Chapter 1

“I really don’t understand why I have to go,” said Ren.

He was perfectly happy doing what he should be doing—sitting in his cozy crafting corner, surrounded by bubbling flasks, dried mandrake root, and dimly glowing mushrooms. Going outside was not part of the deal. Going outside was gross.

Victor, the guildmaster of Prosperous Guild, gave him a tired look. “Ren, you know we’ve been stuck at the last challenge in the level 50 dungeon. The boss nukes all potions unless they’re crafted on the spot. We’ve tried with a couple other clerics, and… yeah. No use. Their alchemy’s too low. And if we go with a pure alchemist, we’re short one in the party. With a five-man raid, that’s suicide. So yeah, we need you.”

Ren frowned. “Victor, my guild contract specifically says I don't have to go out.”

And for good reason.

Dusty roads.

Sweaty armor.

MONSTERS.

And worst of all—dying.

Towerbound, as the most immersive VR game ever made, had shattered every previous benchmark in the industry. Real sound, real sight, real tastes—and unfortunately, real feeling. Yeah, you could tone it down, but even with his pain settings at 10% (the lowest allowed), dying still sucked.

He’d died once early on. Just once.

Took him three days to log back in after that. And that was when Towerbound allowed you to play with 10% realism.

Now, years into the game, everyone was forced to be in 100% realism.

It helped him in his potion making.

But, if he was going to be forced into facing possibly dying, and feeling like it would feel like, he could only imagine how bad it would be.

He only returned because his real-world phone wouldn’t stop ringing—reminding him he technically had a guild contract to fulfill.

That’s when he’d added the all-important clause:No dungeon runs. Ever.

He was the guild’s best alchemist, not some glory-seeking raid monkey.

Victor rubbed his face. “Look, we wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. We’re training another cleric focused on alchemy, but he’s not ready. It’ll be at least a month before he can craft mid-tier healing potions, and you know how important timing is.”

Ren raised an eyebrow. “This about reputation?”

Victor didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Prosperous Guild hadn’t been very prosperous lately.

Once a top gaming guild, riding high from early clears and media buzz, they were now… stale. No first clears in six months. Whispers in the forums. Mocking memes. Reddit threads titled “More Like Mediocre Guild LOL”.

The Prosperous Guild was like every other gaming guild out there: it needed to win.

It needed to dominate leaderboards, claim first clears, break records. It was like one of those big-name sports franchises—nobody tuned in, supported, or threw money behind a team that wasn’t battling for first.

And if they weren’t battling for first, the corporations backing them would start bleeding profits.

If that happened?

Endorsements would vanish.

Viewership would nosedive.

Revenue would crater.

And the players? They’d be replaced faster than a losing football coach in Texas.

Ren sighed. He liked being indoors. He liked his quiet. But his cushy crafting position did rely on the guild not falling into obscurity.

“Fine. I’ll go. But I expect extra pay.”

Victor perked up. “No problem! Normally, as you know, we pay out in guild points.”

“I don’t want guild points,” Ren said flatly.

He didn’t. He already had all the gear he needed. He was the top alchemist in the guild. If he wanted something, it was usually handed to him. Drops that were alchemy related auto-allocated to his inventory by priority.

Guild points were meaningless.

“What about credits?” Victor offered. “We can convert your guild points into direct credits. Black market rate, if needed.”

Ren’s eyes lit up.

“Now that’s more like it.”

Technically, credits weren’t transferable from the game’s banking system, but guilds had all kinds of ways around that. Legal? Not really. Useful? Absolutely. Credits could buy you real food, rent, fancy VR upgrades—or more importantly his real passion: fancy cheese.

He loved his craft in game. But lately? The guild had been treating him like a potion donkey.

His original contract gave him half a day for experimental alchemy work. But that had slowly been chipped away—first a few hours, then a couple, now just a pathetic hour a day.

He’d thought about breaking the contract. But every time he brought it up, they said the same thing:

“It’s just temporary.”

It was always temporary.

Ren appreciated the fact that they’d given him a cushy contract—one that let him move out of District 1, get real water pressure, and sleep without sirens. That goodwill had gone a long way.

But this? This was pushing it.

Breaking his contract explicitly, shoving him into a live raid, forcing him to face down a monster that could absolutely kill him—or at least make him feel like it had?

Yeah. That was too much.

He wasn’t trying to be a huge dick about it, but come on. He wasn’t a murder hobo. At best, he was murder hobo adjacent.

And now they wanted him to run headfirst into a no-potion death dungeon?

Ren sighed.

“And after this run you’ll go back to 100% self guided alchemy.”

“No more constantly grinding out the same level 3 instant heal and instant potions?”

“Yeah…..no more.”

“Plus credits? In real life?”

“Yup, a ton of them. Enough for that cheese trip you always wanted to go on.”

The thought of a whole bunch of fancy cheese in real life made Ren smile.

He wasn’t poor—far from it. As the top alchemist in a pretty good guild (until recently), he was doing better than most.

Living in a nice place in district 10, not worrying about getting stabbed on his daily grocery run, you know small stuff like that His contract didn’t make him rich, but if he wanted a nice ten-dollar block of sharp cheddar? No problem. Toss it on the credit card.

But if he wanted something a little stupider—like flying to District 9’s Creambelt, where everyone knew the best cheese came from—cows, class, and consumption in equal measure—just to gorge himself on a $200 block of applewood smoked cheddar aged in the caves of wherever-the-hell?

That was a different story.

He could afford it. Technically.

But being able to buy mountains of it without blinking?

That was the dream.

That was the “swimming in cheese like Scrooge McDuck” dream.

(Although the mental image of literally swimming in melted cheese made him gag a little.)

Still, it was the principle of the thing.

Yet the once-in-a-lifetime vacation overcame his fear of death.

“All right,” Ren said, cracking his knuckles. “I’m ready to go.”

He geared himself up carefully, mentally going over every piece twice.

The guild had loaned him the best equipment available for the run—probably because they knew he’d back out if they didn’t protect his cowardly ass.

Technically, Ren was a Battle Cleric, and he had the cleric spells to prove it:

●      Basic Heal

●      Minor Cure Status

●      Blessing of Endurance

●      Light Barrier

He also had Battle Cleric spells. The spells weren’t anything special—just the ones people normally got after they hit level 10 and specialized:

●      Heal Self

●      Aura of Cleansing

●      Self Regenerate

●      Mendflesh

●      Sanctified Rebound

Nothing fancy.

Nothing flashy.

He wasn’t one of those battle clerics who ran around smashing people with a mace while shouting about divine justice.

No, Ren’s real strength came from his professional class:

Alchemy.

His potions could make a tank invincible for thirty seconds.

His healing potions could outpace a regular cleric’s best channeling spells.

His experimental brews could turn the tide of a battle in the blink of an eye.

Assuming, of course, he wasn’t busy being eaten by a boss monster.

Ren sighed and glanced over his gear again.

Lightweight chain under reinforced priest robes.

A belt full of emergency reagents.

Two quick-deploy potion kits clipped to his hip.

And, slung across his back, the Guild-Issued Holy Staff, affectionately nicknamed by other clerics as the Bam-Bam Stick—because if things got desperate enough, you could always smack a goblin with it.

He wasn’t a fighter.

He wasn’t a raider.

But for this one stupid dungeon run…

He was ready to be a hero.

Or at least, ready enough not to die in the first two minutes.

***

Chapter 2

Ren was quickly introduced to his team—the so-called “elite strike squad” of Prosperous Guild.

They were the guild’s spearhead, the ones who usually brought home the glory and the headlines.

Not that Ren cared. He wasn’t here for fame. He was here for the cheddar.

It was a standard five-person composition: one main tank, two DPS, himself as the cleric, and an off-tank/DPS hybrid to round things out.

Victor clapped his hands together. “All right, Ren, meet your team. You’re in good hands.”

A massive wall of a man stepped forward first, armor clanking with every move. His shield alone looked like it could stop a runaway truck.

“Gareth Ironwall,” the man grunted. His voice sounded like boulders grinding together. “I tank. You heal. Keep it simple.”

Ren gave a stiff nod. Simple sounded good.

Next was a wiry woman with a cascade of fiery red hair and twin daggers strapped at her hips. She moved like a coiled spring, ready to pounce.

“Lilith Emberfall,” she said with a playful grin. “But everyone calls me Lil. I stab things. Fast.”

She winked, and Ren suddenly wasn’t sure if she was flirting or threatening him. Possibly both.

A figure in muted green leathers followed her, his bow casually slung across one shoulder. He had a quiet, steady presence, like someone who knew exactly where every exit was and how fast he could get there.

“Milo Greaves,” he said in a calm, clipped tone. “Most call me Moss. I’ll cover from range. Try not to get in the way.”

Ren could respect that. Clear. Professional. Non-stabby.

Finally, a man with a roguish smile and a greatsword nearly as tall as Ren himself swaggered up, tossing a casual salute.

“Cassien Vale. Off-tank, part-time disaster artist. If things go sideways, I’m your guy.”

Cassien slapped Ren on the back so hard he nearly face-planted. Laughing, he added, “Relax, potion boy. We’ll get you through this in one piece.”

Ren offered a tight smile. He was not reassured.

Victor looked pleased. “Good. You all know the plan. Ren handles healing and alchemy on the fly. Gareth holds the line. Lil and Moss rip through the adds. Cassien jumps in where needed.”

He gave Ren a long look. “And you? Just stay alive. Keep them alive.”

Ren gave a short nod.

Simple orders.

Easy enough.

Except the boss waiting for them inside—the Shard Revenant—was infamous for exactly one thing: punishing anyone who thought things would be simple.

Ren double-checked his potion belt, adjusted his reagent pouch, and followed the team toward the wilds.

‘Cheese. Think about the cheese,’ he told himself resolutely.

And with that, he stepped forward into the unknown.

***

Chapter 3

The trip to the dungeon itself wasn’t quite as horrible as Ren had imagined.

First, they teleported to the region called Emberfall.

Thanks to Prosperous Guild’s resources, they had locked down several lands and territories across the map. In Towerbound, players could teleport instantly to any major city or town—if they had a hearthstone bound there.

The guild owned one massive city and several smaller towns, all vital hubs of shops, trade, and services that fueled their economy.

Naturally, each of those towns also had guild-bound hearthstones, making travel fast.

Well, fast to the right place. What happened after that was another story.

Emberfall was beautiful—scorched red forests, misty valleys, and rivers that steamed in the cool twilight.

Most players loved it.

Ren hated it.

Because traveling meant one very specific nightmare: Kodos.

Big.

Fat.

Swamp-sloshing lizards.

And they stank.

Even when they weren’t loudly releasing gas like biological artillery, they still smelled like a boot left in a bog for a year.

Prosperous Guild wasn’t rich enough to blow fortunes on gilded war-stallions or nightmare steeds. No, they bought Kodos—cheap, dependable, stinky.

The only saving grace?

Storage.

Kodos had an absurd amount of room to physically strap gear onto them.

In Towerbound, players were lucky enough to have personal space bags—small magical inventory fields that could hold far more items than their size suggested.

They came in different tiers. Beginner bags were about ten by ten slots—perfect for new players lugging around basic potions and low-tier gear. Advanced bags could reach one hundred by one hundred slots or higher, holding thousands of items, each compressed neatly into inventory grids.

Ren, as the top alchemist in Prosperous Guild, already had one of the biggest bags available—a one-hundred-twenty-by-one-hundred-twenty spatial grid, massive by normal player standards. Enough to carry reagents, herbs, potions, ingredients, and half a mobile laboratory if he needed it.

But even his gigantic bag had limits.

Mounts, like the poor swampy Kodos, didn’t have magic storage. Anything you wanted carried outside your personal bag had to be physically strapped onto the beast. And Kodos had a lot of scaly real estate to work with.

Ren had taken full advantage.

He strapped a four-person luxury tent with weather protection enchantments. Roll-up carpets enchanted for warmth and softness. A travel-size hookah illusion setup for maximum morale. Genie arrays that floated plates of imported snacks and cheeses. A magical zither illusion for ambient bard music. And most importantly, a plush, rune-stitched bedroll capable of adjusting its temperature and softness automatically.

If he had to spend three miserable days out here, by the gods, he was going to do it in style.

‘No way I’m living like some dirty-edgy “real adventurer,”’ Ren thought smugly.

‘I’ll be the pampered merchant who actually survives the trip.’

When the others mounted up, they glanced over his ridiculous setup.

Lil doubled over laughing. Moss shook his head with the air of a man deeply disappointed by his gear choices. Cassien offered to swap his saddlebag of rations for “literally anything luxurious you’re hauling.” Gareth muttered something about “soft hands” and kept riding.

Ren didn’t care.

He wasn’t here to win style points.

He was here to not die and then buy so much cheese the Creambelt economy would feel it.

To that end, he had layered himself with every possible anti-monster protection he could afford. There were standard guild-issued protection amulets, but Ren had added quick-deploy shield barriers, emergency teleport blink stones, and a ring of automated defensive glyphs that could trigger in layers around his camp.

He was practically a walking fortress disguised as a traveling apothecary.

‘Gotta not die,’ Ren reminded himself fearfully as the first night loomed.

‘Fancy cheese. Imported, smoked, aged cheese. Focus, Ren.’

He secured the camp, activated the protection arrays, and climbed into his luxury bedroll under a canopy of illusionary stars.

Maybe tomorrow they’d run into goblin ambushers or giant Emberfall predators.

Maybe he’d die a painful, screaming death.

But tonight?

Tonight, he would sleep like a king—wrapped in luxury, snacking on brie, dreaming of cheddar victories to come.

The road from Emberfall to the dungeon wasn’t particularly dangerous.

And really, why would it be?

Guilds were crawling all over the place, all desperate to be the first to clear the new dungeon.

And wherever there were adventurers, there were people happy to smash anything dumb enough to wander close to the road.

Troll? Free loot.

Goblin? Free EXP.

Harpies? Free target practice.

Stick to the roads, you were fine.

Wander into the woods, you were on your own.

Ren’s group wasn’t wandering.

They were on a tight, miserable, no-stops timeline.

Prosperous Guild wasn’t just aiming for a clear. They were racing for the First Clear.

And First Clears weren’t just about giving Victor something to brag about, though Ren was pretty sure Victor was already drafting his speech.

First Clears meant exclusive loot.

One-time rewards.

Sponsored Messages.

Exclusive equipment, bonus experience boosts, unique titles, and sometimes secret questlines—things you literally couldn’t earn after someone else got there first.

First Clears weren’t bragging rights.

They were power.

And Prosperous Guild desperately needed the boost.

Ren understood.

He just wished they hadn’t dragged him along for it.

Three random monster attacks on the way already, and every one of them made the group more tense.

Ren still hadn’t gotten off his Kodo once.

He fired off lazy healing spells from his saddle, kept everyone alive just fine, and didn’t even wrinkle his robes doing it.

He wasn’t here to win Best Healer of the Year anyway.

His cleric level was a sad little 10.

Realistically? Not dungeon material.

But his tier 7 alchemist level said otherwise.

In Towerbound, level 10 was the threshold—the real start of the game. That’s when everything changed. Players could finally unlock their elite combat class, shaping how they’d fight, survive, or dominate. But just as importantly, they could pick their professional class—the economic, crafting, and support lifepath that let them manipulate the world in quieter, subtler ways.

Professional classes came with their own skill trees, tools, and independent EXP gain systems. Leveling your professional class didn’t boost your main class directly, but it did grant passive bonuses, unlock crafting synergies, and occasionally give hidden quests that bled into the rest of the world.

Ren, though? He’d never really fought. Never delved into dungeons like the others. Not after what happened last time—the time he died. That memory had been enough to keep him tucked away, safe behind walls and workshops. Which meant one thing:

All of his professional EXP came from crafting.

Thousands of them. Healing draughts. Mana elixirs. Buff infusions. He’d practically drowned in cauldrons and recipes, leveling faster than most combat players just through sheer repetition. His Alchemy skill was absurdly high. His tool proficiencies were maxed out. His potion crit rate was bug-level broken.

He wasn’t a fighter.

But he was something better. Something stronger.

A force multiplier.

And according to the global rankings, he was the number one alchemist in the world.

The others didn’t need him to battle-heal.

They needed him for a specific moment inside the dungeon—a crafting ritual site hidden deep in the labyrinth.

The dungeon’s main gimmick blocked outside healing potions, scrolls, buffs—pretty much everything.

If they wanted supplies to survive the final boss, they had to craft them right there, on the spot, using raw ingredients they had.

No pre-packed potions. No mass-produced pills.

You either had a good enough alchemist to brew what you needed at the ritual site—or you died.

And Prosperous Guild?

They didn’t have another alchemist who could pull it off.

They had tried someone else first.

Specifically, Adhir—Victor’s girlfriend.

On paper, she looked okay.

Level 52 Holy cleric.

Problem was, her alchemy was a pitiful Tier 2.

Practically a hobbyist.

They’d thrown every boost they could at her.

Guild bonuses, top-tier gear, crafting guides handed to her on a silver platter.

Didn’t matter.

She wasn’t good enough.

She failed, the raids failed, everyone went home pissed off. With the loss of EXP as a reminder of their failure.

No amount of favoritism could fix that.

And Adhir had definitely gotten favoritism.

She got the best crafting stations, best raid slots, best opportunities—because she was dating Victor.

Nobody said it out loud, but everyone knew.

Ren didn’t even really blame her.

It wasn’t her fault Victor was an idiot about keeping guild business and personal life separate.

It just made things messy.

Ren shifted in his saddle, patting the heavy bags crammed full of reagents, base ingredients, and emergency supplies strapped to his Kodo.

He wasn’t here for politics.

He wasn’t here for drama.

He was here to get to the crafting ritual, brew up a survival kit so good they’d actually win, clear the dungeon, and build himself a castle made entirely of imported cheeses.

‘Survive. Brew. Cheese,’ Ren reminded himself resolutely, watching the faint silhouette of the dungeon grow larger through the Emberfall mist.

The others rode ahead, silent and focused.

Ren hung back a little, letting his Kodo plod along comfortably.

Because one thing was certain:

They might make it. They might wipe. But Ren? Ren was damn well going to survive in comfort.

CHAPTER 4

When Prosperous Guild finally reached the dungeon gates, the place was packed.

Hundreds of players loitered around, setting up campfires, sharpening weapons, checking gear, or just trash-talking each other. Guild banners flapped overhead, and the mist swirling out from the dungeon entrance gave everything an ominous, end-of-the-world vibe.

A level 50 dungeon with the First Clear still on the line?

Yeah, no major guild was going to sit that one out.

But if there was one guild guaranteed to get the stink eye from everyone else, it was Prosperous Guild.

And it wasn’t even close.

Prosperous had tried their usual stunt—stationing thousands of their members outside the dungeon days before, claiming it was “theirs” because they “found it.”

Problem was, everybody knew the truth.

Starfire Guild had actually discovered the dungeon three days earlier.

Unlike Prosperous, Starfire had opened the find to the community—letting anyone who wandered by enter it freely, no gatekeeping, no politics.

Prosperous didn’t care about that.

They never did.

They’d bullied their way in anyway, set up blockade lines, and declared the dungeon “Prosperous Property” like they were really medieval lords handing out decrees.

It hadn’t gone over well.

Not even a little.

Now, as Ren’s five-person team rolled up toward the gates, the boos and jeering started immediately.

“Look who finally showed up!” someone from Ashen Bloom yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Took you long enough to remember how doors work!”

“Don’t die again in the mist, Prosperous babies!” a rogue from Silver Phoenix shouted, laughing.

From the camp of Obsidian Serpents, someone muttered just loud enough for it to carry, “Guess bribing half the server didn’t buy them enough skill.”

Even Stormborne Vanguard, normally the uptight stoic types, weren’t immune to the temptation.

One of their shield bearers called out with a smirk, “Better set up your tent right here. At your speed, you’ll still be clearing the lobby when we’re looting the boss.”

Ren shifted in his saddle, tugging his hood down a little farther over his face.

‘Fantastic,’ he thought. ‘Public humiliation before we even get wiped. Great start.’

Lilith, to her credit, just winked at a few hecklers and blew a sarcastic kiss.

Cassien offered an exaggerated bow so deep it was almost a faceplant.

Moss didn’t react at all—dead silent, dead still. Probably plotting how to snipe someone later.

Gareth just grunted like he wanted to break someone’s jaw with his shield.

Victor walked in front of them like he didn’t hear anything.

Pretending Prosperous Guild wasn’t a giant target of public hatred was a valuable skill for all their members.

Ren admired the delusion, honestly.

‘Survive. Brew. Cheese,’ he reminded himself, patting the Kodo’s scaly side for luck.

Because once those dungeon doors opened, it wasn’t going to matter who hated who.

Only one guild was walking out with the First Clear.

And he had no intention of dying first just so Prosperous could save face.

Ren slouched lower in his saddle, pretending to check his potion satchels while trying not to make eye contact with anyone ready to throw a punch.

Internally, he started mentally ranking the odds of who was going to stab Prosperous Guild first.

Top 5 groups most likely to shank us before we even hit the loading screen, Ren’s List:

#1. Crimson Thorns —

Zero impulse control. Already suplexing each other in their own camp. Would absolutely stab for fun. Probably already taking bets on who would throw the first punch.

#2. Obsidian Serpents —

Professional backstabbers. If they could kill you in-game, loot your corpse, and convince your guild to thank them for it, they would.

#3. Starfire Guild —

Normally peaceful. But after Prosperous tried to steal their dungeon?

Yeah. Grudges run deep.

Ren could practically feel the passive-aggressive judgment radiating off them like solar flares.

#4. Silver Phoenix —

Wouldn’t stab them right away.

No, Silver Phoenix would smile, make friends, let you walk into the boss room first, and then stab you when your health hit half.

#5. Twilight Covenant —

Technically might not stab them at all.

Might just quietly curse them, summon a demon, or open a portal to hell under their tent.

Ren gave the whole situation about a 30% chance they even made it through the front door without someone throwing a fireball.

‘Survive. Brew. Cheese,’ he reminded himself again.

In that order.

As they approached the dungeon entrance, Ren realized he was going to have to park his Kodo.

There was no way mounts were allowed inside.

And that meant hoping no one would steal it. In Towerbound there was no way to “store” mounts. That meant always treating them as living beings.

It was marked prominently as his property—Prosperous Guild tags, ownership tracers, even his personal guild seal—but that didn’t mean much around here.

Not with thieves lurking everywhere.

Especially not with how hated Prosperous Guild was.

There were thieves with plenty of talents, after all.

And a Kodo loaded down with luxury items, clearly belonging to one of the most hated guilds around?

That was a very tempting target.

Ren did his best to make it untempting.

He scattered a long-lasting and debilitating poison over the saddlebags, the saddle itself, and every tempting bit of gear that was hanging off the Kodo’s sides.

It was odorless, colorless, and best of all—custom-made.

