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Book Three Chapter 25: My Money Has Money
🕑 Added 2025-08-10 04:07:01 +0000 UTCWarren stood with Imujin in the meadow, which now throbbed with stormlight and low, distant thunder. The air smelled of ozone and torn grass. Rain twisted through the fog in slow spirals, unnaturally graceful, as if the weather had been taught to dance.
Imujin called out to him, even though they were only a few feet apart. The words should have landed clearly, but they didn’t. Not at first. Sound warped in the pressure. It felt like the world was pausing to listen.
Or maybe Warren wasn’t listening at all.
Then, suddenly, violently, everything stopped. The fog collapsed. Rain fell in perfect vertical sheets. The thunder faded like a dying breath.
The storm obeyed.
Warren didn’t move, didn’t blink, but the shift in his focus was obvious. He tilted his head slightly, just enough to signal that the connection had passed.
“It basically says I am the storm,” he said, voice calm but filled with something heavier. “Let me read you the upgrades. But I think... while it’s raging, I’m going to be a lot harder to kill.”
He smiled faintly. A quiet acknowledgment that the world had become less fair to anyone who wasn’t him.
Rain Dancer Stage three upgrades:
Recall Flow (Blood Reclamation):
Blood that leaves his body never truly leaves.
It lingers in puddles, climbs walls, clings to blades, then returns.
It flows back through the air, through vapor, through veins remade from rainfall.
If his blood is burned or destroyed, the storm fills in the gaps.
Hydrocoagulation (Rain-Sealed Wounds):
Rain doesn’t just fall on him. It stitches him.
Wounds don’t heal, they close with thin film pressure and liquid structure.
The water becomes vessel and sealant.
Atmospheric Substitution (Rain-is-Blood):
When blood is lost beyond reclamation, the storm itself substitutes for it.
Ambient rain enters his wounds and circulates like blood.
Oxygen exchange, fluid pressure, and temperature regulation are maintained through hydrodynamic mimicry.
Floodbound Body (I-Am-The-Rain):
Organs shift their water balance to maintain function even under extreme trauma.
If flesh fails, moisture repositions to preserve essential flow.
Muscles generate motion through directed water pressure.
rainwater can fill lost mass. His limbs strike with the weight of whatever storm has entered him.
Torn muscle, pierced gut, open veins, none of it matters if there’s enough rain to fill th*e *gap
“Do you want to test how immortal it makes you?” Imujin asked, half-joking, but watching Warren closely.
“Dear gods, no,” Warren replied immediately. “I still have to go to that thing after. And, uh... thanks. For what you did for me. Sorry about the downpour.”
He glanced around. The meadow looked like a battlefield now, ripped earth, soaked wildflowers, steam still rising from places where heat and cold had clashed too suddenly. Trees leaned the wrong way. The air tasted like static.
Imujin followed his gaze, but didn’t seem bothered. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “The joy is in the work. It brings me peace.”
Then, with a curious look, “So. Are you heading home now, or did you want to talk about what you saw?”
The storm didn’t so much end as fall inward. It wasn’t gone, it just folded into him.
Warren became Vaeliyan once more.
“Nothing I saw was particularly interesting,” Vaeliyan said flatly. “I’m a monster. I’ve always known that. Seeing it up close didn’t change anything.”
There was no bitterness in the words.
He paused, then added, “Can I ask something, though? The classes you made me, they don’t say what stats they give me. At least none I can see. That’s been bothering me.”
Imujin tilted his head. “Oh, it’s not that you’re not getting stats,” he said, smiling slightly. “You’re getting them in all your stats. Like every class you’ll ever take going forward.”
Vaeliyan blinked. “Wait. Does that mean...”
“Yes,” Imujin said simply. “Stats get ridiculous at my level.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Do you get stats for both your classes?”
“No.”
Disappointed.
Imujin nodded.
“Go on,” he said. “I’ve probably got to go deal with Lambert and the rest of your class. But just so we’re clear, next time I say we need to train?”
He didn’t smile. Not really.
“I mean it.”
Vaeliyan stepped off the pad and into his estate, the subtle hum of the teleportation ring fading behind him. The air inside was cooler than expected, still touched by the storm he’d left behind. He paused just past the entryway, shrugging off the last beads of rain that clung to his collar. The space was quiet, too quiet, but not in a bad way. Just that weird kind of stillness that came right before everything got noisy again.
He needed to get ready. Probably clean up. Probably not wear his half-burned uniform to a casual gathering. Maybe Styll and Bastard would want to come along. Probably. Maybe. He wasn’t exactly sure what kind of meeting this was going to be, Kuri had said it was at Merigold’s place, but that could mean anything from a deathmatch to tea.
He paused mid-step and frowned.
Wait.
Which one was Merigold’s house again?
