The grand dining hall of the Darlington Townhouse was an exercise in obscene and suffocating wealth.

  As Michael was escorted to his seat near the head of the impossibly long table, he felt entirely out of his depth. Above them, three crystal chandeliers cast a refracted, low-mood rainbow of light across the room. The silverware laid out before him were intricately engraved and encrusted with actual, glittering gemstones. Even the water goblets looked like they belonged in a museum’s antiquity wing.

  Protocol dictated the seating arrangement, separating Michael from his commanders. He was seated in a position of high honor—and high scrutiny. To his immediate right sat their host, Charles Darlington. To his left was a man draped in the white and silver vestments of the Church of Londinium. Morpheus and Lavius were seated further down the table, blending into the sea of silk, lace, and powdered aristocrats.

  As Michael sat down, adjusting his coattails, the sensory overload hit him.

  He was a Level 100 Vampire Lord. His perception stats were mathematically broken. In the quiet lull before the appetizers were served, he heard the rapid fluttering of fifty heartbeats. He smelled the tang of expensive floral perfumes desperately trying to mask the underlying scent of nervous sweat. He could sense the subtle, chemical shifts in the air that signaled fear, excitement, and greed.

  It was deeply, profoundly alienating. He was an apex predator sitting in a room full of fragile prey, terrified to his core that he might accidentally hold his fork wrong and blow his cover.

  The man to Michael’s left shifted his chair, the fabric of his trench coat rustling. He turned to Michael with eyes as cold and grey as a winter storm.

  "Count Mikhail, is it not?" the man asked. "I am Father Joseph. It is a rare occasion to see foreign nobility grace our city."

  "The pleasure is mine, Father," Michael replied automatically, offering his hand.

  Father Joseph took it.

  Instantly, the priest’s hand clamped down like an industrial hydraulic press. Michael’s internal monologue screeched to a halt. What in the name of god is this grip strength?!

  Michael’s Strength stat was in the thousands; he could have crushed the priest’s hand into a fine powder with a twitch of his knuckles. But to a normal human, the pressure Father Joseph was applying would have shattered finger bones. It was a physical test, a subtle display of supernatural enhancement hidden beneath holy robes.

  Without breaking eye contact, and without letting go of Michael’s hand, Father Joseph leaned in slightly.

  "Tell me, Count," the priest murmured, his eyes searching Michael’s face. "As a man of worldly travels... what is House Sabwat’s position on the nature of the undead?"

  Michael’s heart dropped into his stomach. He tried to subtly pull his hand back, but the priest’s grip was immovable. He knows, Michael panicked. The human disguise didn't fool him. The aura suppression isn't enough. He’s going to flip the table and stake me right here.

  "The... undead?" Michael managed to ask, forcing his expression to remain mildly confused.

  "Indeed," Father Joseph pressed, leaning an inch closer. "Do you find the sunlight of Londinium... comforting? Or does the smog provide a necessary veil for your House?"

  Michael realized in a fraction of a second that he couldn't escape the interrogation. If he played dumb, he looked suspicious. If he got angry, he looked guilty. He had to deflect. He desperately reached into his mind, tapping into the convoluted lore of his High Mage job class.

  "My House takes a strictly academic stance on necrotic anomalies, Father," Michael said. "We find that the atmospheric stagnation of traditional undead is largely a byproduct of ethereal decay, exacerbated by poor mana circulation. As for the sun, the ambient solar radiation in Londinium is uniquely refracted by the particulate matter in your smog, lowering the photonic degradation of standard flesh. It is... atmospherically fascinating, though a bit dreary for my tastes."

  It was a barrage of highly technical, pseudo-magical jargon.

  Father Joseph blinked. The intense gleam in his eyes wavered, momentarily derailed by the sheer density of Michael’s academic boredom. Slowly, the priest released his hydraulic grip.

  "A... highly analytical perspective, Count," Father Joseph said slowly, picking up his water goblet.

  "We are a practical House," Michael smiled thinly, retreating to his cutlery.

  The priest had backed off physically, but the psychological warfare had just begun. For the rest of the first course, Father Joseph continued to lob suspiciously pointed, theologically loaded questions at Michael, forcing the Vampire Lord to constantly tap dance through a minefield of holy scripture and magical theory.

  Relief finally came when their host stood up, tapping a spoon against his glass. The gentle chiming cut through the chatter of the dining hall.

  Charles Darlington was a handsome man in his fifties, with silvering hair at his temples and the kind of tailored suit that cost more than Michael had made in ten years of cleaning floors.

  "Honored guests," Charles began. "We are gathered tonight not merely to indulge in the culinary arts, but to discuss the shifting tides of our world. Londinium is the beating heart of industry, but the world beyond our walls is changing. It is best we get out in front of it."

