Chapter 16: Chapter 16: Director Durham

Chapter 16: Director Durham

Henry Durham was trying to stay calm, but inwardly he was close to a panic attack as he scratched his quill across parchment, drafting the report for the main branch. Across the desk, Lysaria Greenwood—if that was even her real name—watched every movement of his hand with those unsettling calm green eyes.

He had known the moment Jim entered his office that this would not be an easy matter. A flagged old account was trouble enough. A flagged old account where the guildmaster was standing in the lobby, demanding access? That was the kind of problem a director prayed never to see.

And when she first walked into his office, he had understood immediately just how difficult this would be.

The elf’s manner was confrontational at best, predatory at worst. Her expression, her gestures, even the way she carried herself, all of it radiated the kind of calm confidence only high-level individuals possessed. And she wasn’t just any high-level client. She was a guildmaster.

Henry knew better than most what that meant. Every level granted by the gods carried with it what scholars called the lead in life: longer lifespan, sharper instincts, greater endurance, even luck itself tilted more favorably. Training could cover small gaps—yes, a strong man might out-wrestle a boy fifteen levels his senior—but at a certain point, raw levels created a gulf no mortal effort could bridge. A level 200 child could crush a level 10 man’s skull, if one were mad enough to test it.

That was why high-levels had to be handled with utmost care. Not because they could do whatever they pleased, but because they often believed they could.

Henry had dealt with his share of difficult clients. His own class, [Bank Director (Control/Economy)], had reached level 120, high enough to command respect in Tiara. But his instincts screamed at him that this meant nothing in front of the elf seated across from him.

And the archives only deepened his dread.

Doomsday was not merely listed as a guild tied to the fallen Empire of Xares. It was categorized as an Ascended Guild. At the time of its last classification, not a single member had been below level 500. Utterly insane. Today, only a handful of individuals across the whole continent could claim such numbers. And if the record was right, the woman across from him wasn’t just strong. She was Ascended.

And that wasn’t even the highest category. There were others, ancient classifications most people dismissed as meaningless: Transcendent (Lv. 600–699), Mythic (Lv. 700–799), Eternal (Lv. 800–899), Celestial (Lv. 900–999), and at the very peak, Absolute. Henry had never understood why those records still existed. The last being to surpass level 700 had died more than five hundred years ago. To imagine a whole guild at such numbers was absurd. Impossible. And yet, there it was in the system, staring back at him.

So, he had tried to probe carefully, dropping a hint, that the guildmaster of record had last accessed the account five centuries ago, implying that leadership must have changed. Maybe the assessment was outdated. Maybe the elf before him wasn’t Ascended after all. But she hadn’t denied it. And Henry had always been good at reading between the lines.

Then came the outburst.

He hadn’t expected it. Elves were famed for their calm, their patience. Instead, she had crossed the desk, seized him by the collar, and lifted him into the air like a rag doll. His throat still burned from the pressure, and there had been no strain, no effort in her movements—only raw, crushing strength. And in that instant, Henry knew the truth he had not wanted to know.

She wasn’t bluffing. She was high-level. Really high-level.

Even if he hadn’t lived through those ancient wars—hell, he was only fifty-four years old—even if the seizures of accounts had been decided centuries before his birth, none of that mattered. Here and now, he was the representative of the Asara Bank. And if this woman chose to crush his skull in her anger, his level 120 would mean less than nothing.

He forced his hand to stop trembling and set the quill back into its inkwell. His breath came shallow, but he straightened his back and adjusted his vest, pulling professionalism over himself like a shield. He had dealt with dangerous clients before. Angry nobles. Adventurers drunk on their own power. But no one was above the law, and certainly not above the Bank.

Even when the Bank itself had caused the problem, the Bank would also protect its own. Everyone knew that. That was why he hadn’t screamed for the guards when she grabbed him. Instead, he had calmly hinted that he would if she didn’t stop. There were allowances to be made in moments of extreme emotional stress—he understood that well enough. Handling money meant facing such moments more often than most professions. But Asara was not just ledgers and vaults. The Bank’s enforcers were the most feared deterrent on the continent. Anyone who dared strike a Bank official rarely lived to repeat the mistake.

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That fear was the shield he carried into situations like this.

And when he had mentioned the guards, even the elf had let him go. That told him she knew the rules, too. She knew the limits. That alone had steadied him enough to keep his voice level and his smile polite.

But the fear of her hadn’t truly vanished.

Durham swallowed, then lifted his gaze to the elf across from him. She was watching him still, calm as still water, but her eyes glinted with something that made the back of his neck prickle.

He smiled, the same polished, professional smile he always put on whenever things started to get dangerous.

“All right, Lady Greenwood. Everything is in order. I have written the report and will send it to the main branch together with your official complaint. Once I receive their reply, I will inform you how to proceed further.” Henry laid his quill down and signed the report with a practiced flourish.

