Michael answered one of his questions. He opened a portal. This time, it was more square-shaped, though the corners were still rounded.

  Man, it took practice to vary from just circles and ovals. Michael thought as he held the toy truck in the air, halfway through the portal that led to Elom.

  As the portal closed, the part of the truck near Elon just fell, as if it had never had a rear end. The one on Michael’s side kept floating in place.

  “Fascinating.” Elom stared at the front end of the toy truck and, picking it up without permission, began studying it.

  “It’s as if the resistance provided by the aluminum and plastic did not matter at all.” He kept nerding out about the phenomenon for a few seconds, staring at the clean-cut, before pulling himself together and looking at Michael.

  Michael put his half of the car down, thankful his mana control could handle the demonstration.

  “As for your first concern,” Michael said, his voice steady, final, “no portal opens or closes without my consent.”

  “And your other question-about how we’re communicating.”

  He produced a small cubic crystal, its edges traced in gold, faint runes pulsing with a slow, rhythmic glow.

  “I can do this naturally,” Michael continued. “You cannot. At least, not yet.”

  He held the cube out between them.

  “This is a translation artifact. Hold it, and the intent behind your words will reach the other party. From what I understand, it should remain functional for five more years.”

  He presented it with deliberate casualness, as if a merchant were displaying wares.

  “I’m not prepared to grant you access to my portals,” Michael said calmly. “But I can sell you this.”

  Elom took the cube with visible care, staring at it as though it were a minor miracle.

  “Just by holding it?” he murmured, turning it slowly in his hand. “But how? How does the information propagate?”

  “Through something that doesn’t exist on Earth, as far as I know,” Michael replied. “You’re free to study it. You’ll likely find it difficult to measure-and even harder to interact with.”

  Elom looked up. “What do you want in exchange?”

  “For now,” Michael said, “items anyone could purchase without issue. Individually, they’re mundane. In the quantities I need, though… they may attract attention.”

  “I stand between two worlds,” Michael continued. “Earth may be more advanced in science, technology, engineering, and math, and I know their value. However, I also provide access to a distinct form of knowledge and power.

  He paused, choosing his words carefully.

  “I need a wide range of things. Medicine. Manufacturing equipment. Infrastructure. And there’s no one better positioned to get them quietly than you.”

  Michael leaned back slightly.

  “Yes, I could approach governments,” he added calmly. “But they complicate everything. I prefer efficiency. Dealing with someone with a more... progressive mindset.”

  Elom didn’t answer right away.

  He sat back in the stone chair, the translation cube still resting in his palm, thumb tracing one of the glowing runes almost unconsciously. His eyes drifted-not to Michael, but to the cleanly severed half of the toy truck on the table. Then to the empty air where the portal had been moments ago.

  When he finally spoke, his tone had shifted. Less curiosity. More calculation.

  “You’re asking for logistics. Medicine. Manufacturing. Infrastructure. None of that is inherently threatening,” Elom continued. “But taken together? It’s how you advance civilization.”

  He glanced at the cube again. “And in exchange, you’re offering access to phenomena my best teams can’t even define yet.”

  Another pause. Longer this time.

  “You’re right about governments,” Elom said at last. “They’d want ownership. Oversight. Control. They’d slow this down until it collapsed under its own weight.”

  His eyes met Michael’s black mask directly.

  “All right,” Elom said. “I’ll source what you need. Quietly. In return, I get continued access to artifacts like this, to controlled demonstrations, and to honest answers when I ask the right questions.”

  “There is one more thing,” Michael said.

  Elom looked up immediately.

  “I need access to the deepest part of your world,” Michael continued. “The ocean floor.”

  That got Elom’s full attention.

  “Not a recording, nor a probe’s livestream,” Michael clarified. “I need to be there. To see it, even if briefly.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “I would like to test something about my portals down there.”

  Elom frowned. “You’re talking about extreme depth. Pressure that crushes steel. Temperatures, currents-”

  “I’m aware,” Michael interrupted calmly. “Which is why I don’t need elegance. I don’t need reusability. I don’t even need a return system.”

