The Roost's observation ledge buzzed like a hive of overleveraged bees—runes pulsing with feed-links to every guild hall, church spire, and god's antechamber across the resonance nets. Dylan Voss stood at the platform's edge, the wyrm-scale micro humming in his veins like a bad conscience. Twelve hours since recon. Global rate at eleven heartbeats now, his own thirteen a defiant stutter. The whispers from the pit below clawed at his edges: *Scalp me, rat? Inherit the roar.* But inheritance was just debt with teeth, and Dylan was in the business of flossing.
The proctor from earlier—D-rank drudge, aura flickering like a faulty bond—paced the central dais, her scroll unfurled to a live ticker. **[MID-TERM BROADCAST: Wyrm Observation – Eboncoil Juvenile. Viewers: 4,723 (Guilds: 87 | Churches: 42 | Private: Gods Know).]** Cameras orbited on mana-threads: crystal orbs whirring, capturing every twitch, every debt-flux. Public. National resonance. One wrong echo, and F-rank trash became footage for the foreclosure reels.
"Platforms deploying," the proctor announced, voice amplified to crackle across the nets. "Licensed observers only. Data yield to the highest bidder. Interference equals audit—personal." Her eyes lingered on Dylan, the auction slot glowing on his wrist-crystal like a guilty verdict. Whispers in the crowd: *That's Voss. The Basement broker who bartered with the beast.* *House Valerian doubled the bounty—ten micro-favors now.* *Watch him fold.*
Dylan didn't fold. He stepped onto his disc as it hummed to life, anti-grav threads yanking him over the pit. The juvenile wyrm uncoiled below, obsidian length fifty feet and growing, scales glinting like interest on a principal you couldn't pay. Its heart-bond pulsed visible now—eastern leyline tie, 7% yield fracturing at the edges. Recon data burned in his mind: ventral 4, tuned to eight BPM. Storm-yield ready. Micro-assets primed: betrayal for the bluff, victory for the close.
The feed kicked in with a global chime—resonance harmonics thrumming through the air, linking every viewer to the Roost's fiscal pulse. Dylan's heartbeat synced harder, thirteen against eleven, recoil tax already nipping at 15% of his focus. Convert it: clarity. The wyrm's eyes locked on him again, whispers booming over the broadcast: *Cameras? Leverage. You owe the lens now, Voss. Pay in spectacle.*
"Begin analysis," the proctor intoned. Platforms drifted closer, B-ranks and C-ranks murmuring into their crystals: "Scale integrity at 92%—bonds stable." "Leyline flux minimal; yield projection: 6.8%." Safe plays. Educational drivel for the guilds. Dylan waited, platforms circling like vultures at a default. The Valerian woman from the auction lounged on a VIP dais, gold hair catching the camera lights, her resonance-crystal linked to House feeds. She smiled—predatory, appraising. *Bounty compounding,* Dylan thought. *Make it worth the interest.*
The wyrm struck first—not claws, but a whisper-blast, fog erupting in debt-visions tailored for the feed: illusory foreclosures, hunters crumbling under scale-bonds, gods defaulting on prayers. Viewers gasped across the nets—resonance feedback spiking, minor debts accruing from the psychic tax. The B-rank beside Dylan retched, clutching his rail: "It's... auditing us. All of us!"
"Observe," Dylan said, voice pitched for the mics. Cynical calm, MC armor. But inside, the loop churned: *Earn the disruption. Leverage the feed. Survive the roar. Compound the scalp.* He palmed the crystal, channeling the storm-yield bond—tuned to eight BPM, ventral fracture locked. No spell-slinging fireworks; this was economics, precise as a margin call.
"Platform Voss," the proctor barked over the link. "Hold position. Licensed kill prohibited—"
Too late. Dylan leaped—not fell—the anti-grav threads snapping like overextended credit. He dropped twenty feet, boots slamming a scale-ridge mid-coil, the wyrm bucking like a bad investment. Whispers exploded in his skull: *Thief! Scalper! Owe me your broadcast!* Recoil hit triple—45% tax on the drop, pain lancing his legs. Convert: betrayal asset flared, twisting the wyrm's coil into an opening. Ventral 4 exposed, heart-bond glowing like a ripe IOU.
