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CHAPTER 4 The Dragon Entrepreneur - Part 2
🕑 Added 2025-04-29 11:22:13 +0000 UTC"What do you think she's up to?"
In a lavishly decorated study where gilded cherubs peered from every corner and velvet curtains hung heavy with dust, Baron Bain shifted his considerable bulk. His chest sagged to his belly, his belly spilled over his thighs, and those thighs—marbled with fat like expensive beef—filled the ornate chair to its breaking point. He dabbed at his glistening forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief already damp with sweat, the fabric darkened in patches.
"She wishes to purchase your establishment on Cornflower Street, my lord," the butler answered with practiced deference, his spine as straight as the silver tray he carried.
"No, I mean—" Baron Bain's jowls quivered with impatience, "—why does she want to buy it?"
"To open a toy store, my lord."
"Hssst—" The baron stroked his waxed mustache, the hairs stiff enough to prick his fingertips. His eyes narrowed to calculating slits. "Is she feuding with the Acklett family?"
"I've heard no such whispers in the usual circles, my lord."
"How much is she offering?" The baron leaned forward, chair creaking ominously beneath him.
"She did not specify an amount, my lord, but she instructed the manager to deliver this." The butler extended the silver tray, upon which sat a filthy cloth pouch, its grimy fabric an affront to the polished silver beneath it.
Baron Bain regarded the soiled bundle with naked revulsion, as if presented with a dead rat. He fluttered his fingers dismissively, silently commanding the butler to deal with the offensive object.
As the servant carefully untied the drawstring, Baron Bain covered his nose with a perfumed silk kerchief, the scent of jasmine and bergamot forming a fragrant barrier between his noble nostrils and whatever peasant odors might escape. He leaned forward despite himself, muttering, "Why would anyone open a toy shop directly across from the finest establishment in the city?"
...
"To steal their customers, obviously."
In a sun-dappled corner of the restaurant, Zorco—who in his human guise went by Zuo Teng—was speaking privately with Aisha through their magical contract, his voice resonating directly in her mind. Golden afternoon light streamed through leaded glass windows, casting honeycomb patterns across the white tablecloth.
Aisha frowned, tracing the rim of her water glass with one finger. Why open a shop directly opposite your biggest competitor? It seemed needlessly provocative, like challenging a duellist to combat on their own front lawn.
"Steal customers?" she echoed skeptically.
"Exactly." Zuo Teng's mental voice carried a hint of amusement. "This location is where toy buyers already congregate. We'll capture a portion of that traffic without wasting resources on city-wide advertising campaigns. And our products are sufficiently unique to stand apart."
What Aisha didn't realize was that real commercial competition rarely matched the dramatic rivalries portrayed in novels. On Earth, businesses of the same category routinely clustered together, facing off directly across streets or even sharing adjacent storefronts.
You'd invariably find KFC near McDonald's. Discover one bubble tea shop, and you'd likely stumbled upon five more within spitting distance. Coffee chains deliberately positioned themselves within sight of competitors, creating commercial districts devoted to single products.
Of course, such strategy only succeeded when product quality was comparable. Otherwise, someone would inevitably walk away with empty shelves, empty coffers, and shattered pride.
Aisha half-understood the logic, though much of Zuo Teng's mercantile strategy remained beyond her comprehension—like his baffling instruction to present the manager with a rusty, broken sword as payment for the property.
How desperate or foolish would Baron Bain need to be to accept such an offer? she wondered, stabbing her spoon into a trifle with unnecessary force.
Eventually, she abandoned the effort to understand draconic business practices. Dessert demanded her full attention—particularly the soufflé, which dissolved on her tongue like sweetened clouds.
Unfortunately, each blissful bite came accompanied by the specter of imagined weight gain. Her enjoyment soured with each mouthful; the more she ate, the more irritated she became with herself, and the more irritated she grew, the more aggressively she ate—a vicious cycle of culinary self-sabotage.
Zuo Teng observed with bewilderment as she attacked her dessert like a sworn enemy, driving her spoon into the delicate glass cup, extracting a substantial chunk of cake, and cramming it into her mouth with vengeful determination.
What's wrong with this kid? he wondered. Why such animosity toward innocent confectionery?
Beside them, the half-elf guide—Toto by name—continued her enthusiastic narration of Twin Towers City's storied past, her melodious voice rising and falling with practiced cadence.
"One of the towers in the eastern quarter belonged to the legendary archmage Solon Ambrosius," she expounded, gesturing dramatically with long, elegant fingers. "He courageously defended countless civilians from the merciless assault of the infamous red dragon Zuo Teng, whose reign of terror nearly destroyed the entire eastern district..."
The dragon in question scratched his nose awkwardly, face flushing to match his true scales. Well, at least now he knew the young mage's full name. Funny how history remembered things.
