Chapter 63 – Blood, Beans, and Bureaucracy

【Elizabeth PoV】

The cathedral’s war room smelled like gun oil and incense.

I placed the Holy Pillow on the obsidian pedestal in the center of the table. The memory foam compressed slightly under its own weight, still holding the indent where His head had rested.

My generals stood at attention around the table.

Six of them. The best killers I’d recruited from military backgrounds, criminal organizations, and one from a disbanded special forces unit. They didn’t flinch at violence. They didn’t question orders.

But right now they all looked nervous.

Good.

Fear kept people sharp.

“Gentlemen.”

I rested my hands on the table, leaning forward. The tactical vest I wore was still stained with demon ichor from earlier. I hadn’t bothered changing.

“We have a new priority.”

Morrison stepped forward, tablet in hand.

“The Temple of Frost construction is ahead of schedule, High Priestess. We should have the cooling systems operational within forty-eight hours.”

“Good. That remains our primary objective. But we have a secondary mission now.”

I pulled out my phone and opened my message history. Scrolled back three days to a conversation I’d had with the Lord.

He’d been complaining about work. Normal divine venting. I’d listened dutifully, absorbing every word like scripture.

One line stood out.

“The coffee at the facility is undrinkable garbage. I’d rather drink drain cleaner.”

I’d dismissed it at the time as hyperbole. A joke. The Lord had a dark sense of humor when He chose to reveal it.

But now, after tonight, after the pillow, I understood.

It wasn’t a joke.

It was a test.

He was seeing if I could read between the lines. If I could understand His needs without explicit commands.

I turned the phone toward my generals.

“The Lord is displeased with His current offerings. The sustenance provided to Him is beneath His station.”

Morrison squinted at the screen.

“Coffee?”

“Not just coffee. The perfect coffee. The kind worthy of divine consumption.”

One of my other generals, Rodriguez, cleared his throat.

“With respect, High Priestess, we’re in the middle of constructing a temple. Resources are stretched thin.”

I looked at him.

Just looked.

He went pale and took a step back.

“Understood, ma’am. Coffee is now a priority.”

“Not a priority. The priority. If the Lord suffers from poor-quality caffeine while we waste time on lesser concerns, we have failed Him.”

I pulled up a map on the tablet, highlighting several locations across the city.

“There are three major suppliers of premium coffee in the region. Corvis Imports handles most of the high-end restaurants. Valencia Trading has exclusive contracts with boutique roasters. And then there’s the Belmont Collective.”

I tapped the third location.

“The Belmont Collective is a front for a minor supernatural faction. They control a reality-anchored farm in a pocket dimension. Their beans are grown in accelerated time, harvested at peak flavor, and sold for obscene prices to people who know what they’re buying.”

Morrison leaned in, studying the map.

“You want us to negotiate a purchase?”

“I want us to take everything they have. The farm, the processing equipment, the entire supply chain.”

Rodriguez whistled low.

“That’s an act of war. The Belmont Collective has backing from the Council of Veils.”

“The Council can file a complaint with the Void. I’m sure He’ll consider it carefully before erasing them from existence.”

I straightened, rolling my shoulders.

“We move in one hour. Full combat loadout. Morrison, you’re on tactical coordination. Rodriguez, handle the extraction teams. I’ll lead the assault personally.”

Morrison hesitated.

“High Priestess, you haven’t slept in thirty-six hours. Perhaps you should—”

“The Lord hasn’t slept properly in months because of His broken air conditioning. I can manage one more night.”

That shut him up.

I walked to the weapons locker and pulled out my preferred loadout. Twin tactical blades, blessed by a priest I’d converted last year. A handgun loaded with silver-tipped rounds. And my personal favorite, a combat shotgun with custom ammunition.

This was going to be fun.

The Belmont Collective’s headquarters was a warehouse in the industrial district.

From the outside it looked abandoned. Broken windows. Graffiti on the walls. The kind of place homeless people avoided because it had bad vibes.

I crouched on a rooftop across the street, watching through binoculars.

The reality anchors were visible if you knew what to look for. Small distortions in the air around the building. Places where light bent wrong.

“Count?”

Morrison’s voice crackled through my earpiece.

“I see four anchors. Probably more inside.”

“Rules of engagement?”

“Lethal force authorized. Anyone who resists dies. Anyone who surrenders gets converted or contained.”

“Copy that.”

I lowered the binoculars and checked my watch. 0300 hours. The witching hour, as the old stories called it.

Perfect timing for a raid.

“All teams, sound off.”

One by one, my squad leaders reported in. Alpha Team on the north entrance. Bravo on the south. Charlie holding the perimeter. Delta on standby for extraction.

Thirty-six soldiers total.

More than enough for a minor faction.

“Execute in three, two, one, mark.”

The north and south entrances exploded simultaneously.

Shaped charges I’d placed during reconnaissance. The sound was deafening, rolling across the empty streets like thunder.

