The silence in the captain's quarters of The Gilded Eel was a heavy, suffocating blanket. It smelled of expensive sandalwood incense, stale river water, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone left hanging in the air from the brief magical skirmish.
Lencar stood in the center of the room, his chest heaving slightly as the adrenaline of the breach began to fade, replaced by the cold, methodical hum of his analytical mind. To his left, Garrick the Smuggler lay slumped against the mahogany paneling, unconscious, a trickle of blood drying on his chin where Lencar had struck him.
Lencar ignored the man for the moment. His eyes were fixed on the heavy, iron-bound chest at the foot of the captain's four-poster bed. It was a massive thing, reinforced with steel bands and etched with defensive runes that glowed with a faint, warning red light.
"Let's see what a life of crime buys you," Lencar whispered, his voice distorted by the wooden mask.
He knelt before the chest. He didn't bother with lockpicks. In this world, mechanical locks were usually a distraction; the real security was in the mana seal. He hovered his hand over the keyhole, sensing the structure. It was complex—a dwarf-made mechanism reinforced by a liquid mana trap. If he forced it, it would likely detonate or dissolve the contents.
"Delicate," Lencar noted. "But physics still applies."
"[Vibration Magic]: [Resonance Shatter]."
He didn't blast the lock. He sent a high-frequency, low-amplitude pulse through the iron casing. He visualized the tumblers inside, vibrating them at their natural frequency. The hum was barely audible, a mosquito-whine that set his teeth on edge.
Hummmmm... CLICK.
The internal pins shattered from the stress. The mana seal, losing its physical anchor, dissipated with a harmless hiss of steam.
Lencar threw the heavy lid open.
The gleam of gold was immediate and aggressive. Piles of Yuls—thousands of them—glittered in the lantern light like a dragon's hoard. There were heavy necklaces of jade, rings set with rubies the size of quail eggs, and thick bars of silver stamped with the geometric seal of the Diamond Kingdom.
"Money," Lencar whispered, running his gloved hand through the coins. The metal was cold and heavy.
In his past life as Kenji Tanaka, money had been a digital abstraction—numbers on a screen, stock options, a credit score. Here, it was tangible weight. It represented power, yes, but it was a crude, primitive form of power. Gold could buy a castle, it could buy silence, but it couldn't buy survival against a Devil. It couldn't stop a curse.
He pushed the gold aside, treating a fortune that would make a nobleman weep with the indifference of someone digging for a lost key. He wasn't here for the currency of men. He was here for the currency of mages.
At the bottom of the chest, wrapped in oilcloth and black velvet to shield their mana signatures, were the artifacts.
Lencar's breath caught in his throat. This was the real payload.
He unwrapped the first bundle. It was a dagger, but the blade wasn't steel. It was carved from obsidian glass, pitch black and drinking in the light of the room. The hilt was wrapped in sharkskin. When Lencar touched it, he felt a faint, hungry pulse against his palm—a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
Analysis: Cursed Item, Lencar thought, a shiver running up his arm that had nothing to do with the temperature. It feels like a parasite. Likely drains mana or blood from the victim to repair itself. Dangerous. Nasty. Perfect.
He set it aside and unwrapped the second. It was a sphere of polished quartz, swirling with trapped grey smoke. As soon as he held it, the ambient noise of the river outside—the water lapping against the hull, the wind in the willows—vanished.
A Silence Orb, he realized. It generates a localized anti-sound field. This alone is worth more than the gold. It's a stealth tool.
There were five items in total.
The Obsidian Dagger (Life-Drain).
The Silence Orb (Stealth).
A pair of leather boots stitched with grey gryphon feathers, radiating faint [Wind Magic]—likely for levitation or fall damage negation.
A heavy iron ring that smelled of sulfur and heat—an ignition catalyst.
A scroll sealed with red wax that hummed with a dormant [Trap Magic] spell, likely a single-use defensive ward.
"These are the assets," Lencar murmured. "Variables I can deploy when my own magic isn't enough or they can be given to future organisation members."
He tapped the silver ring on his finger. The [Void Vault] opened, a ripple in space. One by one, he stored the artifacts, cataloging them in his mental inventory. He didn't have time to analyze them fully now—that would require a safe environment and hours of testing—but knowing he had them was a comfort. It was ammunition.
He stood up, closing the chest. He left the gold. Carrying a heavy chest would only slow him down, and he had promised himself he wouldn't become a common thief. He was a Sovereign, not a looter.
"Phase One complete," Lencar said to the empty room. He looked at the unconscious Garrick. "Now for the crew. Now for the soul."
He grabbed Garrick by the collar of his silk shirt and dragged him out of the cabin, back onto the deck.
The night air was cool, a relief after the stuffy incense of the room. The river was calm, the only witness to the silent coup that had just taken place.
The crew of The Gilded Eel lay in a neat row where Lencar had dragged them. Twelve mercenaries and Garrick. Thirteen men. They were bound in his [Magic-Sealing Chains], unconscious and helpless, their chests rising and falling in the rhythm of the magically induced sleep.
Lencar looked down at them.
They were different from the Mud Dogs. Their gear was well-maintained. Their bodies were scarred but fit. They didn't smell of filth and desperation; they smelled of oil, leather, and discipline. These were professionals who sold their violence to the highest bidder.
"Let's see what you're made of," Lencar whispered.