  As the appetizers—delicate pastries filled with seasoned meats—were cleared and the discussions began, Michael finally got a read on his host.

  Charles was an industrialist titan. He was the CEO of Darlington Heavy Industries. According to the murmurs around the table, Charles was the man responsible for forging the Gatling guns carried by the Constabulary, the exoskeletons worn by the Steam Guards, and the heavy artillery mounted on the Royal Navy’s ironclads. He worked hand-in-glove with the Coal & Cog Syndicate.

  "The progress of industrialization in the Grey Moors," Charles sighed heavily, cutting into a piece of roasted pheasant, "has been, quite frankly, a disaster."

  "A disaster of funding, Darlington!" a booming voice echoed from the middle of the table.

  Michael looked over to see a broad-shouldered man with a wildly unkempt beard, wearing a navy blue uniform covered in military medals with the name tag Admiral George.

  "If the Crown would redirect a fraction of the Syndicate's budget to my fleets, we could force a better trade deal, and we wouldn't need to dig in the dirt with the monsters!" Admiral George barked, slamming his fist on the table.

  Morpheus, seated across from the Admiral, elegantly dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Forgive my foreign ignorance, Admiral," the Dhampir said smoothly, his tone the perfect blend of respectful curiosity and aristocratic entitlement. "But surely the resources of the Moors are vital for the continued independence of the Londinium Kingdom?"

  It was a masterclass in conversational espionage. Morpheus had just dropped a piece of bait, and the boisterous Admiral swallowed it whole.

  "Vital? It's the only thing keeping us from being crushed!" Admiral George scoffed, gesturing widely with his fork. "We are trapped on the island of Baratanac! Londinium is safe, yes, but the rest of this blasted island is the Grey Moors. An untamed wilderness. And why are we finally trying to conquer it after ignoring it for centuries? Because of the Mana Crystals!"

  Charles Darlington nodded gravely. "Coal and steam built this city, but mana is the future. It is cleaner, safer, and exponentially more powerful. But the soil of the Moors is the only place on this island where the glowing peat can be found."

  "And the Syndicate's armored Harvester Golems keep getting ripped to shreds before they can mine a single ton of it," Admiral George snorted. "Because the Moors are overrun with beasts that make the horrors of the Gallows look like house pets!"

  "If we cannot mine our own," Father Joseph interjected softly, "we remain at the mercy of the Frankian Magocracy."

  The name seemed to drop the temperature in the room by several degrees.

  "Exactly!" the Admiral roared. "The Frankians! Sitting on the continent, looking down their noses at our steam engines and rifles. An entire empire of mages, running their cities on monopolized Mana Crystals! They dictate the global market. They sell to us at extortive prices. Between them, the zealots of the Vaticanus Theocracy to the west, and the nightmares lurking in the Forbidden Colonies... Londinium must secure its own magical resources, or we will be entirely eclipsed!"

  Michael slowly chewed his food, his mind racing.

  The Londinium Kingdom. The Frankian Magocracy. The Vaticanus Theocracy. The Forbidden Colonies.

  In a span of ten minutes, over a plate of roasted bird, Morpheus had successfully extracted the geopolitical layout of the entire planet. The Frankians were an empire of mages who hated technology and held a monopoly on magical fuel. Londinium was desperately trying to transition from a steampunk society to a magitek society, but was bottlenecked by high level monsters in their own backyard.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The board was infinitely larger than Michael had realized.

  "Well, perhaps we should leave the monster hunting to the professionals," a snide, nasal voice drifted across the table.

  Michael looked up. A younger, sharp-featured nobleman—"Old Money," judging by the archaic cut of his velvet coat—was staring directly at Michael, a cruel sneer on his face.

  "I hear the Royal Society is handing out Sterling watches to anyone who can flush a toilet these days," the nobleman said loudly, drawing the attention of the surrounding guests. "Tell me, Count Mikhail... is it true your 'noble ancestry' is just a well maintained sewer line?"

  The table fell quiet and a few of the older aristocrats hid amused smiles behind their wine glasses.

  Michael’s blood boiled. His working-class pride, the years of quiet dignity he had built up as a janitor, burned hot in his chest. He desperately wanted to stand up, grab the smug little lord by his velvet lapels, and explain exactly how much more efficient his "plumbing" was than their entire, crumbling, steam and coal economy.

  But he couldn't. If he got genuinely angry, his [Aura Suppression] would slip. The necrotic energy of a Vampire Lord would leak into the room, Father Joseph would sense it, and a bloodbath would ensue.

  Michael took a slow breath, forcing a condescending, infuriatingly calm smile onto his face.

  "A kingdom is only as glorious as its infrastructure, my Lord," Michael deadpanned, staring right through the man. "After all, even the greatest and most opulent castles will inevitably fall... if their foundations are clogged with shit."

