Chapter 25: Black Market

The cafeteria was quiet again today — just a soft murmur of cadets scattered around, their attention occasionally drifting toward our table every time Ariana smiled or spoke.

We ignored them.

We ate.

We talked.

And for a little while, the academy didn’t feel suffocating.

Ariana carefully cut another little piece of cheesecake with her fork, almost reverently, as if it were some rare delicacy.

"...It’s really good..." she whispered, cheeks faintly flushed.

"Well, of course," I said, shrugging casually. "It’s me who made it."

We chatted lightly — nothing heavy — random ingredients, how much sugar to use, the correct texture. She was improving. Fast. She watched, listened, and analyzed — exactly like a researcher would.

As expected of the future alchemy monster.

Then, as she finished her last bite, her expression turned hesitant — a small crease forming between her brows.

"Lucien... um... I won’t be able to go with you today."

I paused, fork mid-air.

"...Oh?" My brow lifted. "Why’s that?"

She lowered her gaze.

"A letter from home arrived this morning. A maid is coming... today."

"...A maid?"

She nodded.

"A personal maid has been assigned to me. She’ll arrive this evening."

Ah.

So the news reached the duchy already.

Faster than I thought.

Well — nobles having personal attendants wasn’t forbidden. Equality was a pretty slogan the academy liked to shout, but in reality, nobles lived like nobles. The academy-staff maids assigned to dorms were just the bare minimum.

Ariana having a personal maid wasn’t strange.

It was... expected.

"Well, isn’t that a good thing?" I said with a grin. "You got yourself a perfect test subject for future cooking practice."

Her head jerked up.

"W-Why are you saying it like it’s a punishment...?"

"Of course not," I waved a hand. "You’ll do fine. Cooking suits you."

I wasn’t just encouraging her.

It was the truth.

She absorbed steps and proportions like she was dissecting formulas — detail-oriented, precise, instinctive. Well, that was to be expected from the alchemy prodigy. Cooking

is not much different from

alchemy — just edible. The moment she touched ingredients; I could see it.

We chatted a bit more — small things — and then it was time.

She stood, holding her lunch box with both hands. "T-Then... I’ll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah," I said. "Tomorrow."

*****

After parting ways with Ariana, I made my way through the academy gates.

The courtyard buzzed with energy — students discussing monsters, formations, traps, and every kind of rumor surrounding the upcoming dungeon practical.

The nervous excitement was almost contagious.

Almost.

I, on the other hand, had other things on my mind.

The piercing stares that had shadowed me these past few days had dulled considerably. Oh, they still lingered here and there, but most cadets had found something better to talk about — like survival odds and dungeon rankings.

Good.

Let them focus on that.

The less attention on me, the better.

I left the academy grounds, hands in pockets, and took a long walk home beneath the dim glow of the street lanterns.

The three-day break had officially begun.

And for me, that meant one thing.

It was time to set my next plan in motion.

Get rich.

That was the goal.

Get so rich that gold becomes meaningless. That money becomes a number on a screen.

Or well, if this world had screens.

The idea sparked earlier when Ariana mentioned her maid.

Since manpower was stopping me from achieving my entrepreneurial dream then I should get some manpower.

I had the funds now. Courtesy of my dear student’s... very generous tuition fee.

Sure, I could open a small restaurant alone, but that came with problems.

I didn’t want to waste my time serving dishes and collecting coins when I could be training, growing stronger, or, you know... plotting my world domination or whatever.

But if I had someone to

run

the restaurant for me?

Now

that

was a plan.

And for that, I needed workers.

Two options:

Go through the Merchant Association, fill out piles of papers, pay ridiculous registration fees, monthly wages, insurance, and whatever else those bloodsuckers could invent.

Or... kill my 21st-century morals for a moment and visit the Black Market and buy some slaves.

And guess which one I picked.

*****

"Hey, don’t give me that look," I muttered to myself as I lounged on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"Technically, I’m rescuing them."

That sounded better.

If I didn’t buy them, someone else would — someone far worse. I could give them food, shelter, safety. A proper life.

And besides... villains weren’t exactly known for taking the moral high ground.

So yeah. Option two it was.

*****

When I opened my eyes again, the sun had already vanished. The sky was deep purple, and the city streets outside my window shimmered under rows of mana lamps.

Perfect time.

I threw on a dark hooded cloak, adjusted my gloves, and stepped outside.

The carriage ride took about twenty minutes. I stopped near the west end of the city — where the streets were quieter, darker, and smelled faintly of cheap liquor and secrets.

The tavern I was looking for sat wedged between a pawn shop and a spice store.

The Sleeping Wyvern.

To any outsider, it looked like your typical rundown inn.

But I knew better.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and laughter. A bard was half-asleep on the corner table, strumming his lute out of tune. The bartender, a burly man with a scar across his cheek, wiped down mugs with the enthusiasm of someone who had long stopped caring.

I walked up to the counter.

"Evening," he said lazily. "What’ll it be?"

I lowered my hood just enough to meet his gaze. "One

Silver Night’s Kiss

, stirred with

Midnight Bloom

."

The rag froze in his hands.

He looked at me — really looked. Then his lips curved in a faint smirk.

"...Haven’t heard that order in a while."

He leaned closer. "You sure you know what you’re asking for, kid?"

"I wouldn’t be here otherwise."

He studied me a moment longer, then nodded toward the far corner of the bar. "Through that door. Don’t touch anything you’re not supposed to."

Behind the door was a narrow staircase leading down — the light dimming with every step. The muffled tavern chatter faded, replaced by low murmurs and the clinking of metal.

When I reached the bottom, the world opened up.

The

Black Market

.

The black market wasn’t an alleyway cliché—it was a goddamn bazaar.

Despite its name, it wasn’t dark. Lanterns lined the walls, illuminating dozens of stalls — weapons, strange artifacts, monster parts, potions, contracts... and people.

Merchants in hoods whispered prices. Buyers examined wares.

Stalls draped in shadowsilk. Cages rattling with illegal monsters. Alchemists hawking potions that promised "eternal youth (side effects: mutation)."