Beside Savant's Merchant Guild stood a towering Baroque-style building.
Its creamy limestone walls were carved with intricate acanthus leaves and angelic reliefs. The double oak doors were inlaid with flawless panes of clear glass, and the handles were custom-made crystal swans. Only regular patrons knew that by gently stroking the swan's neck, a silent attendant would slide the doors open without a sound.
This was the wealthiest place in Savant—the gilded playground where the city's upper nobility most loved to squander their time.
Here one could find luxurious gowns from the imperial capital of Ymir, enchanted jewelry from the Sother Empire, even the finest furs from the Knight Empire.
It was also a pillar industry under the Alchemical Machinery Factory Group: the Magina Crystal Pavilion.
Sharing its name with the Academy of Mechanics, its backing was self-evident.
Yet today, the once-bustling mall was nearly empty.
At the very top floor, inside a spacious office, nine people sat in silence around a gilded mahogany long table.
Some wore the black suits favored by Savant's capitalists; others donned archaic ceremonial dress, seemingly eager to emphasize the antiquity of their family lines.
But the eight men and women seated along both sides of the table—figures capable of steering Savant's entire commercial world—now sat with their heads lowered, silent as cicadas in winter.
Because at the head of the table sat a silver-haired elder wearing a tall black conical hat, idly toying with a small golden lantern.
Within that lantern burned not an ordinary flame, but a faint, ghostly blue glow.
The light seemed frail, as if it might dissipate at any moment.
Yet the flame remained utterly steady. Though the elder turned the lantern in his hands, it did not flicker in the slightest.
And if one looked closely, one could see a twisted, grotesque face writhing within the flame, silently screaming.
The elder was Andrew Savant, Dean of the Academy of Mechanics and the largest shareholder of the Alchemical Machinery Factory Group.
After playing with the lantern for a moment, he casually set it on the table before him.
The distorted face inside the flame happened to turn toward the eight seated below.
But none of them dared so much as glance at it.
Had they dared look carefully, they would have recognized that the screaming face bore a striking resemblance to the late Chairman Sherlock.
Yet even without looking at Sherlock's soul being scorched within the lantern, his howls still echoed in their minds.
It was not sound carried by air—but resonance upon the soul itself.
Even if they covered their ears, they would still hear it.
But none of them dared raise their hands.
They had no desire to become the second Sherlock.
Only now did they truly understand the terror of Dean Andrew.
As a Sixth-Tier powerhouse, even if he openly used an alchemical artifact confiscated from a necromancer, no one would trouble him over such trivialities.
On the contrary, the royal court and the Church would likely deem it entirely reasonable.
Those who made mistakes deserved punishment. And in this turmoil, the Academy of Mechanics had suffered the greatest losses of all.
So even if Dean Andrew extracted Sherlock's soul and burned it within the Soul-Scorching Lantern for centuries, no one would object.
But the other eight present were terrified out of their wits.
In their eyes, they might very well be next.
A clean death would be merciful. What they truly feared was ending up like Chairman Sherlock.
Yet contrary to their expectations, Dean Andrew did not continue tormenting them.
Instead, his gaze shifted to the very end of the long table, where a middle-aged man sat with his head lowered, staring blankly at the golden inlays upon the table.
When Andrew's eyes fell upon him, the man shuddered violently, yet still did not dare lift his head.
"Baron Stran Yulmis."
Andrew narrowed his eyes at him. Only after the man trembled and forced himself to look up did Andrew speak slowly:
"That fool Sherlock mortgaged thirty percent of the Group's shares to your Merchant Guild, didn't he?"
At the question, Chairman Stran replied in a quavering voice,
"Y-Yes, my lord."
Before coming here, he had already prepared for the worst.
Chairman Sherlock had mortgaged all the shares he held—thirty percent of the Alchemical Machinery Factory Group—and borrowed twenty-four million gold coins from the Merchant Guild.
But after the bubble burst, every bit of capital Sherlock invested vanished like water poured onto sand.
He could not repay the loan.
Thus, the pledged shares naturally became assets of the Merchant Guild.
The problem was that the largest shareholder of the Alchemical Machinery Factory Group was the Academy of Mechanics—
And the Academy of Mechanics had Dean Andrew.
So when Andrew cast Sherlock's soul into the Soul-Scorching Lantern earlier, it had been a display of power to the others—but to him, it was a naked threat.
He had already resolved to surrender the shares.
Even if doing so might result in disciplinary action from the Merchant Guild's headquarters.
But for there to be discipline, he first had to survive.
He swallowed and began with difficulty,
"Lord Andrew, our Merchant Guild—"
Before he could finish, Andrew cut him off.
"Since that thirty percent now belongs to your Merchant Guild, then you are the Group's second-largest shareholder."
He leaned back slightly, his tone calm and measured.
"As shareholders, shouldn't you be safeguarding the interests of our Group?"