Anyone who stole the Kodo would also get poisoned and infected almost immediately.

And as a top alchemist, it wasn’t going to be some standard poison, either.

Detoxification potions only worked for basic poisons.

Ren had spent a lot of his time making sure his brews weren’t basic.

Anyone unlucky enough to mess with his Kodo was in for a rough time—violent hallucinations, muscle seizures, and probably explosive diarrhea just to round out the experience.

He gave his Kodo a final pat on its scaly side.

‘Good luck, buddy,’ Ren thought, sighing.

As he turned to jog back toward the others, he muttered under his breath,

“Hope you like a month of explosive diarrhea, suckers.”

CHAPTER 5

The first four levels of the dungeon had already been conquered by Prosperous Guild with various teams. Sure, Towerbound threw in changes to dungeon layouts just to keep things interesting—but enough of their guild had run it that they had a solid 90% chance of knowing what was coming.

Ren, despite being a mediocre cleric, had still been busy the whole way down.

His job was simple: keep everyone alive, especially Gareth, their main tank.

The first level had been a gnoll warren, filled with screeching, flea-bitten beasts who were more annoying than dangerous.

The second was a trap field, with boulders, spike pits, and collapsing floors that punished every wrong step.

The third was an underwater maze, packed with mermen, swamp eels, and a giant crustacean that nearly took Moss’s leg off. Seriously, who designed underwater mazes? They combined the two least favorite mechanics in all of gaming—underwater sections and mazes—into one sadistic package.

Because they had cleared those areas before, this time it was just a fighting march through familiar territory.

Ren shuffled along on foot with the others, still grumbling internally about how much he missed Parkinson (his Kodo), and how much walking sucked.

Every few minutes, he threw out basic healing spells, refreshed buffs, and kept Gareth from getting overwhelmed by stray gnoll attacks.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was necessary.

And Ren was good enough to do what was needed.

The fifth level, though—that was where it changed.

As soon as they stepped through the stone arch into the cavern, a system notification flashed across their vision:

SYSTEM NOTICE:

From here onward, no premade potions/buffs can be used.

You have 24 hours to craft new supplies for the final boss.

At the same time, every buff they had—healing fields, resistance wards, armor boosts—blinked out of existence.

Gone. Just like that.

Ren watched his status bar flicker, feeling naked without the layers of protections he was used to.

They had expected this.

Prosperous Guild had already tried to power through this section before.

They had dragged in every mid-tier alchemist they could find, flooded them with raw ingredients, and hoped sheer quantity would save them.

It hadn’t.

Twenty-four hours wasn’t nearly enough time for real brewing.

A basic healing potion, the kind that restored a sliver of health, still needed a few minutes if you were a bad alchemist.

And basic potions weren’t going to help here.

They needed top-end alchemy: full-health restorations, instant mana refills, antidotes strong enough to purge curses and poisons mid-fight.

They had failed.

Over and over again.

Eventually, they had given up and gone crawling to the last person they wanted to ask.

Ren.

Ren, who hated raids.

Ren, who hated dungeons.

Ren, who hated anything that involved walking somewhere he couldn’t teleport to with a hot meal waiting.

But Ren was also the best alchemist they had.

Possibly the best alchemist the game had ever seen.

He sighed and shifted the reagent bags on his shoulders, feeling the weight of the job ahead of him.

‘Twenty-four hours to save everybody’s asses,’ he thought with annoyance.

Sure, some people might think of him as whiny, lazy, and cowardly. And they’d be right—about most of it. He was cowardly. He was whiny. But lazy? That part wasn’t quite fair. Ren was a potion-crafting machine. Set him up in his alchemy lab and he could go non-stop—hour after hour—sometimes even skipping his beloved cheese and tea breaks if he really got into a rhythm.

He just hated everything that didn’t involve alchemy.

Some people blamed him for that. “It’s just a game,” they’d say. “Yeah, it sucks getting hurt, but it’s all in your head. It doesn’t really count.”

To which Ren would always respond: “Cool. Let me stab you in the face before you finish that thought.”

***

One of the biggest advantages of Ren’s massive alchemy level was the fact that he could multitask.

A Level 1 alchemist could only brew one potion at a time.

At his level, he could brew four at once—if they were all simple, Level 1 potions.

It was one of the few things that made this whole insane operation even remotely possible.

They had already planned out what they would need for the 24-hour crafting window.

This wasn’t their first trip down here.

They had made a list, organized by importance:

Required, Hopeful, and Wishful.

The required list was obvious.

Full-health potions. Emergency mana restorers. Focus potions. Instant-revive potions if they could manage it.

The hopeful list included things like armor buffs, resistance amplifiers, and anti-paralysis brews.

Wishful thinking was all the luxury stuff they probably wouldn’t have time for—flame resistance potions, frost shields, anti-curse salves, the kind of things that hurt when the boss started throwing out every nasty trick in the book.

Ren had grumbled at the list but hadn’t fought it.

He wasn’t the one making the battle plans.

Besides, he hadn’t even been there when they first explored the fifth level.

He had no idea what the boss’s attack patterns were like.

Well, he hadn’t—

Not until he was forced to sit through a two-hour “mandatory strategy meeting” about it.

Two.

Agonizing.

Hours.

Exactly what he hated about being part of a guild.

Exactly why he hated dungeon missions.

Two hours he could have spent doing literally anything else.

Two hours that could have been spent running side-by-side tests on the molecular differences between dragonweed and dragonleaf, and their impact on basic healing potion formulations.

Instead, he had been trapped in a meeting with a bunch of sweaty raid captains arguing about whether the boss’s third phase required more flame resistance or just better dodging.

Ren still wasn’t sure which was worse—the upcoming boss or the planning meeting.

****

24 hours might have seemed like a long time to a lot of people, and for Ren, it would have been a long time to sit in his tent and wait.

But because Ren himself was the one in charge of alchemy, he didn’t even notice the time passing.

If there was one thing that could suck up his attention and make hours fly by, it was alchemy.

If there was a second thing, it would have been a really good TV series.

But hey, once he got through this mission, it would be cheese castles, hanging out, and more potion crafting.

He worked through the required list as fast as he could.

And at his level, it was fast.

Multitasking, he had four separate cauldrons running at once, each bubbling and brewing perfectly under his control.

The guild team watching him realized just how badass he was compared to the mediocre alchemists they had brought before.

Most adventurers knew how potions were made—

they understood the basics—

but they had no idea about the huge difference between a good alchemist and a great alchemist.

Ren was a great alchemist.

Because they had wiped several times before, they knew exactly what needed to be on their required list.

And they had really hoped Ren would work through their hopeful list as well.

Before the 24 hours were even up, Ren had finished all of the required potions.

He finished the hopeful list too.

And the wishful thinking list, the one nobody had actually expected him to touch?

Yeah, he finished that too.

***

CHAPTER 6

They walked through the final archway into a massive cavern—and there it was.

The boss.

It was absurdly large.

Some kind of giant, horned monstrosity stitched together out of scales, fire, and every horrible creature Ren would’ve preferred stayed in bad dreams.

The air was filled with heat, smoke, and the low thud of the boss’s footsteps shaking the cavern walls.

The fight was brutal from the start.

Ren was swearing almost immediately.

“This is why I don’t do dungeon fights!” he yelled, diving out of the way as a wave of molten rock exploded across the floor.

He was hopping, rolling, half-crawling around broken stone, desperately throwing buffs and emergency heals while the others attacked.

“I make potions, you lunatics! Potions!” Ren shouted, barely dodging a swipe that would’ve turned him into paste.

“This is exactly why I stay in my damn lab!”

It was pandemonium.

But this time, they had the potions.

Real potions.

His potions.

The kind that made the impossible survivable.

Gareth soaked the damage.

Lil slashed and darted through openings.

Moss picked off weak points with brutal precision.

Cassien hammered away, relentless.

And Ren—grumbling, cursing, panicking—kept them all alive. Barely. To be honest, a Level 10 Battle Cleric had no business being anywhere near a Level 50 dungeon, and his actual job had already been done the moment he finished brewing the potions. Still, surviving by hiding and tossing out poorly timed heals from behind a rock? That was Ren’s signature battle tactic.

Little by little, they chipped the boss down.

This time, with Ren’s ultra-powered potions pumping through their veins like liquid godmode, they chewed through the boss. No stalling, no panicking, just clean, brutal efficiency. When the berserk phase hit—when the floor shook, the boss tripled in size, and half the party started screaming—those potions kept them upright.

Not just alive.

Unstoppable.

Burn resistance, stagger immunity, instant-cast healing, and that nasty little critical surge brew Ren had slipped them just in case? Yeah. That hit hard.

The tank face-tanked four slams in a row.

The assassin ignored the fire pools and stood still.

The ranger kept laughing.

And then—BOOM. The final burst landed. The boss staggered, let out a tremendous death roar, and collapsed into loot and particle effects.

They had done it.

Not because they were the best fighters.

But because they had Ren.

And Ren had brought war in a bottle.

Everyone exhaled.

There were whoops, backslaps, cheers.

And then—

DUNGEON BOSS DEFEATED.

TIME FOR YOUR SACRIFICE.

CHOOSE WHO TO SACRIFICE.

All five names popped up at once.

Ren stared at the list, stomach sinking.

‘Sacrifice?’ he thought. ‘The hell is this?’

Before he could even react, a second notification appeared:

FOUR TEAM MEMBERS HAVE SELECTED: REN VARROW

“What the hell?!” Ren shouted out loud.

The others turned and blinked at him innocently.

“What’s wrong, Ren?” Lil asked, flashing a too-sweet smile.

“According to this prompt. I have to sacrifice my entire character! And suffer a one month cool down! Not just die and respawn!” he snapped.

Cassien shrugged, looking completely unconcerned.

“Come on, man. It’s for the guild.”

Moss didn’t even bother to look up.

“Yeah, suck it up. It’s not like you’re DPS.”

Even Gareth, the walking brick wall, rumbled, “Better you than us.”

Ren gaped at them.

These assholes weren’t even pretending to be sorry.

Another system prompt flashed:

SACRIFICED MEMBER’S LEVELS AND SKILLS WILL BE TRANSFERRED TO THE TEAM POOL.

THE TEAM  MAY REASSIGN THEM TO OTHER MEMBERS.

The second that appeared, whatever sad expressions they had completely vanished.

“Oh, that’s not bad at all!” Lil chirped.

“Think about it! You’re not really dying—you’re contributing!”

“Guild family, man,” Cassien added, clapping him on the back hard enough to almost knock him over.

Ren clenched his teeth so hard it hurt.

“This is bullshit,” he muttered.

“Come on,” said Moss lazily.

“Take one for the team. It’s tradition.”

It wasn’t only the raid leader pushing for it anymore—it was Cassien, the cheerful off-tank.

Cassien was already rallying everyone, spinning it like it was Ren’s duty.

“Look,” Cassien said, “we don’t even know if this is the end of the dungeon. Maybe there’s another stage. Maybe we still need the heavy hitters.”

“We don’t!” Ren snapped. “This kind of notification always happens at the end of the dungeon!”

Cassien just smiled that infuriating, careless smile.

“Yeah, maybe. But you’re just a Level 10 cleric. If there’s another fight, honestly? We don’t really need you.”

Lil nodded along without missing a beat.

“Especially now that we’ve got enough potions. If the dungeon clears or not, we’re golden.”

Ren stared at them, stunned.

He had left his comfortable alchemy lab, abandoned his room filled with cheeses and herbs, dragged himself into hell for them—

And they were throwing him into the fire without a second thought. The worst part was, he didn’t even care that much about his Level 10 as a battle cleric. What really terrified him was the thought of losing his professional tiers. Would Prosperous Guild still keep him? Probably. He still had the memory of how to craft every potion they needed. But would they treat him like the rare, radiant alchemical treasure he was supposed to be? Definitely not—not if he got knocked down to a Level 1 scrub.

SACRIFICE FINALIZING IN 30 SECONDS

Cassien smiled.

Lil winked.

Moss tightened his bowstring without a care.

Even Gareth, cold and impassive, didn’t say a word.

Ren’s hands curled into fists.

‘This is how they repay me,’ he thought bitterly.

‘Leave my comfy castle…and get sacrificed like a disposable item.’

And worst of all?

He didn’t even have Parkinson here to trample them.

***

The crazy thing about the 30-second timer was that another screen appeared—

but it only appeared in front of Ren’s face.

SECOND CHANCE AVAILABLE.

Answer the following questions about alchemy (your profession) to earn it.

YES / NO

Ren frantically smashed YES with his mind.

Instantly, the 30-second sacrifice countdown froze.

Everything around him paused.

Another screen popped up.

Begin Alchemy Knowledge Assessment.

Without warning, questions started flooding in.

What is the primary neutralizing reagent for dragonleaf toxicity?

If mixing phoenix ash with liquid mana, what stabilizer prevents explosion?

How do you distinguish goldenblossom from bloodpetal at a glance?

What potion base is required for simultaneous health and mana regeneration?

Identify three ingredients that must never be combined without an Arcane Cooler.

The questions were fast, detailed, and brutal.

Fantasy alchemy trivia that would have left any normal player screaming.

But not Ren.

He answered them all—firing off the answers so fast the system barely kept up.

Finally, the last question faded.

SECOND CHANCE OFFERED.

DO YOU ACCEPT?

Yes, he mentally slammed.

Hell yes.

Another notification appeared immediately.

If you choose YES, you will experience flash forward.

“YES!” Ren shouted mentally, hammering the button.

He didn’t even hesitate.

Anything for a second chance.

Anything to claw his way out of this betrayal.

The world around him blurred.

Colors ran together.

Sounds twisted and folded back on themselves.

And then he watched.

Watched as the flash forward began.

The scene unfolded perfectly:

The others were cheering.

Celebrating.

High-fiving like a bunch of giddy idiots.

“We fucking cleared it!” Lil shouted, throwing her arms up.

There were backslaps, laughing, and smiling faces everywhere.

For a brief moment, Ren smiled too.

Even though he was an introvert, even though he hated raids,

he had still liked being part of the Prosperous Guild.

He liked being useful.

Wanted.

But that moment didn’t last.

Because then he heard them.

Real words.

Unfiltered.

Words they hadn’t meant for him to hear.

“I can’t believe Victor’s plan worked out,” Cassien said, laughing.

“I know, right?” Moss said, grinning.

“What do you mean his plan worked out?” Gareth asked.

“Well,” Lil said casually, “based on the dungeon text, we knew someone would have to be sacrificed. And who better than Ren? Someone we could dump without hurting the guild.”

“So that’s why Adhir wasn’t on this final try team.”

They all laughed.

Laughed.

Ren felt the bottom drop out of his gut.

“Especially since the guild knew there was a high chance the sacrifice would let us transfer their levels,” Moss added.

“Yeah,” Cassien said, chuckling.

“Now we can dump Ren’s skills into Victor’s girlfriend, get the bonus, and not have to worry about anything.”

“I know, it’s brilliant,” Lil said.

“Best solution for everyone—except Ren, I guess.”

“Do you think Ren would’ve taken this mission if he knew?” Gareth joked.

“Ha! Not a chance,” said Cassien.

“That’s why we didn’t tell him.”

“We’re gonna put him back in the guild, right?” Moss asked lazily.

The raid leader snorted.

“Are you kidding? Why would we take back a level 1 scrub? Sure, he might level fast, but the resources to get him back to fighting shape? Screw that.”

“And even if he does join another guild and wants revenge,” Lil added, “good luck with that.”

“Yeah,” Gareth agreed.

“Whatever crappy guild he joins, we’ll squash him like a bug.”

[System Announcement]

Congratulations to Prosperous Guild.

The four of them were still riding the high, laughing, half-celebrating, half-collapsing from the dungeon clear. Their screens lit up with the Prosperous Guild Clearance Banner, and—like tradition—they were prompted to enter their IDs for the credits roll.

“Wanna announce your IDs?” one of them joked.

“Hell yeah,” another replied, already typing.

[Credit Log – Vault of the Frozen Kings Clear]

Each name popped up in golden letters, framed by ice-cracked designs and aurora flashes.

Then came the usual guild tagline, scrolling across like a streamer banner:

Join PROSPEROUS GUILD to be PROSPEROUS!

Apply now. Dungeon-ready, fast-track raiding, loot-share contracts available!

They barely had time to smirk before the system continued.

[System Announcement – Global Level Shift]

Real-world Dungeon Link Established.

Reality-Locked Mechanics are now Active.

[New Quest Chain Unlocked: Worldbound Ascension]

They stared at the screen. None of them were laughing now.

The Bad Winter Begins.

Warning: The Ebon Tower will now appear on Earth.

The screen flickered.

The raid ended.

And the four remaining party members just… sat there, blinking.

‘Bad winter?’

‘What’s bad winter?’

‘Real-life monsters?!’

No one spoke at first. Just shared the kind of panicked silence usually reserved for disasters or unpaid rent.

Then one of them opened their mouth and said what everyone was thinking.

“Wait. Real life? Like real real?”

They weren’t imagining things. A second announcement followed—unprompted and undeniably ominous.

[New Phenomenon Unlocked – Mythic Veil Fracture]

Ren then watched what felt like a fast-forwarded nightmare stitched into high definition—a montage of the Ebon Tower’s arrival on Earth.

It didn’t just appear.

It crashed through the sky like a god’s spear, impaling the world with obsidian and impossible geometry. Waves of corrupted mana tore through the land. Monsters poured out like blood from an open wound. Towerbound had never been just a game—it had always been training.

And Earth? Earth was never ready.

The brave rushed toward the tower, trying to fight back. Some made it past the first floors. Most didn’t even make it through the street outside their homes. Entire districts were flattened—District 2’s chrome skyline turned to ash, District 7’s forests swallowed by wyrmspawn, District 5’s neon lights extinguished by howling void beasts.

People weren’t just dying in-game.

They were dying for real.

And by the time the dust settled, Earth was no longer Earth. It was a shattered, scorched, desolate world crawling with things they used to joke about in player forums. Goblins, banshees, stone giants. Things that should have been lines of code were now clawing at the remains of civilization.

Then—

The vision ended.

Ren gasped, clutching his chest like he’d forgotten to breathe.

Just a memory. A flashback. A warning from the System.

But it felt too real.

Too vivid.

And somewhere deep inside him, he knew—

That future was coming.

Towerbound had always bragged about being immersive.

Realistic visuals.

Heart-thudding sound design.

AI-driven NPCs that cried, cursed, and begged for mercy.

But this?

This wasn’t immersive.

This was apocalyptic.

The Ebon Tower would now appear on Earth. A massive, frost-covered spire from the —rumored to pierce the sky and connect the world of mortals with the realm of forgotten gods.

And now, if they didn’t clear the next level in time… monsters from legends—actual myths—would start pouring out. Into the world. Their world.

Not just an event.

Not just a game.

A threat.

Ren’s heart pounded in his chest.  That future was brutal and scary. He was angry at the guild. He was angry at himself for accepting this new mission. And he was panicking in his head about the fact that all of a sudden a mythological tower was going to actually appear on Earth?

He listened numbly when they had plotted his erasure—like he was an annoying tool they were throwing away after use.

Towerbound’s ID system wouldn’t save him either.

When a player was created, their genetic signature was locked to their ID.

Even if Ren restarted, even if he rebuilt,

he would always be Ren Varrow.

Always the same.

Always traceable.

There was no hiding.

No starting fresh.

They had planned everything.

They had sold him out.

Ren stared at the frozen vision of his so-called teammates, feeling something inside him break.

‘Fuck you,’ he thought viciously.

‘Fuck every single one of you.’

He could feel it building inside him, white-hot and furious.

‘I hope the second chance thing I just triggered actually is true,’ he thought.

‘Because if it is—’

A notification appeared in front of his eyes, glowing brighter than anything else:

SECOND CHANCE CONFIRMED.

SYSTEM REBOOTING.

PREPARE FOR TRANSFER.

The worst thing was, even though he was angry as hell—furious at Prosperous, at the System, at the whole damned Tower—he was now the only person who knew what the future would actually look like if nobody prepared.

And it wasn’t a maybe. It wasn’t a bad ending in a video game. It was real.

If he didn’t do something, Earth would fall. Again.

So no, he couldn’t just rage quit and scream “fuck it” into the void.

He couldn’t bail and vanish into the Creambelt with a wheel of cheese and a middle finger.

He had to stay.

He had to work.

He had to win.

Because if he didn’t, the Tower wouldn’t just ruin his life—it would end it. Along with everyone else’s.

Yes, he had to save the world. That part wasn’t optional.

But let Prosperous off the hook while doing it?

Hell. No.

‘You’re all going to pay,’ Ren promised, smiling—just a little—as the world shattered around him.

If he was going to fight for survival, then Prosperous was going to choke on every coin they’d stolen from him first.

***

CHAPTER 7

Ren found himself waking up in a bed—but not the clean,

District 10 bed he remembered.

No.

This was a crappy bunk in a multi-room bachelor dormitory, stuffed with ten other guys, creaky floors, cracked windows, and the faint lingering smell of instant noodles and cigarette smoke.

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

He knew exactly where he was.

He’d been here before.

Before the game.

Before Towerbound.

Before everything had gone right—and then so very, very wrong.

Ren Varrow had grown up an orphan.

Not the way people liked to imagine it—not tragically abandoned with no parents at all.

No, his parents were still alive.

Very much alive.

But they had decided early on they didn’t want the burden.

They handed him over to the Infinite Hopes Orphanage, claiming they were giving him a “better life.”

Too young, too poor, too religious, too something—they always had a reason.

But it didn’t change what it felt like to be handed off like a package no one wanted to deal with.

Still, Ren the orphan had done okay.

The Infinite Hopes Orphanage had done their best. They weren’t some storybook nightmare, all moldy gruel and sadistic caretakers leeching off government checks. No, they had systems. Schedules. Real effort. The kind that came from people who genuinely cared—even if the funding didn’t.

Ren remembered the cracked tiles, the bunk beds that creaked like they were mourning every night’s weight, and the group hugs after someone got adopted and left behind their favorite blanket. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t easy. But it was decent.

He appreciated it. Truly.

But still… if he ever had a second chance?

He’d trade all of it—the patched-together community, the shared birthdays, the kind but tired smiles—for something else. Something simpler. Two loving parents. A home that didn’t come with shared chore rotations and secondhand everything.

Not because Infinite Hopes failed.

Because no one should have to grow up grateful just for not being abandoned.

He got through school with decent marks.

Not genius level, not dumb.

Good enough.

But good enough didn’t buy you much.

He hadn’t qualified for any scholarships.

Maybe it was his background.

Maybe it was because he hadn’t been able to pad his application with time consuming extracurriculars.

It didn’t matter.

The result was the same.

When he aged out, he was given the usual speech.

Three months to move out.

Nothing personal.

They needed the bed for the next kid coming in.

The Infinite Hopes Orphanage wasn’t cruel.

They were doing the best they could with what they had.

