A silver-haired girl greeted him at the entrance. She couldn't have been older than eleven or twelve, with a round face that still carried baby fat and the delicate, almost unreal beauty of a porcelain doll. Her smile was pure customer service, polished from countless repetitions.
The welcome script was halfway out of her mouth when her brow creased. Her gaze locked onto the blood-soaked bandage on Leon's left arm with clinical precision, and her tone shifted on a dime.
"It seems... you're here for treatment, sir."
Leon spread his hands and shrugged. "What gave it away?"
The silver-haired girl, a grade-school-aged Airmid Teasanare, crossed the distance in quick, precise steps. She lifted his injured arm with care, turned it gently, examined it, and delivered her verdict without hesitation.
"The wound isn't severe. No bone damage. Flesh only. You're luckier than you think."
Leon glanced down at the mangled mess of his arm and grimaced. "Yeah. Thank the gauntlet for that."
Airmid nodded thoughtfully. "Armor, I see. War Shadow claws, I take it."
Phrased like a question. Delivered like a statement.
Clearly, the future Dea Saint was no sheltered academic. Her clinical experience ran deep for someone her age.
"War Shadow," Leon confirmed.
Airmid fixed him with a grave look, small face tilted upward. "Based on this type of injury, I can offer you three treatment plans..."
"..."
Alarm bells. Leon cut her off before the sales pitch could build momentum.
"Cheapest one!"
A flicker of disappointment crossed Airmid's face, so brief it was almost invisible.
Her upselling technique needed work. If she'd gotten him to agree to her magic combined with premium potions for a full-service treatment, that single bill could have cleared a million valis...
"What a shame..." she murmured under her breath.
"..."
Leon's eye twitched. This cunning at her age? The world isn't ready for what she'll become.
...
Half an hour later.
Fresh medicine applied, wound professionally re-bandaged.
Having successfully resisted Airmid's aggressive push to sell him an outrageously expensive Elixir, Leon practically fled the Dian Cecht Familia Treatment Center with his wallet crying for mercy.
Damn you, Dian Cecht. Look at what you've taught that sweet little Dea Saint. You blood-sucking fraud! His inner monologue was not kind.
One dance with War Shadows, and a whole day's work went up in smoke.
Today had been a record-breaking haul of 6,700 valis. Nearly two and a half days' worth of normal income.
And Airmid had just sheared off 5,000 of it.
"At least it was only a flesh wound. Adventurer bodies are tougher than normal, but even so, full recovery's going to take three days."
He rotated his freshly bandaged left arm, silently acknowledging Airmid's skill despite the price gouging.
"Might as well take the downtime. Review the fight, optimize my combat approach. Plenty of problems to address after that mess."
Lost in thought, he started the walk home.
Thump.
His shoulder collided with someone else wrapped in a hooded cloak.
Leon blinked and glanced over. The figure was hunched, moving fast, radiating suspicion from every pore.
"Watch where you're going, jackass!" The stranger didn't break stride, tossing the insult over his shoulder before ducking into a side alley.
"?"
Leon's expression darkened. Getting cursed out for no reason left him momentarily stunned. Sure, I was spacing out, but you were staring at your own feet. That's a fifty-fifty if I've ever seen one.
"Moron."
He shook it off and moved on.
"What's this?"
His next step landed on something underfoot.
"A branch? Did that guy drop it?" He bent down and picked it up. "Well, look at that. Dropped loot in the wild?"
Cool to the touch. A strange, refreshing sensation flowed up through his fingertips, and deep inside, his Magic stirred in response. A faint resonance, unmistakable.
It's resonating with my Magic. This is...
His eyes narrowed. Every instinct sharpened.
A quick scan of the surroundings confirmed no one was watching. He tucked the object beneath his cloak and picked up the pace.
...
Back at his hideout, Leon sorted the battle-damaged gear and set it aside for tomorrow's repairs.
A long, luxurious hot bath washed the day off him. Clean clothes. Then he sat at his desk and laid out the evening's haul.
Three War Shadow Finger Blades. Sell tomorrow, 150,000 valis.
One Anti-Magic War Shadow Finger Blade. Special individual drop. Needed a professional appraisal. If this thing was what he thought it was, rushing to sell would be stupid.
All three errands could be handled in one trip.
Then there were the treasure chest drops.
A black envelope sealed with bright red wax, stamped with a Familia Crest.
