A silver-haired girl—maybe eleven or twelve, still with a bit of baby fat softening her porcelain face—looked up at Lucas with a practiced smile, the kind you see from shop clerks who've said "Welcome" a thousand times today.
She didn't even finish her line before her expression changed. Her bright eyes zeroed in on the blood seeping through the bandages on his left arm. Her voice dropped an octave, tone shifting to something professional.
"It seems… you're here for treatment."
Lucas followed her gaze, then lifted his good hand and gave a helpless shrug. "As you can see, I've seen better days."
The girl—Airmid Teasanare, though right now she looked like the elementary school version of her future self—hurried forward. With careful precision, she lifted his injured arm and examined it.
"The wound isn't too deep. No bone damage. You're lucky—it's only a flesh wound."
Lucas glanced at the mess that was his arm and sighed. "Yeah, credit goes to the gauntlet. Took most of the hit."
Airmid nodded thoughtfully. "So it was your armor that saved you. I assume this was from a War Shadow's claw strike?"
She said it like a question, but her tone made it sound like she already knew the answer.
Lucas wasn't surprised. Even this early, the future Saint of the Battlefield clearly had plenty of experience.
"Yeah," he admitted. "War Shadow."
Her expression tightened. She tilted her head up to meet his eyes with a solemn look. "In that case, based on your injuries, I can offer you three different treatment options—"
"..Cheapest one!"
Airmid blinked, mid-sentence. A tiny frown tugged at her lips, disappointment flickering across her face for just a moment.
Apparently her sales pitch needed work. If she'd managed to upsell him into a full treatment using high-grade potions and divine magic, this visit would've been worth a million Valis at least.
"…What a shame," she murmured under her breath.
Lucas twitched. Holy crap, she's already this calculating at twelve?
Half an hour later, the wound was cleaned, rebandaged, and neatly wrapped in fresh cloth.
After resisting Airmid's relentless attempts to sell him a bottle of "All-Healing Elixir," Lucas all but fled the Dian Cecht Pharmacy, clutching his nearly empty coin pouch like a war survivor.
Damn it, Dian Cecht, he cursed internally. What the hell did you teach that adorable silver-haired angel? She's a tiny vampire in disguise!
The War Shadow had danced, and he'd danced with it—only to have all his hard-earned profits sucked dry.
He'd made a record-breaking 6,700 Valis today—almost two and a half days' worth of income.
And Airmid had just robbed him of 5,000 of them with a smile.
"At least it was a minor wound," he muttered. "Three days to heal fully. Perks of having an adventurer's constitution."
He flexed his freshly bandaged arm and sighed, begrudgingly impressed with Airmid's skill. "She really does know her stuff."
"Guess I'll take a few days off," he mused, walking down the street. "Run some battle reviews, tweak my fighting style a bit. Plenty to work on."
Then—
Thud!
He collided shoulder-first with someone wrapped in a dark hooded cloak.
Lucas blinked, disoriented, and turned his head. The stranger kept his face down, walking fast—too fast. Shady.
"Watch where the hell you're going!" the man snapped without stopping, disappearing into a side alley.
Lucas scowled. What the hell? Sure, he'd been zoning out, but that guy wasn't looking up either. Call it fifty-fifty blame at worst.
"Moron," he muttered, shaking his head. He started to move on—and then felt something under his boot.
"…Huh?" He crouched down, picking up what looked like a small black stick. "Dropped something, buddy? Oh? Useless twig, maybe?"
The moment he touched it, a chill ran through his fingertips—cool and oddly smooth. Then… a faint pulse. It resonated with his Magic.
His eyes narrowed. Wait. It's reacting to my magic?
Lucas's instincts screamed dangerous.
He scanned the street—empty. Without a word, he slipped the object into his cloak and walked away fast.
Later, at his base.
He cleaned and sorted his gear, setting aside the damaged pieces for repair. After a long, glorious hot shower, he changed into fresh clothes and sat down at his desk to review the night's haul.
Three War Shadow Finger Blades—150,000 Valis right there.
One War Shadow Finger Blade, from the special variant. Definitely worth a professional appraisal.