District 1—better known as the slums—was never kind. Not to adults trying to scrape by, not to orphans scrounging for scraps, and definitely not to anyone foolish enough to believe a good life was waiting just around the corner.

They gave him a list of cheap rentals, handed over a packet of advice, a few warm hugs.

But no cash.

No credits.

No miracles.

He had watched other orphans age out before him—

some did well,

some didn’t.

But most came back to visit, to share news, to drop off little presents when they could.

Because Infinite Hopes had always been a real family.

Their director, Mrs. Ellara Greaves, had made sure of it.

Strict but kind.

Firm but fair.

She treated every kid who walked through those battered front doors like they mattered.

And that was why, when Ren woke up on the sagging mattress of his tiny rental bunk,

he knew exactly where he was.

Exactly when he was.

This was his new beginning.

The brutal one.

The reminder that not everyone was family, not everyone cared, and sometimes, you really were on your own.

At the orphanage, even when kids fought, they remembered:

they were all in it together.

All from the same broken beginnings.

But here?

Here in the bachelor dorms, it was survival of the fittest.

Harassment.

Bullying.

Or at best—complete, cold indifference.

Ren sat up slowly, staring around at the cracked walls, the shared bathroom down the hall, the taped-up window with a broken lock.

His heart ached.

Not just from the crappy bed or the cold room—

but from the brutal slap of memory.

He knew exactly where this led.

Exactly what this place was.

And this time, he wasn’t going to let it play out the same way.

Not after what they had done to him.

Not after Prosperous Guild had betrayed him.

Used him.

Sacrificed him.

‘This time,’ Ren thought grimly, clenching the thin blanket in his fists,

‘I’m going to be the one laughing at the end.’

***

Since he had this whole second chance thing, Ren did the obvious thing first.

He ran a tally.

“Status,” he muttered automatically.

Nothing appeared.

No glowing system window.

No character sheet.

No list of stats and abilities.

So yeah, he definitely wasn’t in-game anymore—no hovering status screen to pull up all his info—and no, he hadn’t gone nuts. This whole second-chance thing had actually dumped him right back to the real world, before the game had even launched.

Just the peeling ceiling above him and the sound of some guy two bunks over snoring like a dying chainsaw.

“Fuck,” Ren thought grimly.

“I’m not in the game yet.”

He slumped back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, letting the realization sink in.

By 2039, Towerbound had gotten so big, so real, that hardcore players—especially those who lived in the game more than they lived outside them—had started developing what psychologists called VR Dissociative Identity.

A fancy way of saying: they had trouble telling the difference between what was real and what was virtual.

It wasn’t a disease.

It wasn’t a disorder.

It was just… how things were now.

Towerbound wasn’t just gaming anymore.

It was school.

It was work.

It was training.

People graduated from virtual academies with degrees that were recognized around the world, sometimes more respected than real-world universities.

You could attend entire classes in Towerbound, run experiments, build projects, and never once have to deal with a real human breathing down your neck.

If those options had existed when Ren was aging out of Infinite Hopes Orphanage, he would have been fine.

He would’ve had a shot at something better.

But time didn’t stop for anybody.

And back then?

They had offered him a hug, a pamphlet full of depressing rental listings, and a shove out the door.

Ren sat up again, rubbing his face.

‘Okay,’ he thought.

‘Focus.’

He was alive.

Back before the betrayal.

Back before Towerbound launched.

He checked the cheap digital calender duct-taped to the wall.

He remembered exactly where he was now.

He had five days.

Five days before Towerbound opened.

Five days before everything changed.

Ren’s fingers clenched into fists.

This time, he wasn’t going to wander into it blindly.

This time, he wasn’t going to hand over his future to smiling assholes who talked about “family” right before stabbing him in the back.

This time, he was going to take full advantage of what he knew.

Five days.

Plenty of time to flip the board, break the rules, and stack every advantage he could get his hands on.

‘This time,’ Ren thought, ‘I’m not playing fair.’

He smiled, cold and sharp.

He was going to be ready.

And when Towerbound opened?

It was going to be his world.

***

CHAPTER 8

Five days.

‘What could he do in five days?’

Ren swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, staring at the battered floor.

The answer was simple:

Enough.

If you knew what you were doing.

He thought back to when Towerbound had first launched.

Back when it was still called Tower of Badwinter during its initial launch by a lot of people.

Back before everyone realized it was going to be the biggest thing in gaming history.

He had saved for six months just to get his first helmet.

Not the fancy kind—the rich kid pods that let you live in-game for eighteen hours a day without needing to log out, eat, or even stretch.

No, his helmet had been the cheapest one on the market.

Low-grade response times, basic tactile feedback, no auto-hydration, no auto-waste system.

Just a clunky, squeaky plastic shell you strapped to your head and prayed didn’t fry your brain when you jacked in.

And even that had only been possible because of a promotion that popped up at just the right time.

Six months of scraping, saving, taking every crappy day labor job he could find.

And finally, that deal had dropped:

Buy a helmet, and the internet subscription fees were waived for a year.

For most people, those fees weren’t a big deal.

Ten, maybe fifteen credits a month.

For Ren?

It was the difference between eating real food and scraping mold off bread.

Waiving the fees didn’t mean you got free internet.

It meant you could only access the internet through the helmet.

No outside browsers.

No phone hookups.

Just the helmet.

Ren hadn’t cared.

In fact, it had been better.

The helmet was faster, sharper, more real than the crappy 60-inch LCD screen mounted in the common room.

That TV had pixels so big you could practically count them with your fingers.

The helmet?

Even the cheap model made it feel like you were standing in another world.

Like you could actually do something.

Be something.

That first helmet had been a lifeline.

A cheap, and fragile doorway into something better.

And now, sitting in this miserable little bunkhouse five days before Towerbound’s launch, Ren realized something else:

He had the chance to do it all again.

Only this time?

He knew exactly where to start.

Exactly what mattered.

Exactly how to get ahead before the rats even left the starting line.

Ren grinned, sharp and mean.

‘Five days,’ he thought.

‘That’s four days more than I need.’

***

Ren did a quick tally of what he had on hand that he could leverage before the game started, and sadly, he realized… It wasn't much.

Game knowledge.

That was about it.

No rare equipment. No early-access beta gear. No VR rig. Just a previous lifetime’s worth of gaming theory jammed into his skull. But then he paused.

No. Wait. He had more than that.

He had brothers—or, well, nine other half-broken, half-functional degenerates crammed into a stinking, 10-room bachelor dormitory in the slums. The kind of place where the pipes rattled at night and no one was quite sure who owned what in the fridge anymore. Some of them he barely talked to. Others he argued with over instant noodles and shared web credentials.

But still. They were his guys.

Potential Tanks. Fighters. Mages. Thieves.

Some washed out of school. Others couldn’t afford to go.

And now?

Now the world was about to turn into a game.

Ren might not have had gold. Or stats. Or a flashy weapon.

But he had knowledge—and he had nine semi-reliable, semi-crazy, potentially-trustworthy allies.

‘Yeah,’ he muttered, already opening a shared doc and pinging the group chat, ‘time to turn this bachelor nest into a war council.’

That night a lot of people in the bachelor’s dorm were enjoying their Krud beers, passing them around as they could—because no one wanted to be seen as a tight-ass.

Not here.

Ren stood up, holding his half-empty can like a gavel.

“Guys, I’ve got an announcement to make.”

“Shut up,” said Kanuka. “Drink your beer and watch the game.”

The game was a typical football matchup, nothing special. Just two teams that might make it to the Super Bowl. Chances were neither of them would. It was background noise, more tradition than excitement.

“No, seriously, guys,” Ren said.

He’d always been quiet in the dorm. Not a fighter in-game, and definitely not a fighter in real life. But tonight, he stood up.

“I heard from a friend of mine. Someone who doesn’t live in the slums. Something big’s coming.”

“Oh, what?” said Kanuka, not even looking at him. “A chance? A chance to get out of the slums?”

That actually made everyone pause. They’d heard that before. Usually right before someone pitched an MLM scheme. One or two of them had even fallen for it—selling herbal supplements, cooking ware, or some ‘convenient life accessories.’ None of them had succeeded.

“Seriously, guys,” Ren said. “It’s not a scam.”

“That’s what they all say,” Kanuka snapped.

Ren actually laughed. “You’re right. That is what they all say. But seriously—this thing is huge.”

“What if I were to tell you,” he said, pacing now, “the world’s biggest game is coming. And that you could actually make money playing it.”

“Shut the fuck up,” said Kanuka.

“I’m serious,” said Ren, raising a hand. “And don’t you dare throw that beer can at me.”

Kanuka lowered his hand—he’d been thinking about it. He was one of the guys who’d fallen for an MLM scheme. Selling cookware. Seriously.

“You’ve all seen the ads, right? Bad Winter. They’ve been talking about it.”

A few heads nodded. One of the guys in the back said, “Yeah, there was an ad five minutes ago. Right during the last commercial break.”

“This thing is real,” Ren said. “They’re not talking about the credits part, but that’s real too. Coins can be exchanged for credits. People don’t know that yet. But this is going to be huge.”

“I know we all want to get out of the slums. Nobody here likes living like this.”

“What, and leave our lovely, lovely dormitory with all the glories of District 1?” someone shouted from the back.

This caused a wave of laughter in the room.

Not all ten of them were there. Seven were in the dorm that night. The other three were working. That was how it went. Twenty-four-hour rotations. Shared bathroom. Shared kitchen. One barely working cheap TV. It wasn’t the worst place they could be—but it wasn’t good either. At least it wasn’t a 20-man hot bunk dorm where you didn’t even own your bed, just borrowed it in eight-hour shifts.

Ren kept going.

“You know what they want, right? They want to keep us slum dwellers out of the game.”

“That’s right,” Kanuka muttered bitterly.

“Why give us a chance,” Ren said, “when they can just take it all for themselves? Why ever give anyone from down here a chance?”

“Fucking right,” Kanuka said.

Ren’s voice hardened. “What I can tell you is this—who needs a hand out…. when we can take it ourselves?”

That got their attention. For Ren to talk like this? That was new. Normally, he barely spoke at all.

“I’m serious, guys,” he said. “The only thing stopping us from changing our lives is 2,000 credits.”

“2,000 credits?” Kanuka barked. “Go fuck yourself.” He threw his arms up. “I knew this was some kind of MLM bullshit!”

“I know nobody here has 2,000 credits,” Ren said loudly, grinning, “—well, wait. If you do, could you please raise your hand so the rest of us can beat you up and steal it?”

The room erupted into laughter.

It wasn’t even really a joke.

There weren’t any formal rules against that kind of thing here.

Nobody would have batted an eye if someone actually tried it.

But somehow, in this dorm?

This run-down, battered dormitory stuffed with ten broke guys?

They’d been lucky.

There were no thieves here.

No one who stole from their own.

Everyone just worked their asses off, kept their heads down, and survived.

There was a kind of honor in that, even if nobody talked about it.

Ren smiled a little to himself, then kept going.

“So,” he said, pacing a little, “I know none of us have 2,000 credits.

Ren kept going, even as Kanuka muttered and shook his head.

“Look, I get it. 2,000 credits sounds like a scam. I know it sounds like a MLM. But it’s not.”

He stepped closer to the TV, blocking the view of the game. “We need the 2,000 credits for Game Helmets. You all saw it in the ad—this game isn’t something you play on a laptop. Or a desktop. Or your goddamn phone.”

He pointed at the tv like it had all the answers.

“This is VR. Full-dive. Most immersive game ever made. My friend played the beta.”

He didn’t mention the friend was fictional. That the “beta” was actually his own future memory, thanks to the time loop he wasn’t going to explain until he had to. They wouldn’t believe him anyway.

“But this game,” he said, lowering his voice a notch, “this game is the real deal. It’s not just immersive. It’s reality-breaking. You’re not watching a screen—you’re living it. Every step, every breath, every fight. It’s all real in there.”

They were watching him now. Still skeptical. Still grounded in beer and disappointment. But watching.

“And you can’t just download it. You need the gear. The minimum is the full headset. The neural link. The cheapest way in is through the Game Helmet. And the Helmet costs 2,000 credits.”

Kanuka scoffed. “So you’re saying if we don’t blow 2k on some sci-fi head toaster, we’re locked out?”

“Yes,” Ren said, dead serious. “And I’m telling you, if we don’t get in—if we miss the window—we’re going to be left behind.”

He paused, then added, “And I don’t just mean in the game. I mean real life, too.”

“I know none of us has 2,000 credits,” Ren said, pacing in front of the flickering TV, “but what if we pooled our money together?”

He stopped and looked around the room. Seven guys in varying states of shirtlessness, beer-thirst, and existential burnout stared back at him.

“Then maybe we have more than 2,000 credits, right?”

The room didn’t answer right away. Someone coughed. Kanuka scratched his chest and avoided eye contact. A couple of them suddenly found the game on TV much more interesting.

But Ren saw it—the subtle shifts, the uncomfortable wiggles. They had some cash. Not much. Being  a slum dweller didn’t mean you lived with zero credits. It meant you didn’t have extra credits. You had rent. Shared food bills. Maybe a little saved for a broken phone upgrade or emergency noodles.

And all of them worked. Night shifts. Street-level gigs. Delivery routes no one wanted. Some were even brave—or desperate—enough to try becoming Dead Zone divers. It wasn’t glamorous, but it meant they weren’t flat broke.

“Look,” Ren said, “I’m not asking anyone to hand over their savings for nothing. I’m saying we buy Game Helmets. We take turns. A couple guys gets in first, gets ahead, makes money, and pulls the rest of us in. And that means we can only maybe buy a handful of these helmets.”

Kanuka snorted. “And who gets to go first? You?”

“I’m the only one who knows how the game works, because of my friend,” Ren said, steady. “You want someone wasting the entry ticket figuring out how to log in? Or do you want someone who knows exactly where to go, what to do, and how to turn in game coins into more credits?”

He let that sit.

Someone from the back spoke up. “What if you ditch us?”

Ren just smiled. “I live in the same stink-box as the rest of you. If I run, you know where I sleep.”

That got a few chuckles.

Heads nodded.

They all knew it.

“So who here has ever played VR before?” Ren asked.

A few hands went up.

Some people looked shy about it, like admitting you’d wasted time you couldn’t afford to lose.

Ren pointed at them, trying to draw them in.

“I’ve played it,” Ren said.

“And when I say it’s like living a second life?

It really is.

Do you guys agree?”

The people with raised hands murmured back,

“Yeah,”

“Definitely,”

“Feels real.”

Ren grinned wider.

“Why don’t you play more?” he asked.

One of the guys, a short, wiry dude named Tanner, sitting halfway up a bunk bed, laughed bitterly.

“You’re kidding, right?” Tanner said.

“When the hell do we have time for that?

I’d love to ascend into some fantasy game and slay monsters or whatever—”

he shrugged,

“—but unless they start handing out VR headsets at the soup kitchens, it ain’t happening.”

His friend, a beefier guy named Choi, who worked occasional construction shifts, chimed in from his bunk.

“Damn right,” Choi said, raising his can.

“I got about three minutes a day when I'm not working or sleeping.

Unless the game’s playable on my eyeballs during forklift runs, I’m out.”

The room chuckled again.

Ren smiled sharper.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” he said.

“You can’t afford to waste time.

You can’t afford to screw around.”

He paused, letting the weight of it settle in.

“The helmets right now are two thousand credits,” Ren said, standing in front of the TV like the world’s most inconvenient halftime show. “They’ve been out for a while—fancy models, full-immersion VR pods, whatever version you’ve seen in the ads. But here’s what they don’t tell you: they’re universal.”

He swept his hand across the room. Seven guys. One battered couch. A dozen empty beer cans. Flickering lights and secondhand hope.

“They’re not just for one game. These headsets work across all major titles. Doesn’t matter if it’s fantasy, sci-fi, mech battlegrounds, or some weird alien dating sim. You get one of these rigs, you can plug into everything.”

Someone in the back mumbled, “So not just that Badwinter thing?”

“Right,” Ren nodded. “Badwinter is just what they’ve been calling it in the ads. That’s the name they’re using for the launch event. “Prepare for a bad winter!”

The ‘hook’ to get attention. But some smart people—figured out the truth. The real name of the game is Towerbound.

That got their attention. Towerbound had weight. Towerbound sounded serious.

He looked them all in the eye.

“Real money. Real value. Real world impact.”

A long pause.

Then someone said, “We could actually get out.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Ren nodded. “This isn’t a scam. Not cookware. Not vitamins. Not another bullshit pitch. This is the first real crack in the wall. The kind they don’t want people like us to find.”

Kanuka looked at him for a long moment. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying we get in,” Ren said. “We stop waiting for a handout. And we take the chance.”

And just like that, the room changed.

No more watching the game on the TV.

Just seven guys staring at the only doorway that might actually lead somewhere.

“In five days, a new game launches. Towerbound. And the crazy part?”

He leaned forward like he was letting them in on a secret.

“The game’s free to play.”

The room exploded in confusion.

“What?”

“You’re shitting me.”

“What’s the catch?”

Ren lifted his hands to calm them down.

“I don’t know the catch,” he said honestly.

And technically, he didn’t.

He knew a hell of a lot more than he was saying.

But he didn’t know everything.

What he did know was burned into his memory like a brand:

The final seconds, after they had sacrificed him.

After they had stolen his levels, laughed in his face.

Right before he had been swallowed by the void—

There had been that montage of Earth getting destroyed.

That had been the last thing Ren saw before he was thrown into nothingness.

And now he was back.

With five days to get ready.

Five days to convince as many people as he could.

Five days to scrape together every advantage possible.

Five days to start building the army he’d need.

Not just for revenge.

Not just for survival.

But for victory.

And, of course—

for cheese.

A cheese castle so big it would need its own postal code.

Preferably with a wine moat.

And cracker drawbridges.

***

CHAPTER 9

“I’m not gonna ask for some weird tally where we all put together our money and live in a communistic kumbaya cult,” Ren said, lifting his can with a crooked grin.

The crowd laughed hard.

Because yeah, they would’ve absolutely beaten the crap out of him if he tried that.

Ren waited for the laughter to die down, then went on.

“What I’m gonna ask though,” he said, steady and clear, “is this—how many of you want to try this out with me?”

He looked around the room.

“I’m 100% doing it,” Ren said.

“Even if I have to sell my eyeballs, my kidneys, my liver, my sperm, and whatever else they want to take.”

More chuckles. A few snorts. But they were listening.

“In five days,” Ren said, lifting his can a little higher, “I’m gonna be holding a helmet and playing this free game.

Because based on what my friend said, you can earn more in one month in Towerbound than you can in one year working your asses off here.”

The laughter started to quiet down.

The faces changed—some curious, some skeptical, some still mocking but softer now.

“Are you kidding?” asked Reed, the skinny guy on the bottom bunk, who worked overnights at a laundromat.

“I’m not kidding,” Ren said.

“I know some of you guys work for the rogue docs,” Ren said casually.

“You know—what the rest of us call butchers.”

He didn’t look at anyone in particular.

Didn’t point fingers.

He didn’t need to.

Two of the guys in the room stiffened slightly, giving silent acknowledgment without words.

Ren just kept going, smooth.

“I don’t care what you do. You’ve never brought it back here. You’ve never made it our problem. That’s good enough for me.”

He took another sip of his beer.

“And what I’m saying is this: if I don’t have enough cash in five days,

I’m willing to sell my kidneys, my liver, whatever they want.”

He let that sink in.

“And if you know someone who can help?

I’ll owe you.”

The two guys who knew the score—Simms and Davon—nodded once, quietly.

No promises.

No noise.

Just simple understanding.

It wasn’t even that bad a deal anymore.

In 2037, you could get lab-grown organs easily enough.

Grown in vats, printed layer by layer.

But lab-grown had an 80% success rate.

Real human-modified organs?

Those hit 90%.

And if you were rich?

You paid for that extra 10% without blinking.

If it hadn’t been for the Organ Regulation Act clamping down, half the lower zones would’ve sold themselves dry by now.

The law existed because otherwise?

People would have started hunting each other like it was some purge-style nightmare.

Ren nodded slightly to the two silent men.

And they nodded back.

Then he turned back to the rest of the room.

“Alright, here’s something else you should know,” Ren said, raising his voice again.

“The helmets we’re getting?

They’re the crappiest, cheapest ones.

Two thousand credits gets you a used-up, bare-bones piece of tech.”

He waited a beat.

“If we had real cash, we’d be sitting in full-dive pods.

Eighteen hours a day of living like kings.”

Someone muttered something bitter.

“But with these helmets?” Ren said.

“You get nothing fancy. No auto hydration, no anti vertigo, no lossless signal.”

He let it hang there.

“Feels like a rip-off, right?” he said.

Grim nods around the room.

“So what does that mean?” he said, pacing a little.

“It means they’re crappy, cheap, and we gotta split them. It means one helmet can support four people.”

He made a cutting motion with his hand.

“Four shifts. Six hours each. Split two thousand credits four ways. Five hundred a person.”

You could hear the whisper of people doing the math.

Ren smiled thinly.

“Five hundred. Painful? Yeah. Impossible? No.”

He let the silence stretch.

“Five hundred to get a shot at making more in a month than you can busting your ass for a year.”

He lifted his beer.

“I’m not begging. I’m not asking for charity. I’m offering you a ticket out.”

The room was dead silent now.

Ren took a deep drink from his beer and looked across the room.

“Who’s in?” he asked simply.

One by one, slowly but surely, the beers started lifting into the air.

***

Collecting 500 credits from every participant wasn’t going to be easy.

Ren knew it wouldn’t be—because he himself only had 500.

And honestly? That was doing pretty damn well compared to some of the others.

Some of these guys had way less.

Some were even deep in debt already, working three jobs just to send credits back to their families.

The crazy thing about having a family was, technically, you could bring your wife into the dormitory.

But nobody did.

Wives and kids were usually placed in a separate set of dorms across the city—family dorms.

Bigger.

More cushy.

Way more expensive.

And even worse?

If a man moved in with his wife, the government counted them as a married couple.

And married couples didn’t just pay double rent.

They paid triple.

Why?

Because the government assumed they’d eventually have a child.

And if they did, that child could live free in the marriage dorms until adulthood.

Somebody had to pay for that.

Guess who?

The parents.

So no, Ren wasn’t surprised some of the guys here were flat broke or buried under debt.

His goal of collecting all the money on the first day?

Completely impossible.

In fact, by Day Three, he had only managed to collect 4000 credits.

Enough for… two helmets.

He stared at the pathetic pile of credits stacked up on his bunk and sighed.

He didn’t have a choice.

It was time to rally the troops again.

Ren cracked open another Krud Brew, stood in the middle of the room, and banged the can against the metal bedpost until everyone looked up.

“Guys,” he said loudly, “We only have enough for two helmets.”

The room muttered.

Some cursed.

Some just looked defeated.

