NOVEL NEXT B2. Chapter 22: Make Spiked Coffee, Not War (Why Not Both?)
My Lady,
Urgent developments. The System's spread in our realm has accelerated beyond projections. As of this morning, 91% of our servant class has manifested abilities. Parliament is in constant session. They're calling you "the Liberator" and composing new revolutionary songs. Three hundred seven verses so far, all rhyming.
"What is it always with the prime numbers?" Mo asked no one in particular.
"What numbers?" Nyx asked, their form shifting into an exaggerated question mark. "Are we having a algebraic crisis? Should I manifest an abacus?"
"I don't think it's only an Earth concept. I'll explain later."
More concerning: Dragons have noticed. The Eternal Flame Concordat sent representatives demanding explanation for the "magical contamination" of their servant populations. The Crystalline Sovereignty is threatening litigation for copyright infringement of systematic reality structures.
"Copyright infringement... of reality," Lucian said softly. "Almost poetic. Even dragons want to trademark the winter of change, to bottle reforms and sell them back to us with interest."
Regarding Project Arabica Arcana (as I've named it). We saw the yesterday's headlines and decided to work proactively. We started experimenting in Pocket Dimension 7-Gamma-Accelerated to produce the overnight results. The expenses are unsustainable, close to 1% of the Empire's GDP, but it gives me an opportunity to already report the preliminary results. All in all, the experimental plantations are exceeding expectations.
Mo choked. "One percent of GDP for coffee experiments? What the actual…"
"Are you ready to reconsider how much leeway you give to your servants?" asked Valerius.
"Grimz isn't a servant. He's representative of his people. All the people of my Empire."
"Yeah, I think the main word there is Empire, darling," Nyx said.
The Frostbrook blend, grown in ice-touched soil, produces remarkable mental clarity and enhances ice magic by 23%.
The Shadowlands variant creates a fascinating melancholic creativity—three cups and even I joined the parliamentarians in writing a couple of verses.
The volcanic soil from the dragon territories... well, that batch literally caught fire, but in a controlled, energizing way.
Most promising: The Temporal Blend we plan to grow in Pocket Dimension 7-Alpha-Accelerated. Growing coffee in compressed time (1 day = 1 month) is ruinously expensive (not as much as Pocket Dimension 7-Gamma-Accelerated, but still…), but the resulting beans can temporarily slow or speed up the drinker's perception of time (depending on the brewing sequence). Perfect for cramming before exams or surviving long Parliament sessions. We can have the first exclusive batch ready in seven days. I suggest pricing at 50 Soul Slivers per pound—outrageous, but the nobility love exclusivity.
A personal note: Whatever happened last night caused magical resonance across all the Empire's dimensions. Even Dimension 7-Gamma-Accelerated was affected, despite the temporal differential. Or maybe thanks to that difference. Dr. Foster is already investigating the incident, and she promised to get to the bottom of that phenomenon.
An unexpected mutation of the beans was produced there, in Gamma. The batch developed what my agricultural team is delicately calling "aphrodisiac properties." When brewed, it apparently enhances emotional receptivity and lowers inhibitions in ways remarkably similar to, if I may say, succubus influence. We've locked it in the vault until you decide what to do with it but are ready to start growing it in Dimension 7-Alpha-Accelerated at your first command.
Back in Blackthorn Keep, every romantic novel in the library spontaneously opened to their most passionate scenes. The head librarian has threatened to quit unless we provide hazard pay for 'exposure to unsolicited literary arousal.' The goblins not involved in parliamentary happenings are still taking notes.
As you may have guessed, Dr. Foster arrived safely and is already busy with her research work and our mutual magitech [the word was originally misspelled by Grimz, corrected, misspelled again, scratched out to almost make it unreadable, and written again, correctly this time] projects. She asked me to tell you she's "implementing proper scientific methodology to chaos management." I'm not entirely sure what that means, but she seems confident and quite content.
Your devoted servant (and increasingly concerned comrade),
Grimz
Mo put her head in her hands. "Three hundred seven verses… I'm not surprised Darian caught a whiff of goblins declaring me a revolutionary prophet."
"That's what you focus on?" Nyx laughed. "Not the interdimensional magical resonance from your entirely-platonic sleepover?"
"Nothing happened that would..." Mo started, then stopped. Her face flushed as she remembered exactly what had happened. The kissing. The way her powers had exploded outward. Emily beneath her, pulling her closer...
