Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 60: Night of Opulence (1)

Chapter 60: Night of Opulence (1)

The woman leading us was one of the four generals we had seen earlier, hidden in the shadow of the throne.

Here, just a few steps from us, her presence took on its full meaning: she exuded a dry, brutal power, but perfectly controlled. Not a superfluous movement, not a hesitation. She didn’t walk: she cut through the air with the confidence of those who are never contradicted.

And I... I knew.

She was stronger than me. By far. It wasn’t a supposition, not even a hunch: it was an obvious fact, engraved in every fiber of my body.

She guided us through the forge of Zagnaroth, that burning labyrinth made of black metal, hanging chains, and searing gusts.

The dull blows of hammers echoed through the bowels of the ground, and the flames reflected off the reddened stained glass.

Bare-chested demon blacksmiths, covered in soot and molten runes, barely lifted their eyes as we passed.

Here, work seemed sacred, almost religious.

The heat wasn’t just physical, it was alive, as if the fire itself was watching us.

Then we reached a calmer wing, almost cold by contrast: black stone corridors, polished, silent. Offices. Where chaos turns to organization, where orders take form before being passed to the armies.

She stopped in front of a door. Without knocking, she opened it, revealing a man in a dark uniform, sitting straight behind an impeccably tidy desk.

— Good evening, Olfred. The Lord has ordered that you escort and assist the two vampires here present during their stay in Zagnaroth.

He stood up without flinching. No complaint. No refusal. Just a simple, almost mechanical nod.

Then he turned to us and bowed slightly.

— It is my pleasure to serve you.

I stared at him for a moment, weighing his words, then replied calmly:

— Take good care of us.

The general didn’t say another word.

As soon as Olfred nodded, she was already turning on her heel, disappearing into the obsidian corridor with a sharp, implacable step, as if she had never been there.

We were now in Olfred’s hands.

— I have a few requests to start with, I said bluntly.

— I’m listening.

I paused, just long enough to let the weight of my words sink in.

— I wish to sell the Malacite I have. We agreed on this with your Lord earlier.

— Of course. Follow me.

He guided us to a side room, austere but efficient.

The walls were smooth black rock, streaked with metallic veins.

A single chute opened in the wall, surrounded by small mechanisms engraved with silver glyphs.

No windows, no decoration. Here, everything served a purpose: process material, calculate, store.

— See this chute? he said, indicating it with a simple gesture. Slide your Malacite in. The weight will be measured automatically.

A remarkable system, I thought, almost archaic but ingeniously efficient.

I slowly unscrewed the satchel, filled to the brim, almost at the breaking point. I had spent hours filling it, stone by stone, even with my capacity. A slow task, but oh so profitable.

I began to pour. Slowly. Each crystal slid into the chute with a soft crystalline sound, almost musical.

And I knew it.

This moment, this gesture... was going to change my life.

I wasn’t just going to become rich. I was going to become elite.

The kind that gets invited, respected... or feared.

I glanced at my watch. The pouring took nearly half an hour. And in the end, just as I had expected...

9.5 tons.

The number appeared in a reddish glow. And my laugh burst out, clear, frank, almost wild. No restraint. None.

I already knew I was rich... but thinking about the 15% of the rest of the mine I had negotiated earlier? I wouldn’t just be rich.

I would be one of the richest on the demonic continent.

While I savored the moment, Olfred calmly jotted in a notebook he had pulled from his vest pocket.

Then, in a neutral, almost administrative tone:

— Malacite, being very rare, is bought at 7.5 drek per kilo.

He quickly did the math out loud, his fingers gliding over the notebook’s lines:

— 7.5 x 9,472... that gives about 71,040 drek, or about 710.4 varkh.

I started laughing again. A louder laugh, almost delirious.

Then I turned to Lysara, who stood quietly next to me, without her hammer today—she had left it at the hotel.

THANK GOD.

— You see, Lysara? We’re rich. RICH!

I grabbed her in my arms, lifting her like a feather, spinning around with a burst of euphoric madness. And then... the unthinkable happened.

She laughed.

First a breath. Then a smile. Then, a real laugh. Light, crystalline, sincere. I had contaminated her. Me, the corrupted one, the gambler, the lover of luxury and excess.

She laughed. She gave in to that joy.

She surrendered, for a moment, to this world of excess. And we laughed together.

A moment stolen from everything else.

A moment of pure happiness.

A moment that... I knew... would never last long enough.

Once Lysara was set down, silence slowly reclaimed its place in the room.

And, as if he had been waiting for the moment of euphoria to pass, Olfred tactfully cleared his throat.

— Follow me. I will pay you.

I nodded. No need to respond. This wasn’t the time to be difficult—and I had clearly earned the right to be paid like a king.

We walked through a few corridors to a strange, massive, silent room.

The place looked like an ancestral bank, carved right into the dark rock, with thick columns supporting a vaulted ceiling. Runes were engraved everywhere—on the floor, on the walls, on the stone counters.

The kind of place where more than gold is stored. Secrets. Pacts. Fragments of souls.

Olfred approached a dark-skinned demon, dressed in a stiff coat, seated behind a large counter.

— 710.4 Varkh.

The banker froze for half a second. Just enough to show that this amount was not common.

Then he nodded without a word and disappeared into a back room, almost like an automaton.

