Inside a modest house, a young man was scribbling intently. Despite his elegant appearance, chaos clung to him: ink smeared his face, ash dusted his clothes, and soggy papers littered the floor.
Still, he remained focused, paying no mind to the mess around him. He kept writing until, at last, he scrawled the final rune. As the ink settled, a brilliant glow bloomed, illuminating the room.
His once-tense expression lit up with hope—only for that hope to be dashed.
Boom!
Clayton flinched, quickly shielding his face with a nearby object.
Cough. "Damn it... Why is this thing so hard to make?!" he muttered in frustration.
Yes, that young man was Clayton. Lately, he'd been trying to use his rune entries to craft magic scrolls. At first, things had gone surprisingly well. But everything changed once he reached the practical phase.
It wasn't a lack of understanding. The real issue was his unstable mana control. Sometimes, his mana would run dry halfway through the process, completely ruining the result.
This problem stemmed from his recent promotion to a one-star mage apprentice. He hadn't yet adapted to his new mana capacity or quality. Creating scrolls, however, required a stable and precise mana supply.
In theory, he was top-tier. In practice, however, the results said otherwise.
Often, he could sense the process was failing but couldn't stop it in time. If only my mana control were better. Everything would be so much easier.
Even so, Clayton refused to give up. He kept practicing, crafting scroll after scroll. Some even worked—albeit imperfectly. But those small successes were enough to lift his spirits. His success rate had reached five percent, and that was something.
After the latest failure, though, his mood soured. He decided to pack up and head outside for some fresh air.
…
A golden sea of fields stretched endlessly into the distance, mesmerizing Clayton. As he wandered, he followed the sound of murmurs and footsteps, soon realizing a crowd had gathered ahead—in front of Hank's house.
Ever since the incident with the traps—which had injured several people—rumors spread like wildfire. "If there's no treasure, why was the house rigged like a dungeon?" people asked.
Eventually, thrill-seekers began challenging what they called Hank's house dungeon.
But their efforts were fruitless. There was no treasure. Most just ended up hurt—beaten, stabbed, poisoned, or wounded by strange contraptions. Frustration boiled over, and some even threatened to burn the place down.
The city authorities intervened, sealed off the house, and decided to rent it—along with the farmland—to someone else.
It turned out to be a profitable move. People soon regretted chasing phantom riches when the real treasure had been the farmland all along.
Even though the field had sustained damage, it still yielded crops that sold at high prices—especially since the land was tax-exempt. Renting farmland in such a prime location was like picking money off the ground.
Clayton found himself wondering—who was the lucky soul who got the land?
When he arrived, he saw a muscular young man clad in beast-hide clothing, adorned with bone accessories. The man exuded the scent of blood and an aura of raw power.
Clayton immediately sensed it—this was not someone to be underestimated.
Whether intentional or not, the man radiated the pressure of a three-star mage apprentice. It was enough to make most lowlifes think twice.
Clayton could only admire him. Judging by his age, the man wasn't much older than him, yet his level was on a completely different scale.
He's probably a Tier 3 qualified mage… Way above my Tier 5, Clayton thought. But why would someone this powerful be farming out here?
Surely, someone like him could've easily become an external student at the renowned Academy of Water and Fire Magic. Clayton's father had once dreamed of getting him in, but Clayton hadn't qualified.
That academy wasn't just prestigious—it was a regional powerhouse. Even nearby cities like Sunlight City had to pay annual taxes to them.
The sheer amount of resources and connections available to its students was staggering. No wonder his father had been so determined.
Suddenly, a friendly voice pulled Clayton from his thoughts.
"Hello! Good afternoon, everyone! I'm Arthur. Just moved in—pleased to meet you!"
Arthur greeted the neighbors warmly, handing out slices of jerky, each the size of a playing card, as a gesture of goodwill.
Clayton received a piece too. As he walked home, he nibbled on it thoughtfully.
"Hey... this is pretty good," he muttered, already considering buying some from Arthur for emergency rations.
…
A few days later, harvest time arrived. Clayton was fired up. He and his seven mini skeletons prepared to reap the wheat.
But before they could begin, a flock of wild sparrows swooped in, trying to steal the grain. Rather than panic, Clayton calmly pulled a magic scroll from his clothes.
Channeling mana into it, a soft light shimmered.
Snap!
A water projectile shot out and struck the birds. Clayton kept firing, aided by his tiny skeletons.
Eventually, the birds scattered. He nodded in satisfaction. The damage was minimal, and the bird corpses could even be sold.
His Water Shot scroll had exceeded expectations—thanks to the combined force of Viscosity and Density, it struck harder than any normal spell of its kind.
He knew it could sell for a good price, but he wasn't ready to part with it. He had plans to recreate an even more valuable heirloom scroll passed down from his father.
But that could wait. Right now, it was harvest time.
With his skeleton helpers and an efficient magic sickle, Clayton quickly became one of the fastest reapers in the area.
After drying the grain using a spell, he harvested an average of 800 kg per hectare. While lower than the standard 1,000 kg, it was still respectable—especially for someone using a "cheat."
Clayton couldn't help but think of the other farmers struggling due to the drought. They must've been hit much harder.
He could see the worry on their faces. Not wanting to repeat what happened with Tiger, Clayton hurried to the outer district tax office to pay his dues.
On the way, he passed a crowd of gloomy farmers heading in the same direction.
Today was supposed to be a celebration—not a day of despair.
Clayton said nothing and quietly fell in line.
At the tax office, a long queue had already formed. For a moment, he doubted he'd make it in time.
Fortunately, the line moved quickly. From a distance, he spotted Manager Belly—the portly man in charge.
But when Belly flashed him a sly grin, Clayton felt a chill run down his spine.
Something's not right... that guy's definitely up to no good.