The sensation was unlike anything Rosen had ever experienced. It wasn't just about the money; it was the sheer, physical weight of the wealth as the System began to feed. Every time his hand brushed against a stack of hundreds, there was a faint, low-frequency hum—a sound only he could hear—and the bills simply dissolved into a stream of green particles that spiraled into his palm.
In his mind's eye, the System interface was a blur of high-speed calculations. The number representing his "recharge balance" was ticking upward with the frantic energy of a Geiger counter in a reactor melt-down.
One million... ten... fifty... one hundred...
Rosen moved through the vault like a localized hurricane. He didn't care about the gold or the jewels yet; he went straight for the cash. He practically waded through the piles, his boots crunching on the loose bills that hadn't been bundled. Everywhere he walked, the room grew emptier, the cavernous steel vault beginning to echo as the dampening effect of the paper vanished.
Finally, he reached the last pallet. With a final sweep of his hand, the last bundle of Benjamins flickered and died out of existence.
Rosen took a deep breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. He called up the System HUD.
[Current System Balance: $385,311,123.00]
He let out a long, shaky whistle. "Now that... that is a jackpot."
He broke it down in his head. About $382 million had come directly from Fisk's floor tonight. The other three million and change was the "seed money" he'd painstakingly gathered over the last week by hitting smaller street gangs across the city—the kind of low-level thugs who dealt in corners and alleyways.
Without those first three million, he wouldn't have been able to afford the $5,000 Mechanical Mouse or the $10,000 Invisibility Potion that got him through the door. He'd even splurged $275,000 on an Orb of Fire from the Human Faction shop.
He reached into his pouch and felt the Orb—a smooth, heavy sphere that pulsed with a warm, rhythmic heat. It was his only real offensive tool until now. Since Maiev's template didn't come with a bow or a gun, he'd needed a way to hit things at a distance. The Orb let him hurl concentrated fire at anything within two thousand feet. It was the red glow from the Orb that had melted the surveillance cameras into slag earlier.
As for that extra $123 in the total? That was his "real" net worth—the leftover change from his previous life as a broke high school grad.
"Sorry, Wilson," Rosen smirked, looking at the empty floor where the mountain of cash had been. "But I think I need this more than you do."
He knew $380 million was a drop in the bucket for a guy like Fisk, who probably had billions tied up in real estate, offshore accounts, and shipping lanes. But in terms of liquid cash? This was a massive blow. Even the biggest banks in Manhattan rarely kept this much physical currency on hand unless they were a central branch. It was the kind of loss that left a mark.
But Rosen didn't have time to gloat. He could hear the heavy thrum-thrum-thrum of the vault's mechanical overrides clicking into place. He had minutes, maybe less.
"System," Rosen thought, his focus sharpening. "I want thirty-eight spins on the Skill Compass. Go all-in."
The interface in his mind shifted. A massive, ornate golden compass appeared, etched with runes from the four great races: Human, Orc, Undead, and Night Elf. It began to spin, a blur of gold and silver light that made his head swim.
He could've saved up for the Special Store. This week, the shop was highlighting the Staff of Antonidas for ten million dollars. It was a legendary piece of gear—+30 Intelligence and a max-level Brilliance Aura that would basically give him infinite mana.
But Rosen had crunched the numbers. A staff was a physical object; he had to hold it for it to work. If he dropped it, he lost the buff. Skills, however, were part of his soul. They were permanent. Plus, the Brilliance Aura was a hero skill anyway. Why pay ten million for a stick when he could eventually just "draw" the skill for himself?
"Give me the good stuff," he whispered.
Then, the "dings" started. They hit his brain like a succession of hammer blows, each one accompanied by a flood of raw data—muscle memory, incantations, and the sheer feeling of how to warp reality.
[Congratulations! You have obtained: Brilliance Aura (Lv.1)] [Congratulations! You have obtained: Water Elemental (Lv.2)] [Congratulations! You have obtained: Divine Shield (Lv.1)] [Congratulations! You have obtained: Flame Strike (Lv.2)]
The flood continued. He felt the burning rage of the Orcs, the cold precision of the Undead, and the shimmering grace of the Elves.
[Congratulations! You have obtained: Bladestorm (Lv.3 - MAX)] Note: Skill maxed. This skill will no longer appear in the roulette.
Rosen's eyes widened. Bladestorm. The ultimate Orc ability. He felt his muscles twitch with the knowledge of how to become a living whirlwind of steel.
