Belisarius gestured toward a chamber that looked less like a dorm room and more like the private study of a skybound archmage.
It was massive—circular, with walls of enchanted glass that offered a panoramic view of the floating archipelago above and the void-like abyss below. One wall was dominated by a suspended waterfall that gracefully curved mid-air, its mist dissolving into the ambient light. Across from it stood a drifting spire cloaked in bioluminescent twilight orchids that shimmered in colors Martin couldn't name. The ceiling glimmered faintly with unfamiliar constellations, which shifted subtly when no one was looking.
"Varncrest really doesn't hold back," Martin said, stepping inside.
"How the hell is this a standard room?" Roen muttered, eyes wide.
Martin walked to the center of the polished stone floor, boots clicking softly. "When you've got floating islands, why not use them? With this much room, I won't even need to keep everything in spatial storage."
Roen narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell me you've got a country's worth of junk in there."
"No," Martin replied, mock-offended. "That would be ridiculous."
Belisarius turned toward the door. "All rooms come with basic furniture, internal facilities, water filters, and ward permissions. You have full authority for customization within your security grade. I'll go file the arrival report. Do not leave this chamber."
He left before either of them could respond.
"Guess I'll unpack," Martin said with a grin, moving toward a rune etched just above the baseboard. He tapped it twice, and a localized compression field unfolded with a faint hum.
From what appeared to be a minor distortion in the air, he began pulling things out.
First: a foldable table.
"You made that yourself?" Roen asked, walking a cautious circle around it.
"I used to work at a furniture store. Picked up a few tricks."
Next came a large briefcase labeled TOOLS, with aggressive clarity.
Roen raised an eyebrow. "Just how many tools do you have in a briefcase that large?"
"One of every kind," Martin replied, cracking it open. "In every size."
Roen stared at an adjustable planar caliper and a set of sapphire-inlaid rune chisels. "You need therapy."
Then came sealed containers—base chemicals, powdered minerals, dried herbs, volatile alchemical agents. They formed neat stacks like some sort of bizarre apothecary's shrine.
"You bought all this?" Roen asked, voice rising.
"Some bought," Martin said, plucking a vial from the collection and holding it up. The liquid inside shimmered with a slow, toxic ripple. "Some taken. Like this one."
Roen leaned closer, squinting—then recoiled so fast he tripped over his own foot. "Naga poison?! THROW THAT OUT!"
Martin grinned, rotating the vial lazily in his fingers. "Relax. It's contained."
"No. F*ck no." Roen backed away, hand already on his sword. "One drop of that stuff in open air and we'd all be coughing up our spines!"
Smirking, Martin took a deliberate step toward him.
"Get that away from me!" Roen yelped, chucking his blade in panic.
Martin sidestepped it smoothly. "You really are a wuss."
"I will end you," Roen growled, retrieving his sword with wounded pride.
The chaos subsided. Martin kept unpacking.
A padded alchemy case clicked open, revealing rows of potions—some glowing, others bubbling softly under stasis fields.
"Did you steal those too?" Roen asked, now exhausted.
"No. I made them." Martin held up a clear beaker filled with golden liquid. "Like this."
Roen looked suspicious. Then froze. "Wait. Is that—Eternal Radiance?"
Martin nodded. "Enhances cellular regeneration. Speeds healing by a factor of twelve."
"You know how to make that?! That's… that's a lost-tier formula!"
"And many more," Martin said, already uncorking another. "Take a whiff."
"No."
"Fair." He re-capped the potion.
Next came a wardrobe spell—a compressed rack that unfolded into an elegant display of black suit pants, pressed shirts, and rows of ties. Two pairs of polished leather shoes clicked neatly into place with a snap of his fingers.
"You really do dress like a tax auditor," Roen muttered.
"Power demands presentation," Martin replied. "Also, I hate robes. They get caught on everything."
Then came a strange device: a smooth, silver orb pulsing with internal lightning.
"Is that…?" Roen frowned.
"The Storm's Creed divine-spirit core," Martin said nonchalantly. "Converted into an energy source in Solholme's territory. And, indirectly, why I got dragged here."
"You're storing a god-battery in a dorm room," Roen deadpanned.
"No. It's been demoted." Martin conjured a pedestal from a runestone and gently placed the orb atop it. "Now it's just an overqualified energy source."
Next: a sealed glass canister, filled with alchemical stasis fluid. Inside floated a rune-engraved spine, glowing faintly with cursed energy.
Roen visibly flinched. "What the hell is that?"
"The head priestess of a cult I disassembled," Martin replied, sorting through parchment. "Her spinal array was fascinating. I'm studying it."
Roen made a gagging noise. "That's revolting."
"So was she," Martin said, not looking up. "Except in bed."
"Wow."
Then came the blueprints—diagrams of magical formations, alchemical reactions, siege layouts, and enchantment arrays. Martin flicked several onto the table with absentminded precision.
Roen stared as Martin began unloading boxes of metal rods and iron gears.
"Let me guess," Roen sighed. "Construct parts?"
"Battle, research, support," Martin confirmed.
Finally, Martin hefted a dense metal orb onto the floor. It sparked on contact.
"What's that?" Roen asked.
"Mana-to-lightning converter," Martin said. "Refines ambient magic into electricity."
"Has it ever exploded?"
"Only once. But I fixed the capacitor."
Roen was about to respond when Martin began pulling out… cannons. Plural. Compact, collapsible siege weapons fitted with adjustable spell cores.
Roen gawked. "Are those weapons?"
"Yes."
"You're a warlord dressed like an accountant."
"Thank you."
The last few items were tame by comparison: black gloves, insulated goggles, and a half-finished sculpture of a dragon devouring a clock, which Roen wisely chose not to ask about.
Roen finally slumped onto the foldable table, staring blankly at the monstrous inventory now occupying the room.
"You know," he said slowly, "when I first heard about you, I thought you were just a clever lunatic."
Martin stretched, hands behind his head. "And now?"
"I think someone should wipe your memories and destroy everything you've ever built."
Martin tilted his head. "Elaborate."
"You're brilliant. Fine. But you're also a walking disaster," Roen said. "You defile corpses, weaponize gods, carry more volatile chemicals than an entire guild, and treat murder tools like furniture."
"So do nobles," Martin pointed out, voice calm.
"Yeah," Roen said. "But at least they're forced to hide it behind laws and obligations. You? You're just free."
Martin's expression didn't shift—but something unreadable flickered behind his eyes.
"Freedom is dangerous," he said. "But so is truth."
Roen exhaled slowly, rubbing his face. "You're gonna burn this place down."
"I'd prefer to remodel it," Martin replied. "But fire's a decent Plan B."
To Be Continued…