  He let that sink in.

  “I need a vessel capable of taking a single occupant safely to the ocean floor. One descent. No steering, no ascent mechanism. Once I reach the bottom, I’ll handle extraction myself.”

  “With portals,” Elom said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  The room was silent for a beat.

  “You’re asking for a disposable deep-sea craft,” Elom said. “Something built to survive pressure long enough for you to reach the seabed… and then abandon.”

  “Correct,” Michael replied as he saw the billionaire already trying to solve the problem, deep in thought.

  Elom exhaled slowly, rubbing his chin.

  “That’s actually straightforward,” Elom said after a moment. “A dense, spherical pressure capsule. Single occupant. Internal oxygen supply. Reinforced glass. No propulsion beyond controlled descent. I can have it ready in a week.”

  “As expected of Nusk Industries,” Michael replied.

  Something felt off.

  Things were going too smoothly.

  Elom had agreed to go somewhere unknown by himself way too easily. The deal was also coming along without a hitch.

  “One last question,” he said, pausing just long enough to make it matter. “Are you the real Elom Nusk?” Michael asked with a sort of ambiguous emphasis on ‘real’ as he used Intent Speech.

  “Of cour-”

  The crystal shattered.

  The sharp crack echoed louder than the first.

  Michael’s posture stiffened behind the mask as the fragments slipped from Elom’s hand and scattered across the stone floor. This time, there was no confusion in Elom’s eyes-only certainty. The marble wasn’t decorative. It wasn’t symbolic.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  It was a test.

  Michael let out a slow breath.

  “Then I sincerely hope,” he said evenly, “that the real Elom Nusk honors this agreement.”

  The implication settled heavily in the room.

  He rose and extended a hand. Elom hesitated only a fraction of a second before taking it, their grip firm and deliberate.

  “I’ll reach out again in a week,” Michael said, pressing a folded letter into Elom’s hand. “You’ll have what I asked for by then.”

  “And as for the recording,” Michael’s tone changed as if addressing someone else. “Elon, I hate being lied to.”

  A portal opened beside Elom, dark and silent, already marking the end of the meeting.

  ◇◇◇

  Early that morning, Michael stood in the castle’s training grounds with the pistols he had promised the crown and a substantial supply of ammunition to match.

  Before him, twenty small, matte-black cases lay, each bearing the same simple symbol of a pistol.

  Present for the demonstration were all those who mattered-the King, the Marshal, Tower Master Nelius, Astrum, Alana, Elion, and Julius. No one else.

  “These are twenty 9mm pistols,” Michael said, lifting one from its case. To their eyes, it looked nearly identical to the weapon he carried himself. Compact. Unassuming. Dangerous.

  “This will be the first batch of firearms sold to the crown,” he continued evenly. “I strongly advise that they be issued only to your most trusted individuals. A child could conceal one of these beneath their clothes-and end the life of an unsuspecting knight or mage before anyone realized what had happened.”

  That earned him silence.

  They had already placed armored mannequins downrange for weapons testing.

  Michael inserted a magazine, chambered a round, and without further warning emptied it into the first target as fast as his finger could move.

  The sound cracked across the grounds like repeated thunder.

  When the echoes faded, the mannequin’s shattered chest plate peeled inward, embedding fragments deep within the padding and frame beneath.

  “As you can see,” Michael said calmly, “even this model can defeat knight-grade armor. Direct shots penetrate fully and keep enough force to lodge inside the target. Shots at sharper angles will often dent the armor and deflect-but repeated hits will compromise it.”

  He removed the empty magazine and smoothly replaced it with another.

  “They hold fifteen rounds,” he went on, “and can fire as quickly as the user can pull the trigger.” He snapped the slide forward. “Reloading takes seconds. Sustained use will heat the weapon and slightly reduce accuracy, but at close range, it’s negligible. Your hand will fail long before the weapon does.”