He looked up, choosing his words carefully. “As for now… you wanted access to your account because your guild requires funds, I assume? In that case, I could accommodate you. To show goodwill, perhaps a credit for your current projects?” His tone was light, probing, eager to pry just a little more from this unsettling woman across from him.

Henry Durham never minded bowing before high-level clients. It was part of his work. But in his heart, he was a petty man. He hadn’t forgotten the humiliation of being dragged across the desk and strangled like a child. If the Bank already held all her wealth, he would report accordingly, and quietly ensure she was rid of.

The elf, however, tilted her head with faint surprise. “No. In fact, I am here to sell something to Master Vexley. I am a merchant for high-level goods. I only wished to access my account to deposit… something.”

Henry bit his tongue. Why would she choose an account dormant for five centuries to deposit ‘something’? Suspicious. But then again, Gideon Vexley wasn’t a man who dabbled in trifles. If she was trading with him, it was no small matter.

“I understand, Lady Greenwood,” Henry said smoothly. “For the time being, I could open a new personal account for your convenience. Unfortunately, not for your guild—given… what we spoke about earlier.”

Her green eyes locked on his, unblinking. His throat tightened. Sweat prickled at his temples. She could kill me. She could kill me in an instant.

He forced himself not to look away.

“All right,” she said finally, her voice calm. “I’ll open a personal account.”

Henry nodded quickly, relieved, and pulled new papers from his drawer along with a polished identification stone. He explained the process, reciting the standard speech: she would place her hand on the stone, her bio-data—“so-called DNA,” as the scholars insisted—would be recorded into the banking network, allowing her to access her account at any branch across Pangrea. He always explained it as a kind of magical fingerprint, since even he didn’t fully understand the mechanics.

The elf hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded. She placed her hand on the stone.

Henry held his breath.

A shimmering screen of runes appeared.

Name: Lysaria Greenwood

Race: Elven

Age: Denied

Level: Denied

Class: Denied

System Note: No entries found in registry. Creating new entry.

He swallowed hard. He had expected her level to be hidden, that was common enough among the very strong. But her age? Her class? Even the registry had no data? How was that even possible?

Still, the stone had recorded her essence. One could fake a single thing—maybe a name, maybe a race—but not race, name, and banking system entries all at the same time. If one field didn’t match, the others would catch it. The fact that everything aligned while leaving so many blanks was… deeply unsettling.

Henry forced his smile to stay in place. “Very well. To open an account, you must deposit enough to cover the yearly fee. That would be—” He reached for his table of rates.

But the elf waved her hand. A pale silvery-blue coin appeared out of thin air and landed on the desk with a heavy clink. A mithril crown.

“I will take a basic account with a vault here in Tiara. My deposit is one initial mithril… and everything I gain from my trade today with Master Vexley.”

Henry’s eyes bulged. One mithril. Just like that. Is this woman insane?

But he kept his face smooth, only nodding briskly. “Ah… I see you are already familiar with our account types. Very well, a basic account with vault access here in Tiara will be registered immediately.”

Of course, she was familiar. She had just argued the finer points of guild inheritance and war spoils with him. But the more he thought about it, the more it unsettled him. How could she, of all people, not already be registered in the system?

Still, he would not question it. At least not here.

He finished the paperwork with shaking hands, sealed the files, and stood. “The account is ready. Once again, my apologies for the earlier… inconvenience. And I thank you for your patience.”

Lady Greenwood rose in one smooth motion, her expression unreadable. She had an appointment with Gideon Vexley, and Henry was glad to see her gone.

He escorted her out with a bow, then sank back into his chair once the door closed. The mithril crown sat gleaming on his desk. For a long moment, he simply stared at it, trying to calm his breathing.

Only then did he allow himself a single thought.

I need some air.

He rose again, picked up the crown, and carried it himself down the hall, ignoring the curious glances from the guards. At the vault chamber, he pressed his seal into the tablet and waited for the heavy doors to grind open. Inside, rows of accounts glittered with locked treasures, each tied to its own name.

He set the mithril crown onto the pedestal and spoke, calm but firm. “Assign this one to a new account. The name of the account is: Lysaria Greenwood. Triple-seal it. No transfers without my signature.” The treasurer bowed, already scribbling notes.

He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “One more thing,” he said, voice steady. “Have her movements tracked—quietly. I want a full report on my desk by morning.”

The treasurer hesitated only a breath, then nodded.

“And the trade with Master Vexley,” Durham added as they moved back down the corridor. His tone was low, but the edge in it was sharp. “The accountant who testifies should write a complete report. Every detail of what happens in that chamber between Master Vexley and Lady Greenwood—no omissions—goes to me first.”

When he finally went down the hall, only silence followed him. The crown was sealed away, but the weight in his chest lingered. He straightened his cuffs, forced the polished smile back onto his face, and muttered under his breath:

“Now… some air.”