A single day passes, a blur of transactions fueled by Elias’s grim resolve and channeled Aetherium, to extinguish Theron Vane’s crippling debt. The last of the legal entanglements dissolve, leaving Theron free, albeit beholden. Now, within the shadowed confines of Elias Thorne’s covert workshop – a repurposed, grimy boiler-room burrowed deep beneath Veridia’s forgotten industrial district – Elias outlines the path forward.
The workshop air, thick with the metallic tang of raw Aetherium and the scent of ozone, clings to Theron’s tailored but now worn suit. Elias watches the man, a recent acquaintance whose life, now salvaged by Thorne’s intervention, hangs in precarious balance. Theron stands stiffly, eyes darting from the glowing Aetherium conduits snaking across the walls to the scattered schematics covering a workbench.
“You are not formally employed by Thorne Industries,” Elias states, his voice low, a gravelly whisper against the hum of the machinery. He doesn’t offer the full, unsavory truth: that tying Theron’s tarnished reputation too closely to Elias’s burgeoning, clandestine operations could invite unwanted scrutiny from Veridia’s powerful, inquisitive guilds. The temporal echo of a future surveillance state still rings in his mind, a constant, chilling reminder.
“For now, your tasks fall directly under my purview. Understand?”
“Yes, Elias. I understand.” Theron’s reply is immediate, lacking the tremor Elias expects from a man newly freed from financial ruin but still in shock. No questions, no hesitation. Is it born of pure subservience, a resignation to his new reality, or a genuine, albeit naive, trust? Or perhaps, Elias considers with a flicker of his grim internal cynicism, it is simply a profound lack of initiative. A man broken, simply awaiting direction.
Elias feels the familiar, cold weight of doubt settle in his gut. Theron Vane, a merchant prince reduced to a desperate debtor, possesses a quick mind for ledgers and negotiations, but his efficacy in the turbulent, unpredictable currents of Veridia’s underworld remains an open question. Elias needs more than a name on a ledger; he needs a resource. He needs to test him, to gauge the true depth of his utility.
*We’ll see once he faces a genuine challenge,* Elias thinks, his gaze momentarily fixed on a pulsing Aetherium crystal embedded in a console. His immediate objective, beyond securing Theron’s reluctant allegiance, is the acquisition of vital components for his nascent Aetherium reclamation project, hidden in the city’s desolate, outer territories. A critical first step in his relentless pursuit to rewrite the future.
“Your first task,” Elias begins, his voice cutting through the workshop’s ambient hum, “involves procurement. I require large quantities of Arc-coils, kinetic springs, and Flux-resins. All derived from reinforced Veridian Arc-steel.”
Theron’s brow furrows. He looks utterly perplexed, the technical terms clearly outside his usual domain of commodities and credits. Elias offers no explanation for the peculiar blend of industrial materials, simply outlining the precise specifications, his words clipped and precise.
“Additionally, secure approximately a hundred samples of each. For initial calibration experiments.”
Theron blinks, a slow, disbelieving movement. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touches his lips, quickly suppressed. “Are you planning to… manufacture clockwork novelties? Toys?” The question, despite the attempt at politeness, carries a mocking undertone. Given Theron’s previous understanding of Elias’s supposed business ventures—making money—his assumption isn’t entirely without logic, twisted as it is.
“Something akin to that,” Elias replies, his expression unreadable. There is no need to disclose the true purpose of these components: the fabrication of advanced Aetherium-powered weaponry, devices gleaned from the searing clarity of his temporal echoes. Weapons necessary for the looming, inevitable conflict he strives to avert. For now, his focus remains singular: to reproduce the samples, to validate the echoes, to bend the future to his will.
Theron, despite his initial bewilderment, quickly shifts gears, his merchant’s instincts for material properties resurfacing. “The Veridian Arc-steel, known for its incredible resilience. So, the kinetic springs merely need standardization, and for the Flux-resin, the stronger the adhesive bond, the better. Correct?”
“Indeed.” Elias offers a curt nod.
“Then,” Theron states, speaking with surprising speed and an unexpected confidence, “there’s truly no need to acquire them here, nor from the inner city’s official Aether-conflux distribution houses.”
Elias narrows his eyes, a flicker of something beyond dismissive cynicism stirring within him. He waits.
“The Forge-Wards in Veridia’s northern industrial sector, specifically those overseen by the Guild of Scavenger-Smiths, craft Arc-steel components of far superior resilience than anything found in the core districts. They’re renowned for their artisans, their meticulous work with Flux-resins. Personally, I find their output far outstrips the standardized, often diluted, materials sold through the Aether-conflux. And purchasing directly from them, rather than through the intermediary brokers here, would yield a significantly lower price.”
