Damien's breathing hitched so subtly it almost didn't count.
His expression didn't change.
He understood perfectly well: something on this level didn't need lies to tell people apart.
"Gods can see the grain of a soul," Vaelric went on. "But it doesn't matter. You're the one I came for in the first place."
It gave a light shake of its wings.
A feather, black as spilled ink, slipped free and drifted down onto the desk without a sound.
The instant it touched the wood, it was like it got swallowed by invisible flame—warping, stretching, unfolding into a sheet of black parchment.
Lines of pale text rose to the surface.
They looked like afterimages of an ancient language… or the runes of some twisted contract.
A cold, stale scent bled into the air.
Damien stared down at the paper, his brow tightening.
Not even a full day.
And he'd already signed two "life contracts."
One from Arcanis Royal Academy.
The other from something calling itself an Evil God.
"Aren't you a god?" He raised his eyes, a thread of cool sarcasm in his voice. "How bad do you have it that you're out here pushing contracts so someone will feed you and put a roof over your head?"
Vaelric didn't get angry.
If anything, that single eye held an expression that was almost matter-of-fact.
"Most of my power has been sealed away," it said calmly. "In my current state, I need an anchor."
"Something that lets me remain in this world without being rejected by its rules."
"If you sign this contract, you will become my agent among mortals."
"Sounds like an insurance salesman," Damien said, flipping through the terms.
The contents were absurdly simple.
—He would provide Vaelric with food and lodging.
—He would assist it in establishing a church in the mortal world and expanding its followers.
—The number of followers would directly determine how much power Vaelric could recover.
And Damien's section for compensation—
was blank.
No stat boost.
No skill unlocks.
Not even a token "reward" line for show.
Damien went quiet for a second, then lifted his head slowly. "So you want me to work for free."
Vaelric stopped preening its feathers and turned its one eye on him. "You will gain a god's friendship."
"And is that supposed to help me?" Damien asked.
A short silence.
The air in the room seemed to drop another degree.
"It can save your life," Vaelric said, unhurried.
Damien fell silent again.
Then, without hesitation, he signed his name on the contract.
Not on impulse.
On calculation.
In this world, making an Evil God owe you a favor—
even if it was only in name—wasn't a bad deal.
More than that, Damien knew exactly what kind of ground he was standing on.
Reputation. Enemies. Political landmines.
What he lacked most right now wasn't strength. It was room to stay alive.
The moment he finished writing, a chill so faint it was almost imaginary brushed over his fingertips.
No flash of light. No violent surge of magic.
Just a sensation of being… recorded.
Remembered.
Damien immediately felt it—an extra, invisible thread between him and the raven.
It wasn't the usual mental shackle you got from a magic contract.
It was more like…
a mark stamped in at the level of the world's rules.
He knew that from now on, as long as he wanted to, he could sense Vaelric's location in a vague, blurry way.
Like the raven no longer fully belonged to the "outside world."
Vaelric fluttered up and settled lightly on his shoulder, landing with surprising steadiness.
It dipped its head and pecked at its own feathers, sounding way too casual for something that had just signed a god-tier contract.
"Selene wasn't wrong," Damien sighed. "Keeping a raven as a pet really is tacky as hell."
Vaelric didn't argue.
It just looked at him with that single eye.
No emotion in the stare—and somehow that made it worse.
Damien looked away and focused on the other parchment on his desk.
The official appointment letter from Arcanis Royal Academy.
Professor of Magic.
Complete with a title, a fixed salary, and a private research lab.
Only now did it really sink in—
the original Damien Thornevale hadn't been all talk.
In the game's lore, he'd broken into Tier 3 at twenty,
becoming one of the youngest high-tier mages in the kingdom's history.
Most mages spent their entire lives and still couldn't push past Tier 2.
Damien quietly called up the interface that had already been burned into his memory.
The familiar panel unfolded in his field of view.
[Name: Damien Thornevale]
Level: 39
HP: 1000 / 1000
MP: 4900 / 4900
Class: Glass Cannon Mage
Tier 3.
Level range: 30–39.
One step higher was Tier 4—Archmage.
And according to the setting text,
Damien had been stuck at this stage for nine full years.
Only now did the reason start to come into focus.
It wasn't that he couldn't break through.
It was—
he'd chosen not to.
His experience bar had been overflowing for ages.
If he wanted, he could step into Tier 4 at any time.
But the original Damien hadn't.
Because he'd been waiting.
Planning.
He had to sign this academy appointment.
Not just because Selene and Gwenna had fought for it together,
but because it was a public, legal layer of protection.
As long as he carried the academy's name,
even a ducal house couldn't touch him whenever it pleased.
Not openly, anyway.
Damien picked up the pen, signed the appointment, and told a servant to deliver it to the academy.
Then he stood and headed for the manor's back courtyard.
"Where are you going?" Vaelric tilted its head from his shoulder.
"Start work tomorrow," Damien said without looking back. "Gonna loosen up. Don't want my casting to get rusty."
"Take me," Vaelric flapped its wings and resettled on his shoulder, suddenly sounding interested.
The training ground out back was empty.
Several stone targets stood in the open space, their surfaces carved with testing runes.
Damien studied them, and a faint, odd sense of familiarity rose up.
In the game, the backyard of a player estate had similar training gear.
Vaelric clearly mistook his pause for hesitation.
"Casting isn't just firing blindly," it said with solemn authority. "Chant rhythm, array construction, mana flow—"
Boom!
Black lightning detonated.
A bolt shot from Damien's fingertip and punched straight through the bullseye.
[Tier 1 Spell: Black Thunder Lance]
Damien's expression didn't change.
Then fire, ice lances, a rolling thunderburst, and a rain of shadow-arrows followed one after another.
The courtyard was instantly drowned in the glare of magic.
Dust billowed up.
Vaelric's lecture cut off mid-word.
Damien glanced at his rapidly dropping mana and frowned slightly.
"MP bar's still this short."
That was the price of a Glass Cannon Mage.
Insane damage. Insane fragility.
Just as he was about to stop, his shoulder suddenly grew hot.
He looked down.
Vaelric's one eye had turned a deep, ghostly blue.
A thin but irresistible stream of energy snapped into place between them.
For that single moment, it felt like the world had been forced to "lend out" a chunk of its rules.
Damien immediately pulled up his status window.
[MP: 9996000 / 9999999]
He went silent.
Then, slowly, he turned his head to stare at the raven on his shoulder.
"...Did you just give me hacks?"
…