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Chapter 99: The Favor of Avarice
🕑 Added 2025-07-30 13:00:15 +0000 UTCThe Grand temple of Greed was not a temple in the traditional sense.
It was an institution, a fortress of commerce, built on black stone and polished pride. Its facade stretched wider than a palace, rising above the skyline of central Neel’s western region like a ledger carved into the heavens. Devils and lower beings came here not to worship, but to transact, because in the Greed territory, contracts were holy, and equity divine.
Abigail arrived at midday. Cloaked and glamoured.
From the air, she had seen the telltale shimmer of warded atmosphere that curled around the structure like heat off oil.
The gates were open.
Not in welcome, but in confidence. Greed feared no theft. You couldn’t steal from devils who'd already convinced the world to give it to them.
Inside, the temple opened into a vast courtyard, already crowded with finely dressed devils in tailored suits, polished pins, and ink-stained gloves. They jostled for space beneath titanic columns of gold-veined obsidian, each engraved with the founding creeds of Avaritia’s original doctrine, as well as the day’s slippage.
The volume here was oppressive.
"Five years of servitude with reproduction rights! Sign now or bleed the difference!"
“Clause override via Path-Down Protocol! I have a witness demon!”
“Investor lien on two twin-born contracts, make it three and I’ll waive signature fees!”
Scrolls snapped open in midair. Floating records, brand-stamped dockets, and clause-drapped contracts, waiting to be seized mid-argument.
Abigail moved through it all with the grace of someone long accustomed to hostile bureaucracies, her glamour magic already dispelled.
Her cloak was travel-worn, dust at the hem, and her gloves still bore smudges from drawing sigils earlier that day. But she walked with purpose, chin lifted just enough to give shape to her intent without inviting inspection. The trick in Greed’s temple wasn’t to blend in, it was to suggest you'd already been seen and approved elsewhere.
And she had been, once.
Years ago, as part of the decades long post-war Neel restoration treaties, she’d negotiated terms for mana flow concessions and magical embargo enforcement. She still had the debt notes tucked away in her tower, though the Greed Devils had warned her the interest would outlive her.
But now, she wasn’t here on Pantheon command. She was here to make a deal with the devils.
She reached the front processing queue beneath the Ministry Arch, one of several massive stone arches where initiates logged entry credentials and updated contract metadata before proceeding deeper into the temple.
The devil at the desk glanced up with mild contempt. He was a tall one, wearing a monocle affixed to his eye socket with a golden chain. His horns were gilded with tight spirals, a wealth signal.
“Business?” he asked, already pulling a ledger from the air.
Abigail slid a gold-plated emblem across the desk, a sigil mark from Cashmere’s personal seal.
“I’m here to request a tier-four audit on behalf of the investor known as Cashmere.”
That got the devil’s attention.
The ledger froze mid-flip. A few devils nearby twisted their heads with mild curiosity. Cashmere was not a small name, even among the temple’s gilded elite.
“You’re not Cashmere…” the devil said.
“No,” Abigail replied. “But I’m his audit proxy.”
“Proof of bond?”
She reached into her cloak and retrieved a signed document, thick and warm, humming faintly with archival sigilwork. The devil sniffed once, then leaned forward to read the embedded clause. His lip curled faintly.
“Paper still warm,” he said. “Forged?”
Abigail didn’t flinch. “Expedited from Hellnia. Cashmere’s estate is at risk. I’m here before the quarterly close.”
The devil tapped one long finger against his desk.
“That name is flagged, you know. His credit tier collapsed a few days ago. The Vault considers him a debtor now. Why didn’t your request include a revocation clause?”
Her spine stiffened. “What did you say?”
“He’s in default.”
The words hit like cold iron. Abigail kept her face still, but her thoughts spun.
‘Default? That wasn’t possible. Unless…’
Unless something had gone catastrophically wrong.
She bit down on her next question. The front desk devil smiled, just slightly and reached up to press a glowing rune suspended above his station. A soft chime echoed, and then a ripple passed through the corridor. A moment later, a second voice responded, smooth and syrupy.
