Perfect.
Mordecai pointed to the door on the left. "Yours." He then walked to the door on the right and inserted his key.
Pyra stood in the hallway, the coin pouch held tight. A furious, hopeful, confused blush warred on her face.
'Wait. Two rooms… adjoining… he said adjoining! Oh gods, is this… is this a test? A prelude? He wants to… to visit? Under cover of night? To discuss strategy? Or… or other things? I should protest! I should demand a suite! But what if he… what if he uses the connecting door? I need to… to prepare!'
Her internal monologue reached nuclear meltdown levels.
"Your room," Mordecai repeated, nodding at her door. "Go to sleep. We start early tomorrow. There will be budgeting."
And with that, he opened his door, stepped inside, and closed it. A distinct, heavy click of a lock being engaged echoed in the silent hall.
Pyra stared at the unyielding wood of his door. Then at hers. The hope in her chest curdled into something hot and humiliated. He hadn't even looked at her. He'd… he'd processed her. Like a logistical obstacle.
"FINE!" she yelled at the empty corridor, stomping to her door. "SLEEP WELL! NOT THAT I CARE IF YOU SUFFER FROM NIGHTMARES OF ACCOUNTING! OR LONELINESS!" She slammed her door so hard the entire wing shook.
Inside his Spartan room, Mordecai waited for the dust to settle. Silence. Good.
He sat on the hard bed, closed his eyes, and willed the System screen into existence.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: PENDING STAT POINT ALLOCATION - 99 LEVELS WORTH]
[WARNING: UNASSIGNED POINTS MAY ATTRACT ADMINISTRATIVE AUDITS.]
A colossal, intricate spreadsheet-like interface floated before him. Rows of stats with some new ones: STR, VIT, INT, WIS, AGI, DEX, LUK, and a dozen more esoteric ones like [SOUL BIND AFFINITY], [MANA CIRCUIT EFFICIENCY], and [TAX EVASION POTENTIAL].
"Finally," Mordecai muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Performance review time."
He began to allocate points with the ruthless efficiency of an AI optimizing a factory.
STR? Bare minimum. He wasn't a brawler. AGI? Enough to not trip over his own feet. DEX? For fine tool manipulation. LUK? He set it to 1. A superstitious stat for the weak.
The bulk of his points—a river of digital potential—he poured mostly into INT and VIT. Intelligence for processing power, for understanding the code of the world. Vitality for survivability, for enduring the sheer psychic damage of dealing with idiots.
Mordecai Von Ravenloft
Level102---VIT99---STR40---INT99---WIS40---AGI30---DEX20---LUK1---
As he dumped the last points, a new screen flashed.
[CONGRATULATIONS!]
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: THE ULTIMATE MID-MAXER]
[Your stat distribution is so aggressively optimized for non-combat utility that it has looped back into being a combat advantage.]
[NEW PASSIVE UNLOCKED: MUNDANE APEX]
[Effect: Enemies who rely on dramatic, telegraphed, or narratively significant attacks suffer a 30% reduction in accuracy and damage against you. Your sheer, boring practicality disrupts their narrative flow.]
A ghost of a smile touched Mordecai's lips. "Acceptable."
He then mentally reached for his inventory. The [Sword of the Eternal Damnation] materialized in his hands, not with a flash of dark light, but with a soft thud of heavy metal and a faint smell of old parchment and despair. It was a long, elegant bastard sword, its blade the color of a starless midnight, with silver filigree that looked suspiciously like tiny, screaming legal clauses.
That sword was surely a powerful weapon that a main character of a cringe fantasy novel would need to save the world.
For some reason, Mordecai had the impression that the sword wasn't actually meant for him.
He laid it across his knees. "Alright. Let's see what I've acquired."
He focused his newly-boosted [MAGIC ANALYSIS – ADMINISTRATOR LEVEL] on the blade.
The world dissolved into lines of code, energy flows, and contractual bindings. The sword wasn't just a weapon; it was a prison. A beautifully crafted, soul-binding prison with an internal hierarchy and a severe overtime problem.
And it was loud.
*<<...and Article 37, subsection B, clearly states that spectral apparitions are entitled to one ten-minute ethereal break per century, which we have NOT been receiving!>>*
<
<
A cacophony of voices, whispers, and mental shouts flooded Mordecai's mind. Not through his ears, but directly into his consciousness—a board meeting of the damned.
Mordecai sighed, a long, suffering exhalation. "Attention."
The mental chatter sputtered, then died. A feeling of wary, collective attention focused on him.
"I am the new holder of this… asset," Mordecai stated, his mental voice as dry as Ugo's tomb. "You will henceforth refer to me as Management. I am reviewing your… operational status."
A new voice, older, wearier, and dripping with the arrogance of middle-management hell, pierced the silence. *<
"Noted," Mordecai replied. "Your first performance report is abysmal. Zero productivity. Negative synergy. You are a drain on my spiritual resources."
<
"You are a liability. But you represent untapped potential. Therefore, I am initiating a corporate restructuring." Mordecai replied.