Ren lifted his hands.

“Wait, wait,” he said quickly.

“Don’t panic. Remember. Ten people? We don’t need ten helmets. We don’t even need five.”

He drew a square in the air with his hands, imaginary math hanging there.

“Each helmet can run four players a day. Six hours each. So with two helmets?”

He counted it out.

“Eight players.”

He nodded.

“And if we bust ass a little on shifting schedules, we can squeeze in the other two too.”

Grins started forming.

A little hope.

“Three helmets would’ve been better,” Ren admitted.

“Cleaner rotation. More breathing room. But two?”

He lifted his can.

“Two can work.”

The others looked at each other.

Nodded.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was possible.

And in the slums, possible was good enough.

***

“Here’s the thing, guys,” Ren said, standing in the center of the room, beer can dangling from his hand.

“Enough of you believed in this to try it out.

And some of you—” he pointed vaguely around the room, “—some of you have wives in the women’s dorms. Friends at work. Tell them about this deal. Don’t hide it.”

A lot of guys nodded.

They had already told their wives, their coworkers, their drinking buddies.

But it was good to hear Ren say it.

To know it wasn’t some secret pact or shady backroom deal.

Ren smiled, pacing a little.

“Because when this game rolls out,” he said, “we’re gonna need more than just me.

More than just the ten of us.”

He stopped, planting his feet.

“We’re gonna need a group. A real guild. A slums guild.”

The room got quiet.

The words hung there, powerful.

“A guild made of people,” Ren said, “who society said, ‘Hey, you’re lucky we even let you live.’”

He grinned, sharp and fierce.

“Well, we’re not just gonna live,” he growled.

“We’re gonna break through. And fuck them all up”

He slammed his fist against the bedpost.

“We’re the weeds that crack through the concrete.”

Someone in the back shouted,

“Fuck yeah!”

Cheers followed.

Energy was sparking through the room now, lighting everyone up.

“We’ve got two days left!” Ren shouted over the noise.

“Make sure everyone knows!

Because yeah, we’re sharing helmets—and that saves us a lot of money—”

He paused, pacing again, forcing them to listen.

“But it also means something else.”

He pointed around the room.

“Instead of ten of us being strong at the same time, only two of us are on at a time.”

The realization hit a few guys visibly.

Murmurs ran through the dorm.

“Ohhh…”

“Shit, right.”

“So if we want to be a real group,” Ren said, voice rising,

“If we want to be strong, we need enough money to get all of us online at once.”

He jabbed a finger at the ground for emphasis.

“Because ten of us fighting together is way stronger than two lonely bastards getting picked off one by one.”

“Yeah!”

“Fucking right!”

“Let’s do it!” people started shouting.

The whole tone of the dorm changed.

It wasn’t just about survival anymore.

It wasn’t just about scraping by another week.

Now they were thinking about expansion.

Building something.

No longer just being random, forgotten slum rats in a forgotten corner of the world.

Maybe—having something important in their lives.

Something worth fighting for.

***

CHAPTER 10

Ren logged on.

It was finally the big day..

Towerbound was starting.

He had already passed the second helmet off to Reed, the laundromat guy.

Reed hadn’t been working that day, so he could jump in immediately and take the first six-hour block.

No time wasted.

Ren cracked his knuckles, heart pounding with excitement and nerves.

Before anyone had logged in, he had made sure everyone agreed on a starting plan—

pick fantasy-style names, start in the same starter town he knew by heart.

No wandering.

No fancy experiments.

The place he had picked was Greenwild Cross, a starter town tucked deep in the lush borderlands of the Kingdom of Aramoor.

Greenwild was perfect—tons of medical herbs, low-level monsters like root wolves and dusk spiders, and most importantly, almost no high-level players or guilds crowding it early on.

It wasn’t glamorous.

It wasn’t rich.

But it was a launchpad.

A screen popped up in his vision.

WELCOME TO TOWERBOUND

Please select your name.

Ren smiled.

He entered: Ren Varrow.

Close enough to his real name that he wouldn’t forget it after twenty hours of grinding, but still low-profile enough not to trip any alarms.

Another screen flickered.

Please select your class.

Cleric.

He tapped it without hesitation.

If he could’ve chosen Alchemist as a main, he would have.

But alchemy was a profession in Towerbound.

One combat class. That would eventually allow players to get Elite at level 10.

One professional class, again at level 10.

That was the rule.

Finalize your choice?

“Yes,” Ren confirmed.

The screen blinked, and a wave of nausea hit him for half a second—

the classic VR “world load” feeling. If he had a full dive pod? He wouldn’t be suffering.

When it cleared, he stood on sun-warmed cobblestones, surrounded by wood and stone buildings sprawling out under a bright blue sky.

The gates of Greenwild Cross towered behind him.

Beyond them, the endless wilderness of the Kingdom of Aramoor stretched into the misty horizon.

He looked down at himself.

Gone was everything he had once earned.

Now he was wearing the Level 1 starter kit:

simple brown cleric robes, a rough rope belt, beat-up sandals.

He looked exactly the same in-game as he did in real life. Same brown hair, same nondescript face, same unimpressive 5’10” frame. It was almost disappointing how average he remained.

Ren tightened his fingers into a fist.

No gear.

No riches.

But he didn’t care.

He had knowledge.

And this time?

He wasn’t going to sell himself to a guild.

He was going to own this world.

***

The first thing Ren did when he finished loading in was immediately message Reed.

“Reed, are you here?” he sent to Reed’s fantasy name: Reed Richie Rich.

They had both passed their chosen names to each other before logging on—

because with only six hours apiece, they couldn’t afford to waste even a second getting lost.

A few seconds later, Reed’s message popped back.

“Yeah! I’m here!”

“Alright,” Ren typed quickly, “What do you think?”

Reed’s response came with a laughing emoji at the end. 🤪

“This is awesome. Everything looks, feels, and even smells so damn real.”

Ren grinned.

He remembered feeling that same rush the first time around.

Still, there was no time to waste.

“Check your settings,” Ren messaged. “Turn everything up to 100%.”

There was a pause.

Then Reed replied.

“Alright. Why though? Wouldn’t that just make it harder?”

Ren cracked his knuckles and explained fast.

“Because Towerbound gives you bonus experience and better loot chances if you play with full pain, full immersion.”

It was one of those weird things the world had learned a year after the  launch.

At the beginning, almost nobody went into the settings and increased the pain level.

Why would they?

At 100% setting, not only did hits feel real, but if you died at 100%,

you didn’t just lose a level—you got slammed with the feeling of death.

In the early days, who the hell would have agreed to that?

Only insane people.

Or desperate people.

But those insane and desperate players?

They had gotten double the loot rates.

Double the quest rewards.

Double the item drops.

It was the hidden mechanic that only hardcore guilds figured out later.

Way, way later.

Ren knew now.

And he wasn’t about to leave that kind of advantage lying on the table.

“Trust me,” Ren messaged. “It’ll suck when you get hit. But it’ll be worth it. We’ll level twice as fast.”

There was a pause.

Then Reed’s response popped up:

“Done. 100%. Let’s fucking go.”

Ren grinned wider.

Game on.

***

Reed had selected a warrior.

He would’ve chosen martial artist if he could—he actually had real training growing up, helping out at the local dojo.

But Towerbound didn’t have a martial artist or kung fu class, not at the start anyway.

Not until you unlocked unique professions at level 10.

Just like Ren.

Ren was a cleric again. And even back then, he had never bothered to explore his level 10 elite class.

Alchemy had been all that mattered to him.

Ren messaged quickly.

“Don’t worry, I know you don’t want to be a regular warrior and you’d rather be a kung fu guy. But at level 10, you can switch.”

Reed messaged back, surprised.

“For real? And it’s martial artist. Not Kung fu guy, you idiot.”

“Yeah,” Ren replied smoothly.

“My cousin told me that martial arts is a thing.”

It was funny, in a weird, sloppy kind of way.

Ren kept changing the story. First, it was a friend who got him beta access. Then it was a cousin. A day later, he might say it was a guy he met in a Discord server or some streamer’s mod. The truth was, he just threw out random names and vague connections every time someone asked.

Because how the hell was he supposed to tell them the real reason?

That he was a time traveler.

That he had knowledge of the future.

That everything he knew—every broken strategy, every meta-skip, every gold mine—wasn’t theorycrafting. It was memory.

But even if he wanted to explain, who would believe him?

In a dorm full of slum-scraping cynics, who’d buy “Hey, I looped through time and came back with patch notes”?

Exactly.

So yeah. It was his friend.

Or his cousin.

Or maybe just someone he knew.

He didn’t care which lie stuck.

He just needed enough of them to get to the truth.

Of course, there was no mystical cousin/friend/coworker..

It was just the best excuse Ren could come up with on the fly.

“Alright,” Ren messaged again. “You in the same starter town? Jump up and down so I can find you.”

He looked around the bustling streets of Greenwild Cross, scanning past crowds of Level 1 newbies running to and from the various NPCs.

Then—

out of the corner of his eye—

he saw it.

Someone in standard warrior gear, hopping up and down like a lunatic.

“Okay, I see you,” Ren said, grinning. “I’m heading over.”

He jogged across the square, sandals thudding against the cobblestones, and met up with Reed.

Reed gave a mock salute, swinging his basic iron sword around.

“Alright!” Reed said. “I’ve got a sword and I’m ready to use it!”

Ren chuckled.

“Hold up,” he said. “We’ve gotta get ourselves some tasks first.”

He glanced around the familiar town square.

There were a dozen quest-giving NPCs wandering around: farmers asking for wolves to be killed, bakers missing flour, hunters needing pelts.

But Ren already knew exactly who they needed to see.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re visiting Old Widow Shelly.”

Reed looked confused but followed without question.

Shelly was an old widow who lived in the small side street behind the herb vendor.

Her husband had died years ago on a trading expedition to the Nevermore Continent, and she had never gotten over it.

Her basic quest was simple:

gather five thistle roses.

Thistle roses didn’t have any combat use—

they just smelled good.

Shelly had planted a few on her husband’s grave, and every month she wanted to refresh them.

Most players skipped her quest.

Too sentimental.

No real rewards.

But Ren knew better.

Because if you brought her more than five thistle roses—

and chose the right dialogue options about love, memory, and regret—

she opened a hidden quest chain.

A hidden quest chain that Ren had only learned about because some blabbermouth streamer had bragged about it months after the Towerbound launched claiming it was his first big break.

Well, that big break?

This time, it was going to be Ren’s.

Well—

Ren’s and Reed’s.

***

“So we’re really looking for thistle roses?” Reed asked, trudging alongside him.

“That we are,” Ren said, grinning.

The two of them pushed out through the old wooden gates of Greenwild Cross and into the surrounding wilderness.

Before they left, though, Ren had made a quick pit stop at the general vendor.

He had spent every copper coin he had—and Reed’s too—on basic gatherer tools.

Simple, low-grade herbalist kits.

Nothing fancy.

Gatherer tools for herbalists weren’t expensive at early levels.

Towerbound made sure newbies could at least afford to get started.

But the tools were still crap.

If you found a high-level herb out in the wild and tried to harvest it with newbie tools?

You were screwed.

Your attempt would fail automatically—wrecking the herb beyond recovery.

Didn’t matter how good your skill was.

Low-level tools meant guaranteed failure.

But for thistle roses?

For basic starter herbs?

They would do just fine.

Reed was trailing behind, looking worried.

He kept glancing at his now-empty inventory and grimacing.

“You sure about this, man?” Reed asked. “I just blew all five of my copper coins.”

Ren clapped him on the back.

“Relax,” he said. “That five copper? It’s barely anything. It’s like half a stale donut back home.”

Reed still didn’t look convinced.

Ren shrugged.

“Look, one silver coin equals one real credit. One hundred copper coins make one silver. So your five copper? That’s five cents.”

Reed blinked.

“Five cents?”

“Yup. And right now?” Ren swept a hand at the open fields ahead. “We’re investing that five cents into making hundreds. Thousands if we do it right.”

Reed kicked a rock off the road, thinking it over.

Then he nodded slowly.

“Alright,” he said. “Five cents to maybe get out of this slums.”

“Exactly,” Ren said, grinning. “Best five cents you’ll ever spend.”

He tightened his grip on the worn wooden starter staff and looked out over the rolling hills beyond the town walls.

“Come on,” he said, nodding to Reed.

“We’re about to pick flowers like our lives depend on it.”

***

CHAPTER 11

While most newbies were out desperately hunting Level 1 Horned Rabbits or Level 1 Spiky Pigs, Ren and Reed were out in the surrounding wilderness, scouring the fields for herbs and flowers.

Besides the basic thistle roses they were searching for—which, by the way, were not easy to find—Ren was keeping an eye out for other herbs as well.

After three hours of hard searching, they had only managed to find two thistle roses total.

No wonder people had historically hated this quest.

The drop rate was brutal, and the flowers were hidden like little green-and-silver landmines across the meadows.

Most players gave up after fifteen minutes.

Ren was stubborn.

And while he was at it, he wasn’t about to waste time.

He had also started harvesting other useful ingredients whenever he spotted them.

Early on, he had even handed Reed a few pictures—basic botanical sketches Ren had drawn quickly in their starter notebook—to help him recognize key plants.

“See this one?” Ren said, holding up a scraggly vine with thin purple flowers. “That’s called Whisperroot. It’s used in minor healing potions. Grab it if you see it.”

He pointed at another. “And this? Sunveil Fern. It’s a catalyst. Boosts potion strength. Looks like a normal fern unless you check the underleaf.”

Reed memorized as best he could, nodding seriously. Other fantasy-style herbs they kept an eye out for included glowcap mushrooms—tiny fungi that shimmered faintly in the dusk, useful for light-based elixirs; bitterthorn leaves, a low-tier plant that helped accelerate natural regeneration; and frostmint, pale-blue herbs used to cool minor burns or bruises, key for level one healing salves.

Each find added a little more to their battered starter packs.

Ren wasn’t just collecting them because they were valuable.

He was already planning ahead.

He didn’t just want to heal with pre-bought potions.

He wanted to brew his own.

At Level 1, every minor healing potion he could personally create would save them money—and later, maybe even make them rich.

If they lived long enough to pull it off.

***

Occasionally, a Horned Rabbit would wander too close—and when it did, it was Reed’s job to defend them.

Horned Rabbits were perfect for new players. At most, they’d do a couple points of damage with their little headbutts. Still, those couple points added up if you weren’t careful, and if you let yourself get pecked down without healing, you could absolutely die like an idiot.

Luckily for Reed, he had Ren standing back throwing heals at him.

Every time Reed took a hit, a soft golden glow would wash over him as Ren’s basic Heal spell patched the damage. It didn’t stop it from hurting, though.

“Fuck, getting headbutted hurts,” Reed hissed after finally stabbing a Horned Rabbit to death with his starter sword.

Ren glanced at Reed as they moved between the trees.

“I know it sucks and it hurts,” Ren said, “but you’re playing at 100% realism. If we weren’t, you’d only be getting half an experience point instead of a full one.”

“Really?” Reed said. “You can get half a point of experience?”

“Yeah,” Ren said. “It doesn’t show up until you kill the second monster. The game tracks it in the background.”

“Why don’t more people play at full realism then?” Reed asked.

Ren shrugged. “Remember how much you just complained about how much it hurt?”

“Yeah,” Reed said, still rubbing at his arm instinctively.

“Well, imagine if a monster rips off your arm,” Ren said. “Or one of those spiky pigs charges and shatters your leg.”

“Fuck,” Reed said, his eyes widening.

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Ren said.

Reed shook his head. “So is that why you play a cleric and hide in the back?”

“Errrrrrr,” Ren said with a little embarrassment. “Also because I like being an alchemist.”

“Have you done that already? I don’t think alchemists exist yet,” Reed said, his brow furrowed. He had been reading all the lore Ren had passed to him during slow shifts at the laundromat.

“What I mean is, I theoretically like being an alchemist,” Ren said, making himself feel a little dumb. There was no way he was going to expose the fact that he was technically time-traveling.

“I always liked chemistry classes,” Ren said quickly. “So I figure this is gonna be close.”

“Ah, that makes sense,” Reed said.

“Which reminds me—are you gonna pick your profession soon too?” Ren asked.

“Yeah,” Reed said. “Why?”

“What are you thinking about?” Ren asked.

“Not sure,” said Reed.

Ren hesitated. “Well, I know this sounds stupid, but you work at the laundromat and do a lot of tailoring, right?”

“Yeah. Nobody wants to throw away a shirt because there’s a hole in it.”

“Well, do you want to do that in the game?”

“What? You mean do laundry and sewing here in game too? When I’m supposed to be escaping from that shit? During my playing time?” Reed said, looking horrified.

Ren gave him a hard look. “First of all, I don’t want to hear the word ‘playing’ come out of your mouth again.”

“What?” Reed said, confused.

“Look, it looks fun right now,” Ren said, “you’re swinging your sword around, being a hero. But remember, all ten of us in the dorm are doing this to make a living, right?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Reed said, a little defensive.

“Then don’t forget,” Ren said, voice hardening. “This isn’t a game for us. This is our chance to get out of the slums.”

Reed looked a little abashed and scratched the back of his head.

“You’re right,” he said. “Sorry.”

Ren relaxed a little and offered his fist. Reed bumped it with a grin.

“I’m not saying don’t have fun,” Ren said. “But think about this like it’s your new life. Not just another game.”

“Cool,” Reed said. “I get it.”

Ren nodded. “Good. And seriously—if you like tailoring, why not double down? You can pick up linen scraps, learn patterns, and eventually you’ll be making cloth armor.”

“Cloth armor?” Reed said skeptically.

“Yeah. Everyone can wear it,” Ren said. “It’s basically just better clothes.”

“Why would anyone want cloth versus plate?” Reed asked.

“You feel how stiff you are moving around in that chainmail?”

“Yeah,” Reed said, frowning. “It’s kinda restrictive.”

“You’re wearing basic chainmail,” Ren said. “Lowest tier. Two points of defense. My starter robes only have one. But later? You’ll be able to craft cloth outfits that have better stats than early chainmail.”

“Ooh, okay,” Reed said, perking up. “That sounds good.”

“And besides,” Ren added, “even if nobody’s asking for armor yet, people will pay big for clothes—especially crafted clothes with stat bonuses.”

“Really?”

“Really. We just need to get you some patterns  first.”

“Neat,” Reed said, looking thoughtful.

After another rabbit attack, Ren grinned as the system chimed.

+1 Experience Point.

He checked the tracker. He needed 100 XP to hit Level 2. So… 95 more to go.

“These things still hurt,” Reed muttered, shaking out his sword arm.

“Yeah, I know,” Ren said. “That’s why I hate adventuring. Still—” he added, clapping Reed on the shoulder, “you are killing it. Literally. Good job.”

“Thanks,” Reed said, still rubbing a sore spot even though the pain was already gone.

The problem wasn’t just the fighting. It was the loot.

Neither of them were hunters. Neither of them had the Skinning profession.

So when Reed knelt to loot the dead rabbit, all they got was a Horned Rabbit Horn.

No extra hides, no meat, no bonus ingredients.

In Towerbound, non-humanoid monsters dropped ingredients, while humanoid monsters dropped coins, gear, and sometimes rare items.

If they’d had a hunter with Skinning, they could’ve harvested meat, fur, maybe even bone materials for crafting. But without it, the rabbit’s corpse simply shimmered and vanished, leaving only the basic drop behind.

Ren sighed, tossing the horn into his inventory.

“Guess we’re not gonna be eating rabbit stew tonight,” he said.

“Yeah,” Reed muttered. “Kinda sucks.”

They kept wandering, collecting herbs and low-level plants, steadily filling their starter packs.

***

They kept wandering, plucking flowers and grabbing herbs wherever they could find them.

Everything was going smoothly until somewhere around the fourth hour.

That’s when two Horned Rabbits attacked them at once.

Ren scrambled to keep Reed healed while Reed desperately tried to hold aggro on both monsters.

It wasn’t easy.

Reed was still a total newbie, and right now there wasn’t even a basic taunt skill in his warrior toolkit.

All he had was his Level 1 ability: Charge Slash.

Charge Slash cost three focus points—a resource unique to physical classes like warriors, different from mana.

Trying to corral two bouncing, headbutting rabbits at once was pure pandemonium.

Eventually, one of the rabbits broke loose and charged Ren directly.

“Ouch!” Ren yelped as the rabbit slammed into him, making him stagger.

He smacked it with his starter staff, doing a measly one point of damage, while screaming like he was dying.

It was a horrible fight.

Both of them were down to half health by the end of it, and at one point Reed had almost died outright.

“That was brutal,” Reed said, leaning on his sword, panting.

Ren, meanwhile, was still muttering and complaining nonstop about getting attacked.

“If it wasn’t for the fact that I desperately need these thistle roses,” Ren said grumpily, “I would never be out here in the damn field.”

He scowled at the rolling hills around them.

Some things didn’t change.

No matter how many times he time-traveled?

Ren absolutely hated being outside.

Still, as much as he wanted to keep grumbling about how much everything sucked, he had to admit—Reed was getting better.

Clumsy as hell, sure. Dumb enough to almost get fucked up by two horny rabbits, absolutely.

But better.

If nothing else, at least he wasn’t the kind of guy who quit just because his arms hurt.

After the brutal rabbit fight, Ren decided to pull up his character sheet.

A soft flicker crossed his vision as the translucent window appeared in front of him.

[Character Sheet – Ren Varrow]

Class: Cleric

Level: 1

Experience: 96/100

Primary Attributes:

●      Strength: 7

●      Agility: 8

●      Vitality: 9

●      Intelligence: 11

●      Wisdom: 12

●      Luck: 6

Secondary Stats:

●      Health Points (HP): 110/110

●      Mana Points (MP): 40/40

●      Stamina: 100/100

Skills:

●      Basic Heal (Level 1)

— Cast Time: 2.5 seconds

— Mana Cost: 10 MP

— Effect: Heals minor wounds for 20–30 HP

Current Equipment:

●      Novice’s Linen Robes (Defense +1, Durability 24/25)

●      Worn Wooden Staff (Attack +1, Durability 18/25)

●      Beginner’s Leather Boots (Defense +1, Durability 22/25)

●      Starter Belt Pouch (5 Inventory Slots)

●      Cloth Satchel (Herb Pouch – 10 Slots)

Inventory:

●      2 Horned Rabbit Horns

●      Starter Healing Salve x2 (restores 20 HP, slow-acting)

●      Basic Gatherer’s Kit (Durability 19/20)

Herbs Collected:

●      Thistle Rose x2

●      Whisperroot x3

●      Sunveil Fern x2

●      Glowcap Mushroom x1

●      Bitterthorn Leaves x4

●      Frostmint x2

As he looked it over, a faint System notification blinked in the corner of his vision.

[Warning: Weapon durability dropping below 75%. Recommend repair soon.]

Ren sighed, lightly tapping his battered wooden staff against the dirt.

