Chapter 20: The Meat Market
The courtyard dissolves into absolute chaos.
The headmaster’s voice hasn’t even faded before the screaming starts. The polite veneer of the Academy shatters instantly, replaced by a desperate meat market of terrified students.
People are shoving, crying, and shouting their stats to anyone who will listen, broadcasting their weaknesses to the entire arena like frightened cattle trying to sell themselves to the butcher.
"I need a Vanguard!"
"Who has Iron Skin?"
"I’m paying fifty Scales for a healer! Fifty up front!"
"Get out of my way, trash!"
"Rank E Pyromancer looking for a tank! High DPS, low mana cost!"
I watch them from the shadow of a pillar, feeling a mix of pity and disgust. In the Deep, announcing your class at the top of your lungs is a suicide note. It tells every assassin exactly where to stick the knife.
But here, fear makes them stupid. They think volume equals value.
I remain motionless. Running is useless.
The magical barrier is already rising—a shimmering dome of violet energy forcing an Oathring over the entire courtyard. I can feel the static charge in the air, the heavy pressure of the spell locking us in. PvP is hell expensive outside of it, but inside? It’s open season.
Even if I could move, I have nowhere to go.
I am marked.
My tactical options are flashing red in my mind: full OXI, but a broken weapon, zero allies, and a combat potential that wouldn’t scare a goblin. If an organized team decides to focus me, I won’t last ten seconds. I have the knowledge of a teacher, but the body of a victim.
Then, a high, relaxed laugh cuts through the panic.
The crowd parts a hundred feet away, making space for the only person who looks like he’s attending a garden party.
Veric Azure
Veric whispers something to his lieutenant, a man with a face full of scars and eyes like dead fish. The soldier smirks and shoots a glance directly at me.
The message is clear. We see you.
Veric steps away from his phalanx and begins to walk toward me. He moves slowly, deliberately, savoring the approach while his guards fan out into a loose semicircle, effectively cutting off any escape route.
My hand spasms over the broken hilt of Eventide . Every instinct from my past life screams at me to run, to use the pillars as cover, to kite him, to find an angle. But my current reality is a cold bucket of water.
I analyze him purely on metrics.
Veric is wearing a customized Tidebreaker armor set. It’s enchanted heavy plate, probably resistant to kinetic impact and minor elemental spells. Even if I ignite my ether blade, I lack the physical torque to penetrate that plating. He is likely a High Rank D, possibly touching C thanks to family resources.
A single strike from him would shatter my ribcage before I could even draw breath.
I let go of the sword and force my shoulders to relax.
There is no point in fighting. If he wants an apology or public humiliation to soothe his bruised ego, I’ll give it to him. Survival is a currency I value more than pride. I’ve eaten trash to survive in the slums; I can eat a little humble pie to survive a deathmatch.
I prepare myself, bracing for a slap, a shove, or a gauntlet to the face.
Veric stops less than three feet away, blocking out the sun. His shadow swallows me. He lifts his metal-gloved hand, and I flinch—just a micro-movement, but enough to betray my nerves.
"Sands," he says, his voice unnervingly calm.
I open my eyes.
The hand isn’t raised to strike. It is extended, palm open, waiting.
"You look like a man who knows how to count," Veric says. The malicious grin is still there, but it has twisted into something sharp and transactional. "So calculate this: I protect your back. You finance my victory."
The air leaves my lungs in a long, shaky sigh. I look at his open palm, then up at his arrogant face.
He doesn’t want my blood. He wants my wallet.
To him, I’m not a rival; I’m a "Whale". A fat sheep with a heavy purse who needs a shepherd. He saw the Pure Shards at the gate. He saw the careless way I threw money around.
Does he really thinks I’m some obscure noble scion from a distant capital, loaded with resources but lacking military power?
I almost laugh out loud with relief, but I catch myself. I push the fear down and pull up the mask.
If he wants a rich patron, I’ll sell him the fable. But a rich man doesn’t just roll over. A rich man negotiates.
I don’t take his hand immediately. Instead, I cross my arms, leaning back slightly against the pillar, feigning a boredom I absolutely do not feel.
"That sounds expensive," I say, keeping my voice smooth. "And frankly, I prefer to choose my own employees. What happens if I decline?"
Veric doesn’t seems angry. He doesn’t threaten to punch me.
He just smiles. A cold, polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the smile of a man who owns the board.
He gestures vaguely to the chaotic arena around us.
"Look around, Sands. The moment that Oathring seals, logic dies. Without a team, you are prey. You have no armor, a broken sword, and you smell like the Slums."
He steps a fraction closer, invading my personal space.
"If you decline, you save your gold, certainly. But you won’t survive the first ten minutes. And once you are eliminated... well, I have resources outside the Academy too. I will find out who you are and where you get your Shards eventually."
He tilts his head, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"The difference is: do you want to be my partner inside, or my target outside? The first option is much more... profitable. For both of us."
Smart, I think. He trapped me.
He isn’t just bullying; he’s leveraging the environment. He knows I have no cards to play. He’s offering me a lifeline that doubles as a leash.
"You make a compelling argument," I say, dropping my arms. "A mercenary proposal, then? I thought House Azure fought for honor, not payroll."
"Honor is expensive," he counters, wiggling his fingers impatiently. "And I plan to win with a large margin. Do we have a deal?"
I pause, letting the silence hang for a second longer. Then, I grab his metal hand.
"Deal. But you better be worth the investment."
Veric doesn’t let go. His grip tightens, grinding the bones of my knuckles.
"One condition," he says, his eyes narrowing. "A little side wager. To test your... investment potential."
"I’m listening."
"Headcount. Whoever drops more bodies in the arena wins."
He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"If I win, you tell me the truth. No stories, no masks. You tell me exactly which hole you crawled out of and where you got military-grade Pure Shards."
My pulse spikes. He’s sharper than he looks. He suspects. He knows the math doesn’t add up.
"And if I win?" I ask, keeping my face blank.
"Then I cover your OXI tab. Full expenses. For a year."
My breath catches.
A year of OXI? With my consumption rate? That’s thousands of scales. That’s freedom. That’s enough time to fix the timeline without dying of thirst. It’s a prize worth killing for.
I look at his arrogant face. He thinks I’m a wallet. He has no idea he just bet against a man who memorized the apocalypse.
"You’re on," I say, squeezing his hand back.
Veric laughs, but there is no warmth in it. He pulls me slightly closer, his metal gauntlet grinding against my palm.
"Excellent," he whispers, his voice dropping so the guards can’t hear. " Just remember one thing, Sands. You are an investment. If you become a liability in that arena... I will cut my losses. And your throat."
He lets go of my hand and shoves me lightly toward his guards, dismissing me like a servant.
"Now, stand back," he commands, turning to face the arena. "And try to look expensive."
I stumble back a step, catching my balance. I straighten my jacket, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles.
I smile at his back. A cold, genuine smile.
He thinks he owns me.
He has no idea he just let a wolf into the fold.