Chapter 492: The Master of Wealth-Building (Part 1)

In the estate, afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows onto the carpet, each fine fiber clearly visible; wearing a shirt, Merkel leaned forward over the desk, his leather shoes brushing the carpet's edge, and took down the globe from the shelf.

The globe had not been used in a long time, its surface coated in a layer of dust; Merkel wiped it gently with a cloth, when he heard footsteps behind him and turned to find Schiller entering.

"Good afternoon, sir… oh, what's that?" Merkel offered a normal greeting, then frowned at the object in Schiller's hand.

"Yesterday, I went with Victor to an antique shop in the West District and found something interesting," Schiller shook the object, producing a clattering sound.

It was a wooden frame with many small wooden beads; when Schiller lifted and shook it, Merkel saw its full form and said: "This is… an abacus? Why are you interested in this?"

"An abacus—an ancient calculating tool. I prefer it to a calculator. Both make noise, but the clack of abacus beads is far more pleasing than electronic beeps."

As he spoke, Schiller sat behind the desk with the abacus in hand, squinting at the wall clock; Merkel stepped aside slightly, ensuring his view was unobstructed.

But Schiller merely glanced at the clock, then lowered his head to manipulate the wooden beads.

Clearly, the abacus was an antique, yet the patina on the wood made its surface smoother; Schiller propped his chin in one hand while continuously sliding the beads with the other.

Merkel watched for a while and realized Schiller was not idly moving the beads—he was genuinely calculating something, his hands never pausing, his lips murmuring numbers.

Merkel noticed his employer was growing increasingly peculiar; changes in routine and habits were one thing, but previously Schiller had cherished the globe as a treasure, yet at some point it had been abandoned, while the once-neglected cane was now frequently used, its tip worn smooth.

Today, he had somehow acquired an abacus—and seemed to have actually learned soroban, planning to use this ancient method to calculate something.

"Sir, if what you're calculating is important, I can fetch a calculator for you. I'm not questioning your abacus skills, but numbers and accounts are unforgiving—one error ruins everything, and correcting it could cost you considerable time…"

"It's fine. Not important." Schiller clacked the beads loudly. "I'm just practicing soroban to prepare for the coming accounting surge…"

"Accounting surge?" Merkel was puzzled again, but at that moment Schiller glanced at the clock again—and as he did, Merkel heard the doorbell ring downstairs.

Merkel tilted his head in surprise, then hurried to the door and looked down. "I thought there were no appointments today?"

"Indeed. The person coming doesn't understand appointments."

Merkel set the globe down and went downstairs, where he saw a figure slumped against the doorframe; even before approaching, he knew it could only be Constantine.

"Morning, Merkel. Is Schiller here?" Constantine treated the house as his own, stepping inside without hesitation, leaving the butler to follow behind.

"Mr. Constantine, you must call ahead for an appointment so I can confirm whether Mr. Schiller is available. If you don't, and he happens to be occupied, you'll have made a wasted trip."

"Come on!" Constantine waved his hand. "What could he possibly be doing? Eating, sleeping, polishing that broken umbrella—he works four hours a day, spends the other twenty locked in his study plotting conspiracies…"

"You shouldn't say that." Merkel followed Constantine, but Constantine moved swiftly; he crossed the courtyard, mounted the stairs, and in three quick strides reached Schiller's study.

Schiller remained seated behind the desk, manipulating the abacus; he didn't even lift his eyes as Constantine entered, merely gesturing with a finger toward the chair opposite.

Constantine swept back his coat and sat down; Schiller gave Merkel a glance. Merkel drew the curtains shut, walked to the door and closed it, then stood before the desk.

Constantine looked up at him and said: "We're about to have a private discussion…"

Merkel made a "please" gesture and remained still; Constantine stared at him, clicked his tongue, and said: "My conversation with your employer may involve confidential matters. Don't you think you should—"

"Sir, you're British. You should know: the butler does not exist in this estate—at any time."

Constantine sighed helplessly, turned to Schiller—but Schiller was utterly indifferent, still absorbed in the abacus. When Constantine looked back at Merkel, he saw only Merkel's perfectly British false smile.