  To demonstrate, he fired again-controlled, rapid, precise.

  The mannequins didn’t stand a chance.

  “These weapons are loud,” Michael added, lowering the pistol. “Repeated exposure can cause permanent hearing damage during training or prolonged use.” From a case at his feet, he produced a set of padded earmuffs. “I recommend these for drills.”

  At the king’s gesture, his finest archer stepped forward. The same one whom Michael had thoroughly outclassed in a previous contest.

  Michael handed him a pistol.

  There was hesitation at first. Then focus.

  After a single magazine, the archer was placing shots reliably into a head-sized target.

  The King’s gaze lingered on the ruined mannequins for several seconds longer than necessary.

  Then it shifted.

  “Arcanist,” he said at last, voice steady but unmistakably sharp, “my butler told me they took two additional cases out of the shipment before storage.”

  Michael didn’t flinch.

  “They were,” he replied calmly.

  The King folded his hands behind his back and turned to face him fully. “You have shown the pistols. Efficient. Concealable.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But those cases were larger.”

  The Marshal spoke before anyone else could. “Too large for sidearms.”

  Tower Master Nelius said nothing, but the faint tightening of his grip on his staff did not go unnoticed.

  Michael inclined his head. “Correct.”

  A brief pause followed, long enough for expectation to settle. Michael did not want to show these yet.

  “They contain weapons of greater range and greater lethality,” Michael continued. “Not suitable for general issue. Not yet.” His eyes flicked briefly to the assembled group. “And not something I intended to show unless asked.”

  The king’s expression hardened, not with anger, but with resolve.

  “Then I am asking,” he said.

  Well, Michael thought, I can give them a taste of what lies further ahead at a much higher price.

  He reached for one of the larger cases and opened it, lifting out a rifle far too long and unwieldy to be carried comfortably alongside a sword, spear, or halberd.

  “This,” Michael said, letting the weight of the moment settle, “is an assault rifle.”

  He turned it slightly so they could see it clearly.

  “An AR-15. It holds thirty rounds. Each shot carries roughly five times the force of the pistols you just witnessed.”

  Michael chambered a round.

  What followed was not the sharp thunder of a pistol, but a more resounding, angrier roar. He fired rapidly, emptying the magazine in seconds.

  When the echo finally died, there was nothing left to recognize.

  The armored mannequin had ceased to be a target. Its armor tore apart, its internal frame shattered, and fragments scattered across the ground as if something far larger than a weapon had struck it.

  Most of the rounds ended up chipping the stone wall behind the targets.

  He glanced back at the remaining long case, then to the King.

  “Shall I move on to the other one?”

  For a moment, the King said nothing. His eyes remained on what was left of the mannequin, on the absence where armor and form had once been. Then he nodded once.

  “Yes,” he said. “Show us.”

  Michael opened the last case.

  The weapon inside was longer, heavier, and unmistakably different. Where the previous rifle looked like something a soldier might carry, this one looked deliberate-built for patience, distance, and singular purpose.

  “This is a sniper rifle,” Michael said. “Chambered in fifty BMG.”

  He rested it carefully on its stand, making no move to fire yet.

  “To put things in perspective,” he continued, “the pistol you saw first delivers force enough to wound or kill at close range. The assault rifle multiplies that several times over, trading finesse for overwhelming power.” He tapped the long barrel lightly. “This goes far beyond both in exchange for portability, fire rate, and capacity.”

  He looked downrange.

  “A shot from this weapon carries 10 times the energy of the rifle, and far more than the pistol. It is not meant for crowds or chaos. It ends a fight before the enemy knows it has begun.”

  Michael’s gaze returned to the assembled figures.

  “It is a long-distance weapon. Accurate at ranges where arrows fail. But it demands discipline. Training. Restraint.” His tone sharpened. “In unskilled hands, it is wasted. But in skilled ones...”

  He took a position, slow and deliberate, letting them see this weapon was not about speed.

  Michael settled behind the rifle and drew a slow breath.

