Re:Birth: A Slow Burn LitRPG Mage Regressor

The tavern smelled of stale beer, sweat, and desperation—a fitting backdrop for a meeting like this. Marco sat with his back to the wall, one hand resting casually on the table, the other hidden beneath it, fingers wrapped around the hilt of a short blade. Trust was a luxury he could no longer afford.

Three figures sat across from him, each as different from the others as day from dusk from night. They hadn't touched their drinks.

"Let me get this straight," said the woman on the left, her voice carrying the lilting accent of the Northern Isles. "You want us to help you—what was it again?—'resurrect a dying guild' against the explicit wishes of its founder? A guild with no money, no warehouse, and apparently no future?" Toranne leaned forward, her copper-red hair falling across one eye. She brushed it back with fingers adorned in thin metal rings that could, with a flick of her wrist, extend into razor-sharp claws. "That's not a job. That's a suicide pact."

"I didn't say it would be easy," Marco replied, his voice steady despite the tension coiling in his stomach. "But I didn't say it would be impossible either."

"Nothing's impossible with the right incentive," rumbled the mountain of a man to her right. Brom had arms thick as tree trunks and a face that looked like it had been carved from granite with a dull chisel. His size alone was enough to clear a path in most crowds, but it was the calculated intelligence behind his small, dark eyes that had earned him his reputation. "But from what I hear, Crimson Scale's coffers are emptier than a priest's wine bottle after confession."

"Are they?" Marco smiled thinly, pushing a folded parchment across the table. "Tresh is stepping down, so she's been planning this well. Moving assets, liquidating properties. The treasury's official records show next to nothing, but that's not the whole story."

Brom unfolded the parchment, his expression unchanging as he studied the figures written there. He passed it to Toranne, who raised an eyebrow.

"If these numbers are accurate..." she began.

"They are," Marco assured her. "Tresh keeps her real ledger hidden. These are the actual holdings of Crimson Scale, scattered across seven banks in three different provinces. More than enough to rebuild, and more than enough to make this worth your while."

The third figure, who until now had remained silent, finally spoke. His voice was surprisingly soft for someone whose left eye was a milky white orb crossed with scar tissue, and whose right hand had been replaced by an intricate mechanical prosthetic that clicked softly as he drummed its brass fingers on the table.

"Numbers on paper mean nothing if we can't access them," he said. Whisper—that was the only name he used, and it suited both his voice and his methods. "Tresh will have safeguards, passwords, verification systems."

Marco's smile widened slightly. "Which is why we need your particular talents, Whisper. You're not just muscle—you're the key that opens those locks."

"And after we help you get this money," Brom said, "what then? Crimson Scale is still finished."

"No," Marco said, his eyes hardening. "Not finished. Evolving. The guild model Tresh built served its time, but the commercial landscape has changed. We don't need fifty officers and a hundred clerks. We need a lean, focused operation built around the core business—luxury textiles—with diversified interests in emerging markets."

Toranne laughed, a sound like glass breaking. "You sound like a proper businessman. Hard to reconcile with the stories I've heard about Marco, Cisco's right hand."

Marco's expression didn't change. "The past is the past. I'm offering you a chance to be part of something new. Something profitable."