Joseph glanced at the coffer still pulsing faintly on the table. “Manager,” he said, “what about the key?”

Taragan’s dark gaze lingered on him for a moment before he reached into his coat. A slender iron key materialized between his fingers, black smoke curling from its teeth. He inserted it into the lock; the mechanism sighed, not clicked. The lid lifted by itself.

Inside, upon a bed of ash-gray velvet, rested a single ring.

It gleamed like polished bone, the metal neither gold nor silver, but something in between—something that absorbed the light instead of reflecting it. Runes wound across its surface, constantly rearranging.

Taragan said quietly, “That, Mr. Gates, is the *Ring of All Things.* A spatial relic. Anything you own, you can store within. Anything you can imagine, you can retrieve—if you’ve truly paid for it.”

He smiled faintly, as though recalling an old debt. “They’re not uncommon among the dead, but this one… this one was crafted by the great underworld artisan Haus Ledger. His masterpiece. You’re holding a legend.”

Joseph lifted the ring, feeling a hum resonate through his bones. When he slipped it onto his finger, the runes flared with gold. A rush of energy spiraled through his arm, connecting to the vast current of wealth coiled inside him.

He closed his eyes and whispered, *Withdraw one hundred billion Mingbi.*

A flash—like lightning behind his eyelids—and then a faint weight settled in his palm. Stacks of spirit notes shimmered into existence for an instant before dissolving into mist, flowing into the ring’s glow. The air thickened with heat.

He opened his eyes. The ring pulsed, satisfied.

Joseph smiled. “Efficient.”

Taragan stared at him, wordless. To witness someone *casually deposit one hundred billion Mingbi*—that was beyond comprehension. Even the higher specters, the barons of ash, rarely handled such sums. The boutique’s marble floor trembled as if aware of the imbalance.

Joseph flexed his hand, admiring the ring. “I suppose this makes errands easier. Though wearing it might attract the wrong attention.”

Taragan’s mouth twitched. “You’ll be hunted for it.”

“I’ll manage,” Joseph said lightly. “If money talks, I’ll make sure it screams.”

He looked around, his eyes tracing the ghostly chandeliers and warped display cases. “Manager,” he said suddenly, “has your shop ever considered selling?”

The question hung in the air like a loaded weapon.

Taragan blinked. “Selling? You wish to… buy *this boutique*?”

Joseph’s grin was thin. “It seems profitable. And I like the location.”

The manager’s expression fractured between disbelief and laughter, but before he could answer, a sharp crash echoed from the front hall—followed by screams.

Both men turned toward the sound.

Taragan’s composure snapped back into place. “Stay here.” He moved swiftly to the door, shadows dragging at his feet. The moment he stepped out, the air thickened with the scent of blood and burnt paper.

Joseph followed to the doorway and saw chaos spill through the front of the boutique.

The other “employees”—those who’d entered with him—were no longer standing proud behind the counters. One man lay headless across the display case, blood turning to black vapor. Another woman clawed at the floor, half of her body turned to glass, eyes wide with disbelief. The Rules had claimed them.

Only one survivor remained—a young woman trembling behind the sales counter, cornered by a spirit whose skin rippled like smoke. The ghost placed a cracked ring on the glass, its voice a hiss.

“Appraise.”

The woman stammered, “O-of course, sir…” Her eyes darted between the ruined customers, the faint list of Rules still hovering in the air. She was calculating. *If I refuse, I die. If I underprice, I die. If I overprice, I die.*

The ghost tilted its head. “How much?” it asked, almost gently.

She froze, breath shaking. “I—don’t—know—”

Joseph watched from the shadows, expression unreadable. He had seen this scene before. Last time, he’d died in it.

Taragan’s voice cut through the chaos, cold as a blade. “Rule Two,” he said. “Never devalue a customer’s item.”

The ghost smiled.

The woman realized too late which way the price had to go. Her mouth opened—to apologize, to correct herself—but the ghost’s hand passed through her chest. The sound it made was soft, like a sigh.

She fell. Her body dissolved into mist.

Joseph closed his eyes. The scent of iron lingered. The boutique was once again quiet—except for the faint ticking of the GHOULLEX on his wrist, counting time backward.

He looked at Taragan. “You should raise your wages,” he said dryly.

Taragan exhaled, almost smiling. “You’re assuming they can be paid.”