Noblecoeur hadn’t changed at all.

One of Gardemagne’s greatest cities, located near the eastern mountains and the fallen Harmonian Republic, Noblecoeur had been spared from the horrors of the Century War, making it a refugee center. Those fleeing the advance of the vicious fomors, from beastkin to northern elves, established themselves there, built new districts, brought their culture. To an outsider, Noblecoeur looked like a motley of various architectures cobbled together, fortified beastkin camps bordering elegant manors; yet somehow, the final result looked harmonious.

Victor Dalton, Grand Vizier of Murmurin, greatest of Vainqueur’s minions, hadn’t visited the Nightblades’ Headquarters in years, yet he felt some kind of kinship to this place. This old manor, whose basement led to tunnels sprawling through the city, had a classy charm which he couldn’t fully describe.

When the god Dice reincarnated him, in the wartorn countryside of Gardemagne, only thieves took him in; and at the cost of joining them. They taught him about classes, turned him into an [Outlaw], and then introducing them to their larger, more nefarious parent organization; the Nightblade crime syndicate. While mostly focused on assassination, the group had fingers in every illegal pie; and through corruption, blackmail, and threats, they made the very city of Noblecoeur their fortress.

Upon realizing that staying with the organization meant falling in further with a very bad crowd, the Claimed backed out and reconverted into an adventurer. Lucie Lavere hadn’t taken over the syndicate back then, or at least not that Victor knew. The vampire had transformed the politically neutral cartel into weapons of the fomors, first against Gardemagne, then against Murmurin itself. Lavere and most of her followers died in the struggle, leaving the winners to clean the mess she left behind.

To think he would end up, by a twist of fate, take over the organization he left.

Or rather, that was what he thought would happen.

“So let me get this straight,” the Vizier began. “You decided to create a union?”

Sitting around a large table, he and his assistant, the vampire Charlene, faced a dozen cowled assassins armed to the teeth; most of them were ratkin, rat and human hybrids, humans, or vampires. Only one very young lizardkin, with brownish scales and claws sharper than razors, stood out from the rest. With the night outside and the candles providing little light, the meeting resembled a shadowy cult’s gathering. Which it was.

“Due to the fall of the previous administration, and the huge amount of turnover that followed,” a cowled woman said, a crossbow within arm’s reach. “We decided to organize in order to preserve our livelihoods against a lay-off.”

“By turnover, you mean the fact our army killed all the assassins you sent after us?” Victor asked for an explanation.

“We have renounced the previous administration,” the assassin replied with a tone that reminded the chief of staff of PR speakers. “We turned our coat in the right direction. However, to defend ourselves, and to promote gender equality, we have created a Mixed Gender Commission to represent our professions. We will not disband until our demands are met.”

Now that she said it, Victor noted that they had an equal amount of women and men holding knives at him. Not that they had the levels to threaten him, since he wore full armor, carried a deadly scythe and bazooka, and was around twenty levels higher than the second-strongest person in the room. “Which are?”

“We want higher wages, security of employment, a retirement plan instead of a ‘river retirement’ plan, and a severance package instead of the current ‘body severance’ package.”

“Security of employment,” Victor repeated. “You’re criminals. You’re by definition outside the law’s protection.”

“Which doesn’t preclude a charter. Theft is a very dangerous activity and we want shortened working days, and a better pension for old assassins who cannot kill as well in their old age as they did in their youth. If our demands are not met, we are ready to go on a nationwide strike.”

A strike? “Like what, you won’t kill people anymore?”

“Yes!” the representative replied, leaving Victor speechless. “We will no longer kill nor steal, nor run prostitution rings or distribute drugs to minors until we have improved the criminal class’ working conditions!”

…

“How did Lavere run things before me?” Victor asked with a dry tone.

“She singled out the ‘stupidest’ of us, and then murdered them to set an example,” a ratkin replied.

I am starting to understand why, the Vizier thought.

Charlene must have read his mind. “To be fair, you and Your Majesty killed, jailed, or sent to the Moon all the competent people during Lavere’s attack,” she said. “Leaving only… them.”

“To the Moon?” one of the assassins whistled. “Is that a new slang of execution? I didn’t know it!”

“No, the correct one is ‘Chocolatined,’” Charlene corrected.

“Mmmm… the first sounds better.”

Victor turned to Charlene, who approached her ear to listen. “Are they serious?” he muttered, his assistant nodding. “What do you suggest?”

“A good purge, to start with.” Her newfound vampirism had turned the once plump, slightly overweight blonde secretary and Victor’s voice of reason into a thin, unnaturally pale model; but also clearly made her more ruthless. “Not the bloody kind, although that would have been my first option had Deathjester not asked for mercy, but we can easily replace them with obedient minions.”

“I’m not sending minions to replace criminals abroad,” Victor replied. The only reason he even agreed to take over that organization was to prevent the fomors from making use of them. Worst case scenario, he would disband them rather than waste resources.

“We are ready to last months,” the main speaker threatened.

“Don’t listen to them, sir,” the young lizardkin interrupted him. He had remained apart from the others, refusing to form a united front with his fellow. “They’re just lazy and never did anything worthwhile. I can still work!”

“Why, you really need blood money?” Victor asked.

“Oh, no, I just love killing,” he replied with cheerfulness, the other assassins booing him for his eagerness to impress the authority. “I was doing it for free before Aunt Savoureuse told me I could make it a career.”

The Vizier sank in his chair, finding the teen’s cheeky smile far more disturbing than the army of thugs asking for higher wages. “You’re… Potiron, right?” Victor asked, remembering Savoureuse mentioning her nephew a few months ago.

The young lizardkin looked up at Victor with adorable eyes, in stark contrast with his next words. “Your boss is an absolute dictator, right? Do you have political rivals to silence? Or, or, maybe newspapers who need a ‘friendly visit’? Or do you want to reduce poverty by eradicating the homeless? I’m trying to expand my CV, so as long as it’s not people I know, I’m looking forward to any opportunity to improve!”

Was this hellion for real? He sounded very serious. “We, uh, we kinda enjoy a huge level of popularity in our country,” Victor said, blaming Vainqueur’s absurd charisma. “Our citizens love us.”

“If not an enemy of the state, maybe hookers?” Potiron asked. “I don’t have professional experience in that field, but I learn quickly! If you need a demonstration—”

“I will think about it!” Victor said hurriedly before the psycho went through with it. “As for the rest of you…”

“We will not budge before intimidating tactics,” the speaker warned. “We are ready to die for better rights!”

“Then you will certainly enjoy our official Minion Healthcare,” Victor replied. “You get the security of employment, higher wages, and even magical assistance.”

“As official minions of Murmurin, you are entitled to a tenth of the profits you make, which is more than your old rate,” Charlene said. “You are guaranteed a post-mortem pension either as an undead or another vertical plane of your choice, alongside universal free healthcare, education, mook promotions…”

Victor watched the assassins exchange glances, as his assistant detailed the impressive list of benefits they would receive by signing with the empire; a stark contrast with the harsher system of Gardemagne. All the work these past months had paid off.

While Potiron clapped, the other assassins exchanged between each other, until the main speak came forward. “You are not like we expected.”

“You bet,” Victor said.

“Well then, perhaps we can discuss other—”

“The Emperor is a dragon, and he has been known to eat entitled minions and enemies alike. He listens only to me.” Victor joined his fingers in a calculating pose, deciding not to spare them the rod. “I am also very, very friendly with the highest authorities in Hell, now rebranded as Happyland, and I capture souls in my scythe to power myself up.”

Charisma check successful! You reminded the peons of the food chain!