A few minutes later…
I woke up to the sensation of something soft and rhythmic moving through my hair. I opened one eye. Helga's worried face was hovering inches from mine, her red lips pouting in concern. But the hands... The hands belonged to Elsa.
The Elf was massaging my scalp with a focused intensity, her fingers cool and nimble. On Earth, I would have paid fifty bucks for a male spa treatment like this. Here? My internal alarm was screaming RED ALERT, but a small blue window in the corner of my vision was whispering something else.
[NOTIFICATION: ELVEN SCALP THERAPY +20 VP!]
Twenty points just for a head rub? I thought, my brain struggling between "Panic" and "Profit." If she moves to the neck, I might be able to afford a microwave by Friday.
"Oh, thank the Heavens, he's breathing!" Helga cried, then suddenly slapped Elsa's hand away. "Stop! Elsa, you fool! Did you forget? The boy is allergic to the touch of a woman! You'll massage him right into his grave!"
Elsa bolted upright so fast she nearly took out a ceiling beam. "I—I apologize! I was merely trying to stabilize his cerebral mana flow!" She looked at her hands as if they were covered in poison, her rainbow hair flickering to a panicked shade of neon yellow.
I took a deep, shaky breath, the panic receding as the "Profit" part of my brain took the wheel. I wanted to smile—honestly, I wanted to tell her to keep going for another fifty points—but I had a reputation to maintain as a "Fragile Divine Genius."
I rubbed my temples, sitting up slowly. This was my life now. I had a literal mountain of gold coins piled on a table, a high-voltage taser on my hip, a pair of "Divine" pliers, and two business partners who were currently stroking a piece of greasy plastic packaging like it was a newborn kitten.
"I'm fine," I grunted, trying to sound manly and mysterious instead of "just-woke-up-from-a-perfume-induced-coma."
The atmosphere in the shop hadn't just changed; it had completely inverted. Barnaby and Herbert—were now hovering around me with smiles so polite they were actually terrifying.
Herbert, a massive wall of a man with a bald head that caught the lamplight like a polished dome, was currently stooped over, gingerly dusting the legs of my chair with a silk cloth. It was a bizarre sight. This was a man with muscles like a seasoned warrior, a guy who had spent years as a mercenary in the deepest, darkest dungeons until a mysterious curse during an exploration rendered his sword-hand useless. He was a lone wolf, living in a cramped room off the kitchen, but right now, he was acting like my personal valet.
"Can I get you more wine, Arthur?" Herbert asked. His voice, usually a gravelly rumble, was dripping with a desperate, syrupy sweetness that made my skin crawl.
"I'm fine," I said, leaning back and crossing my legs. I felt like a mob boss, except my "bodyguards" were a broken mercenary and a half-blind messenger.
Then there was Barnaby. He was standing a few feet away, watching me with his one good eye—the other was a milky, clouded orb that saw nothing. He was a man of few words, a former royal messenger who had once galloped across the kingdom carrying the Queen's own seal. Now, he was a widower with two kids to feed, living in the tiny shack behind the shop. He didn't hover like Herbert, but the way he adjusted my cloak and kept my glass filled told me everything I needed to know.
I was no longer the "skinny brat." I was the source. I was the golden goose.
"You look tired, lad," Barnaby grunted, his voice softening. "The burden of divinity must be heavy on such young shoulders."
I almost snorted my wine. The burden of divinity? I was just a guy with an Amazon prime account and a serious case of social anxiety. But looking at these two—men who had been discarded by the world because of an injury or an aging eye—I felt a weird prickle of responsibility. They weren't just being greedy; they were looking at me like I was a life raft in a very stormy sea.
"It's not that heavy, Barnaby," I said, my sass mellowing out into something a bit more grounded. "Just make sure the door is locked. I'm not in the mood for any more 'admirers' tonight."
I watched them scramble to obey. A few days ago, I was sleeping in a stable. Tonight, I had a private apartment, gold, and two of the toughest-looking "servants" in the district.
I took a slow sip of the expensive wine, feeling the burn of the alcohol and the thrill of the power shift. I was the smartest person in the room, the richest person in the shop, and soon, I'd be the most dangerous person in the city.
"Herbert," I called out as the big man finished polishing my left chair leg.
"Yes, Arthur?" he beamed.
"Find out who's been asking questions about the 'Orange Dust' in the taverns tonight. I want names, and I want to know who they work for."
The mercenary in him woke up instantly. His useless hand stayed tucked in his belt, but his eyes sharpened. "Consider it done."
I stood up, ignoring the way Barnaby was staring at me with a mix of awe and genuine terror. "Just... ignore whatever I'm doing in the air. It's part of the 'Internal Logic' ritual."
I reached into my utility bag and pulled out the phone. I heard the collective intake of breath from everyone in the room. To them, the sleek leather and metal zipper of a modern utility bag was the pinnacle of forbidden technology.
But I know they couldn't see the phone I might as well, tapping the air.
I swiped the screen open, my thumb dancing over the icons.
[Current Balance: 200 VP] (The hug had been a goldmine, apparently. Who knew getting smothered by your boss was so lucrative?)
I stared at the "Snack" category, my eyes landing on the Flamin' Hot Cheetos. If a regular bag made them hallucinate and double their mana, the spicy ones would probably turn them into literal dragons.
"Venus," I whispered to the screen, a dark, sassy smirk playing on my lips. "Whatever you're charging for the 'Flamin' Hot' bags next time... make it double. These people are absolutely mental, and I'm about to be the richest 'allergic' beggar in history."
I looked up at Rufus, who was currently performing a dedicated study of his own reflection. One moment he was tilting his head to see his braided beard in the shiny silver interior of the bag, and the next he was admiring how his rugged features looked through the translucent neon-orange plastic.
It was a surreal sight. This man was a legend—one of the most renowned blacksmiths in the entire kingdom. He was the master of the Great Smithy, a man who forged the blades of heroes. Beyond his craft, he was famously married to a beautiful high elf, a woman he spoke of with such booming pride it usually made everyone within a three-block radius feel single and lonely. He was a titan of industry, a family man, and currently, he was acting like a magpie that had just found a piece of tinfoil.