Trash's Price Tag
Zone 17 Bunker control room. The voice waveform rippled across the monitor. Sounds from the secret chamber were being transmitted live through Lenia's earpiece. I pressed the mic.
"Open the bag."
Lenia's hand moved. Click. The lock disengaged. The briefcase opened. The vacuum-sealed fuse debris was placed on the table. A pitch-black chunk of metal clung tightly to the transparent plastic. Jagged, melted and mangled on one side—industrial waste from any angle.
Kasian's eyes locked onto the fuse. And—faintly—his brow furrowed.
Ayla was right. Kasian instinctively felt disgust at the black lump of scrap before him. This was the remnant of a national treasure? This worthless thing?
But what came from Kasian's mouth wasn't revulsion.
"What proof is there that this is a remnant of the Tear of the Sun?"
I pressed the mic.
"Say, 'Verification can be done directly by His Highness's priest.'"
Lenia opened her mouth.
"Verification can be done directly by His Highness's priest."
Zero inflection. Zero emotion. The moment she finished speaking, her mouth closed again.
Kasian glanced at Solon. Solon stepped forward. His aged hand peeled off the plastic wrapping and lifted the fuse debris. The secret chamber fell silent.
Solon closed his eyes. One hand cupped the fuse, while the index finger of the other hovered over its surface. A thread of transparent divine power rose from his fingertip, flowing along the fuse's jagged contours.
One second. Two seconds. Solon's finger began to tremble. Not a subtle quiver. It was the shaking of joints that could no longer hold rigid.
As if something was transmitting through the fuse into his palm.
Three seconds. Solon opened his eyes. Awe reflected in his aged pupils.
"Your Highness…."
His voice cracked. The tone of a priest who had served the church for forty years regressed to that of a seminary student beholding something unearthly for the first time.
"It is genuine. The mana of the Tear of the Sun, and traces of the barrier mana used in Zone 17's seal—both are detected. However—"
Solon carefully set the fuse down and added,
"The absorption pattern is unusual. Not natural mana dissipation, but as if energy was forcibly drawn out from the outside—"
"Does that mean it's real or not?" Kasian cut him off.
"…It is genuine, Your Highness."
Kasian's pupils dilated. The hand fiddling with his cufflinks stopped. Solon—the sole insurance Kasian had brought, a living lie detector placed to sniff out fakes—had confirmed it as real.
If it were fake, he would've stood and walked out. But it's real.
If it's real, he couldn't let it slip away.
Failing to place hard evidence on the Emperor's desk within 72 hours would make "Kasian" synonymous with "deposed crown prince."
And this woman—this enigmatic, armed, silent woman—finding another buyer was only a matter of time.
If not now, never.
Zone 17 Bunker control room. Ayla slammed both fists down on the monitor.
"Solon's bought it!!"
"He didn't buy it—he stated the facts." I took a sip of coffee and corrected her. My heart was racing, but I kept it out of my voice. The voice waveform rippled on the monitor. Faint movements from the chamber's guard knights echoed through.
After Solon's verification, the center of gravity in the secret chamber was shifting.
"This is where the real game starts." I brought the mic to my lips.
Abandoned trading post secret chamber. Kasian tried to regain his composure. No matter who was behind this woman, if she'd brought the real thing, the deal could proceed. The issue was the price.
This was mere "debris." Not a complete mana stone. The main body had already vaporized. It was just a fragment, with limited residual mana.
It had value as evidence, but no practical utility.
And her backer might not know its true worth.
Kasian crossed his arms, leaned back, and lifted his chin. Reason returned. Ruthless calculation began overwriting his emotions.
"Fine. We've confirmed it's genuine. State your price."
Silence.
The woman didn't respond.
Three seconds. Five seconds. Eight seconds. Kasian's eyes narrowed faintly.
"I'm asking. How much do you want?"
Silence.
Nothing could be read from that expressionless face. No arrogance, no calculation, no fear. As if the question hadn't reached her ears—or had, but wasn't worth answering.
Kasian's analytical routine spun idly again. Intentional silence? A negotiation tactic? Or did she truly not know the price?
It didn't matter. No answer meant he had to seize control.
And time—four hours already melted from the 72—was not on Kasian's side.
Kasian drew his own line.
"500 million gold."
Zone 17 Bunker control room. 500 million.
Ayla's mouth fell open. I covered her mouth with my hand.
500 million gold. An absurd amount for a charred fuse scrap. But for a national treasure remnant—it was an insult.
Kasian planned to start low and climb. Obviously. When the seller doesn't name a price, the buyer starts from the floor—basic negotiation.
But Kasian. You don't have time for basics.
I pressed the mic.
"Close the bag."
Abandoned trading post secret chamber. Lenia's left hand picked up the fuse from the table. She slipped it back into the vacuum pack. Pushed it into the briefcase. Click. The lock engaged.
Mechanical. No judgment on whether 500 million was low or high for her. Someone said "close," so she closed.
The speed of Kasian's cufflink fiddling quickened.
"…Impatient."
Silence.
A clock ticked in Kasian's head. The moment this woman walked out the door, the evidence vanished forever. Another deal? None. He didn't even know her backer. No guarantee of retracing the path.
Viscount Vail had barely secured this contact; lose the thread, and it was over.
68 hours.
"One billion."
No reply. Lenia stood holding the briefcase in her left hand. Kasian's jaw twisted faintly.
Zone 17 Bunker control room. Ayla grabbed my arm. Her nails dug in.
"Boss! One billion! Isn't one billion enough?!"