"On the other hand, I'm impressed by your advisor once again," Valerius said, saving Mo from further embarrassment. "Grimz already produced the beans you need to fight Darian's attack before you even thought about that strategy. That's either prescient or lucky."
"The coffee speaks in tongues we're only beginning to understand," Lucian added. "Beans that bloom with borrowed desire, grounds that carry the echo of a succubus's choice. Your personal storms become everyone's weather, Mo. The power imbalance isn't just personal anymore—you're becoming something beyond a Dark Lady. Even if they continue to point out your provisional status. You're the axis on which transformation spins."
The weight of it settled on Mo's shoulders like a lead mantle. She wasn't just managing an empire or competing in a Tournament. She was somehow reshaping reality through her choices, her relationships, her very existence.
"We need a plan," Mo said, forcing herself to focus. "For the Task, for the media, for everything."
A crash echoed through the library as someone's coffee mug went flying. They all turned to see Darian stumbling backward, his possessions dropping to the floor, restorative brew spreading across his previously impeccable clothes. Cordelia stood where he'd been, having moved through the library stacks with the fluid speed of a hunting dragon—faster than anyone expected from someone who usually strolled everywhere like she owned the place.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Cordelia said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I didn't see you there. You're just so... small."
She stepped over his soaked books and papers before approaching Mo's table, leaving Darian scrambling to save his ruined work.
"I have a suggestion," Cordelia announced, pulling up a chair with theatrical flair. "Stop playing by their rules entirely."
"Meaning?" Mo asked, still processing the dragon's dramatic entrance.
"Task Two is diplomatic crisis resolution. They expect you to either strong-arm your way through with traditional power plays or fail trying to build consensus." Cordelia's smile was all teeth. "So give them something else entirely. Something they can't predict or counter."
"Like what?"
"Like using the truth as your primary weapon, that would be so refreshing, after what we see from these mediocrities," Cordelia said, looking pointedly at still-scrambling Darian. "Show them what's actually happening across the realms. Every dimension is transforming, whether they admit it or not. Make the simulation acknowledge that your methods aren't just idealistic theory—they're the only thing preventing a diplomatic breakdown between species that are suddenly equals."
"Turn the diplomatic crisis into a demonstration," Valerius said slowly, understanding dawning. "Instead of resolving their manufactured conflict, reveal the real crisis that's already happening."
"Exactly." Cordelia leaned back, satisfied. "They want you to negotiate between traditional powers? Show them what happens when the 'powerless' suddenly have magic. When servants can match their masters spell for spell."
"That's either brilliant or suicidal," Valerius observed.
"Both," Mo said. "Which means it's probably our best option. And it de facto became our modus operandi."
She looked around at her friends—her chosen family who'd stood with her through impossible odds. Nyx, still in denial about Dorian but fiercely loyal. Lucian, with his quiet strength and poetic soul. Valerius, who'd grown from enemy to ally to something approaching friend. And the newest addition, Cordelia, whose dragon pragmatism might be the key to surviving what came next.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
Thirteen days to save her academic standing, prove her methods, and possibly prevent interdimensional economic conflict.
All while everyone watched, judged, and placed bets on her failure.
At least the coffee was good. Even though it was developing unexpected quirks.
***
Two hours later, Mo sat in the Academy's administrative office, facing a clerk who looked like she'd been carved from the most disappointed slab of granite. The nameplate read "Ms. Badweather, Complaints Department," and the woman's expression suggested she considered all complaints personal insults.
"You're filing a formal complaint about the Tournament scoring?" Ms. Badweather's voice could have frozen lava.
"Yes." Mo slid her carefully prepared documents across the desk. "My Task One violence penalty is under review because the judges claim drawing blood for contract signing is 'bureaucratic procedure' rather than violence."
"And?"
"And that's ridiculous. I drew blood. With a blade. From two unwilling parties. That's violence."
Ms. Badweather's eyebrow twitched. "You're arguing that treaty signing was violent?"
"I'm arguing that violence takes many forms. The Tournament rules require violence during tasks. I complied. Just because my violence involved paperwork doesn't make it less violent."
The clerk stared at her for a long moment. "So, your position is that bureaucracy can be violent? What utter nonsense! Bureaucracy is perfectly organized!"