“First rabbits we meet and they’re already chewing through my gear,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Starter gear was a joke, but it was what they had.

At least until they could scrape together enough coins—or enough guts—to loot something better.

For now, though, they had to make do.

Herbs, rabbits, and whatever else this cursed field could throw at them.

Ren closed the character window and trudged forward, staff clutched in hand.

Because the next rabbit that tried to bite him?

He was going to run fast and faraway!

***

Speaking of the next rabbit, it showed up the moment Ren finished closing his character sheet.

“Ah!” Ren yelped, nearly dropping his staff.

‘Goddamn it. I jinxed myself,’ he thought bitterly. ‘I just had to think about rabbits, didn’t I?’

The Horned Rabbit barreled toward him at full speed, little horn lowered like it thought it was a goddamn siege weapon.

Ren barely had time to raise his staff when Reed dove in between them with a shout.

“Got it!”

Steel flashed as Reed slammed into the rabbit with a rough Charge Slash, knocking the creature sideways.

The rabbit skittered across the grass, scrambling for footing.

Ren, regaining his balance, thrust his staff forward and smacked the rabbit squarely on the back.

It wasn’t pretty.

It wasn’t heroic.

But between Reed’s wild swings and Ren’s frantic whacks, the rabbit was dead thirty seconds later.

Both of them stood there panting, glaring at the stupid corpse.

“No loot,” Reed grumbled after a second, kicking the limp body once for good measure.

The rabbit shimmered, pixelated, and vanished without leaving a single drop.

“Figures,” Ren muttered, leaning heavily on his staff.

Apparently, the universe wasn’t handing out freebies today.

He made a mental note—next time he started thinking about angry horned monsters, he was going to knock on wood or something.

Because Towerbound?

Towerbound definitely had a sense of humor.

And it wasn’t a good one.

***

CHAPTER 12

Five hours had finally passed, and Ren had managed to collect a decent haul.

A bunch of horned rabbit horns, a small pile of herbs, and—miraculously—seven thistle roses.

Not quite enough for the secret quest, but close.

Ren checked the time and sighed.

Reed’s six-hour session was almost up.

“Looks like your time’s about to run out,” Ren said, glancing over at him.

“Yeah,” Reed said, stretching his arms tiredly. “Should we head back to town?”

They agreed and started trekking back toward Greenwild Cross, moving quickly through the now-familiar fields.

Once they reached the town, Ren led Reed to the hunter mentor—a grizzled old NPC standing near the main training grounds.

The mentor’s quest was a simple one: collect Horned Rabbit Horns and turn them in for a small reward.

Ten rabbit horns earned ten XP and a slight bump in favorability with the Hunter’s Guild.

Nothing fancy.

Just another background side mission that most players knocked out without thinking.

Still, it was better to hand them in than to waste inventory space. And better rewardwise than just selling the horns.

Ren planned to exploit all the guys' professional classes, so they’d make the most of things. But that was at level 10. So, it was no big deal to just get EXP now.

Because, unless you were a blacksmith who could process rabbit horns into beginner-level daggers, they weren’t worth much.

And Ren wasn’t expecting anyone from his soon-to-be slum guild to use blacksmithing any time soon.

Hell, they couldn’t even afford to repair their weapons yet, much less start crafting new ones.

“Alright,” Ren said, stretching as the quest completed. “Time for a quick break in real life.”

“Yeah, I gotta get ready for my laundromat shift anyway,” Reed said, yawning.

They logged out—and immediately reappeared in the dingy dormitory, blinking under the harsh fluorescent lights.

And what they saw surprised them.

Two of the other dorm guys were standing near the cracked communal table, shouting at each other.

Folo and Kanuka.

Apparently, they knew the  six-hour timer for VR helmet usage had just ended, and tensions were already boiling over.

Technically, Folo was supposed to be next in line.

They had a whole timetable sketched out on a piece of battered cardboard hanging by the beds.

Only Ren was exempt from the rules, he was allowed 18 hours a day—he was the organizer behind the whole plan, after all.

But even the best schedule in the world didn’t mean shit in the slums.

Shift changes in real life didn’t happen neatly.

Bosses called you in early, or cut your hours, or kicked you to the curb halfway through the day if business was slow.

And today?

Kanuka had just gotten sent home early from his barbecue shop job.

Which meant he was technically free—and he wanted to grab a helmet shift before the next random work wave hit.

Folo wasn’t having it.

“It’s my fuckin’ turn!” Folo was shouting, his face red.

“You’re not even working today!” Kanuka yelled back. “I need to log time before I get dragged back into another twelve-hour shift!”

“I don’t care, Kanuka! We agreed! Six hours each!”

Ren sighed, leaning back against the wall and rubbing his temples.

The project hadn’t even fully launched yet and people were already losing their minds over helmet time.

And he knew—if they didn’t figure out a better system soon?

This wannabe slum guild of his was going to tear itself apart before it even had a chance to get off the ground.

***

CHAPTER 13

Ren, seeing the argument escalating, threw his hands up and yelled,

“Hey guys, I’m glad everyone’s excited to get in the game!”

Folo immediately jumped in, “Yeah? Then give me the helmet!”

Kanuka snapped back, “No way, let me jump in!”

Ren laughed, shaking his head.

“Wow, it’s actually cool to see. Before, I had to convince everyone—hell, I even promised to sell my kidneys.”

Everyone laughed, even Folo and Kanuka, breaking some of the tension.

Ren kept going.

“We’ve got a schedule for a reason, guys. We need to use this for maximum time, and we can’t just have people jumping in because their shifts got cut.”

Kanuka grumbled, “That’s bullshit.”

Ren raised a hand.

“Look, if next time someone can’t make their scheduled shift, then we’ll bump someone in. But Folo’s right here. Obviously, he should get his turn.”

Kanuka didn’t look thrilled, but even he couldn’t argue—it was written right there on the battered cardboard taped to the wall. Like a bible for the poor and desperate.

“Besides,” Ren said, “use this time to study the lore. Figure out what you want as your profession. Reed’s going to be a tailor, and I’m an alchemist. Write it down on the cardboard so we don’t overlap.”

He tapped the makeshift board for emphasis.

“Remember, this isn’t just a game. This is our chance to get out. So think seriously.”

Ren turned to Folo.

“Alright, ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Folo said eagerly, throwing himself onto the bunk and jacking into Towerbound.

Inside the game, Folo chose the ranger class.

He was outfitted with basic starter leather armor and a cheap wooden bow.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get him rolling.

For his profession, he picked Hunter with Skinning skills.

Exactly what they needed.

Finally, they could get more than just rabbit horns.

While technically Folo was planning to  pick Hunter—with all the tracking perks, skinning bonuses, and beast-taming potential that came with it—Towerbound didn’t just hand out professions for free. Nobody got their official class until they hit level 10 or proved at the appropriate NPC training hall that they could handle the responsibilities themselves.

Still, just like they had grabbed cheap Herbalist kits to grind out early herb picking, Folo could start skinning early. Folo went straight to the general vendor and bought one for four copper coins.

But the blueprint?

That was harder.

There were a few available at the auction house, but it cost two copper coins—and Folo only had one left after buying the knife.

Profession started at level 10, so technically he wasn’t a real Hunter. But because of the free-play mode, he could use his real-life butcher experience—if he could prove it. However, butchering a fantasy rabbit was nothing like slicing up the same thing in real life. The blueprint for skinning? That was the key. That was what would push him over the top.

Ren pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Folo. Log out real quick.”

“What?” Folo said, glaring. “We just started!”

“I’m not cutting your time,” Ren said. “We need Kanuka’s extra coins to buy the blueprint.”

Folo groaned but did as he was told.

They both appeared back in the dormitory, and after a quick explanation, Kanuka reluctantly took the helmet from Ren and logged back into the game. Same as Reed and Folo before him, he stood in the starter village for a second, quietly stunned by how real everything looked.

But before he could even take a step, Ren was already in front of him, hand out.

“Coins,” Ren said bluntly.

Kanuka scowled but opened his inventory and dropped his copper coins into Ren’s trade window. “Fine,” he muttered. “But I better get my full six hours later.”

“You will,” Ren replied.

With that handled, Kanuka logged back out without another word.

Folo immediately grabbed the helmet again, plugging himself back into Towerbound. With the extra coins secured, they rushed to the auction house and snagged the Level 1 Skinning blueprint.

Finally, they were ready.

No more wasting rabbit corpses.

No more lost loot.

Ren leaned back against the dorm wall and let out a slow breath.

They were moving.

Piece by piece.

Rabbit hide by rabbit hide.

***

Now it was time to grind again.

“Back to the herb fields!” Ren yelled, throwing a fist in the air.

Folo grinned, practically vibrating with excitement as they made their way back through the gates and out into the wilds.

This was his first time playing Towerbound and he was excited as hell to try it out.

The moment they started spotting rabbits hopping around the hills, Folo went wild, pulling out his bow and letting arrows fly.

In Towerbound, players could choose between free play mode and auto mode.

Ren, of course, had been playing in free play mode.

Because he actually had some practical real-life skills—handling ingredients carefully, memorizing plant shapes—Towerbound’s system had logged those skills automatically.

That’s why he didn’t need the basic gathering skill book most newbies had to buy.

The game simply treated him like someone who already knew how to properly harvest herbs.

Folo, however, was a pure newbie.

He had no idea how to handle a bow properly.

If he had selected free play mode, he would’ve missed every single shot—badly.

So he kept himself locked onto auto mode.

With auto lock-on, the game assisted his aiming within a certain recommended range.

Inside that range, the system would automatically correct his shots so long as he pointed vaguely in the right direction.

Outside that range?

The arrows wouldn’t even fire.

The bow would just refuse to shoot.

If you had real-life archery skills, you could turn off the lock and use your instincts.

Olympic-level talent would actually transfer over beautifully.

Unfortunately, Folo was no Olympian.

He was a slum kid who’d never even touched a real bow, much less fired one.

Still, he was grinning ear to ear, happily plinking rabbits out of the air as they attacked them, every kill earning tiny bursts of experience points.

And every time a rabbit corpse dropped, Ren hurried over to gather the herbs around the area, while Folo eagerly skinned the carcasses for hides and meat with his brand new knife.

He used real life butchering experience plus the skinning books teachings to get a pretty good result. It wasn't perfect, but it was pretty darn good.

Folo had started working the street markets when he was thirteen, running deliveries for vendors too busy to haul their own supplies. It wasn’t glamorous—lugging crates of vegetables, cheap electronics, or bags of frozen rat meat—but over time, a few of the meat vendors let him help out behind the stalls. Skinning poultry, trimming fat, even breaking down the occasional rabbit. It wasn’t professional training, but it was enough to give him a feel for a blade and the rhythm of butchering. Just enough to matter now.

Piece by piece, kill by kill, the two of them ground forward.

Not fast.

Not flashy.

But steady.

Exactly what they needed.

***

CHAPTER 14

One thing that was great about skill books in Towerbound—and one of the reasons people had gone absolutely nuts for the game when it launched—was that it didn’t just train your character.

It trained you.

When you learned a new skill, it wasn’t just a passive stat bump or a new button to press. It felt like your body soaked it in, like the muscle memory downloaded alongside the knowledge. Kind of like binge-watching a thousand MetaTube tutorials—but instead of just watching, you were doing. Instantly.

Folo could feel it happening already.

When he skinned rabbits now, it wasn’t just some animation doing the work for him. His real hands twitched slightly, reacting to tendons and bone, blade angling just so. He still had to concentrate—but there was something there. An instinct that hadn’t been there before.

He wasn’t a master. Not yet. He wasn’t going to wake up slicing prime rib with surgical precision. But he had enough in him now that if he walked into one of the District 1 meat stalls—the ones always yelling for help and never paying enough—he might actually get hired. Not as some wide-eyed scrub. But as someone who kinda knew what the hell they were doing.

And in the slums, that wasn’t nothing.

Better still, there was a real in-game reason to care. If he did the process right—if his angle was precise, his pressure smooth, his timing perfect—there was a chance.

A real one.

That the heart would shimmer. That the glands would pulse faintly with trapped mana. That the blood wouldn’t just be blood—it’d be a reagent. Something rare. Valuable.

But if he rushed it? Or hacked through carelessly?

All he’d get was gray-grade trash. Useless meat. Burned potential.

So Folo breathed in, steadied his grip, and treated the corpse like it was worth gold.

Because sometimes?

It was.

Butchering paid way better than running deliveries.

Sure, it was messy, bloody, and rough on the hands—but it was stable work.

You didn’t have to sprint through crowded streets for pennies anymore.

Ren had known this about Towerbound, of course.

It was one of the reasons he’d fought so hard to set up the helmet share in the first place.

It wasn’t just about earning money inside the game.

It was about upgrading their lives outside of it too.

Piece by piece, job by job, skill by skill.

Even grinding rabbits could mean something now.

Even skinning low-level trash monsters could open up a new future.

And for guys like them?

That was enough.Yeah, they’d talked big—about running the world, escaping the slums, making it to the top—but deep down, Ren knew the truth. The guys would’ve been happy just earning enough coins for some cheap beer and, if they were lucky, marrying someone who’d move with them into a better dorm with working plumbing.

But he wasn’t going to let them settle for that.

He meant it when he said he’d make their little ten-man dorm something else. Successful. Wildly successful.

The rest of the six-hour shift turned into pure, relentless grinding.

Ren and Folo settled into a rough but steady rhythm—

spotting rabbits, sprinting into position, fighting, healing, skinning, and gathering.

Now that Folo had his skinning skill up and running, every Horned Rabbit they dropped a slab of Rabbit Meat. Usually.

Sometimes, if luck was on their side, a Rabbit Heart would drop, a  rare ingredient needed for low-level stamina potions.

Horned Rabbit Horns kept dropping too, and instead of running back and forth to the Hunter-Mentor like idiots, they stuffed everything into their inventories.

The plan was simple: grind until their time ran out, then haul it all back at once for experience and some extra loot.

There were a lot of fights.

Folo, equipped with his basic ranger bow and his newbie skill—Charged Arrow—was starting to get better.

Charged Arrow was simple but effective: the longer he held the charge, the stronger the shot became.

It used up more focus points the longer he held it, but if he charged up to Level 3 (out of a max Level 4), he could kill a rabbit cleanly in one shot.

The important thing was: in Towerbound, you didn’t miss randomly.

The system didn’t allow that.

If your shot connected, it connected—unless the monster managed to dodge or block.

It wasn’t based on dice rolls.

It was based on what you did.

That meant if Folo’s arrow missed, it was either because he wasn’t aiming properly, or because the rabbit juked at the last second.

Not because the game was screwing him over.

In the beginning, Folo still panicked a bit—releasing early and wasting power.

But after a few close scrapes, he figured it out.

Pull. Hold. Watch the charge meter climb.

Release clean at Level 3.

THWACK.

Rabbit down.

Meanwhile, Ren played clean-up, throwing Basic Heals every time Folo took a hit, and occasionally whacking any overly aggressive rabbits with his battered wooden staff.

It wasn’t smooth.

It wasn’t pretty.

But it worked.

By the time their six hours were almost up, they had a respectable pile of rabbit meat, rabbit livers, herbs, and horns stuffed into their bags.

Finally, with Folo’s timer running low, they headed back into the starter village.

They turned in all their collected Horned Rabbit Horns to the Hunter-Mentor, who gave them a small chunk of experience and a minor boost in favorability with the local hunters’ guild.

Ren barely noticed the system chime at first.

Then the familiar gold sparkle washed over him—

and a window popped up:

Level Up!

[+1 Attribute Point Earned]

Ren quickly opened his character sheet, grinning.

Level 2. Finally.

Normally, most clerics would dump their free attribute points straight into Wisdom.

Wisdom increased your total mana pool, your magic recovery speed, and made your healing spells heal harder.

More wisdom meant faster casting times too—huge for staying alive in long fights.

But Ren?

He assigned his point to Intelligence instead.

Why?

Because Intelligence boosted alchemy success rates. Of course it did more than that, but for Ren that was all that mattered.

That increased alchemist boost mattered way more to him than squeezing out an extra 5 HP from a healing spell.

Let other clerics worry about healing raid members.

Ren had plans.

Bigger ones.

And alchemy—real, high-level alchemy—was the key.

He hit “Confirm,” feeling a tiny rush as the point locked in.

In his past life, he’d dumped all his attributable points into Wisdom instead of Intelligence—because, duh, everyone knew clerics used Wisdom. The stats even said so, plain as day. But it wasn’t until he hit level 10 that the truth slapped him: he was never going to play a normal cleric. Not with the way he fought, not with the way he thought. Those points had been wasted. And in Towerbound, there was no reset button. Once you put a point in, it was locked—forever.

Now, in his second life, he was already ahead. Already smarter about the build he’d need by level 10.

One step closer.

It wasn’t much.

One level.

One point.

One tiny step forward.

But in a world like Towerbound—and in the slums he’d come from—

one step could be the difference between drowning and surviving.

[Character Sheet – Ren]

Class: Cleric

Level: 2

Experience: 34/200

Primary Attributes:

Strength: 7

Agility: 8

Vitality: 10

Intelligence: 13 (+1)

Wisdom: 13

Luck: 6

Secondary Stats:

Health Points (HP): 120/120

Mana Points (MP): 45/45

Stamina: 110/110

Mana Regeneration: Slightly increased (from Intelligence)

Skills:

Basic Heal (Level 1)

Cast Time: 2.5 seconds

Mana Cost: 10 MP

Effect: Heals minor wounds for 20–30 HP

Current Equipment:

●      Novice’s Linen Robes (Defense +1, Durability 8/25)

●      Worn Wooden Staff (Attack +1, Durability 15/25)

●      Beginner’s Leather Boots (Defense +1, Durability 20/25)

●      Starter Belt Pouch (5 Inventory Slots)

●      Cloth Satchel (Herb Pouch – 10 Slots)

Inventory:

●      Starter Healing Salve x2 (restores 20 HP, slow-acting)

●      Basic Gatherer’s Kit (Durability 18/20)

Herbs Collected:

●      Thistle Rose x12

●      Whisperroot x6

●      Sunveil Fern x5

●      Glowcap Mushroom x2

●      Bitterthorn Leaves x7

●      Frostmint x4

Ren closed his character sheet with a small, satisfied click.

One more level. One more point.

Nothing flashy.

But it mattered.

He leaned back against the village wall, watching players sprint past with wild excitement, most of them clueless newbies just trying to swing a sword straight.

Not him.

Every point of Intelligence meant a higher alchemy success rate later.

More difficult potions.

More complex concoctions.

More ways to break free from the gutter he was born into.

He wasn’t here to be some dime-a-dozen cleric, spamming heals in a third-rate guild.

He wasn’t here to play dress-up with shiny armor and big swords.

He was here to build something.

To take this second chance and run with it until they couldn’t mess with him ever again.

He cracked his knuckles, adjusted the worn strap on his satchel, and grinned to himself.

‘Next step,’ he thought, ‘get those roses back to Widow Shelly. Start unlocking the hidden quests. Get the lead before anyone else even knows the race has started.’

It was time to move.

***

CHAPTER 15

Ren jogged back into Greenwild Cross, making a straight line for Widow Shelly’s little cottage near the back of town.

He had carefully packed the twelve Thistle Roses into his satchel—each one nestled between folds of cloth so they didn’t get crushed. It felt almost stupid, being that careful in a game, but Ren wasn’t about to screw this up. Not when he knew how valuable this hidden quest line could become later.

It was a secret—one of those weird little quirks of Towerbound—that if you just dumped herbs and reagents straight into your inventory, they’d stay fine. But if you took the time to pack them carefully before storing them, they’d stay extra fine.

What did extra fine even mean?

There was a hidden quality value—never shown, never explained—that made the herb slightly better than a regular one yanked out of the ground and tossed into a bag. Nobody figured it out at first. It wasn’t until months later that crafters started noticing their potions came out just a little bit stronger, a little more stable, if they treated their herbs with care. Same ingredients, same recipes—different results.

Widow Shelly was exactly where she always was—sitting on her creaky rocking chair, sewing quietly with hands that looked far too frail for needlework.

As soon as Ren approached, the scripted NPC dialogue triggered.

“Oh, traveler,” she said, her voice quivering with age, “have you brought me the roses I asked for?”

Ren clicked through the standard dialogue options quickly and handed her the flowers.

System Message:

Quest Complete: Thistle Rose Gathering

Reward: 50 Experience Points, 2 Copper Coins, Favorability +5 with Widow Shelly

Shelly smiled warmly as she took the roses.

“Thank you, dear. My husband would be proud.”

It was exactly what he expected.

At this low level, NPCs like Widow Shelly were mostly built off simple dialogue trees—basic, mechanical, almost robotic in how they responded.

You completed the quest, they said thank you, and you moved on.

But one cool thing Towerbound had was the favorability system.

The more you helped an NPC—or interacted with them meaningfully—the more their dialogue options expanded.

You could unlock hidden conversations, secret quests, even access to unique shops or services that weren’t available otherwise.

At lower levels, the NPCs still clearly felt like a game.

You could tell you were talking to a script.

But at the higher levels—around Level 50 and beyond—the NPCs shifted into full AI.

Conversations with them became unpredictable, emotional, even unsettlingly real.

They remembered what you said.

They remembered your choices.

They could even call you out for past mistakes.

It was one of the reasons Towerbound’s immersion blew every other VR game out of the water.

Ren, however, didn’t need a full AI Widow Shelly right now.

Scripted was fine—so long as it opened the door to the next phase.

And it had.

Because he hadn’t just brought five roses.

He had brought twelve.

And a few seconds later, after the basic quest completion faded, another window flickered open:

System Message:

Hidden Condition Fulfilled: Extra Roses Offered (x12)

New Quest Unlocked: ‘The Widow’s Regret’

Ren grinned.

Exactly as planned.

Folo, who hadn’t logged out yet and had been trailing behind him carrying a handful of random herbs and junk loot, stumbled into the event radius just in time.

His system pinged too, and he got the standard Thistle Rose quest completion.

But he didn’t get the hidden quest.

In Towerbound, even if you were grouped up, hidden conditions were single trigger.

Only the player who physically handed in the quest could unlock hidden branches.

Everyone else?

Tough luck.

Folo didn’t mind.

He was just happy to snag the basic rewards and a handful of experience.

Poor Reed, though, wouldn’t be so lucky.

He was already back in the real world, stuck pulling another grinding laundromat shift.

By the time he logged back in, Widow Shelly would be reset, the roses would be picked, and the secret quest would be gone.

Ren didn’t feel too guilty about it.

This was the race now.

You grabbed every advantage you could—or you got left behind.

It didn’t matter which member of the slum guild got the “oh-by-the-way” reward requests. At the end of the day, they’d be pooling their coins, converting their credits, and stacking everything they had to improve  their guild—and out of the slums.

