After the snow's first clearing. The entire city of Lyon lay draped in silver. Sunlight refracted through icy branches in a kaleidoscope of colors, seemingly washing away all the filth and ugliness within the city. This year's winter had arrived slightly earlier than usual in Lyon, much to the delight of nobles and the wealthy. Ladies and daughters would once again parade their new winter gowns.
The Soren District in the southwest was the city's slum, a forgotten corner where people engaged in all manner of lowly professions gathered. It was also a paradise for criminals. Winter was no blessing here; dilapidated homes needed repairs, and winter clothing and fuel had to be prepared.
At the edge of the Soren District, Rogue stood before an old two-story building, surveying his new nest with satisfaction. The location was prime—though only for a select few, like Rogue. Not far from the building lay a small cemetery, and several towering oaks surrounded the structure. Even on sunny days, the place held a certain grimness.
Rogue entered with a cheerful step. The building had clearly been vacant for some time; dust and cobwebs coated the sparse furniture. Half the shutters were stuck, and a wooden staircase led from the living room to the second floor. Upstairs were three rooms: one large and two small. Rogue planned to use the large one as his study, while the smaller ones would serve as a storage room and a laboratory. Heaven only knew what Rogue might concoct there—for now, at least.
Thanks to its unique location, Rogue had acquired the building for a mere fifty gold coins—roughly his annual living expenses and tuition fees just one week prior. Now, however, his pockets held three hundred and fifty gold coins. The quality of the water lily stone embedded in the mage's staff he'd seized from the mercenaries was quite impressive, offering significant aid to water-element mages. Given Rogue's decisive victory over two warriors and a mage single-handedly, Lance and the others had unquestionably agreed the staff belonged to him. After spending several days analyzing the battle, Rogue decided the staff held little value for him now and sold it for four hundred gold coins.
Rogue had never handled so much wealth before. Lord Rivers, the old viscount, earned only three hundred gold coins annually from rents and taxes, leaving little surplus for his son. Besides, even fallen nobles remained nobles—social obligations demanded certain displays, and the heavy financial strain had steadily worsened the old viscount's temper.
It was another week before the building was fully furnished, costing Rogue an additional twenty gold coins. Now, Rogue lay contentedly on the bed in his study (in his view, there was nothing amiss about having a bed in a study), surrounded by heaps of gold coins. Heaven only knew how deeply a fallen noble's son craved such wealth. After countless turns counting the coins, exhaustion finally claimed him. He slept until the sun dipped low the next day. "Aaaaahhhhh!" Rogue sprang from the bed after an enormous stretch, sending several coins clattering to the floor. What a delightful sound.
Sleeping until dawn and counting coins until his fingers ached—that was Rogue's definition of happiness.
Over the following month, Rogue occasionally returned to his little nest, adding numerous traps and mechanisms. Lance and the others visited his new dwelling one by one. Each contributed ideas, mostly mischievous pranks, though occasionally a surprisingly clever notion emerged. Of course, these fledgling knights' creations were limited in power—only truly devious in their cunning.
During this time, Rogue learned a new spell: Finger of Flame. It propelled a small jet of fire from his finger to wound enemies, though this second-level spell naturally possessed minimal power.
After discovering he could use spiritual energy as a tripwire, Rogue had plunged into rigorous practice with fiery determination. But a month later, besides fattening a stray cat he'd tossed it at, he'd achieved nothing. Rogue finally understood that even giants weren't built in a single meal. His fervor cooled, and he resumed fraternizing with Ete and the others.
Rogue had almost forgotten about his skeleton.
"Before you can wield your craft well, you must first sharpen your tools." Rogue understood this principle well. The numerous scars left from the "Old Oak" battle had also taught Ete and the others this lesson through painful experience. Unanimously, they began purchasing high-quality gear—some items, naturally, less befitting a knight's dignity or noble bearing. Rogue acquired a finely crafted elven arm crossbow capable of holding three bolts. Simple runes inscribed upon it slightly enhanced magical penetration. "This is far more useful than being blessed with a dish," Rogue told Ete with shameless audacity. Ete wholeheartedly agreed and suggested adding toxins to the bolts—an idea Rogue immediately adopted.
