CHAPTER 35: CHAPTER 35- BULLSHIT

The silence in the hallway stretched long enough for the ticking wall clock nearby to become uncomfortably loud. The two guardians stood like pillars in front of the double doors, their matching dark suits absorbing the lamplight. Kaidren remained still, his plain gaze level but unreadable.

It was Banker Rex who finally broke the stalemate.

"Mr. Kaidren," Rex began, his voice smooth but formal, "if you’d prefer not to show the contents of your bag, I can notify the manager and ask whether he will still permit your entry."

Rex’s squared glasses caught the light as he adjusted them, the precise gesture restoring a touch of authority to his otherwise surprised expression. His tone was carefully balanced—firm enough to maintain procedure, yet accommodating enough to diffuse the tension beginning to coil in the air.

Kaidren didn’t hesitate. He gave a slight nod, his voice flat. "That’s fine."

The two guardians exchanged a brief glance. Their orders had been clear—no one entered without a proper inspection—but the contract they had signed with Aegis Bank had its limits. If the branch manager himself chose to meet the guest, any security risks fell outside their accountability.

"Understood," one of them finally said, his voice low but decisive.

They stepped back just far enough to give Banker Rex room. The banker moved with professional precision toward the double doors, his polished shoes making little sound on the red carpet. When he reached the brass handles, he rapped his knuckles lightly but firmly against the wood.

"Branch Manager," he called, his tone formal yet respectful, "I’ve come to bring a message."

There was a brief pause, then a voice—a deep male one from inside—answered, "You may enter."

The lock clicked faintly. Banker Rex opened the door just wide enough to slip in, but the moment the gap widened, the guardians moved in front of Kaidren again, their broad shoulders completely obscuring his line of sight into the room.

Kaidren glanced at the wall of muscle in front of him, but his face betrayed no irritation. Safety protocols weren’t his concern; if the bank wanted to play at security theater, they could. Without comment, he turned his back on them and wandered a short distance away, finding a section of wall not far from the double doors.

The wallpaper was textured with subtle vertical lines, catching shadows from the golden wall sconces. Kaidren leaned back against it, crossing one ankle over the other, and lowered his gaze to the plush red carpet beneath his feet. The muted pattern reminded him vaguely of an ornate chessboard turned into fabric—orderly, symmetrical, but faintly oppressive.

The two guardians, satisfied he wasn’t attempting anything suspicious, kept their eyes forward and didn’t interfere.

Inside the manager’s office, muffled voices could be heard, but the words were indistinct. Time ticked by—perhaps a minute, perhaps five—and Kaidren didn’t bother counting. His breathing stayed slow and even, his mind detached from the moment, as though waiting for a train that would arrive when it chose.

Then, the faint creak of hinges reached his ears. The double doors were opening again.

Kaidren pushed himself off the wall, straightening as he approached. The guardians instantly stepped forward, blocking the gap once more. Kaidren stopped just short of them, expression as neutral as before.

Banker Rex emerged, closing the doors carefully behind him until the brass handles met with a quiet click. The guardians resumed their positions directly in front of the office, sealing it off like twin sentinels.

"Mr. Kaidren," Rex said, smoothing the cuff of his dark suit before addressing the two guards. "The branch manager has approved his entry."

The banker reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a small, gleaming object. It caught the hallway light immediately—a coin the size of a pocket watch, polished to perfection. Embossed upon its surface was the unmistakable sigil of the branch: a golden coin etched with the letter Z in sharp relief.

The moment the guardians laid eyes on it, their expressions shifted subtly—not exactly reverence, but unmistakable acknowledgment. The object in Rex’s hand was more than a decorative token; it was privilege incarnate.

They stepped aside without another word, leaving the path to the office unobstructed.

Rex approached Kaidren and extended the coin toward him. "The branch manager," he said, his tone precise and professional, "grants you permission to discuss your fifteen-million-aur loan directly with him. This branch coin officially marks you as a VIP within this branch of Aegis Bank."

Kaidren accepted the coin without haste, feeling its weight settle in his palm. The metal was cool, heavier than expected, the engraved Z catching glints of gold under the lights. He turned it once between his fingers, studying the craftsmanship, before closing his hand around it.

"Thank you," Kaidren said simply, his voice devoid of flourish.

Rex inclined his head slightly. "It’s no trouble at all—merely part of my duties." His tone didn’t shift, but his composure seemed just a fraction warmer now, a subtle acknowledgment of professional respect.

The banker then added, "I’ll take my leave here. I wish you great fortune in your journey, Mr. Kaidren."

Kaidren met his gaze for a moment and echoed, "The same to you."

Rex’s lips curved just slightly—not a smile, but something close enough in the world of business etiquette. "Much appreciated," he said.

With that, Banker Rex turned, his polished shoes making measured contact with the carpet. Each step seemed to echo faintly in the otherwise quiet hall, a rhythm of departure. He didn’t look back as he moved toward the far end, his figure gradually swallowed by the corridor’s soft shadows until he rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

Kaidren stood for a moment longer in the newly opened path to the manager’s office, the coin still resting in his palm, its metallic edge pressing lightly into his skin.

The air in the hallway was calm again—but the quiet held a different weight now, like the pause before an important move in a long, deliberate game.