  The crude word, delivered with aristocratic deadpan, hit the room. The nobleman blinked, entirely confused by the metaphor, his insult effectively neutralized by Michael’s sheer lack of shame.

  A moment later, a nervous young waiter stepped up to clear the nobleman's plate. Flustered by the sudden tension in the room, the boy’s hand slipped and a crystal goblet tipped over, sending a splash of dark red wine cascading toward the pristine, snow-white tablecloth directly in front of Michael.

  It happened in a fraction of a second.

  But to Michael, whose agility stats allowed him to dodge supersonic projectiles, it moved in slow motion. Before his conscious mind could stop him, ten years of ingrained, blue-collar janitorial reflex took over.

  Michael’s hand shot out.

  He snatched his napkin from his lap.

  With superhuman efficiency, Michael caught the wine before it soaked into the fabric, absorbed the moisture, and completely erased the stain in under two seconds. He folded the stained napkin perfectly into a square and placed it beside his plate.

  He looked up.

  The entire dining hall had stopped eating and were staring at him in silence.

  In high society, manual labor was the ultimate taboo. A nobleman did not clean. A nobleman watched the wine spill, complained about the ruined cloth, and waited for a servant to fix it. The blinding speed and "servant-like" competence Michael had just displayed was horrifyingly out of place. It was like watching a king drop to his knees to scrub the floorboards.

  Charles Darlington cleared his throat loudly, desperately trying to salvage the atmosphere.

  "Such... impressive reflexes, Count," Charles said, his smile tight and incredibly condescending. He pivoted sharply. "It is truly brave of you to reside so close to the Gallows. Most of my peers prefer the safety of the West End, but... I suppose one must live where one can afford the property tax, hmm?"

  A few of the nobles chuckled, eager to move past the awkwardness.

  "Speaking of your... remote property," Charles continued, taking a sip of his wine, his eyes locking onto Michael’s. "I have recently commissioned the Church to conduct an 'Atmospheric Cleansing' of the cliffside this weekend. A sort of environmental remediation."

  Father Joseph nodded sagely. "There is a residual miasma clinging to the foundation of those cliffs. A stagnation that must be purged by the Light."

  "Indeed," Charles smiled thinly. "The incantations will be quite loud, Count. The holy shockwaves might rattle the stones of your little fortress. Do try not to be startled. We wouldn't want your windows to shatter."

  Michael stared at the industrialist.

  It was a direct threat. Charles was going to use the Church’s loudest, most destructive magical artillery to aggressively harass Michael’s property under the guise of "home improvement."

  But as the threat was in the air, Michael felt relief.

  He doesn't know, Michael realized, fighting the urge to laugh. He has no idea I'm a monster. He's just a petty, classist landlord trying to bully the weird new neighbor who built a house over his summer villas.

  It wasn't a master trap. It was just class warfare. Michael could handle a bad landlord.

  "I appreciate the warning, Lord Darlington," Michael said, picking up his fork. "My foundation is quite sturdy. I assure you, it will take more than a little noise to shake my walls."

  As the dinner concluded, the guests retired to the opulent drawing rooms for dessert, brandy, and cigars. The polite restraint of the dining table quickly dissolved into drunken mingling.

  And Lavius went to war.

  The Spymaster was holding court on a velvet chaise lounge in the corner of the room, surrounded by a half dozen drunken aristocrats. They had absolutely no idea they were flirting with a high-tier demon. They interpreted her icy, lethal demeanor and thinly veiled threats as "exotic, high-society aloofness." The harder she rejected them, the more obsessed they became.

  "You truly have the most piercing eyes, Countess," a young Viscount slurred, leaning in entirely too close. "They look as though they could cut a man to ribbons."

  "Oh, they can," Lavius purred, her smile entirely devoid of warmth. "And if you step on my dress again, I will demonstrate exactly how the ribbons are made."

  The men erupted into boisterous laughter, thinking it was a brilliant display of sharp wit.

  Michael, sitting in a leather armchair nearby, had to casually stretch his leg out and literally kick Lavius in the ankle under the side table. She shot him a venomous glare, her claws briefly extending before she forced them back into manicured nails.

  While the men drooled over her, the wives of the nobles were waging a different campaign. Feeling deeply threatened by Lavius’s beauty, they gathered in small, catty circles, whispering cruel rumors loud enough to be heard.

  "Look at her posture," a Duchess sneered behind a feathered fan. "So rigid. She lacks the grace of true breeding. I heard she’s a commoner in disguise. A barmaid the Count dressed up to play the part."

  Lavius’s eyes twitched. She gripped the armrest of her chaise lounge, the wood beginning to splinter under her strength. She was dying to break character and unhinge her jaw to paint the drawing room walls with the Duchess.