“This is Audit Overseer Manus. What’s the matter?”
“Proxy’s here for Cashmere,” said the desk devil. “Requests tier-four audit.”
There was a short pause.
Then, “Escort her to the Vault of Requests. I’ll join you shortly.”
The desk devil snapped his fingers. A floating shard of obsidian appeared, hovering near Abigail’s shoulder. It pulsed faintly.
A green light, temporary clearance.
“Stay close to it,” he said. “And don’t touch anything.”
Abigail followed the shard down a narrow corridor as the chaos behind her faded into an eerie quiet.
The walls here were carved with older texts. Not scripture, receipts. Purchases that had carved history. The names of ruined kings, defunct hero bloodlines, and betrayed empires all lined the stone in gold-leaf handwriting, each with a price.
The Vault of Requests was ahead.
A heavy door of reinforced brass stood ajar. Inside, devils in high-collared black coats sat at wide crescent desks, each lit by a hovering flame. They recorded, indexed, and erased.
At the far end sat a devil.
Audit Overseer Manus.
A hunched figure in a suit that shimmered with thousands of overlapping clauses, his face obscured by a full veil of accounting parchment, his horns crowned with balance scales. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth enough to slip into the blood.
“Well now,” he said, extending a ledger-gloved hand. “Let’s see what your Investor owes us… and whether he’s worth saving.”
Abigail shook his hand as she sat and waited, her posture stiff on the lone guest chair. A black leather high-back that made her feel both honored and interrogated. Across the obsidian table, Manus, senior ranking clerk of the Grand Temple’s audit wing, sat back leisurely as he flipped through a dossier.
“So,” he began, tone warm and practiced, “your associate Cashmere has undergone unfortunate reclassification.”
“Reclassification?” Abigail repeated, tense.
Manus nodded, tapping an inkwell with a flick of his long nail. A series of floating charts, seals, and complex sigil loops unfurled behind him like the wings of an overly literate vulture.
“Previously, his designation was Investor Class II: Golden Reserve. Access to thirty-seven premium contract vaults, twelve executive favors, and all Golden Index multipliers above tier five.”
“And now?”
“Debtor Provisional: Orange Risk.” Manus said it like he were describing mold in a fruit basket.
“His ledgers have been remanded for audit under Clause 88-D of the Avaritian Prime Codex. Retroactive interest accumulation applied. Penalties accruing.”
Abigail’s face twitched. “That’s not possible. He was…he is…meticulous with his holdings.”
“Indeed,” Manus said, and gave a faint smile. “That’s what makes it so suspicious.”
He waved a hand, and several glowing lines of incomprehensible contract law floated between them. Abigail squinted. Something about soul liens, equity inheritances, anomalous pledges, even something called a ‘luxurian fee exemption.’ Her stomach tightened. She couldn’t read it properly.
“These make no sense.” she admitted.
Manus didn’t look offended. He just sighed. “They’re not meant to, dear. But in simpler terms, his processing was pushed forward. The system moved faster than it should have. Someone high up filed an internal trigger. A rival, most likely. Or worse, an internal auditor.”
Abigail blinked. “They can do that?”
“In Father God’s house?” Manus chuckled. “We once repossessed a child’s future for breaking a piggy bank too early. So yes, they can.”
Abigail’s fingers tightened in her lap, but her voice came cool and sharp.
“What’s the solution?”
Manus tilted his head, birdlike. “There are temporary recourses. We can request a hold on his designation. Freeze his assets, withhold redistribution until the audit is resolved. His vaults, investments, and estate will remain untouched.”
Relief flooded her. “Good. Do that.”
“However,” Manus added, tapping a tiny gavel to one of the golden nodes in his ledger swarm, “his audit is currently scheduled for processing five years from now.”
Abigail’s breath caught. “Five years?”
“Correct. Delays are common. The queue is vast, and the Greed Faction’s litigation offices process tens of thousands of audits per week. Yours is slotted for…” he flicked a scroll “...the 3rd quarter of the Harvest Moon, Fifth Year Post-Interest Claim.”
