The descent from Babel Academy to the Lower City was a journey through the social strata of the kingdom, compressed into a single, nausea-inducing elevator ride.
The "Sky-Lift" was a massive, rattling cage of iron and reinforced glass, suspended by thick mana-cables. As we descended through the clouds, the pristine white marble of the Academy vanished, replaced first by the grey stone of the noble districts, then the brick of the merchant quarters, and finally, the grime-slicked cobblestones of the Industrial District.
The air changed with us. The clean, mana-rich oxygen of the peak was replaced by a heavy, sulfurous smog that tasted of copper and unwashed bodies.
"It smells like a cage," Zane muttered.
He was standing in the corner of the lift, his massive shoulders hunched to avoid hitting the rusted ceiling. I had forced him to wear a heavy, hooded cloak we'd 'borrowed' from the dorm's lost-and-found. It barely concealed his frame. The Ring of Whispers on my finger was warm. I was pumping a steady stream of mana into it, keeping the auditory filter at maximum capacity. Down here, the noise was a physical force. The clanging of factories, the shouting of hawkers, the screeching of steam-wagons. Without the ring, Zane would have snapped within minutes.
"Focus on my voice," I said, not looking at him, my eyes scanning the other passengers—a mix of tired factory workers and sketchy merchants. "We are tourists. We buy, we eat, we leave."
The lift hit the ground floor with a bone-jarring THUD. The gates groaned open. We stepped out into the chaos of the Iron Market.
It was a sensory nightmare. Neon mana-signs flickered in red and violent violet, advertising "Cheap Potions," "Girl-Golems," and "Rat-Meat Skewers." Steam vented from pipes in the ground, obscuring vision and making everyone look like ghosts.
"Where to?" Zane asked, his hand instinctively reaching for a sword hilt that wasn't there.
"We need weapons," I said, stepping over a puddle of questionable green liquid. "But first, we need capital. Twelve gold marks won't buy us a rusty spoon, let alone a sword capable of withstanding your strength."
We walked deeper into the market. I wasn't aimlessly wandering. I was looking for a specific type of establishment. In the game, the Iron Market was full of "Chance Stalls." Illegal gambling dens run by the local syndicates. They preyed on desperate workers hoping to double their daily wage. They were scammers. And the only thing a scammer fears is a cheat who knows the game better.
"There," I nodded toward a narrow alleyway crowded with people. A sign hung above it, flickering: THE LADY'S LUCK.
"Gambling?" Zane grumbled. "I hate luck."
"Good," I smirked. "Because we're not going to use any."
The den was a smoke-filled basement that reeked of cheap tobacco and desperation. Tables were scattered around, hosting dice games, card tables, and a few magical roulette wheels. The clientele was rough—mercenaries, off-duty guards, and factory foremen.
We found a spot at a "High-Low" dice table. The dealer was a Goblin with nimble fingers and a monocle that I immediately recognized as a Lens of Minor Probability. A cheating tool that let him see the weight distribution of the dice.
"Place your bets! High or Low! Double your coin, double your life!" the Goblin shrieked.
I stepped forward. I slammed our pouch onto the table. "Twelve marks," I said. "All on High."
The Goblin looked at me—a scrawny boy in a hood—and grinned. He saw a free meal. "All in? Brave little lord! Let's roll!"
He shook the cup. I activated my [Passive Skill: Analysis]. I didn't need magic to see the cheat. I watched his wrist. A subtle flick. He loaded the dice. The weight shifted to favor 'Low'.
"Roll!" The dice tumbled. Two. One. Three. Total: Six. Low.
"Ah! So sad!" the Goblin cackled, reaching for my pouch. "House wins!"
Zane tensed beside me. He was ready to flip the table. I put a hand on his chest to stop him. "Double or nothing," I said calmly.
The Goblin paused. "You have no more money, boy."
"I bet my servant," I pointed at Zane. "He's a pure-blood laborer. Strong back. Worth at least fifty marks on the slave market."
The room went quiet. Betting people was illegal, but common in the lower districts. Zane looked at me, betrayed. 'What are you doing?' his eyes screamed. I tapped two fingers on my thigh—our signal for Trust Me.
The Goblin looked at Zane's size. He licked his lips. A worker that size was worth a hundred marks. "Deal," the Goblin sneered. "One roll. High or Low?"
"High," I said again.
The Goblin shook the cup. He was going to cheat again. He triggered the weighted dice for 'Low'. He slammed the cup down. "Open it," I challenged.
The Goblin lifted the cup. But just as he did, I cast my spell. Not on the dice. On the light. [Mirage: Refractive Shift]
It was a tiny, localized illusion. For a split second, I bent the light hitting the Goblin's monocle. Instead of seeing the dice on the table, he saw a reflection of his own loaded mechanism hidden in his sleeve. Startled by the sudden flash in his eye, the Goblin flinched. His hand jerked, hitting the dice on the table. Clatter. The dice flipped. Six. Six. Five. Total: Seventeen. High.
