Silver Tongue

"It's a good thing you brought him here, son."

The Patriarch declared, turning around with the kind of regal flair that could make a statue feel inadequate. Tall, imposing, and damn good-looking, with a wife that was drop-dead gorgeous and a daughter who was equally hot. A man basking in the full glow of power and prosperity.

'All of which I'm going to rip right out of your smug little hands.'

Artis thought, barely hiding his grin.

The Patriarch spread his arms wide, practically oozing magnanimity. "So, what do you want, Artis? Coins, pills, rare scrolls, arts, scriptures? Just say the word—it's yours." His voice boomed as if he were offering the whole damn universe.

Artis knew his cue.

'Showtime.'

"Look, I didn't do it for any rewards—"

Artis started, scratching the back of his head with a bashful expression, milking it for every ounce of fake modesty he could squeeze.

But Pliney, ever the self-appointed virtue police, clapped his pudgy hands like a seal who smelled a fish.

"Ah, hear that? Such a noble soul, refusing a reward from the Patriarch himself. Truly inspiring!"

His sly gaze practically dared Artis to fumble.

The Patriarch wasn't deterred.

"Oh, but I insist, Artis. A villa? Yours. Need some beauties to warm your bed? Consider it done. Whatever you desire!"

Before Artis could even respond, Pliney's gleeful voice slithered in again.

"Respected Patriarch, junior apprentice Artis has already rejected—"

"Let me finish my words, Grand Elder."

Artis cut him off, a glint of irritation flashing in his eyes. Breathing the same air as this pompous meatball was enough to put him off his meal for a week.

'Seriously, how did the real Artis put up with this grease-slicked buffoon for so long?' 

Pliney's face soured, glaring daggers at Artis, who responded with a smug smirk that all but said, "Try me." Then, ignoring the blubbering obstruction altogether, Artis turned to the Patriarch, looking as respectful as ever.

"Respected Patriarch…"

Artis bowed, his fist in his palm, putting on a show of humility that, ironically, was anything but.

"I would've rejected any reward from any other man. But to refuse an offer from you, sir, would be unthinkable."

Pliney scoffed, clearly not taking the hint.

"Ah-ha! So, you admit you were only doing it for the reward, huh? You—"

"Grand Elder, if you'd be so kind as to allow me to finish my words."

Artis cut in again, sounding polite but throwing enough edge into his tone to cut through steel.

Pliney's face twisted in frustration, his eyes blazing with indignation, but Artis barely acknowledged him.

"You dare disrespect me, you insolent brat! I'm the Grand Elder of this sect! The only ones worthy to show me such disrespect are the Patriarch and his family!"

Pliney fumed, practically shaking with indignation.

"Patriarch, this boy is—"

"Let the boy speak, Grand Elder," the Patriarch's voice cut through, cold and steady as steel. "I see what you're doing. Regardless of your feelings, he saved the Matriarch yesterday. Surely that's reason enough to give him a moment, no?"

Pliney went rigid, then dropped to his knees, bowing low, his tone drenched in forced humility.

"Forgive this fool, Patriarch. I shouldn't have spoken against Junior Apprentice Artis."

"You are forgiven, Grand Elder."

The Patriarch's gaze shifted back to Artis, a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Now, young man, you had something to say?"

Artis, still bowing, looked up with a calm, confident smirk.

"I would've turned down any reward from any other man, my Patriarch."

He began, standing up straight and letting the anticipation build.

"Because, you see, I may not know the depths of anyone else's wealth. But you, Patriarch…"

He met the Patriarch's icy stare, his own gaze mischievous, with a slow grin that was one part reverence, two parts ambition. 

"I know you, Patriarch. You're the man among men, the one and only true lord of this world."

Artis declared, savoring the faint quiver of pride at the Patriarch's lips. He knew exactly how to butter up this old lion—and the way the Patriarch's ego soaked it up was a sight to behold.

'Perfect, let's lay it on thick.'

Artis thought, chuckling internally. A direct ask for a reward would just get him a nice trinket and a pat on the back, but if he played his cards right, he could secure far more than just a quick payout.

"Even if you built me a mansion, granted me a hundred...no, a thousand untouched beauties, and saw to my every whim for life, that'd still be a mere drop in your vast ocean of wealth! Why, even if I took a mountain of your treasures, it wouldn't scratch the surface of your greatness, my lord."