Technically, they weren’t a guild yet. Technically, nobody in the game would be for a while. But Ren had started calling them a guild early on to let them kind of acclimate to the game terms, because he had planned for his upcoming guild to be more than just an in-game guild. He wanted it to mean something in real life too.

Whether it was Reed or Folo who triggered the quest didn’t matter. As long as Ren kept pushing forward and snagged that hidden reward quest, that was all that mattered.

He flicked open his quest log and looked at the new mission now sitting there, golden and gleaming.

‘The Widow’s Regret.’

He was already ahead of ninety-nine percent of the server.

Exactly where he needed to be.

***

Now it was time to log off and switch.

Ren was going onto his third shift, and Kanuka was finally about to start his first.

Kanuka was practically hopping around outside, pacing impatiently like a kid waiting for recess.

Kanuka had chosen Cleric for his main class too—because, as he loudly declared, “swords are overrated.”

Ren actually thought it was a good thing.

Their guild—the little slum guild they were trying to build—would absolutely need a proper dedicated cleric.

And Ren sure as hell wasn’t going to volunteer for that.

Kanuka’s planned profession was even better.

Blacksmith.

Which was perfect.

Every serious guild needed a blacksmith—someone who could make weapons, repair gear, and later, forge higher-grade equipment.

But blacksmiths were expensive.

Not just because of the raw materials, but because of the forge itself.

Alchemists needed a lab to make potions, sure.

But a forge?

A forge needed constant resources—charcoal, metals, maintenance—and once you started forging, it was pure time grind.

Blacksmiths who stuck with it could eventually make a fortune, but it wasn’t something you did casually.

Kanuka was practically vibrating with excitement, ready to dive in.

But just as he was about to put on the helmet, Ren held up his hand.

“Hold up a second,” Ren said.

Kanuka narrowed his eyes immediately. “What now? You’re picking on me again, aren’t you?”

Ren laughed. “I swear I’m not! We just need… a few more coins.”

Kanuka crossed his arms. “Yup, because you already took all of mine.”

“Exactly,” Ren said cheerfully. “And now it’s time to raid the next guy.”

The next person in line was supposed to be Cameron—but he wasn’t back from work yet.

The dorm always had a few people floating around, though, and it turned out Peter was there, sitting on the battered couch, reading lore notes on his cheap tablet.

Peter was scheduled to jump in soon-ish, maybe two or three rotations from now.

He had already picked his classes ahead of time.

He was going to be a Warrior for his main class, and an Herbalist for his profession. Well….he was going to be one when he hit level ten.

A smart pick.

Herbalists didn’t make potions—that was the alchemist’s job—but they could break down raw ingredients into usable materials, or synthesize stronger herbs for crafting.

Every serious alchemist needed a few herbalists working alongside them.

Because while a good alchemist could harvest herbs, grow them, and tend them well enough, a dedicated herbalist had higher percentages across the board. Better chances to find rare nodes, better yields per plant, and better odds of preserving quality. It wasn’t even close in the long run.

Ren silently made a note: Peter was going to be important later.

“Come on, Peter,” Ren said, clapping him on the back. “Time to log in real quick.”

Peter grumbled but didn’t argue.

Everyone knew how the system worked: share helmets, share chances, move fast.

They logged Peter in, let him take a quick, wide-eyed look around Greenwild Cross, and then Ren gently pried five copper coins out of Peter’s starter wallet.

It wasn’t like he needed them yet anyway.

Then they logged Peter back out, handed the helmet back to Kanuka, and finally—finally—Kanuka could jump in.

“Finally!” Kanuka said, throwing his arms in the air. “Six hours of pure fun and gaming!”

Ren gave him a hard look.

“You mean six hours of grinding and hard work.”

Kanuka groaned. “You’re seriously giving me the speech now too?” Kanuka had heard the “Game equals Work” speech from Reed in the dorm.

Ren smirked. “Damn right I am.” He was tired, but still enthusiastic. His revenge and a castle made of cheese kept him motivated. Oh, and there was the whole “saving Earth from the Towerbound merge” thing.

Kind of a big deal.

But Ren didn’t focus on that too much. Not because it wasn’t important—more like, if he let himself dwell on it, he’d end up curled in a corner somewhere, eating discount jelly with his hands and muttering about floor bosses.

The countdown had started. The Tower would appear on Earth. Humanity would get sucked into a world they didn’t understand. And if no one reached the top, Earth was basically screwed.

But that was future Ren’s problem.

Right now? He had gear to craft, a guild to build, and a long list of petty revenges to dish out. If he thought too much about the fate of the world, he’d go nuts. So instead, he focused on potions. On people. On the little wins.

Because when the Tower came—when the sky cracked and the monsters dropped—he’d be ready.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Twelve hours straight in-game was no joke.

By the time Ren pushed to eighteen, he’d be running on fumes.

But everyone had agreed: Ren was leading this project.

He was the one with the knowledge.

He was the one steering the ship.

Even if they didn’t know just how much knowledge he actually had.

And right now, the next move was obvious.

“Alright,” Ren said. “You ready? We’re gonna go hit this Widow Shelly quest next.”

They had logged off in town, so they were perfectly safe.

Starter towns were heavily guarded by Level 60 NPCs, and for the first ten levels, player killing was disabled inside safe zones.

Once you hit Level 10, though?

All bets were off.

Attack someone, you got a red name.

Get a red name, and you couldn’t go back into town until it cooled off—or risk getting ganked by guards and other NPCs.

And dying wasn’t just a slap on the wrist.

You lost your EXP.

You dropped an item.

Period.

Right now though, their focus was simple: start the hidden quest chain.

Widow Shelly’s follow-up quest needed a Potion of Disease-Curing.

Problem was, the potion wasn’t simple.

It needed three ingredients—

Shadowvine, Frostpetal, and Bitterspore Mushrooms—

none of which grew anywhere near the starter town.

Ren already knew this.

Back in Prosperous Guild, when he had been the Chief Alchemist, he would just submit his ingredient lists and let armies of newbies fetch everything for him.

There were already detailed maps of where these herbs spawned.

But now?

It was just him and Kanuka.

Two clerics.

Level 2 and Level 1.

And not exactly intimidating.

Finding a party that wanted two newbie clerics was practically impossible.

One cleric was bad enough to find a pick up  group for.

Two?

No chance.

It didn’t help that after thirteen hours of launch, most solo players—especially warriors—were already pushing Level 2 or 3. Mages and thieves were other classes that needed a group, so those players were also lagging.

There were four basic archetypes every player started with when they first entered the Tower of Valor: Cleric, Mage, Thief, and Warrior. Simple enough. Everyone picked one, slapped on some beginner gear, and got ready to murder hobo everything.

But that simplicity? It didn’t last.

Once you hit Level 10, the real madness started. That’s when the System opened up and let you evolve into Elite classes—and suddenly, those four neat little boxes exploded into a chaotic buffet of specialization.

In his previous life, someone had actually tried to catalog every class they came across. They called it “The Big Damn List,” and even at version 3.0, it was the size of a novel.

The crazy part? New Elite paths were showing up all the time. People thought it was just a game at first, so they blamed devs for stealth updates. But it wasn’t patch notes causing the mayhem. Towerbound was alive. It adapted. It watched. Sometimes it rewarded creativity. Other times, it punished stupidity with a fireball to the face.

One guy in his first life had accidentally created a class called Mirthful Pyromancer by combining a jester’s cap, a flame rune, and a very bad decision during a circus-themed event dungeon. The guy laughed himself to death mid-boss fight. Literally. His class made it impossible to stop laughing when casting.

That’s the kind of game it was. This was probably because Towerbound wasn’t really a game.

Oh, it looked like one. It played like one. It even marketed like one—trailers, early access, flashy skill previews, and hype trains fueled by influencers screaming into webcams. But underneath all that? Something else was happening.

Because no sane game—no studio with a budget, a deadline, or a single shred of common sense—would ever allow this many branching choices.

Ren remembered the class web from his first life. People tried to make diagrams, infographics, and spreadsheets. They all failed. The System didn’t follow rules. It grew. New Elite paths would show up randomly—sometimes when players did something clever, sometimes when they glitched a dungeon, and sometimes just because they ate a weird fruit while wearing cursed armor during a lightning storm.

No dev would code that.

No QA team would approve it.

No publisher would greenlight it.

It wasn’t a game. Not really.

It was training. A test. A disguised system prepping people for what was really coming.

And once the Tower appeared on Earth for real? Those crazy branching paths wouldn’t just be a cool gameplay feature. They’d be the difference between life and death.

Ren remembered staring at The Big Damn List late at night in his old life, overwhelmed and underleveled, wondering how the hell anyone figured this stuff out.

But all of that—the branching class trees, the mysterious System rewrites, the fact that Towerbound wasn’t really a game at all—was secondary.

Because right now, Ren and Kanuka had a much more pressing problem:

They were two underleveled clerics.

Trying to find a group.

It was like being the last two kids picked for dodgeball—except the dodgeball was a giant fire-breathing centipede boss, and the other kids were all meta-chasing min-maxers who wouldn’t touch a support build.

Ren had been splitting his experience, helping every new dorm mate login, slowing his own climb.

The gap between them and the top players was already growing.

Fast.

Ren sighed, double-checking his starter staff’s sad durability, then turned to Kanuka.

“Alright. You ready?”

Kanuka adjusted his plain cleric robes and grinned.

“Born ready.”

Ren muttered under his breath, “We’ll see about that.”

Widow Shelly’s quest wasn’t just about collecting flowers this time.

Her only grandchild—Liam—had gotten sick after a hunting trip to the southern swamp.

It wasn’t deadly yet, but the disease would get worse fast if it wasn’t cured.

If no potion was delivered in time, Liam would die, a grave would appear, and the entire hidden quest chain would be permanently locked.

Ren winced a little thinking about it.

This wasn’t just about loot.

This time, there was a real clock ticking.

‘No pressure,’ he thought.

Kanuka was practically bouncing along next to him.

“Don’t worry!” Kanuka shouted proudly. “I won’t let a sick kid down!”

CHAPTER 16

Knowing that finding a group was hard, Ren made sure he knocked out a couple of chores before they even started. With Peter’s coins in hand, they went straight to the auction house and bought a basic Herbalist Gathering Skill Book for two copper coins.

If Ren had had better luck or had targeted humanoid spawns during those first twelve hours, they probably would’ve already picked up a couple skill books just from random drops.

But no.

His luck had been absolute trash.

No freebie drops.

Non-humanoid creatures could, once in a blue moon, drop more than just ingredients—but it was rare. Very rare. So rare that most players wrote it off as a myth, the kind of thing you only heard about from a friend of a friend who swore a rabbit once dropped a magic ring.

No beginner blessings.

Nothing.

So he had to fork over his coppers like a sucker.

Some other players were also at the auction house, buying skill books and scrambling to unlock whatever skills they could. Alchemy, smithing, tailoring, cooking—you name it, someone was already trying to power-level it.

But here was the catch: every player only started with five copper coins. That was it. No extra handouts. No starter chest full of gold. Just five tiny copper coins.

And most of the hardcore types? They weren’t spending it on professions.

They were dropping every last coin on gear. A sharper sword. A thicker shield. Maybe a basic fire charm or a speed boost talisman if they were feeling flashy. Something—anything—that would help them kill faster and level up quicker.

Ren watched them with the same look a time traveler gives a guy about to invest his life savings in Blockbuster stock.

Because he remembered.

He remembered what happened when people ignored professions. When they treated them like side content, or worse—optional fluff.

Sure, those shiny swords helped them dominate the early game. But when it came time to clear the mid-tier dungeons? When poison resistance mattered? When you needed burn cures, antidotes, anti-curse salves, or just someone who could fix your damn gear mid-run?

That’s when it bit them in the ass. Hard.

Ren knew better.

He was already making his list. Already eyeing ingredients. Already planning which skill books were worth the copper and which ones were bait. Because while the others were out there flexing for damage numbers, he was thinking about guild development.

With three copper coins left, they swung by the town’s logistics board and rented a basic warehouse under Ren’s name.

It cost him one copper coin for the first week.

Not bad.

The warehouse was just a tiny stone room attached to the main hall—but it had shelves, chests, and most importantly, infinite weight tolerance.

That was crucial.

Ren’s bag space was filling up fast.

He was still carrying loot not just from himself, but from Reed and Folo too.

And as more people logged in from their dormitory rotation, it was only going to get worse.

Until they had an actual official guild—with an actual shared guild vault—Ren was stuck being the weird loot mule for the entire operation.

Guilds in Towerbound were a huge deal. Just like every other VRMMORPG, guilds weren’t just about grouping up and raiding dungeons. They were infrastructure. Economy. Politics.

And everyone who had read the game notes—or the leaks, or the conspiracy threads—knew that a massive shift was coming.

Eventually, official guilds would unlock permanent territory claims. Shared vaults. Political power. Access to Guild Skill Trees and exclusive Elite class synergies that only activated when certain builds were grouped together. One guy’s support class didn’t even start working until he was within thirty feet of his guild leader.

But right now? That system didn’t exist.

So players were improvising.

From corporate-backed teams with real-life sponsors to lone wolves who’d maybe heard of teamwork once in a MetaTube tutorial, everybody was throwing together informal guilds.

They had names.

They had Discords.

Some even had matching tabards they made in the character creator, complete with edgy Latin mottos and custom emojis.

Ren knew this phase wouldn’t last long. Once the system opened up official guild formation, half these ragtag alliances would collapse under drama, loot disputes, or plain old incompetence.

But some?

Some would become monsters. Titans. Political powers that would shape the game world—and maybe even the real one, once the Tower emerged.

That’s why Ren wasn’t just thinking about classes and coins.

He was already thinking about a guild that could survive what was coming.

Still, even with only ten players, being part of a group had one unavoidable problem: loot overflow.

Nobody could carry it all.

Even if you maxed out your inventory space, wore extra bags, and stuffed potions down your pants, there just wasn’t enough room. Towerbound dropped odd loot. Every fight, every mob, every chest—bam. More gear, more ingredients, more shiny useless junk that might be valuable later.

For example, the horned rabbits—adorably vicious little nightmares—could drop all sorts of junk when harvested: rabbit hearts, horns, livers, fur, and other such nonsense that might be useful later… or might just rot in your inventory until you finally gave up and threw it in a fire.

And sure, people tried. They played loot Tetris. They argued over who got what. Someone always screamed “Need before Greed!” while sneakily stuffing another potentially useful drop into their belt pouch.

But it didn’t matter.

Once your pack was full, you were done.

You could toss stuff. You could bury it and hope no one else found it. You could try and sprint back to town and pray no mobs were waiting.

Ren had lived that nightmare in his last life.

But loot was value.

Loot was power.

And if you couldn’t carry it? You were just leaving strength on the ground.

Three players wasn’t too bad.

Ten?

He was already mentally preparing for how much it was going to suck—especially since he was the only guy not working a real-world shift right now.

In his original life, at this point, he would’ve been gearing up to start a soul-sucking food delivery job.

Not this time.

Cheese castles didn’t build themselves on tips.

They finished organizing their inventories, dropped off everything they didn’t immediately need, and then headed toward the town square.

And immediately, they were hit by the pandemonium.

The town square was packed.

Newbies shouting over each other.

Recruiters hawking group invites like they were selling discount furniture.

“LOOKING FOR DPS, LEVEL 2 ONLY, NO NOOBS!”

“NEED MAGES, FAST KILLS, SPLIT LOOT 90-10.”

“NO CLERICS, STOP PMING ME!”

Ren couldn’t help but laugh.

Everyone out here was desperate and new, but they still had opinions.

There were players arguing over loot splits like they were lawyers at an inheritance trial.

One guy was demanding that all rare drops went to him because he “had main character energy.”

Another guy was offering to sing live during battles if people grouped with him.

Ren needed none of it.

What he needed was simple: a large enough group that two under-leveled clerics could hide behind and not immediately get murdered.

There was just one problem.

Nobody was looking for two clerics.

One, sure.

Maybe.

But two?

Forget it.

At most, they’d accept one—and even then, they wanted a cleric who was already Level 2 or Level 3.

Fortunately, there weren’t a lot of Level 3 clerics floating around yet.

Otherwise, Ren’s odds would’ve been even worse.

Ren sighed, lifted his staff in the air dramatically, and shouted:

“LOOKING FOR GROUP! QUESTS! POTIONS PROVIDED!”

The words ‘quests’ and ‘potions’ floated across the square like baited hooks.

Immediately, a few heads snapped around.

What they didn’t know was the “quest” Ren was offering was his hidden chain quest from Widow Shelly—and the system wouldn’t actually reward them anything.

They didn’t need to know that though.

They just needed to swing swords and look threatening while he and Kanuka got the real rewards.

After about fifteen minutes of shouting, negotiating, and dodging two different recruiters trying to aggressively poach him for their “super upcoming pro guild,” Ren cobbled together a group.

Three Warriors.

Two Thieves. One of which was obviously going the ranger route, and the other more of a traditional rogue style thief. Technically they were both just thieves. But playstyle mattered.

And a Mage who looked like she barely knew which end of the staff to hold.

It wasn’t a dream team.

But it was bodies.

And bodies were shields.

Ren promised each of them a basic healing potion at the end—one each.

Not a fortune.

But better than running around farming Horned Rabbits and Spiky Pigs for half a point of experience at a time.

It wasn’t pretty.

But it would work.

Just as Ren was finishing up assigning people into loose formation groups, Kanuka came jogging up from the marketplace, still stuffing a half-eaten meat bun into his mouth. He had begged for 1 copper coin, and used it for this meat bun.

Food in-game tasted great, and even gave buffs. Meat buns, for example, gave a regeneration in mana speed for two hours.

He skidded to a halt next to Ren, robes flapping everywhere, and blurted out loudly—

“Dude, why are there so many noobs here?”

Half the group turned and gave him dirty looks.

Ren slowly closed his eyes and counted to five.

“You are one of those noobs,” he said through gritted teeth.

Kanuka looked around, realized he was the lowest level person here besides maybe the Mage, and coughed awkwardly.

“Right. Right. Sorry. Happy to be here. Go team.”

The Warriors snorted.

The thief rolled his eyes.

The Thief mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “freaking amateurs.”

Ren mentally slapped himself in the face.

‘Cheese mountain,’ he reminded himself stoically.

‘Cheese mountain. Cheese mountain. Cheese mountain.’

He lifted his staff, gave a grand fake flourish, and said:

“Alright, adventurers! Let’s go save a dying kid and totally not die ourselves in the process!”

Somewhere behind him, Kanuka whispered, “Wait, they didn’t know about the dying kid quest?”

Ren decided he didn’t hear that.

He just pointed dramatically toward the south gate, where the wildlands and the real danger waited.

The party shuffled into motion, clanking and stumbling their way toward glory—or at least a whole bunch of bruises.

Either way, they were moving.

CHAPTER 17

Ren and his party headed out into the wilds toward the first zone where the Shadowvine herb was supposed to spawn.

They weren’t sticking close to Greenwild Cross anymore.

This was real wilderness now—farther away from the newbie-friendly fields of Horned Rabbits and Spiky Pigs.

And here, it wasn’t fluffy critters hopping around.

It was wolves.

Specifically, Shadow Wolves.

Ren had made damn sure to put together a bigger group for exactly this reason.

Shadow Wolves weren’t regular wolves.

They were designed for Level 3 players—nasty, fast, and big enough to rip your face off if you weren’t paying attention.

In Towerbound, you couldn’t see the monster’s exact level floating over its head.

Instead, you got color indicators:

●      White name: Same level as you.

●      Gray name: Weaker than you—barely worth EXP.

●      Orange name: Tougher than you—higher risk, higher reward.

●      Red name: Double your level. Good luck.

●      Black name with skulls: Death on four legs. Run.

The wolves ahead were gleaming orange.

Which meant they were above the party’s level, but still doable.

Technically.

If Ren had been some kind of badass time-traveling swordsman, he would’ve charged into the wilds solo, swinging his blade and cashing in on high-level loot bonuses.

In Towerbound, killing monsters above your level didn’t just grant more EXP and loot—you also got Challenge Bonuses that gave buffs or rare drops.

A real grinder’s dream.

But Ren wasn’t that kind of time traveler.

He had spent most of his previous life crouched safely in alchemy labs, stirring cauldrons and grinding herbs.

And he didn’t regret it for a second.

Even now, with all his knowledge of the future, if you gave him a magic sword and told him to fight?

He’d still rather hide behind somebody else and throw heals.

Fighting hurt.

Fighting sucked.

Leave the heroics to the meatheads.

Still, the Shadow Wolves weren’t so far above them they couldn’t manage.

If they fought smart—and if Ren could stay the hell out of the way—they might actually rake in some decent experience.

And the very first fight broke out almost immediately.

A pack of three Shadow Wolves lunged out from a copse of trees, snarling and snapping.

The three warriors clashed swords against teeth, the thief fired arrows like crazy, and the mage… mostly threw her weak firebolts.

Ren?

Ren was hiding at the way back, desperately trying to target teammates for heals.

Kanuka wasn’t doing much better.

Both clerics were technically throwing heals—but between the two of them, they were maybe worth the value of one and a half decent clerics.

Maybe.

If you squinted.

Hard.

Still, somehow, they didn’t die.

The wolves were tough, but the warriors held the line, the thief chipped away at their flanks, and eventually the last Shadow Wolf went down with a final whimper.

Victory.

Panting, bruised, and half the party bleeding, but hey.

Victory.

Now came the loot.

The wolves dropped the usual:

●      Shadow Wolf Pelts

●      Wolf Fangs

●      Raw Wolf Meat if skinned

●      And very rarely, a Shadow Wolf Fur, usually used for cloaks that boosted dodge chance.

Ren had set the group loot to Leader Distributed, so he would be the one splitting up the drops.

Not everyone was thrilled about that.

Especially the thief and one of the warriors, both of whom had picked up Skinning with the appropriate skill book as their secondary skills.

Skinning wolves and having to hand over the loot didn’t sit right with them.

But Ren didn’t care.

He wasn’t hoarding anything unfairly.

He wasn’t giving himself bonuses.

He was keeping track of all the drops, and once enough piled up, he would split it evenly by value.

No favoritism.

No mess.

It was the only fair way to do it with a temporary, thrown-together group.

Even if some of them looked like they wanted to bite him more than the wolves had.

Ren ignored the dirty looks and checked their haul.

Not bad for the first fight.

But they’d need a lot more coordination if they wanted to survive the Shadow Wolf territory—let alone find the herbs they actually came here for.

He tightened his grip on his staff, muttered a quick self-heal to patch up a scratch, and pushed deeper into the wilds.

If today was going to suck anyway?

Might as well make it profitable.

The next pack came faster than expected.

They barely made it fifty paces deeper into the forest before more snarling erupted from the underbrush.

“Incoming!” one of the warriors shouted.

The group scrambled into a defensive line, weapons flashing up.

