Building the Stronghold

Before setting out, I stopped by the Gerona market as usual and bought up the sick and the frail in bulk.

The prices I had crashed by dumping volume on the market still showed little sign of recovery. Ordinary slaves were trading around the seven-gold line, and those in poor condition were going for practically nothing. For whatever time I had left, I swept up every low-grade slave that came onto the market. I focused on the men, who moved the fastest, and bought six hundred and ten of them at less than a gold a head. Counting the children, the number came to nine hundred — but I had four Space-Expanded Trucks now, so moving them was no trouble at all.

The caravan meant to retrace the road we had come, taking it slow so the lower-grade slaves could be treated and recover along the way. I left the running of the whole outfit to Marco.

"While you're on the way back, sell off whatever stock recovers, as it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠recovers. If something decent turns up, put it to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠use yourself. This is operating capital, so spend it as you see fit. Five thousand gold."

"Oh! Five thousand gold!"

Marco took the pouch with a look of open shock.

"Y-you really don't need to give me this much."

"Use what you need, and hand back whatever's left when you return. Just keep the transaction records straight."

Full authority, and the operating funds on top of it — Marco's eyes shone brighter than usual.

"Yes, Guildmaster. I'll multiply it several times over on the way back. I swear it."

"Do as you like."

Argon would travel with them, and I had hired Marcus's mercenary company on again. I also issued the Earth-born slaves automatic rifles and magazines, five hundred rounds apiece, and ordered that their use of the weapons follow Marco's command. That ought to be enough to sweep aside a few bands of bandits without much fuss.

Marco's party would take their time. It was a long journey — two months, at least. Having left it all to him, I had no reason to go along, so I slipped away toward the vineyard in Rome with Maximus, IS-1, and one slave out of the Italian mafia.

The moment we passed through the gate, the vineyard came into view. I went into the farmhouse first, washed up, and turned on the television to check the news. I had been away a long while; seeing how the world was turning was the proper order of things.

The news was in an uproar over the Naples trafficking case I had set off.

"No telling when they'll find the money in Moreno's secret account. I need to clean that up, and fast."

I left the news running and took out the phones I had powered off and stored. Three of them. One in the name of Kang Chung-sik. One for dealing with the arms broker in Egypt. The last for staying in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠touch with the lawyer at the Istanbul firm. The moment they came on, they chimed one after another, and the texts that had piled up came pouring in. I picked up the phone I used for the lawyer.

"Good timing."

His office had been in touch.

Good. The next destination was settled. Liechtenstein meant nine hundred kilometers by car. I had a newly made passport out of Istanbul anyway, so trying a plane, just as a test, would do no harm. I turned the phone on, checked the flights, and picked the earliest one.

The flight was chosen, so I had to get ready myself. I took the passport from my bag — not a Korean one, but the fake I had had made in Istanbul. Looking at the photo inside, I slipped onto my finger a ring drawn from the magic pouch and activated the item while studying the picture.

A moment later the contours of my face moved of their own accord, and a face close to the one in the photograph appeared. A Polymorph Ring. A top-grade one would have reshaped even my build to perfection, but those cost far too much. The cheaper low-grade item only altered the features into a rough likeness. I turned my head this way and that, comparing it with the passport photo.

"This should get me through immigration without trouble."

A person's face can differ a little from a photograph. If anyone asked, I could say I had aged and put on some weight. Changed into the made-up owner of the account, I headed for the airport.

A back alley in Naples. The top-floor office of a building that housed a rundown bar — one of the Moreno family's early fronts. Hard-faced bruisers sat gathered there, waiting on someone's orders.

A short while later the front door opened. A middle-aged man came in, sharp-eyed, looking as if he had crammed his rage down and swallowed it. The bruisers rose and greeted him as one.

"Boss. You're here!"

"Boss Moreno! Welcome!"

"Welcome, sir."

He barely registered the greetings and went straight into the inner office. The man sat on the sofa in the center, and the lieutenants who had followed him split to either side in front of him.

"Any news of my father?"

