Soul-Capturing Magic and Midnight Rocket Delivery
"The devil? Nah, it's just optical tech that fixes light onto paper."
I chuckled and pulled out the pre-written document.
Iron Blood Relief Foundation Establishment Permit
I stuffed this stiff paper, a fountain pen, and that godawful freshly printed photo into a small transparent capsule.
"Alright, time to send Bishop His Excellency a midnight express."
Click.
The capsule slid vertically down the narrow endoscope drainpipe.
"Wh-what... Is it gonna explode or something?!"
"It'll shatter his mind harder than any explosion. Just watch the monitor."
I nodded toward the endoscope screen. Bishop Benedict was still rubbing his cheek against a mountain of gold bars, lost in ecstasy.
Thud. Right then, the transparent capsule dropped through the ceiling vent onto the bishop's marble desk.
"...Huh? What's this trash?"
Drunk on the feel of the gold, he frowned, picked up the capsule, popped it open with his fat fingers, and dumped out the contents: a single sheet of paper, a fountain pen, and a white square photo.
"Which crazy bastard dumped this in my sacred vault... Huh?!"
Muttering, he grabbed the developed photo, and his eyes slowly—then hugely—widened in horror.
A corrupt priest from this romance-fantasy world had no clue about the wonders of modern science. To him, this was unknown black magic incarnate. The overwhelming visual shock of his most secret, ugliest moment ripped straight from his soul and trapped on paper.
"A-aaahhh!! Demon! It's a demon's soul-stealing curse!!"
Bishop Benedict screamed like he'd seen a ghost and flung the photo away. His fat body toppled backward in the chair, rolling across the marble floor.
Tsking my tongue, I flicked on the endoscope mic. My cool voice echoed low and eerie through the sewer pipes into his chamber.
Bishop Benedict. Do you like the greedy soul of yours preserved on that paper?
"Eek, eeeek! Wh-who are you! Where's the demon hiding?!"
Writhing on the floor, the bishop trembled like a leaf, frantically crossing himself toward the ceiling.
Tomorrow morning, I'll photocopy that lovely photo of yours by the tens of thousands and scatter them across the Imperial Capital Square. The inquisitors will love it. Wonder what His Holiness's face will look like?
"No! P-please! What do you want! Gold?! I'll give you half these gold bars!"
I don't need gold bars. Stamp the holy seal of your precious Sun God Church at the bottom of the enclosed 'Iron Blood Relief Foundation' establishment permit. And send it right back up the drainpipe.
Shaking violently, the bishop snatched the fallen paper from the floor. A permit granting 100% tax exemption from all Imperial taxes for a church-affiliated relief foundation. Normally, he'd never approve it without millions in bribes.
But right now, the devil's curse (photo) perfectly printing his lifeline sat before his eyes.
"I-I'll stamp it! Right now, Demon Lord!!"
Bam! Bam! Bam!
He yanked open the desk drawer like he was smashing it, pulled out the red holy seal symbolizing the church's absolute authority, and slammed it madly onto the bottom of the document. Ink splattered everywhere.
"D-done! Please, spare my soul!"
He shoved the stamped document into the capsule and pushed it trembling toward the drain hole. I yanked the fishing line I'd pre-attached to the capsule and reeled it in in one swift pull.
"Good work, Bishop. Keep that photo as a souvenir."
I cut the mic and roughly yanked out the endoscope camera.
"Hahaha!"
Back in the bunker control room, I waved the permit with its crisp red stamp in the air and laughed triumphantly.
"See that, Employee #1? Per Imperial commercial law, religious relief foundations get 100% tax exemption! Now we just launder noble slush funds legally and we're golden!"
I cracked open another leftover Coke can from yesterday and chugged it. The throat-scraping carbonation hit my brain like victory.
But unlike my cheers, Ayla crossed her arms and tsked pityingly.
"Tsk tsk. You're still green. Think that's the end?"
"What? We even got the church seal."
"This is just the church vouching 'this foundation qualifies for tax exemption'—a free pass. To legally operate on the surface, you need to file with the Imperial administration. And look—the 'legal representative' signature line at the bottom is blank."
Ayla tapped the empty spot at the very bottom of the permit in my hand.
"Imperial commercial law, Chapter 2, Article 4. All for-profit corporations require a verified 'Imperial noble's' guarantee and proxy signature. I'm officially a dead woman under execution, and you're a registry-less ghost. Walk into any office like this, and they'll guillotine you for forgery on the spot."
"...Ah."
It felt like a hammer to the back of my head. I'd been so focused on legally raiding nobles' vaults for massive SP that I overlooked this world's core class-system legal blind spot.
That's why you need a local guide.
"So what now? Can't go outside, and how do we recruit an Imperial noble? Buy one off with cash?"
"Loyalty bought with money crumbles before bigger money."
Ayla's red lips curled slyly. Dark venom and vengeance swirled in her eyes.
"We need trash with a noble title but enough dirt that we can leash him like a slave for life. The perfect 'puppet frontman' for our company."
"Easy to say. Think there's nobles falling over like the bishop from one threat? Got a target?"
