The storm that had leveled the Mero Company and the corrupt Lord of Winston didn't dissipate with the arrival of the dawn; it merely changed its form.
The thunder of spells and the clash of steel had been replaced by the quiet, rhythmic scratching of quills against parchment.
As the golden light of the sun crested over the serrated walls of Winston Castle, the blood-soaked and soot-stained reality of the coup began to settle into the cold, immutable ledgers of history.
Rabbit walked through the corridors of the captured fortress, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone. The air was still heavy with the scent of spent mana and cold iron, a lingering ghost of the violence that had transpired just hours prior.
He had just finished a long, hushed conversation with Euphemina, the Duplicator. From her, he had gleaned a single, vital detail that made his merchant's heart thrum with a terrifying, electric excitement.
Grid had fought with a dagger.
Not just any dagger, but a weapon of black malice that hummed with a power far beyond the capabilities of a simple blacksmith.
Euphemina had described the way the air curdled around the blade and how the "gargoyle-like" blacksmith had moved with a desperate, jagged ferocity. To a layman, it was a display of skill. To Rabbit, it was a historical resonance.
'A smith who creates Unique artifacts and wields them with the instinct of a seasoned warrior,' Rabbit mused, his mind racing through the forbidden historical archives he had obsessively studied during his climb to power.
'There is only one name in the annals of the continent that fits this impossible duality. A man who bridged the gap between the anvil and the battlefield.'
Pagma.
The world remembered Pagma as a divine blacksmith, a saint of the forge. But the deeper, dustier records—the ones hidden in the restricted libraries of the Saharan Empire—spoke of a man who danced with a sword as easily as he swung a hammer. A man whose "Sword Dances" were as legendary as his armor.
If Grid had inherited that soul... if he was the Successor... then he wasn't just a business partner. He was a Legend in the making.
Rabbit felt a surge of adrenaline that no amount of gold could provide. To be the merchant who branded, marketed, and sold the works of a living Legend—it was the ultimate deal, the pinnacle of a career built on the exploitation of lesser men.
He hastened his steps toward the Mero Company's private treasury, his mind already sketching out a blueprint for a commercial empire that would span kingdoms. He didn't just want to be rich; he wanted to be the man who managed and exploited a Legend.
But before the new era could begin, the old one had to be burned to ash. The transition of power in Winston was not a peaceful passing of the torch; it was an amputation.
"R-Rabbit! You traitorous bastard! I'll have your skin for a rug! Do you hear me? I'll buy your life from the Earl!"
Valmont's screams echoed through the castle hallways as the Mero guards—men who understood the shifting tides of power better than their master—dragged him from his silk sheets.
He was no longer the President of a Merchant company; he was a common criminal whose assets were being liquidated by the very man who had once been his shadow. Valmont looked pathetic, his nightgown stained with sweat, his face purple with a rage that held no teeth.
Baron Lowe was in no state to scream. His lineage had already met its violent end in the north wing of the castle. His lead knight, Philipson—a man whose predatory nature had finally led him to kidnap a young girl from the village to satisfy a sick whim—had met a swift and terrifying end.
Euphemina, her professional patience evaporated and her "Good Luck" stat perhaps guiding her toward the scent of injustice, had discovered the girl hidden behind a heavy tapestry in the Knight's chambers.
She hadn't waited for a trial or a magistrate. Philipson's life had ended in a blinding flash of blue mana—a high-tier spell copied from a master mage. When the guards finally reached the room, there wasn't enough left of the Knight captain to fill a washbasin.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, the "Frontier" Knights of Earl Steim had arrived in full force.
The Earl himself, a man whose sense of duty was as rigid and unforgiving as the mountains he ruled, did not believe in second chances for tyrants who abused his trust. He had been blindsided by the Baron's corruption, and his fury was cold and absolute.
Valmont and Baron Lowe were stripped of their titles, their wealth, and their dignity before being marched into the village square. There, under the burning eyes of the residents they had starved, imprisoned, and extorted, the sentence was read.
The execution was swift. Winston roared as the blades fell. It was a sound of pure catharsis—the sound of a collective nightmare finally breaking under the weight of the morning sun.
Rabbit stood on the steps of the castle, adjusting his spectacles and smoothing his silk vest. He expected a commendation. He had, after all, delivered the evidence of the Baron's treason. He had saved the blacksmith Grid from the dungeon. He had essentially handed Winston back to the Earl on a silver platter, gift-wrapped in the Mero Company's own internal corruption.
But Earl Steim did not smile. He looked at Rabbit with eyes that saw through the "rebranding" and the polished facade.
"It is obvious that you saved the residents from the final crisis," the Earl said, his voice echoing like rolling thunder across the courtyard.
"But a merchant does not wipe away a year of calculated persecution with one night of convenient betrayal. You were the Mero Company's strategist, Rabbit. You were the architect of the debts that crushed these people's spirits. You watched them suffer and calculated the interest on their pain to the fourth decimal point."
Rabbit's heart sank, the cold weight of logic pressing against his chest. He tried to speak, but the Earl raised a gloved hand.
"The people of Winston have spoken. From the testimonies of Valmont and Lowe, it is clear that while they provided the malice, you provided the mind. You are the main brain behind the traps that led to the misery of this territory. A hero in the eyes of the ignorant for a moment, perhaps, but the greatest villain in the eyes of justice."
The Earl paused, glancing at the crowd that had gone silent. "I recognize your contribution to the coup. Therefore, I will spare your life. But I sentence you to ten years in the very dungeon you helped fill."
