Fifteen years of breathing fantasy air had done wonders for their posture. Corporate desks in Tokyo used to curve their spines into sad, fleshy shapes. Now, Elias stood well over six feet, his dirty-blonde hair falling in messy layers around a face that drew lingering looks from every tavern maid in the frontier town of Oakhaven. His lean, athletic frame carried the quiet confidence of someone who knew he could level a mountain range if he actually bothered to try. Beside him, Jasper was a walking mountain. Broad shoulders stretched the seams of his leather jerkin, his dark eyes scanning the muddy street with the bored precision of a predator looking for a comfortable spot to nap. A massive, blunt-edged greatsword hung across his back, looking more like an raw iron girder than a traditional weapon. He had grown a thick, rugged jawline that commanded immediate respect, though his expression currently held only deep, soul-crushing boredom. Heavy boots crunched on the gravel as they made their way toward the merchant quarter. Flies buzzed around the rotting cabbage crates lining the narrow alleyways. Oakhaven was a sweaty, humid armpit of a town, but it possessed two saving graces: cheap rent and a direct trade route to the dwarven breweries in the eastern peaks. "My shoulders are killing me," Jasper grunted, adjusting the leather strap of his sword. "You carried three entire wagons out of a mud pit yesterday," Elias pointed out, his voice smooth and dry. "Your physical labor metrics are off the charts. Meanwhile, I had to vaporize twelve rock-spiders while maintaining a perfectly symmetrical hair parting. We both suffered." Jasper snorted, a deep rumble that vibrated through his massive chest. "Spiders don't count as work. That was a light warm-up. I'm talking about the real tragedy here. We haven't tasted a decent drop of alcohol in three days. Just lukewarm river water and those dry, sawdust travel rations." "A crime against humanity," Elias agreed, checking his clean fingernails. "But today is payday. Ronald owes us fifty silver pieces. That is enough for three kegs of premium dwarven amber, five plates of roasted boar, and maybe a pleasant evening conversing with those lovely elven twins who just started working at the Golden Flagon." Anticipation flickered in Jasper's dark eyes. "Conversing. Right. Is that what we're calling it now?" "We are refined gentlemen of leisure, Jasper. We don't chase; we negotiate mutually beneficial social interactions. Now, let's go collect our hard-earned capital." Keeping a low profile had been surprisingly easy once they agreed on a golden rule: never show off. Sure, Elias could summon a pillar of light that could incinerate a fortress, and Jasper could call upon a localized black hole to swallow a small army. But doing that invited attention. Attention meant recruiters. Recruiters meant contracts, schedules, KPIs, and middle management. Never again. They had died at their desks in their mid-thirties, hearts giving out under the relentless pressure of ninety-hour work weeks. Reincarnation wasn't a heroic calling to save the world; it was an early retirement package with a very high security budget. Stepping inside the merchant's guildhall, the cool air hit their faces. Polished mahogany desks lined the lobby, a stark contrast to the muddy chaos outside. Clerks in starch-collared shirts scribbled furiously in thick ledgers, their eyes glazed over with a familiar, dead-eyed exhaustion. Jasper shuddered, rubbing his thick, muscular arms. "Look at them," he whispered, his voice dripping with horror. "It's like looking into a mirror of our past. I can practically smell the stale coffee and the broken dreams from here." "Don't look them in the eye," Elias warned, picking up his pace. "If you make eye contact, they'll ask you to fill out a feedback form. Keep moving. Our target is the corner office." Master Ronald's office was lavish, filled with heavy velvet drapes and gilded trinkets that screamed of cheap taste and tax evasion. Sitting behind a massive desk of imported ironwood, the merchant was a round, greasy man with fingers adorned in cheap gemstone rings. He was currently counting a stack of silver coins, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in deep concentration. Clinking armor and heavy footsteps announced their arrival. Ronald didn't look up immediately, a classic corporate power play designed to make subordinates feel insignificant. Elias and Jasper simply stood there, expressionless, letting the silence stretch. Finally, the merchant cleared his throat, sliding his ledgers shut. "Ah, the mercenary duo. Elias and Jasper, correct? You've returned. I trust the shipment of raw silk arrived at the western depot intact?" "In perfect condition," Elias said, his voice