67. ALL FOR NOTHING

Bellows must’ve seen the confusion written all over me.

When the Gem awakens to call a Hero, the world is ill prepared...and its fate is placed in the hands of a 17 year old boy, named Wendell. 

Some will say this is nothing but a tale of fiction.
Let them think as they may. 

After all...I can't fix stupid.

Previously: Wendell’s rise in Trench Wars ended in disaster when his S.L.A.G., Gnolaum, was decapitated mid-fight—costing him everything he’d earned to free the muddles. Meanwhile, Alhannah collapsed from a mysterious illness, leaving Wendell furious, desperate, and questioning if his fight had ever truly mattered.

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Chapter 67

Do you fight because you have a chance of winning?
Or do you fight because the cause is worthy of your blood, sweat, and tears?

As usual, I was the talk of Trench Wars and every blinking screen that mattered. A ‘shooting comet’, the anchors called me…bright one minute, gone the next.

Armored Ensemble had finished Darcy the way I thought it would go down. Darcy fell off his perch like a man who’d finally miscounted. But the same blow that cheered the crowd also finished Gnolaum, and with it went the whole of my winnings.

“I did strongly caution you not to bet it all, Wendell.”

“I know,” I said, and I could hear how hollow it sounded. I rubbed my eyes and let out a long, tired sigh. “I should have listened.”

Philburt Bellows handed me a cup of tea and sat opposite the fire. He had a comfortable, rich-chair air about him…like the room agreed with his existence. “I’m very sorry. That was a great deal of money.”

“I don’t care about the money,” I told him. Saying it out loud made it feel less like whining and more like an accusation. “I care about the people I just let down because of my foolishness. I took risks instead of taking what I had and helping those still trapped in the warehouse.”

Bellows adjusted his glasses. “Oh, they’re not trapped, Wendell. I have a manager watching over them for now. They’ll receive food and provisions as long as needed. Might even have some jobs available in a week or two.” He sipped his tea and watched me stare into the flames like they owed me answers. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“But I was so close!” I snapped, shoving the teacup aside. “Can’t you do something for them? I told you what it’s like down there…the furnaces, and all those children. They need to get out. If they can’t have a decent place here in Clockworks, help me get them off the island.”

Bellows looked up at me curiously.

“To the free zones,” I said. I’d learned from a very frustrated Morty that those who couldn’t make it in Clockwork City sometimes left the city life behind. They’d renounce their citizenship and move to one of the smaller islands off the main landmass of Pävärios. Thousands lived in connection with nature instead of with machines.

Bellows’ smile thinned. “Ah. Now, that would be more difficult than you think. Incredibly expensive, too. The Government Faction used to allow all to leave freely. Not so anymore. They extract a hefty fee to leave all this behind. It’s my policy to protect my investments…and not throw good money after bad.”

“But you have money!” Heat crawled onto my face. “You’re the richest gnome in Clockworks, and we’re talking about people. Living, breathing beings…more important than any credits. Isn’t that what you say? You invest in people, if I remember right.”

He listened, his expression not unkind, as he stirred his own tea.

I waited for mercy.

He handed me nothing.

“You’re not going to help me, are you?” I said, the words soft with accusation.

“It’s…not that simple,” Bellows replied precisely.

I laughed, sharp and uselessly. “You mean the people aren’t worth opening your bank account like you profess. Look…I know I’m out of Trench Wars, but I did what you asked. I created drama. Plenty of it. I also have a fan base we can woo for whatever purpose you need. Get off your soapbox and help me!”

Bellows’ pleasant mask slipped.

The warmth drained from his face and left a cold calculation in its place.

He set the saucer aside, took off his glasses, folded them with the reverence of a man putting away dangerous tools, and slid them into his breast pocket.

“Knowing who you are, young man, I believe you had good parents. People who taught you morals and decency.” He stood, collected my saucer, and set beside his own on the desk. For a moment, he left his back to me, his shoulders hunching forward as his hands gripped the edge of his desk. “But listening to you breaks my heart…because right now the only thing you really need is a firm slap across the face.”

I shifted in the chair, the guilt and anger tangling in my gut like two kids fighting over the same toy.

Bellows walked past me to the library door and opened it like he’d summoned a storm. “Before I have my butler throw your ungrateful carcass out, I want to show you something.” The sentence had no room for argument.

