The Eternal Special Membership Card
As Laura stepped down from the stage, every gaze in the venue naturally shifted to Mikhail, who was next to ascend. He sauntered up onto the platform with a lazy stride. After a brief glance over the audience, he picked up the Eternal Special Membership Card that Laura had left behind. Then, looking exactly like a kid named Bisil showing off a new toy to Jingoo, he flicked the card between his fingers and spoke.
“Alright, everyone get a good look? This is something brand new I cooked up. It’s absolutely killer.”
There wasn’t a trace of the solemn weight or dignity one would expect from a formal speech in his voice. What kind of attitude is that in a place this important? Jean-Claude let out a dry, incredulous chuckle. But his laughter didn’t last long.
Flash!
Behind Mikhail, the pitch-black stage backdrop suddenly blazed with brilliant light. This wasn’t some simple illumination spell. A massive rectangular frame of light floated in midair, filled with ornate, intricate patterns and text. A 21st-century style presentation—the result of Mikhail hounding and tormenting the few mages in his territory day and night until they produced it.
“What is this card, you ask? Simple. It’s the key to enjoying everything in our Far East Maritime Province tourism special zone first, most comfortably, and at the cheapest price.”
Mikhail snapped his fingers, and the floating image smoothly transitioned to the next slide. The screen now displayed a picture of a luxurious hotel suite alongside the bold words “50% Discount.”
“Lodging, restaurants, spas—everything at half price. Drinks? Obviously free. Reservations? Naturally top priority. While everyone else is standing in line waiting, our special members walk right in.”
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. The conditions were outrageous. Still, similar perks could be found at high-end salons and clubs in the capital.
“Of course, that’s not all.”
Mikhail grinned. The screen behind him changed again. This time it showed an image of a lavish banquet hall.
“Every banquet and auction held here comes with priority access rights.”
He pointed a finger toward the audience.
“With this card… you can host your own banquet right from this very spot! We’ll provide the venue, the staff, everything. All you have to do is invite your friends. Pretty amazing, right?”
The murmurs grew louder.
“And.”
The screen switched once more. This time it displayed what looked like a complex legal document.
“This membership card can be transferred, sold, inherited, or rented. Completely freely.”
At that moment, the air inside the tent exploded with excitement. This was a perfect asset. Something equal to—or even greater than—prime railroad stocks or prime real estate in the capital. It was on an entirely different level from the membership cards of other salons or clubs.
“Naturally, we’ll release other tiers of membership cards later. The more you spend here, the higher your rank climbs. But!”
Mikhail raised his index finger.
“This ‘Special’ membership card is different. There are exactly one hundred of them. And there will only ever be one hundred. Forever.”
Desire rose in the air like mist. Jean-Claude could hear the ragged breathing erupting all around him. Someone was unconsciously licking their lips. Mikhail watched every single reaction with deep satisfaction.
“But what if,” he continued, “you spend a fortune to win one at auction, only to have it ‘counterfeited’? What if this scoundrel decides to issue a few extra on a whim?”
He pulled a small silver needle from his pocket.
“Don’t worry.”
Without hesitation, Mikhail pricked the tip of his thumb. A drop of blood welled up.
“This can never be counterfeited. And I can never make any more.”
Plop.
The red droplet fell from his finger onto the pure white leather card in his hand.
In that instant—
FLASH—!
The magic circle engraved on the card erupted in blinding light. The radiance formed a massive pillar that shot into the air above the stage, then spread out beneath the tent’s roof in the shape of an enormous magic formation. Everyone in the venue instinctively held their breath.
This was basic contract magic—something even those who had only studied magic as general education could recognize. The contract had only two clauses.
The first guaranteed the authenticity of the Far East Maritime Province Tourism Special Zone Eternal Special Membership Cards. The second stated that if more than one hundred were issued, the guarantor—Mikhail—would die immediately and painfully.
Two concise clauses with no complicated legal or administrative jargon. Moreover, because it was basic, foundational magic, it was flawless. It was, quite literally, an unbreakable contract staked on his life.
Standing beneath the blazing magic circle, Mikhail spoke in a low voice.
“Most importantly, this magic circle only reacts to my blood.”
His voice was quiet, but the meaning it carried was absolute.
“Not anyone else in this world. Only me. Only Mikhail’s blood. Obviously—that’s how contract magic works, isn’t it?”
Mikhail saw the shock and naked greed shining in the crowd’s eyes. A toxic mix of reverence and avarice—utterly human gazes. He smiled with deep satisfaction and held up seven fingers.
“Tonight, at this event, we will only be selling seven of them.”
As Jean-Claude took in this outrageous product presentation, a forgotten passage from an old history book rose from the dust in the back of his mind.
…The Purchase of Office System.
When vulgar merchants and upstarts with nothing but money began coveting status, the noble houses of noble blood united to abolish the outdated law.
Even under that old system, what could be bought were merely temporary offices for a single generation—never hereditary. And even those could be demoted or stripped away for any number of reasons.
But… this was different.
