Chapter 87: Blackmarket (1)
Pride.
Her lips curled into the faintest smile behind her fingers.
I exhaled slowly, relief bleeding into my chest.
The crowd didn’t notice the subtle exchange, but Leon did. He grinned knowingly. Aiden smirked, like he’d just witnessed a scene out of a romantic cody. Chris’s eyes lingered on for a mont longer than usual, as if weighing sothing silently.
Then, slowly, the tension eased. Students began drifting away, realizing they weren’t going to win over. The crowd thinned, voices dimming, leaving only my friends at the table.
The battlefield had quieted.
But inside, the storm still raged.
Because no matter how I tried to steer it, the "story" was breaking apart around .
And I had no idea where it would lead next.
The courtyard finally began to breathe again.
Where monts earlier a storm of voices had pressed in from every side, now only scraps of paper fluttered across the cobblestones is flyers abandoned, trampled under restless feet. The booths still bustled in the distance, but the epicenter of chaos had shifted elsewhere.
Our group sat scattered around the fountain, each of us recovering in our own way.
Leon leaned back with both arms behind his head, grinning ear to ear as if he’d just won a tournant.
"Man, I haven’t had that much fun since the dungeon run! Did you see their faces when we started arguing? Half the courtyard thought we were about to duel for your soul, Michael."
"...That’s not sothing to brag about," I muttered, rubbing my temples.
Maria, still pink-cheeked from Aurelia’s earlier whisper, sat stiffly with her hands in her lap. Every few seconds she’d glance my way, then quickly look down again, like her thoughts were trapped between pride and embarrassnt.
Chris, ever unreadable as he stood slightly apart from us, arms folded. He watched the dispersing students with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. If Leon was fire and Maria was warmth, Chris was the cold edge of steel, always asuring, always two steps ahead.
And then there was Nora.
Quiet. Pink-haired. Sitting on the fountain’s rim with a pamphlet for the Cooking Club held loosely between her fingers. Her expression was as blank as always, but the fact that she was even holding the pamphlet told everything.
That hadn’t been in the script.
In the original flow, Nora wasn’t supposed to touch clubs like Cooking. She was ant to remain a blade, honed only for combat, her story spiraling into jealousy and obsession.
But here she was, calmly reading the fine print of cookie-baking classes and weekend cake workshops.
My chest tightened.
The more I watched my friends, the more the gap widened between mory and reality.
Leon, who was supposed to be a lone wolf, was now loudly recruiting half the Academy for his Hunting Club. Maria, who should’ve been a side character, had grown into the heart of our circle, her presence tying us together. And Nora—the walking powder keg was sitting quietly, dreaming about pies instead of vendettas.
This wasn’t Academy Club the way I rembered it.
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and muttered under my breath, "This story’s really gone off the rails..."
But even as I said it, I knew there was no point clinging to the old plot. The academy wasn’t following the script anymore, and maybe it never would again.
Still, I couldn’t afford to lose focus.
The Student Council elections were coming. If I wanted to change my standing here to shield myself from the chaos of nobles and schers I’d need every advantage. Aria’s deal, her web of connections, could tilt the balance in my favor.
And beyond that...
My hand brushed my pocket, where Victor’s earlier ssage still burned in mory.
The Auction House.
The kind of place where fortunes shifted hands under candlelight, where forbidden items surfaced for those willing to pay the price.
That was my next battlefield.
No matter how far the story veered, so threats weren’t going away.
I exhaled, forcing the weight back into my chest, and pushed to my feet. "I’m heading out. Don’t wait up for ."
Leon raised a brow. "Already? The day just started!"
Maria blinked. "...Michael, are you okay?"
"I’m fine. Just need so air."
They didn’t press further. Maybe they sensed I wasn’t in the mood to explain.
The academy paths were quieter once I left the courtyard behind.
Sunlight filtered through the treetops, dappled across stone walkways. Students laughed in the distance, voices fading as I moved farther from the center of activity.
Finally, I could breathe.
I slipped my phone from my pocket, intending to distract myself with aningless scrolling—anything to clear my head from the weight of "clubs, elections, blackmail."