The illusion vanished instantly. The Goblin blinked, rubbing his eye. He looked down. High. "W-what?" he stammered. "Impossible. It was..."
"It was High," I said loudly, grabbing the pile of coins from the center. "Pay up."
"You cheated!" the Goblin screeched, pointing a claw at me. "The dice moved!"
"Are you accusing the dice of being rigged?" I asked innocently, my voice carrying through the silent room. "If they are rigged, then you're admitting to fraud. If they aren't, then I won fair and square."
The crowd of losing gamblers grumbled. They were looking at the Goblin with suspicion now. The Goblin knew he was cornered. If he admitted the cheat, the crowd would tear him apart. "Fine," he hissed. "Take it and get out."
I swept the winnings into my bag. One hundred gold marks. "Pleasure doing business," I nodded. I grabbed Zane's arm. "Walk. Don't run."
We exited the den, the heavy gazes of the bouncers burning holes in our backs. Once we were in the alley, Zane exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding for ten minutes. "You bet me," he growled. "You bet my life."
"I bet on us," I corrected, handing him the heavy coin pouch. "And look. We won."
Zane weighed the pouch. It clinked heavily. "Don't do it again," he warned, though there was no real heat in his voice. He respected results.
"Now," I pointed down the street to a heavy iron sign hanging over a blackened shop. "Let's get you some teeth."
The Blacksmith: "Gorm's Anvil"
The shop was less a store and more a cave of soot and iron. We ignored the flashy swords on the racks—weapons made for nobles, decorated with gold filigree and weak enchantments. We went to the back, where the "scrap" was kept.
"I need weight," Zane told the blacksmith, a dwarf with a beard singed by dragon-fire. "Everything is too light."
The dwarf eyed Zane's physique. He spat on the floor. "You want a slab, not a sword. Check the barrel in the corner. Failed prototypes."
Zane rummaged through the barrel. He pulled out axes, hammers, and sabers. He tossed them aside like toys. Then, he stopped. He reached deep into the dust and pulled out a monstrosity.
It was a Greatsword, but barely. It was essentially a five-foot bar of raw, dark iron that had been roughly hammered into a blade shape. No crossguard. No pommel. Just a grip wrapped in rough leather. It was thick, crude, and rusted. "That one," the dwarf grunted, "is pig-iron mixed with obsidian. Too heavy. No balance. Tried to melt it down twice, but it won't melt."
Zane swung it. WHOOSH. The air whistled. The blade stopped instantly when Zane halted his swing. No wobble. Zane grinned. It was a terrifying sight. "I like it."
"It's trash," the dwarf said. "Thirty marks."
"Sold," I said immediately, throwing the coins on the counter before the dwarf could realize he was practically giving away a weapon made of Black-Steel (if you knew how to clean the rust off).
Zane strapped the massive blade to his back. It looked like he was carrying a tombstone. "It feels... anchoring," Zane said. "Like it keeps me on the ground."
"It's called the Iron-Breaker in the lore," I whispered to myself. "Or it will be, once you make it legendary."
We left the market as the sun began to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the industrial district. The smog turned a bruised purple. We headed for a side alley to avoid the main thoroughfare, looking for a shortcut to the Sky-Lift.
It was a mistake. Or perhaps, inevitable.
The alley was narrow, flanked by high brick walls of abandoned factories. I stopped. "Zane," I said softly.
"I hear them," Zane replied. His voice was flat. He reached over his shoulder and gripped the leather handle of his new sword.
Shadows detached themselves from the walls. Five men. They wore the grey cloaks of the Syndicate, but their movements were too disciplined for common thugs. And they all wore masks made of white porcelain. The Faceless. Assassins for hire. Cheap, but effective against students.
"Two targets," the leader said. His voice was muffled behind the porcelain. "The boy is the priority. The giant is collateral."
"Vex," I stated. It wasn't a question. The leader didn't answer. He drew two serrated daggers that dripped with a viscous green fluid. Wyvern Venom. "Kill them."
The five assassins lunged as one. They were fast. D-Rank speed. To a normal eye, they were blurs. But Zane wasn't normal. And I wasn't just watching.
"Left!" I shouted.
Zane didn't question. He pivoted left, swinging the massive iron slab with one hand. The assassin approaching from the left didn't expect the speed. He tried to block with his dagger. CRUNCH. The Iron-Breaker didn't cut him. It obliterated his defense. The dagger shattered, and the flat of the blade hit the assassin's ribs with the force of a carriage crash. He flew into the brick wall and slid down, unconscious.
