The rain outside the window intensified, but inside the Land Crawler Mk.II Command Vehicle, however, the atmosphere was different.
Old Gob was huddled on a leather sofa that was far too large for his spindly frame. His tattered rags had been replaced by a thick wool blanket bearing the Skyreach gear insignia. He clutched a mug of steaming hot cocoa, his eyes wide and unblinking as they darted between the luxury of the cabin and the man mountain sitting opposite him.
“Big Guy...” Gob sniffled, his voice a dry rasp. “Is it true? Alex... he’s really a Lord now? He actually remembers me?”
“He remembers,” Brad grunted. He had stripped off his heavy exoskeleton plating, leaving him in a sweat-stained tactical vest. He was meticulously wiping down his massive alloy Buster Sword with an oil-soaked rag. His boulder-like muscles caught the warm yellow lights, making him look like an industrial war-god. “Boss always says if it wasn't for the intel you sold us, we’d still be lost in the barrens. He calls you our ‘Angel Investor.’”
“Don’t pat my head so hard! You’ll rattle my brains out!” Gob shrank back as Brad’s massive hand ruffled his ears, but a watery, relieved smile touched the goblin’s lips.
The pneumatic hatch hissed open, admitting a gust of wet, freezing air. Jasta peeling off his white overcoat—now tainted by the greasy soot of the Guild Hall—and tossed it into the recycler with a look of profound disgust. He sealed the door and straightened his silk cuffs.
“Did the talk fail?” Gob asked tentatively.
“It failed spectacularly,” Jasta replied, a cold, sharp smile playing on his lips. “Chairman Pago wanted a seventy-percent cut of our lives. I declined.” He sat opposite the goblin, crossing his legs with effortless grace. “Which means, Mr. Gob, you are now our sole Strategic Asset in this pit.”
“Me?” Gob let out a hollow laugh, gesturing to his splinted, broken leg. “My shop is ash, my gold is gone, and I’m a cripple. What can I do against the Golden Gear Guild? Poke them with my crutch?”
“You fight them with this.” Jasta snapped his fingers.
Brad reached under the seat and hauled out a black reinforced briefcase, flipping the latches with a synchronized click-clack. Inside, nestled in charcoal-colored velvet, were three rows of items:
A set of crystal-clear, impurity-free glass tumblers.
A stack of mint-scented, industrially cut bars of soap.
A row of shimmering, silver-finished windproof lighters.
Gob’s eyes glazed over. As a veteran merchant, he processed the Market Value of the contents in a millisecond. “I have five thousand lighters, three thousand sets of glass, and a literal ton of soap,” Jasta said flatly.
“So many?” Gob’s fingers shook as he reached for a lighter. “You... you’re selling these? All of them?”
Jasta took the lighter, flicked the cap, and ignited it. The stable blue flame reflected in his cunning fox eyes. “Gob, I’m going to teach you a new term: Dumping.” Jasta’s voice dropped to a low, persuasive hum. “The Golden Gear Guild sells a crude ceramic cup for five silver coins, yes?”
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“Yes... It’s daylight robbery.”
“Our glass is clearer than diamond and tougher than oak,” Jasta raised a finger. “You will sell it for one silver coin.”
“What?!” Gob nearly spilled his cocoa. “That won't even cover the Logistics! It’s practically giving it away!”
“Cost?” Jasta chuckled—the ruthless sound of an industrialist mocking a shopkeeper. “In Skyreach, we produce these by the Metric Ton. The unit cost is marginally higher than the dirt we dig them from.” He pointed to the lighter. “They sell fire-steels for two gold pieces. You will sell this automated lighter for half a silver.”
“I want you to drive the price into the floor. Then, I want you to dig a hole through the floor and drive it into hell. Saturate every sewer, every black market, and every slum in this city.” Jasta’s gaze pinned the goblin. “I want the Guild’s inventory to rot in their warehouses. I want their ceramics to become worthless clutter. I want Pago to watch his vault shrink daily while he is powerless to stop the Economic Entropy.”