Elias feels a jolt of genuine surprise. As a former mercenary haunted by a future that had already been, his knowledge of Veridia’s intricate supply chains and artisan guilds is limited to what little he gleans from his temporal echoes. The source material for the advanced weaponry he dimly remembers had always been a secondary detail in the larger catastrophe.
“My ancestors,” Theron continues, a faint, almost proud inflection in his voice, “had long-standing relationships with the Scavenger-Smiths. I still retain some of those connections. If you wish, I can reach out. Arrange for a hundred samples to be sent to your Thorne Research Annex, purely on credit. Shall I make the arrangements?”
Elias simply nods, momentarily taken aback by Theron’s unexpected insight and immediate, actionable proposal. *More competent than I anticipated,* he thinks, the words a grudging acknowledgment. Yet, the deep-seated skepticism that gnaws at him, a byproduct of his past failures and the weight of his guilt, prevents a full endorsement. He holds back, reserving his final judgment.
With the Arc-steel procurement seemingly underway, Elias pivots to the most significant, and most volatile, demand he has contemplated. This is the lynchpin, an item so ludicrously undervalued now, yet, when coupled with his future knowledge, it possesses the potential to be a veritable torrent of Aetherium credits.
*He’ll likely panic,* Elias predicts, a faint, grim satisfaction tracing its way through his internal landscape. It feels like a cruel jest, a mischievous prank played upon a man already teetering on the edge of sanity. Elias drops the bombshell with a deliberate, detached casualness, as if discussing the weather.
“I also intend to acquire… corrupted beast flesh.”
Theron’s initial surprise is palpable, then morphs into undisguised horror. Corrupted beasts, the monstrosities birthed from uncontrolled Aetherium surges, are not natural creatures. They embody destruction, their very existence a blight upon Veridia’s struggling ecosystems. Scholars endlessly debate their origins: whether they are grotesque byproducts of forgotten arcane rituals, remnants of pre-Veridian civilizations, or simply spontaneously generated abominations from Aetherium gone wild. But on one point, they all agree:
— *Corrupted beasts are antithetical to all organic life. Their blood, flesh, and organs are saturated with virulent toxins, continuing to poison and destroy the environment long after death.*
This is why, in Veridia, when a hunting party successfully downs a corrupted beast, it is customary to incinerate everything but the most resilient bones and hides, which can sometimes be ritually purified for specific arcane or industrial uses. To even contemplate handling, let alone *acquiring*, the toxic flesh is anathema.
“My ears must be playing tricks, Elias,” Theron stammers, his face paling. “You meant… byproducts. Their bones, perhaps, or hardened carapace fragments, not… the flesh itself?”
“No,” Elias says, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I meant the flesh.”
Despite Theron’s polite phrasing, his expression clearly screams, *Have I fallen into the clutches of a madman?* Elias merely offers a humorless half-grin, adding further details to his chilling request.
“Specifically, I plan to purchase and stockpile the flesh of low-tier Chitin-Gorgers.”
The Chitin-Gorger, a common, if terrifying, corrupted beast, vaguely resembles a hulking, grotesque boar, its hide armored with jagged Aetherium-infused chitin plates and a wickedly curved horn protruding from its forehead. Even though their general form might echo commonplace livestock, their very blood pulses with concentrated toxins, rendering their flesh utterly unfit for human consumption.
“Why such an emphasis on the flesh?” Theron presses, his voice tight with growing apprehension. “Surely you don’t mean to imply… people actually *eat* this?”
“I merely require you to purchase and gather it,” Elias states, refusing to engage with Theron’s horrified questions, focusing instead on the dictate of his will. Theron’s gaze, fixed on Elias, is that of a man presented with a dish of putrid, spoiled food. His eyes silently convey, *Are you truly out of your mind?* Yet, with a visible effort, he attempts to reason.
“Corrupted beast flesh is best disposed of through immediate, thorough incineration. No matter the price you pay, this venture will only guarantee a catastrophic loss.”
“Not in this specific instance,” Elias corrects, the certainty in his voice absolute.
“What manner of blasphemous—” Theron chokes back the curse, the word dying in his throat as he stares at Elias. Elias, however, appears completely unperturbed, his eyes gleaming with an unnatural, cold light, the Aetherium within him resonating with his unwavering conviction.
“Hmph… Very well. If you insist on this… insanity.” Theron eventually sighs, raising a placating hand in a gesture of surrender. “How much do you intend to allocate for this… acquisition?”