"One," Zane counted.
"Earth Bind!" the leader cast. Stone shackles shot up from the cobblestones, wrapping around Zane's ankles, rooting him in place. "He's stuck! Gut him!"
Three assassins rushed the immobilized giant, their poisoned blades aimed at his kidneys.
I couldn't physically stop them. I was ten meters back. But I was the Architect. I controlled the perception of the battlefield. I raised my hand, mana surging through my circuits.
[Skill: Mirage - Phantom Wall]
I didn't cast a wall in front of Zane. I cast it between the assassins. Suddenly, a wall of raging fire appeared in the middle of their formation. It was completely silent—a flaw in my magic—but visual terror is powerful. Two of the assassins flinched, instinctively diving to the side to avoid the "flames." They rolled into the trash piles, losing their momentum.
The third one, the leader, realized it was fake too late. He charged through the illusionary fire. "It's not real!" he screamed.
But the hesitation had cost him two seconds. Two seconds was all Zane needed. He didn't try to break the stone shackles. He used his immense core strength to twist his torso. He swung the sword like a baseball bat. The leader tried to duck. The tip of the Iron-Breaker clipped his shoulder. The sound was wet and sickening. The leader spun in the air like a ragdoll and crashed face-first into the mud.
"Two," Zane growled. He flexed his legs. [Ability: Ogre Strength]. CRACK. The stone shackles around his ankles shattered into dust. He stepped free.
The remaining three assassins scrambled to their feet. They looked at their fallen leader, then at the giant who had just broken earth magic with brute force. Fear began to set in.
"Get the mage!" one shouted. "The big one is too tough!"
They changed targets. They sprinted toward me. I had no sword. I had no armor. I stood my ground, my hand in my pocket.
"Zane, stay back," I ordered.
Zane paused, confused, but he held his position.
The assassins closed the distance. Ten meters. Five meters. They saw a weak, grey-robed boy. Easy prey. I waited until they were three meters away. I pulled my hand out. I wasn't holding a weapon. I was holding a handful of the Gold Coins we had won.
[Skill: Mirage - Flashbang (Improvised)]
I threw the coins into the air between us. As they spun, I hit them with a burst of pure light mana. The gold surfaces acted like mirrors. The light refracted, multiplied, and exploded outward in a blinding, dazzling nova.
"GAH!" The assassins screamed, clutching their eyes. The sudden flash in the dark alley was blinding. They swung their daggers wildly at empty air.
I didn't attack. I simply stepped to the side, casually avoiding a blind thrust. "Zane," I said calmly. "Cleanup."
The ground shook. Zane charged past me like a locomotive. He didn't use his sword this time. He used his body. He shoulder-checked the first blinded assassin, sending him flying into the second one. They tangled into a heap of limbs. Zane grabbed the third one by the back of his neck and lifted him one-handed. He slammed the man into the brick wall. Not hard enough to kill, but hard enough to ensure he wouldn't wake up until next week.
Silence returned to the alley. Five assassins lay groaning or unconscious in the mud.
Zane stood amidst the carnage, breathing heavily. A small cut on his cheek was bleeding, but he was smiling. It was a wild, feral smile. He looked at the heavy sword in his hand, then at me.
"That..." Zane panted, "was better than the gambling."
I walked over to the unconscious leader. I knelt down and checked his pockets. No identification. Just a pouch of coin—standard payment. And a small note. I unfolded it. It was blank. I smirked. [Skill: Analysis] revealed the faint traces of mana ink. "No mistakes. - V."
I burned the note with a small spark. "Vex," I confirmed. "He's getting sloppy. Sending thugs means he's desperate."
I stood up and looked at Zane. "You did good. But you hesitated when the fire appeared."
"It looked real," Zane defended himself.
"Next time, trust the Ring," I tapped the band on my finger. "If you don't hear the fire roaring, it's not real. My illusions are silent. Remember that."
Zane nodded, absorbing the lesson. He wiped the blood from his cheek. "We should kill them," he suggested, looking at the bodies.
"No," I said. "Dead men tell no tales. But beaten men spread fear." I looked down at the broken porcelain masks. "Let them go back to the Syndicate. Let them tell everyone that the 'Ogre' and the 'Liar' are not easy targets. It will raise our price. And when our price is too high, Vex won't be able to afford the next hit."
We turned and walked out of the alley, leaving the groaning assassins behind. The Sky-Lift awaited. We were returning to the Academy not as victims, but as players. We had the money. We had the iron. And we had the first victory.
But as we ascended back into the clouds, I knew this was just the prologue. Vex had failed with force. Now, he would try to turn the Academy itself against us. The Practical Exam was approaching. And that was a battlefield where he made the rules.