Lord: I have built a witch's sanctuary.

Chapter 100 Investment Report

Chapter 99 Investment Returns (Bonus Chapter After Taking Leave)

The Alchemists Association headquarters, third floor, president's office.

Pim leaned back in his chair, holding a steaming cup of herbal tea, and looked through the blinds at the crowd queuing in front of the soup kitchen downstairs.

A banner hung by the window, and a bust of Pym sat on a stone pedestal, his obese figure particularly striking in the firelight of the fireplace.

He didn't touch those two things.

When he took over, he acted as if he was flattered and waved his hands repeatedly, saying, "This is the credit of everyone in the association." He was polite to the residents who presented the banner three times.

Once the person left and the door closed, that kind smile vanished, replaced by the shrewdness of an old fox reviewing accounts.

"President Pym."

In the corner of the office, a tall, thin young man put down the ledger in his hand and walked over; it was Pym's assistant.

"The expenses for the soup kitchen these past few days have been tallied up, and it cost us a full thousand gold coins."

Pym snorted, neither saying it was expensive nor cheap.

A thousand gold coins are nothing to the Alchemist Association; the deposit from the anti-magic binding array sold to the Countess last month alone is enough to provide for a year's worth of porridge.

"How's the reception going?" Pym asked bluntly, taking a sip of tea.

The assistant flipped through the notebook in his hand.

"Currently, over four thousand civilians in the lower city have received our porridge and free medicine. According to feedback from several informants I've placed, their attitude towards the association has shifted from negative to highly positive."

"That banner and that statue today are the best proof."

"In addition, several gang leaders in the lower district have also approached me privately, expressing their desire to establish a long-term cooperative relationship with the association—in other words, they want us to make porridge distribution a regular practice."

Pym put down his teacup and tapped his fingers lightly twice on the armrest.

"Among those people who signed the banner, were any of them registered with the Rust Brotherhood?"

"Yes, it accounts for about 10%."

Pym laughed.

The smile was faint, but the assistant could tell that the chairman was very satisfied.

The Rust Brotherhood is Katarina's territory, and those rebels have never listened to any nobles or merchants.

Even they came to present a banner, which shows that the Alchemist Association's penetration in the Lower City has reached a fairly ideal level.

"Okay." Pym stood up, walked to the window, and looked past the crowd in the soup kitchen towards the vast white ice field outside the city.

Then his eyes narrowed.

On the horizon.

Something is moving.

It was very far away, so far that all you could see was a black outline.

But the outline was growing at a visible speed, and most strangely—it was moving.

It's not rolling, it's not gliding.

It's time to leave.

Take it one step at a time.

Pym's hands unconsciously gripped the window frame.

His eyesight wasn't great, but as a veteran alchemist who had spent decades in Frostwolf City, he knew the geography of the North like the back of his hand.

There's nothing in that direction except for ice fields, and it's impossible for any human vehicles to move in that area.

unless-

That's not a vehicle.

It's a mobile city.

Pym's breathing suddenly quickened.

The Tower of Babel.

The ruins of that golden age.

That legendary steel city that can be walked on.

That mobile fortress that was occupied by Lorraine.

They are heading towards Frostwolf City.

Pym loosened his grip on the window frame, revealing several faint red marks on his palm from pinching himself.

He turned around, and on his shrewd old face, an extremely complex expression appeared—excitement, tension, and trepidation, but more than anything, the almost ecstatic excitement that a gambler feels when they finally see the dice land on the side they bet on.

"They're here."

Pym muttered to himself, his voice trembling with barely suppressed emotion.

"He's here. My investment—it's finally going to pay off."

Pym had been waiting for this moment since the Alchemists' Guild began distributing porridge.

No, it should be said that he had been waiting for this moment ever since the day he detected the unusually stable magical signal at the White Wolf Outpost during the snow season, and ever since he secretly helped the civilians in the outer city against the Countess's will.

He bet Lorraine would survive the snow season. He bet right.

He bet Lorraine could control the mobile city. He bet right.

He bet Lorraine would return to Frostwolf City.

In hindsight, it was a wise gamble.

"President Pym?" The assistant's voice came from behind, clearly puzzled. "What are you looking at?"

'

"Come here," Pym beckoned.

The assistant walked to the window, followed Pym's gaze to the ice field outside the city, and his pupils suddenly contracted.

He saw it too.

The black outline that was slowly approaching was several sizes larger than before, and it could be vaguely seen that it was a towering tower-like structure with four thick supports at the base that were moving alternately.

"That—that is—"

"The Tower of Babel." Pym's tone was unusually calm, a stark contrast to his earlier excitement. "Lorraine has arrived."

The assistant's face turned pale instantly.

He certainly knew who Lorraine was, and he also knew who the chairman was paving the way for with the porridge and free medicine he had been distributing these past few days.

But knowing about it is one thing, but actually seeing a mobile city hundreds of meters high walking towards you across the snowfield is a shock that rational analysis can't possibly comprehend.

Pym didn't give him much time to panic.

"Reframe the banner with the best materials. Then find someone to create a full-body statue of Lorraine."

The assistant paused for a moment, then asked, "Framed?"

"Yes. Then we found someone to make a copy of the soup kitchen's distribution record, including what time it started and ended each day, how much food was used, how many people benefited, and each person's name and fingerprints, all compiled into a book."

