Well, that works in my favor, Aren thought, a cold satisfaction settling in his chest.
He quickly suppressed the flickers of shock at the sheer magnitude of the wealth. Leaning toward the counter, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur that reached only the clerk's ears.
"Convert this account into anonymous bearer checks," he commanded. "And purge every record of this transaction that links it to the Donovan name."
Then, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping an octave.
"Also… where would a 'talented' individual go to register as a Nyx—one who prefers to bypass the stifling bureaucracy of the official guilds?"
At this, the clerk's quill froze. For the first time, he lifted his head, his runic spectacles magnifying eyes that scanned Aren from head to toe with clinical precision.
"Sir," the clerk replied, his voice a low rasp. "If you seek my counsel, you should look toward the Soren Academy."
"Soren Academy?"
"Your name has been cleared, but you walk a razor's edge. Even the slightest misstep will turn every arrow back toward your throat," the clerk said calmly.
"Official channels provide the best armor. Attend the Academy; hide in plain sight."
The clerk withdrew a crystal panel from beneath the counter.
"Please place your wrist here, Mr. Donovan."
As Aren extended his left arm, the silver runes etched into the metal band around his wrist—the Aureus—began to glow.
With a faint, melodic hum, the runes spun and shifted, responding to the clerk's touch on the crystal. Suddenly, a shimmering gold number flickered into Aren's field of vision, visible to him alone:
[Balance: 10,000 Solaris]
"Transaction approved," the clerk stated flatly.
"All master access codes tethered to the Donovan family have been incinerated. This account has been converted to a shadow account, bound exclusively to your soul signature."
When Aren withdrew his arm, the floating numbers dissolved into motes of light, flowing back into the silver runes.
His entire fortune was now anchored to his wrist—hidden within a digital vault that defied the physical world.
In this world, the Aureus functioned as both a purse and an identity, bound to a person's soul trace through the ether.
It was a private, miniature fortress of wealth that no thief could breach and no government could seize without the owner's consent.
Aren had to fight the urge to grin. Beryl's "bribe" was more than a fortune; it was the fuel for a revolution.
The economy of this world was anchored in three metals: Solaris for gold, Argentum for silver, and Lumen for bronze.
The Solaris was the highest denomination, a gold coin embossed with the radiant emblem of the sun.
Below it was the Argentum, marked with a spear and shield, and finally the Lumen, stamped with a humble ear of grain.
One Solaris was worth twenty Argentum, and a single Argentum was exchanged for twelve Lumen.
To put his fortune in perspective, an unskilled laborer earned a monthly wage of eight to twelve Argentum.
A regular clerk made twenty-five to thirty. A newly initiated Nyx, however, could command between two and five Solaris a month. By that math, weren't ten thousand Solaris wasn't just wealth—it was an era of prosperity.
A few streets away from the central bank, Aren entered a boutique where the window displays showcased fabrics that were elegant but deliberately understated.
At the chime of the doorbell, an elderly tailor looked up. He began to frown at Aren's battered, disheveled appearance, but the expression withered the moment Aren placed a single Argentum on the counter. Money, it seemed, was the universal language of respect.
After securing a bundle of fresh clothes, Aren sought out a luxurious bathhouse frequented by the city's elite. For a handful of Lumen, he rented a private chamber.
As he stepped beneath the cascading hot water, he felt the accumulated trauma of the past few weeks drain from his very marrow.
The damp stench of the dungeon. Serena's venomous gaze in the courtroom. Beryl's frigid dismissal. All of it dissolved in the steam and flowed away, disappearing into the dark iron drain.
He wiped the condensation from the mirror and looked at his reflection. His face was gaunt and pale—the ghost of a prisoner—but his crimson eyes, gleaming like polished bloodstones, burned with a terrifying, unwavering resolve.
After the long day, he spent the night in the quiet luxury of the bathhouse. By the next morning, fully renewed, he arrived at the Nyx Registration Center.
Located far from the city's heart, it nevertheless radiated a heavy, cold authority that reached into every surrounding corner.
The building's architecture bore no resemblance to the ornate Gothic structures of the Kingdom. An octagonal monolith of brushed black metal and dark glass, it resembled a modern fortress rather than a government office.
At each of its eight corners, massive energy crystals stretched toward the sky, pulsing with a rhythmic glow as they fed the building's defensive wards.
Inside, a vast lobby with soaring ceilings greeted him. The floor was paved with runic panels that flickered with a faint, ghostly light beneath each step.
At the exact center of the hall, officials worked behind a circular counter, their faces obscured by floating holographic displays.
Following the neon-blue signs toward the "Registration Division," Aren approached the main desk.
A woman with a metallic tattoo circling her neck sat behind it, her fingers dancing across the interface panels in a blur of motion. Without looking up, she spoke:
"First and last name?"
Aren hesitated. He had no intention of dragging the name Donovan into this sanctuary of shadows.
His only remaining tie to that dynasty was the digital fortune anchored to his wrist. He smiled faintly, speaking the name that belonged to his true identity—from his original world.
"Rayne. Just... Aren Rayne."
The woman's fingers tapped out the characters with practiced efficiency.
"Rayne… There is no house or clan under that name in our records. A free name?"
"Completely free," Aren replied, his voice carrying a playful, dangerous edge.