The mercenaries woke up with the disciplined snap of men who were used to sleeping in armor. There was no groaning, no rubbing of eyes. One second, they were under the influence of the [Slumbering Poppy Pollen]; the next, they were awake, adrenaline spiking, hands reaching instinctively for daggers and wands that were no longer within reach.
Then, the reality of their situation clamped down on them like the steel links binding their wrists.
They were lined up on the deck of their own ship, The Gilded Eel, bathed in the pale light of the crescent moon. The river water lapped gently against the hull, a serene counterpoint to the tension wire that had just pulled tight across the deck.
Garrick was the first to fully assess the tactical board. He shook his head, clearing the last of the magical fog, and looked up.
He saw the night sky. He saw the familiar rigging of his ship. And he saw the figure standing on the starboard railing, silhouetted against the stars.
It was a man in a black cloak, wearing a simple wooden mask that looked like it had been carved by a child, yet carried the presence of an executioner. The figure stood perfectly still, arms crossed, watching them with the unblinking patience of a hawk.
Garrick checked his internal state. He pushed his mana. It hit a wall—the suppression seals of the [Magic-Sealing Chains] wrapped around his chest. He looked down. Resting on his lap was a grimoire. It looked like his grimoire—the same water-stained leather cover—but it felt... different. Heavier. Warm.
I'm alive, Garrick thought, his mind racing through the checklist of a career criminal. The ship isn't burning. My men aren't bleeding out. The cargo hold hasn't been tossed.
He looked back at Lencar. He saw the relaxed posture. He saw the utter lack of killing intent.
Garrick had been in this business for twenty years. He knew how raids worked. When the Magic Knights boarded you, they shouted about laws and justice. When a rival gang boarded you, they slit throats first and asked questions later.
But this? This quiet, orderly lineup? This was... management.
Lencar stepped down from the railing. His boots made a soft thud on the deck. He opened his mouth to deliver the speech he had prepared—the one about "submit or burn," the one that had terrified the Red Hoods and broken the Mud Dogs.
"Listen closely," Lencar began, his voice distorted and deep, projecting authority. "Your lives are currently—"
"We surrender," Garrick interrupted.
The words hung in the air, cutting off Lencar's monologue like a guillotine.
Lencar paused. He blinked behind his mask, genuinely thrown off balance. He tilted his head. "Excuse me?"
"We surrender," Garrick repeated, his voice raspy from the pollen but steady as a rock. "Everything on the ship is yours. The gold in the chest. The artifacts wrapped in velvet. The spice crates in the hold. We yield. You win."
Garrick looked to his left and right at his confused crew. "Boys, stand down. Don't try anything stupid. Don't insult the man."
The crew, hardened killers who had likely slit throats for copper pieces in the past, looked at their captain. They saw the seriousness in his eyes. They saw the chains. They saw the masked man who had apparently taken out the entire ship without waking a soul.
They nodded in unison, shoulders slumping. "Aye, Captain."
Garrick shifted as much as the chains would allow, trying to get into a kneeling position to show respect.
"We are mercenaries, sir," Garrick explained, looking Lencar dead in the eye holes of the mask. "We fight for profit. Dying is bad for profit. Fighting a man who can breach a sensory ward, take out two lookouts, and bind thirteen mages without making a sound? That's bad for profit."
He took a breath, calculating his next words carefully.
"You didn't kill us while we slept. That means you want something. Dead men can't fetch, and dead men can't smuggle. So, whatever you want... we work for you now."
Lencar stared at them.
For a moment, the mask hid a look of genuine, baffled surprise.
He thought of Pyre and the Red Hoods. They were fanatics. They needed a cause, a sermon, a reason to believe they were part of a "grand purification." He had to play the role of a harsh god to control them.
He thought of Grog and the Mud Dogs. They were animals. They respected only pain and fear. He had to burn a man alive to get them to heel.
And now, Garrick and the Mercenaries.
Businessmen, Lencar realized, a dark amusement curling in his chest. They are pragmatic. They ran the numbers. Variables: 13 bound mages vs. 1 unknown elite. Probability of victory: 0%. Outcome: Yield and negotiate.
It was refreshing. It was logical. It was exactly how Kenji Tanaka would have operated in a hostile corporate takeover.
"You..." Lencar started, then let out a short, dry chuckle that echoed strangely across the water. "You are much smarter than you look, Garrick."
"I try, sir," Garrick said with a grim smile. "The smart ones live longer. The brave ones end up in the river."
Lencar looked at the kneeling men. They weren't shaking with uncontrollable terror like the bandits. They were tense, yes, but they were waiting for orders. They were waiting for the new contract to be drafted.
"Different tools for different jobs," Lencar mused to himself.
He waved his hand.
"Release."
The steel chains glowing with suppression runes didn't just fall off; they dissolved. They turned into particles of silver light that drifted away on the breeze.
The mercenaries rubbed their wrists, grimacing as the circulation returned. They stood up slowly, dusting off their trousers. They didn't attack. They didn't run. They picked up their "Reverse Grimoires"—completely unaware that the books were now terminals linked to Lencar's soul—and held them with a mix of relief and confusion.
"Can you sense your magic?" Lencar asked.
Garrick flared his mana. A watery aura surrounded him, swirling with a faint, dark current. He frowned, flexing his fingers.
"Loud and clear, boss," Garrick said, looking at his hands. "Feels... cleaner, actually. Like someone scrubbed the rust off the pipes."
Lencar smiled behind the mask. Of course it does. You're running on my Mana Control now. You've been upgraded from a carriage horse to a racehorse.
"Good," Lencar said. "Here are the terms of your employment."
