Jingle. Clink. Rustle.
The sound of wealth fills the air—a delicate, ever-present noise of golden rings tapping against desks, gem-encrusted necklaces brushing against fabric, and polished bracelets sliding over wrists. The vast lecture hall of the Institution of Trading and Finances hums with movement, yet every gesture is measured, calculated—a display of status wrapped in casual elegance.
The warm glow of gold-trimmed chandeliers reflects off the smooth gray stone walls, where intricate carvings of past kings and queens loom over the students. Every desk, chair, and column is adorned in shades of gold, gray, white, and red, a silent testament to the wealth that rules this place.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A hobgoblin student, green-skinned with sharp, slitted eyes, lazily taps his ruby-studded ring against the polished wood of his desk. His grin stretches wide, flashing polished gold teeth as he leans back, clearly pleased with himself.
"I almost feel bad for him," he drawls, adjusting the golden chain draped over his shoulder. "Twenty-eight percent interest—he won't be able to breathe without paying me for the next ten years."
The students around him burst into laughter, the sound mixing with the clinking of bracelets and rings.
"You're a devil," chuckles another hobgoblin, his emerald earrings swinging as he shakes his head. "Did he even try to negotiate?"
"Oh, he tried," the first one says, waving a jeweled hand dismissively. "Blabbered about 'fairness' and 'reasonable rates.'" His grin widens. "So I convince him he's getting a fantastic, life-saving deal. He even thanks me at the end."
Another wave of amused snickers spreads through the group.
"Humans," mutters a girl with obsidian-streaked tusks, adjusting the diamond-encrusted cuffs on her sleeves. "Always so eager to believe they're the smartest ones in the room."
"More like desperate," someone adds. "That's what makes them easy to guide."
The conversation cuts short as a group of older students stride past, their jewelry clinking like a cascade of falling coins. One of them—a tall hobgoblin with silver rings looped through his ears—casts them a smirk.
"Twenty-eight percent?" he scoffs, adjusting the gold brooch on his crimson lapel. "Next time, aim for thirty-five. Low-class humans are always desperate."
The younger hobgoblins nod in approval, soaking in the advice like eager apprentices.
CRACK.
A snap of lightning flashes through the vast lecture hall, illuminating the intricate carvings of kings and queens etched into the stone walls. The chandeliers above sway slightly from the tremor of thunder, casting glimmers of light off the countless golden rings, jewel-encrusted brooches, and silver chains that adorn the hobgoblin students.
Yet among the sea of talking students, one figure remains still.
By the large, rain-streaked window, Rotû Grotusk lounges against his desk, elbow propped up, gaze fixed on the storm outside. His spiky electric-blue hair barely shifts despite the slight breeze that sneaks through the cracks of the hall. His black sunglasses hide his eyes, but the tiny sliver of his right canine tooth sticks out slightly from his lip. Gold and silver chains rest against his stylish white shirt, his shiny rings and bracelets glinting as his fingers drum idly against the wooden surface.
The professor enters.
A sharp slap of paper against the desk cuts through the air like a blade, instantly silencing the entire room. The students straighten in their seats, their jewelry clinking softly as they shift their attention forward.
But Rotû does not move.
The professor, Vathrik Uldren, is a tall, gaunt hobgoblin with deep green skin, sunken yellow eyes, and thin silver-rimmed glasses perched at the edge of his sharp nose. His jet-black robes contrast with the golden embroidery running along the seams, a sign of his seniority. He is an unforgiving man, his face worn by years of disappointment.
His gaze narrows as he looks at the one student still staring out the window.
"Rotû Grotusk!"
His voice booms across the hall, his long fingers slamming against the stack of papers once more.
Not even a twitch from Rotû.
The professor's eyes flicker with restrained fury. His voice drops, but somehow, the weight of his words presses on the room even heavier than before.
"Not only did you score the lowest among your peers, you scored the lowest among your entire age group!"
A few students suppress their smirks, but no one dares to laugh aloud. Rotû's reputation is already in shambles—the prince who plays around, the royal who fancies magic, the heir who wastes his potential.
Vathrik grabs a stick of chalk, turning to the massive blackboard.
His movements are harsh, precise, controlled, and with each sharp stroke of chalk, more information appears on the board.
The Great Empire – The strongest nation, ruled by Queen Celeste. Dominates alchemy thanks to Duchess Rosalind, who controls:
65% of all land rich in alchemical resources57% of global alchemy-based businesses, Countless merchants and guilds rely on her supply chains.
