This Isn’t an E*otic Game?

“Goddamn it!!”

The mayor's office stood empty, save for one furious man.

Mayor Biyas slammed his ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) fist against his desk, cursing under his breath.

He clenched a fine cigar between his teeth and lit it.

As the nicotine spread through his system, the fiery rage inside him cooled—just a little.

"Why the hell did he suddenly show up in Scrap Yard and start wrecking everything?!"

The Saint Amayel.

Why?

For what reason did he suddenly appear out of nowhere? It made no sense.

There wasn’t a single connection between him and Scrap Yard, yet out of the blue, he stirred up a strike, interfering with everything at every turn.

With the Pantheon and the Black Fortress inquisitors spread throughout the city, he couldn’t just round up the police and sweep the problem away as he would have in the past.

He needed to beat the striking workers into submission or threaten them back into the factories as soon as possible. But that was no longer an option, leaving him feeling like his insides were shriveling from the stress.

Scrap Yard was home to many businesses, but its core industry was steel and magic metal production.

And the foundries that produced that steel could not stop running. Not even for a single day.

But now, with workers on strike and Mammon’s followers crawling out of the woodwork, those foundries—those vital foundries—had been shut down for days.

"If the furnaces cool, it's a catastrophe."

Once a furnace went cold, it was useless.

It would have to be rebuilt from scratch, and the cost would be unimaginable.

He was barely managing to keep the furnaces running with a skeleton crew of experienced workers, but even they needed rest at some point.

With labor already in short supply, it was unbearable watching what little workforce he had take on such an overwhelming burden.

To set things back to normal, there was only one solution.

The Pantheon, the Saint, and the Black Fortress personnel— they needed to leave as soon as possible.

Unable to hold back his anxiety any longer, Mayor Biyas picked up a magical communication artifact.

"The Duke of Lima. And the High Bishop of the Sun Church, Lupheus... There they are."

It was time to cash in on every connection he had in the capital.

"Hurry. Hurry up and pick up. Please. Just... hurry!—"

Just as he impatiently inhaled a lungful of cigar smoke, the call connected.

The nervous edge in his voice vanished instantly, replaced by an easy, composed tone.

"Haha! Duke Lima! How have you been? You remember me, don't you? Biyas, from Scrap Yard."

"Ah, Biyas! Of course, I remember! I received that gift you sent. That mithril golf club swings beautifully, you know?"

"Oh, please! If it pleases Your Grace, I'd be happy to send an even finer gift! Hahaha!!"

After exchanging some trivial pleasantries, the conversation finally shifted to the real issue.

"...So, as it stands, all the factories have come to a halt."

"That sounds troublesome!"

"The Saint has already captured every last one of Mammon’s followers in the city. We're innocent. We cannot afford to let the Empire’s largest metal production facility remain shut down any longer. Duke Lima, I understand that you have firm control over the Senate and the Supreme Court. Please, lend us your influence. If not for me, then for all the times we've worked together."

Duke Lima was someone Biyas had known for a long time.

He had pushed through numerous laws that favored Scrap Yard’s factory owners.

A powerful ally in the capital.

Not to mention, as a major shareholder in several of Scrap Yard’s factories, if the financial losses continued, his dividends would disappear, too.

Biyas was certain the duke would take action.

"I'm sorry, Biyas. I can't help you this time."

But Duke Lima, still sounding perfectly calm, flatly refused.

Biyas's face stiffened, his smile frozen in place.

"...Excuse me?"

"The imperial princesses returned to the capital yesterday via airship teleportation. Not long after, His Majesty ordered all the nobles of the Senate to gather immediately."

"What for...?"

"Those Mammon worshippers from your city—"

There was a pause.

"They touched something they shouldn't have. From what I hear, they weren’t just fueling the conflict between the labor theorists and the capitalists—they were planning to collapse the imperial government itself. Their goal was to create two massive factions—one for the capitalists, one for the labor theorists—and plunge the entire continent into endless war."

Biyas felt his blood run cold.

The handling of Mammon’s followers had been entrusted to the knights of the Pantheon, the Ketraatus of the White Order, and the Black Fortress.

The specifics of what documents had been seized or what plans had been uncovered were never disclosed to Biyas or the factory owners.

They only knew what the Saint had publicly revealed the day before.

"As of this moment, due to the potential for treason against the imperial family, the investigation into your city has been placed entirely under the authority of the Black Fortress. The Senate no longer has the power to intervene. It’s out of our hands now."

"Y-Your Grace! That is absurd! Treason?! Treason?! Scrap Yard has been a loyal servant of the Empire, producing steel and magic metals for decades!"

"I know. I know that very well. Which is why I pleaded with His Majesty. But... after seeing the documents recovered from Mammon’s followers, I had nothing left to say."

"This is nonsense! You're trusting the documents of demon worshippers?!"

"I wish I could dismiss them as nonsense. But the details were... disturbingly accurate. Every noble in the Senate who saw them agreed."

"......"

