There's an old saying:
"Power is information."
Bullshit.
Power is money.
Money moves people.
People move systems.
Systems move nations.
And the Seawave Guild?
It was a giant, bloated creature stuffed with money in every artery.
I wanted to see those arteries.
Then I wanted to choke them until the guild begged for air.
Gaining Access the Stupid Way
To get into the guild's financial records, I needed permission.
Not "official access."
Not "authorization paperwork."
No.
I needed the key, held by the man who managed the treasury floor.
A man named Barlum.
Barlum was fat, sweaty, paranoid, and had the personality of a soggy potato. He guarded financial data like it was holy scripture.
So how did I get his keys?
I didn't hack.
I didn't steal.
I didn't sneak.
I waited.
And when he stood up to take his daily toilet break — which happened at exactly 3:40 PM every day — I simply said:
"Sir, you dropped this."
He looked down.
I pointed in the opposite direction.
He bent forward.
His keys fell out.
I stepped on them.
He didn't notice.
He waddled into the bathroom.
I waited three seconds.
Then casually walked away with his entire life hanging from a metal ring.
"Security," I muttered, "brought to you by human stupidity."
Inside the Belly of the Beast
The treasury floor smelled like ink, dust, and fear.
Tables covered in thick ledgers.
Stacks of documents piled like walls.
Guards patrolling lazily, yawning.
Nobody paid attention to the teenage kid holding papers.
Perfect.
I found a quiet corner and opened the ledgers.
Then the real horror began.
There were:
fake entries
duplicated purchases
missing expenses
"lost cargo" recorded six times
merchants who paid twice
officers who never paid
taxes "delayed" for months
a whole list of "miscellaneous losses" suspiciously consistent
The Seawave Guild wasn't just sloppy.
It was bleeding money from every possible hole.
If money was blood, then this guild was an old man having twelve heart attacks at once.
I actually laughed.
"Holy shit. You idiots are killing yourselves."
And then the system chimed.
Ping.
[Progress Update: Guild Consumption 9%]
You have located a major internal weakness.
Exploit it.]
Oh, I planned to.
The First Cut
I didn't expose anything.
That would've been loud, messy, and stupid.
Instead, I did something much more dangerous:
I corrected a few entries.
Just a few.
Just enough.
The kind of corrections that made it look like someone inside the guild was sabotaging the finances.
A "mistake" here.
A "missing payment" there.
A "misrecorded amount" slipped into the ledger.
All tiny.
All harmless alone.
But together?
They formed a pattern.
The next morning, Barlum came screaming from his office.
"WHO DID THIS!? WHO TOUCHED MY BOOKS!?"
Officers panicked.
Clerks fainted.
Rumors exploded.
And I sat quietly at my desk, stamping forms.
Risenne stormed into the treasury department demanding answers.
Nobody had any.
But one thing was clear:
Someone inside the guild was messing with money.
Someone clever.
Someone invisible.
Someone dangerous.
And nobody suspected the quiet kid drinking stolen tea.
Montig's Little Puppet Theatre
Once the treasury was in chaos, I began "helping" people.
Not for kindness.
For leverage.
If an officer struggled with numbers, I corrected them subtly — wrong in ways that benefited me later.
If a clerk was drowning in paperwork, I offered to organize it — reorganizing it in a way that placed me at the center of all information traffic.
If a merchant asked for advice, I gave "small tips" that influenced their future decisions.
Tiny pushes.
Tiny nudges.
And every nudge connected back to me.
Within a week:
Three officers started relying on my predictions.
Two clerks reported numbers based on my suggestions.
A mid-level merchant adjusted his stock flow because of my advice.
The treasury began expecting my version of "corrected" entries.
I wasn't controlling the guild.
I was controlling the people who controlled the guild.
Quietly.
Softly.
Like threading strings through a puppet's limbs.
Risenne Knocks Again
Of course she noticed.
She always did.
Three days after the treasury chaos, she approached my desk.
"Montig."
I didn't look up. "Yes, Miss Scary Silver Badge?"
"Stop calling me that."
"Sorry. Risenne."
She pulled up a chair and sat next to me — which she had never done before.
"Tell me something," she said. "Why is every department reporting weird improvements and weird disasters at the same time?"
I shrugged. "Coincidence?"
"Don't bullshit me."
I sighed. "Fine. Maybe everyone's just incompetent."
"That's the problem," she hissed. "They're incompetent in ways that BENEFIT you."
I froze internally.
But outside?
I shrugged again. "Lucky idiot?"
She leaned closer.
Her voice was low.
"Montig… if you keep doing whatever the hell you're doing, someone other than me is going to notice. And when they do? You're done."
I met her gaze.
"Then make sure they don't notice."
She blinked.
"…Are you asking me to cover for you?"
"No," I said. "I'm asking you to watch. I want you to see what I become."
She exhaled sharply.
"Damn it… you're either a genius or a walking disaster."
I smiled.
"Why not both?"
She stood up.
"Fine. I'll watch you."
"But if you slip up… I won't save you."
"Wouldn't want you to," I said.
She paused.
And then—
"You're dangerous, Montig Levan."
I grinned.
"Good. I'd hate to be boring."
The Quiet Feast Continues
That night, as I left the guild building, the system chimed again.
Ping.
[Progress Update: Guild Consumption 12%]
You are no longer eating the guild.
You are digesting it.]
I laughed in the empty street.
"Good," I whispered. "Let the feast begin."