"Of course. Who do you think I am? Heir to Duke Erzen, who once ruled the Imperial social scene and intel networks."
Ayla smugly planted hands on hips and haughtily lifted her chin.
"Got the perfect prey. Viscount Vail."
"Who's that?"
"Crown Prince Kasian's most loyal hunting dog and slush fund manager. When my family fell, I swallowed my last pride and begged on my knees for a loan—he mocked me by splashing tea in my face."
Ayla's fists clenched white-knuckled.
"How do we roast a big-shot like that? You know a fatal weakness, huh?"
"Think I spent three years engaged to that bastard Kasian just sipping tea daintily? I dug up dirt on all his minions' money flows to make him the perfect emperor. That rat Vail launders Kasian's slush funds while skimming off his lord's money on the sly."
"Oho. Embezzling from the Crown Prince? Ballsy. Proof?"
Ayla grinned and pointed at the keyboard on my desk.
"Write this down, boss.
Southern Harbor's Red Anchor Trading Company. Alias Account #47-B. Cumulative Embezzlement: 3.5 Million Gold.
That's the reality of Vail's secret paper company he runs behind Kasian's back. Shove this one line at him, and he'll piss himself fearing the prince's axe, stamping anything."
I whistled, typing out the lethal keywords Ayla dictated into a short note on the typewriter.
The terrifying control of piercing the enemy's deepest secret down to the penny. True intel prowess worthy of the Empire's top house heir.
Damn glad I kept her alive a thousand times over.
"You're... one vicious, venomous woman."
"Vengeance is the best motivator. Print it quick and leash that bastard."
I stapled the printed note to the permit. Click.
"Good. Target weakness confirmed. Now, midnight rocket delivery to his lordship's bedroom."
I summoned the system shop window and hit 'purchase' without hesitation.
Silent Tactical Drone / 800 SP
Purchase completed.
A sleek matte-black quadcopter drone dropped from the air. Below it: a precise manipulator arm and night-vision camera.
I clamped the bishop-stamped permit, Ayla's threat note, and a pen securely into the drone's arm.
Whirr—.
The drone shot up the pitch-black vertical shaft to the surface in seconds. The monitor showed the capital's nightscape in sharp green from the night-vision cam.
Ayla glued herself to the screen, guiding.
"Three blocks west! That mansion with the pointy spire—that's Vail's!"
Pitch-black night, moonlight shrouded by clouds. Seizing the gap in the ironclad guards and mages' patrol shift, the silent drone slipped bug-like through a second-floor terrace window crack.
Viscount Vail's bedroom appeared onscreen. He snored piggishly under premium silk sheets, face disgustingly peaceful in dreams of power from managing the prince's funds.
I finely maneuvered the stick, hovering the drone right above his bed—an inch from his nose.
Then I powered on the red LED laser pointer mounted underneath.
Whine—.
The sharp red dot landed precisely on his forehead.
"Ngh... Bright..."
Irritated by the creepy light, he stirred and snapped his eyes open in annoyance.
"Wh-what the hell?!"
Facing him: a grotesque black metal cross-thing hovering midair. Its glowing red eye (laser) staring coldly down. He gasped.
Assassin's magic tool?!
As he opened his mouth to scream, the drone's arm extended, dropping the document and pen onto his chest.
Iron Blood Relief Foundation Establishment Permit
And crudely stapled atop it: a tiny note.
Southern Harbor's Red Anchor Trading Company. Alias Account #47-B. Cumulative Embezzlement: 3.5 Million Gold.
The instant he read the note, all color drained from Viscount Vail's face. Heart dropping, stomach churning.
My... my perfect slush fund laundering route?! How the hell—!
Whine—.
The drone descended another inch, shifting the laser to the 'proxy signature' line at the bottom. Unsigned? This secret hits Kasian's desk before dawn. Brutally clear, silent pressure.
"Eeeek...! Mercy, mercy!!"
Viscount Vail pissed the premium silk sheets, grabbed the pen, and scrawled his name madly in the box. Desperate enough to tear the paper.
The drone's arm snatched the signed document deftly. Job done, it turned and vanished into the dark beyond the terrace window.
Left alone, Viscount Vail clutched his head, trembling like a leaf at the empty night sky.
That night, one of the Empire's power players lost his soul utterly to an unidentified metal monster.
---
Back in Zone 17 Bunker control room.
"Nice catch!"
I snatched the document from the drone's claw as it returned safely via emergency vent, cheering.
Viscount Vail's shaky handwriting clearly etched—perfectly fulfilling Imperial admin requirements for the ultimate tax-free permit.
"Now we're owners of a fully legit ghost company!"
"Ehehehaha! Picturing that arrogant Vail pissing himself to sign—my decade-old heartburn's gone!"
Ayla bounced in joy-dance.
"Boss! Acknowledge my stellar service—time for promised spam 'n' sausage veggie stir-fry! Festival tonight!"
"You got it. Without Employee #1's intel, we'd be tax-bombed. Special: two cans today."
Grinning, I fired up the induction cooker in the mini-kitchen, oiled the pan. Crisp knife chops slicing thick spam and springy sausage filled the control room.