Chapter 231: The Vault

I blinked up at the overseer once, twice, my brain still trying to process the fact that he’d somehow materialized directly in front of me without triggering a single one of my instincts.

It was unsettling, frankly. I’d gotten pretty good at sensing people sneaking up on me—survival trait, really useful when you lived in a world where everyone wanted to either fuck you, kill you, or both in creative combination—but the overseer had bypassed every alarm I possessed and just… appeared.

No footsteps, no displacement of air, no shift in the room’s energy—nothing. Like he’d stepped out some fold in reality designed specifically to make people question their spatial awareness.

“You know,” I said, leaning back in Oberen’s throne-chair with casual ease, “most people make some kind of noise when they move. Breathing, footsteps, the gentle rustle of fabric—basic courtesy, really. But you? Nothing. Absolute silence. It’s impressive and deeply concerning in equal measure.”

The overseer didn’t respond to my observation, because of course he didn’t. He simply extended a hand from within the depths of his dark robes, the fabric parting just enough to reveal a single sheet of official-looking paper practically radiating legal significance.

I smirked, already catching on to what this had to be.

“The deed to the casino,” the Overseer intoned in that flat, professional tone that somehow managed to make even exciting news sound like a tax document being read aloud. “Oberen provided his signature before losing consciousness. The transfer of ownership is now pending your acceptance and corresponding signature.”

I practically lunged forward in the chair, snatching the paper from his hand with more enthusiasm than was strictly professional. My eyes scanned the text—legal jargon, property descriptions, a truly obscene list of assets included in the transfer—before landing on Oberen’s signature at the bottom.

It was shaky, barely legible, the handwriting of someone who’d been in extreme pain. Which, to be fair, was entirely understandable given he’d just been shot in the back.

I scrambled to grab a pen from the desk’s ostentatious collection of writing implements—choosing the one that looked most expensive because if I was going to sign away someone’s life work, I was going to do so with style

—then scrawled my signature next to his with a flourish.

“There,” I announced, holding the document up like a trophy. “One casino, legally acquired through a combination of strategic gambling, psychological warfare, and just a touch of premeditated violence.”

The overseer took the paper back with a slight bow—the sort that conveyed respect for the procedure rather than the person themselves—and then simply… left. There was no flourish, no parting remark, no theatrical pause for effect. He merely turned and walked out of the office as though he’d just finished a particularly mundane errand.

I stretched in the chair, feeling my spine pop in several places it probably shouldn’t have, then rose to my feet and motioned for Brutus to follow. “Come on, big guy. Let’s go see what kind of chaos our crew’s gotten into while we were handling the boring administrative stuff.”

We made our way back through the corridors at an unhurried pace, retracing familiar turns and archways as the muffled hum of voices gradually swelled into something more recognizable.

Stone gave way to open space before we emerged once more into the central pit, the air warmer, louder, alive with the residual energy of an event that had already begun to fossilize into rumor.

The crowd had dissipated significantly—most people had migrated to the outskirts where they clustered around tables and bars in loose knots of conversation, drinks in hand, excitement crackling through their voices as they relived the spectacle. The sand in the pit had been smoothed somewhat, though you could still see the disturbed patches where Oberen had knelt and bled.

My crew stood waiting in the center of it all—Julius still looking slightly teary but significantly more composed, Grisha with her arms crossed and that satisfied smirk still playing at her tusked lips, Nara bouncing on her toes with residual excitement, and Felix clinging to her arm with the unwavering dedication of a particularly adorable barnacle.

Around them stood Jazmin and the other beastfolk slaves—maybe fifteen in total—watching me with a spectrum of expressions that ran from openly hopeful to carefully uncertain.

Off to one side lingered the overseer and two others in similar robes, motionless and inscrutable, accompanied by a handful of casino attendants who looked very much like people waiting to be told what their new management expected of them.

I walked up to my crew with my arms spread wide, grinning like an absolute idiot. “So! Successful evening, wouldn’t you say? We came, we gambled, we committed several technically-illegal acts, we won everything. I’d call that a productive night.”

Julius launched himself at me with his arms flung wide and welcoming. “You beautiful disaster! You actually did it! I thought we were going to lose everything and die in poverty but you’ve made us rich!”

“I mean, ’rich’ is subjective,” I pointed out, catching him mid-lunge and patting his head consolingly. “We’re definitely richer, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We still have Lloyd’s debt to handle, the theater to maintain, and apparently a casino to run now which I’m sure will come with its own exciting collection of problems.” I gently extracted myself from his grip before turning to face the broader group. “Speaking of which—Jazmin. Can we talk?”

Jazmin stepped forward at once, her purple hair catching the ambient light as she moved, her bronze skin gleaming with residual sweat from the evening’s chaos. She met my gaze, something like cautious optimism settling behind her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was calm, steady—grounded in a way that suggested she already understood the weight of what had just changed. “What did you want to discuss?”

“Your plans,” I said simply. “Now that Byron’s dead and you’re free of his immediate control—what are you hoping to do? Where do you want to go from here?”