pleasant but entirely devoid of warmth. "Not a single thread was damaged. We also cleared out three nests of rock-spiders along the mountain pass to ensure your return route is clear. You're welcome." Jasper leaned against the doorframe, crossing his massive arms. "Which brings us to the invoice. Fifty silver pieces, as agreed upon in the signed contract. We'd like it in cash. No drafts, no IOUs." Ronald smiled, a slimy, sliding expression that made Elias's left eyebrow twitch. "Ah, yes. The payment. You see, gentlemen, we ran into a bit of a logistical complication. The market value of raw silk fluctuated wildly over the last forty-eight hours. The profit margins are... well, they are incredibly thin. Razor-thin, really." Silence stretched in the room, heavy and suffocating. Jasper's eyes narrowed into tiny slits of dark power. Elias merely tilted his head, his dirty-blonde hair catching the dim light of the oil lamps. "Go on," Elias said, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave. "Well, considering the market downturn, I'm sure you understand that we all must make sacrifices," Ronald said, leaning back in his plush leather chair. "I can offer you ten silver pieces today. And, of course, the invaluable exposure of working for the Ronald Trading Syndicate. Think of the networking opportunities! This is a long-term investment in your brand." Something snapped inside Jasper's brain. A vein began to throb violently at his temple. Memory flashes of unpaid weekend shifts, cancelled vacation days, and managers saying 'we're a family here' flooded through his mind. A heavy, suffocating pressure began to leak from his body, the air temperature in the room dropping instantly. Elias felt his own jaw clench so hard his teeth squeaked. "Exposure," Elias repeated. His voice was terrifyingly calm, but his fingers were curling into tight fists. "You are offering us... exposure. In lieu of negotiated contract rates." "It's standard practice!" Ronald stammered, suddenly looking very pale as the shadows in the corners of his room began to stretch and writhe like living snakes. "This economy is tough! We must all do our part for the team!" "Our team," Jasper growled, taking a single, massive step forward. Floorboards groaned under his weight. The sheer physical presence of the man was enough to make seasoned knights wet themselves, but the raw, dark magic bleeding from his pores was downright apocalyptic. "He used the 'T' word, Elias." Elias nodded slowly. "He also used 'sacrifices' and 'long-term investment'. This is a direct violation of our mental health boundaries, Jasper. It is a hostile work environment." Ronald scrambled backward, his chair screeching against the floorboards as he bumped into a massive, heavily reinforced iron safe behind his desk. "Stay back! I have guards! I'll have you blacklisted from the guild! You'll never work in this realm again!" "We don't want to work," Elias said softly. Gently raising his right hand, he pointed a single index finger at the massive iron safe. The air around his fingertip began to hum, vibrating at a frequency that made the glass inkwells on Ronald's desk shatter. Without a sound, a pencil-thin beam of pure, concentrated white light erupted from his finger. It didn't explode. It didn't flash. It was a silent, blinding laser of absolute heat. The light pierced the three-inch-thick iron door of the safe as if it were warm butter. Elias slowly dragged his finger downward, cutting a perfect, glowing circle right through the heavy metal lock mechanism. Molten iron dripped onto the floor, hissing and popping as it burned through the expensive carpet. Heavy and loud, the circular slab of metal fell inward with a metallic thud, revealing rows of neatly stacked gold bars and velvet pouches. Ronald's jaw dropped so low it nearly touched his chest. "My... my safe... That was cold-forged dwarven steel..." "A very poor thermal conductor, evidently," Elias said, casually blowing a speck of dust off his knuckle. "Now, let us recalculate our invoice. Jasper, what is our standard overtime rate for dealing with management-level gaslighting?" Jasper smiled, a slow, predatory baring of teeth that showed entirely too many canine structures. "Well, since we had to perform manual labor, magic usage, and emotional labor to process this transaction, I believe a three hundred percent premium is applicable. Plus tax. Plus a convenience fee for making us walk all the way to your office." He stepped up to the desk, slamming his massive hand down on the wood. Heavy ironwood cracked down the center, splintering into two distinct pieces. Ronald whimpered, curling into a ball in his leather chair, trying to push himself as far into the wall as physically possible. "Fifty silver is now two hundred