Pym's pace quickened, but his words flowed as clearly as if he were reciting a well-prepared plan.

"Go and invite those community leaders over. Don't say too much to them. Just tell them that the association's porridge distribution was an order personally given by Young Master Lorraine before he left Frostwolf City."

The assistant was completely dumbfounded.

"Loh—Young Master Lorin's order? But it was clearly you."

Pym raised his hand to stop him.

What I did is not important.

He returned to his desk, sat down, picked up the cup of herbal tea that was no longer very hot, and took a sip. "The important thing is that when Lorraine steps into Frostwolf City, the tens of thousands of people in the lower city must know that every mouthful of porridge they have eaten these past few days is a gift from Lorraine."

"The association is just running errands for young master Lorraine. I, Pym, am just doing things for young master Lorraine. The credit is his, the benevolence is his, and every handprint on the banner is for him."

The assistant stood there for a long time, digesting the information, his mouth opening and closing repeatedly.

Finally, he swallowed hard and cautiously asked a question that had been lingering in his mind for a long time.

"President—don't you think that what we're doing is—a bit too deliberate?"

Pym raised an eyebrow.

"What I mean is," the assistant carefully chose his words, "if Young Master Lorraine really does win back the city and becomes the new Lord of Frostwolf, won't he think—we're being too obsequious—when he sees our actions?"

"Too obsequious?"

"Exactly—it's gone too far, too obvious. This kind of fawning is obvious. What if he dislikes this behavior, thinks we're not sincere, and gets a bad impression of us? Wouldn't that be counterproductive?"

"Young man."

Pym leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers on his stomach. "You still don't understand human nature enough."

The assistant didn't dare to respond.

Pym reached out and picked up the banner from the table, unfolded it, glanced at it, then folded it up and put it back.

"You think people in positions of power hate flattery?"

The corners of his mouth curved slightly.

"On the contrary."

"Everyone sitting on top will not feel disgusted when they see people below trying to curry favor with them—even if that currying favor is obviously for personal gain, even if that fawning is so obvious that it can be seen through at a glance."

Pym held up one finger.

"On the contrary, he will think you are a very sensible person."

The assistant frowned, his face full of incomprehension.

Pym noticed his confusion, sighed, stood up from his chair, walked to the fireplace, and warmed his hands by the fire.

"I have something to tell you."

"When I was sixteen, I was an apprentice in the alchemy workshop in Black Iron City. My master was an old man with a terrible temper who would curse people at the drop of a hat."

"There were five apprentices in the workshop, and they were all afraid of him. Only I served him tea and water every day, massaged his back and shoulders, and even paid out of my own pocket to buy him wine during festivals."

Pym twisted his wrist, as if recalling something from long ago.

"The other apprentices laughed at me, saying I was a sycophant and disgusting person. My master wasn't blind either; he knew perfectly well that I had an ulterior motive for trying to please him—I wanted to learn his unique alloy proportions."

"But guess what happened?"

The assistant shook his head.

"The last recipe was only taught to me."

Pym turned around, the firelight from the fireplace casting a warm glow on his face. "The other four apprentices all graduated empty-handed."

"You're saying my master didn't know I was flattering him? He knew."

"But that's how people are. If you lower your stance and show respect, even if the other person knows you have ulterior motives, they will still remember it."

Pym lowered his voice, revealing a composure honed through decades of experience.

"Because the act of flattering is itself a way of confirming something with those in power."

"What is it?" the assistant asked instinctively.

"I acknowledge you," Pym uttered three words. "I admit you're stronger than me, I admit you're the boss, and I'm willing to put myself below you."

"What those in power want is never genuine emotion—that's too abstract, and no one can prove it. What they want is a clear, visible, and concrete statement."

"Once you've expressed your stance, he'll be at ease. Only when he's at ease will you get the benefits."

"This is my experience of climbing up from the bottom step by step, and it works better than any alchemy recipe."

The assistant stood there, mouth slightly open, his expression slowly shifting from confusion to thoughtfulness.

Pym didn't say anything more, walked back to the window, and looked through the blinds at the increasingly clear outline of the moving city in the distance.

The Tower of Babel is getting closer.

The mottled metal shells on the tower could be vaguely seen reflecting a cold luster in the sunlight, and the snow mist kicked up by its four giant legs left a long white trail behind it, like an ancient beast crossing the ice field.

Pym tapped his fingers lightly twice on the window frame.

"Go and do it."

His voice was soft, but his tone left no room for ambiguity.

"When Young Master Lorraine enters the city, the first thing I want him to see is the gratitude of four thousand commoners."

"The second thing is my loyalty, Pym."

"

"As for the third thing—"

Pym lowered his eyes, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"The third thing is the back door I left in the Countess's magic-suppressing and spirit-binding array."

The assistant broke out in a cold sweat, but he didn't say anything, he just bent over deeply.

"I'll take care of it right away."

The footsteps faded into the distance.

The office fell silent again, with only the faint sound of burning wood in the fireplace.

Pym stood alone by the window, watching the steel behemoth getting closer and closer, watching the commoners squatting on the ground with wooden bowls in front of the soup kitchen, and watching the red banner with gold lettering on the table.

He watched as his assistant went to instruct them to make a bust of Lorraine.

He picked up his teacup and gently raised it towards the window.

"Welcome home, young master."

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