Chapter 45: Political Leverage

Once the administrator mentioned Allen's name, Ambrose realized what had happened.

The Lyon Empire was far more heavy-handed than he'd expected. This was something that could've been settled with a little gold—but they just had to take the most extreme approach.

That editor-in-chief, James Watson, clearly didn't give a damn about his son's life.

The orc barkeep froze at the question. He hadn't even spoken yet when his eyes flicked, almost involuntarily, toward Ambrose.

The young administrator caught the glance immediately. He turned, his sharp gaze fixed on Ambrose. "So you're involved too," he said coldly. "Come. You drink as well."

He placed two vials of potion on the counter.

This administrator wasn't making a request, but issuing a command. There was no room for negotiation.

In Alkhemia, an administrator's word was law. To defy it was to defy the very order of the city.

Gareth gave a dry laugh. He turned to Ambrose, "Hey, need me to step in?"

The administrator sneered. "Resisting arrest, are you? Good. Saves me the trouble. I'll just lock you both up and get back to my experiments."

Without giving Ambrose a chance to explain, he flicked a hand.

The two magical automata behind him lumbered forward, gears whirring and steam hissing as they reached for Gareth and Ambrose.

Their heavy metal steps made the floorboards tremble. A single grasp from those reinforced hands could crush stone into dust.

The bar's patrons scattered. No one wanted to get caught in a fight with these golems.

The administrator looked on with smug satisfaction. Here in Alkhemia, alchemists were at the top of the hierarchy. Their word was law.

Ordinary folk, those who didn't even know the basics of alchemy, were parasites at best. The Lyon Empire persecuted heretics; Alkhemia simply despised the unlearned.

To the administrator, Gareth was just a shabby adventurer begging to be taught a lesson.

But reality had other plans in mind.

The automaton's steel hand clamped down on Gareth's shoulder... and didn't move him an inch. Instead, the golem's core whined as it overloaded, its gears screeching from an impossible resistance.

Gareth snorted. "That's it? Feels more like a shoulder massage."

The administrator's eyes widened. He hadn't seen Gareth use any magic, yet his golems, strong enough to bend steel, couldn't even make him budge.

Ambrose sighed. He hadn't wanted to escalate matters, but the administrator attacking his guest left no room for compromise. You couldn't keep your standing in the Elegiac Society by backing down from this kind of insult.

Two arcs of lightning shot from Ambrose's fingertips into the golems. Both automata convulsed violently, smoke pouring from their joints before they collapsed into heaps of charred metal.

The young administrator staggered back, horrified.

These constructs were the pride of Alkhemia, and were resistant even to most magic. How had they been fried so easily?

"You dare resist?! You're defying Alkhemia's laws!" he shrieked. "Cease this at once and I might grant you leniency! Otherwise, you'll be punished to the fullest extent of the law! Do you mean to make yourselves enemies of the entire city?!"

He was shouting more for courage than authority now. Alkhemia's standing might at least make these two men wary.

Ambrose calmly reached into his cloak and produced a badge, setting it on the counter before him.

The administrator froze. His pupils shrank. "T–That's..." He dropped to his knees so fast it was almost as if he had collapsed. "My deepest apologies! I was rash. Please, sir, forgive my offense!"

Gareth blinked. "Well, damn. Didn't know you were some kind of big shot around here."

Ambrose shook his head. "Not really. It's just the badge they give to distinguished scholars. I merely contributed a few potion formulas to Alkhemia. It's an honorary title at best."

Gareth frowned. "Then why's he pissing himself?"

"In Alkhemia," Ambrose explained, "knowledge outweighs race, faith, and even law. Only the Alchemists' Council can judge a Distinguished Scholar. With a single letter, I could have him barred from every laboratory in the city. His career would be finished. Unfortunately, the badge itself doesn't pay bills."

Gareth grunted. "So their world's just as twisted as the Lyon zealots'. Good to know."

Ambrose nodded. "Prejudice is still prejudice."

The bar owner, Una Hellfire, quickly rushed over, her eyes full of worry. "Gareth, are you hurt?" she asked, grabbing his arm to inspect it.

Ambrose wasn't sure if she was truly concerned or just taking advantage of the moment.

He ignored the soap opera unfolding beside him and instead picked up the lie-detecting potion, which he passed to the administrator. "Drink up. I have questions for you."

The man hesitated.

Ambrose's tone was calm but chilling. "You do know that, if I kill you, two published papers would clear my name."

That was an exaggeration. He'd need

Legendary Spellcraft

-level research to offset that crime, but the administrator didn't know that.

He believed that Ambrose was right: a Distinguished Scholar's manuscript was worth far more than an administrator's life.

He trembled, then drank. The bitter potion twisted his face in pain.

Once Ambrose confirmed the magic had taken hold, he asked, "What order did the Lyon Empire send? Why make the administrators handle a missing paladin?"

"I don't know much," the man stammered. "But this Allen Watson—he's the son of the Lyon Empire's High Inquisitor. The Empire issued an official diplomatic notice asking us to help locate him. They've already dispatched an envoy who should be arriving in Alkhemia soon. The Lyon Empire wants Allen Watson found, dead or alive."

"An envoy? Is the High Inquisitor himself coming?"

"No, sir. But the envoy carries great authority and is apparently from the Knights Penitent, a knight order second only to the Emperor's personal guard. The Council considers it a serious matter, so they've sent administrators all over the city. I'm just one of many."

"The Knights Penitent, huh?" Ambrose glanced at Gareth. "Ever heard of them?"

Gareth, who was enjoying a massage from Una, shook his head and replied, "Can't say I have. Back in my day—ahem—I only knew of the Emperor's Guard."

"Right." Ambrose turned back to the administrator. "Tell your Council this: stop your investigation. Allen Watson is in my custody. If they want to talk, they can come to me."

He had no intention of hiding it. He'd already scammed Allen out of five thousand gold, and the paladin had taken part in a recent skirmish as a mercenary. None of this would stay a secret for long. It would be better to put the cards on the table and negotiate directly with Alkhemia.

Even if James Watson refused to pay, his son might still serve as a valuable bargaining chip. It would allow him to recoup a little of his losses, at least.

The High Inquisitor's son might mean nothing to Ambrose personally, but to Alkhemia, he would represent political leverage.