Nyssa stepped forward, her voice calm but commanding.
"And my second offering… will be the Silver Letter. First-hand."
A heavy silence fell across the royal hall of Zeloria.
Gasps echoed like ripples on still water. Eyes widened. Whispers spread like wildfire on dry grass.
The Royal Advisor nearly choked on his breath.
"P-Princess Nyssa… do you fully understand what you're offering?"
The Secondary Advisor stepped in, disbelief etched across his face.
"Even great nations like Arathis and Eurentheus failed to secure a Silver Letter—let alone a first-hand one. It's one of the rarest and most powerful trade licenses in existence.
It grants direct access to the markets of the wealthiest noble families, the oldest merchant guilds, and the most elite trading houses."
His voice dipped into sarcasm.
"A first-hand Silver Letter? That's a crown most kings can't afford… unless they sell their own."
Nyssa didn't flinch.
Her voice remained soft—almost quiet.
But her words crashed like thunder.
"I am Merchant Empress."
The title rang through the air.
No fanfare. No shouting.
Just the truth—and that made it hit even harder.
At the far end of the hall, King Soren sat upon his throne, head resting lightly against his right hand. Unlike the rest, he showed no reaction. No surprise. No skepticism.
if what she claimed was true…
She isn't just powerful—she is politically untouchable.
It's hard to believe she controls a trade empire worth ten trillion gold coins.
Two years ago, the Merchant Empress and her empire were officially recognized by the High-Council of Trade & Commerce.
Most say she was only 18 or 19 at the time.
Which means now, she's likely no older than 20 or 21—and just by looking at her, that seems accurate.
What's more unbelievable? She's already a High-Seat Member of the High-Council itself.
To qualify for that position, one must serve at least 4 years on the Council, plus 1 additional provisional year after being selected for the High-Seat.
So by that logic, she must have joined the Council when she was only 12 or 13.
That's nearly impossible for any ordinary human or being—most don't mature that early due to slow hormonal and cognitive development. But she isn't ordinary.
She's an Incarnate-type monster-blood, which means her body matures significantly faster than others her age. At 12 or 13, she may have had the mental and emotional maturity of someone who's 18 or 19.
And to build a trillion-coin empire at that age?
You'd need more than just talent—you'd need immense political influence.
That's where her Royal Gorgon bloodline and the "Medusan" surname come into play.
King Soren's lips curled into a faint smirk.
"…Very well then."
***
Raezel walked briskly through the dim streets of Velmor, his eyes darting across the uneasy faces around him. Roha kept pace at his right, silent but alert. Gia moved quietly on his left, while Lia hovered just behind—her presence ghostlike, almost forgotten in the tension.
Suddenly, Raezel halted.
His voice dropped, sharp as a blade.
"Roha… did you feel that?"
Roha nodded slowly.
"There's tension in the air. These people—they're terrified."
Gia's voice was low, steady.
"It's not just them. The fear is spreading. It's everywhere. Even the gods feel it."
Lia's whisper was like wind brushing across a grave.
"The Underworld never moves without chaos. It's always been that way."
Raezel's brow furrowed. A chill crawled down his spine.
"What did Cerberus do this time?"
Roha's eyes hardened.
"It's not Cerberus this time."
Raezel's breath caught. His throat clenched.
The name fell from his lips like a curse.
"Hades."
And the moment he said it—
The world broke.
The wind stopped. The light dimmed. The street fell into unnatural stillness, like even time was afraid to move.
Every passerby froze.
As if the name itself reached into their chest and crushed something sacred.
Raezel staggered. Cold dread flooded his chest.
That name wasn't just a word.
It was a sentence.
A verdict.
A death knell.
Lia floated behind them, bitterness in her voice.
"We're the High-Seaters of the Seven Seats. The world calls us the 'Holders of Law'…
And yet, against him?
We can't do anything."
She paused. Her voice tightened.
"He reduced an entire nation to cinders. Drowned it in Hell Blaze."
Raezel's voice was calm, but the frustration underneath cracked through.
"We can't. The Underworld doesn't fall under our jurisdiction."
Roha clenched his fists, rage simmering beneath his skin.
"He didn't just burn them.
He let the flames linger. For days.
So their souls would burn too—until nothing was left.
Not even a whisper of who they were."
Gia's voice was cold with despair.
"Even if we tried to act, there's no evidence. No witnesses. And no realm would stand beside us."
"Because no one wants to be next," Raezel said, quietly.
A heavy silence wrapped around them like smoke.
Then, Roha whispered:
"Sometimes I wonder…
If the power we hold was meant for justice—
Or just to remind us how tightly the law can chain its own keepers."
No one replied.
Because how could they?
***
Dionysus was trembling. Panic twisted his face.
"He's coming for me! He's going to kill me! I didn't mean it—it was a joke! IT WAS JUST A JOKE!"
"Compose yourself, Dionysus!"
Other gods gathered, trying to calm him. Their faces pale. Their hands trembling.
"Hold still, my lord—please—"
Even his children were terrified.
"Father… please…"
Then—thunder cracked.
The golden doors didn't open.
They exploded.
Zeus entered.
Not a god.
Not a king.
A storm made flesh.
Lightning danced in his eyes. Thunder rumbled in his jaw.
"Give me one reason," Zeus growled, "just one reason I shouldn't tear you apart where you stand."
Dionysus stumbled back, stammering:
"It—it was a joke! Just a joke!"
In a blink, Zeus was in front of him.
His hand clamped around Dionysus' throat like a divine vice.
"How dare you raise your voice to me?"
His voice cracked like lightning.
"You pitiful, wine-soaked fool."
Dionysus clawed at Zeus' hand, kicking, gasping—
But Zeus didn't move.
He didn't just cut off air.
He cut off power.
Even Dionysus' divinity recoiled, too scared to fight back.
"I—I'm sorry!" Dionysus gasped.
"I'll never raise my voice again—please, I'm begging you—"
"Zeus, please!" Ariadne cried.
"Father, don't—!" his children screamed.
"Have mercy!" the other gods pleaded.
Zeus threw Dionysus down like trash.
The god of wine hit the floor, choking, tears streaming down his face.
Silence.
Thick. Trembling.
Even the gods were afraid.
Zeus' voice rumbled like thunder drawn tight.
"You said it was a joke. A joke—about stealing Hades' wine shipment.
As if he were some fool at your table.
Not the ruler of the Underworld."
His gaze bore into Dionysus—disappointment burning deeper than wrath.
"That nation had faith in you.
Their faith-pathway was tethered to your name."
He paused.
"If Hades hadn't held back… the fire would've traveled through that tether.
And you—along with your believers—would've been reduced to ash."
Zeus stepped closer. Voice low. Lethal.
"Consider this mercy.
Mercy that Hades rarely gives."
He turned, stormcloak billowing behind him.
But just before leaving—
CRACK.
He slammed his hand into a nearby pillar. Stone split. Dust rained. The palace trembled.
"If any of you dare pull a stunt like this again…"
His voice dropped.
"I'll rip your spine out before anyone."
Then silence.
The kind of silence that follows a storm.
But somehow… louder.