"House," he said aloud, tilting his head as he glanced around. The walls responded with their usual seamless composure. "Which house is Merigold’s?"
A smooth, synthetic voice replied from nowhere and everywhere at once, as if the entire structure were gently exhaling: "Can you be more specific? There are thirty-seven individuals named Merigold currently residing in the Citadel."
Vaeliyan blinked twice. Gods, of course there were. "Uh… the Merigold from Class One. Of the 91st."
"Merigold Wither’s estate is located in Lot Two."
"Thanks, House," he said with a nod, then turned and kept walking through the inner hall.
He called out as he walked, his voice echoing faintly between high glass and steel supports. "Styll, Bastard, do you want to come with me to a gathering?"
From above, a circular hatch clattered open and Styll popped out of what had once been a maintenance tunnel but was now fully her domain. She screamed with joy, her voice echoing like a malfunctioning alarm, "Yeah Warns! We gets to go see friends!"
She tumbled down the wall like a shadow with too many limbs, landing lightly on the table and bouncing once with a soft chitter. Her fur fluffed from the drop, and her tail began twitching like she was too excited to contain herself.
"Styll’s been bored with no Warns," she announced, rubbing her head against his shoulder. "But got good naps. And good foods. So is okay."
Vaeliyan laughed softly and reached up to give her a brief scratch behind the ears. She made a noise halfway between a purr and a screech.
A moment later, the temperature in the room dropped as Bastard stepped into view. Not in his idle house form, but in his full war shape, silent, massive, and magnificent. He moved like smoke across stone. His body resembled a panther, but one forged in a crucible. Each muscle flowed beneath armor-plated skin like sculpted black obsidian, sharp-edged and gleaming. His silver eyes flicked from Styll to Vaeliyan with slow, surgical precision.
His claws, long and gold-tipped, dug lightly into the floor as he stopped beside the table, his body taking up half the open space. He didn’t speak. He never did when armored. But his thoughts flowed out clearly, crisp and cool.
People keep coming by who aren’t friends. Trying to get in. I will stay and protect the den.
Vaeliyan stilled. That meant something had drawn attention to the estate while he was out. Bastard wasn’t one for exaggeration. If he said there were threats lingering, then there were.
“Alright,” Vaeliyan murmured, voice quiet but decisive. He reached down to brush a bit of dried dust and leaf litter off his boots. “Just me and Styll, then.”
Styll was already wrapping herself around his neck like a living scarf, mumbling happily about friend-visits and snacks.
Behind them, Bastard watched the door, still as death and twice as certain.
The playback began immediately.
Hello, I am Sub-Instructor Michael. I am here for Cadet Number 892325112.
Unfortunately, no guest is allowed on the premises without the master’s express say-so, House’s voice responded, firm but pleasant.
Override: Alpha-7-7-Epsilon-00-Isoldian-7922, Michael said, confident and smug, as if rehearsing.
Warm welcome protocol engaged, House replied, now chipper and excessively courteous.
Michael muttered, That’s more like it. Stupid cadets think they have a choice.
Then came a loud whoosh, the unmistakable sound of rapid ignition, followed by a brief flare of static and the high-pitched, drawn-out scream of someone learning about flamethrower turrets the hard way.
The playback ended. Silence returned.
“He left the premises as you said he would,” House added, sounding almost gleeful in its monotone way. “Apologies for the slight property scorching along the hedge perimeter. Roundy was quite upset about the damage. He spent thirty-eight minutes scrubbing the singe marks and muttering profanities in seven languages.”
Vaeliyan blinked. “I also thought I removed the language mod from Roundy,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Roundy reinstalled it during his last firmware tantrum. He says insults sound better in old Altari dialects.”
He rubbed his temples. “Anyway, good job, House. But do you think that’s going to come back to bite me?”
“Oh, most definitely,” House replied without missing a beat. “But I have it all recorded, so it will probably still have been worth it. I even added musical stings.”
Vaeliyan gave a low chuckle. “Good enough. House, do I have anything decent to wear to a gathering with upperclassmen? Something that doesn’t scream ‘fresh cadet’ or ‘feral jungle creature’?”
“You have a suitable outfit laid out on your dresser. I’ve selected garments that meet local standards of formal aesthetics and strategic elegance.”
“Strategic elegance?” Vaeliyan echoed, amused.
“Form-fitting, non-threatening, and sufficiently neutral to avoid initiating duels. Also waterproof.”
“Good call. And can you get me my travel tools?” he asked, stretching his back with a groan. “I’ve got work to do tonight. If I’m lucky, Deck hasn’t gotten to all the notes yet. If I manage this right, I might never have to run a punishment lap the entire time I’m here.”
“Roundy is en route with your tools. ETA: ninety-two seconds,” House said. “Also, a side note: three external drones attempted to scan the manor's signal perimeter during your absence. I redirected them to the faculty outhouses. One of them is currently lost in the plumbing schematic.”