The restaurant's oak door suddenly flew open with such force that the brass hinges shrieked in protest. A richly attired, corpulent man waddled through the entrance, his silk-clad hips swaying like pendulums with each laborious step. His face shone with exertion, cheeks flushed crimson beneath a powdered complexion.
"WHERE," he bellowed, voice cracking like adolescent thunder, "IS THE ESTEEMED LADY STONE?!"
Baron Bain had arrived in person, his sudden appearance sending ripples of shocked whispers through the dining room.
The manager rushed forward, napkin still clutched in one hand, but the baron dismissed him with an imperious wave and barreled directly toward Aisha's table, scattering waitstaff like frightened pigeons.
"Lovely lady!" he exclaimed, eyes glistening with what appeared to be genuine emotion. "You must be Aisha Stone! I've heard countless tales of your family, but never had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."
He executed an elaborate bow, the movement causing his multiple chins to cascade like melting wax. Several ornate rings glinted on his pudgy fingers as he flourished his hand with theatrical grace.
Aisha, caught mid-bite with her spoon still lodged firmly in her mouth, froze in momentary panic. Her etiquette lessons had never covered proper protocol when addressed by perspiring nobility while one's cheeks bulged with cream puff.
Baron Bain carried on undeterred, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort. "I cannot adequately express my gratitude for retrieving my family's ancestral sword." His voice quavered with emotion. "As a token of my appreciation, I've personally brought the deed to the property you requested."
While he turned to his butler—a rail-thin man whose expression suggested permanent indigestion—Aisha hastily removed her spoon and dabbed her lips with a napkin, shifting her posture to something approximating aristocratic poise.
Her mind reeled with confusion. Through their mental connection, she frantically questioned Zuo Teng—had he somehow orchestrated this entire scenario? Had he stolen the baron's heirloom long ago, anticipating this very moment?
"Not really," Zuo Teng replied with casual indifference. "About eighty percent of the noble heirlooms in this city are already in my personal collection. I just selected this particular shop because it offered optimal positioning."
Baron Bain produced the two halves of the broken sword with ceremonial gravity, cradling them as tenderly as newborn twins. To Aisha's astonishment, genuine tears welled in the nobleman's eyes as he reverently kissed the family crest emblazoned on the tarnished hilt. His hands trembled visibly, causing the medallions on his brocade vest to tinkle softly.
"You simply cannot comprehend what this means," he declared, voice thick with emotion. "This sword embodies our family's sacred honor. My great-grandfather wielded it to valiantly resist the monstrous red dragon Zuo Teng during the devastating invasion. Legend tells that he even managed to slice off a fragment of the beast's scale! The sword was tragically lost during that very confrontation..."
Hearing this unexpected historical revision, Aisha immediately resumed their private communication.
"Is that actually true?" she asked silently.
"Sort of," Zuo Teng admitted. "I was busy transferring loot into a mimic chest when someone attempted to ambush me. They hurled the sword in my direction and fled. It struck my foot and snapped in two. Looked valuable despite the damage, so I kept it."
"And the part about removing a dragon scale?"
"Well, the impact left my foot itchy afterward, so I scratched it vigorously. Probably dislodged some dead skin in the process..."
Baron Bain grew increasingly animated, his voice rising to oratorical heights. Boasting about ancestors—legitimate or fabricated—constituted an essential skill in noble society. Every aristocrat in the capital maintained a mental catalog of such narratives, ready to deploy at the slightest provocation.
"After successfully driving the terrible dragon from our lands," he continued with theatrical flair, "my ancestor preserved the scale as another precious heirloom. Each successive head of the Bain family has worn it proudly to this day. All praise to our noble forebears!" His chest swelled with pride. "And now, miraculously, our two sacred treasures are reunited at last."
With reverent slowness, he removed a necklace from beneath his silken shirt. Suspended from a heavy gold chain hung a dark red scale—its rich crimson hue precisely matching Zuo Teng's true coloration. He pressed it to his lips with fervent devotion.
A terrible suspicion dawned in Aisha's mind. "So that object he's kissing so passionately..." she began hesitantly.
"Yep," confirmed Zuo Teng with unmistakable amusement. "Almost certainly a flake of my shed foot skin."
It marked the first occasion in Aisha's life when she felt profound revulsion toward the aristocratic custom of kissing family relics. The more solemnly Baron Bain performed his ancestral veneration, the more violently her stomach rebelled. Her gorge rose treacherously, and she required several deep breaths to subdue the mounting nausea.
"Is it... ethically acceptable," she ventured cautiously, "to purchase their building using their own stolen property as currency?"
"Absolutely no problem," Zuo Teng assured her. "If anything, he should be expressing profound gratitude for our generosity."