I gulped.

The quiet in the room suddenly felt loud.

I stood, then moved across the rug to meet him at the door.

He stopped me there.

Bellows leaned in close enough for me to smell cheap cologne. “If you ever reveal any hint of what I’m about to show you, I don’t care if you are the Gnolaum, Wendell. I will use every means at my disposal to destroy you.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth like he’d told the joke before and still enjoyed it. “Do we have an understanding?”

I swallowed and nodded because the alternative involved teeth and ruin.

“Follow me.”

We left the library, and I followed Bellows down the main corridor like a student being led to detention. The front doors loomed at the end of the hall…massive, carved, and expensive enough to make the rest of the mansion look humble.

Every inch of the place screamed wealth.

Genuine wood everywhere…beams, paneling, railings, even the floorboards had this smug polish like they knew what luxury was.

Bellows gestured around us. “What do you see, Wendell?”

I snorted. “Money. A lot of it.”

He nodded. “I’d have to agree. I bought this place while climbing the ladder of society, making more profit than I could count. I wanted to build a world for my family. I had a lovely wife and beautiful children.” His face softened, eyes glazing with nostalgia. “A place where little feet could run. Where we could be close to our leaders. Where I could weave comfort around my darling wife for the rest of our lives.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Good for you.”

The words came out sharper than I meant, and the way his smile died told me he noticed.

He didn’t scold me, though…but he should have. Instead, he just slowed his pace and lowered his voice. “On an outing with my family, I wanted to show my children the source of their blessings. I took them to one of my first factories…my most profitable one. During the tour, I was called into a meeting to resolve an issue with the planning commission. My wife and children continued with the foreman.”

We stopped beside one of the enormous wooden beams. He reached out and ran his hand along the grain, tracing the knots like they were scars. “There was an explosion at the far end of the factory. One of the…boilers.” His voice cracked on the word. “The accident not only took my loved ones…it also changed the lives of sixty-two other families that day.”

I unfolded my arms, suddenly feeling like the room had shrunk.

He turned back toward the hall and pulled a large key from a chain around his neck. “Though I miss their faces every moment I live,” he said quietly, “I would not change the events of that day. Not now…knowing what I know.”

He slid the key into the door.

The lock clicked.

The door creaked open.

Those massive slabs of wood swung wide to reveal…nothing.

Literally nothing.

I stepped past Bellows, frowning. The room was stripped bare. Everything was dusty, gutted, and cold. Scars marked the walls where decorations had hung. Pipes jutted from the plaster; wires dangled from holes in the ceiling. It looked more like a demolition site than a mansion room.

“I…don’t understand,” I said.

Bellows gave a small, tired smile. “No, you don’t. But you will.”

He closed the door behind us, locked it, and continued down the hall.

He opened room after room. Each one was the same…empty, hollowed out, stripped to bone and dust.

By the fifth, the pattern was obvious.

“I realized that day that people were more important than things,” he said, voice steady again. “But they’re impressionable. Too much so. They judge with their eyes and their assumptions.” He stopped at the last door, this one carved with the image of a mountain cave and a pair of eyes peering from the shadows. “So I learned to use perception to my advantage.”

The hinges groaned as he pushed the door open.

Inside sat the butler, perched on one of the two narrow beds. The room was simple, functional…like the world’s politest prison cell. A two-burner stove and small refrigerator against one wall, a table with two chairs in the middle, and a door cracked open to a tiny bathroom.

“Yes, Wendell,” Bellows said before I could speak. “This is where I live.” He nodded toward the butler, who smiled faintly and returned the gesture. “As I care for others, this goodly gnome cares for me.”

Then he shut the door and started back toward the library as if that had explained everything.

I followed, face twisted somewhere between disbelief and confusion.

So…he’s rich. Obviously. Or is this all an act? Maybe the mansion’s real, but the wealth isn’t. Maybe the “factories” are gone, and he’s just playing everyone. No…that didn’t make sense either. Bellows reeked of control, not desperation.

He stopped at the library door and motioned me back in.

I couldn’t figure out if he had just lectured me, manipulated me, or done both to me.

“Why?” I finally asked, though the word came out halfway between a question and a sigh. I wasn’t sure if I meant why this, or why you, or why anything at all anymore.