Her stomach turned over. “He’ll be ruined by then.”
“Legally preserved,” Manus corrected. “But yes. Functionally ruined.”
The silence stretched.
Abigail didn’t know what she hated more, the cold indifference, or how much she cared. She’d expected frustration. Maybe guilt. But the feeling crawling up her throat now was fury, pointed and personal.
Someone had done this. On purpose.
Her voice was smooth when she spoke. “Can it be moved up?”
“Perhaps. If you secured a fate referral, or an executive summons from a contract chancellor-”
Before he could finish, the chamber doors creaked open.
A young devil stepped in, maybe twelve in age if she had to guess. Bright-eyed, sharply dressed in a miniature vest with runes stitched along the collar, and holding a folded slip bound in pink wax.
Manus blinked in surprise. “Yes?”
The boy didn’t speak to him. He walked straight to the table, placed the slip beside Manus’s hand, and turned to Abigail with a practiced bow.
“Hero Abigail,” he said clearly. “You’ve been summoned to the Fate Exchange. An audience has been scheduled.”
Abigail froze. “The Fate Exchange?”
Even Manus’ veiled brows rose at that.
“The intelligence wing?” he said, baffled. “What would they want with her?”
The boy shrugged, polite and unreadable. “I was instructed to deliver the summons. The seal carries Fate Authority.”
He pointed to the pink wax. The emblem stamped on it shimmered faintly, a stylized rose devouring an hourglass. Manus stiffened.
He read it once, muttered something under his breath, then handed it back to Abigail. “You’ll need to bring that with you.”
“I thought you said I had no recourse-” Abigail said.
“You don’t,” Manus murmured. “Not through me.”
He leaned back slowly in his chair and folded his hands.
“But they... they have their own ledgers.”
Abigail stood, hands at her sides.
She looked at the wax seal again.
It was pink. A devilish pink. Familiar, yet impossible to place.
Somewhere in her memory, something tugged.
She pocketed the slip and nodded once. “Then take me to the Exchange.”
With that, the young businessman and the wizard left.
…
…
Abigail followed the young devil in silence, her boots echoing faintly in the descending stone corridor. The torchlight dimmed the deeper they went, eventually replaced by a phosphorescent glow from the very walls, laced veins of sorcery, old as the Temple itself.
The Intelligence Wing had given way to something far older, quieter, and stranger.
A circular archway waited at the terminus of the hall, where a pair of management clerics with closed eyes turned and stepped aside without speaking. Beyond them lay the chamber.
The air was dry and still, but hummed, barely perceptible, like the prelude to an earthquake. The inner chamber of the Fate Exchange was shaped like a sphere that had been cut in half and set onto a floor of black glass. Along the curved wall sat six obsidian domes, each large enough to house a giant. Pale light pulsed within each, veined with seals, hexagrams, and faded warnings scratched in twelve dialects.
Each one housed a Devil of Fate.
“Here we are,” the young devil said, his voice strangely bright in contrast to the hush. He pointed to the sixth dome, the one closest to the far left.
“I’ve fulfilled my mission.” he called out, straightening his vest proudly.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then the sixth dome flickered to life. A slow chuckle leaked out from the dark. “Hekekeh… good work, boy.”
The dome glowed red and orange like coal catching fire. “Now, your reward,” the voice said with unhidden glee. It whispered out three names, a series of location codes, and a pair of investment terms, far too advanced for most to follow. But the young devil clutched his fist in the air like he’d been handed gold.
“Thank you, sir!” he beamed, bowing low before hurrying out, barely containing his excitement.
The first dome lit up next.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” came a grave voice. “Predicting the markets past regulation windows breaks our terms. You're compromising the internal compass.”
The sixth devil barked a loud, dismissive laugh. “And we’re not supposed to speak unless spoken to. Funny how that works.”
A bitter silence followed, and the first dome dimmed again, retreating into itself like a scolded animal.
Abigail waited a moment longer before stepping forward, her arms crossed. “I was told you requested an audience with me. Why?”
The sixth devil didn’t hesitate.