"A continent-wide, simultaneous revolution led by the labor theorists. The imperial order to suppress it. Massacres on an unprecedented scale. Widespread uprisings and chaos. An empire ravaged by years of rebellion and war... Until, at last, the emperor is deposed, and the royal bloodline is publicly executed in the city square."

"That is absurd!"

"If you had seen those documents yourself, you wouldn’t be saying that. Those Mammon cultists... Their analysis was chillingly precise. If not for the Saint, there was a very real possibility things would have played out exactly as they predicted."

A splitting headache surged through Biyas’s skull.

"I’m sorry, Biyas. This is beyond my power now."

"Y-Your Grace—"

"The newspapers in the capital are already covering the full story. Your city will be next. I’ve sold off all my Scrap Yard stocks. A shame about the dividends, but... better than holding onto shares that’ll soon be worthless."

"This... this can't be happening...!"

"Consider this my final warning as an old friend. The Black Fortress will be conducting a thorough financial audit. His Majesty was livid—he personally screamed at the Senate, demanding to know how you people let the workers’ conditions deteriorate so badly that they were on the verge of revolution."

"A... Ah..."

"Hold strong, Biyas. Not every day is a good one. Once this blows over, we should go golfing again. And thanks again for the club—it’s a perfect fit."

The call ended abruptly.

Biyas crushed his burnt-out cigar into the ashtray, his face blank.

"The... the Sun Church. High Bishop Lupheus..."

He refused to give up.

Treason?

That was ridiculous.

He had to inform the Pantheon.

The factory owners had nothing to do with Mammon.

They had merely been running their businesses legally.

And surely the Sun Church, which treated the imperial elite, would help him get the message through...

Biyas wanted to believe that.

But the moment the line connected—

"A Saint who received the Pantheon’s first official recognition in 300 years was nearly killed by a Demon King. You want the Pantheon’s forces withdrawn? No. The inquisitors are coming. And they will conduct an extensive investigation until they are certain Scrap Yard is free of all corruption."

Biyas's faith shattered in under thirty seconds.

“High Bishop! High Bishop! If this happens, Scrap Yard’s factories will be ruined!!”

"Are factories your concern right now?"

"Beyond just demon worshippers, the Demon King himself manifested in the mortal world, if only briefly. Shutting down a few factories is a small price to pay for a thorough investigation. Otherwise, any lingering corruption could spread across the entire Empire once more."

"We are innocent, Your Excellency! We are innocent, I tell you!!"

"Then do not resist the investigation. The entire city will undergo a large-scale inquisition. This is no joke. If there is even the slightest suspicion of heresy... the sentence will be immediate execution."

"Your Excellency... why are you doing this? You know Scrap Yard’s situation better than anyone..."

"Why am I doing this? The Demon King manifested, Biyas. Surely you understand what that means."

"......"

"I strongly advise you to comply. The Pantheon is on edge right now. The Saintess of the White Order will personally lead the inquisitors. Follow every one of her instructions—do not provoke her."

The communication cut off.

Biyas slumped into his chair.

Even the thought of smoking no longer crossed his mind.

His throat felt dry.

He needed water.

His mouth was parched.

An investigation?

Fine.

An inquisition?

Fine.

A financial audit?

That was a nightmare, but he could survive it.

But if the Pantheon and the Black Fortress continued to occupy the city, he wouldn’t be able to force the workers back into the factories.

How could the police continue beating them with clubs or threatening them with guns under the watchful eyes of inquisitors and holy knights?

"This is driving me insane!!"

Biyas groaned, wrestling with the thoughts racing through his mind.

Then, reaching into his desk, he grabbed a bottle of high-end whiskey.

He didn’t bother with a glass.

He drank straight from the bottle, gulping it down.

For a while, he just drank.

Slowly, the warm intoxication crept up his spine.

‘No... this isn’t the worst-case scenario. Not yet.’

The police could no longer publicly beat the workers into submission.

But that also meant the labor theorists couldn’t engage in outright violence either.

Most of Scrap Yard’s workers were dirt poor.

The strike had already lasted several days.

And hunger was a powerful force.

How were these starving, penniless fools supposed to survive without riots?

‘They don’t have many choices.

In the end, they’ll have no choice but to return to the factories.’**

It was only a matter of time.

Sooner or later, their bellies would gnaw at them.

When their children cried from hunger, they would crawl back, begging for work.

Leave the city?

Where would they even go?

No other city was any better.

And even if they left, could they afford the cost of travel?

Could they afford to find a new home?

No.

In the end, if they wanted to eat, they would return to the factories.

It would be filthy. It would be humiliating. But they would have no other option.

‘Let’s see how long you last, Kal Lenaro. You and your labor theorists. Let’s see if you can still act so righteous when you’re starving to death.’

But just as Biyas was smirking to himself—

"Mayor!!"

The door burst open.

A factory owner rushed inside, completely ignoring formalities.

Before Biyas could even scold him—

"THE FURNACE WENT COLD!!"

The worst words he could possibly hear.

Biyas spat out his whiskey.