whistle on you anytime he wants. There’s quite a hefty bounty on your head on both sides of the Dragonsea.”

  Simon’s jaw clenched on its own. “I don’t see what you mean.”

  “I think you do, Your Majesty.”

  A long, tense silence hung in the room as Simon weighed cutting down the woman on the spot and dealing with the consequences later. He had the feeling that the Prince of Spiders would simply send another messenger, but at least it would get his point across.

  “The truth is, the Prince finds you fascinating,” Silk said with a vulpine smile. “An Overlord on the run setting up a slave liberation operation in his enemy’s backyard, using criminals bound to him by magic… it’s quite the oxymoron, don’t you think? Are you trying to level-up and build your powerbase away from your siblings? Is it guilt that compels you, or has that winged shifter ensnared your heart?”

  How could they know about his identity? Did they somehow figure it out after keeping him under surveillance? Or had Balzam already informed them he would be his likely heir, the same he had briefed Duchar?

  Simon could only think of one reason why the Cobweb would involve itself in his affairs so suddenly. “The Dreamshade drug that transited through this establishment came from your organization?”

  “Smart boy.” Silk hummed from her pipe. “Now, the Prince is a wise and reasonable person. He sent me to negotiate in order to keep the operation running.”

  “If I were indeed the Overlord, your prince of the gutter would be unwise to make an enemy of me.”

  “Hence why I’m here, bearing gifts.”

  Simon sneered and pointed at Argas’ head. “You would dare call my own employee’s head a gift?”

  “Oh, that? It’s unrelated to our business.” Silk scratched the hair on the bloody head as if it were a pet. “Young Leticia put out a contract on her daddy’s head a few weeks back to hasten up her inheritance. Your presence threw a wrench in those plans, but a contract is a contract. We can provide you with a more capable replacement anytime you ask.”

  The worrying part was that it sounded plausible, considering what Simon had seen of Leticia Septic so far. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

  Either way, Simon wouldn’t allow that woman to get the better of him. “Spare me your prattling,” he said. “I can recognize an attempt at intimidation when I see one.”

  “It is true that we could make life very difficult for you if we wished, but once again, why resort to threats and violence when cooperation will win us more?” Silk crossed her legs. “All the Prince asks for is that you keep the drug trade running smoothly, and he will be happy to ignore your business.”

  “For now.” Simon could see the writing on the wall. “Your kind is never satisfied. It’s only a matter of time before you return with more demands.”

  “Do not mistake us for common extortionists. We aim to create solid strands that last lifetimes.” Silk breathed out a cloud of smoke. “If you want nothing more from us, then you won’t see us again so long as the Dreamshade continues to flow, and we’ll close our eyes on your activities. The Prince has nothing against abolitionists. None of them can dent our income, and some are our best clients anyway. Of course, our door will remain open if you decide to… deepen our relationship.”

  “I see where this is going.” Simon sensed an opportunity for leverage. “You want to sell off my brand of eternal youth.”

  “It has indeed piqued the Prince’s interest, and we could all profit from further collaboration.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Simon lied. He had no intention of collaborating with the Cobweb, but shutting the door closed now might convince the Prince to act against him. “I’ll… consider turning a blind eye to your drug-running. Now get out of my office.”

  Silk pondered his words for a second, then rose from her stolen seat. She had the grace to take Argas’ head with her, dangling it by the hair and spilling dry blood on the floor.

  “Do you actually think you can use your Class for the good of others, Simon Magnos?” Silk asked as she walked past him on her way to the door. She looked more puzzled than anything. “You are the Overlord. Mardok created the Class because the mere thought that someone, somewhere, would live happily outside his dominion maddened him. The power you wield embodies his malice and will to enslave all the free people of the world. It will never make the world a better place.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Watch me,” Simon replied with a sneer. “Shut the door on your way out.”

  “I will.” She grabbed the doorknob, only to stop. “Oh, one last thing. Did you have anything to do with the explosion in Frightwall?”

  Simon blinked behind his helmet. Although he showed no outward sign of his surprise or confusion, Silk still picked up on it.

  “You didn’t know? How curious.” She put her hand on her waist and decided to enlighten him. “There’s been a massive magical explosion at Castle Frightwall last night, so vast it damaged the capital. The castle is already repairing itself around the Crimson Throne, as it has recovered countless times before, but thousands are presumed dead and both parties are accusing each other of the attack. The Prince was wondering if you were behind it.”

  What the Abyss is she talking about? Simon struggled to make sense of it all. He had passed today’s date many times in previous reigns, and no explosion ever damaged Castle Frightwall. Still, the fact that Shabram’s brand had become unresponsive pointed to trouble in the capital. This shouldn’t have happened, unless… unless…

  “Are Lady Shabram and Patriate Malphas among the victims?” Simon asked suddenly.

  “The Spymaster and Lord-Treasurer?” Silk frowned. “Why?”

  Because yesterday was the day Patriate and his daughter should have been assassinated. If the explosion had indeed happened last night, as Silk claimed, then the timing would be awfully suspicious. It’s too much of a coincidence.