[Congratulations! You have obtained: Blink (Lv.1 -> Lv.2)] [Congratulations! You have obtained: Shadow Strike (Lv.3 - MAX)] [Congratulations! You have obtained: Gale Step (Lv.1)] [Congratulations! You have obtained: Critical Strike (Lv.2)]
The list went on and on. Searing Arrows, Immolation, Death Pact, Carrion Swarm, Forked Lightning, Frost Armor. He felt himself becoming a Swiss Army knife of supernatural destruction. He drew summons—the Summon Grizzly and the Warhawk. He drew the Alchemist's Acid Bomb and the Tinker's Pocket Factory.
By the time the thirty-eighth "ding" echoed in his skull, Rosen was slumped against a cold gold ingot, sweat dripping down his forehead. His brain felt like it had been put through a blender. The sheer volume of information—the tactical applications of thirty-eight different powers—was enough to drive a normal man insane.
Luckily, his Watcher template gave him the mental fortitude to endure it. After a minute of ragged breathing, the vertigo passed. He felt... powerful. No, he felt dangerous.
He looked around the vault. The cash was gone, but the gold remained.
"The System won't take gold as payment," Rosen muttered, wiping his brow. "But that doesn't mean it's useless."
He called up his Personal Storage. It was a modest space—about a hundred and forty cubic feet. It was meant for his gear and potions, but it could hold anything from the real world.
He didn't bother with the jewelry. Most of the diamonds were probably tagged, and trying to move high-end necklaces in New York was a great way to get a visit from the Digital Entertainment Oversight Committee or the FBI's art theft division. Gold, however? Gold was anonymous.
He began hauling gold bars into the storage space. They were heavy, cold, and felt like solid bricks of frozen sunlight. He worked quickly, stacking them until the four-cubic-meter space was packed tight.
Just as he shoved the last bar into the void, a deafening CLANG echoed through the room.
The vault door hissed. The massive locking bolts retracted, and the three-foot-thick steel slab began to swing outward.
Rosen didn't panic. He didn't even stand up.
"Time to test out the new toy," he whispered.
He focused on the new skill nestled in his mind: Gale Step. It was the signature move of the Blademaster. Unlike his Shadow Fade, which required him to be a statue, Gale Step allowed him to move like a ghost.
He triggered the skill.
A rush of cool air swirled around him, and the world suddenly took on a desaturated, ethereal tint. His body became semi-transparent, a mere ripple in the air. His footsteps became silent, his weight seemingly vanishing.
The vault door swung wide. Light from the hallway spilled in, blindingly bright compared to the dim vault.
"GO! GO! GO!" a voice barked.
A squad of security guards—at least a dozen—burst into the room, their boots thundering on the floor. They were dressed in full tactical gear, carrying suppressed submachine guns and wearing night-vision goggles. They fanned out in a perfect diamond formation, weapons raised, fingers on the triggers.
Rosen stood right in front of them.
The point man, a guy with a jagged scar across his chin, swept his barrel right through the space where Rosen was standing. He didn't see a thing. To the guards, the room was empty.
Rosen took a casual step forward. He walked right between two of the guards, the air from his movement barely fluttering the lapel of the point man's suit. He felt like a predator walking through a herd of blind sheep. He wasn't a "bloodthirsty demon lord" type of guy—he didn't feel the need to slaughter these men just for doing their jobs—but the power he felt was intoxicating.
He slipped through the open vault door and into the hallway, his invisible form moving like a soft breeze through the chaos.
Inside the vault, the silence was broken by a panicked cry.
"Where is it?!"
The lead guard was standing in the center of the room, his weapon lowered, his face turning a sickly shade of gray as he looked at the bare floor.
"Where's the money? Where's the tribute?!"
The other guards lowered their guns, their eyes darting around the empty space. The mountain of cash—hundreds of millions of dollars—had vanished. The gold pallets were half-empty. It looked like a locust swarm had hit the room.
"Oh, god," one of the younger guards whispered, his voice trembling. "Fisk... he's going to kill us. He's going to skin us alive."
A cold chill settled over the men. They were standing in the heart of the most secure building in New York, and someone had just walked out with the Emperor's fortune without firing a single shot.
Outside, in the cool night air of the corridor, Rosen continued his silent walk toward the exit, a faint, confident smile playing on his lips.
Wilson Fisk was about to have a very, very bad night.