Arthur, standing in the shadows of Khan's forge nearby, watched the scene with a cold, detached satisfaction. His red eyes narrowed as he adjusted his white cloak.
'Just as I predicted,' Arthur thought. 'A snake remains a snake, even if it sheds its skin. The Earl knows that a man who betrays one master for profit will eventually betray the next. Rabbit's value is his intellect, but his debt to Winston must be paid in time, not gold.'
Rabbit bowed his head. He didn't plead. He didn't scream. He was a man of cold mathematics. He had played a high-stakes game, gambled on a "Hero's Image," and lost the final hand. As the guards led him away, he caught a glimpse of Grid in the distance.
'I have formed a relationship with Mr. Grid,' Rabbit whispered to himself, a small, haunting smile touching his lips. 'He recognizes my merits. I have decorated a page in the biography of a future legend. For a merchant, perhaps that is a profit that pays out in the long term. I can wait ten years. A Legend's lifespan is much longer than a sentence.'
With the fall of the Baron and the dissolution of the Mero Company, Winston underwent a miraculous, system-wide transformation. The notification windows flashed for every player in the vicinity:
[The Winston village is saved from the tranny of Mero Merchat Company and Baron Lowe!]
[Winston Village has been upgraded to 'Winston City'!]
[Trade routes have been restored. Production efficiency increased by 30%.]
The village was officially a City. Its population began to swell almost immediately as refugees returned and merchants from the capital flocked to the now-liberated hub.
Lord Steim moved with efficiency, using the seized assets of the Mero Company to reimburse the residents. The heavy, predatory debts were cancelled by decree.
The city breathed again; the smell of lavender and fresh bread replaced the stench of sulfur and fear.
In the taverns and marketplaces, the stories of the "Liberation of Winston" began to grow, fueled by the excitement of the players and the gratitude of the NPCs.
Three names were whispered with absolute reverence:
* The Moon Goddess: A woman of unmatched grace (and terrifying magic) who stormed the castle. (Euphemina's reputation as "Erina" soared among the mage classes).
* The Silver Saint: A swordsman with silver hair and red eyes—Arthur. He had fought an entire army without taking a single life, treating the misguided soldiers with a mercy that felt heavenly. He was now the idol of every aspiring knight in the North.
* The Young Hero: Grid. The man who stood against the Mero Company, defended the legendary Khan's smithy, and forged the weapons that broke the siege.
To the residents, Grid was the soul of Winston. To Arthur, however, the "hero" was currently sitting in the back of the smithy, complaining loudly about a sore shoulder and wondering if he could charge the Earl for the "emotional damage" of being falsely arrested.
"Lord Steim wishes to see you both," a messenger announced, bowing so deeply to Arthur and Grid that his forehead nearly touched the soot-stained floor of the smithy, he remembered Arthur's mercy of not killing the soldiers and he was among them.
Arthur knew of Earl Steim's reputation—a man of immense power and the father of the future Lord of Winston, 'Lady Irene.'
They entered the high hall of the castle. Lord Steim sat upon the throne, his presence radiating a quiet, domineering authority.
He looked at Arthur's regal bearing with a sharp gaze, sensing a power within him that didn't belong to a common adventurer. Then, his eyes settled on Grid, who felt more like a fool than a hero.
"Your merits cannot be overlooked," Earl Steim said. "You have protected the heart of this city—its industry and its pride. You protected Khan, a man who has worked for Winston's progress for decades. As a token of my gratitude, I am issuing a permanent decree."
Grid leaned forward, his eyes widening to the size of gold coins. His breath hitched. Is it gold? Is it a title? Please let it be gold.
"The Smithy of Khan shall be exempt from all taxes for the next three years," Earl Steim announced. "Furthermore, any items crafted by Grid or Arthur and sold within the city limits will be forever free of trade levies. You are the 'Heroes' of Winston."
The silence in the room was broken by a sudden, loud, and incredibly undignified sob.
Grid was on his knees, tears of pure, unadulterated joy streaming down his face, drenching his soot-covered rags.
'No taxes?!' he screamed internally, his soul vibrating with the frequency of pure greed. 'Every gold coin... every single copper... is MINE! No more Mero Company taking a cut! No more Baron's fee! It's all pure profit!'
He had fought a duel, swung a dagger at some guards, and spent an hour in a damp cell. In exchange, he had not just got a Second class but also secured a tax-free fortune. To Grid, this wasn't just justice; it was the ultimate jackpot. He wasn't crying for the people; he was crying for his bank account.
Arthur looked at his companion—who was currently wiping his nose on his sleeve while laughing hysterically—and then at Lord Steim. He bowed gracefully, the light of the setting sun reflecting in his red eyes.
"We accept your grace, Lord Steim," Arthur said, his voice steady and noble. "Winston's steel will never fail you. As long as the hammer strikes, this city will remain the forge of the North."
As they walked out of the castle, the residents lined the streets, cheering their names. The "Winston's Heroes" had arrived. Grid waved frantically, his face red from the combination of crying and sheer adrenaline.
"Arthur! Did you hear him?! No taxes! I'm going to build a house made of gold! I'm going to buy a mountain! I'm going to hire a hundred maids!"
"I heard you, Grid," Arthur said, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. "But don't get too comfortable. A legend doesn't just sit in a tax-free shop and count coppers. The world is getting bigger, the Yatan Church is moving in the shadows, and Earl Steim isn't the only one who's noticed us."
Arthur looked toward the horizon, where the sun was finally dipping below the earth.
"The era of the Mero Company is over, Grid. The era of the Overgeared has begun. Now... let's go see Khan. He's been waiting for his successor to come home."