  “They were still excavating corpses when the Prince received the report, so I cannot say. You’ll likely learn more in tomorrow’s newspaper when the information reaches Valne.” Silk finally took her leave. “You were wise to depart your homeland. This blast will be the fuse that lights the civil war.”

  Simon watched her leave without a word, more questions weighing on his mind. Did Patriate’s survival cause a chain reaction of some kind? Or did he trigger the explosion somehow? The fact that his murder seemed to have prevented this disaster in other reigns certainly pointed to his involvement, assuming Silk spoke the truth.

  How did one even blow up Castle Frightwall? No one ever managed to destroy the Crimson Throne at the center, and the place regenerated from any damage so long as it stood. The Overlord was said to see everything within its walls as well, so smuggling a bomb inside–

  Oh. Simon hit his face with his palm. No Overlord, no danger of discovery.

  Lord Paimon confirmed that the elves learned of Balzam’s death early in the previous reign and informed Endymion’s other enemies. Any of them would have seen a golden opportunity to shake the empire’s center of power with the Overlord gone.

  Is Lauriane alright? Could I have done something to prevent this? Simon shook his head. No, no, this is no longer my problem. I’m out. My life is here now, and there’s so much work to do.

  He knew the civil war was inevitable the moment he left Frightwall. He had made his bed, and he would now have to lie in it.

  “Simon.” Eole’s voice snapped him out of his morose thoughts. His friend slowly opened the door to his office, a look of concern on her face. “Simon, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Simon squinted at her. “Did you see Silk on your way here?”

  “Silk?” Eole blinked in confusion. “I didn’t see anybody walking by.”

  That was somehow even more unsettling. “I will explain later,” Simon decided. The concern in Eole’s gaze bothered him. “What did you want to discuss?”

  “Belzemine. I think… I think she is unwell.”

  “Unwell?” Now that took Simon aback. “She seemed fine during our sorcery training yesterday.”

  “I think she’s hiding it. She’s been going to bed earlier and earlier and oversleeping lately. She still hasn’t come out of her room.” Eole bit her lip. “I can tell something is wrong.”

  “Well, in that case, we can simply check up on her.”

  Surely it was nothing troublesome.

  Belzemine looked like she was on her deathbed.

  Eole’s suspicion had been confirmed when she failed to open the door to her bedroom when the two of them came knocking. Simon had forced his way in to find his elven teacher in a terrible state.

  Her skin had turned pallid like that of a fresh corpse, her eyes sunk in her skull until he could see the outline of her bones, her body shivering and shaking uncontrollably. Her fingers felt colder than ice when Simon touched them.

  “Is she sick?” Eole asked, her voice wavering.

  “She’s mana-deprived,” Simon muttered to himself in horror. “Search her belongings for a manalith, now.”

  Simon should have seen it coming. Elves needed mana-rich environments to survive. That was the entire reason why they stuck to regions around their manatrees rather than colonize the world like humans did. Belzemine had warned Simon in a previous reign that she kept charged manaliths to sustain herself outside Castle Frightwall for days, but warned that casting spells would deplete them quickly.

  She had spent the last fortnight since they arrived in Valne alternating between taking quests and teaching Simon sorcery. His suspicions were confirmed when Eole brought him pebbles, which he recognized as mana-drained stones.

  She had run out of reserves and said nothing.

  “How long have you been running on fumes?” he asked Belzemine, whose eyelids appeared heavier than stones to her now. “Why?! Why didn’t you warn me you were running low on mana?!”

  “Your Majesty…” Belzemine’s voice was so weak Simon could barely hear her. “Your Majesty needed my magic.”

  “I need you alive, too!” Why did she keep something like this hidden from them? “You could have told me!”

  “Your Majesty… does not… need me…” Belzemine rattled, her breath heavy. “Your Majesty can execute me now… You will gain many levels.”

  “What—what foolishness is this?” Simon shook his head, aghast. “Do you want to die?”

  “That is… my life’s purpose…” Beelzemine closed her eyes, her breath wheezing. “Your father said as much… since I couldn’t give him an heir of elven blood, then my death would have to feed his successor… a withered womb is useless…”

  Simon’s blood froze in his veins when the horrible implications of that statement dawned on him. Eole too covered her mouth in pity and disgust.

  I should have killed him more often, Simon told himself. Everyone Father touched turned to ashes.

  “I will not kill you, and you will not die,” Simon told Belzemine. “Do you hear me? I order you to live!”

  “I know Your Majesty will… discard me… you want me to leave…” Sweat dripped down her forehead. “Lord Mardok, I… I don’t want to… do it…”

  She’s delirious, Simon thought. She needs mana right now.

  But how? Belzemine had been proficient enough at transforming miasma into mana that she could survive inside Castle Frightwall, so creating a Dungeon might help… but doing so inside the city would no doubt bring every adventurer to their front door. She needed an easier source of sustenance.

  “How close is the nearest manatree?” he immediately asked Eole.

  “A few horse-ridden days away west,” Eole replied grimly. Putting aside the fact that the local dryad might react badly to Simon’s presence, the same way the Green Mother had, Belzemine wouldn’t survive that long.

