Twenty-Eight Minutes

I turned toward the hatch—and found a skeleton standing right beside it.

It was Oswald. I had no idea how long he had been there. The tattered hem of his court robe fluttered in the rooftop wind. The blue soul-flames in his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠eye sockets drifted between the sleeping wyvern and the contract in my hand.

"Twenty-eight minutes."

"Pardon?"

"From the moment the Tower Master set foot upon the stairs until the paw-print was affixed. Twenty-eight minutes. Two minutes remain of the thirty you so boldly promised."

"…You were timing me."

"A pledge exists to be measured."

A strict old man. I held up the contract and launched into the briefing.

"Debt recovery plan, reporting now. Barrier repair fee of three thousand two hundred, plus today's stone damage of three hundred—total three thousand five hundred. Security deposit received in full and separate. The debt will be deducted in installments from the monthly rent. The first three months are half-rate with labor offsets, so recovery will be slow, but from the fourth month, once the tenant's mana recovers, the full three hundred comes in every month. Time to full settlement is roughly—"

"A year and a half."

"Yes. After that, pure profit. Looking a hundred years out, today's single breath attack will go down as the most profitable damage in this tower's history."

The blue flames swayed long and slow. Sigh or laugh—I still couldn't read a three-hundred-year-old lich's expressions.

"Three centuries past, in the royal palace, the Tower Master would have either been seated as Minister of Finance… or hanged. One of the two."

"I'll pass on both. Property management is more my speed."

Oswald lifted a skeletal hand toward the sleeping wyvern. I flinched, thinking it an attack—but the finger bones pointed only at the residual current crackling along the wyvern's nape.

"Tower Master. That specimen sheds its scales with every molt. The lightning-accumulation scales of a Storm Wyvern are catalysts unobtainable on the open market."

"…You want to buy them?"

"I would consider it, under terms comparable to the harpy feathers."

Even this elder had fully absorbed the tower's way of doing things. Three hours ago he had been ready to shoot it down; now he was negotiating a purchase contract for the very target's keratin.

"I'll add it as a special clause once the tenant recovers. Scale purchase price deducted from the monthly rent. And Oswald—forgive me, but may I trouble you with one more clerical task? Today's contract needs to be summarized for the tenants' association circular."

"Under what heading?"

"New occupancy notice, plus guidance on the inter-floor natural-enemy special clause."

The moment I said it, I remembered the most important job still waiting. I started toward the hatch, carefully sliding the contract into my document holder.

"Where are you going, Tower Master?"

"The attic. Right this moment, the two residents most terrified in the entire tower need to hear that their new upstairs neighbor is contractually forbidden from eating them."

The blue flames flickered.

"A tower where predator and prey dwell on adjacent floors… I may have to change the subject of my research."

"The soundproofing clause and the predation-ban clause will handle it. Paper will."

Climbing down the ladder, I listened to the enormous breathing from above. Steady. Peaceful.

For the first night of a penthouse move-in, it wasn't a bad start at all.

Elisha von Crane stood in the front courtyard.

From the first-floor dining hall windows the rooftop was invisible. The moment she sensed the barrier's mana flow reorganizing toward the upper levels, she rose from her seat and stepped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠outside the main gate. As an auditor, she told herself. Half of that was true.

And for the next ten-odd minutes she had stood rooted in the yard, staring up at the tower's crown.

The first thing she nearly recorded was the partial opening of the barrier. From the protective ward that sheathed the entire tower, only the airspace directly above the roof had been cut open with surgical precision. That level of control—localizing seven-circle-or-higher output to a single zone—might be possible for one or two of the chief mages in the Kingdom Magic Spire's Barrier Bureau.

But her gaze locked on what came next.

Danger rank A. Storm Wyvern. An entity that, by kingdom standards, warranted a full knight battalion and six mages of five circles or higher—slammed onto the rooftop. The ground shook. Stone chips flew.

And in front of it stood a man.

A worn gray robe. A single sheet of paper in his hand.

The distance was too great for voices to carry. Yet Elisha's eyes saw everything. Every time the beast exhaled storm pressure and the robe's hem whipped backward, the man never retreated—he simply turned a page in his ledger.

