Lich for Hire

The tension between Lyon and the Unholy Kingdom continued to mount.

The death of the Leonine General Roger Ángelo had not cooled the conflict. If anything, Lyon had deployed even more forces along the border in response.

Word had also come through that the emperor himself intended to lead from the front, riding to the battlefield to stand beside his soldiers.

Lyon had committed everything it had. The tiflings of the Unholy Kingdom were on edge.

The upper and lower classes were on edge about different things, however.

The common people worried about whether the Hellgates would hold against Lyon's invasion. The nobility worried about the news Domina Lowry had brought back from her encounter with Mr. Misfortune.

He intended to stop their plan and send them all to Hell.

It sounded like madness, but they all knew exactly what they had signed. If the Hellgates operated successfully and Lyon's army were repelled, the entire kingdom would be consigned to Hell. The nobility, however, would not be subjected to torment. Instead, they would serve as devils under the Archduchess's command.

Now their plan had been exposed, rumors were spreading, and Mr. Misfortune was working against them.

A diviner could appear and vanish at will. Domina Lowry had experienced it firsthand: she hadn't even managed to call for help.

For two full days since, every time she closed her eyes, she was overwhelmed by her failure again: the helplessness of it all, as if she were an insect caught in a web, every struggle pulling the silk tighter. She had used every technique she possessed. In the end, she hadn't even known how she lost consciousness.

But avoidance solved nothing. Time was passing. Lyon's invasion would not stop.

If they wanted their plan to proceed, they had to deal with Mr. Misfortune.

The problem was that he was impossible to locate. No method they tried produced any result.

Domina Lowry had spent two days without an answer. Then, on the second day, a strange alchemical device was delivered to her.

It was a large full-length mirror, its back housing a dense and intricate arrangement of mechanical components. Domina Lowry was herself a recognized alchemist of Alkhemia, but even after studying it for a long while, she still couldn't fully work out how it functioned.

She brought it to the council meeting. All eyes were on her, since she had been the one to bring news of Mr. Misfortune in the first place.

She looked at the anxious, uncertain faces of the other Impure, sighed, and had the mirror rolled out.

"Someone delivered this to me yesterday. I don't know who. They left a note saying that if we wanted to resolve our current situation, we should use this mirror to find them."

She passed the note around. Each face that read it darkened.

It was a threat, one they had no leverage against.

Domina Lowry knew they had no real choice. Following the instructions on the note, she activated the mirror.

A moment later, a young man with black hair and dark eyes appeared on its surface.

"Well, well. I half expected you all to take a few more days. It seems the Impure are decisive people after all."

Domina Lowry studied his face with a vague sense of recognition she couldn't place. Features and an eye color like that weren't easy to forget. She had definitely seen him somewhere, but where?

While she was considering that question, one of the other Impure lost his patience.

"Who are you? Are you the one working with that traitor?"

The speaker was none other than Sadio Luce, the wealthiest noble in the Unholy Kingdom. His family had built its fortune through commerce and held dominant positions across multiple key industries. Staggering amounts of gold flowed into its coffers daily.

Naturally, the figure in the mirror was Ambrose in human guise.

He smiled at the accusation. "Who am I? My name doesn't really matter, just as I have no particular interest in yours. What we're about to discuss has nothing to do with names. Let me ask you something instead: do any of you actually want to go to Hell and be burned to cinders?"

As Domina Lowry heard his voice, something clicked. "Master Megaman Tiga," she said. "Is that you? I saw your portrait in Alkhemia once, and I've read your work."

Ambrose gave a modest laugh. "The honor is mine, Mistress Lowry. Your achievements in alchemy are something I genuinely admire. That's precisely why, at this critical moment, I've come to offer you all a way through your difficulties."

Domina Lowry's eyes narrowed. She could feel the hollow courtesy beneath his words. Her reputation meant nothing to him—he was simply finding a graceful way to start negotiations. This negotiation was going to be anything but easy.

"Master Megaman, before anything else, I need to confirm one thing. Are you working with the traitor to the Unholy Kingdom?"

Ambrose didn't bother hiding it. "I am. He's an old friend. In a certain sense, we were trained by the same master. I'm here at Mr. Misfortune's invitation to provide assistance for his operation."