Gob stared at the crates. His breathing quickened, his heart hammering against his ribs. He understood the math of revenge. “Half a silver...” he whispered, the despair in his eyes replaced by a feverish, predatory glow. “The Lower District will go feral for this. Pago’s shops won't see a single customer.”
But then, his hand stopped. The heat cooled into a paralyzing fear. He pulled back, clutching his broken leg, his frame trembling. “No... no. I can’t. Jasta, I can’t do this business.”
“Why?” Brad frowned. “If the commission isn't enough, we can adjust the Incentive Structure.”
“It’s my life!” Gob hissed, pointing at the dark streets outside. “The moment you leave, the Guild enforcers will come! Last time, they just broke my leg. If I sell at these prices, they’ll flay me and hang my hide from the clocktower! In Rust-Water, they are the law! I don't want to die!”
Silence filled the cabin. Jasta wasn't surprised; he appreciated the goblin’s survival instinct. A man who isn't afraid is a man who isn't calculating risks.
“Gob, did you forget?” Jasta stood up and tapped the thick ballistic glass of the window. “This is a Free Trade Port. The rule here is simple: Whoever has the biggest fist writes the law. Did you think we’d make you sell from a wooden shack?”
Jasta stamped his heel on the floorboards. “This vehicle, and the three heavy trucks outside, are your new storefronts. This is Reinforced Black Iron, Gob. Cast as a single unit in Skyreach’s foundries. A Wolf-kin siege beast couldn't dent this hull. The Guild’s thugs with their clubs and knives won't even scratch the paint.”
“And,” Brad added, slamming his massive Buster Sword onto the table with a resonant CLANG that made the water in the mugs jump, “I’m not leaving.”
Brad folded his arms, looming over Gob like a steel tower, a savage, thuggish grin spreading across his face. “From tomorrow on, I’m your Chief of Security. In Rust-Water, killing to ‘Protect Private Property’ is legal, right?” Brad cracked his knuckles, the sound like small bone-explosions. “If a Guild hand reaches for your stock, I take the arm. If they stick their head in, I twist it off. With this iron fort and me as your wall...”
Brad leaned in, his voice a low vibration. “Combined with the ten thousand poor bastards who would kill for a cheap lighter... do you think Pago dares to touch you? Or more importantly, does he dare to trigger a city-wide Riot?”
Gob looked at Brad’s terrifying face, then at the indestructible war-wagon surrounding him. A vision formed in his mind: him, sitting behind bulletproof glass, counting silver, while a sea of desperate peasants cheered his name, and Brad swatted Guild enforcers like flies.
“Let’s do it!” Gob didn't hesitate this time. He snatched up the lighter, gripping it like he was holding destiny by the throat. “As long as the Big Guy is with me, I’ll spit in the eye of the gods! I’m going to make them bleed gold until they’re hollow!”
“Excellent.” Jasta nodded, slapping a handwritten manifest onto the table. “Tomorrow morning, we drive directly into the center of The Sump. We deploy. We transform. We open for business.” He looked toward the glowing spires of the Guild headquarters in the distance. “Strike the spark, Gob. Let’s burn their greed to ash.”
Snick. Gob pressed the lever. In the blue light of the flame, the goblin’s wrinkled face twisted into a smile that was as hideous as it was triumphant.
“Burn them all.”
Question of the Day: How should Jasta handle the first Guild "Tax Collector" who arrives at the mobile shop?
?? A) The Paperwork Loop: Overwhelm them with "Skyhaven Regulatory" documents.
Result: Bureaucratic Sabotage. Jasta uses his diplomatic status to tie them in knots for days, giving Gob time to sell out his entire stock.
?? B) The Public Execution: Have Brad toss them into the crowd.
Result: Incitement. The hungry crowd, already loyal to the "Cheap Lighter Guy," will tear the Guild guards apart. Immediate riot, zero Guild control.
?? C) The Golden Bribe: Pay them in Sky Credits.
Result: The Engineer's Choice. Turn the enemy’s soldiers into your customers. Once the guards realize they can buy a heated room with your "money," they won't fight for Pago anymore.
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