Jazmin’s expression shifted through several emotions before settling into something that balanced resignation with a fragile sort of hope. “I’m still registered as a slave under the city’s jurisdiction,” she explained. “My contract can’t be abolished unless I achieve the status of High Servant.”

She paused, glancing back at the other beastfolk slaves who were all watching our conversation with rapt attention.

“I was hoping… we were all hoping, actually… that maybe we could continue working under you? We’re skilled—entertainment, security, customer service, all of it—and we’d be loyal. More loyal than we ever were to Byron, that’s for certain.”

I studied her face, then let my gaze sweep across the assembled beastfolk, taking them in properly for the first time. They were all young—probably none older than their mid-twenties—and all carrying that particular wariness that came from extended abuse mixed with desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, this new situation would turn out better than the last.

Various species were represented. Jackal, fox, wolf, cat, rabbit, even what looked to be a deer with delicate antlers, all of them watching me with the unmistakable look of people who understood that their immediate futures were being balanced on whatever I chose to say next.

“Yeah,” I said simply. “Yeah, of course you can work for me. The casino needs staff anyway, and I’d rather employ people who have actual motivation to see this place succeed than randos off the street who might rob me blind the second I’m not looking.”

I pointed at Jazmin specifically. “You’re in charge of coordinating them. Figure out who’s best suited for what roles, get them trained on whatever they don’t know, and report any problems directly to me. Sound good?”

Jazmin’s face lit up instantly, her smile so wide and genuine it sent something warm blooming unexpectedly in my chest. Around her, the rest of the beastfolk erupted into excited chatter, ears perking up, tails wagging, relief and joy mixing into something almost palpable.

Just then I heard the clearing of a throat from directly behind me—polite, professional, slightly ominous—and I spun around fast enough that I nearly lost my balance, jumping slightly on my feet to find the two Velvets standing there like they’d teleported into position.

“Saints above!” I yelped, pressing a hand to my chest. “Does everyone in this place have supernatural stealth abilities? Is there some kind of city-wide conspiracy to give me a heart attack via unexpected appearances? Because it’s working!”

They didn’t react. Not a twitch, not a glance, not even the faintest acknowledgment of my very reasonable complaint. Instead, after a single, shared beat, both Velvets dropped to one knee in flawless synchronization. The one on the left spoke first, voice calm and utterly devoid of inflection. “We are under your complete command now, per the terms of the transfer agreement. All previous loyalties have been severed. We await your orders.”

I blinked at them, then at Brutus, then back at them—trying tried to reconcile the image before me with everything I knew about how the world was supposed to work.

These were Velvets. Elite operatives. The kind who answered only to the highest authorities, who existed above ordinary hierarchies and below only the most unassailable power structures. And yet here they were, kneeling in the sand before me like I was some kind of authority figure.

“Right,” I said slowly. “Okay. That’s… that’s going to take some getting used to.” I gestured for them to stand because having people kneel felt deeply uncomfortable despite the power trip it probably should’ve given me. “Stand up. Stop kneeling. It’s weird. And your first order is to prepare Oberen for transfer—get him stabilized, make sure he’s conscious enough to understand what’s happening.”

“Understood,” they said in unison, rising smoothly and turning to march off toward wherever they’d stashed Oberen’s bleeding body.

The overseer stepped forward then, flanked by his two identically-robed companions, before gesturing with his gloved hand for me to follow. “If you would accompany us. There are assets that require your immediate attention.”

I fell into step behind them without question. My crew followed close at my heels, settling into a loose formation that suggested we’d all collectively decided this was probably fine and definitely not a trap.

We moved through the casino’s lobby—still populated by lingering gamblers who watched our procession with interest—before trailing off to the side and entering what turned out to be an absolute maze of corridors.

The passages twisted and forked with an almost studied hostility toward navigation, each turn and branching corridor arranged in a way that felt intentionally disorienting.

The same ambient magical light used throughout the casino glowed here as well, softer somehow, filtered through walls of pale sandstone that absorbed sound and left everything faintly muffled.

After what felt like ten minutes of walking but was probably closer to three, we arrived at what looked to be a massive vault cut directly into the wall. The door was enormous—easily three meters tall and two wide, made of what appeared to be solid gold or at least gold-plated metal thick enough to withstand anything short of divine intervention.

Even standing several feet away, I could feel it humming—an almost subsonic vibration that settled into my bones and stayed there, the signature of magical wards woven into the metal itself, protection spells layered so densely they created their own ambient field.

The overseer whispered something long and complicated from beneath his breath, the words too quiet and foreign for me to catch properly, before whatever strange mechanism was humming through the air came to an abrupt halt.

The sudden silence was almost jarring, like the world’s background noise had been muted without warning, and I felt the hairs on my arms stand up as the residual magic dissipated.

Without a word, the overseer and his two companions took their positions around the vault’s handle—a massive wheel that looked less like a lock mechanism and more like it had been stolen from the helm of a seafaring monstrosity—and began spinning it in synchronized motions.

Gears clicked and tumblers fell with sounds that echoed down the corridor, and then slowly, ponderously, the vault door began to swing open.

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