______________

Kaidren’s footsteps were steady, as he approached the massive double doors at the end. The two Guardians stationed there had already shifted to the sides, no longer daring to obstruct his path. Their eyes followed him, not with hostility, but with a wary acknowledgment that whatever authority they had was meaningless in this moment.

Kaidren stopped before the towering doors. The grain of the wood was dark, polished to a sheen that caught the glow of the corridor lights. He raised his hand and knocked — three slow, deliberate taps that resonated in the still air.

A pause. Then, from within, a deep male voice, thick with authority and a faint rasp, rumbled:

"You may come in."

Kaidren’s fingers curled around the handle, and he pushed. The hinges moved with a smooth, well-oiled sound, yet the weight of the doors forced him to use more strength than he expected.

The room beyond was... different. Not the sterile modern design of corporate offices, but a study that carried the gravity of old wealth and refined taste. Rows of bookshelves lined the walls, each filled with volumes bound in colors he couldn’t name, the spines marked with intricate gold leaf symbols. He didn’t recognize a single title. The wood itself — deep, rich mahogany — was carved with patterns so fine they seemed grown rather than made.

A massive desk dominated the center, its surface gleaming under the soft light of a chandelier overhead — not crystal, but some rare material that refracted the light into a warm, golden glow. Paintings hung on the walls, landscapes that depicted sprawling fields, mountain ranges, and vast skies, their brushwork so vivid they almost breathed.

But Kaidren’s eyes weren’t on any of that.

They locked onto the man behind the desk.

The figure wore a brown tuxedo, the cut sharp, the fabric clean and pressed. His hair was a deep red, trimmed into a buzzcut that revealed a scalp lined faintly with age. A short beard of the same color framed his square jaw. His build was imposing — not the raw bulk of a fighter, but the solid mass of someone who’d lived his life in command. Deep lines etched his face, the kind that came from years of decisions and burdens, giving him the look of a man somewhere in his late forties, perhaps early fifties.

Kaidren stepped in fully, the doors closing behind him with a soft thud.

"Welcome, Mr. Kaidren," the man said, his voice resonating in the wood-paneled space, "to my humble abode."

Kaidren gave him a plain nod, his face unreadable. The words humble abode barely registered — the office was anything but humble.

If Logan Patel, as Kaidren would soon know him, noticed the lack of reaction, he didn’t seem offended. In fact, there was the faintest glint in his eyes — approval.

"I’m Logan Patel," the man said, leaning back slightly in his chair. "You can just call me Logan. No honorifics. I prefer to keep things... straightforward."

"Okay," Kaidren replied flatly.

Logan chuckled — not the hollow, forced laugh of someone trying to fill silence, but a genuine, low sound of amusement. "That’s good enough"

Kaidren simply met his gaze. After a beat, he spoke, his voice calm but direct.

"Can we talk about the loan?"

The humor drained from Logan’s expression, replaced by the sharp focus of a man shifting into business mode.

"Of course," he said, gesturing with a slight tilt of his head to the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

Kaidren moved forward, his steps unhurried, and settled into the chair. The leather was firm but comfortable, carrying the faint scent of oil and age.

"So," Logan began, his tone steady, "you’re requesting a loan of fifteen million AUR. Is that correct?"

"Correct."

Logan nodded once. "Then let’s not waste each other’s time. If you’re serious about that amount, I’ll need to see the collateral you’re offering."

Kaidren didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the black sling bag slung over his shoulder. The sound of the zipper opening was quiet but seemed to slice through the room’s stillness. He withdrew two small glass jars, one filled with a viscous green liquid, the other with a muted yellow, and set them gently on the desk.

"This," he said simply, "is my collateral."

Logan leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, his gaze flicking between the jars and Kaidren’s face. Seconds passed. The man didn’t speak. His eyes narrowed fractionally as if trying to place the liquids, his mind working through possibilities.

After a long moment, he spoke, his voice low but edged.

"You’re joking, right?"

"No."

Logan leaned back again, his hands steepling before him.

"You’re telling me," he said slowly, "that you want me to accept... natural liquid — the only known liquids with enhancing properties — as collateral for fifteen million aur?"

"Yes."

A small exhale left Logan, part disbelief, part irritation.

"The most expensive natural liquid ever sold," he continued, "was barely over 1.2 million aur. A bottle of blood from a Catastrophic-ranked beast with a Menace Index close to twelve. And even that was practically useless — scrolls or glyphs made from it collapsed or outright exploded from the sheer energy it contained." He leaned forward, his voice hardening. "So tell me, why should I think this isn’t just... a scam?"

Kaidren didn’t flinch at the accusation. Internally, he knew exactly why Logan saw it that way. In this time, natural liquids were only ever valued for their potential in scroll or glyph crafting — a tradition deeply ingrained it might as well have been law. Potion-making, the actual optimal use for such materials, wasn’t even a concept yet. It was knowledge from a future no one had reached.

"This," Kaidren said evenly, his eyes steady, "is not your usual liquid."

Logan stared at him for a long moment. Then, with a scoff and a shake of his head, he said,

"Bullshit."

The word landed heavy in the room, but Kaidren didn’t react — no offense taken, no argument raised.