I pried her hand off.
"We're not setting this fuse's value. Kasian is. His throne's on the line."
I pressed the mic.
"Stand up."
Abandoned trading post secret chamber. Lenia rose from the chair. She hadn't been sitting. She'd stood from the start. But her stance changed. From even weight on both feet—"at ease"—to center of gravity shifted back—"ready to leave."
Kasian was a man sensitive to human posture shifts. He wouldn't miss the meaning of that weight transfer.
"Wait."
Edge entered Kasian's voice for the first time. Closer to a plea than a command.
"1.5 billion."
Zone 17 Bunker control room. Ayla's nails fully embedded in my forearm. I didn't feel it. Or rather, I felt it but pretended not to.
1.5 billion. For the fuse we'd swapped out covered in sewage.
Not yet. Kasian's cufflink touching frequency was rising. Through the earpiece, the faint click of metal on metal. The metronome of anxiety. From once every ten seconds to every five.
I pressed the mic.
"Walk."
Abandoned trading post secret chamber. Lenia turned. Briefcase in left hand, she started toward the door. Steady stride. Not hurried. The walk of someone whose business was done—not fleeing.
One step. Two steps. The four guard knights' gazes converged on her back. Hands rose to sword hilts.
But they couldn't move. The problem was her gait. Walking through four armed knights without a single heartbeat faltering.
When the guards gripped their hilts—her right hand twitched, ever so faintly, toward her waist.
Not conscious. Muscle memory reflex. The reflex of the trained.
The knights, for whom combat was a profession, knew instinctively what that meant. The metallic outline hidden inside her jacket—not decoration, but a live weapon.
Touch it, and blood would flow. That gut feeling halted all four hands at once.
Her third step hit the floor. Kasian shot up from his chair.
"Stop!"
Lenia stopped. Didn't turn.
Only Kasian's ragged breathing echoed in the secret chamber. Fiddling with his cufflinks was no longer habit—it was a spasm. Index and middle fingers gripped and released the button repeatedly, irregular metal clicks leaking out.
He could grab her. Four guard knights might physically subdue her.
But instinct told him otherwise. Not easy prey. She might even target only Kasian.
If he touched her—
A chill ran down Kasian's spine. With the throne at stake, he couldn't gamble.
A word slipped through clenched teeth.
"Two billion."
Lenia didn't turn. Her fourth step lifted from the floor.
Kasian's hand braced the table. Fingertips blanched white.
"…All the funds I can access right now."
Low. Barely audible. But in the chamber's silence, that one phrase bounced off the walls, ringing clear.
Two billion gold.
Lenia turned. Expressionless. It would've been the same for 500 million or five gold.
She returned to the table and opened the briefcase. Click. Removed the vacuum-packed fuse and placed it down.
Kasian stared at the fuse. Pitch-black, jagged, one side melted and mangled—industrial waste.
His two hands descended slowly. Palms cradled the fuse. Like a priest receiving a holy relic from the altar.
Reverent. The crown prince cradling the national treasure remnant in both hands froze like a still frame under the chamber's dingy orange light.
Zone 17 Bunker control room. Ayla trembled before the monitor. Both hands gripped its edges, knuckles bone-white. Something flickered in her silver eyes. A tangled gleam of rage, pleasure, and tears.
"Kasian…."
Her voice shook.
"…knelt."
He hadn't actually knelt. But to Ayla, it looked that way. The man who discarded her, stole her plan, tossed her as bait to the demon lord—extended both hands before a lump of black waste.
I set down my coffee mug. Through the earpiece, Kasian ordering the guard knights. Command to fetch the gold coin chest. Heavy metal thudding onto the table. Lock disengaging. The distinctive heavy clink of coins stacking.
I said nothing.
The industrial waste we'd swapped out two days ago, covered in sewage.
His Highness was revering it like a national treasure, hands outstretched.
Dry satisfaction filled my mouth. More bitter than coffee, sweeter than Coke.
I pressed the mic.
"Receive it."
Abandoned trading post secret chamber. Lenia received the gold coin chest. It was heavy. A different weight from the tungsten sword. The sword pulled downward. This tilted sideways. A different kind of heaviness.
Not cleaved with a blade—not pierced. No blood spilled.
Yet the gold in this briefcase pressed her palm with a weight utterly unlike the shock of slicing a rat hound.
Prove your worth for the meal, he'd said.
She'd proved it. Without a sword, for the first time.
Lenia placed the gold chest into the briefcase. The bag sagged heavily.
Kasian sat in his chair, hands cupping the fuse. He didn't look at Lenia. Only at the fuse.
"Leave."
Lenia didn't glance over her shoulder at the chamber. She knew the four guards' gazes bored into her back, but her footsteps didn't change. She walked toward the door.
A voice came through the earpiece.
"Good work. Come back."
Lenia's lip corner lifted for 0.5 seconds. She returned.
Abandoned trading post corridor. The stone corridor stretched long and dim. Two wall lanterns spaced apart scattered orange light. Lenia's heels echoed down it. The briefcase in her left hand swung heavily. The gold's weight transmitted through her arm muscles to her shoulder.
This weight. The first trophy brought back without a sword.
No slashing. No stabbing. Not a drop of blood.
Yet the gold inside this briefcase weighed on her palm with a thrill entirely unlike felling a rat hound.
Prove your worth for the meal. He'd said.
She'd proved it. Without a sword. For the first time.
The stairs at the corridor's end came into view. Lenia's stride quickened faintly.