“I can accelerate Cashmere’s audit. From five years down to five months. That’s a favor only I can provide.”
Her brow rose. “You’re not doing this out of goodwill.”
“Hekekeh, of course not,” the devil said gleefully. “But it's not a hard trade. Just follow the instructions in the packet beside you.”
Abigail turned her head and, indeed, a sealed packet sat on the edge of a stone table, pale paper, old twine. Her hand hovered over it.
“What else?”
“There’s a sigil hidden on the back of the slip that boy gave Manus earlier. Find it. Draw it on the outer shell of my dome. It’s the proof of your acceptance.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re being vague.”
“It’s not magical. Just… symbolic.” The devil paused, tone dipping slightly. “Also, I’ll need a bottled memory. Your happiest day. Must be delivered before Tax Day, the date is written within the packet.”
“A bottled memory?” she repeated, almost laughing. “I don’t have anything on me for that kind of work.”
“You can bring it later,” he said casually, then muttered, “Bringing it after the checkpoint is pointless anyway.”
Abigail blinked. “What?”
“Nothing. You have until Tax Day,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll know when it’s close. The bells stop ringing, and then everyone gets very quiet.”
She took a moment, then pulled out the earlier slip. It had been tucked into her inner sleeve after Manus dismissed it. On the back, barely visible, was a small glyph. Simple, almost childish. Not a magical array. Just a strange, unfinished loop like a thought someone abandoned halfway.
She stepped forward and began to copy it onto the surface of the sixth dome.
As she worked, she said, “That wax seal on the slip. I've never seen one like it. But… it feels familiar.”
The dome pulsed.
“Ah… yes. I made it myself,” the sixth devil said, his voice drifting into dreamlike cadence. “A reminder, really. That all roads, no matter how paved, crumble when they spiral too long.”
She frowned, but didn’t press. When she finished, the dome pulsed in approval.
“Well done. Cashmere’s audit will conclude in five months. The curse tracking him and blocking his class will lift at that time. If he survives until then, he’ll have a path forward.”
Abigail felt a weight lift slightly from her chest. “Thank you,” she said carefully.
She turned to go, but the sixth devil spoke once more, his voice suddenly darker.
“One more thing.”
She looked back.
“Tell him to leave Hellnia before Tax Day. No matter what. If he doesn’t…” A pause. Then, he spoke more softly. “Well…Father God has no use for a failing company.”
The warning lingered.
Abigail didn’t respond. She simply nodded and walked away, clutching the packet peculiarly labeled Fetch Quests under her arm, thoughts racing faster than her boots could carry her.
~~~
Shatterbone Canyon was quiet, save for the occasional distant rumble of a collapsing ridge or the cry of something large dying alone. The three pain demons had grown used to it. The winds here carried iron and ash and a biting heat that didn’t let sweat last long enough to matter. Bone spears jutted from the canyon walls like the ribs of some buried titan. Everything here smelled like a wound that refused to close.
Hans stood with his hands clasped behind his back, tactfully watching the three maids spar.
Rose’s blade blurred through the air in crisp arcs, slicing down a charging hyenaskulled devil. Penelope and Lily darted around her, pinning a Nomadic devil against a canyon wall with runic steel threads and pink-flared sigils that danced along their arms like blooming scars.
The devil hissed as his spell unraveled mid-cast.
Hans smiled faintly.
“You’re adapting well,” he said once the beast crumpled. “Too well. I almost expected to find you dead.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Rose said, lowering her blood-soaked blade. “Next time we’ll scream louder.”
A hidden devil darted from behind a rock, raising her hand in manic desperation. She shouted. “[Wish Magic:] Kil-”
POP
Hans offered a dry chuckle, wiping the blood from his fist with a handkerchief, now on the other side of the battlefield like he’d been there the whole time. “Don’t. It’ll attract the Bone Striders.”
He answered Rose, as if the devil before never spoke at all.
They’d been in the canyon a month now. At first, it had been closer to a death sentence cloaked as an opportunity. Demon bandits, wish-trading Nomads, and demonic beasts with strength surpassing most A-ranks had made their every outing a calculated risk. But the trio had improved. They were pain demons, not just by circumstance now, but by action. Efficient, fast, coordinated.