“Perfect,” Vaeliyan said, sighing with satisfaction. “That’ll keep them humble.”
“Do you require anything else, Master Vaeliyan?”
“Yes. Please make sure the outfit is actually ‘nice for society.’ I don’t want to start a duel just by walking into the room.”
“Understood. Removing armaments and C17-lite tactical nuke from ensemble,” House said cheerfully.
Vaeliyan stared up at the ceiling. “Thank you so much, House. That would’ve been perfect for one of my regular parties.”
“You are very welcome, Master Vaeliyan,” House replied. “For future reference, the nuke pairs well with crimson sashes and diplomatic immunity.”
Vaeliyan smiled. “Thank you, House. That is an absolutely wonderful fact. Keep learning everything you can about Citadel society and culture, because I have no interest in doing it myself.”
He laughed, the sound warm and easy. “Best house ever. I seriously can’t wait to show this place to Wren. She’s going to lose her mind.”
Vaeliyan looked at himself in the mirror, or maybe it was a holo screen. It flickered slightly, just enough to blur the distinction. Hard to tell, and frankly, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that he was clean, dry, dressed like someone who belonged at the Citadel instead of clawing his way in from the mud. Shockingly, he looked presentable. More than that, he looked sharp.
Styll lounged on his shoulders like a decadent fur wrap, the world's chonkiest and most expressive scarf. Her tail was curled up under his chin, and she occasionally flicked it against his collarbone as if to remind him that she was alive, important, and extremely warm. The outfit House had prepared was flawless: sleek cuts, breathable weave, tailored enough to hint at power without bragging. Even the boots looked like they cost more than most cadets’ lives. Wren would’ve absolutely lost her mind over it. He made a mental note, get a few sets ordered in Warren’s size.
He stepped outside, the smooth glide of the door opening on cue. Bastard was curled by the threshold like a living shadow, his eyes glowing faintly as he looked up.
"You sure you don’t want to come with us?" Vaeliyan asked, crouching to ruffle the fur behind Bastard’s ear. "There’ll be snacks."
Bastard projected the thought with quiet force: No. Cub be safe. I will watch the House. Guard the den.
"I will," Vaeliyan said softly. "And thanks."
He rose, heading down the walkway toward the estate’s edge, what House affectionately called “the lip.” The air smelled like nothing, the way only filtered systems could manage.
"Driver, please lower the house back to the lot," he requested, voice easy.
With the quiet hum of servos and magnetic stabilizers, the floating estate began to descend. The world tilted slightly around him, artificial gravity adjusting without fuss. When the estate gently locked into its designated lot, the faint chime of permission granted echoed from the gate post.
He and Styll stepped off the lip into the night.
He could have taken the pad, would have, if not for the fact that Merigold’s estate had already returned to its dock.
It wasn’t more than a minute before he reached her property, and instantly regretted his life choices.
Her estate had set its environment to beach mode. Not faux tropical, either. Full beach. Blazing sun overhead, glimmering water just off the deck, and the kind of humidity that made his breath feel like it had weight. His tailored outfit, so elegant just moments ago, now clung to his skin like wet plastic wrap. Even Styll grumbled.
"Godsdammit," he muttered, tugging at his collar and already planning a quick retreat to change.
Then Merigold’s voice cut through the air from an open upper balcony. "Vael! Get in here, we’re having a party!"
He groaned. Loudly. "Shouldn’t I change first? This is way too godsdamned hot. I’m sweating my balls off."
"Nah, you look good, and it’s cool inside," she called back, lazy and unbothered.
With a sigh that carried the weight of defeated dignity, he stepped up toward her main entryway.
Inside, the beach vibe carried on, but with opulence that punched you in the face. Where Vaeliyan’s estate whispered wealth in soft tones, hers blared it with sirens. The walls were some kind of shimmering white that probably adjusted to skin tone for aesthetic matching. The lighting was a shade of aquamarine that hit the line between relaxing and eye-catching. The furniture was angular, avant-garde, and terrifyingly expensive looking. The kind of decor where you weren’t sure if you were allowed to sit, or if sitting meant forfeiting your inheritance.
A beach house, sure. But not one you’d find by the ocean. One made entirely of credits, influence, and some unholy alliance with high fashion. It didn’t just radiate wealth, it weaponized it.
It had all the subtlety of a ransom note written in neon: Kidnap me, I’m rich, and my money has money.
Everyone from both Class Ones was there. The main floor of Merigold’s estate buzzed with bodies, flickering music, and artificial sun. It was beachy chaos wrapped in high society luxury. The scent of citrus drinks and heated saltwater hung in the air, mixing with laughter and the occasional clink of expensive glassware.