He kept his gaze on the Patriarch, subtly noting every twitch, every pleased glimmer in his eye. Artis could practically see the gears turning—he was laying down praise like it was the finest silk, and the Patriarch was getting wrapped up in it nicely.

Meanwhile, Pliney's face looked like he'd swallowed a lemon wrapped in jealousy and dipped in bitterness. Utter disgust and shock twisted his features, as he watched Artis expertly massage the Patriarch's ego.

This was his job! The Grand Elder's entire purpose in life revolved around feeding the Patriarch's pride, and here was this upstart handling it like he'd been born for it.

'When the hell did this little degenerate get the guts to lay it on this thick in front of the Patriarch?'

Pliney thought, scowling so hard his jowls practically quivered with indignation.

"But my lord," Artis continued smoothly, his voice dropping to a humble tone, "I don't need money. Young Master Jin sees to it that I live comfortably, blessed by his generosity."

He said, flashing Jin an innocent, wide-eyed smile. Jin, predictably, looked like he'd just received a standing ovation, nodding to himself, chest puffing up as if he were a benevolent deity himself.

"So, logically," Artis added with a slight bow, "the best reward would be a treasured artifact or a unique scroll. Just a humble request, as I'm content here with all that I have."

He spoke with such sweetness that it almost disguised the shrewd glint in his eye.

The Patriarch's grin spread wide, clearly pleased as he considered the request. Pliney, however, just about turned purple, simmering as he glared at Artis with murderous envy. 

"That's it then. Simple as can be. Son, take him to the secret inventory," the Patriarch declared with a flick of his wrist. "And you, Artis, take one item—whatever catches your eye. You want the Flying Sword of the Wind God? It's yours. Fancy the Chains of Hell? Go ahead, claim it. Whatever your heart desires."

"But my Patriarch! That's—"

Pliney stammered, looking like he'd just choked on his last crumb of cake, utterly horrified at the thought of this punk getting to choose from the rarest artifacts he himself had never even laid eyes on.

"Enough, Grand Elder," the Patriarch snapped, cutting him off with a deadly finality. "I've heard quite enough from you. Son, take this young man and show him the way."

The Patriarch spun around, effectively slamming the door on any further whining from Pliney. Jin clapped a hand on Artis's shoulder, grinning like they were best friends about to hit up a luxury toy store.

"Come on, Artis, get ready to have your mind blown. The things in that inventory? They'll knock you dead just from the sight of them!"

Jin cackled, giving Artis a hearty slap on the back. Artis threw a mocking grin at Pliney, then wiggled his fingers in a delightfully sassy wave as they exited, leaving the Grand Elder stewing in pure, unfiltered resentment.

…

The secret storage room was tucked away somewhere beneath the basement—a vault so restricted that only the Patriarch and the family could access it.

"We're here."

Jin gestured grandly as two guards pulled open the massive gates. Inside was a dim, sprawling chamber, lined with shelves upon shelves of treasures that practically oozed power.

Artis stepped in, feeling like a kid who just got let loose in a candy shop... but with swords, scrolls, and mystical weapons that could flatten mountains. 

His fingers tingled as he took his first steps inside, his smirk only growing wider.

"Nobody comes down here unless it's life or death."

Jin explained, standing by the entrance and peering in like he was avoiding some ancient curse.

"Father says the stuff in here is too valuable to just be lying around for everyday use."

'Yeah, right. Of course, all the "priceless" junk gets stashed down here in the eternal basement of doom.'

Weapons lay tangled with dusty armor, cracked vials, and strange, withered scrolls. Old, moldy clothes were piled up like someone's abandoned laundry. And as he looked closer—oh, hell no—there were body parts too. Fingers, a shriveled foot, and—was that an eyeball?

'What kind of morbid taste does this family have?'

Artis shuddered, feeling both creeped out and slightly impressed by the sheer weirdness.

But then, at the far end of the room under a flickering, ghostly magic light, he spotted them—a messy heap of small books, haphazardly piled like discarded paperbacks. They had an aura of pure, mystical neglect, practically screaming "forbidden knowledge nobody's touched in ages."

'Bingo!'

His face lit up.

'There it is.'

Artis zeroed in on that pile, certain the scripture he'd been hunting was nestled right there among the rejects.