The ensuing answer makes Theron involuntarily leap to his feet, a strangled gasp escaping his lips.
“One million Aetherium credits.”
“One million?! Have you truly lost your damned mind, Elias?!” Theron’s near-hysteria is raw, unfiltered, and brimming with unvarnished emotion. Elias simply responds with a cold, unwavering smile, firm in his assertion.
“I will commit even more, should the profit prove as substantial as I foresee. Undoubtedly.”
“No matter what wild whispers you’ve heard, Elias, a rumor is not a basis to invest such a colossal sum! For mere hearsay to manifest as reality, it requires indisputable, concrete evidence!” Theron’s voice rises, loud enough to stir the dust motes dancing in the Aetherium light, almost certainly audible to any stragglers outside the grimy workshop. Yet, Elias’s demeanor remains utterly unchanged.
“The evidence,” Elias states, his gaze distant, as if already seeing beyond the present moment, “will manifest. Definitive.”
“How can you be so certain, with just—” Theron’s exasperated protest hangs in the air, unfinished. His current common sense, the shared understanding of Veridia’s economy and biological dangers, dictates his reaction is entirely logical. But in a few short years, the entire paradigm will irrevocably shift.
Next summer, within one of the Arcane Guild’s central research spires in Veridia Prime, a groundbreaking serum neutralizing the virulent Aether-corruption in low-tier Chitin-Gorger blood will be developed and publicly disseminated. It is a neutralizer derived from surprisingly common Aetherium catalysts and basic alchemical reagents, requiring no rare herbs or complex arcane rituals. While its efficacy is limited to the toxins found in low-level corrupted beasts, its cost-effectiveness is extraordinary. More crucially, anyone with the knowledge of its simple ingredients can manufacture it.
Given that the majority of corrupted beast hunting by Veridia’s mercenaries and Aether-scavengers targets these low-level threats, the serum will rapidly propagate across the city-state, spreading like wildfire through the underhives and industrial sectors. Soon after, in the outer districts and areas perpetually starved for sustenance, the consumption of Chitin-Gorger flesh, along with other livestock-like corrupted beasts, begins. This shocking new culinary culture, born of desperation and driven by necessity, spreads. Then, during the brutal winter of that same year, numerous anecdotal reports surface: individuals claiming miraculous cures for various ailments, notably a profound increase in vitality and virility, after consuming Chitin-Gorger flesh. Even those physically castrated due to industrial accidents or combat injuries report remarkable, restorative effects.
The moment the prestigious Veridia Prime Medical Institute, backed by the Arcane Guild, officially confirms these properties, the capital sees an explosion in demand for Chitin-Gorger flesh. Less than a year later, the already-threatened Chitin-Gorger species is hunted to the precipice of extinction across Veridia’s territories. Afterward, its desiccated flesh, even mere jerky slices, trades for more than its weight in raw Aetherium crystals, rivaling the value of precious metals. Humanity, locked in a millennia-long struggle against corrupted beasts, had never before driven an entire species to the brink of annihilation. Yet, due to a validated benefit to human vitality, a single low-ranking corrupted beast species vanishes.
But Elias cannot, will not, explain the cold clarity of his temporal echo to Theron Vane.
“You are absolutely certain of this, even with my firm opposition?” Theron’s voice is hollow, tinged with a weariness that permeates his entire being. He lets out a resigned sigh, his gaze sweeping across the workshop as if searching for a hidden camera, then down at his hands. The contemplation does not last long. His pragmatic, merchant's mind, despite its despair, asserts itself.
“So, what purchase price are you envisioning for this Chitin-Gorger flesh?”
“At present, Chitin-Gorger flesh holds no market value. No one buys it; it’s all burned anyway.” Elias pauses, watching Theron’s face, which is a canvas of disbelief. Theron, however, refrains from voicing his obvious question: *Why would you buy something evidently useless?*
“Therefore, if merely delivering the intact carcass can earn a hunter Aetherium credits, factoring in typical transport costs from the outer industrial zones, 200 credits per carcass might suffice. If we can secure multiple Chitin-Gorgers at once, the cost of bulk transportation would be far more efficient. Bulk shipments are our best option.”
“Oh?” Theron’s commendation drips with thinly veiled sarcasm, a barbed edge that scrapes Elias’s stoic composure. “You’ve even meticulously considered the logistics and transport expenses, to no end.”
“Is my calculation incorrect?” Elias asks, his voice flat, dangerously so.
“No,” Theron admits, grudgingly. “It is not incorrect.”
“If you’ve established the budget at one million Aetherium credits and the projected purchase price… Were you thinking of comm—?”