  The shot cracked like a lightning strike.

  The round struck dead center on the mannequin’s chest plate, punching a single, perfect hole straight through the front. For a heartbeat, it almost looked clean-deceptively so.

  Then the back gave way.

  Behind it, the stone wall, nearly a foot thick, had been violently hollowed out, a cavity the size of a man’s chest blasted straight through the stone. On the far side, the bullet itself remained lodged in place, half of its mangled length protruding from the wall like a grotesque monument to the force behind it.

  Michael lowered the rifle.

  “This weapon,” he said calmly, “typically carries five rounds.”

  The Marshal raised a hand after a few seconds. “One more test.”

  Another armored mannequin was brought forward, this one reinforced with thicker plates. The Marshal stepped in beside it, drawing in his aura until it flared, dense. Tier Four. Enough to block blades, arrows, and lower-tier spells.

  He positioned himself just off to the side, not behind it-his fingers stretching out until they barely brushed the armor’s surface. Close enough to feel the impact. Not nearly enough to die.

  “Proceed,” he said.

  Michael didn’t argue.

  The rifle thundered again.

  The shot struck center mass. Like a bell being smashed with a hammer, the impact rang. The armor didn’t explode this time-but it deformed. The front plate had a dent about an inch and a half deep.

  On the inside, the aura flared, compressing hard.

  The Marshal staggered a half step, pulling his hand back sharply.

  “That would kill most Tier Four aura users unless they used aura reinforcement on the armor.” He said, astonished.

  “Remember that this is an ambush weapon, and these projectiles are faster than sound, so they will hit you before you can hear them coming.”

  Nelius stiffened.

  It wasn’t the demonstration.

  This was different.

  His eyes were set beyond the walls.

  “That will be enough,” Nelius said sharply.

  Every head turned toward him. And Nelius looked at the King with a serious look, clearly not about the artifact Michael had shown.

  “We should continue this indoors.”

  The words weren’t loud, but they cut through the training grounds instantly.

  Michael hadn’t wasted a moment. The instant Nelius spoke, he’d opened a portal and begun moving the firearms and ammunition for it in rapid succession. Nelius assisted without comment, shaping mana to hasten the transfer.

  Seconds later, they stood within the same stone chamber where Michael’s first trade had taken place. The air felt heavier now, the earlier discussion of weapons already slipping into the background as all eyes turned toward Nelius, waiting for an explanation that hadn’t yet come.

  Anyone watching closely could tell something was wrong.

  The Tower Master finished bringing the last of the weapons in with him, and he sat down. Only then did he straighten, his expression tight, his attention still angled toward something none of them could see.

  Silence stretched.

  “…Atheri,” Nelius said at last, the word carrying the weight of an old memory.

  Everyone but Michael stiffened at the sound of it. Surprise gave way to something darker-unease, edged with fear.

  “Their mana was immense,” Nelius continued quietly, “yet tightly controlled. It only wavered when Michael fired the last weapon-likely a moment of startlement.”

  Elion frowned. “Why would they be here?”

  Nelius’s grip tightened on his staff. “If I had to speculate… it would be Michael’s core consolidation. The surge of mana involved was, to put it mildly, extraordinary.”

  He let the silence linger before adding,

  “Only the Atheri are sensitive enough to notice something like that-from such a distance.”

  Nelius exhaled slowly.

  “They’re withdrawing,” he said.

  Elion frowned. “They are running away?”

  Nelius shook his head. “No. Choosing restraint.”

  He turned slightly, eyes unfocused, still listening to something far beyond the walls.

  “They won’t act without orders,” he continued. “And they won’t escalate without cause. What they sensed here was… unfamiliar. Powerful. Acting now would appear hostile.”

  The king folded his hands. “They will definitely report this.”

  A brief silence followed.

  Michael broke it.

  “…What is an Atheri?”

  The word carried weight through Intent Speech, but no exact meaning.

  It pressed against Michael’s mind with a sense of gravity and power, yet offered nothing concrete.