Ten trillion Quintessence.
The number just sat there on my new, official 'Faction Management' interface, mocking me. It was a sum so large it made the treasuries of a thousand conquered gods look like pocket change.
I was the new, undisputed king of the cosmic underworld. I had the power, the reputation, the throne. And I was about to be evicted from reality by the multiversal IRS.
"So," I said, leaning back in my obsidian throne and putting my feet up on the ridiculously large desk that had just materialized. "We're broke."
Lia, my queen and consigliere, stood beside me, her expression a perfect mask of calm neutrality. Technically, she sent, her thought a clean, sharp line of accounting, our assets—this Monolith, the loyalty of the Syndicate, your own immeasurable power—are worth far more than the debt. We are not broke. We have a temporary, and rather severe, cash-flow problem.
"Same difference," I grumbled. "You can't pay the space-taxman with 'immeasurable power'. Believe me, I've tried."
The Champion, my new, silent, and terrifyingly honorable enforcer, stood by the door like a statue. He had seen empires rise and fall, but this was the first time he had ever witnessed a god complain about his finances. He was profoundly confused.
My new, randomly-promoted Second-in-Command, a terrified ex-bounty hunter named Grak, was currently hyperventilating in a corner. "Ten… trillion?" he squeaked. "But… but the old boss only paid one trillion!"
I looked at him, my eyes narrowing. "What?"
"The toll!" he stammered. "The old Collector, he had a deal! A 'Bronze-Tier' protection pact with the local reality managers! He paid a smaller fee in exchange for… well, for them looking the other way when he did his whole 'consuming failed realities' thing!"
I stared at him. Then I looked at the invoice again. At the top, in small, elegant letters, were the words: "Welcome, Platinum-Tier Faction! We are pleased to offer you our premium services at our premium price."
My grand, spectacular, and city-wide hostile takeover had been so impressive, so effective, that the universe had automatically "upgraded" my subscription plan without asking. I had gone from a back-alley thug to a made man, and now I had to pay the made man's dues.
My own success had just screwed me over.
"Perfect," I said, my voice dripping with a thick, beautiful sarcasm. "Just perfect."
My System, my loyal, gangster consigliere, chimed in.
[SOVEREIGN'S WHIM: CREATIVE ACCOUNTING]
[Description: You have a crippling debt. You have immense, reality-bending power. The solution is obvious.]
[Objective: Use your authority as a 'Creator'. Find a barren, worthless pocket dimension. Use the 'Creation Engine' to forge a single, unique, and utterly priceless 'Cosmic Gem'. Name it something stupidly impressive, like the 'Heart of Eternity'.]
[Next Step: Artificially inflate its value by writing a fake, thousand-year-old prophecy about how it's the key to ultimate power. 'Leak' this prophecy to the multiversal markets.]
[Final Step: Sell the gem to the highest-bidding idiot god, pay off your taxes, and keep the change.]
[Purpose: To engage in some good, old-fashioned, divine-level market manipulation and tax fraud.]
It was a brilliant, shameless, and deeply illegal plan. And it would take time. Time I didn't have. The payment was due at the end of the cosmic cycle, which, according to my new calendar, was in one week.
I needed cash. And I needed it now.
"Alright, team," I said, swinging my feet off the desk and leaning forward, my expression now all business. "New plan. We're not going to be manufacturers. We're going to be… consultants."
I looked at Grak. "Grak. You know this city. You know who the other big players are. Who has a lot of money, and a lot of problems that money can't solve?"
Grak, seeing a chance to be useful, finally stopped hyperventilating. "Well, my Lord Sovereign Boss," he stammered. "There's the 'Mechanist's Union'. A guild of tech-priests who build everything in this city. They're rich as hell. But they've got a problem. A big one. Their 'Forge-Star', the miniature, captive sun they use to power their entire operation, is… acting up. It's unstable. Threatening to go supernova and wipe out their entire district."
A problem. A big, explosive, and very expensive problem.
"And I assume," I said, a slow, predatory grin spreading across my face, "that they've already tried hiring the usual, law-abiding 'reality-engineers' to fix it?"
"Yeah, boss," Grak nodded. "No one will touch it. It's too dangerous. They're desperate."
"Perfect," I said. "Desperate people pay a premium."
I stood up. "The Champion, you're with me. Lia, you run the office. Grak, you spread the word. Tell the city that the new Sovereign's Syndicate is no longer in the business of simple extortion. We are now in the business of 'problem-solving'. And we are about to make our first house call."
I was no longer just a gangster. I was about to become a contractor. The kind you call when you have a problem that no one else can solve, and you're willing to pay any price to make it go away.
But as we prepared to leave, a new, unforeseen, and deeply personal twist emerged.
A message appeared on my private, sovereign channel. It wasn't a threat. It wasn't a quest.
It was an invitation. To a wedding.
The twist wasn't the invitation itself. It was who the invitation was from, and who the invitation was for.
[You are cordially invited to witness the 'Holy Union' between:
Saintess Valerie of the Alabaster Legion, Floor 2.
And
King Valerius of the Ravencrest Empire, Floor 1 (Aethelgard-1).]
My fanatical, jilted priestess from the floor below was marrying my old, boring, and now apparently very ambitious brother from the world I had abandoned.
The invitation continued:
[By the authority of their new, shared patron and sponsor, this union will forge the 'Alliance of Righteous Purity', a new, cross-floor faction dedicated to the eradication of all chaotic and demonic influences in the lower Tower.]
They had formed an alliance. A holy crusade. And their first, unstated target was obvious.
Me.
But it was the final line, the name of their new, powerful sponsor, that made my blood run cold. A name I had not heard in a very, very long time. A name that represented a power I thought I had left behind.
[This union is sponsored by, and made possible by the divine grace of, our new patron:]
[THE ARCHITECT.]