But before my thumb could even swipe, the device buzzed sharply in my hand.
Bzzt.
A single notification pulsed across the screen.
Not from a friend. Not from the Academy.
From Victor.
[VIP Pass confird. The Auction begins tonight. Co prepared.]
My steps faltered.
For a second, all I could hear was the faint rush of wind through the trees.
Tonight.
The black market wasn’t so far-off plan anymore. It wasn’t a future worry to push aside for another day. It was real. Imdiate. Waiting for in the shadows just beyond the Academy’s walls.
My fingers curled tightly around the phone until my knuckles whitened.
Clubs. Rivalries. Teasing whispers. That had been today’s chaos.
But tonight?
Tonight was a different battlefield altogether.
I slid the phone back into my pocket, jaw tightening.
No more hesitation.
The slice-of-life noise of Velcrest was over.
The black market awaited.
-----
The dormitory felt suffocating.
Michael sat on his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the glowing notification still hovering in the air.
> [Transfer Complete – 27,000,000 Ren]
His chest tightened just reading it again. Twenty-seven million. A fortune.
More money than he had ever dread of having. More than most noble families gave their heirs until they graduated. Enough to live a quiet, safe life if he wanted.
But it wasn’t for that.
Michael closed the screen and tugged at the pouch sitting beside him. Inside wasn’t just credits anymore Victor had even converted part of it into high-value trade chips, smooth crystalline coins that glittered faintly under the light. Discreet, untraceable. The kind of currency the black market respected.
"Twenty-seven million Ren..." he muttered, running a thumb over the etched surface of one coin. "Feels unreal."
He tilted his head, eyes landing on the sword leaning against the wall. Darken.
The sealed blade humd faintly, like it knew sothing was about to change.
Michael exhaled. "Guess tonight’s my shot at making you useful again."
He rose to his feet and reached for the black case on his desk. Inside rested the Loki Mask.
Sleek, tallic, with a faint grin carved into its lower half. When he slid it over his face, runes etched along the inner lining flared to life, distorting his features with a ripple of illusion. His cheekbones sharpened, his eyes shifted shade, even the tone of his skin and jawline changed subtly.
Not just concealnt.
This was deception made manifest.
The Loki Mask didn’t just hide who you were , it let you beco soone else entirely.
Michael pulled up his hood and glanced at the mirror. A stranger stared back.
Perfect.
No noble would ever link the Rank 1 "commoner prodigy" to the faceless buyer attending tonight’s auction.
He fastened the mask tight, checked the enchanted runes one last ti, and grabbed Darken.
"Alright," he muttered, voice now carrying a faint distortion thanks to the mask’s enchantnt. "Let’s see what kind of hell the black market looks like."
The streets outside the academy glittered with lantern light. Normal citizens bustled about their lives, laughter spilling from taverns, rchants haggling at their stalls.
But Michael kept his hood low and moved quickly, following Victor’s directions.
The route pulled him deeper into the lower districts, where cracked cobblestones and rusted signs replaced marble streets. The further he walked, the fewer people he passed. By the ti he reached the narrow alley with the crooked lamp, the city noise had all but vanished.
A tavern stood at the alley’s end, sagging and faded, its sign half-rotted. At first glance, abandoned.
Michael pushed the door open.
The sll of old liquor and smoke hit instantly. A bartender stood behind the counter, polishing a glass, his eyes far too sharp for his lazy hands. A handful of patrons slouched at tables, but their subtle posture—hands resting near hidden blades, eyes scanning the entrance—betrayed them as guards.
Michael strode to the counter and placed the VIP token Victor had given him.
The bartender pressed his thumb against it. The rune flared, then went dim. Without a word, the man reached down, tapped the wood twice, and the floorboards behind Michael shifted open.
A stairwell spiraled into the earth.
Michael descended.
Step by step, the air cooled, the noise of the tavern fading away. Glowing runes embedded into stone walls lit the passage with pale light. The sound of his boots echoed, a steady beat in the silence.
And then the stairs ended.
Michael froze.
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