"Have you ever heard of North Korea? Of course, bureaucracy can be violent."
"I'll need to file this with the High Council review board." Ms. Badweather pulled out a form that seemed to unfold infinitely. "Initial here, here, and here. Ah, sorry, I need to add 'provisional' first. Sign in blood here…"
"Is that violence?" Mo interrupted.
The clerk's eye twitched again. "That's procedure."
"I almost feel attacked."
Ms. Badweather pulled out another form. "If you feel attacked, you'll need to file Form 82-C for Perceived Bureaucratic Aggression. Initial here to confirm you're not actually being attacked, just feeling like it," she paused and looked at Mo. "The key word here is 'almost,' young lady. I'm sure you'd feel differently if I attacked you. Especially in this office."
"Is that a threat?"
"No, that's a formal notice."
They stared at each other. Finally, Ms. Badweather stamped the form with unnecessary force.
"Your complaint will be reviewed in due time."
"Are there any guidelines about the timing?"
Ms. Badweather paused as if she really wanted Mo gone. "After the Yule break."
"So, before or after the Tournament ends?"
"You'll find out soon enough." The clerk's smile could have curdled milk. "Next!"
Mo hadn't even stood up yet when Dorian Blackwood swept in, followed by three demons who somehow managed to look both like average Earth lawyers and vampires at the same time.
"I'm filing an emergency counter-complaint," he announced, not looking at Mo. "If Nightshade's violence doesn't count, then she violated Tournament rules. Her Ball points should be permanently removed, and without them, she never qualified for the Tournament at all."
Mo's stomach dropped. "You can't…"
"Family precedent, established in 1347." One of the lawyers pulled out a scroll. "Any contestant whose qualifying points are retroactively invalidated must be removed from the competition."
Ms. Badweather looked like Yule had come early. "Oh, this IS interesting. Two contradicting complaints about the same incident. I'll need form 47-B." She pulled out another file. "And form 23-X for the counter-complaint. And form 91-Z for the emergency review request."
An hour of paperwork later, Mo emerged from the administrative office feeling like she'd been rolled through a bureaucratic meat grinder. Dorian and his lawyers were still inside, apparently filing additional amendments.
***
Only three days after the first task, and Darian Blackcrest's headlines had reached new heights of creative character assassination:
"NIGHTSHADE'S 'PEACEFUL' REVOLUTION - LOOPHOLE OR LEGITIMATE? HIGH COUNCIL WILL DECIDE IF SHE EVEN QUALIFIED"
The article featured interviews with "anonymous Traditional Values advocates" claiming Mo's approach undermined the very foundations of villainy. There was a helpful sidebar explaining that while bureaucratic violence was perfectly traditional, it couldn't qualify as violence unless all proper bureaucratic procedures were followed.
Students had started taking sides. Mo couldn't walk to class without hearing debates.
"It's genius," a second-year was saying. "She found a loophole that satisfies the letter of the law while…"
"While spitting on its spirit," another student interrupted. "Traditions are of the utmost importance! Violence means VIOLENCE. Blood and terror and proper conquest."
"So, you can't organize that in a proper bureaucratic manner? And she drew blood!"
"For a signature! My grandmother draws more blood while cooking!"
"Well, that's not surprising. She is a vampire, as far as I remember."
Days passed both in academic and tournament activities. The imminent Yule break meant not only the approach of the second Task of the Tournament, but also the mid-year reviews.
Almost a week after that memorable night with Emily, a new headline actually made Mo laugh:
"THREE MORE REALMS ADOPT D.E.V.I.O.U.S. - SERVANTS DEMAND SPELL RIGHTS"
Darian had clearly intended it as horror journalism, but the article accidentally made Mo sound competent. Three realm adoptions in a week was impressive, even if Darian described it as "the rapid infection of traditional society by nouveau-magique upstarts."
The accompanying editorial was less funny:
"How long before every butler can blast lightning? Before every maid manifests mind-reading? The Nightshade approach doesn't just change power dynamics—it obliterates them. Is this the future we want? Where anyone, regardless of breeding or bloodline, can access magic?"
She showed the newspaper to Nyx in exasperation. "It's not like I'm giving them these powers! I'm just trying to stabilize the situation!"
"And making some money."
"Well, yes," Mo agreed. "But I'd suppose that opportunist capitalism would have been quite in line wth the values of this academy and our society."