For a full month, these troublemaking friends stayed home, avoiding their usual fraternizing pursuits. While purchasing equipment had drained much of their monthly stipends, the main reason was fear of encountering those mercenaries again. Any one of those hardened fighters, if serious, could easily rout all of them. Though unlikely to openly murder a noble, they'd undoubtedly inflict a painful beating—mercenaries were often experts in interrogation. Every time Lance recalled the female warrior Keevey's groin kick, he shuddered involuntarily and instinctively clenched his legs.
Inside the governor's mansion in Le Mans, the capital of the Duchy of Bavaria two hundred miles west of Lyon, Ophirock studied Rogue's reports with keen interest, particularly Rogue's notes on poisoning bolts for the arm crossbow and the mechanisms in his hideout. Elexis, a fusion of ice and black flame, held the report Ophirock offered between long, slender fingers as if handling something filthy. Her sapphire-blue nails glinted occasionally in the sun. She grew increasingly disgusted with this group, unable to comprehend why Ophirock found such wastrels so intriguing.
A black flame ignited, swiftly reducing the reports to nothing—not even ash remained. Yet those icy fingers, even within the flame, remained unharmed.
The Golden Lion paid it no mind. Rising, he walked to the floor-to-ceiling window facing east. The setting sun bathed everything before it in a blood-red hue. Ophirock's gaze seemed to pierce through hundreds of miles of space and time, settling upon Lyon City.
The sunset grew increasingly crimson, painting the vast lands in blood. Ophirock's blood slowly boiled as his heart soared above the earth. Elexis, like black hellfire concealed within, watched the bloodstained mountains and rivers, and Ophirock's rising aura. Her ice-cold eyes softened faintly; a flash of silver light passed through them, like the cold gleam on a scythe.
When the first snowmelt dripped from spring's sun-warmed roof, Rogue emerged from Fess's Workshop. Silently, he watched the droplets fall from the eaves. After a night-long discussion where Rogue sought answers about magic arrays, the master and apprentice—bound by many shared vices—had ranged widely across tales and legends. Following endless recountings of legendary archmages, Fess suddenly mused, "To become a powerful mage, wealth is indispensable." Rogue stared with rapt attention. "Yes! Every artifact those great mages possess is priceless. Even the staff I took from that mage was worth hundreds of gold coins." Naturally, the conversation turned to how mages might earn such wealth.
"Rogue, you've got a little coin now. But it's far from enough—not even enough for decent magical reagents. You've been with me long enough; your teacher hasn't given you much. This magic ring might still serve you. And this black crystal—it's good quality. But you'll need to craft it into an enchanted item yourself. Ask me about magic arrays if you're stuck. Beyond that, it's up to you. Increasing mana isn't a day's work. If you want power quickly, you need money. Money buys better gear. Power brings more wealth. Look through history—every major figure grew as rich as a nation. Archmages each possess one or two divine artifacts. Founding emperors and generals? Money was always essential. And wars? Aren't they always burning through coin?"
Fess continued, "The art of making money itself is no small matter. First, you must read the currents. Second, you must gather the right people. Reading the grand tides means knowing where the world flows and riding that current—you'll find opportunity everywhere. Gathering talent? Know that even genius has limits. To assemble the world's finest minds for your own ends makes wealth flow naturally. Finally, know when to walk away. Self-awareness is key—advance or retreat as needed. When something's impossible, have the courage to cut losses. One or two defeats won't cripple you; you can always rise again. Rogue, you're capable, but lack perseverance and patience. This can't be rushed. Take time to read the Continental Chronicles. Past paths offer lessons. What matters isn't running faster than others on one road—it's choosing the right road."
Rogue stared, dumbfounded, his heart pounding with fervor. He'd never imagined the usually stiff and reserved Fess held such insight. Suddenly, the world seemed to open before him, glowing with the soft radiance of gold coins.
The magic ring Fess gave Rogue was a standard mana-amplification ring. "Amplification" meant it helped casters control spells more precisely, thus expending less mana per spell. In practice, it usually allowed an extra low-level spell.
Rogue strode toward his building with resolute steps. He'd never felt such fiery resolve in his life. Under the night sky, everything seemed gilded in golden light. Gold coins, jewels, and beauties danced around him. *Heh heh, look at those high breasts, those long legs—lovely! Feels real too. Why does this face look familiar? Nice features, quite striking... Where have I seen her?... This isn't a vision!* Rogue snapped out of his daydream, gaping at the other end of the alley where Keevey approached, her bearing an aura of grim solemnity.
"I've been hunting you for two months!" Words hissed through clenched teeth, sounding like a death knell.