Chapter 66
Written by Bayzo Albion
"No more circles." His voice hardened into something unbreakable. "The answer to both your problems is money."
She threw back her head and laughed—wild, rolling, delighted. The sound echoed through the forest until every tree seemed to laugh with her, leaves shaking with mirth.
"Gold?" she gasped, wiping an imaginary tear. "That's your grand revelation?"
"Not gold," he countered, grinning at her joy. "Dead gold is worthless. Real money moves. It breeds. It fights your battles while you lounge on a throne of skulls sipping wine."
"I have rivers of gold," she said coolly, folding her arms. "Vaults that would make dragons weep with envy."
"And who fills them?" he asked, arching a brow.
"Terrified peasants," she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I keep the monsters from eating them. They pay tribute. That is the ancient compact."
"Time to rewrite the compact." His eyes gleamed like polished steel. "You pay the humans to kill the small monsters. You save your strength for the real horrors. Your treasury never empties, and you're free."
Shadows deepened; the temperature dropped ten degrees. "And when my coffers finally run dry? When I'm a beggar chained to empty chests?"
"That's the beauty," he whispered, leaning in until their breaths mingled. "Your gold is dead because it just sits there, pretty and useless. Let me teach it to hunt."
For a long, suspended moment she studied him—suspicion, curiosity, and something hotter flickering behind those emerald eyes.
"Show me," she said at last, voice velvet over razors. "But first—tell me exactly what you want from me."
"Simple." He spread his hands innocently. "Protect my little village from anything truly apocalyptic… and lend me startup capital. Whatever you won't miss."
Her eyebrows shot upward. "That's it? Rob me blind and have me play guardian angel to some mud-hole full of turnip farmers?"
"Exactly," he said, utterly unrepentant. "But this isn't a one-night scam. This is a partnership measured in decades. Profit. Chaos. Fun." He extended his hand, palm up—an invitation and a dare. "So. Do we have a deal?"
She canted her head, vines rustling. A secretive smile ghosted across her lips, and the trees themselves seemed to lean closer.
"Why bother with mortal contracts," she purred, "when the gods have already bound us in ways you can't begin to understand?"
Heat flared in her gaze—challenge, hunger, the promise of ruin.
Gandalf's pulse thundered, but he didn't look away. "Paper makes me feel better," he said quietly. Then, slowly, he sank to one knee in the moss, took her hand, and pressed his lips to her knuckles. Her skin was cool silk kissed by morning dew. "Or you can take a witcher's word."
Silence fell so complete he could hear the distant drip of sap and the frantic beat of his own heart.
*For a woman like this,* he thought dizzily, *I'd import capitalism straight into paradise and call it a fair trade.*
He rose, meeting her stare. "Well, partner… shall we begin?"
Her smile was enigmatic—neither acceptance nor refusal, but something far more intoxicating.
"I don't sign contracts," she said, voice cold enough to frost the leaves. "I rule this forest. I bow to no parchment, no man."
The forest, however, had other ideas.
Ancient boughs groaned. Roots shifted beneath their feet like waking serpents. Golden threads of light erupted from the earth, writhing upward to weave around their joined hands—living vines of pure radiance that pulsed with ancient power.
She jerked back, eyes wide. "What—"
The threads only tightened, braiding into a glowing seal that burned without pain.
Gandalf stared in wonder. "A contract," he breathed.
"No!" Fury ignited in her eyes, green fire blazing. "I did not consent!"
"Maybe not," he said softly, "but your forest did. Looks like it's tired of watching you be miserable."
On her wrist bloomed a mark: a golden coin overgrown with living roots. On his, the same coin wreathed in licking flames. The symbols flared once—bright as sunrise—then sank into their skin, leaving warm brands that throbbed like second heartbeats.
The forest exhaled and settled, satisfied.
She stared at him, rage and wonder warring across her perfect face.
"You have no idea what you've done," she whispered. "This bond isn't mine to break. The forest chose for both of us."
Gandalf's grin was pure rogue. "What's capitalism without a little divine hostile takeover?"
As if in answer, the forest roared.
From every shadow, every hollow root, monsters poured forth—grotesque fusions of bark and rot, slime and fang. Eyes glowed sickly green; claws scraped stone. Dozens became hundreds, a silent, relentless tide of nightmare.
Her voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "First test. The forest culls weak partnerships."