At the question from the man in the head seat — Puti Moreno — the men avoided answering. While they glanced at one another, a close aide seated nearby answered with care.

"We're checking every angle, but nothing's turned up yet."

"It's been nearly a month! And you're telling me we still don't know if he's dead or alive!"

At Puti's shout, the men hunched their necks in.

"How the hell do you people do your jobs!"

"We're sorry, Boss."

"And that bastard Giovanni?"

Giovanni had vanished along with his father.

"That, too, is still..."

Puti's hand closed on the ashtray sitting on the table.

"You sons of bitches call that an answer."

The men who saw his hand flinched on reflex. Just as that hand was about to hurl the ashtray, a knock sounded at the office door, and Puti stopped cold.

"Who is it!"

The door opened, and a subordinate came in.

"We caught a man who knows about Boss Moreno's secret account."

At the words secret account, Puti set his raised hand back down.

"What? Bring him in. Now."

The subordinate who had stepped outside returned, dragging a middle-aged man. The man's face was a mask of blood, and his legs gave out beneath him; he sank straight to the floor.

"You piece of shit. Get up!"

At the bark, the man who had collapsed scrambled upright with terror on his face. His shaking body would not settle.

"Who is he?"

The man who had brought him explained.

"Head teller at the Bank of Naples. He says he helped the Boss open a secret account there under another name."

At secret account, Puti's face filled with curiosity.

On the day the Moreno mansion burned, Puti Moreno had been in Bulgaria, meeting his father's partners on his father's orders. That was what had saved his life. He had gone to ground to dodge the prosecutors and, like them, had been hunting his father's trail. But there was no trace of the old man in the burned mansion, nor in the secret warehouse where the girls had been kept.

Then, in the middle of that frustration, a small thread had finally appeared. And what made him expect even more than news of his father was word of the organization's money, which had vanished along with him.

"Is that so. Hey."

"Y-yes! Yes!"

"Tell me everything you know. This account my father supposedly opened. Where is it now, and how much money is in it?"

Vaduz, capital of Liechtenstein. A small city of fewer than ten thousand people. For a place that size, the downtown was lined with a surprising number of modern buildings, and more banks than one would expect were open for business among them. With the slaves in tow, I visited one of them — the head ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠office of the Bank of Royal Owner.

It was a bank that dealt only with premium private clients, and fittingly, every teller transaction was handled in a separate private room. The middle-aged banker seated with me checked the withdrawal slip and the password, asked me to wait a moment, and disappeared. A short while later the rear door he had gone through opened, and a cart of the sort one might see in hotel room service rolled slowly into the room. Banded cash was stacked on it in neat, squared piles. Nine million, nine hundred and eighty thousand euros in all.

"Nine million, nine hundred and eighty thousand euros, after a fee of six hundred and forty-five thousand deducted from the full balance you requested. Shall I count it again?"

"No need. One ought to trust a bank's credit."

"Thank you. Shall we bag the cash for you separately, then?"

"No. We'll pack it ourselves. Maximus."

"Yes, Chairman."

Maximus, who had been standing by, and the slaves opened the cases they had brought. The three of them transferred the stacked cash into the cases, bundle by neat bundle. All nine hundred and ninety-eight straps of ten-thousand-euro notes were moved, and the cases shut. The work was done. Time to leave.

"We'll be on our way, then."

"Travel safely. May fortune always attend your business. Ha ha ha."

We finished the farewells and left the bank. The cases went into the back of the vehicle, and I climbed into the rear seat. IS-1, in the driver's seat, asked a question.

"Chairman. Where shall we go?"

"The airport. No point wasting time."

"Yes. Departing now."

Inside the moving car, and since a large sum had just come in, I turned on the smart pad and put my assets on Earth in order.

Converted to won, that was 33.6 billion even without the real estate. Not bad. Add in the assets on Gaia, and I was a man worth nearly a hundred billion won. The divorce, the knife in the back, the brush with death — all of it was only three months ago. The old line is true enough: you never know where a life will run.

With the trunk packed full of cash, I headed back toward Rome.