"Do you understand that makes you an enemy of the Unholy Kingdom?!" Domina Lowry let the threat simmer. "We can send a hundred thousand soldiers to hunt you down. Wherever you're hiding, we will find you."

Ambrose glanced at her coolly. "I assumed your time was precious. I didn't think you'd want to waste it on posturing, but apparently none of you are in any particular hurry to avoid Hell. That's quite a relaxed attitude."

Domina Lowry started to respond, but Ambrose cut her off. "Your time may not be valuable, but mine is. Domina Lowry, let's do away with the formalities and the theater. I'll say it plainly. Mr. Misfortune knows about the contract you signed with the lords of Hell, all of it.

"And he has since signed his own contract with those same lords. The Unholy Kingdom will not fall into Hell. But you, the Impure, will spend centuries in Hell's torment. That is the current situation. You cannot change it. You can only wait and think about the prospect of spending hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years screaming in hellfire. I am your only way out."

"A single diviner, exchanged for an entire kingdom?" Domina Lowry shot back. "You think the lords of Hell can't do that arithmetic?"

Ambrose didn't explain. He produced several memory crystals and played their contents in the mirror.

Every person in the room watched Mr. Misfortune signing the contract, with both Sariel and Tiamat present. The scene didn't look like supplicants before gods. Rather, it looked like two parties negotiating as equals.

Ambrose highlighted a section of the contract and pointed to the infernal text. "This passage here states it clearly: the ones who shall descend to Hell are the Impure, along with a certain number of their bloodline—roughly a hundred thousand in total. Master Lowry, you may be underestimating how rare diviners actually are. There may not even be five on this entire continent. As for what one can do, you'll find out soon enough. I promise it will be memorable."

The room went quiet.

None of the councilmembers dared question whether the recording was real. Both lords of Hell appeared in it clearly.

A sufficiently lifelike idol could attract a god's attention. A fabricated image of two lords of Hell, if discovered, would invite immediate retribution against whoever made it.

As for the contract? They couldn't read the infernal tongue, but if Sariel and Tiamat were genuinely present, what need was there for a forged contract?

They could summon Sariel themselves to verify it, and they doubted Ambrose would falsify something so easily disproven. There was no point.

If it was all real, they were finished. Descending to Hell as servants or as prisoners represented entirely different fates.

The room erupted.

Some demanded threats, some pushed for cooperation, some started naming conditions, and some fell completely silent. The leaders of a nation, faced with their own mortality, did not all respond with composure.

It was Domina Lowry, the most senior of the Impure, who finally forced the room to calm down. Then she spoke on behalf of the entire Unholy Council. "You said this was a transaction. Tell me what you're actually offering. I don't believe you can make the lords of Hell revise a contract, and I don't believe you would betray your friend."

Ambrose nodded. "Both correct. I'm an ordinary mortal. Why would the lords of Hell do anything on my account? Modifying the contract is not on the table. You will be descending to Hell. That part is fixed."

"Then what exactly are you here to sell?" Domina Lowry said sharply.

Ambrose didn't answer immediately. He produced a coin of unusual design, made a brief adjustment through the mirror's interface, and sent it through the small teleportation array built into the mirror's frame. It appeared in the council chamber.

"Take a look at that. I suspect someone in the room will recognize it."

Sadio Luce, who had been the most agitated throughout, snatched it up. His expression changed. "A soul-coin! This is a soul-coin—Hell's universal currency!"

Ambrose nodded. "Exactly. Worldly wealth means little to devils, but souls are hard currency in Hell. Consider this: if each of you arrived in Hell bearing a substantial offering of soul-coins for the lords, wouldn't that open the possibility of having your punishment reduced, or even waived entirely?"

Sadio Luce nearly threw himself at the mirror. "How many do you have? What's your price?"

Ambrose looked at the face filling most of the mirror's surface, contorted and frantic, and knew he had already won half the negotiation.

"I have one and a half million soul-coins," he said. "Every one of them is sealed with the soul of an elite warrior. Think about what it costs to train a capable soldier from scratch. Even someone with natural talent runs you several hundred to a thousand gold pieces, at minimum. I'll round generously: one thousand gold per soul-coin. And the first two buyers get ten percent off."