Bellows went to his desk and lifted the teapot from its boiler plate. “If you mean why I live this way,” he said, “it’s because I can’t live the way I did. Knowing how my brothers and sisters struggle, how could I?” He poured himself a cup, steam curling in the air. “If you’re asking why the charade, well… it’s because I can persuade wealthy people to do good when they believe I’m one of them.” His mouth tilted into a small, private smile. “So I sold all I owned personally except the essentials…and kept only my favorite room. This library. My wife chose every book here.”

The fire popped between us.

“But it’s a lie,” I said, my throat tightening. “Isn’t it?”

“Not in the least.” He motioned to the leather chairs again, unbothered. “I am as wealthy as people perceive. More so if you value the mortal soul.”

I sat down, but said nothing.

He laughed softly. “Oh, I don’t mean owning souls. I mean saving them, Wendell. Giving hope where there is none.” He leaned forward and jabbed my arm with one finger. “Just like you’ve done with the muddles.”

I dragged a hand through my hair. My brain hurt trying to make sense of it. There was comfort in believing someone out there had power…someone with resources who could make things better. But now I saw that even the ones who looked like kings were just making do.

Life wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t even fair.

It was just…work.

Bellows must’ve seen the confusion written all over me.

“Nothing has changed,” he said gently. “I keep this home for appearances, for business. Every resource I have is in motion, doing good work. I don’t hoard money. I invest it in others.”

“So…” I leaned forward, guilt prickling under my skin. “You would have helped me if the resources were there?”

He smiled. “To a degree, yes. But I have mouths to feed, Wendell. I won’t let them down. If I had anything to spare, though, I’d place it in your hands to support such a cause.”

That actually made me breathe easier, but it didn’t solve the problem. If I knew where my magical money bag was…the one I wasn’t supposed to be able to lose…this might be different.

At least I knew Bellows wasn’t the villain I’d painted him to be.

“Then why show me all this?” I asked.

He looked into the fire again. “Because I’ve always believed in the Gnolaum. I’m not a churchgoer like most, but there must be something more than this existence. Something to hope for.” His gaze flicked back to me, thoughtful. “You know… I’ve just revealed my greatest secret to someone other than my servant. I wonder if…” He stopped himself, waved it off. “No. That would be rude.”

“What?” I asked. “You mean it’d be rude to ask for proof that I’m really who I say I am?”

He didn’t meet my eyes. “It would help me, yes. To know the prophecies were true.”

It didn’t seem unreasonable.

He had laid himself bare in every way that mattered.

The least I could do was return the gesture.

With a spark of my will, the mägoweave over my chest rolled back to reveal bare skin. I pressed two fingers against my chest, and whispered, “Silmӓ inakmään.”

The library filled with light.

The Ithari appeared…pure, brilliant, alive…catching the light from the fire and scattering it across the shelves like daylight. I looked down at it, then back up at him. “I can’t say for sure if I’m the Gnolaum everyone talks about,” I told him, “but I am the host of the Ithari.”

Bellows stood slowly, trembling. His eyes glistened and quickly filled with tears. He reached out with both hands, then hesitated. “May I?”

I nodded.

His fingers brushed the surface, and he flinched as if it burned. “It’s true,” he whispered, awe and grief mixing in his voice. “There is hope.”

I murmured the closing words and let the light fade; the mägoweave sliding back over my chest.

Bellows blinked rapidly, like a man waking from a deep dream. “Thank you, Wendell. You do not know what you’ve just done for me.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at his eyes. “Ah, but you have. This…is purpose. I’ve spent my life trying to change things, not because I can, but because change must happen. That’s duty. But it’s been a lonely road without the ones I love.” He pointed at my chest. “Now I have a reason again. A renewed determination.”

“Still doesn’t help me much,” I admitted. “I blew my shot at the title. Doesn’t do you much good either.”

“Maybe not,” he said, eyes twinkling now. “But experience has taught me…opportunity always finds those willing to put everything on the line for a worthy cause.”

I might’ve brushed it off as another proverb, except that his smile lingered—wide and knowing, like he was looking at something I couldn’t see yet.

A shadow appeared in the doorway.

The butler.

Bellows extended his hand. “Don’t stop fighting,” he whispered, squeezing my palm. “You never know when a little luck might be thrown your way.”

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