"Once again, I thank you from the depths of my heart!" Baron Bain executed another florid bow before departing with his treasured sword fragments, his gait noticeably lighter despite his substantial girth.
The butler remained behind to coordinate the evacuation of the premises. The staff worked with impressive efficiency, and by nightfall, the establishment stood largely vacant.
Certain furnishings remained in place, allowing Zuo Teng's group to spend the night in their newly acquired property. They designated the ground and first floors as retail space for their inaugural product line: yo-yos of unparalleled craftsmanship and mystical enhancement.
As twilight painted the sky in watercolor hues of indigo and amber, the half-elf Toto concluded her guiding duties and set off toward home through streets that gradually darkened and narrowed.
Her role as a tour guide, however, represented merely one facet of her complex existence.
Born into the precarious position of being neither fully elven nor entirely human, Toto had been compelled to master multiple professions to survive in a world that offered her no predetermined place. Rejected by elven society for her human blood, yet viewed with suspicion by humans for her pointed ears and ethereal grace, she occupied society's margins through necessity rather than choice.
She had developed into an exceptional thief—her nimble fingers and lightning-quick sleight of hand earning grudging admiration even among the city's criminal elite.
The bustling port district constituted her preferred hunting ground, with wealthy tourists representing ideal targets—their unfamiliarity with local customs making them especially vulnerable to her practiced techniques.
What was that aristocratic girl's name again? Aisha, perhaps?
Clearly some sheltered noble offspring fresh from finishing school, with all the street awareness of a newborn lamb. Everything about her practically screamed "separate me from my valuables."
The pouch Toto had deftly liberated lacked significant weight, but the fabric quality suggested valuable contents. Expensive silk thread had been worked into the weave, visible even in fading light.
She resisted the temptation to examine her prize immediately. She preferred to accumulate several days' acquisitions before reviewing them all at once—a small ritual that transformed mundane theft into a celebratory occasion.
The sky deepened to charcoal as she reached her dilapidated dwelling in the city's most notorious slum—a chaotic district where "mixed company" took on literal meaning, housing everyone from amphibious fishfolk to scaled draconians, all united by poverty and society's rejection.
Before entering her modest home, she verified the presence of a thin cloth wedged into the door crack—her primitive security system.
Still in place. No unwelcome visitors.
She stepped inside and struck a match to light a cheap oil lamp, its flame casting dancing shadows across water-stained walls.
"Let's see what treasure we've acquired today..."
"It's worthless."
"No way," she gasped, voice constricting in her throat. She froze mid-motion, primitive survival instincts screaming danger. Her hand moved with practiced subtlety toward the cupboard where she kept her emergency dagger. "Who's there?!"
"Looking for this?" A figure materialized from the dense shadows—a tall drow elf with skin the color of moonlight on ash and hair like spun silver. A hand crossbow glinted menacingly in his grip, and his lips curved into a predatory smile that never reached his eyes.
A drow?!
The deadliest variety of elvenkind—notorious for their toxins, their cruelty, and their absolute refusal to leave witnesses.
How had she managed to offend one of them? Toto had no time to ponder this critical question—she launched herself backward in a desperate attempt to escape, but her legs betrayed her, collapsing uselessly beneath her weight.
Poisoned?! But when? How?
The drow approached with casual indifference, his footsteps soundless on the rough wooden floor. He retrieved the purloined pouch from where it had fallen, extracted its contents, and held the item aloft—a vibrant red yo-yo that caught the lamplight like a drop of fresh blood.
"This one's called Firepower Warrior," he announced conversationally, as if discussing the weather with a friend.
What in all the hells is that supposed to mean?
Toto's mind raced frantically, unable to connect the bizarre toy with her current life-threatening predicament.
The drow produced a carefully folded sheet of parchment, which he unfurled to reveal detailed illustrations of hand positions and movement patterns for manipulating the yo-yo.
It really was just a child's plaything.
Understanding dawned with horrifying clarity—he worked for that noble girl, Aisha!
"I'm informed you possess exceptional manual dexterity," the drow continued, examining her with clinical detachment. "Nimble fingers, according to my sources. You have until morning to master the techniques illustrated on this sheet with the yo-yo." His obsidian eyes glittered in the dim light. "Accomplish this task, and you may live to witness tomorrow's sunset."
Toto writhed helplessly on the rough floorboards, struggling to form words through lips numbed by whatever toxin coursed through her system.
The drow displayed no concern regarding potential escape—he administered the antidote with casual precision, like a chef adding seasoning to a familiar recipe.
Toto gasped as sensation flooded back into her extremities, her body convulsing with a violent coughing fit. Finally, she managed to force words through her raw throat:
"...It's supposed to rain tomorrow."