Ren immediately bolted for the nearest tree, practically diving behind it, peeking out from the trunk like the world’s most cowardly cleric. Because he was.

He was farther back than he should’ve been—way farther.

But he didn’t care.

Self-preservation was a virtue.

Let the meatheads handle the stabbing.

Kanuka, bless him, was actually ready this time.

He raised his staff, started channeling a heal spell—

—and just as he released it, a Shadow Wolf leapt through the air, right between him and the wounded warrior he was trying to heal.

The golden glow struck the wolf full in the chest.

The Shadow Wolf shimmered slightly, visibly rejuvenating, and then hit the ground snarling with even more energy.

“WHAT THE FUCK, KANUKA?!” the warrior screamed.

Even the Shadow Wolf looked confused, almost pausing mid-snarl like it was wondering why it suddenly felt great.

Ren slapped a hand over his face from behind his precious tree.

“You’re healing the wolves now?” he shouted.

“I didn’t mean to!” Kanuka yelped. “It jumped into it! It was an accident!”

The thief cursed and started rapid-firing arrows, the mage flung a half-formed fireball, and the warriors piled in swinging like their lives depended on it.

Which, honestly, it did.

Ren, grumbling under his breath the whole time, poked just enough of his staff out from behind the tree to throw healing spells when absolutely necessary—and absolutely no closer.

It wasn’t pretty.

It wasn’t even remotely coordinated.

But somehow—maybe because the wolves were still a little confused by the magical random heal—the party managed to drag the fight out long enough to survive.

Barely.

The final Shadow Wolf collapsed with a whimper.

More pelts, more fangs, another scrap of raw fur.

Kanuka stood there, looking mortified, still clutching his staff like he was waiting for someone to yell at  him. Which was pretty funny, because Kanuka—in real life—was no pushover.

Kanuka, in real life, looked like the kind of guy you did not want to accidentally bump into on a crowded street.

He had that hardened, brick-wall build—broad shoulders, thick arms, and the permanent scowl of someone who’d spent most of his adult life expecting things to go sideways at any moment. His nose had been broken at least twice, his knuckles were scarred, and he moved with the wary precision of someone who’d been in more than a few real fights and didn’t lose many of them.

His voice? Low, calm, and sharp. The kind of voice that didn’t need to shout to get people to shut up and listen.

He wore his work boots even when there wasn’t work, and his idea of casual wear was a tank top that looked like it had survived a demolition site.

Kanuka wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t loud. But when he walked into a room, people noticed.

He looked like a bouncer, a foreman, or maybe someone who handled “problems” for people who didn’t want to ask too many questions.

Hell, nobody who survived in District 1 was a pushover. That place chewed people up, spit them out, and then charged them rent for the experience. Kanuka had been through it all: riots, blackouts, food shortages, and more than a few brawls that ended with someone getting stitched up by flashlight.

But here he was now, in-game, standing awkwardly with his hands behind his back, shuffling his feet and blushing like a schoolgirl.

Ren walked over, very slowly, still keeping half the tree between him and any potential threats.

He clapped Kanuka on the shoulder.

“You’re not banned from healing yet,” he said dryly. “But if you buff another enemy, I’m officially selling your soul to the next necromancer we meet.”

Kanuka groaned and muttered something about how maybe the wolves just needed love too.

The thief let out a loud, theatrical groan.

Ren just shook his head.

At this rate, it wasn’t going to be the monsters that killed them—it was going to be their own damn clerics.

CHAPTER 18

After patching up their wounds and gathering up the loot, the group pushed deeper into the woods.

Ren stayed several steps behind, peeking nervously over his shoulder every few seconds, as if half-expecting another wolf to come barreling out of the bushes and bite him in the ass.

Kanuka kept apologizing under his breath.

The others mostly ignored him, focused on the growing tension in the air.

The forest was getting darker.

The trees grew thicker.

The wind barely moved.

And ahead, the faint shimmer of herbs glowed under the silvered moonlight filtering through the branches.

Shadowvine.

Patches of it grew along a shallow rocky cliffside just ahead.

Ren could almost taste the success.

‘Just gotta sneak in, gather fast, and get out before anything nasty shows up,’ he thought optimistically.

Naturally, that’s when something nasty showed up.

Perched atop a nearby cliff, a Shadow Wolf Alpha lifted its massive head and growled, deep and rumbling.

Its eyes glowed a faint red.

Its fur was darker than the others, almost smoky around the edges, and it was easily twice the size of the regular wolves they had been fighting.

A black name floated over its head.

With skulls.

Lots of skulls.

“Oh shit,” the ranger said eloquently.

The thief immediately crouched lower behind the nearest warrior.

Ren didn’t blame him.

The Alpha wasn’t just a boss—it was an overleveled boss.

Way beyond anything they could handle in a straight fight.

If they charged in, they’d be wiped in seconds.

Ren’s brain was already racing.

There were ways to fight monsters way above your level: traps, terrain abuse, dirty tricks, and distraction tactics.

Fair fights were for suckers.

And Ren?

Ren had no pride to lose. And nothing to prove.

He tightened his grip on his staff and turned to the group.

“Alright,” he said, keeping his voice low. “New plan.”

The warriors looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

“The plan,” Ren said, grinning grimly, “is to fight like absolute cowards.”

The thief immediately perked up.

Now that was a strategy he could get behind.

Ren glanced over at Kanuka, who was still looking super embarrassed.

“Kanuka, have you hit Level 2 yet?” Ren asked.

Kanuka shook his head, huffing out a breath. “No, but I’m close.”

He actually hadn’t been doing too badly.

Even with the two of them being relatively useless as clerics, the sheer number of Shadow Wolves they had been grinding through meant the whole group was leveling at a decent pace.

“Alright, everybody,” Ren called to the group, raising his voice. “New side mission.

We’re grinding until Kanuka the blind cleric hits Level 2.”

Kanuka flipped him off in response, which Ren decided to interpret as healthy enthusiasm.

He pointed up ahead, where the forest gave way to a series of rocky, broken hills.

“We’re heading for those mountains. The mission? Hunt down every Shadow Wolf along the way. And keep your eyes peeled for Gloomsprites too.”

A few of the newer players blinked, unfamiliar with the term.

Ren sighed and explained.

Gloomsprites were tiny little mouse-sized creatures, looking like smoky-furred weasels with faintly glowing eyes.

They lived symbiotically with Shadow Wolves, grooming them by eating parasites and cleaning dirt and blood out of their fur.

In return, the wolves protected them from bigger predators.

If you could kill one you’d usually get a scrap of Gloomsprite Dust.

Not valuable for potions or armor, but alchemists still used it in cleaning spells and hygiene buffs.

Basically gloomsprites were walking bars of soap.

Not exactly dangerous.

Still, the plan was the same: if it moved and wasn’t in their party, it died.

Full-on murder-hobo mode engaged.

CHAPTER 19

The next thirty minutes turned into a series of fights.

One Shadow Wolf pack after another.

The warriors crashed into them swinging wildly, the ranger kept up a steady barrage of arrows, and the mage shrieked and panic-cast firebolts like a terrified chicken with a flamethrower.  The thief? Did thiefy things.

Ren stayed way back, lurking behind rocks and bushes like the professional coward he was.

He fired off Basic Heals whenever somebody’s health bar dipped low enough to look concerning, but there was no way he was charging into the front lines if he could help it.

Kanuka had gotten slightly better at aiming, too.

Only one more accidental heal—and this time, it had gone to a startled Gloomsprite, who immediately bolted off into the trees sparkling with health like it had just won the lottery.

“That counts as a successful friendship mission,” Kanuka insisted.

Ren rolled his eyes so hard it felt like they’d get stuck in the back of his skull.

Still, they kept fighting and moving steadily toward the craggy hills.

Pelts, fangs, and scraps of Shadow Wolf Fur piled up in their inventories.

And finally—

Ding!

A soft golden glow pulsed around Kanuka.

“YES!” he shouted, practically punching the air. “Level 2, baby!”

“Congrats, dumbass,” Ren said, grinning. “Now you’re only half as useless.”

Kanuka flipped him off again, laughing.

The others clapped him on the back and let out tired but genuine cheers.

Leveling meant more mana, more health, and better heals.

Usually, with this much loot and someone hitting a level-up, a pickup group would head back to town for a quick break—sort their bags, spend points, maybe grab a snack. But not this time. Not with this group.

Ren wasn’t thinking about town yet.

He was thinking about the craggy hills ahead.

Jagged stone.

Narrow gullies.

Sharp drops and natural choke points.

Perfect.

He hadn’t dragged them out here just to pick flowers.

He wanted the terrain.

The kind of terrain that would make fighting easier for undergeared, underleveled scrubs like them.

He’d stolen the idea shamelessly from that unfortunate loudmouth streamer—the guy who had bragged about it before Ren’s second chance had stolen the opportunity right out from under him.

And Ren didn’t feel bad about it.

Not even a little.

If he wasted time feeling guilty about every opportunity he grabbed, he’d spend the rest of his life whining and moping instead of winning.

He waved his staff forward.

“Alright, let’s move! Tight formation! Kill everything that moves!”

And so, with fresh levels under their belts and inventories full of loot, Ren and his ragtag party of hopeful idiots marched straight into the rocks.

The mountainous craggy terrain was really important for the next part of Ren’s plan, because they had to get somewhere safe—somewhere a Shadow Wolf couldn’t just pounce upwards and drag them down.

They carefully climbed into the rocky hills, scrambling over loose gravel and slick stone, until they found a narrow ledge just big enough for their party to cram together.

Ren, naturally, immediately positioned himself way in the back.

“Don’t worry, guys,” he said brightly. “I can heal you from here.”

Technically he might have to step forward a little if things got bad—but as far as Ren was concerned, the farther away he was from wolves and teeth and claws, the better.

He turned toward Kanuka.

“Okay. Kanuka, you’re Level 2 now, right?”

“Yep,” Kanuka said proudly. “Even got a couple points toward Level 3.”

“Good,” said Ren, nodding. “That’s all we need.”

Kanuka frowned. “All we need for what?”

Ren didn’t answer right away. Instead, he eyed Kanuka critically. “How’s your movement speed feeling?”

“Normal,” Kanuka said, shrugging.

Ren smirked. “Yeah, about that.”

In Towerbound, a character’s base movement speed wasn’t just flat. It was tied to their Agility and Strength stats—and how much gear they physically wore.

Everyone started at 100% movement speed if they were completely naked.

The more armor and gear you piled on, the more penalties stacked up—slowing you down bit by bit.

That’s why serious warriors were always hunting for lightweight equipment or gear with weight-reduction bonuses.

Move faster, dodge faster, live longer.

“Your bag inventory doesn’t matter,” Ren said, waving vaguely at Kanuka’s space bag. “But your body does. Your heavy robe and fat staff are dragging you down.”

Kanuka blinked. “It’s just a starter robe, man.”

“And it’s costing you a few percentage points.”

“So?”

“So,” Ren said, grinning evilly, “strip it.”

“What?!”

“Hand it over.”

Grumbling and muttering about betrayal, Kanuka pulled off his battered robe and handed it over, followed by his starter staff.

He stood there, shivering slightly in the chilly mountain wind, wearing nothing but his PG-friendly starter underwear—thin cloth shorts and a cheap shirt.

The female mage in the group gave an appreciative whistle.

Kanuka crossed his arms and glared. “I want to be paid for this show, guys and girls.”

“Don’t worry,” Ren said brightly. “You’ll be fine. Hehehe.”

The rest of the group chuckled.

Ren pointed at the rocky ground. “Now—everyone who’s not a ranger or a mage, start gathering rocks.”

“Huh? Rocks?” the thief asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Ren nodded.

“Yeah. Listen, not all of us have long-range skills. Some of you are melee, and trying to jump off this ledge is suicide. So when the Alpha shows up, even if rocks only do one point of damage, a hit’s a hit. And it stacks up.”

They spent a few minutes stacking loose rocks into little piles around the ledge.

Auto-lock would help their throwing, but manual throws—even if weak—could still tip a fight.

“Who are we throwing the rocks at again?” the thief asked.

Ren tossed a rock casually up and down in his hand.

“The Shadow Wolf Alpha,” he said.

Everyone straightened up immediately.

A Shadow Wolf Alpha wasn’t just a bigger version of a wolf.

It was faster, meaner, and could easily wipe a full newbie party if they weren’t careful.

But Ren had a plan.

“Alright,” he said. “We’re gonna aggro that Alpha, pull it into the kill zone, and pelt it with everything we’ve got.”

There were excited whoops.

Ren clapped his hands together. “But—before that—settings check.”

Everyone quieted.

“You guys,” Ren said, pointing around, “turn your realism settings up to maximum.”

There were groans.

“You’ll get more experience this way,” he explained. “The system gives bonus XP if you’re running at full pain, full immersion, full everything. You want fast levels? This is how we do it.”

Towerbound, when it first launched, had lulled players into a false sense of security.

The game was newbie-friendly—shockingly so. You started the game with the pain immersion setting all the way down to 10%, and at that level, combat felt more like a vibrating controller than a real fight. Blades didn’t hurt. Fire was just a warm tickle. You could tank a boar charge and walk away like you’d stubbed your toe.

It was comfortable. Approachable. Fun.

But as the game progressed, that safety net started to vanish.

The System began nudging the floor upward—quietly, without warning. The minimum immersion level crept from 10% to 20%, then 35%, then 50% once players hit the midgame.

By the time the level 50 dungeons unlocked, it wasn’t optional anymore.

100% was mandatory.

Full immersion. Full pain. Full consequences.

You felt every hit. Every fracture. Every burn.

If you weren’t tough enough to handle it—physically, mentally, emotionally—you didn’t clear the dungeon.

Once the pain settings in Towerbound started creeping up—and especially when 100% immersion became mandatory for late-game content—PTSD stopped being a joke.

At first, players laughed about it. “Haha, I flinched at a toaster in real life because I thought it was a mimic!” kind of thing. Meme-worthy, sure. But then the nightmares started. The muscle spasms. The anxiety when logging in. The cold sweat you broke into when you heard the dungeon boss’s theme music start playing in real life.

Because when the pain is real—when the fear is real—your brain doesn’t care that it’s “just a game.”

You flinch like it’s real.

You freeze like it’s real.

You break like it’s real.

That’s when psychologists started trending harder than any in-game class guide. A whole new profession wave emerged—Tower Trauma Specialists. Real-world therapists who specialized in post-dungeon recovery. Their appointment waitlists were longer than some raid queues.

Ren remembered when that shift happened in his first life. The forums had exploded. Half the player base rage-quit.

The other half doubled down.

They formed elite squads.

They hired pain-tolerance coaches—actual professionals who ran drills, breathing exercises, and full-on boot camps to help players manage agony without passing out mid-fight.

Some even sold high-tier tutorials with titles like “Mental Resilience: How to Tank a Fire Wyrm Without Crying in Real Life.”

And it didn’t stop there.

Every serious guild—corporate or otherwise—started keeping a professional psychologist on staff. Not as a gimmick. As a necessity.

Because after your tenth wipe against a horror-class boss with fear mechanics and bone-snapping animations that actually made your limbs crack, people started breaking.

Panic attacks during raid queues.

Flashbacks during loading screens.

Full-body tremors from respawn loops.

Ren understood now, after the flash forward. The pain wasn’t a glitch. It wasn’t some twisted feature. It was training—for real life. For what was coming.

It wasn’t a game.

It was a test.

And the pain was the point.

He turned to Kanuka.

“Kanuka—you, specifically, need to turn your pain settings down to 10%.”

Kanuka’s eyes widened. “What? Why?”

“Because you’re the bait,” Ren said cheerfully. “And you’re probably about to die horribly.”

Everyone laughed—except Kanuka.

“You said death just feels like death!” Kanuka protested.

“Yeah,” Ren said. “At 10%, it’ll feel like a nasty punch to the gut. At 100%?

It’ll feel like getting hit by a truck, set on fire, and run over again.”

Kanuka made a strangled noise and fumbled with his settings.

“Also,” Ren added, rubbing his hands together, “I’m kicking you from the group.”

“What?!”

“Sorry. If you’re still in the party when you die with lower settings, it splits the EXP penalty across all of us.

This way, you lose everything yourself—and we don’t get dragged down with you.”

Kanuka muttered something very rude under his breath, but accepted the kick-out anyway.

Ren tossed him a cheerful salute.

“Don’t worry. We’ll still split the loot with you after.”

“Gee, thanks,” Kanuka said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Even though Kanuka knew it was necessary, nobody wanted to be the sacrificial bait. Not really.

They spent a few more minutes practicing their rock throws.

They even used Kanuka as the moving target.

Every time he got hit by a stone, he’d yelp and curse, while Ren grinned and tossed him a quick heal if he dropped too low.

“This sucks,” Kanuka muttered. “At least it just feels like getting slapped with a wet sock now.”

“Exactly,” Ren said, grinning.

Finally, Ren tossed his practice rock over his shoulder and turned serious.

“You ready, Kanuka?”

Kanuka sighed like a man walking to his own execution.

“For freedom. For victory. For glory,” he muttered unenthusiastically.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ren said. “Go forth, oh brave bait!”

Kanuka muttered a final curse, picked up a few rocks, and began the most suicidal charge of his brief Towerbound career.

The Shadow Wolf Alpha had no idea what was about to hit it.

And what was going to hit it was rocks. Lots and lots of rocks.

CHAPTER 20

Kanuka wasn’t happy about being the bait for the Shadow Wolf Alpha.

Not even close.

He grumbled and muttered under his breath the entire time he prepped for it.

But deep down, he knew.

Life hadn’t been fair for him growing up in the slums.

It wasn’t going to start being fair now just because they were inside some shiny fantasy game.

Fair was something rich people got.

Slum dwellers got survival.

And right now, the guild—their guild—needed someone to pull that wolf.

So Kanuka squared his shoulders, clenched his fists, and accepted it.

He snuck forward quietly, creeping over the rough ground.

The Shadow Wolf Alpha was sprawled out under a crooked, thorny tree, napping in the dappled shade.

Kanuka took a deep breath.

He had long since turned on Free Mode aiming, which let him throw farther and hit harder than auto-mode—if he could aim.

His first rock sailed wide, harmlessly plopping into the dirt a good two meters away.

WHIFF

The Alpha didn’t even twitch.

It was like a mosquito buzzing by.

Kanuka threw again.

Miss.

Again.

Miss.

Again.

Miss.

He swore under his breath and kept throwing.

After eight tries, one rock finally thunked into the wolf’s side.

It cracked one glowing yellow eye, huffed, and laid its head back down.

One point of damage wasn’t going to phase it.

Kanuka gritted his teeth and threw another.

Miss.

The wolf ignored it completely.

Kanuka wiped the sweat off his palms, feeling the clock ticking.

They didn’t have forever.

In Towerbound, mobs eventually respawned—and if he took too long, other Shadow Wolves might start popping back into the field.

‘Not happening,’ Kanuka thought.

He threw again.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Two hits in a row.

The Shadow Wolf Alpha’s ears pinned back.

It gave a low, angry growl, then let out a sharp howl that echoed off the craggy cliffs.

The Alpha’s head snapped up—and this time, it wasn’t going back to sleep.

Some little ant was annoying him. Badly.

Kanuka yelped, “FUCK!” at the top of his lungs—and ran.

No zigging.

No zagging.

Just full-speed, balls-to-the-wall sprinting straight toward the rocky ledge where Ren and the others were waiting.

His heart hammered in his chest.

He knew—knew—that if he got killed too soon, Ren would absolutely make him do it all over again.

No mercy.

No sympathy.

‘If I screw this up, I’m dead twice,’ Kanuka thought.

The Shadow Wolf Alpha roared behind him, claws ripping up dirt as it chased him, eating up the distance fast.

Kanuka’s legs pumped harder. Kanuka had stripped down specifically for this, and he was moving as fast as he could.

Sweat slicked his back, his undershirt already clinging like a second skin, and every step pounded through the dirt with the urgency of a man who didn’t have time to be subtle.

The wolf was faster.

Way faster.

Kanuka could feel the ground vibrating with every pounding step behind him.

And then—

Just when Kanuka thought he was toast—

A familiar little figure darted out of the brush.

One of the Gloomsprites.

It was the same cheerful, full-health Gloomsprite Kanuka had accidentally healed during the earlier fights.

It gave a tiny chirp at him, almost like a squeaky hello.

‘No way,’ Kanuka thought, half in disbelief.

The little Gloomsprite latched onto the Alpha’s flank and started scrubbing at its fur, all energetic and happy.

The Alpha slowed, distracted by the affectionate parasite.

It didn’t hate the Gloomsprites—it needed them to clean its fur—but right now, it was slowing it down.

Just enough.

Kanuka surged forward, gasping for air, spotting the rocky ledge just ahead.

‘Almost there,’ he thought desperately.

‘Almost there, don’t trip now—’

And the whole team was waiting—rocks in hand, spells ready, grins on their faces.

Kanuka was going to make it.

He just had to hold on for a few more seconds.

Kanuka bolted toward the craggy ledge, his lungs burning, his arms pumping, his mind screaming.

He crossed the invisible line into range.

The Shadow Wolf Alpha had caught up to Kanuka though.

With a brutal lunge, it clamped its jaws around Kanuka’s back and ripped him apart like paper.

A Level 2 cleric without armor or buffs?

That was just a light snack for an elite monster like the Shadow Wolf Alpha.

Kanuka barely had time to scream “FUCK!” before his body hit the rocky ground, and his health bar vanished in one blink.

[System Notification: You have died.]

[You have lost all accumulated experience past Level 2.]

[You may retrieve your corpse to reduce death penalty. Timer: 59:59]

Kanuka’s ghost floated awkwardly above the spot, translucent and grumpy.

That was exactly why Ren had made sure Kanuka hit Level 2 before they tried anything dangerous.

If Kanuka had died with 98% of his Level 1 experience bar filled, it would’ve all vanished. Back to zero. No pity system. No partial credit. Just a full reset.

But now that he’d crossed the threshold?

When he died—and Ren was already betting when, not if—he’d just drop back to Level 2, zero EXP. It still sucked, but it wasn’t catastrophic. It was survivable. Strategic, even.

And in Towerbound, sometimes that was the difference between rebuilding… or rage-quitting.

‘Goddamn slums, goddamn being poor,’ Kanuka thought bitterly.

‘Nothing’s ever fair. Not out there, not in here.’

He looked down at his crumpled body, the huge shadow wolf still prowling nearby.

There was no way he was going back to reclaim his corpse yet.

In Towerbound, if you died a second time before retrieving your body, you lost a full level.

And right now, if he died again, he’d drop from Level 2 all the way back to Level 1, with zero experience.

Two deaths in a row?

It was the newbie nightmare.

Kanuka floated there helplessly, watching the others on the ledge above.

***

CHAPTER 21

“NOW!” Ren bellowed.

The mage cast little firebolts. Firebolt had a longer range compared to arrows or rocks.