That could all be handled tomorrow.
Then there was the treasure chest loot.
He pulled out a black envelope, sealed with red wax and marked with an intricate Familia crest.
Item: [Familia Invitation]
Origin: System
Type: Contract Scroll
Effect: Invites a chosen individual to join the user's Familia. Accepting forms a binding contract.
Description: A black envelope sealed with crimson wax. Contains a parchment contract that adapts to the user's subconscious preferences.
"Well, that's a pleasant surprise."
Right now, Lucas's top priority was growth—fast, steady, sustainable.
And for that, he needed two things: money and experience.
Experience he could grind through Magic and clever strategy. But money? That was another story.
With his cursed luck, counting on Drop Items for profit was a joke. Monster farming for Magic Stones barely kept him afloat.
And without a supporter to handle logistics, he wasted half his day just managing loot and clean-up.
If he could recruit even one reliable ally… those problems would vanish overnight.
He held the envelope, following the System's activation prompt, and muttered under his breath:
I hope it's a frontliner. Someone who can tank. Support skills would be great too. You get the idea, right?
He repeated the prayer three times.
The envelope caught fire at one corner, burning itself to ash in seconds.
"Now we wait. Says it'll take about three days for a response," Lucas said, leaning back. His gaze drifted to the other item the chest had dropped.
"…A double reward? Nice. Guess surviving that fight really paid off."
Item: [Crafting Blueprint – Scholar's Staff]
Origin: System
Type: Design Formula
Effect: Amplifies magic power and improves mental focus while functioning as a melee weapon.
Description: A two-handed staff, refined with engraved runes and a gem-inlaid head for enhanced performance. Nicknamed the "Twisted Staff" for its spiral form.
The blueprint detailed everything: materials, process, assembly.
With the right skills and ingredients, he could forge it himself.
…If he had the cash, that is.
Lucas's eyes glazed over as he skimmed the material list—line after line of rare components that probably cost more than his entire inventory combined.
"Upgrades cost money. Repairs cost money. Supplies cost money. Everything costs money."
He groaned, dropping flat onto his bed.
"Why is being a mage so damn expensive…"
He exhaled. "Whatever. Sleep first. Tomorrow I'll hit the Second District."
He opened his Status Panel, glanced at his stats, and smiled faintly as drowsiness pulled him under.
Status:
Magic: F389 → E411 (E489)
He didn't notice the small detail in the corner—
[Level]: Lv.1+
The digits flickered softly, a slow orange pulse glowing like a heartbeat beside a new + sign.
West Main Street, Sector Seven.
Not far from the intersection between West Main and Northwest Avenue, a large mansion loomed. Deep beneath it, in a cold, damp basement lit by flickering torches, shadows danced along the walls.
"Time's about up."
The man sitting on a wooden crate spoke in a low, gravelly tone. Beneath his hood, his eyes gleamed sharp and cold as he surveyed the black-robed figures gathered before him.
"The shipment from the other side—did it all arrive?"
"Yes, sir," one subordinate answered. "We moved it here in five routes, three waves total. No tails. The Guild's eyes are still focused underground. Patrols inside the city have thinned out."
The leader's mouth curved faintly. "Good. That's thanks to Killer Emperor's diversion plan."
He chuckled, though his voice held no warmth. "Kicking up noise in the Dungeon while we run the goods topside… classic misdirection. Without it, smuggling this stuff into Orario would've been suicide."
His tone darkened. "You realize what we're moving, right? This isn't some black-market potion. It's super illegal. If those lunatics find out, it won't stop at a few corpses."
"Boss, is it really that bad?" another dared to ask.
"Shut it!" The leader's snarl cracked like a whip. The glare beneath his hood was sharp enough to cut. "Do your job and keep your mouth shut. The less you know, the longer you live. Got it?"
The man who'd spoken went rigid, trembling.
If Lucas had been there, he'd have recognized that voice instantly—it belonged to the same cloaked figure who'd slammed into him earlier that night.
And the "twig" Lucas had picked up?
That was no twig at all. It was one of these men's super-contraband items—the kind of thing that could get an entire Familia wiped off the map.