The *Obsidian Star Hotel* towered like an obsidian dagger piercing through the dim sky. Its exterior shimmered in black light—each window reflecting a different face of the same city, a hundred versions of the dead staring outward.  

Taragan followed a step behind Joseph, whispering reports while flipping through a half-visible ledger.  

“The proprietor, Lady Mariserna,” he said quietly, “is one of the higher-class spirits—old money, old power. Her establishment hosts the elite of the underworld: governors, barons, ancient collectors.”  

Joseph glanced at the reflection of his blue *Gui Baojini* in the glass doors, then smirked. “A socialite ghost, huh? Let’s hope she knows how to do business.”  

“About that…” Taragan’s tone shifted. “She’s refusing a direct sale.”  

Joseph raised an eyebrow. “Refusing?”  

“She insists on meeting you tonight. She’s hosting a banquet. Says any negotiations must happen during the event.”  

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “A dinner meeting with ghosts. Sounds charming.”  

“Sir,” Taragan continued, “the banquet isn’t an ordinary one. The guest of honor is… Lord Josmar Matuwen.”  

Joseph’s hand paused mid-motion. “Matuwen?”  

Taragan nodded gravely. “One of the oldest bloodlines still active after the Collapse. The Matuwen family is practically royalty here. Josmar is their last descendant—a true *Ghost King.* Few dare to even address him directly. He doesn’t attend mortal events lightly.”  

Joseph’s jaw tightened slightly. *So that’s why she refuses to sell. The Queen doesn’t want to offend the King.*  

He looked out toward the distant spire of the hotel, its roof wreathed in faint blue fire. “So the strongest ghost in the city’s coming to dinner.”  

“Yes, sir.”  

Joseph chuckled, low and quiet. “Perfect. I was starting to get bored.”

Back inside the *Hundred Ghosts Boutique*, he moved with quick precision. The vaults in the lower floor hissed open one by one, revealing trays of spectral jewelry that pulsed with eerie light. Necklaces woven from captured whispers. Rings that reflected memories. Gems that glowed with faint, beating hearts.  

He gestured toward them. “Take everything that looks expensive.”  

Taragan blinked. “All of it, sir?”  

“All of it. We’re not guests—we’re investors.”  

Then he drew out a briefcase from the shadow beneath his desk, filling it with shimmering stacks of Mingbi. When the latch clicked shut, it glowed like a captive sun. He pushed it across the counter to Taragan.  

“One hundred million Mingbi,” Joseph said. “Liquid capital. Use it to buy *anything* valuable you can find—artifacts, cursed trinkets, relics. Turn this boutique into a fortress of wealth.”  

Taragan’s eyes widened slightly. The faint ghostlight flickered around him as he bowed deeply. “Understood, sir.”  

Joseph adjusted his tie, glancing at his reflection in the black glass of a display case. “When I get back, I want the shelves filled. No empty space. No cheap goods. We’re not just surviving, Taragan. We’re building an empire.”  

The manager smiled, faint pride cutting through his composure. “Yes, sir.”

By dusk, Joseph was behind the wheel of the *Gui Baojini* again, the blue light tracing smooth lines along the ghost-highway. The city seemed quieter tonight—watchful. Even the toll gates bowed silently as he passed.  

The hotel came into view near the city’s dead center. *The Obsidian Star* rose impossibly tall, its walls breathing in slow rhythm. Every window was a mouth of glass, every chandelier a halo of inverted light.  

A crimson carpet unfurled of its own accord as he approached. Phantom valets opened the doors in unison, their eyes glowing faint gold.  

“Welcome, Mr. Gates,” one said, bowing low. “Lady Mariserna has been expecting you.”

Joseph stepped out, adjusting the cuff of his black suit. “I’m sure she has.”

Inside, the lobby radiated wealth. Gold mist flowed across the floor like fog. The air smelled of wine and roses, with something darker underneath—blood, maybe, or memory. Music played somewhere above, a waltz built on sighs.

At the far end of the grand hall stood a woman in a long gown that shimmered like liquid night. Her skin was pale as pearl, her hair a cascade of darkness threaded with faint red light.  

She smiled as he approached. “Mr. Gates,” she said, her voice like silk over glass. “Welcome to my humble domain.”  

“Lady Mariserna,” he replied with a courteous nod. “Your reputation precedes you.”  

She laughed softly. “And yours travels faster than rumor. A living man buying ghost property—it’s been a long time since the city had such entertainment.”

Joseph smirked. “I’m not here for amusement. I’m here to buy.”  

Her smile sharpened. “So I’ve heard. But I’m afraid the *Obsidian Star* is not for sale—at least, not tonight.”  

He raised an eyebrow. “Then why the invitation?”  

“Because,” she said, stepping closer, “you intrigue me. And because tonight’s guest of honor will decide whether this city continues to stand as it is… or burns anew.”  

“Josmar Matuwen,” Joseph said quietly.  

Her expression froze for half a heartbeat before she inclined her head. “You’ve heard of him. Good. He is powerful, ancient, and not fond of mortals. But if you can win his favor, or at least his interest, perhaps this hotel—and everything under its name—will be within your reach.”  

Joseph gave a small laugh. “So it’s not a sale. It’s a test.”  

“You could call it that,” she said, smiling again. “We call it *a banquet of the dead.*”

The ballroom doors opened.  

Light spilled through, cold and white. The air was heavy with perfume and ozone. Dozens of guests filled the tables—translucent nobles in black attire, their laughter soft and hollow. The chandeliers burned with inverted flames, casting shadows that danced the opposite way.  

And at the center table, draped in silver cloth, sat a man with eyes like eclipses—calm, ancient, and terrible in their stillness.  

When Joseph stepped in, every head turned.  

Every conversation stopped.  

The man at the table looked up, his lips curving into a slow, predatory smile.  

“Ah,” said *Lord Josmar Matuwen*, voice deep enough to shake the air,  

“so the living merchant finally arrives.”