Fenrir sat in his training room, cross-legged on the padded floor, eyes narrowed as his screen reflected a swarm of articles, comment threads, and gossip columns.
The mess caused by the Gorilla-man's crash had snowballed far too quickly.
And now, his name was trending—for all the wrong reasons.
"A Rich Family's Useless Heir Starts a Brawl!" "Is the Young Master Unstable?" "Should Power Like This Be Restricted?"
He felt it again—that sharp pressure inside his chest. Not anxiety. Not fear. It was fury, cold and dangerous, threatening to burn through his control.
His fingers twitched, mana gathering around them like heat radiating off sun-scorched stone.
But then… Fenrir exhaled.
Long. Slow.
'Wait. This is what they want.'
Whoever was orchestrating this chaos had done it not just to defame him—but to provoke him. To make him lash out recklessly, confirm the image they were painting.
A reckless, dangerous young heir.
'They want to corner me.'
Maybe someone in his family. Maybe an outside force. Either way, Fenrir had no intention of playing the role they'd written for him.
"Not today."
He muttered.
He shut the screen with a flick of his wrist and shifted his focus.
'The catalyst.'
That was the real priority.
Correcting his mana flow wouldn't just unlock his potential—it would stabilize his body, integrate his spiritual core, and allow him to use the techniques from his era without limitation.
Without that, he was only playing human.
He opened the special market he'd unlocked earlier using the original host's hidden hacking protocols—buried deep under layers of digital disguises. It wasn't just a black market.
It was a forbidden one. A place where hunters sold relics, unapproved drugs, spell components, and illegal dungeon materials.
He scrolled past shady offerings until something caught his eye.
A listing titled
[Verdant Soul Herb – Wild Grade – Grown Near an S-Class Rift]
Fenrir clicked it immediately.
The herb's properties were listed in detail. It was exactly what he needed. Maybe even better than what he'd hoped for.
He opened the chat with the seller and sent a direct request.
[I want the Verdant Soul Herb. How do we make this happen?]
A few seconds later, a reply appeared.
[Your account is new. No purchase history. Too risky. You pay first, then I decide.]
The seller seemed reputable, but something inside Fenrir told him he was about to get scammed..
'At least they're honest about the scamming.'
He knew what this was.
The kind of setup designed to fleece clueless buyers, never send the product, and vanish behind untraceable proxies.
Still… this was his best shot. And he wasn't interested in wasting time negotiating or chasing crumbs.
He typed back:
[How much?]
[10 million credits. Non-negotiable.]
Fenrir didn't even blink. He transferred the amount directly from his main account.
Seconds later, the notification beeped:
[10,000,000 credits successfully transferred.]
And then, silence.
He stared at the message window.
No response. No acknowledgement.
[When will the herb be delivered?]
He typed.
Still nothing.
On the other end of the market, a woman with long, wavy crimson hair laughed as she leaned back in her velvet armchair, swirling a glass of wine in one hand.
Her golden eyes sparkled with amusement as she watched the transaction complete.
"Seriously? Ten million without hesitation? What a moron."
She chuckled.
She tapped on the profile: blank, clean, pristine. No purchases. No history.
But the IP… well hidden. It screamed old money. Private servers. Masked data.
Another pampered young master throwing cash at the world, hoping to buy his way into power.
Her name was Lamia Vincent.
Known in the underground as the "Crimson Widow," she was the undisputed queen of illegal trade—running the biggest auction house in the Hunter's underworld.
She marked the account with a gold star.
[TAGGED: MARK FOR EXPLOIT – RICH FOOL]
"Thanks for the donation, darling."
She said under her breath, smirking.
Fenrir's latest message popped up again:
[When will the herb be delivered?]
Lamia rolled her eyes and closed the tab without replying.
There was no herb. Never had been.
She cut off the account connection completely, locking the access behind a firewall he wouldn't be able to reach again without digging through layers of her encryption.
Her finger hovered over the blacklist button, but then she paused.
Something felt… strange.
The way that account moved. The data footprints. They were clean. Too clean. Almost like they'd been placed deliberately.
Her smirk faded slightly.
Still, she shrugged it off and tossed her hair over one shoulder.
"Doesn't matter. He paid. He's done."
______
The silence confirmed it.
Fenrir stared at the blank screen, the chat window no longer functional, the seller's profile wiped clean from his interface.
All connections to the auction house had been severed without explanation or trace.
'They cut me off.'
He leaned back slowly, the flickering light from the screen dancing over his features. A lesser version of himself might have chalked this up as a loss. An expensive lesson.
But Fenrir wasn't the type to let things go.
He opened a new system window, this time running a deep trace—bypassing the average user interface, slipping through encrypted cracks like a blade through silk.
The name "Lamia Vincent" flashed across the screen, along with her list of verified accomplishments, assets, and status within the hunter society.
[Owner of the largest underground auction house.
Reputation: Untouchable.
Influence: Global.]
Fenrir's lips curved into a cold smile.
'Impressive. But not invincible.'
He whispered to the system, activating the highest-level commands—those only accessible to top-tier authorities.
And Fenrir, thanks to his earlier modifications, now sat at the very top of that invisible pyramid.
The system hesitated for a moment, a warning message popping up:
[WARNING: This auction house is a highly-valued, publicly-linked institution. Purchase will require extensive funds.]
Fenrir didn't flinch. He checked the value. It was enormous—worth more than most small countries.
Still…
He gave the system the command: Buy it. Entirely.
His account drained at a dizzying rate as the credits were transferred. Tens of millions—gone in the blink of an eye. But it didn't matter.
It was never about the money.
This was about proving a point.
Within moments, the deed was done. Ownership records shifted. Security permissions realigned.
Every node and employee fell under a new name, one the system registered but refused to reveal:
[Owner: ???
Status: Highest Authority Holder
View Permission: Restricted]
Fenrir's screen flickered, a notification sliding into view.
[Ownership Transfer Complete.
Welcome, New Administrator.
Pending Orders: 1
Shipping request authorized: Verdant Soul Herb – Priority Courier – ETA: 2 hours.]
Fenrir exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the desk.
It was done. Quietly. Efficiently.
From the outside, nothing had changed.
But inside the system, Lamia Vincent's world had just shifted.
Elsewhere, Lamia sat with her legs crossed at her desk, sipping wine while reviewing the day's earnings. A familiar ding caught her attention.
She glanced at the screen, then paused.
[Ownership Status: REVOKED
New Owner: ???
Access Level: Insufficient]
Her glass froze mid-air.
"What…?"
She tried to reroute through the system backdoor. Blocked.
Tried to open the ownership panel. Denied.
No trace of the buyer. No listed transaction path.
Only one message sat in her admin feed, unsigned:
[Thank you for the herb. I'll take care of the rest.]
Lamia's fingers curled around her wine glass. For the first time in years… she felt cornered.
"Who the hell is this bastard?"