Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 1251: Partner

“Hello, Mr. Roland.” Rock’s voice arrived calm and unhurried, the same composure it always carried. “I didn’t expect you to call so early. Is there an emergency?”

Roland glanced at the clock. Seven in the morning. He winced. “Sorry — did I wake you? I do have something that requires the Association’s help. Nothing to do with Fallen Evils, but it matters.”

“No need to apologize,” Rock said. “Normal people sleep more. An aged Awakened like me, though — I’m awake most of the time. What do you need?”

Roland had made himself useful to the Martialist Association. He hunted Fallen Evils alone — or nearly alone, the Taquila witches always nearby, making the operations less hunts than harvests — and his kill count rivaled all but the Defenders’ squads and Fei Yuhan’s celebrated team. He never reported every extermination. Most of the fallen cores had already dissipated back into the Dream World, and there was nothing to show for them anyway. Still, his name circulated among the executives; he had earned a phone line that connected directly to the Defenders, and access to every facility the Association ran.

“Before I ask,” Roland said, “one question. What’s the relationship between the Prism City and the Clover Group?”

Garcia had mentioned it once — her father had a hand in building the Prism City.

“Long-term partners,” Rock said. “We’ve built many such partnerships. The Association requires considerable money and resources.”

“So we’re also a major client.”

“You could say that.”

“Good.” Roland told him what he needed.

Rock went quiet. The silence stretched long enough that Roland checked whether the line had dropped. When the Defender spoke again, there was a careful quality to his words. “I have no objection — but why is it important to you?”

“It’s important to this world,” Roland said, and meant it. Even if Nightingale were standing in the room, she would not have found any lie to catch — the Battle of Divine Will concerned every person alive. If humanity fell, the Dream World would follow; frozen in eternity, sealed in the Realm of Mind. “If we lose, I die too.”

Another pause, shorter this time. “Alright.” Rock’s voice softened just slightly. “Either way, I should thank you on behalf of the Association. Without you, many of our younger martialists would have left. The situation would be worse. Much worse.”

Roland hadn’t expected that. Rock said it without ceremony, without any angle, the way a man states a fact he’s long since accepted.

He had meant to say something dismissive — that’s nothing — but the words didn’t come. Instead, something shifted in his chest, small but real.

“I’ll protect this world,” he said.

He set the phone down and sent Zero off to school. She was Awakened now, but still a student — and with Saint Miran, Dido, and Ling all at the same institution, Fallen Evils were the least of his concerns for her. He allowed himself that much peace of mind before he walked out.

The Rose Café had been shuttered since his last meeting with Lan. The roll-up door stayed clamped down; the only way in was through the side entrance from the warehouse.

It was always busy inside.

The witches were making breakfast when he pushed through the door, and the smell of barbecue hit him like a wall — rich, charred fat and something sweet underneath. He ate until he was full and then, with the café emptied of its inhabitants, drove downtown.

The Clover Group’s headquarters occupied the center of the city, and Roland found it without difficulty.

He had told the Association in advance. A receptionist was waiting; he was escorted to an elevator before he’d even reached for his martialist credentials. The elevator opened on the hundredth floor — a bright, enormous office wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass. Roland stood at the window a moment longer than was polite, revising his estimate of the Clover Group’s capital upward.

“We meet again, Mr. Roland.” Garde crossed the room and clasped his hand with both of his. “I didn’t expect you to rise so quickly in the Association. Young men have real potential!”

Roland remembered the last meeting, when Garde had barely thawed after seeing the hunting license. The warmth now was genuine — or at least performed with skill. Businessmen weigh a man’s standing more than his competence. Roland filed that away.

After the required minutes of small talk, he got to it. “Did Defender Rock tell you why I’m here?”

“Only that you need assistance, and that we should give it.” Garde lifted his hands, an honest shrug. “I don’t make every decision in this company.”

Which meant the apartment building project would continue regardless. Even if Garde personally wanted to halt demolition, the board wouldn’t approve the motion easily. But Roland had no intention of bringing that up. He was grateful the Defender had said nothing — had left Roland the room to negotiate on his own terms. It was the gesture of a man who trusted him, and Roland found he liked Rock considerably more for it.

“It isn’t complicated,” Roland said, spreading his hands on the table. “I want to establish a small manufacturing plant. A machinery model workshop — steam engines, old-style tractors, armored trucks, artillery. Nostalgic things. Real ones, though, not props. I have specific requirements.”

Garde’s mouth twitched. “Are you making a film?”

“Something like that. But I need working models, not stage pieces. And I won’t be selling them — these are for collectors, personal use. No assembly line required. Lower cost.”

Garde looked at him the way a man looks at a balance sheet that doesn’t add up. He was clearly pricing the project as an unreturnable loss and adjusting his expression accordingly.

“I wasn’t aware Mr. Roland had such unusual tastes,” he said finally. “So — you want the Group to establish a small factory and provide designers and workers?”

Roland saw the problem immediately. Designers meant engineers, and recruiting qualified ones wouldn’t be fast, not even for the Clover Group. “Yes, roughly. But take your time. I’m not in a rush.”

Garde moved back to his desk and picked up the telephone. “Let me check with my secretary.”

Fifteen minutes passed. The call came back.

Garde turned. “There may be a facility that suits your needs.”

Roland raised his brows. “That was fast.”

“Pure luck,” Garde said, with the modesty of a man who was quietly proud of his organization. “I can take you there now, if you’re free.”

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