"Test?" He drew his silver sword, the blade singing free. "I was hoping our first dividend would be exciting."
She shot him a look—pure venom laced with reluctant admiration—and raised her hands. Leaves whirled into storms of razor-edged emerald.
"Then try to keep up, business partner."
They fought back-to-back, a symphony of steel and sorcery. Power surged between them like lightning seeking ground—his strikes suddenly faster, stronger; her magic pouring into his veins like wildfire. Vines lashed out at her command, crushing bone; his blade ignited with forest-green flame, turning monsters to ash mid-scream. They moved as one organism, perfect and terrifying.
Sweat stung his eyes. Muscles screamed. Yet euphoria flooded him, bright and intoxicating. The contract didn't merely bind—it elevated, fused them into something greater than the sum of their parts.
When the last creature crumbled into smoking ruin, silence returned, deeper and richer than before. Sunlight speared through the canopy in triumphant golden columns.
She stood beside him, chest heaving, hair plastered to her temples with sweat and monster ichor, yet still impossibly regal.
"The forest accepts you," she said quietly. "Though I still never agreed to any of this."
"Your forest did," he replied, sheathing his sword. "Looks like we're stuck with each other."
She studied him for a long, unreadable moment. Anger melted into exhaustion, then into something warmer—curiosity, perhaps the first fragile thread of trust.
"Be careful, Gandalf of Rivia," she warned, voice low and dangerous. "Power always comes with a price here."
He flashed a reckless grin. "Good. I've never trusted a deal that didn't bite back a little."
Above them the canopy parted fully. Blinding, glorious sunlight poured down, gilding the ancient trees in molten gold.
The contract was sealed in living light.
The trial was passed.
And their game—wild, perilous, and utterly inevitable—had only just begun.
Here you go — smooth, clear, and lightly humorous, fitting your tone:
Gandalf of Rivia suddenly wondered how the Forest Queen even knew anything about witchers. Had he blurted it out in some drunken ramble? Or… something else? Whatever the reason, it didn't matter much anymore.
– – –
"Hey. How's it going? How's life treating you?"
My second self materialized out of thin air like a bad habit and flopped onto the corner of my desk, one leg swinging lazily. The motion sent a stack of reports sliding; I caught the inkwell just before it tipped.
I squeezed the quill so hard the nib nearly snapped.
"…Still with the small talk from the old world," I muttered. "Even here it feels like mockery."
"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the empire," he said, tilting his head. His eyes glinted with that familiar, infuriating mischief.
"Just… don't remind me of that place." I leaned back. The chair groaned in sympathy. "No 'how are you,' no 'how's life.' None of it."
"Fine. Business, then." He snapped his fingers. A shimmering hologram of the city blossomed in the air between us. "How many idle hands do you have? I need bodies."
"Ten. Maybe eleven if you count the one with the limp." I stared at the glowing districts, the half-built walls, the empty plots waiting for roofs. "Everyone else is on the fortifications."
"Ten," he echoed, spinning the number in the air until it shattered into sparks. "That's… cute. All right. Next problem: how do we screw over the Garden Empire without them noticing until it's too late?"
I allowed myself a thin smile and pulled a thick folder from the drawer.
"Deception is our native language. Leave Garden to me. You build. The Mirai Empire rises from nothing, and it rises fast."
"Easy for you to say," he snorted. "You've got that broken 'Supreme Luck' cheat code. All I've got is stubbornness and a bad attitude."
He fell quiet for a beat, then the corner of his mouth curled—something darker than bravado flickering behind it.
"Though maybe that's better. The more blood and sweat you pour in, the sweeter it tastes when you finally stand on top of the corpse pile."
I didn't answer. I just looked at him and felt the strange, hollow echo where the old demon used to live.
Rising, I crossed to the window. Outside, the city was a symphony of hammers, shouts, and grinding stone. Chaos, yes—but chaos with rhythm. The heartbeat of something new.
"Do what has to be done," I said without turning. "Don't chase perfection; it will find you when it's ready. And never be ashamed of this ugly little thing we're raising. The more of yourself you give it, the more beautiful it becomes."
"Yes, master," he drawled, sweeping into an exaggerated bow. Then he dissolved into black mist, voice trailing behind him like smoke: "Enjoy your rest… if a man like you still remembers how."
> Interface: Status Update
> Empire of Mirai – Development Level: 2 / 1,000,000