"Fine. Let's discuss my compensation." Constantine tapped the desk with his finger.

Schiller finally stopped moving the beads, opened a drawer, pulled out a document, and handed it to Constantine. "Here's the itemized account. Check it. Any issues?"

Constantine took the document; as soon as he saw the first page, he froze. He pointed to a line: "Reimbursement unit… Green Lantern Corps? What does that mean?"

"Literal meaning." Schiller didn't look up.

"You mean the Green Lantern Corps is paying my salary?"

"No. I'm paying you. But I must seek reimbursement from the Green Lantern Corps. Don't forget—I'm one of them. Any strategic operation I undertake should be funded by Corps headquarters."

Constantine's mouth hung open. "So you're saying you lured the first batch of Green Lanterns to stall them, directed the second batch toward the central turntable, and ambushed the deputy officer Carol—all part of your plan—and now you want the Corps to reimburse you for the costs?"

"Precisely. Before I executed this plan, I was already a Green Lantern—officially recognized. The ring's code states the Corps covers all expenses for Lanterns' security operations within their assigned sectors. What's the problem?"

"You…" Constantine was unusually speechless; his facial muscles strained as he thought, then finally blurted:

"Don't you feel a little unethical?"

"Keep reading." Schiller continued clacking the beads.

Constantine pulled his thoughts back and looked again at the invoice, muttering: "On-site fee… travel expense… time charge… all calculated by Green Lantern ring energy? Seems fine… On-site fee: twenty ring units? Acceptable…"

"Wait!" Constantine suddenly exclaimed.

"Magic equipment consumption of 380,000 units? Tens, hundreds, thousands, ten thousands... 380,000?!"

Constantine held up his hand, counting his fingers, then looked at Schiller. "You just made this up, right?"

Schiller looked up, meeting his eyes directly; Constantine hesitated again. "…Right?"

Schiller said nothing. Constantine closed his eyes, rubbed his brow, set the invoice down, and said: "I thought you'd have at least basic knowledge of magic."

"Across the entire Earth—or rather, the entire sector as they call it—there might not be more than thirty-eight items that qualify as magical artifacts."

"I've always said magic has a cost—a tremendous cost. You can't hire a demon to forge a divine weapon for free. Even the simplest enchanted weapon might demand your soul…"

"Even mages with their own towers in the Rift Space consider themselves lucky to own one true magical artifact. As for wandering mages like me? We own none."

Schiller kept staring. After a long silence, Constantine gave in. "Fine. There are one or two… I hid them."

Schiller kept staring. Constantine sighed. "Five. Only five. Including the pots and pans used to make magical pigments."

Schiller raised an eyebrow. Constantine met his gaze, then raised both hands. "Alright! Alright! I've got over six hundred hidden away…"

"But you must understand—my situation is unusual. I'm good at making friends. In Heaven, in Hell—I've plenty. When they heard I'd moved, they all offered help. Some even do business with me, like you. So I get compensation…"

"But the vast majority of mages on this planet don't even have a decent weapon. Three hundred eighty thousand artifacts? That's absurd!"

"Who are you?" Schiller suddenly asked.

"Who am I? I'm Constantine. Who else could I be?"

"No. I mean your title."

"Uh—I'm called the Hell Detective. But I've told you before: I'm not a detective. The 'Hell' part is the key."

"What's your reputation like?"

Constantine gave him a "you're pretending to be stupid" look. Schiller said: "Yes. Terrible."

"A newly minted Green Lantern named Schiller Rodriguez, thrown straight into Gotham—a hell-level challenge. But he's righteous, devises elaborate plans to save the city."

"At the start of this plan, he drained half the Central Lantern's energy. But he found it still wasn't enough. So he issued IOUs, hiring capable figures—including you, Constantine."

"And because of your terrible reputation, demanding outrageous fees is expected, right?"

"But how could they possibly approve such blatant extortion?"

"If they refuse, don't you have an excuse to steal? After all—you're a bad man."

"I…" Constantine was speechless. "I admit I'm a bad man, but not that bad. I often honor contracts. You're ruining my professional reputation—"

"Ten percent extra upon completion."

"Twenty percent!"

"Deal."