CHAPTER 43: CH-43 -THE TWENTY MILLION WORTH BUILDING

The intoxicating rush of unimaginable wealth had seeped into Cisco’s very bones, replacing his blood with liquid ambition. The spatial bag in his pocket no longer felt like a bag; it was a pulsating star of potential, whispering promises of luxury and power. The memory of his recent despair was a distant, laughable nightmare.

"My lord!"

Cisco announced, his voice now carrying an unshakable, oily confidence. "The transaction is complete! The fee has been settled most favorably." He patted his pocket, a gesture laden with unspoken millions. "Now, allow me, your humble facilitator, to escort you to your new residence. This is not merely a house; it is a testament to power. A dwelling applicable only to the very best of the human race."

Baelgor’s head turned slowly. The words "best of the human race" had his attention.

Cisco leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Only the top elite can afford such splendor. And it is within such splendor, my lord, that the most suitable mates are naturally drawn. They seek not just strength, but the... ambiance of supremacy." He knew exactly which chords to pluck. Mate. Supremacy. Elite.

A faint, almost imperceptible glint of interest shone in Baelgor’s ancient eyes. The pursuit was progressing. This "ambiance of supremacy" sounded like a logical next step in the complex human mating ritual. "This is acceptable," he intoned. "Lead on."

The Taxi hummed to a stop, not in the hills overlooking the city, but on a quiet, tree-lined street in a decidedly... suburban neighborhood. The air here didn’t hum with power or wealth; it smelled of freshly cut grass and someone’s distant barbecue.

Cisco stepped out, puffing his chest out with an air of immense pride, as if he’d just unveiled a royal palace. "Behold, my lord! We have arrived!"

Baelgor emerged from the vehicle, his ancient eyes scanning the surroundings. He took in the rows of nearly identical houses with their small, neat lawns and plastic play structures. He saw a faded ball resting in a gutter and a hover-disc left charging on a porch. His brow, usually smooth with apathy, furrowed in profound confusion.

He turned to Cisco, his voice a low rumble of pure disbelief. "Human. Is this the place?"

This was not a fortress. This was not a sanctum. This was... a collection of boxes. Where were the towering spires? The shimmering energy domes? The wailing pits for captured foes? This looked like a place where beings came to... expire quietly.

A lesser man would have quailed under that gaze, which had once made lesser gods tremble.

But Cisco, with seventy million mana crystals warming his soul and the unshakable confidence of a master manipulator, didn’t flinch. Instead, a sly, practiced smirk spread across his face. This was his moment. This was what he was born for.

"My lord," Cisco began, his voice dripping with earnest conviction.

"Do not be fooled by its modest exterior! This... this is where true power resides in secrecy!" He gestured grandly at the beige, two-story house with its slightly crooked shutter. "This building is perfect for you to live immersed in the common life, to observe the mating rituals of humanity from the ground floor! How can you understand your prey if you live high above them in an ivory tower?"

He saw he had Baelgor’s attention. The word "prey" was always a good choice.

"And it is a well-known secret," Cisco continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "that many of the strongest hunters choose to reside in such humble abodes. They seek inspiration not in grandeur, but in simplicity! The greatest S-Rank hunter in the city, a man who single-handedly slayed the Frost Wyrm of the Northern Pass, he lives three streets over in a house with a pink flamingo in the garden. A symbol of his victory over the great pink avian beast of the Everglades, or so the stories go."

Baelgor’s eyes flickered with interest. A trophy? That made sense.

Cisco pressed his advantage, his lie growing bolder with every word. "A building with such a storied history, such potent, grounded energy, is worth no less than... twenty million!"

As if on cue from the universe itself, desperate to call his bluff, a loud crack sounded from the roof. A length of rusty downspout pipe broke free from its bracket, clattered down the shingles, and landed with a sad, metallic clang in the petunia bed below.

The sound echoed in the sudden silence.

Cisco’s smirk didn’t even flicker. His brain, a marvel of improvisational deceit, processed the disaster and spun it into gold. He let out a light, awkward laugh, waving a dismissive hand at the fallen pipe.

"Ah! You see?" he exclaimed, as if this was all part of the plan. "Even the building itself seeks to shed its outdated trappings! Making way for the new! A fresh start for a new master! Very symbolic, don’t you think? It’s... it’s a fixer-upper! A project! The best warriors always enjoy customizing their sanctums to their exact specifications!"

He held his breath, watching Baelgor. The demigod looked from the pathetic, fallen pipe to Cisco’s brilliantly confident face, then back to the house.