  From across the room, Morpheus—leaning elegantly against a marble fireplace with a snifter of brandy—caught Lavius’s eye. The Dhampir didn't move a muscle, but Michael felt the faint ripple of a telepathic command.

  Stand Down, Spymaster. Subjugate, do not slaughter.

  Lavius took a sharp breath and released the armrest. If she couldn't kill them, she would break them.

  Without casting a single spell or breaking a single law of her new citizenship, Lavius subtly dialed up her innate Succubus aura.

  The effect was devastating.

  She dominated the room’s psychology. The men around her suddenly became violently, aggressively competitive, falling over themselves to fetch her drinks or offer her compliments, their faces flushed with unnatural adoration.

  Conversely, the demonic pheromones hit the catty women like poison. The Duchess who had insulted her suddenly went deathly pale, a hand flying to her forehead. Within minutes, the passive aura made the women feel physically "unwell." Several excused themselves from the party entirely, complaining of sudden migraines and severe nausea, unable to stand the weight of Lavius’s presence.

  Lavius took a delicate sip of her champagne, her sadistic smile finally genuine. She had won the social war without spilling a drop of blood.

  "Count Mikhail."

  Michael looked up. A Steam Guard stood before his chair.

  "Lord Darlington requests your presence in his private study," the guard rumbled through his vox caster.

  Michael nodded, grabbing his cane and following the guard down a hallway.

  The private study was a stark contrast to the party outside. It was quiet, smelling of ink and old paper. Charles Darlington sat behind a desk, the smile entirely gone from his face. Two more Steam Guards stood by the door, their hands resting on their weapons.

  Charles was blunt.

  "My maid, Greta," Charles said, steepling his fingers. "She claims you were the one who 'healed' her after the rockslide. She also claims you completely restored the grounds of my summer estate."

  "I possess a certain talent for restorative magics," Michael admitted casually, leaning on his cane.

  Charles leaned forward, his eyes narrowing into hostile slits. "That cliffside is a restricted site, Count. I do not appreciate strangers tinkering with my property. Nor do I appreciate them interfering with my staff. I don't care if you are a foreign noble or a citizen. What is your game?"

  The industrialist was probing. He was trying to figure out if Michael was a highly-trained corporate spy sent by a rival corporation, or a dangerous anomaly trying to steal Darlington secrets.

  Michael had to play this perfectly.

  "My game, Lord Darlington, is aesthetics," Michael said. "I abhor ruins. The rockslide that devastated your lovely villas was an eyesore upon the mountain I now call home. I simply abhor a mess. Consider the restoration a... neighborly courtesy."

  Charles stared at him, trying to dissect the lie. But Michael’s janitor-brain actually sold the performance perfectly. He did abhor messes.

  "A courtesy," Charles repeated, unconvinced, but lacking any actual proof of espionage. He leaned back in his chair. "See that your courtesies do not extend past your own property lines in the future, Count. The 'Atmospheric Cleansing' will commence on Saturday. Good evening."

  Michael offered a curt bow and left the study. He used every ounce of willpower his Level 100 stats provided to resist the urge to show the arrogant CEO exactly what happened to mortals who threatened a Progenitor.

  When Michael returned to the drawing room to gather his party, the space was in absolute chaos.

  Two young lords were currently engaged in a shouting match over who would have the honor of escorting Lavius to her carriage, while another noblewoman had just fainted onto a sofa, overwhelmed by the lingering demonic aura.

  Morpheus stepped through the chaos, falling into step beside Michael as Lavius extracted herself from her rabid admirers with a devastating smile, leaving the men staring after her like starved dogs.

  Walking out of the townhouse through the wreckage of the social hierarchy made Michael’s party look undeniably magnetic and terrifyingly powerful. Michael knew it painted a massive target on their backs. They were no longer invisible. They were the center of attention in high society.

  As they finally settled back into the sanctuary of their carriage and pulled away from the Blue Lion gates, Lavius let out a frustrated groan, tearing the pins from her hair.

  "I hate them," she hissed, rubbing her temples. "I hate them all. Can we please burn the city down tomorrow?"

  "You showed admirable restraint, Spymaster," Morpheus praised quietly.

  Michael leaned his head back against the cushions, letting out an exhausted sigh. The paranoia and the stress of the evening drained from his muscles, leaving him bone tired.

  But as the carriage rolled through the streets of Londinium, a smile touched Michael’s lips.

  He had survived the interrogation of a holy Inquisitor, navigated the geopolitical landscape of a new world, and learned the magical economy, identified the global rivals, and discovered the true motives of his landlord.

  "No fires tomorrow, Lavius," Michael murmured into the darkness of the cabin, his hand resting on the watch in his pocket. "The board is now set."