There were few things Sylas enjoyed more than passive income.
Unfortunately, passive income usually required either an empire, a trust fund, or enough charisma to scam your way into both. Sylas had… none of those.
What he did have, however, was dirt.
Delicious, juicy dirt on other people.
And in the Academy's underbelly, that counted for a lot.
It started with a whisper—literally.
"Sylas Vermund?" a voice hissed behind a bookshelf in the restricted section.
Sylas didn't flinch. He just slowly lowered the book titled 'Flesh-Smithing and You: A Beginner's Guide' and turned.
The speaker was a third-year alchemy student. Nervous. Twitchy. The type that looked like he'd melt under midterms and betrayal equally.
"You're the guy who saw Professor Ravel leaving Madame Ylline's tower last week, right?" the boy asked in a whisper.
Sylas blinked. "...Is this a trick question?"
"I can pay," the boy blurted. "I just need proof."
Ah. There it was.
Fast forward three hours, and Sylas was sitting at a discreet round table in the back room of a tavern called The Purring Familiar. It looked like a cozy wizard cafe up front—tea, cookies, too many cats. But below?
Information brokerage central
Sylas leaned back as a masked upperclassman slid a coin pouch across the table.
"Your intel on the vice principal's extracurricular activities checks out," the broker said. "Payment, as agreed."
Sylas took the pouch with the elegance of a man who'd just remembered rent was due.
"Got anything on Headmistress Caldrein?" the broker asked.
Sylas sipped his tea and smiled like a man who absolutely had dirt but wasn't cheap.
"Depends. You want rumors, or verified sin?"
The broker chuckled. "We'll be in touch."
[System Notification]
Reputation Update: "Shady But Surprisingly Reliable"
Passive Gold Income Activated: Blackmail Bonds
Sylas whistled to himself as he left. This world might be a medieval fantasy prison, but at least it had side hustles.
Back in his dorm room, Sylas stared at the pendant hanging on a nail.
It hadn't spoken since the other night. But he felt it. Watching. Listening. Waiting for something.
"Look, I get it," he muttered. "You're creepy and vaguely sentient. But I'm busy building an empire here. Can we not do the horror movie stuff tonight?"
No response.
Which somehow made it worse.
He turned away and flopped onto the bed, burying his face in his pillow.
Knock knock.
He groaned. "What now…"
He opened the door to find—
"Vivienne," he said. "Back to kill me again?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she shoved a piece of paper into his chest.
Sylas unfolded it.
It was a sketch. Of him. In the library. Talking to that twitchy alchemy kid.
"You've been watched," Vivienne said flatly. "And now we have a problem."
Sylas blinked. "No no, see, I have a freelance operation. You just glare at me for breathing.
Vivienne pushed past him. "That pendant you took? I figured out what it is."
Sylas turned slowly. "If you say 'soul trap,' I'm jumping out the window."
"It's worse."
"Oh, great."
"It's not a trap. It's a key."
Sylas stared. "A key to what?"
Vivienne looked grim. "To a door that no longer exists. One the Headmistress sealed a decade ago. A prison."
Sylas laughed. Then stopped laughing when Vivienne didn't.
"You're serious."
"Yes."
"And I'm holding this thing why?"
"Because someone wants it opened again," she said. "And you, Sylas Vermund, have just become their favorite puppet."
Sylas rubbed his temples. "Do you ever bring normal news?"
Vivienne leaned close, eyes sharp. "If you die, it's not just your problem anymore."
That night, Sylas found a second note slipped under his door.
It was written in spidery script, elegant and cold:
"Open the door. Or I will."
—V.
Sylas stared at it in silence.
"…I really, really need a raise."