silver," Jasper whispered, his dark eyes glowing with a faint, purple-black light. "Or, we can take the gold bars. I don't mind carrying them. I've got great physical metrics today. What do you say, boss? Are you going to pay your employees, or do we need to start liquidating your corporate assets?" Sweat poured down Ronald's forehead, mixing with the grease on his cheeks. His eyes darted from the melted safe to his ruined desk, and finally to the two absolute monsters standing before him. He had hired them because they looked cheap—just a couple of unaffiliated drifters who didn't belong to any major mercenary factions. He thought he could bully them. He thought they were desperate. How could he have known he was dealing with S-tier anomalies? In the 5 Heavenly Realms, Light and Dark magic of this caliber were legendary. People spent lifetimes trying to master even a fraction of what these two had just casually displayed. Elias had just used high-density light compression without a staff, chant, or magic circle. Jasper was actively suppressing an entire room's gravity with pure dark mana. "I'll pay! I'll pay!" Ronald shrieked, his voice cracking like a dry twig. "Please, just don't kill me! I have a family! I have a mistress! I have a second mistress!" "We don't care about your personal life," Jasper said, tapping his thick fingers on the cracked desk. "We just want our money. And maybe a written apology. No, scratch that. Just the money. Apologies don't buy dwarven ale." Elias sighed, crossing his arms and leaning his head back. "This always happens. Why does every employer in every universe think they can cheat the working class? It's a systemic failure. We reincarnated into a magical world of wonder, Jasper, and we're still dealing with wage theft. It's depressing." "Exactly," Jasper agreed, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "We should have stayed in the hay cart. At least the horse didn't try to pay us in exposure." Ronald scrambled toward the ruined safe, his hands shaking so violently he dropped several silver coins as he tried to scoop them up. "Here! Here is two hundred silver! No, three hundred! Take it all! Just leave me my life!" "See?" Elias remarked to Jasper. "Direct action works. Collective bargaining at its finest. If only our union reps in Tokyo had been allowed to melt the CEO's safe, we might still be alive today." "A beautiful dream," Jasper laughed, his dark magic finally receding back into his body. Heavy pressure in the room lifted, allowing Ronald to finally draw a ragged, shuddering breath. The merchant looked like he had aged ten years in the span of three minutes. His expensive silk robes were soaked in sweat, and he was trembling from head to toe. Desperation drove the merchant to reach deep into the very back of the melted safe. Instead of grabbing another handful of coins, his fingers wrapped around a small, velvet pouch. He pulled it out and threw it desperately at their feet, hoping to appease them further. "Take this too!" Ronald cried out, his voice hoarse. "It's... it's a trade secret! A map! A legendary prize! Just don't let the High Arbiters know I had it!" Velvet fabric slid across the floor, stopping right at Elias's boots. Elias looked down, his eyebrows knitting together in curiosity. He nudged the pouch with the toe of his boot. Instead of the heavy, metallic clink of gold coins, a stiff parchment map rolled out of the opening, unfurling across the floorboards. Both men leaned forward to inspect it. Beautiful, hand-drawn ink detailed a hidden valley deep within the dangerous Wyrmtooth Mountains. At the center of the valley, a golden icon of a bubbling keg was drawn, labeled in elegant dwarven runes: *The Nectar of the Gods Brewery*. Jasper's eyes went wide. "Is that... is that the legendary batch? The one brewed by the first Dwarven King? The one that is said to cure exhaustion and taste like liquid heaven?" "It is," Elias whispered, his eyes shining with genuine excitement for the first time in fifteen years. "This is it, Jasper. Our retirement home. A literal brewery in the mountains." Then, Elias's gaze drifted to the top of the parchment. Stamped directly over the valley was a massive, glowing red wax seal. It pulsed with a faint, divine energy, depicting an eye surrounded by five interlocking rings. Jasper's smile instantly vanished, replaced by a deep, rumbling growl. "No. You've got to be kidding me." "It's the High Arbiters' personal seal," Elias said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he read the warning written beneath the red wax: *By order of the Five High Arbiters, this holy site is declared a forbidden zone. Any mortal who attempts to claim the Nectar shall be purged by divine fire.*

Chapter 4: Fifteen Years to the First Beer