Hans adjusted his gold rimmed glasses, glancing at his comm-sigil, a little exasperated at the new device.
“I’ve received another message from Her Grace,” he said. “That makes... eleven today. None of them contained instructions. She simply says she wants me home.”
“She’s lonely,” Lily offered, cleaning intestine from her threads. “Or bored.”
“She’s always bored,” Penelope added, narrowing her eyes. “What’s different now?”
Hans shrugged. “It’s not a question of need. She’s simply decided I belong beside her this week. That’s how royalty works.”
He turned to face them properly.
“So, I will return. You’ll remain here.”
Lily blinked. “Without supervision?”
Rose raised an eyebrow. “You trust us that much?”
Hans offered a cold snort. “No. But trust is a resource like any other. You’ve earned just enough to borrow…for now.”
He adjusted his tie, checking for spots.“Stay here another week. After that, make your way to the Crooked Gulch and clean up the rabble there.”
He turned to leave but stopped after a few steps.
“One more thing,” he said, not facing them. “If you find that transaction, do not intervene. Watch, memorize, then leave.”
Penelope tilted her head. “You mean the forbidden exchange?”
“Yes,” he replied, voice flat. “That rumor you chased through seven mangled corpses and two mountains of falsified maps.”
He finally turned. “You’re not wrong. Something is happening here.”
Rose’s grip tightened on her collapsing sword. “Who’s involved?”
“I don’t know.” Hans sighed. “But something has drawn both Dream and Thief to these wastes. And that’s not a partnership anyone expects.”
…
…
A Week Later.
The maids took shifts over the next few days. Tracking the dust trails. Following whispers through canyons like hollow throats. They hunted, yes. But the lead they found some time ago seemed to guide their path through the gulch.
Then, on the fifth evening, they saw it.
Rose knelt behind a jagged overlook, eyes narrowed. Below, four figures stood around a glowing glyph embedded into the canyon floor.
One was a tall, withered devil with tarnished horns and a sash bearing the Dream Factions old crest, a weaving of five eyes atop a pale pillow.
Beside him stood a younger devil dressed like a merchant, maybe twenty at most, with a careless grin and the crest of the Thief Faction painted across his bare collarbone in glimmering silver ink. He held a black throwing knife between his fingers, flipping it lazily as he spoke.
The two they addressed were foreign to the three.
One was a ragged, but clearly a Nomadic devil, smoke bleeding from his bandaged seams, mask stitched with runes denoting contract-magic and tongue-binding geas. The other was a massive demon clad in weather-worn leathers, with the jagged crest of the Broken Thirteen sewn into his arm.
No faction trusted the Broken Thirteen. They weren’t so much an organization as a scar left on the map. A collection of demon lords, failed in their crusades, retreating back to Hellnia, licking their wounds at the edge of the plane.
The group exchanged no documents. Just gestures. Flashes of power. A soul bottle passed from the Nomad to the Thief devil. A coin flicked into the Dream devil’s palm. Silent movements that spoke to old debts and deeper secrets.
Penelope whispered, “That kid’s no ordinary merchant.”
“Jackal eyes,” Lily murmured. “And a trace of esoteric law aura. Not like us, higher, like our lady’s… luck maybe?”
Rose nodded. “Butler Hans would know more. But for now, we don’t act. Just record.”
Above them, the sky dimmed. The exchange continued in silence. And the Cherrymaids waited.
Their goal had never been justice when pursuing this lead. It was clarity.
And perhaps, one day, leverage.
Comments
Andrew
my guess is it was that soul discovery paper, Abigail might be going slightly insane or might be influenced by Hannya
Prent
I’m so very curious why the fate devil had Abagail draw the Mark of Madness upon his dome
Aune
preach
Wintermelody
Thanks for the update
Aune
Before reading I must point out, the title for this chapter slaps.
Cosmoros Subs
Should I stockpile for a month or should I not.... This is the question.