***
Mo woke with the sudden awareness that Task Two was breathing down her neck—barely a week left, her brain supplied unhelpfully—only to find herself wrapped in arms that smelled like home. There were slight notes of both Blackthorn Keep and Earth there. Emily Foster was in her bed, fully clothed on top of the blankets, holding Mo like she was something precious that might evaporate with the morning light.
"How…" Mo started to whisper, then heard Nyx's theatrical sigh from the common room.
"She showed up at three in the morning with coffee samples and started drawing charts with her… you know, golden System stuff floating everywhere like she was conducting an orchestra of data," Nyx called through Mo's bedroom door. "Our sofa will never be the same—there are probability calculations permanently etched into the cushions! I suggested she'd use the sofa as a normal person, but she said the calculations were time-sensitive and then passed out on your bed while 'just resting her eyes for a moment'."
Emily stirred, golden light flickering behind her closed eyelids. "Mo?"
"Hi," Mo said, hyperaware of how Emily's leg had tangled with hers during the night. "You fell asleep in my bed."
"I was doing temporal variance equations," Emily mumbled into Mo's shoulder. "Dimension seven, you know. The coffee samples need testing before they destabilize. Also, you're warm."
"Scientific observation?"
"Purely empirical." Emily's eyes opened fully, warm despite the exhaustion visible there. "Though I should probably…"
"So, what brings you here?" Mo asked, disentangling herself reluctantly. "Crisis? Troubles with the System? You have to give another report here at the Academy?"
Emily sat up, performing a dramatic pause before the audience of two.
"What is it?!? Spit it out!"
With theatrical flair, Emily reached into her shirt. But didn't rush to continue the motion. Then, she took out what looked like a bag of coffee beans. However, nothing hinted there was enough space to hide them there.
"What the…? I know your size! Where did it come from?"
Emily took out a few more bags, before jumping to the floor from the bed in a performative movement. "Ta-da! Bra of holding! Can you imagine that? Grimz found it on the lower levels!" Next, she pulled out what looked like official Academy paperwork, miniaturized. "I got dispensation to visit. Made friends with some of the research faculty last time, pulled a few strings."
"Lower levels?" asked Mo. "Grimz? That reminds me of something… Never thought we had any… lingerie there. Maybe I should order the archives to be catalogued again. I think Grimz knows a thing or two about the process."
"The temporal difference in Dimension Seven let us grow several new blends already," Emily continued, her excitement building. "I couldn't miss the opportunity to taste them with friends. And, well..." She glanced at Mo. "To see you."
"Your coffee tastes are getting expensive," Mo teased. "What happened to the simple Earth scientist who was happy with a regular latte?"
Emily shot back without missing a beat. "That was before someone introduced me to interdimensional coffee monopolies. You've ruined me for normal caffeine. Now I can only consume the stuff you charge outrageous prices for."
"It's all your fault, you know," Emily pouted, but her eyes were sparkling with laughter.
"Supply and demand," Mo said, trying not to smile too widely. "But I'm not being held responsible for your choices. You are an adult, you know."
Half an hour later, after Mo had showered and pretended her face wasn't permanently red, their suite's common room had transformed into an impromptu coffee laboratory.
"We should get Lucian and Valerius," Mo said. "They'd never forgive us for testing the first truly magical coffee without them."
Ten minutes later, their friends arrived, allowed in by Lady Thornheart as the night's curfew was already ending. "You started taste-testing apocalyptic coffee without us?" Valerius asked with mock hurt. "After everything we've been through?"
"Both," Nyx predicted. "It's always both with Mo."
"Right," Emily said, pulling on actual safety gloves she'd brought. "The Frostbrook blend first. Grimz's notes indicate it enhances ice magic by approximately twenty-three percent."
Lucian volunteered immediately, reaching for the nearest cup. "Finally, something designed for my magic…"
"Wait, that's not…" Emily started, but Lucian had already taken a large sip.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then Lucian's usually pale complexion flushed red. Steam rose from his skin where frost usually gathered.
"This is... unexpected," he said, and his voice came out warm, almost cheerful. The perpetual frost on his collar began to melt. "I feel... is this what happiness feels like? Unburdened by the weight of eternal winter?"
"Wrong cup!" Emily said, checking her labels. "That's the volcanic blend!"