He summoned his grimoire. It floated beside him, the pages fluttering in the river breeze, hungry and waiting. The blank cover seemed to pulse with a faint, expectant light.
Lencar knelt by the first mercenary, a burly man with a shaved head. He picked up the man's grimoire—a battered book with a wave motif on the cover.
He placed the mercenary's grimoire on top of his own.
[Replica Magic]: [Absolute Replication].
The reaction was instantaneous. A golden light flared between the books, illuminating the deck. The mercenary's grimoire didn't burn; it dissolved. It turned into motes of light that swirled and poured into Lencar's book like water down a drain.
Lencar felt the pull—the physical sensation of dragging a heavy weight from a deep well.
Harvest.
He felt the [Ice Magic] enter his soul. It was cold, sharp, and rigid. It settled into his inner library, forming a new Soul Gem, a jagged crystal of blue ice.
He moved down the line. It was a rhythmic, industrial process.
Harvest. [Reinforcement Magic]. A feeling of solidity, of stone and iron.
Harvest. [Needle Magic]. Sharp, precise, thin.
Harvest. [Water Magic]. Fluid, heavy, changing.
With every soul he took, Lencar felt a physical change within himself. It wasn't just his mana capacity increasing; it was his very essence becoming denser. His body felt heavier, anchored to the world with a gravity that went beyond physics. The "noise" of the disparate magics usually buzzed in his head, but tonight, they were quiet.
Finally, he reached Garrick.
Lencar placed his hand on the smuggler's chest, right over his heart. He placed his own grimoire on top.
[Absolute Replication].
This was the big one.
When he absorbed Garrick's soul—a dense, slippery [Water Magic] mixed with the corrosive taint of [Curse Magic]—Lencar gasped.
He staggered back, gripping the ship's railing to keep from falling.
The surge was incredible. It was like injecting adrenaline directly into his heart.
His internal reservoir, which had been sitting comfortably at Stage 4 (Mid-Level Magic Knight), suddenly breached the dam. The pressure spiked violently. The mana didn't just fill him; it condensed. It became heavier, richer, more potent.
"Peak Stage 4," Lencar panted, sweat beading on his forehead under the mask. His knuckles were white as he gripped the wood. "No... borderline Stage 3. I'm approaching the mana levels of a Captain."
But it wasn't just the volume. It was the clarity.
In the Heart Kingdom, they measured magecraft not just by power, but by Mana Control—the ability to shape natural mana using runes. Lencar had struggled with fine control because his soul was a patchwork of stolen parts, a Frankenstein's monster of conflicting affinities.
But now?
He looked at his hand. He willed the wind to gather.
Usually, he had to force it. He had to visualize the spell, push the mana, and wrestle it into shape.
Now, the wind obeyed before he even finished the thought. It swirled around his fingers in a perfect, tight spiral, silent and deadly. The air felt like an extension of his own nervous system.
The "noise" in his head—the conflicting instincts of the stolen souls—had quieted down. His own soul, the Heretic's Soul, had grown stronger. It had become the dominant gravity well, forcing the other souls into orbit.
"My soul is evolving," Lencar realized, clenching his fist. The wind spiral popped with a sharp crack, like a whip. "It's acting as a stronger anchor. My Mana Control... it's easily Stage 3 now. Maybe even pushing Stage 2."
He realized the implication immediately. With this level of control, he wasn't just a brawler anymore. He could learn Mana Method. He could learn to write runes in the air. He could use natural mana to augment his spells, reducing the drain on his own reserves.
He felt a thrill of pure, unadulterated power. It was intoxicating. For a moment, standing there on the deck of the ship he had conquered single-handedly, he understood why the Elves and Royals looked down on commoners. When you held this much power, the world looked like it was made of glass, and you were the only hammer.
He shook his head violently, forcing the arrogance down.
Stop, he told himself. Don't get drunk on it. Power is a tool, not a personality.
He took a deep breath, grounding himself in the cool night air. He turned his attention back to the husks on the deck.
They were empty now. Blank slates. If he left them like this, they would be vegetables.
"Time to give it back," Lencar whispered. "Time to seal the contract."
He opened his grimoire to the back. He grabbed a handful of blank pages—thirteen of them.
RIIIIIP.
The sound of tearing paper echoed across the silent water.
He threw the pages into the air.
[Replica Magic]: [Reverse Replication].
"Mass Production."
The pages didn't fall. They swirled in the air, caught in a vortex of golden mana. They glowed with the light of the Sovereign—not the pale blue of normal mana, but a rich, heavy gold.
They reshaped themselves. Paper thickened into leather. Bindings stitched themselves together. Ink bled onto the pages, rewriting the spells he had just stolen, downloading the "drivers" from Lencar's internal library back onto the external hard drives.
Thirteen new grimoires floated down, settling gently on the chests of the mercenaries.
Lencar closed his eyes. He could see the network. Thirteen golden threads extended from his heart, connecting to the books. He felt the connection snap into place.
Protocol 1: Friendly Fire Immunity. Active.
Protocol 2: Remote Shutdown. Active.
He was the Server. They were the Clients.
Lencar opened his eyes. He felt tired, but it was a good tired—the exhaustion of a builder who has just laid the foundation of a fortress.
He switched attributes.
[Plant Magic]: [Pollen of Awakening].
He blew the glittering green dust over the crew, the wind carrying it to their noses.
"Wake up," Lencar commanded, stepping back to the railing and crossing his arms. "Class is in session."