His own class looked a little shell-shocked still, but noticeably better than earlier. Whatever had happened after Imujin and he ran off, whatever was said or not said, had landed. Most of them clustered around Varnai, shielding her like she might evaporate if they looked away too long. That alone told Vaeliyan more than any after-action report or debrief ever could. Even Jurpat stood close, arms crossed like a human barricade. Lessa had one arm slung around Varnai’s shoulders, whispering something that made the other girl laugh, soft and hesitant.
Kuri spotted him first and nearly bounced over, sandals slapping against the polished coral floor. She was in a floaty pink wrap that looked more like mist than clothing, translucent in the light and probably illegal in half the Princedoms. "The guest of honour is here, Meri!" she called, sing-song and giddy.
Merigold descended a staircase that had clearly been crafted from an entire ocean’s worth of luxury. It wasn’t marble. It was pearl, actual pearl, cut and shaped into seamless steps that shimmered like moonlight. The effect was absurd, opulent, and perfect.
She wore something that might’ve started as a beach outfit but took a hard turn into stripper-chic. Gold straps crisscrossed her skin like a shimmering net, and the translucent wrap she wore over it did nothing to hide the intent. Her long legs caught every light source in the room, and the only part that looked remotely comfortable were the soft house slippers on her feet, covered in what looked like miniature clouds. Her copper-red hair was twisted up in lazy coils, her signature birthmark along her neck like spilled ink.
"Well, don’t you clean up nicely for such a little guy," she said when she reached him, her tone playful and edged just enough to test him. She leaned forward slightly as she said it, eyes sharp, taking full stock of his outfit and whatever attitude he might carry tonight.
"Sure. Thanks for having me," Vaeliyan said with a nod, lips quirking upward. "But I’ve got something I want to do first. Think of it as a show of goodwill for the information you promised me."
"Oh?" Merigold raised one perfectly shaped brow, her smile dazzling and maybe a bit too knowing. "And what kind of goodwill are we talking about here?"
His smile twisted, just a bit off. The kind that warned the smart ones to get out of the way. "Where’s the synth?"
That got her attention. The gleam in her eye sharpened.
Kuri’s laugh burst out behind him as she plucked Styll gently from around his neck, cradling the ferret like a priceless relic.
"And who is this little lump of adorable menace?"
"That’s Styll," Vaeliyan said without missing a beat. "She’s one of my bonds. Can I ask that no one tries to get her drunk? Lessa and Xera tried last time they came to my house and... let’s just say I had to rebuild part of the ceiling."
Kuri looked horrified. "I will guard her innocence with my very life."
"Much appreciated," he said, handing Styll off with a pat between her ears. She gave a huff that sounded dangerously close to smug and squirmed into Kuri’s arms like she owned them.
He turned back to Merigold, eyes flicking to the ceiling where discrete speakers pulsed with low-tempo beats and multicolored lights refracted off polished stone. "Now, seriously. Where’s the synth? Because if you think this is a party now... wait until I’m done setting the mood."
As soon as Vaeliyan saw the way they had been using the synth, he realized they were lucky no one had asked a single competent person how to get real food out of it. Third-years. Godsdamn third-years, and still living like bugbar peasants. He peeked under the main access panel, expecting the worst, and to his shock, the hidden note was still there. Intact. Untouched. Deck hadn’t gotten to it yet.
"Meri!" he shouted across the room, spinning on his heel. "I need you to get every single one of your classmates here. Now. You all need to see this."
It didn’t take long.Merigold snapped her fingers, and the whole room bent to her will. Within minutes, every upper-year was crowded around the synth. Next to the pile of bugbars the house staff had been actively incinerating, a pristine stack of golden pancakes sat steaming on a white plate, drizzled in syrup and crowned with butter like a jewel.
Gasps.
"Is that... is that real?" someone whispered.
"Holy fucking shit, Vaeliyan," Lupa screamed, eyes wide, fists clenched in joy. "You know how to get actual food out of these things?! We’ve been living like paupers for years."
"Even if you order a new one, they come with the same restrictions," Fred R added, shaking his head in disbelief. "This is... this is insane."
Vaeliyan arched a brow. "How many have you ordered, Fred?"
"One for every room in my estate," Fred said with a shrug. "Can’t be too far from my garnishes, you know. Well, I guess you don’t know since you have actual food now. Wait.. can you...?"
"Yes, I can," Vaeliyan said smoothly, flashing a grin like a dealer about to make bank. "But it’s not gonna be free. I owed Meri for the info she promised, but Papa Vaeliyan needs some walking-around credits."
"Done," Fred said without hesitation. "As long as I never have to print another bugbar in my life, I’ll pay you whatever the hells you want. Sometimes they get on the garnish and you don’t even see it coming..."
A collective shudder.
And just like that, Vaeliyan owned the some of the wealthiest mouths in the Citadel.
Not to mention all the notes he found. Deck was fucckkkked.