Elenionora (Elven Kingdom) – A major hub for: Rare ores and minerals.
Extremely valuable, hard-to-get herbs used by mages and alchemists
Gorukhan (Orc Kingdom/Tribe) – One of the world's top producers of:
Ores, gems, and rare minerals. This tribe possesses exclusive access to several mountains rich in valuable materials
The Republic of Lyr – Economy thrives on:
High tourism rates 2nd highest alcohol and wine production. main headquarters of the Adventurers' Guild, where vast sums flow from: Monster corpse materials, trade routes, 3rd largest merchant hub in the world
The professor underlines the words heavily, the chalk nearly snapping under the force of his writing.
He turns back to the class and lifts one of the test papers. His fingers tighten around it, as if holding back the urge to tear it apart.
Clearing his throat, he reads aloud.
"Question: What brings the highest revenue flow into the Republic of Lyr?"
The professor lifts the test, turns it so the class can see—a crude drawing of a dead monster covers the entire space.
A few gasps, some stifled chuckles. Even those who dislike Rotû can't deny—he's still as ridiculous as ever.
The professor's jaw tightens. He flips the page.
"What is the best way to establish dominance in alchemical trade?"
Answer: 'I don't care.'
A few students cough to hide their laughter.
"What would be the best course of action for the Republic of Lyr in handling merchant disputes over monster materials?"
Answer: 'Not my problem.'
Silence.
The professor inhales sharply, his knuckles whitening as he grips the paper. His cold yellow eyes settle on the one student who still has not turned away from the window.
The entire room holds its breath.
Rotû tilts his head slightly, as if finally acknowledging the tension. Yet, he still does not look at the professor. His finger taps against the desk—tap, tap, tap.
An illusion…
Rotû flips a card between his fingers, the motion slow, methodical. The golden patterns etched into the card glint against the dim, flickering light of the lecture hall. A frown tugs at his lips before he turns, his electric-blue hair catching the soft glow of the chandeliers.
Sitting a few desks away is a familiar figure—a classmate, or at least, the illusion of one. She has light green skin, her wavy golden hair falling over one shoulder as she idly twirls a lock around her finger. Her eyes, piercing and knowing, glint with amusement.
"Hmmm… Say," Rotû drawls, stretching his arms before settling his hands into his pockets. "You chose here of all places? A core memory—the day I walked out of this boring place?" His smirk widens, though there's no warmth in it.
Everything around him halts.
All movement ceases.
The air stills. The soft clinking of jewelry vanishes. The raindrops outside freeze mid-fall, suspended in time, shimmering like glass.
The girl—no, the illusion—chuckles, the sound smooth and taunting. "The day you ruined your life," she corrects, propping her chin on her palm. "The day you abandoned your family, your people, your destiny. You left it all behind because of a simple mistake." She tilts her head, golden locks cascading over her shoulder. "I'm surprised you noticed so quickly. Honestly, it hurts my pride~"
Rotû exhales through his nose, shaking his head. "I don't think you understand anything about me."
With a casual flick of his foot, he kicks the frozen form of a nearby classmate.
Crack.
The student shatters instantly, breaking apart into jagged shards, his frozen laughter fragmenting into oblivion.
"That wasn't a mistake."
Rotû clenches the head of another illusionary student, fingers digging in until the illusion crumbles into dust. His sunglasses glint as he walks forward, stepping through the fractured remnants of his past. The pieces scatter under his boots, dissolving into the air like smoke.
"This soulless place," he continues, voice edged with something sharp, something dangerous. "A factory of leeches. A temple of gold-worshippers with nothing in their hearts but greed. It's full of people born to exploit, to manipulate, to consume." He flips another card through his fingers, its movement smooth, effortless, like the very weight of the illusion doesn't faze him.
His golden-eyed captor watches with intrigue, her smirk never faltering.
"And my father?" he scoffs, "and his father before him? They were no different. Ruthless. Calculated. Trained to drown the weak in debt and call it business."
His voice lowers, the weight of his next words pressing into the stillness.
"I have no right to disrespect them. Because I—I am the only enigma among my people. I chose to break the pattern."
Rotû stops right in front of her.
For the first time, the girl's smirk falters.
"Let me make something clear."
The air trembles. The space around them quivers, cracks splintering through the frozen world.