Baelgor’s logic was impeccable, if entirely wrong. The hunter who lives here must be so powerful, he reasoned, that he considers external maintenance beneath him. His power is so internalized that the structure around him is allowed to decay. A fascinating approach. And the human is correct—modifying a territory to one’s own design is a fundamental principle of power.

He gave a slow, deliberate nod. "The structural decay indicates a prior occupant of significant, focused strength. The potential for modification is... acceptable."

Cisco’s heart, which had leapt into his throat, slid back into his chest. He had done it. He had sold a crumbling suburban house with a broken pipe to a cosmic entity for a hypothetical twenty million.

He was, without a doubt, the greatest con man who had ever lived.

Cisco pushed the creaking front door open, ushering Baelgor into the dim, slightly musty interior. The air inside was a stale cocktail of old takeout and damp carpet. He’d never noticed it quite so much before.

"Welcome to your new... sanctum, my lord!" Cisco announced, his voice a little too loud for the small space, trying to fill it with a confidence he suddenly had to work for.

Baelgor stepped inside, his imposing frame seeming to make the cramped entryway even smaller. His ancient, discerning eyes took in everything with a slow, analytical sweep.

The wallpaper in the hall was peeling at the seams, a faded floral pattern that had seen better decades. A faint, persistent drip-drip-drip echoed from the kitchen—a leaky faucet Cisco had long since learned to tune out. The faint scent of rust lingered near the baseboard heaters.

It was, undeniably, a dump.

But Cisco’s masterpiece of deception was not yet complete. He moved with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly where to step to avoid the squeaky floorboard.

"As you can see, my lord, the previous owner valued function over frivolity. A true hunter’s mindset! The... rustic charm is intentional. It builds character!"

Baelgor’s gaze continued its inventory, pausing on a small, dusty frame sitting on a rickety bookshelf. It was a photograph of a much younger Cisco, grinning awkwardly in a graduation cap and gown, holding a diploma for law.

A bolt of pure panic shot through Cisco. No! Not that!

In a move almost too fast to see, he lunged for the shelf, snatching the frame and shoving it face-down into a drawer filled with junk mail and loose batteries. "Ah! Dusty old memories! Not worthy of your gaze, my lord!" he said, his laugh a touch too high-pitched. "Probably the previous tenant’s failed offspring. A tragic story, really. Now! The kitchen!"

If Baelgor had been paying closer attention to the human’s trivial belongings, he might have noticed the striking resemblance between the young man in the photo and the nervous guide in front of him. He might have sensed the spike of adrenaline, the sheer terror of being found out.

But Baelgor’s mind was on larger things. A "failed offspring" leaving behind a trophy of its limited achievements fit perfectly with his theory of a powerful, ascetic previous owner who discarded all sentimental attachments. The leaking tap was merely a test of one’s tolerance for ambient noise, a valid training method.

He gave a grunt of acknowledgment, seemingly satisfied with the explanation.

Cisco’s heart hammered against his ribs. He needed to get out. Now. The charade was becoming too thin, the walls of his own life feeling like they were closing in on him.

He quickly finished the "tour," which consisted of pointing at doors and mumbling about "sleeping chambers" and "hygiene pods." He assured Baelgor that all the details for his apprenticeship at The Rolling Noodle would be delivered shortly.

"Then I shall take my leave, my lord!" Cisco said, already backing toward the door. "I have... financial empires to manage! Strategic acquisitions to oversee!"

He didn’t wait for a response. He slipped out the front door, closing it softly on the ancient being now standing alone in the middle of his shabby apartment.

The moment the door shut, Cisco leaned against the peeling paint of the exterior wall and let out a long, shuddering breath of pure, unadulterated relief. Then, a grin spread across his face, wide and triumphant.

He was free. He was rich.

He looked at the building, his building, one last time with utter contempt.

"Goodbye, you rotten shack," he whispered, a laugh bubbling up in his chest. "I’m never coming back. Cisco is moving up in the world. This is the last that crazy lord will ever see of me."

He turned and practically skipped down the cracked sidewalk, already mentally designing the mansion he would buy, the clothes he would wear, the life of luxury that awaited him. He was so lost in his glorious future that he didn’t feel the faint, almost imperceptible warmth on the back of his neck.

There, just below his hairline, a mark had begun to appear. It was small and intricate, like a tiny, shimmering brand etched into his skin. It pulsed once with a soft, violet light and then faded, leaving no trace but a subtle, magical connection—an unbreakable tether placed by a being who did not believe in employees quitting.

Unknowingly, Cisco the con man, now fantastically wealthy, had just become Baelgor’s permanently tagged property. Their business was far from over.