That little piece of leather wasn’t an office. It was a title. It was no different from the very status that formed the foundation of the Empire itself. A completely new form of peerage that required no formal approval from the Emperor or the Council, allowing perfectly free inheritance and transfer.
The air around them grew heavy with the weight of raw desire. There were roughly thousands of noble families in the Empire. But there were only one hundred of these cards. And right now, only seven were being released.
Scarcity. That alone was enough to guarantee its value.
Just look at this casino.
Jean-Claude hated to admit it, but he had no choice. This development project would succeed. It had to. If so, the privileges this card guaranteed would bring wealth and honor far beyond what a penniless baron or viscount living off a pension could ever dream of.
If he could even rent it out later… or better yet, resell it? The value would be immeasurable. At the very least, it would be a treasure worth an entire city.
But… the moment he purchased it, he would be kneeling and kissing Mikhail’s feet, swearing loyalty. It would be no different from becoming his vassal.
The thought brought Anastasia to mind.
Your Highness…
Even if he earned her favor, it would amount to nothing more than a single night’s dream and a bit of pocket money. Of course, that alone would have been enough. Jean-Claude revered Anastasia. He was prepared to offer her everything.
But no matter how devoted he was, he could never dream of rising in rank. Not without some extraordinary achievement. To raise one’s status, one needed accomplishments. To achieve accomplishments, one needed status to begin with. This vicious paradox was exactly why he had come all the way to this remote eastern backwater.
To accumulate even a small amount of merit. To build his position through that merit, and one day become one of Anastasia’s closest aides.
But what if…
A blazing light of greed ignited in Jean-Claude’s eyes.
What if it was that membership card instead! Not some insignificant Farenberg baron! Far beyond the current me—a mere bastard son of the Vandam Count family…!
He could go higher…! To an even greater height…!
Mikhail raised the membership card high. A smile still played on his lips.
“Well then.”
His voice swallowed every other sound in the venue.
“Let the auction begin.”
Gulp.
Jean-Claude swallowed dryly without realizing it.
“Starting bid… one hundred thousand gold.”
One hundred thousand. The number hammered itself into Jean-Claude’s brain. It was equivalent to the price of a fairly decent property in the capital…!
The venue stirred for a moment.
“One hundred thousand!”
But almost immediately, someone else’s bid reignited the feverish heat. While the tent boiled with frenzy, Jean-Claude’s mind grew ice-cold. He began calculating.
Every asset he could currently mobilize. The capital mansion his father—the Count of Vandam, whom he had never particularly loved—had left him. If he used it as collateral… or better yet, sold it outright. Then scraped together every last coin, squeezed out every drop, and even sold his soul…
Roughly two hundred thousand. That was everything he had. His entire life.
“One hundred ten thousand!”
“One hundred twenty-five thousand!”
“One hundred thirty thousand!”
The price skyrocketed like madness. He couldn’t tell if they truly understood its value. Some seemed to be bidding for mere amusement, treating it like a game of numbers.
Should I participate?
His reason screamed inside his burning mind. Amid the torment and agony, beyond his fading consciousness, a flash of Anastasia appeared—memories of their nights together.
My dear.
The image of her moving her hips above him like a shadow flickering in candlelight. The sensation of her sweat-dampened ebony hair brushing against his cheek. And the voice that had whispered in his ear—sweet as honey, deadly as poison.
You… are mine, Jean-Claude.
Yes. I belong to Her Highness. This body, this heart, even this soul. How dare I harbor such presumptuous greed…?
The bids did not stop.
“One hundred sixty thousand!”
“One hundred seventy thousand!”
“One hundred seventy-five thousand!”
Finally, the bidding stalled at one hundred seventy-five thousand. A taut tension filled the air. No one dared call out the next number. Perhaps because it was the first auction of its kind, they simply couldn’t properly gauge its true worth.
“One hundred seventy-five thousand gold. Any further bids?”
The auctioneer’s voice rang through the venue.
“One hundred seventy-five thousand.”
Bang!
The gavel struck like a blow to the heart.
This is fine. This is how it should be.
Jean-Claude tried desperately to console himself. Even if he won the bid, what if this development project failed? His life would be over. So it was better to remain a loyal subject.
As he tried to convince himself of this—
A hallucination whispered in his ear.
How dare you…
Anastasia’s voice, cold as ice and filled with fury.
How dare you try to betray me?
No! Your Highness! Anastasia! I— I—!
Jean-Claude tried to make some excuse, but his consciousness grew distant.
“One hundred seventy-five thousand.”
Bang!
Once again, the gavel struck his soul. Cold sweat poured down his spine like a waterfall. His throat burned dry. He couldn’t breathe.
Was this the end? Was he doomed to remain forever a bastard of the Vandam Count family? A pathetic little Farenberg baron? Just one of Her Highness’s many men…!
“One hundred seventy—”
The moment the auctioneer raised the gavel for the third and final time to declare the winning bid—
“One hundred eighty thousand gold!!!”
Jean-Claude screamed the number as if it had been torn from his throat.