He walked over to the crate of gold he had left on the deck. He kicked it lightly with his boot.
"You keep the gold," Lencar said.
The silence on the deck was absolute. A few of the mercenaries' jaws actually dropped. Garrick's eyes widened, his composure cracking for the first time.
"Sir?" Garrick asked, thinking he had misheard.
"I don't need Yuls. I have plenty," Lencar lied effortlessly. "I'm not a thief. I'm a collector."
He pointed a gloved finger at Garrick.
"You will continue to smuggle. You will run your routes. You will keep your cover. To the rest of the underworld, nothing has changed. The Gilded Eel is still Garrick's ship."
Lencar leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried to every man on the deck.
"But from now on, you prioritize magic artifacts. Scrolls, weapons, gems, cursed items. The things the Noble Realm throws away or bans. You gather them."
He stepped back, spreading his arms.
"When you have enough, I will come to collect. And in exchange... you keep your lives. You keep your profits. And you get my protection."
Garrick looked at the gold, then at Lencar, then at his men. This wasn't just a reprieve; it was a promotion. A boss who didn't want a cut of the money? A boss who only wanted the weird magical junk that was usually hard to fence anyway?
"Done," Garrick said instantly. "We have a deal, boss. This is... generous."
"It's efficient," Lencar corrected. "What do we call you?" Garrick asked.
"You don't," Lencar said. "I'll find you."
He walked up to Garrick. The smuggler captain flinched slightly but held his ground. Lencar placed a hand on the man's shoulder, acting like he was brushing off some dust from the scuffle earlier.
Tap.
From inside the [Void Vault], Lencar activated the [Far-Speaker's Mirror].
It was a delicate piece of magic. Through the contact of the ring, a small, invisible mana seal burned itself onto Garrick's shoulder. It didn't hurt. Garrick didn't even flinch. But the connection was made. Lencar could now hear him. He could now find him.
"Garrick," Lencar said, keeping his hand on the shoulder. "You will continue to be the leader on the surface. But never forget who holds the leash."
Garrick nodded, unaware of the magical tag. "Understood. We're a ghost ship. We report only to you."
"I have already marked you," Lencar bluffed—though it was true now. "I can hear what you say. I can find where you go. And just so we're clear on the consequences of a breach of contract..."
Lencar stepped back. He looked Garrick in the eye.
He snapped his fingers.
Protocol 2: Remote Shutdown.
Execute.
For a split second, Lencar severed the flow of mana from his Soul Gem to the Reverse Grimoires.
The effect was visceral.
Garrick gasped. His eyes rolled back. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the deck as if his strings had been cut. It wasn't just that he couldn't cast spells; it was the sudden, total absence of the life force that every mage takes for granted. It was the feeling of being hollowed out.
The crew collapsed too, clutching their chests, gasping for air that suddenly felt too thin.
One second. Two seconds.
Lencar snapped his fingers again.
Restore.
The mana rushed back in.
Garrick inhaled sharply, a ragged, desperate sound, like a drowning man breaking the surface. He scrambled backward on the deck, staring at Lencar with pure, unadulterated terror. The pragmatic confidence was gone.
"What..." Garrick wheezed, clutching his grimoire like a lifeline. "What did you do?"
"I turned off the lights," Lencar said coldly. "If you try to run to the Diamond Kingdom... if you try to sell me out to the Magic Knights... you won't just lose your magic. You will lose everything."
Garrick trembled. He understood now. The "cleaner" magic came with a price. He wasn't just working for this man; he belonged to him.
"I... I understand," Garrick whispered, bowing his head until it touched the deck planks. "No running. No betrayal. Only working."
"We understand!" the crew echoed, terrified.
"Good."
Lencar stepped back. He looked at the crew one last time. They were shaken, but they were alive. They had their gold. They would recover. And fear was a potent preservative for loyalty.
"Get back to work," Lencar ordered.
He turned his back to them. He walked to the center of the deck, where the moonlight was brightest.
He didn't walk away. He simply activated his [Spatial Magic].
"[Coordinate Shift]."
The air around him warped. Space folded in on itself.
To the mercenaries watching with wide eyes, it looked like the man in the black cloak simply imploded into nothingness. One second he was there, a pillar of darkness; the next, he was gone, leaving only the empty air and the sound of the river.
The deck was silent for a long minute.
Garrick slowly pushed himself up to his knees, then his feet. He rubbed his shoulder where the invisible mark lay, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the night.
He looked at his crew. They were looking at him, waiting for the panic to set in.
"Well," Garrick said, forcing a steady tone into his voice. He smoothed down his silk shirt. "You heard the man. Stow the cargo. Lock the gold in the safe."
"Cap?" one of the younger mercenaries asked, his voice shaking. "Who... what was that?"
Garrick looked at the spot where Lencar had vanished. He thought about the deal. He thought about the gold. And he thought about the feeling of the void.
"That," Garrick said, "was our new partner. And we are going to make him very, very happy. Because I don't ever want the lights to go out again."
He clapped his hands. "Move! We have a schedule to keep! The Gilded Eel doesn't sleep!"
The crew scrambled into action, finding comfort in the routine of work.
Miles away, high in the air above the forest, Lencar reappeared. He hovered for a moment, looking back toward the river. He felt the connection—thirteen golden threads humming in the back of his mind.
He checked his inventory.
5 Artifacts secured.
13 Mages recruited.
0 Casualties.
Lencar Abarame smiled beneath his mask. It wasn't a hero's smile. It was the smile of a man who had just closed the merger of the century.
"Phase Two complete," he whispered to the wind. "Now... let's see what these artifacts can do."
He turned toward Nairn and vanished into the night.