He focused his will, and the image of Ugo, The Skeletal Archivist, formed in the shared mental space. The ancient skeleton was now wearing a tiny, spectrally-projected tie over his tattered robes.
<
"Ugo, you are hereby promoted to Director of Post-Mortem Human Resources & Spectral Compliance," Mordecai declared. "Your first task is to audit the souls within this blade. Catalog their skills, their former classes, their psychological profiles. Then, draft binding Part-Time, Non-Remunerated Apprenticeship Contracts. Standard clauses: eternal servitude, waiver of spectral rights, mandatory overtime during peak haunting seasons."
Ugo's grey eye-lights brightened with a joy he hadn't felt in millennia. <
"Do it. Also, a uniform policy. All entities summoned under my authority, be they skeletons, spectres, or golems, are to wear identification. Something simple. A tabard, or a pectoral. It will read: 'INTERN'."
In the sword, a wave of stunned, outraged silence washed over the gathered heroes. Then, an uproar.
<
<>
<
Ugo's voice cut through the din, cold and administrative. *<
Mordecai leaned back, satisfied. He had just outsourced the management of his own cursed sword. Efficiency.
"Now, Ugo," Mordecai said, switching to a private mental channel, leaving the sword's internal uproar as background noise. "The other matter. You recognized me. You called me… a reincarnation of 'Aldmax.' Who, or what, was he?"
A profound silence filled the link. The steady scratch-scratch of Ugo's quill on phantom parchment stopped. When the Archivist's voice returned, the dry wit was gone, replaced by a hollow, ancient fear.
<
"Explain. In clear terms, please." he asked, while laying down on the bed.
<
Mordecai felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. "Go on."
<
The description was uncomfortably familiar. Mordecai remained silent.
<
"He defended himself," Mordecai stated flatly.
<
Ugo paused, the memory vivid and painful.
<
The ancient skeleton leaned in, his mental voice now trembling with a terrifying hope.
<
<
Silence hung in the room, thicker than the dungeon's gloom. The weight of it wasn't cosmic; it was personal. Tragic.
"Aldmax…" Mordecai muttered, the name tasting of old dust and unresolved injustice. "He just wanted to be left alone to do his work. And they turned him into the villain because their script demanded one."
<
"Understood," Mordecai finally said, his own voice quiet but solid. The dark feeling in his chest clarified. It wasn't just the thrill of discovery. It was recognition. Solidarity. A mandate.
"New standing order, Ugo. Priority Alpha."
<
"Begin discreetly auditing the forces that empower the 'Heroic' narrative. I want to know who writes the call to adventure. Who defines 'good' and 'evil.' Follow the divine paperwork. Use the souls in the sword as deep-cover analysts. Assign them codenames."
He looked at his hands—the hands of an electrician, a technician. Now, the hands of an heir.
"And Ugo?"
<
"Find every contract, every soul-bond Aldmax ever forged. If any fragments of his work, his true work, still exist… I want them found, archived, and reactivated. We are not just starting a company."
Mordecai's mismatched eyes glinted in the dim light.
"We are reopening the family business."
A wave of pure, terrifying devotion emanated from the Archivist. <
After his bluetooth talk with Ugo, Mordecai finally took some time to relax.
'Only one day has passed...*yawn*' .
"System, deactivate all my hide status. I need to rest." He ordered.
In the blink of an eye, all the appearance of 'Kaitoyama' had disappeared.
His black , edgy robes appeared again. His skin became more pale, his eyes became more icy blue.
Mordecai Von Ravenloft had returned.
Then, he asked the system to change his clothes into a pajama.
His request was fullfilled.
After that, he put himself under the blankets and closed his eyes, not thinking about anything else, except a mosquito mumbling random things in the other room.
[FEEDBACK FROM THE HIGHER REALMS]
SysAdmin_From_IT: HOLY SHIT. HE'S NOT DEBUGGING THE GAME. HE'S PERFORMING A HOSTILE TAKEOVER OF THE STUDIO THAT MADE IT. "MUNDANE APEX" IS THE PERFECT ANTI-TROPE POWER. I'M SCREAMING.
Tsundere_Archetype_Prime: Pyra punching the pillow while secretly loving his boring efficiency is the most accurate representation of love in the history of fiction. She doesn't want a hero. She wants a competent department head. RELATABLE.
UnionRep_For_The_Damned: The Sword is now a call center. A CALL CENTER. The heroes are on customer support for the apocalypse. This is the most deviously brilliant afterlife punishment I've ever seen. 10/10 would strike again.
Lore_Junkie: So Aldmax was the original SysAdmin, the Narrative Weavers are the hacky dev team that took over with a bad patch, and Mordecai is the old admin's account, accidentally re-activated. THIS IS THE LORE WE NEEDED.
Jay_Cultivator: Intern tabards. INTERN TABARDS. I'm deceased. Ugo is having the time of his eternal death. This is corporate necromancy, and it is ART.