The feed went wild—cameras swarming, viewers spiking to 12,000. "What is he—?" "F-rank breach!" "Valerian bid incoming—"
Dylan didn't hear. He drove his fist into the fracture, storm-yield unleashing: not thunder, but a precision audit. Blue disruption arced from his veins, syncing to the wyrm's eight-beat pulse—global eleven irrelevant, his thirteen the override. The heart-bond shattered, scales cracking like defaulted collateral. The beast roared, a seismic bellow that shook the Roost, fog vortexing into chaos. Debt-portfolio spilled: unsecured loans to minor gods evaporating in resonance static, leyline tie snapping back to the east—cracks widening, Valerian whispers hinting at clutch-collapse.
Recoil tax peaked—15% per second, his arm numbing, vision fraying. Memories flickered: sewer rat king (faded from Ch.17), Academy seal theft, thunder bookmark cashed. But victory micro-asset surged, compounding the yield: the wyrm's heart exposed, pulsing weak. Dylan gripped it—not flesh, but bond-core, cool as a ledger's spine. "Audit complete," he growled, yanking. The core tore free, scales sloughing like shed interest.
The wyrm thrashed once, then stilled—portfolio inherited, debt transferred. Dylan's veins burned with new weight: twelve scales' worth, 7% yield now his to leverage. Or auction.
Platforms yanked him up, proctors swarming. The feed captured it all: F-rank rat, knee-deep in wyrm-guts, heart-bond clutched like a trophy. Silence, then eruption—viewers at 50,000, resonance nets lighting up with bids.
**[SYSTEM NOTICE: KILL CONFIRMED – Juvenile Wyrm (Eboncoil).]**
**Yield: Heart-Bond Core (Grade: Apex Collateral, 7% Transferable).**
**Debt Accrued: Public Spectacle (Compounding Viewer Favors – Current: 2,347).**
**Asset Gained: Scale-Portfolio (12x Micro-Bonds, Auction-Ready).**
**Warning: House Valerian Retaliation Escalated. Bounty: 50 Micro-Favors (Live).**
The proctor seized his arm, face ashen. "You're revoked. Audited. The Ledger—"
"Will love this," Dylan cut in, holding up the core. It pulsed in the camera lights, runes etching auction symbols. "Public dragonslayer slot. First scalp on feed. Bids open: heart for favors, scales for copper. Who wants a piece of the default?"
The Valerian woman stood, crystal flaring. "Fifty-five. House claim—eastern tie redemption." Her voice carried the threat: *We own the clutch. Pay up, Voss.*
Dylan grinned, blood-slick and feral. "Sixty. Not favors. Storm-yield residual—tuned to leyline cracks. Disrupt your overleverage, or buy the fix." The crowd—now a bidding frenzy—murmured. Guilds jumped: "Seventy, Ironclad forge-rights!" Churches: "Eighty, prayer-stream patch!"
Bids climbed—hundreds, thousands in micro-assets. The wyrm's roar echoed in aftershocks, but Dylan stood steady, heartbeat thirteen against the global's frantic ten (it had dipped again, reality reeling from the kill). Betrayal asset whispered angles: frame the House, leak the clutch-crack. Victory tasted the close: public enemy #1, now #1 scalp.
The auction peaked at 1,200 favors—gods outbidding guilds, the core fragmenting into tradeable shards. Dylan's hedge swelled: debts zeroed, assets compounding. But the whispers lingered, wyrm-echo in his blood: *You killed the bond. Now owe the syllabus.*
The feed cut with a global chime, proctors dragging him from the ledge. Viewers: 200,000. Clips already viral—*F-rank Frames a God.* House Valerian scouts melted into the crowd, bounties ticking. Volume 1 finale sealed: dragonslayer on live TV, syllabus of scales just starting.
Back in the antechamber, system box flickering:
**[PUBLIC KILL ACHIEVED: Volume 1 Hook Engaged.]**
**New Debt: 1x Syllabus Whisper (Escalating – Dragon-Written Terms).**
**Assets Updated: Heart-Core Shards (Auctioned: 1,200 Yield) + Public Narrative (Dragonslayer Frame).**
**Hook: Ch.19 – Auction Aftermath: Bounties compound, allies emerge from the debt-shadows.**
Dylan wiped wyrm-blood from his hands, cynical smirk intact. "Trash to scalp in one feed. Interest sleeps—for suckers." But the global rate whispered back: nine beats. His thirteen? A loan coming due.