Familia Invitation
Origin: System
Type: Contract Scroll
Effect: Invites a fated individual to join the Familia. Acceptance forms a binding contract.
Description: A wax-sealed black envelope containing an aged parchment contract. Issued based on the user's subconscious preferences.
...
"Now this is what I needed."
For Leon, the immediate priority was a steady, rapid power curve. Build strength fast enough to weather whatever the future threw at him.
And growth demanded two things he couldn't avoid: money and Excelia.
Excelia, he was confident about. His magic gave him enough of an edge to accumulate it quickly. But money...
With his tragic Luck stat, dreaming of getting rich off Drop Items was a fantasy. He was surviving on the bare minimum from Magic Stones alone.
Without a Supporter to handle logistics, half his time in the Dungeon was wasted on cleanup.
A reliable Familia teammate would solve every one of those problems overnight.
He pinched the corner of the envelope and followed the System's usage instructions, focusing his intent.
I want a frontliner. Someone who can hold the line. Support abilities would be a bonus. As for the rest... you know the deal.
Three times, he repeated it.
The black envelope ignited from the corner he held, consumed itself in a few heartbeats, and vanished into drifting ash.
"Now I wait. Instructions say the response takes about three days." Anticipation humming through him, Leon turned his attention to the chest's other prize.
"Two drops from one chest? What is this, a trial completion reward?"
Crafting Blueprint: Scholar's Staff
Origin: System
Type: Design Schematic
Effect: Magic amplification, mental stabilization, dual-purpose weapon functionality.
Description: A two-handed staff modeled after the Soul Devourer Staff template, redesigned with runic engravings along the shaft and a magic gemstone mounted at the head for enhanced performance. Nicknamed the "Twisted Staff" due to its distinctive spiraling shape.
A full design schematic. Materials, craftsmanship, specifications, all of it detailed down to the last line.
Given the right skills and materials, anyone could forge it from this blueprint.
Of course, as a mage's weapon, the price tag would be appropriately devastating.
Leon's eyes scanned the dense list of rare materials, and his expression cycled through several stages of grief before settling on hollow resignation.
"Stat allocation costs money. Supplies cost money. Equipment costs money. Everything costs money."
"And mage gear is the worst of all. My head hurts."
He collapsed onto the bed.
"Hah..."
"Sleep. Tomorrow I've got business in the Second District."
Flat on his back, he pulled up his status panel, checked the day's gains, and let his eyes fall shut. Sleep took him in seconds.
Magic: F389 → E411 (E489)
What he didn't notice, as consciousness slipped away, was a subtle detail on the panel.
Level: Lv.1+
The plus sign pulsed in soft orange, blinking slowly like a breathing light.
...
...
West Main Street. Seventh District.
Not far from where West Main and Northwest Avenue converged, a large, secluded manor sat in shadow. Deep in its basement, flickering torchlight threw restless shapes across damp stone walls and floor.
"It's time." A man seated on a wooden crate spoke in a low voice. Beneath his hood, a pair of cold, calculating eyes swept across the black-robed figures gathered before him. "The shipment from the other side. We have it all?"
"Chief, the full batch is here." One of his men answered with deference. "Five separate routes, three staggered deliveries to this location. No trails. The order-keeping Familia has their eyes glued to the underground situation right now. Patrol numbers and frequency up top have both dropped."
The man called Chief studied his subordinate, sharp gaze unblinking beneath the hood.
"Good work. Credit goes to Arachnia's plan." A ghost of approval colored his tone. "Stir up noise in the Dungeon. Classic misdirection, timed to cover this pickup. Without it, getting this cargo past Orario's current security... heh."
He paused. When he spoke again, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"This is a top-tier contraband item. If those single-minded fanatics find out we're smuggling this into the city, a few dead bodies won't be enough to settle the bill."
"Chief, is it really that... serious?" One of the men couldn't help asking.
"Shut your mouth!" The Chief's voice cracked like a whip. His eyes cut through the gloom like blades. "We do what we're told by the people above us. Everything else, we don't know, we never saw, we never heard. Unless you want to disappear quietly tomorrow."
The man who'd spoken flinched, terror flooding the face hidden beneath his hood.
Had Leon been present, he would have recognized one of those voices in an instant. The same hoarse tone that had cursed at him on the street, belonging to the same cloaked figure who'd bumped his shoulder.
And the item Leon had picked up off the cobblestones? The very thing these men were terrified of anyone discovering.
Top-tier contraband.