"If I had the opportunity," Rotû breathes, gripping the edges of the illusion itself, "I would do it again. A thousand times over."
The mirage distorts. The walls flicker. The grand lecture hall of his past trembles like shattered glass teetering on the edge of collapse.
"Regret?" He scoffs, leaning in, voice dropping to a near whisper.
"I don't know what that means."
Then, without hesitation—
He slams his fist into his own head.
CRACK!
The illusion shatters around him.
The sound is deafening. Reality implodes, light and color twisting, warping, collapsing inward like a vortex swallowing itself whole. Fragments of broken memory spiral into oblivion, dissolving into an endless black void.
Then—
Silence.
Wind.
Rotû blinks, standing back in the present. The musty scent of the dungeon fills his lungs, the oppressive weight of the cave pressing against his senses.
And across from him—
That blindfolded freak.
Ithiona.
Her lips curl into a knowing smile, her long, obsidian nails tapping idly against her cheek.
"You're more fun than I expected," she purrs. "You don't break easily, do you?"
"Good timing, Rotû. Take care of her while I go get that fucking dumbass."
Cora's voice is sharp, edged with impatience. She digs her foot into the ground, the energy around her legs vibrating.
"Hey, hey, hey—there's no way I'm dealing with this crazy-looking—"
BOOM!
A massive gust of wind tears through the cave, shaking loose dust and debris from the cragged walls. Rocks skitter across the ground as Cora vanishes into the distance, leaving behind only the imprint of her boot embedded into the dirt.
Rotû's electric-blue hair whips wildly in the gust, and he exhales through gritted teeth, rubbing his temple. "And she's gone…" He drags his boot against the rocky floor, kicking a small stone in frustration. "Tsk. Goddammit, she never freaking listens to me."
From behind, a honeyed voice hums in amusement.
"Aww~ You're hurting my feelings." Ithiona presses a delicate hand to her chest, tilting her head in mock offense. "I p—"
"Fuck, shut up already." Rotû groans, dragging his fingers through his hair. "So fucking full of yourself. I heard what you told her." He rolls his shoulders, exhaling sharply as a deck of cards fans out in his hands, spreading effortlessly into the air.
Each card flickers, twisting and turning in elegant arcs, encircling both him and his team like floating sentinels. The air vibrates as each card takes a different form—some glowing faint blue, others shimmering with deep crimson edges. Each card is unique, each one tethered to a different member of the group.
Ithiona taps her cheek, studying the phenomenon. "Oooh~" A slow smile spreads across her lips. "It's been a while since I've felt such an interesting attribute."
With a flick of her fingers—
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A series of dark, pulsating explosions rip through the air, swallowing the floating cards in clouds of black energy.
But the moment the flames subside—
The cards reform.
Each piece of burned ash twists back together seamlessly, slotting into place as if untouched by destruction.
"Tsk, that won't do," Rotû smirks, watching as faint blue lines start appearing on the cave walls.
More cards materialize, revealing themselves from the shadows, embedding into the very structure of the dungeon. The lines connecting them spread, expanding in intricate, glowing patterns—a net woven through space itself.
Ithiona's expression shifts, curiosity replacing amusement. She turns her head left, then right. The blue lines are everywhere.
She flicks her wrist, summoning another pulse of black energy to sever the glowing connections—
Nothing happens.
She frowns, stepping back. "How strange," she murmurs, her blindfolded eyes narrowing. "I can't seem to cut off the link…"
"Of course not." Rotû shakes his head, clicking his tongue as he eyes his teammates still trapped in illusions. "You can't break a link I set without killing me." He exhales, looking over the battlefield, rubbing his chin. "I'd love to fight, but given the situation, it's best I support one of these morons."
His fingers trace along the floating cards, skimming through the energy lines connecting each member of his team.
Most of them are still out of it, trapped within Ithiona's illusions. Their eyes flicker with the haze of false realities, their movements sluggish, their bodies locked in unseen battles.
Rotû's gaze sweeps through the entangled web of links—
Until—
He spots her.
Baya.
The perfect one for this situation.
"I know," he murmurs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Ithiona raises her hand, commanding the hideous, twisted monsters to charge.
But before they can close the distance—
All the glowing lines shift.
From blue—
To red.
The entire network of floating cards flickers as the red lines surge, swiftly redirecting all gathered energy into one singular point.
Rotû grins.
"Tag—you're it."
And in an instant—
All of it surges into Baya.