The guildmaster's office looked the same as the first time I walked in:
big windows, polished floor, furniture that screamed "I'm rich, please notice."
But this time?
I wasn't here to take a test.
I was here because something I'd done rattled the whole damn building.
He sat behind his desk, steepling his fingers, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"Montig," he said, smiling a little too warmly. "Take a seat."
I sat.
The silver-badge woman — her name tag said Risenne — stood behind him, arms crossed, staring at me like she expected me to start juggling bombs.
"Do you know why I called you?" the guildmaster asked.
"No," I lied.
He chuckled. "Honesty. Refreshing."
I smiled politely.
He leaned back. "Chaos has erupted across several departments. Discrepancies. Missing records. Strange reporting mistakes. Rivals accusing each other. Even a minor warehouse scandal."
I shrugged. "Sounds stressful."
Risenne narrowed her eyes.
The guildmaster ignored her.
"I'm curious, Montig," he continued, "what do you think of all this internal disorder?"
I answered simply:
"Sounds like the guild needs new management."
Risenne actually inhaled sharply.
The guildmaster froze.
Then—
He laughed.
Hard.
"Marvelous!" he said. "A child with a spine."
Risenne whispered, "He's dangerous."
"Good," the guildmaster said.
Wait.
Good?
What kind of boss likes internal chaos!?
This was a dangerous man.
My favorite kind.
The Guildmaster's Agenda
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming.
"Montig, the Seawave Guild looks powerful from the outside. But inside? We are a rusted machine held together by fear and paperwork."
Risenne frowned. "Sir, don't say that to a recruit—"
"Hush," he said.
She glared but fell silent.
Then he pointed at me.
"I need someone with no alliances.
No loyalties.
No history.
No fear of stepping on toes."
I raised an eyebrow. "And you think that's me?"
He nodded.
"I think you're either the luckiest idiot alive… or you've been poking our structure on purpose."
He didn't say it angrily.
He said it like someone discovering an exotic animal.
"So," he said softly, "which one are you?"
I smiled.
"Why can't I be both?"
Risenne whispered, "Oh gods, he's bold."
The guildmaster smirked.
"Montig, I want you in the heart of the guild.
Not the outskirts.
Not the delivery errands.
I'm assigning you to the Trade Analysis Department."
My heart jolted.
Trade Analysis.
The place where ALL data passed through.
The brain of the guild.
The perfect place to kill it quietly.
"I accept," I said immediately.
Risenne facepalmed. "Of course he does."
The guildmaster extended a hand.
I shook it.
"Welcome to the table of fools," he said.
The Department of Idiots
Trade Analysis wasn't impressive.
It was a giant room full of charts, papers, buzzing crystals, and exhausted workers who looked like they'd been awake since the last century.
Their supervisor, a fat man with a sweating forehead, shook my hand limply.
"Montig, right? Welcome. Sit anywhere. Just don't question anything."
I sat.
And questioned everything.
Their methods were sloppy.
Their notes were messy.
Their numbers were outdated.
Their predictions were guesswork.
Their charts were ugly.
It was like watching a group of toddlers trying to calculate taxes.
Perfect.
I quietly introduced myself to the team, pretended to be clueless, and observed.
Within an hour, I learned:
They didn't cross-verify shipments.
They didn't check for double entries.
They didn't compare past trends with new reports.
They didn't even update half their data.
Two guys were literally drawing circles on a parchment and calling it "trend analysis."
I wanted to scream.
But instead, I leaned back and smiled.
Predators don't get angry.
Predators get excited.
The Gentle Push
I didn't sabotage anything.
Not directly.
I just "helped" in ways that made everyone else look like idiots.
"Sir, did you mean to write 120 crates? It says 1020 here."
"Ma'am, isn't this merchant dead? Why are we still logging him?"
"Excuse me, but this number is upside down."
"Why is there a fish doodle in the revenue chart?"
Every correction caused arguments.
Every argument caused someone to check old records.
Every record check revealed more mistakes.
Trade Analysis imploded without me lifting a finger.
Within three days—
The supervisor had a breakdown.
Two analysts were suspended.
A minor trade route paused operations.
A merchant accused the guild of incompetence.
And the guildmaster?
He sent me a note:
"Excellent work."
Risenne sent a second note:
"Stop causing disasters."
Guess whose note I listened to?
Neither.
I was too busy sharpening my next blade.
The Feeding Frenzy Begins
Once the department was unstable, I moved to my next phase:
Pattern Control.
Not "data analysis."
Not "market insight."
Pattern. Control.
Meaning:
If the guild expected X, I fed them X.
If the guild feared Y, I fed them Y.
If the guild wanted Z, I fed them Z.
I didn't change the system.
I changed their expectations.
And expectations shape everything.
Soon:
Officers were acting on predictions I fed them.
Merchants adjusted prices based on my suggestions.
Warehouse orders shifted.
Stock allocations moved.
Even Risenne started double-checking her own reports because of me.
Nobody noticed the quiet kid connecting everyone's mistakes.
But the mistakes kept happening.
Funny how that works.
But Someone Saw
Three days later, while I was working late, I felt someone watching me.
I turned.
Risenne stood behind me, silent, sharp-eyed.
"You're too calm for all this chaos," she said quietly.
I shrugged. "Chaos makes good tea."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. I stole this tea."
Her lips twitched like she wanted to laugh but refused to give me the satisfaction.
Then she leaned closer.
"Listen carefully, Montig. I don't know what game you're playing… but the guild has survived for decades. You won't break it."
I met her gaze.
"Who said I'm here to break it?"
Her eyes narrowed.
She didn't believe me.
Good.
She shouldn't.
Because I wasn't here to break the guild.
I was here to consume it.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Bite by bite.
Risenne stepped back, her voice low.
"You're dangerous."
And I smiled.
"Not yet," I said softly.
"But I will be."