Alpha and Bravo teams poured through the breaches before the smoke cleared.

I stood up and ran toward the edge of the rooftop.

The drop was three stories. I jumped without hesitation, using a grappling line to control my descent. My boots hit pavement hard enough to crack the concrete.

Gunfire erupted from inside the warehouse.

I sprinted toward the south entrance, shotgun already in hand. The smoke was clearing now, revealing the interior.

It was bigger than it should be. Way bigger. Pocket dimension fuckery at work.

The warehouse interior stretched for what looked like miles. Rows of coffee plants growing under artificial sunlight. Processing equipment gleaming in the distance.

And between me and all that beautiful caffeine were about twenty very angry mages.

They wore robes. Of course they wore robes. Every magical faction thought they were hot shit because they had fancy clothes.

I raised the shotgun and fired.

The first mage’s shield shattered like glass. The second shot took him in the chest. He went down hard, blood pooling on the concrete.

“For the Lord!”

My team echoed the war cry, pouring into the warehouse with ruthless efficiency.

The mages tried to rally. Fireballs erupted from their hands. Lightning crackled between their fingers. One of them summoned something that looked like a demon made of shadow.

I shot it in the face.

The thing dissolved into smoke, screaming in a language that hurt to hear.

“Alpha, secure the processing equipment! Bravo, take the farm!”

I reloaded while moving, muscle memory guiding my hands. The mages were retreating now, falling back toward what looked like a command center at the far end of the warehouse.

Too slow.

I holstered the shotgun and drew my blades.

The first mage didn’t see me coming. I took his head off with one clean stroke. The second tried to cast something. I stabbed him through the throat before the spell could form.

Blood sprayed across my face, hot and copper-tasting.

I kept moving.

“His name is Kai!”

I screamed it while I fought. Let them know who they were dying for.

“Kai Evans! Lord of the Void! And you insulted Him with your hoarding!”

A mage tried to flank me. I spun, blade catching him across the stomach. His intestines spilled onto the floor. He looked down in shock, then collapsed.

“You kept the perfect coffee from Him! You made Him suffer mediocre beans!”

Another mage fell. Then another.

My team was spreading out now, systematically clearing the warehouse. Gunfire echoed from multiple directions. Someone screamed. Then silence.

I reached the command center breathing hard.

Five mages remained, backed into a corner. Their leader stood at the front, an older man with a gray beard and eyes that glowed with power.

“You’re insane.”

His voice was shaking. He was afraid.

Good.

“I’m devoted. There’s a difference.”

“This is over coffee. You’re killing us over coffee!”

I tilted my head, considering.

“Not just coffee. The best coffee. The kind that makes mortal existence bearable for someone carrying the weight of reality.”

“You can’t seriously—”

I shot him.

The remaining four mages broke. They tried to run. My team cut them down before they made it ten feet.

The warehouse fell silent except for the hum of the processing equipment.

I stood there for a moment, catching my breath. Blood dripped from my blades onto the concrete. The smell of gunpowder and death hung heavy in the air.

Morrison’s voice crackled through the earpiece.

“Warehouse secured, High Priestess. Casualty report?”

“Ours or theirs?”

“Ours. We lost two. Jenkins and Carver. Both took fireballs to the chest.”

I closed my eyes briefly.

“Give them full honors. They died in service to the Lord.”

“Yes, ma’am. What about the coffee?”

I opened my eyes and looked at the rows of plants stretching into the distance.

“Strip everything. The plants, the equipment, the dimensional anchors. I want this entire operation relocated to the cathedral within six hours.”

“Copy that.”

I wiped my blades clean on a dead mage’s robe and sheathed them.

This was just the beginning. The coffee was important, yes. But it was also a symbol.

If the Lord was particular about His coffee, it meant He was ready to be particular about other things.

Like which reality He wanted to rule.

Like when He wanted to ascend.

Like who would stand at His side when He claimed His throne.

I pulled out my phone and opened a new document.

Title: The Ascension Protocol.

Step one, secure His comfort. Temple of Frost, perfect coffee, anything else He mentioned in passing.

Step two, eliminate obstacles. Solomon and his pathetic invasion attempt would be handled.

Step three, prepare the throne.

I started typing, fingers flying across the screen. Every detail mattered. Every contingency needed planning.

The Lord deserved perfection.

And I would give it to Him, even if I had to kill everyone on the planet to make it happen.

My phone buzzed.

New message. Not from Him, from one of my analysts.

“Council of Veils is demanding an explanation for the Belmont raid. They’re threatening sanctions.”

I typed back quickly.

“Tell them to file their complaint with the Void. See what happens.”

I pocketed the phone and started walking toward the exit.

Behind me, my team was already working. Dismantling the farm. Loading equipment onto trucks. Moving with the efficiency of people who knew their mission mattered.

The Lord wanted better coffee.

The Lord would get better coffee.

And anyone who stood in the way would bleed for it.