Then the massive head lowered. Sickle-like talons folded one by one.

And the A-rank magical beast bowed its neck over a single sheet of paper.

That was the moment.

Light erupted from the rooftop.

A ripple. A white wave of mana bloomed from the tower's peak, cascaded down the outer walls, swept through the entire barrier, and in a single heartbeat passed straight through Elisha's body where she stood in the yard.

Habit took over. Her emotion-reading formula deployed on reflex—reading the grain of the wave, classifying its school, calculating its circle. Auditor's Field Manual, Form Seven.

The calculation failed.

Contract school. That much registered. But this was nothing like the oath-magic mages used. Oath-magic merely caused mana backlash upon breach. The wave that had just passed through her bound existence itself into the clauses—ignoring species hierarchy, danger rank, and circle alike.

A formula that inscribed terms atop the instincts of an A-rank magical beast.

No such classification existed in the current circle system. If it did, it belonged to an age before circles—an age whose lineage had been severed—

Elisha forced her trembling hand still and continued her report.

Having written that far, Elisha lifted her head.

At the tower's peak, beneath the starlight, a vast silhouette curled itself into a ball. Beside it a small silhouette tucked a sheet of paper against his chest and vanished into the hatch.

The back of a man who had taken a calamity-class magical beast as a tenant, put it to bed, and casually clocked out for the night.

Elisha hesitated a long while before the final sentence.

When this report reached the capital, the Kingdom Magic Spire would be turned upside down. Demolition faction, authorization faction, annexation faction—all of them.

In the end she wrote not an auditor's formal line, but the honest thought that slipped free.

Her hand was still trembling.

Dawn wind swept across the rooftop.

I crouched with a measuring tape, counting the floor.

"One, two, three… six. Exactly six slabs."

A low krrrng rumbled behind me. I turned. The Storm Wyvern, coiled around the temporary perch, had one eye open ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and fixed on me. Storm-cloud irises slowly contracted behind the lid.

"Ah—please don't misunderstand. I'm not re-counting. Just verifying yesterday's invoice. This tower doesn't double-bill. Six stone slabs at three hundred—already entered in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the ledger, installment deduction from rent already started."

The wyvern snorted a puff of air.

Honestly, the backs of my knees still tingled. Measuring tape in front of an A-rank magical beast—what a life. But what choice did I have? Damage inspection was a manager's baseline, and if you skipped the baseline the next month's books would cry.

I flipped the ledger to the next line item.

"Perch reinforcement estimate. This temporary perch won't last three days under your weight. We'll drive iron cores, cut talon-grip grooves, and lay a lightning-grounding circuit into the floor."

Krr?

"Grounding circuit. The static leaking from your scales—if we just dump it into the sky it's a waste, isn't it? Collect it through the circuit, feed it into the core, and we can deduct that much from the management fees. You earn money while you sleep."

The wyvern blinked. Whether it understood or not, at least it showed no sign of biting. A magical beast that had stamped a contract was different. The clauses sat on top of instinct.

"And the aerial perimeter labor—you know the deduction's already in place, right? Looking after the sky is in your hands."

The wyvern turned its head in a full circle and coiled up again. One eye, however, remained hooked on the western sky. Whatever had driven it this far, the creature had not forgotten.

I reeled in the tape and opened the status window.

Six. Six points short.

Monster tenants were now falling out of the sky, yet Human Society Credibility crawled at a turtle's pace even after collecting an auditor's lodging fees and writing merchant contracts. Then again, if humans instantly trusted a tower housing a lich and a wyvern, that would be stranger still.

I opened the hatch and started down. Two pairs of eyes peeked through the attic window crack. The harpies.

I tapped the paper I had stuck to the attic door the night before—exactly as promised, a very thick copy of the special clause. Predation prohibited. Violation: immediate eviction and full forfeiture of deposit.

"See? The paper's up."

"Th-the paper… is thick…"

"It is thick. So go to sleep. Dawn glides start after sunrise."

The two pairs of eyes vanished, looking reassured.

Descending the stairs, I counted on my fingers. Six. Where was I going to find six points? One more civil servant on an official trip would be perfect.