Victor led the way through a nondescript steel door at the back of the Central Bank's private archives. As they crossed the threshold, the sterile, air-conditioned atmosphere of the human world died instantly. It was replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence and the scent of centuries-old dust, velvet, and dried iron.
We were no longer in a bank. We were in a crypt masquerading as a gentleman's club.
The corridor was lined with dark, polished mahogany paneling that seemed to absorb the light from the flickering, gas-lamp style sconces. The carpet was a deep, blood-red velvet that swallowed the sound of our footsteps. It was an aesthetic ripped straight from the 19th century—an ancient vampire castle hidden in the basement of modern Rome.
Victor, sweating visibly in his modern suit, stopped before a set of double doors carved with the crest of a dragon impaling a crescent moon. He knocked, his hand trembling slightly.
"Enter," a voice called out. It sounded like dry leaves skittering over stone.
Victor pushed the doors open. "Manager Silas will see you now, sir."
The office was a cavern of shadows and wealth. Bookshelves towered to the vaulted ceiling, filled with leather-bound tomes. Behind a desk that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of black oak sat Manager Silas.
He was a creature of the old breed. His skin was the color of parchment, his hair white and swept back severely. He wore a suit that was technically modern but worn with the stiffness of a Victorian frock coat. He didn't look up from his ledger.
"Victor," Silas intoned, his voice bored and archaic. "I was under the impression that I had made my protocols clear. I do not entertain walk-ins. Unless this gentleman is bearing a royal decree, you are wasting my time."
I stepped past Victor, adjusting my cuffs with deliberate slowness.
"I say," I began, adopting a tone of bored, aristocratic irritation, my vowels clipped and precise. "If you find yourself incapable of managing a portfolio of significant weight, do be a good fellow and fetch someone who is. I haven't got all day to bandy words with the help."
Silas finally looked up. His eyes were red, not the bright crimson of a combat-ready devil, but the dull, rusty red of dried blood. He offered a thin, patronizing smile.
"My dear sir," Silas said, leaning back. "It is not a matter of capability, but of decorum. I assume you bear the Slate of some minor mage or hedge-wizard you've bested? Victor can handle the scrapings."
I didn't reply. I simply reached into my bespoke jacket and withdrew the Account Slate. I didn't hand it to him. I dropped it onto his pristine desk.
CLACK.
The heavy obsidian sound echoed in the quiet room.
Silas peered at it over his spectacles, his expression one of mild distaste. Then, his eyes locked onto the crimson runes etched into the surface. The magical signature flared—a twisted, shadowy aura that smelled of poison and shadow.
The vampire froze. The air in the room grew razor-thin.
"The Manji Clan," Silas whispered, the Victorian composure cracking for a split second.
The realization hit . The Manji Clan wasn't just a client; they were the premier assassins of the East. And they had recently gone silent. Completely, terrifyingly silent. The rumors whispered of a total annihilation.
Silas looked up at me. He was no longer looking at a wealthy human lawyer. He was looking at a representative of the group who had slaughtered the Manji.
"I... see," Silas said, his voice suddenly tight. He stood up, buttoning his jacket with a sharp, nervous movement. "I was... misinformed as to the nature of your visit." He shot a look of pure venom at Victor, who shrank into the wainscoting.
"Pray, forgive my earlier dismissal," Silas continued, his tone shifting instantly to one of oily, desperate obsequiousness. "We would be most honored to continue our stewardship of these assets. The Manji Clan were... prolific savers. For a gentleman of your obvious caliber, we can offer the Premium Platinum status. Zero transaction fees, utter discretion, and exclusive access to the Blood Vault for rare artifacts storage . We wish to ensure your capital remains... comfortable here."
I let out a short, scoffing laugh. "Comfortable? With you?"
I looked around the room with a sneer. "Your receptionist practically shouted my business to the lobby like a town crier. And your man here," I gestured lazily to Victor, "tried to shuffle me off to a cubicle like I was applying for a car loan."
Silas paled. "I assure you, sir, disciplinary actions shall be swift and severe. We can offer recompense—"
"I don't bank with amateurs, Silas," I cut him off, my voice cold. "And I certainly don't trust a vault with a leaky front door. I walked in here with a Slayer's trophy, and you treated me like a wayward tourist."
I leaned forward, placing my hands on the desk. "I want a full liquidation. Immediate transfer."
Silas grimaced. "Sir, a liquidation of this magnitude... international treaties, compliance checks..."
"Transfer it to the Kyoto Supernatural Reserve," I ordered. "Today. Now."
Silas hesitated, but the glint in my eyes told him that arguing was a health hazard. He sat down and waved a hand. A holographic scroll unfurled in the air—the Manji inventory.
It was vast. Billions in yen, converted to gold bullion and unmarked currency. Blood money, mountains of it. But the artifact section was sparse. Assassins travel light.
"Remarkably dull collection," I drawled. "Though..."
My eyes caught three small items at the bottom of the list. Phoenix Tears (x3).
"I'll be taking those," I said, pointing. "As a carry-on."
Silas nodded quickly and move to back and came back in a minute , retrieving a small, velvet-lined box and sliding it across the desk. I checked the contents—three vials of glowing liquid—and slipped the box into my pocket.
"Now," I said, my voice sharpening. "For the due diligence. Before I accept this transfer, I require the certified ledger of all incoming payments to this account. I must ensure the funds I am inheriting are... clean. I won't have my accounts tied to messy sources."
Silas paused. His hand hovered over the magical keyboard. The fear in his eyes was replaced by a rigid, bureaucratic wall.
"I am afraid that is impossible, sir . if you would have continue your service with us we might be able to help but now there no way ." Silas said, his voice regaining some of its stiffness.
"Impossible?" I raised an eyebrow. "I hold the Slate. I own the account."
"You own the assets," Silas corrected, his tone polite but firm. "By the Laws of the Hunt and the treaties of the Supernatural Bank, the Bearer's Right grants you possession of the spoils—the gold, the items. It does not grant you the client history. The confidentiality of the sources is protected by the sovereignty of the Tepes Faction. Even with the Slate... I cannot give you the names of those who paid the Manji."
He looked at me, a flicker of defiance returning. "We sell discretion, sir. If we violate that, we have nothing."
Damn.
It was a wall. A legal, magical wall. He wouldn't budge, not while he felt safe behind the rules of his own institution. Pushing him now would cause a scene I couldn't finish without blowing my cover completely.
I let out a sigh of exaggerated disappointment.
"A pity," I said, checking my watch. "So be it . Very well. Process the gold."
The tension in Silas's shoulders dropped. He typed the commands. "Transfer initiating. It shall arrive in Kyoto by the end of day."
I stood up, buttoning my jacket.
"Good day, Silas," I said, turning my back on him. "Do try to improve your staff training. It's dreadfully common."
I walked out of the inner sanctum, Victor scrambling to open the doors for me.
I didn't have the name. Not yet. Silas had the ledger, and he was the weak link. I couldn't demand it as a client.
So, I thought, my mind shifting from the aristocratic lawyer back to the hunter as I stepped into the cool hallway, I'll just have to come back and take it from him when he leaves the office.