A few moments later, he returned with a deep black pouch, ringed with miniature chains engraved with ancient symbols.

— Here. 699.4 Varkh. I deducted 11 Varkh for the pouch.

I raised an eyebrow. Even here, they skimmed off the accessories. But I quickly had an idea of its value.

— Come closer, he said calmly.

Before I could react, he seized my hand, and with a simple movement—fluid, precise, controlled—he sliced the tip of my finger.

No pain. Just a thin line of blood that flowed onto a magic circle drawn in front of him.

This banker... was a monster too. No effort needed.

A living being so calm, so clean, yet capable of such precision... That said it all.

Then he spoke in a deeper tone:

— You are now linked to the pouch by your soul. Think of it.

I focused. I thought of it.

And as if responding to a mental command, the little black bag appeared in my hand. Heavy. Dense. Absolutely real.

He continued, with the same icy calm:

— It is almost indestructible. Even a mythical being like the Sovereign could not reduce it to dust.

To check, I used my identification power.

Identification (Adept) – Name: Pouch of Zagnaroth | Rank: Legendary | Bound to its owner, this nearly indestructible artifact can hold all the gold in the world.

I let out a smirk, looking at the leather as dark as night.

Ah... so that’s why it was so expensive, I thought.

Then, saluting the banker with a simple nod, we left the room.

Olfred resumed the lead, still as calm, as precise. He guided us through the forged corridors, up to the grand gate of the forge-palace, where the heat of molten metal mingled with the night’s coolness slipping in from outside.

— Where are you staying? he asked, adjusting his black cape.

— The Purple Obsidian, I replied without hesitation.

— Very well. I will be there tomorrow at four hours past Dawn. Does that suit you?

— Perfect, I said simply.

We then headed toward the heart of the city, walking through Zagnaroth’s winding streets, lit by red lanterns hanging above the alleys, and wrought iron balconies from which rose scents of sulfur, spices, and embers.

I slid my silver watch from my wrist to my palm, and with a quick glance I read the time: Three hours past Dusk.

Two hours had passed there, in the lair of power.

I turned my head toward Lysara.

— Are you hungry?

— Yes, I’m hungry, she replied bluntly.

— Perfect. Let’s go to yesterday’s restaurant.

A few minutes later, we arrived in front of the noble-looking establishment, carved directly into a slab of polished basalt. Enchanted torches cast shifting reflections on the ground, and a warm, fragrant air escaped whenever the door opened.

As soon as we entered, the same waiter as yesterday greeted us with a big smile:

— Good evening, dear customers. Would you like to be seated as yesterday?

I gave him a pointed look.

— Do you have a better room? With a better view?

A flash of understanding crossed his eyes.

— Of course, please follow me.

He led us through a vaulted corridor, passing through a series of dark silk curtains. And suddenly, the space opened up.

The room we entered... was extravagantly luxurious.

Seats padded with black and purple velvet, as plush as thrones. The tables, carved from black marble veined with gold, sparkled under the soft light of red crystal chandeliers hanging above us.

But the most impressive was the panoramic roof. A vast dome of enchanted glass, perfectly transparent, revealed the night sky in all its demonic glory: a veil of pale stars crossed by ashen clouds, with the golden light of the city’s lanterns rising toward the heights.

The waiter pulled out our chairs with reverence. We sat down.

The waiter, remaining by our side without ever seeming intrusive, waited with that almost invisible politeness typical of luxury establishments. After a few minutes of contemplating the sky through the dome, I broke the silence.

— I’ll take everything you have that’s the most expensive. Bring the best juice, the best bottle, and... the same meals as yesterday.

A brief smile appeared on his face. He bowed elegantly.

— Very well, sir.

He disappeared soundlessly. And around us, the atmosphere thickened with serene warmth.

Above, the celestial vault fanned out. Pale, shy stars flickered through the veils of ashen mist.

The constellations seemed to drift slowly, as if even the sky respected this moment of calm.

Lysara, seated beside me, watched the panoramic roof, her eyes widened by the soft light. She said nothing.

But her silence was not empty.

It was alive.

It shone.

The waiter reappeared silently, two precious objects in his gloved hands.

A glass of moving amber, a black flask with embers’ reflections.

— For you, sir...

He slowly uncorked a bottle whose glass seemed to absorb the very light.

— Souvenir of Kharz’Gol – First Tear Vintage.

He poured a sip into my glass—slowly. The liquid slid rather than flowed, smooth as a promise one had deliberately betrayed.

— A wine for forgotten memories. Bitter at first, sweet afterward. But never innocent, he whispered.

Then he turned to Lysara, and with a thoroughly demonic bow:

— And for you, fair lady: Blessed Ash-Tree Bud Liqueur.

The juice shimmered in her glass like a golden dawn streaked with blue flames.

— A taste of rebirth... and farewell. Every drop was harvested the very moment the bud opened.

I raised my glass.

— To Lust!

Lysara raised hers, timid.

— To... now.

Our glasses clinked softly, and I swallowed the first sip.

The wine seized me. First a noble, harsh burn. Then a sweetness... like the voice of a memory. And I heard it.

Cassandre.

"Promise me we’ll survive together..."

A phrase, faint, evanescent. I felt something gently break inside me. But I didn’t blink.