Chapter 48

Meanwhile, in the Westminster Bank Logistics Department.

The moment Howard confirmed that Baron's interview score was an S-rank, every logistics agent—led by Jack—who had been eavesdropping on the news sat in stunned silence, exchanging wide-eyed looks.

"Am I hearing things? An S-rank? Quick, pinch me!"

Smack—

"I said pinch, not slap!"

The man rubbed his reddened cheek. "So it's true? His interview score really is S-rank?"

No one answered; they were all still rebooting their brains.

After a long moment, one agent muttered, "I remember the questions weren't that hard when I interviewed."

Another chimed in, "Stella took one look at me and said I was a B."

"I got a C."

"Same here."

"Don't look at me, I'm a D."

Jack's face darkened. In a way, his D-rank was as much the Deputy Director's decree as Baron's S-rank. Back then, a nervous Jack had accidentally locked the examiner inside the toilet—Westminster Bank's latrines were famous for both soundproofing and anti-magic arrays. It was a muggy London summer; in Einsteinian terms, for every second Jack enjoyed the office air-conditioning, the examiner wept in the stench. When Howard heard, he simply waved a hand and declared Jack the bank's one-and-only Grade-D agent.

"Are we... witnessing history?" someone asked. "I could sell this scoop to Westminster News; their reporters would pay a tidy sum for another S-rank interview record."

"You're late," another agent said drily. "Jack already hung up."

They glanced over.

Jack, phone still in hand, wore the expression: (｀・ω・´).

"Does the S count as an A? I bet an ounce of gold it'd be A-rank," another agent said. He was one of the few who'd wagered that Constantine would be Grade-A. Most had put their money on B, C, or D. S-rank had never even been an option. Even now that it had happened, it still felt unreal.

Jack scratched his head. "The betting board didn't list S, so it's void. Still, this is just the interview score. The real test is the Containment Evaluation—that's the core skill every Westminster agent must master."

"But—"

Seeing the A-rank bettors glaring, Jack hurriedly added, "I'll refund all bets and open a new board—S-rank, no, SS-rank! Any takers?"

...

Stella walked as she spoke. "The final trial measures your pull on Forbidden Objects. Anything Grade-A or higher cannot be forced; only those with powerful Fate can contain an S-rank Forbidden Object."

"What is Fate?" Baron asked. "Destiny?"

"Destiny?" Stella halted in front of an iron door and smiled faintly. "Close enough."

"Before we proceed, Mr. Constantine, allow me a question."

Her hand rested on the door's wheel-lock. She turned. "If, after becoming a Westminster agent, you're told the Forbidden Object you must contain already has an owner, what would you do?"

Pop quiz time.

Baron cursed inwardly, but answered at once, "Until I've verified ownership, every Forbidden Object is free."

Translation: Mine, mine, all mine.

She nodded, pulled open the iron door, and—back to the darkness inside—said, "The illusory space spawned by the Forbidden Object [Cocoon of Delusion] has no rules. Contain any single Forbidden Object within it and you pass."

"How is containment defined?" Baron asked. "Stuff it into a ring?"

Stella smiled. "Or make it serve you."

...

Westminster Bank Logistics Department.

The room buzzed like a beehive. Dozens crowded around a single screen where fluctuating lines tracked the odds on Baron's Containment Evaluation. The department's resident mathematicians had crunched the numbers; others juggled three or four desk phones like seasoned call-center agents, reciting odds and advising callers.

Jack, sunglasses on, waved a fistful of cash in one hand and the freshly-printed Westminster Times in the other.

"Place your bets! S-rank interview agent's containment test! Top payout 91-to-1!"

The Westminster Times was a weekly serving enforcers worldwide who specialized in containing Forbidden Objects. In 1987, long before the internet, newspapers were the best forum. Jack had negotiated with the paper to print the department's betting hotline right under the article—hence the swarm of "customer-service reps." Every ounce of gold wagered earned a clerk a one-pound cut. Cheap for Jack; one man couldn't handle all those calls.

"One ounce of gold on B," said the agent who'd earlier bet Baron would score an A.

Asked why he'd downgraded, he replied, "Containment's different. I'd say Mr. Constantine fits, but Fate is too intangible..."

He left the rest unsaid, but everyone understood: interview scores and containment pull were two separate beasts.

"Makes sense. I'll bet C."

"C? Teller, his interview was S-rank."

"When things reach the extreme they reverse."

Teller grinned at Jack. "Five ounces of gold on Grade-C containment!"

Gasps all around. Five ounces—over two thousand dollars, a senior agent's monthly salary.

"What do you know? Going all-in is wisdom."

Teller's bravado whipped the crowd—both on-site and on the phone—into a frenzy. The odds on the screen heaved like ocean waves.

Jack had underestimated S-rank allure; the last one had been decades ago.

Just as Jack steeled himself to shout again, a phone rang. He answered absently. It was an editor from Westminster Times: a big client would call to place a wager.

The line clicked. A new call came in. Westminster Times maintained special couriers who, whenever earth-shaking news broke, flew papers directly to Black-Gold VIP subscribers. Clearly this caller belonged to that elite tier—no one else could dial straight into Jack's impromptu book.

The caller spoke one sentence and hung up: a man's voice, proud as an iceberg.

"One kilogram of gold on S-rank."

One kilogram...

Operators and gamblers froze. Who was this tycoon betting so boldly?

Jack smacked his lips. Only a handful could throw that weight around; he had his suspicions.

"Observer reports target entering chamber—odds climbing! Last call for bets! Thirty seconds to close!"

Jack snatched the mic from the "operator." "Quiet! All logistics staff—switch taps to channel SF-195, label: Operation [S-rank]."

The department and every open line went dead silent.

Jack frowned. "Why'd you unplug the phone?"

"Boss, you said to keep quiet..." the man answered blankly.

Jack sighed and patted his shoulder. "Ah-Gan, you're a genius. Plug it back in."

The operator asked, "Where's SF-195, boss? I can't find it."

Jack replied, "Observation room next to containment. Patch in and follow their conversation. First-hand intel stays with us."

He glanced at the timer; the S-rank odds froze at 46-to-1. Only three tickets on it.

Jack wasn't one of them. Smart men never gamble against their own luck.