  They needed a closer source, and Simon could only think of one.

  “I have a plan,” Simon told Eole upon summoning the Brand of Lust. “This mark allows the marked person to drain the lifeforce of others. If we feed her some of the monsters downstairs… maybe she’ll have a chance.”

  “She can take some of mine,” Eole said immediately.

  “Too risky,” Simon decided. “I have never tested this particular power before and it might kill you. Bring one of the ratlings. Nobody will mourn them.”

  Eole hesitated a moment, then nodded and left the room to pick up their sacrifice. Simon then pressed the Brand of Lust against the back of Belzemine’s head, right next to the Brand of Sloth. “Accept my gift.”

  “Yes…” the elf muttered, the mark seared into her skin.

  Eole soon returned with a caged ratling. The creature looked like a rat the size of a small cat, with the exception of having an evilly bearded, fanged humanoid face and hands. They were vicious vermin and a popular target for adventurers’ first jobs. It ceased to growl at Eole the moment it saw Simon, whose Unquestioned Ruler Perk quickly pacified it.

  “Take some of this creature’s lifeforce to recover, but try not to kill it, Belzemine,” Simon said, yet Belzemine either failed to hear or follow through. He scowled in annoyance, realizing he had to be more forceful. “This is a direct order, Agnes.”

  Eole winced at his wording, but Belzemine did listen this time. The elf put a hand through the cage’s bars, and the obedient creature did not resist when she seized it. Mana flowed from the animal to the elf, the beast withering while Belzemine’s face regained some of its color.

  True to her order, the elf pulled back her hand before she could drain the ratling to death. It fell to the side, unconscious and barely breathing.

  “Do you feel better, Belzemine?” Simon asked.

  “I… yes, Your Majesty.” She no longer sounded delirious at the very least. “I… thank you.”

  “We have other monsters you can drain.” Simon had no idea how much mana an elf required to survive, and he hoped it would be enough until they found a better solution. “We’ll forswear magical lessons for now. You’ll stay in bed until you make a full recovery–”

  “No!” Belzemine’s hands grabbed his arm with the energy of despair. “Your Majesty, I swear I can still work!”

  “You can’t, and you won’t!”

  “I swear I can!“ Simon could feel her nails sinking into his flesh. “I can play games with you, I can cook for you, I… I can be your concubine…” And then she started to cry. “Please don’t cast me aside…”

  Simon found himself at a loss for words as one of the most powerful elf archmages in the world clung to him like a drowning woman to a raft. Eole watched the scene with the saddest, most compassionate expression he had ever seen on her face.

  “What did they do to you to destroy you so utterly?” she asked so softly, and received no answer.

  Simon wondered what to do. He could only think of one way to calm her down, and he absolutely hated himself for even considering it… doubly so when he realized it was that or she would end up killing herself somehow.

  “Agnes.”

  Belzemine’s head snapped up like an obedient dog.

  “You belong to me,” he said, every word leaving a sore taste in his mouth. “You are my property, and I need you. But to be useful to me, you have to regain your strength. A good slave does as it is told. Do you understand, Agnes?”

  “Yes…” She finally let go of his arm and wiped her tears. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “You are going to stay in bed and recover your mana, until you become useful to me again.” Simon cursed his father, Gargauth, and that bastard Mardok for making him complicit in their cruelty. “Do that, and I will reward you, Agnes. Rest well until then.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The sea of her despair had subsided, replaced with that mask of mechanical stoicism she had grown so comfortable with. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

  Simon exchanged a glance with Eole, who had watched everything without saying a word, and then left Belzemine to rest. She was certain she wouldn’t do anything rash now that he had given her an order, but it still left him uneasy.

  “I had no choice,” Simon told Eole with a sigh once she closed the door behind them. “I’m sorry. It was the only way.”

  “I know,” Eole replied with deep sorrow. She didn’t blame him, which said a lot considering her abolitionist beliefs. “It is my fault. I should have paid more attention to her. She is so unwell she would rather die than be useless to you.”

  “No kidding.” In hindsight, removing Belzemine’s Brand of Pride had been a terrible mistake. It had psychologically unbalanced her to the point of suicidal obsession. “What should we do with her?”

  Eole crossed her arms. “Her wounds run too deep for her to even consider freedom yet,” she said. “Treat her kindly, the way your predecessors never did. Cherish her, and love her. Help her heal, then maybe one day… Maybe one day, she will feel strong enough not to need you anymore.”

  Simon had the feeling that this day wouldn’t come until a very, very long time. “We have another problem. She won’t leave me, and I’m not sure draining monsters will be a sustainable solution.”

  “Where could we find more of these manaliths?” Eole inquired.

  “We could buy them, but it would be quite expensive.” So expensive that they would have to give up their plans for slave liberation. “There’s… a potential supplier.”

  “No,” Eole said immediately. “If you give them an inch, they will take your whole arm.”

  “Then we’ll have to make concessions elsewhere, or find some treasure.” Simon scoffed. “We’ll need to take a look at the guildboard and pray.”

  Why was it so hard to be a good person?

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