She planted her boots on the rocky ledge, squared her shoulders, and aimed both hands at the snarling Shadow Wolf Alpha.

A flickering, unstable ball of fire sparked into existence between her palms.

“Firebolt!” she yelled, unleashing the spell.

In Towerbound, almost everyone who used magic started with Auto Mode.

It was easy. Clean. You just selected your spell, maybe shouted the name like an anime protagonist if you were feeling dramatic, and boom—firebolt.

But that only took you so far.

If you really wanted to be elite—if you wanted to compete in the higher tiers—you had to switch to Free Play Mode.

That meant no more shortcut commands. No more flashy spell names yelled into the void.

Instead, players had to chant the actual incantations, use the proper incantation, and execute the correct hand gestures—all in real time, under pressure, while dodging teeth, claws, and death timers.

It was harder. Riskier. But it came with rewards.

Spells cast in Freeplay Mode were a little stronger, a little faster, and—if you did everything right—sometimes triggered unique effects that Auto Mode couldn’t even touch.

It separated the casual casters from the real spell-slingers.

WHUMP.

The little firebolt smacked into the Alpha’s side, leaving a small singe mark.

-3 HP floated up from the wolf’s health bar.

Ren, still tucked safely way in the back, nodded approvingly.

‘Good hit. Even if it’s only three damage, it’s something.’

He didn’t bother throwing a rock. The range even in free play mode was too far.

The mage immediately started casting again.

Firebolt was the starter spell for all mages in Towerbound.

It didn’t cost much mana compared to higher-level spells—but at Level 1, she could only fire it four times before running dry.

Which meant she had to make every shot count.

The second Firebolt blasted the Alpha square in the haunch.

-5 HP.

The wolf snarled, furious, but its attention was still locked on the ledge—still confused about where all the pain was coming from.

The third bolt hit a glancing shot.

-4 HP.

And the fourth—

The mage grunted in frustration as the spell barely clipped the ground near the Alpha’s paws, dealing no visible damage.

Mana exhausted, she slumped slightly, panting.

“I’m out!” she called back over her shoulder.

The Shadow Wolf Alpha was not happy about being used as target practice. It had been charging furiously toward the mage—exactly what Ren had been counting on. Rocks, even in free mode, had a shorter range than the mage’s Firebolt, and that difference mattered.

“Start throwing rocks and firing bows! Keep the aggro up!” Ren shouted.

He lobbed a stone himself, which sailed harmlessly past the wolf’s tail.If he were a time-traveling badass warrior, that rock might’ve flown like a missile—smashing straight into the Shadow Wolf Alpha’s eye, stunning it, maybe even blinding it long enough for a dramatic counterattack.

But unfortunately, Ren was definitely not that.

He was a mildly panicked alchemist with questionable aim.

‘Damn it,’ Ren thought, grimacing.

‘Not a damage dealer. I’m a professional alchemist, not a sniper.’

The warriors and ranger kept up their barrage.

Meanwhile, Kanuka’s ghost floated nearby, arms crossed, muttering under his breath.

‘At least I died doing something important,’ he thought, then added bitterly, ‘Important for someone else.’

The Shadow Wolf Alpha, battered by the constant pelting of rocks and low-grade attacks, gave a furious howl—

—and charged toward the base of the craggy cliff, trying to leap up.

Ren’s heart leapt into his throat.

“More rocks! Hit it harder!” he shouted.

The entire group roared and hurled everything they had.

It wasn’t pretty.

It wasn’t heroic.

It was pure desperation—

—but it was working.

The warriors hurled rocks like angry kids in a street brawl.

Even Ren, the epitome of cowardice, hurled another rock from his very safe spot way in the back.

The air buzzed with stone and magic. The mage had regained enough mana.

The Shadow Wolf Alpha staggered under the first impacts but didn’t stop.

It let out another furious howl and launched itself in a massive pounce—

CRASH.

It was still out of range of the ledge where these pesky players were.

“Alright, team! Keep throwing! This Alpha’s not dead yet!”

And the battle against the Shadow Wolf Alpha raged on.

The fight kicked into high gear.

Up on the craggy ledge, everyone continued their actions.

The warriors hurled rocks as fast as they could grab them. The ranger fired arrow after arrow, his bowstring snapping back and forth like a machine. And the mage, standing tall in her shabby robes, unleashed a volley of Firebolts, each one slamming into the Shadow Wolf Alpha with a thwump and a hiss of scorched fur. The thief? Unable to do thiefy things was on getting more rocks duty,

Rocks didn’t do much damage individually—maybe one point each—but they kept the Alpha aggroed.

More importantly, they interrupted its passive regeneration.

Because like most elite monsters in Towerbound, the Shadow Wolf Alpha naturally healed over time.

Leave it alone for more than a few seconds, and it would start slowly recovering health, undoing all their hard work.

The real damage was coming from the ranger’s arrows and the mage’s Firebolts.

She had recovered enough mana to fire them off slowly.

Every hit shaved chunks off the Alpha’s health bar.

It wasn’t pretty, but it was working.

Kanuka, floating as a ghost just a few meters away, watched all of it unfold with a kind of hidden satisfaction.

‘At least they’re not completely useless without me,’ he thought. Kanuka had conveniently forgotten just how bad he was in the game.

He’d erased from memory the dozens of mistimed heals, the cooldowns wasted on full-health party members, and that one unforgettable moment where he cast a healing spell on a monster then insisted it was a lag issue.

The Alpha growled low in its throat, pacing furiously at the base of the cliff, trying to find a way up.

It took a Firebolt right to the snout and staggered back, its health bar dipping dangerously low.

25% health remaining.

Then—

[System Warning: Berserk State Triggered!]

The Shadow Wolf Alpha threw back its head and let out a bone-shaking howl.

The sound echoed across the fields.

Within seconds, more shapes appeared out of the misty woods—seven Shadow Wolves answering the call.

If the group had been standing on open ground, it would’ve been an instant slaughter.

But thanks to Ren’s careful planning, they were perched safely up on the ledge, where the wolves would have to climb awkwardly one at a time.

“FOCUS ON THE ALPHA!” Ren roared, his voice cracking from how hard he was yelling.

He wasn’t joking.

If they didn’t finish the Alpha fast, it would regenerate during the confusion—and once it recovered, all their work would be for nothing.

The Alpha bared its fangs and lunged again, trying to leap up the cliff—but a rock caught it in the shoulder mid-jump, knocking it back.

The ranger loosed three rapid shots into its side, arrows sprouting from its ribcage.

The mage hit it with another Firebolt, right in the mouth.

Kanuka watched it all with wide ghostly eyes.

‘Goddamn,’ he thought.

‘They’re actually doing it.’

Below, the Shadow Wolf Alpha stumbled, its movements sluggish now. Smoke curled up from its burned fur, and blood soaked the ground where it limped.

The seven normal Shadow Wolves howled and paced around the base of the cliff, but none could climb fast enough to reach them.

Everyone focused every attack they had on the Alpha.

It stumbled once, twice—

—and finally collapsed with a massive THUD that shook the ground.

[SYSTEM MESSAGE: Congratulations! You have defeated: Shadow Wolf Alpha.]

[Bonus Rewards Earned.]

The ledge exploded into cheers.

Kanuka, floating beside his corpse, gave a ghostly pump of his fist.

‘Hell yeah,’ he thought. ‘Worth it.’

Now they just had to deal with the mop-up.

CHAPTER 22

The cheering didn’t last long.

Because even though the Shadow Wolf Alpha was down, the fight wasn’t over.

The seven Shadow Wolves were still circling below, snapping and snarling, looking for any weakness.

And in Towerbound, you didn’t get EXP until the entire fight was officially over.

No EXP for mid-battle kills.

No partial rewards.

You either finished the encounter—or you didn’t.

Which meant they couldn’t celebrate yet.

Ren leaned out from behind his rock shield, eyes narrowed.

“Hold it together!” he barked. “Don’t get cocky! We don’t get squat until all those wolves are dead!”

The group sobered instantly.

The warriors kept throwing rocks, one after another.

The ranger swapped targets and started sniping the nearest wolf, arrows thunking into its hide.

The mage, already panting from mana depletion, managed to squeeze out another Firebolt before having to sit down and start recovering mana naturally.

The thief? He stopped gathering ammo and joined rockapalooza.

The Shadow Wolves were fast, vicious little bastards, but they weren’t smart.

One tried to climb the cliff face directly, scrabbling up on its claws.

A quick barrage of rocks knocked it loose, sending it tumbling back down with a yelp.

It suffered fall damage, which made the group smile.

Another tried leaping from a fallen tree.

The ranger caught it midair with a perfect shot between the eyes.

The others prowled nervously, occasionally lunging up only to get pegged by rocks or magic.

From his ghostly perch, Kanuka hovered, arms crossed.

‘God, this is nerve-wracking,’ he thought.

‘If they mess this up and wipe, I’m going to laugh. Then cry.’

Ren kept barking out short orders, keeping the group’s momentum up.

“Focus fire! Target that one on the left!”

“Watch the mage’s mana!”

“Don’t stop throwing rocks unless your arm falls off!”

It was messy.

It was desperate.

But it was exactly the kind of teamwork that Ren had been counting on.

One by one, the Shadow Wolves fell.

Every time a wolf died, it triggered a slight morale break among the others—causing them to hesitate longer between attacks.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of throwing rocks, firing arrows, and scrambling for more ammo, the last wolf gave a pathetic whine and bolted for the treeline.

It didn’t get far.

A well-placed rock from one of the warriors clocked it right in the skull, sending it sprawling.

[SYSTEM MESSAGE: Battle Complete.]

[Experience Gained.]

[Bonus Experience: Overleveled Monster Defeated.]

[Loot Generated.]

The flood of notifications rolled across everyone’s vision at once.

Kanuka whooped from his ghostly position, even though nobody could hear him.

The others slumped back, panting, bruised, exhausted—but grinning.

They had done it.

They had actually taken down a mini-boss at Level 2 without a proper tank, proper healers, or even proper gear.

Ren just leaned against the cliff wall, letting out a long, slow breath.

‘Phase one complete,’ he thought exhilarated.

‘Now we just have to survive phase two: dividing the loot without a fistfight.’

And, of course—

Getting Kanuka’s dumbass ghost back to his body.

CHAPTER 23

Kanuka, now a shimmering ghost, sprinted back toward town.

He hadn’t left immediately—who would, after all?—not when he had ringside seats to the first killing of a Shadow Wolf Alpha.

And right as he was hovering there, a booming world announcement shook the sky

[WORLD ANNOUNCEMENT: First Kill of the Shadow Wolf Alpha!]

[[WORLD ANNOUNCEMENT: First Kill of the Shadow Wolf Alpha!]

[WORLD ANNOUNCEMENT: First Kill of the Shadow Wolf Alpha!]

Kanuka blinked as the words flashed in the sky.

‘Holy shit,’ he thought, watching in awe. ‘They actually announced it.’

Everyone in the entire game saw it.

Their achievement.

Etched into history.

When they had taken down the Shadow Wolf Alpha, Ren as the leader had been given a choice: announce the names of the players involved or keep it quiet. He chose silence—not out of humility, but survival. The last thing he wanted was to shine a spotlight on himself and his ragtag pickup group. He knew exactly how cutthroat Towerbound could get, especially this early on. Even if people would eventually piece it together, every extra hour of anonymity gave them breathing room. Time to get stronger. Time before the corporate guilds noticed. Time before someone tried to track them down.

But anonymity or not they still got rewards!

And the rewards?

Massive EXP bonus.

Double loot drops.

A unique title—Wolf Bane.

Wolf Bane gave a permanent +10% bonus damage against all wolf monsters.

But it also pulled +20% more aggro from wolves.

A classic Towerbound trade-off.

Above each surviving party member’s head now floated their name… and under it, a fresh silver-lined [Wolf Bane] title.

Everyone—except Kanuka.

Because he hadn’t been in the official party at the moment the Alpha fell, he didn’t get the EXP, the loot, or the title.

“So annoying,’ Kanuka muttered, floating faster.

Still, he couldn’t feel too bad.

Without him dragging that monster back in the first place, the kill would’ve never happened. And he knew that Ren knew that too.

Back on the rocky ledge, the party was practically buzzing, giddy over the loot piled around the Alpha’s massive corpse.

The randoms who had been grumbling about wasting their time on a “dumb cleric quest” were now practically bowing at Ren’s feet.

But Ren just crossed his arms.

“We’re waiting for Kanuka,” he said firmly. Ren knew Kanuka was on his way back, and he’d definitely want to see all the loot. After all, Kanuka’s sacrifice had made this world-first clear possible. There was no way Ren was going to rob him of the satisfaction of opening it up. That just wouldn’t be fair.

Some of the players glanced at each other. Technically, they didn’t have to wait.

Technically, they could have started rolling for loot right now.

But after what Kanuka had done, none of them wanted to look like an asshole.

No Kanuka, no bait.

No bait, no Alpha kill.

So they waited. Surrounding the corpse.

Weapons drawn, eyes scanning for respawns, as Kanuka’s ghost sprinted back to his body.

Because whether he had loot rights or not—

Kanuka had earned his place at the table.

When they saw him, they picked up all the loot immediately.

In Towerbound, anyone could pick up dropped loot—even if they weren’t part of the party.

And the last thing anybody wanted was some random thief or a roaming group of assholes swooping in to steal everything.

That much, at least, everyone agreed on.

Ren, though?

Ren had a big problem.

A huge problem.

He had promised everybody equal shares.

And he wasn’t going to go back on that.

In a normal pickup group, loot distribution was simple.

You only rolled for things you could actually use.

A cleric wouldn’t roll for a bow.

A ranger wouldn’t roll for a healing skill book.

Everyone trusted everyone else to be reasonable… well, mostly.

But Ren hadn’t formed this group to make the world’s strongest pickup team.

He hadn’t even formed it to make friends.

He had formed it to make money.

Real money.

Credits that would go back to their slum guild.

Credits that would pay for better lives.

Credits that would, eventually, buy his cheese mountain.

And right now?

Despite the first clear.

Despite the title.

Despite all the glory.

They still hadn’t earned a single credit.

Hour 15 was ticking by fast.

And if he wrapped up this third shift without anything to show for it—not only would morale back in the dorm crater back at the dorm, the others’ belief in him would start to collapse too.

And if that happened?

Well, it was game over for their whole plan before it even properly began.

Ren’s mind raced.

‘How the hell do I fix this?’ he thought, scanning the loot pile.

The pile was good.

It wasn’t weapons or jewelry like you’d get from humanoid enemies—in Towerbound, monsters like wolves usually only dropped ingredients.

Even bosses.

But ingredients from a boss?

Those were different.

Those were valuable.

The Shadow Wolf Alpha had dropped top-tier crafting materials.

There was the Alpha’s Fang, which could be crafted into a rare bleeding dagger.

There was the Alpha Wolf Hide, tough and sleek, usable for a rare medium armor set that boosted agility.

There was a small silver locket infused with a faint enchantment, something the System labeled Shadow-Linked Cloak Material, capable of granting a five percent dodge bonus if properly crafted.

There was a thick-boned Wolfbone reagent, a pure strength booster once reforged into an amulet—straight +3 strength, no strings attached.

And best of all, tucked away inside a random corpse pile, was the prize Ren hadn’t even hoped for: a Ring of Loping Winds.

A +2% movement speed bonus—absolutely gold at this level. This was one of those random drops that wasn’t supposed to happen. A bonus for the first kill.

And speaking of gold, there was nearly a full gold coin’s worth of silver scattered among the remains.

They had enough loot here to make a real difference.

If they played it right.

If they split it wrong?

The slum guild would lose their shot at a real beginning.

Ren clenched his jaw.

‘There’s no way I’m letting this slip away,’ he thought greedily.

He needed a plan.

Fast. Even if the pickup group got screwed.

CHAPTER 23

Ren turned to the group and clapped his hands together.

“All right, we’ve got the crafting materials from the Shadow Wolf Alpha, plus the ring,” he said. “And as I promised, everybody’s going to get a fair share of the loot.”

They all cheered—loudest among them was Kanuka, who had finally made it back, sweaty and ghostly pale from his corpse run.

In Towerbound, if you didn’t reclaim your ghost, you didn’t just take the usual death penalties—you got slapped with 24 hours of weakened stats at 50%. Half damage, half defense, half everything. So yeah, everyone hauled ass to get their ghost back and recover their body.

“So,” Ren continued, “what I’m going to propose is this: we’re going to head to the auction house and see how much each item is worth.”

In Towerbound, the auction house always listed a recommended price for every item. It wasn’t perfect—prices could rise or fall depending on demand—but it was a solid baseline, and these first boss materials were going to be massive.

He knew those people wanting to form Towerbound recognized guilds would be drooling for them.

It wasn’t just Ren trying to set up a guild—every serious team out there wanted to get their hands on boss mats early.

Gear made from a first-killed Alpha was more than just powerful. It was prestige.

In fact, a couple of the group members were already getting private messages from friends asking about the loot.

Ren kept his expression calm and professional.

“First off,” he said, “there are no high-level crafters in this area yet. So even if we have the mats, we’d still have to pay a NPC to actually craft the gear. And trust me—that’s not cheap.”

“Yeah,” said the mage, nodding. “But it’d be worth it.”

“True,” Ren agreed. “So, here’s the plan: we’ll get everything fairly appraised at the auction house, figure out the value after crafting costs, and split the coins evenly.”

The fighters nodded. Even the thief grunted his agreement.

Although the thief had asked, “What if we want to keep something? For example… that ring?”

Ren replied, “If you want to keep the ring—and yeah, it’s a damn good ring, I’m tempted myself—but I’m too broke to afford it. I think it’s fair if we get an assessment value, and whoever wants it pays that amount to the group.”

“Sounds fair,” the thief said. He really did want that ring.

A thief with a movement bonus was a whole different beast—like giving a greedy squirrel a set of daggers. Fast, twitchy, and way more dangerous than the slow, plodding kind that looked like they were still figuring out how to tie their boots. One could rob you blind and vanish before you blinked. The other might trip over a rock and politely ask for a redo.

It made way more sense than raffling off a handful of ingredients right now and letting half the group walk away empty-handed.

This way, everyone would get something—and they could all see the appraisal numbers for themselves.

No shenanigans.

“No funny business, no favoritism,” Ren said. “We all share in the reward for killing that bastard Alpha.”

“If no one minds,” he added carefully, “I’ll hold onto the loot for now. Keep it safe.”

A few of them glanced at each other—especially the thief, who looked a little annoyed.

He had clearly been eyeing that Ring of Loping Winds the whole time, practically salivating at the idea of +2% movement speed.

“Maybe I can, you know, just… hold onto the ring?” the thief said, trying his best innocent voice.

Ren didn’t even hesitate. “Nope. Not at all. First of all, you’re a thief. And everyone knows anyone who plays a thief online is probably a thief in real life.”

“Hey! That’s not fair,” the thief protested. “In real life, I teach orphans at a small orphanage.”

“…What?” Ren blinked. “You really teach orphans?”

“Yep,” the thief said proudly.

“Which orphanage?” Ren asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Doesn’t matter,” the thief said quickly. “We’re all here to play a game, right?”

“It matters to me,” said Ren, his tone flattening. “Because I’m an orphan.”

There was an awkward pause. The thief coughed. “Okay, it’s stupid. It’s called Infinite Hope.”

“Wait.” Ren froze. “You teach at Infinite Hope?”

“Yep,” the thief said, puffing his chest like he’d just won an argument. “Why? You think you’re too good to hang out with someone who teaches at an orphanage? You make too much money or something?”

Ren shook his head, and Kanuka gave the thief a long look.

“I don’t think you get it,” Ren said. “I actually graduated from Infinite Hope.”

“Graduated?” the thief repeated, then his eyes widened. “Oh crap. You really grew up there. That’s what we tell all our kids—that they ‘graduate’ when they age out.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Well, now we definitely need to chat more offline.”

Ren smiled. “We definitely do.”

After that? …..Nobody argued.

Ren had gotten them here.

They trusted him—for now.

The deal was struck.

Next stop: the auction house.

They entered the small stone-brick auction house tucked next to the general store, and it was instantly pandemonium inside.

Players crowded around marble terminals, shouting, flipping through listings, and cursing about prices like it was a medieval stock exchange.

The group, proudly flaunting their flashy Wolf Bane title, definitely caught everyone’s attention—especially since they were entering the auction house.

The only ones who didn’t let their titles appear was Ren. Ren had pulled Kanuka aside beforehand and told him straight: getting attention was never a good thing. And Kanuka, born and raised in District 1 just like Ren, understood immediately. In District 1, showing off was just asking for trouble. Flash your gear, your credits, your success—what you were really flashing was a sign that said: Hey, I’m an easy target. Come rob me.

The rest of the pick-up group, though? They were just normal players—fresh, excited, and totally unprepared for the sharks already circling in Towerbound. So of course they were proudly flashing their new Wolf Bane titles like kids showing off shiny toys. Glowing nameplates, screenshot flexes, even a few vanity posts on the early forums. They had no idea what kind of heat that little bit of fame could bring.

That kind of move all but screamed, ‘Hey, we’ve got rare loot and we might be dumb enough to sell it.’ In a place crawling with opportunists, that was like tossing a trail of gold coins and hoping no one followed.

Ren ignored the noise, and attention and led the group straight to one of the glowing marble appraisal pillars.

In Towerbound, the auction house rules were simple—and greedy.

It cost nothing to appraise an item, thank the gods.

But listing something for sale?

That cost a flat 2% of whatever price you set, no matter what.

If you tried to be clever—say, list your shitty beginner boots for 9,999 gold—you still had to cough up 2% of that price immediately.

No refunds. No tricks.

It was the system’s way of crushing people who thought they could cheat the auction house and use it as a free warehouse.

If you were stupid about your listings, you’d just end up broke.

And when buying? Buyers paid another 2% tax, automatically.

Welcome to Towerbound capitalism: fantasy edition.

In newbie towns like Greenwild Cross, players rarely listed anything for long auctions.

Everything was set to immediate buyout because nobody wanted to wait a day when they needed coins right now.

But when you had something rare—like Alpha boss materials?

You took your damn time.

Ren tapped the marble terminal and opened his inventory, carefully sliding the rare materials one by one into the appraisal window.

First up:

Shadow Wolf Alpha Fang

Appraised Value: 280 silver

[Material: Can be crafted into bleeding weapons.]

Alpha Wolf Hide

Appraised Value: 330 silver

[Material: Usable for crafting rare medium armor boosting agility.]

Shadow-Linked Fur

Appraised Value: 640 silver

[Material: Used to craft cloaks that improve dodge chance.]

Wolfbone Core

Appraised Value: 510 silver

[Material: Used to forge amulets or charms increasing strength.]

And then there was the Ring of Loping Winds. One of the first rings in the game. Not just rare—valuable.

1200 silver was the value.

The price of the ring at 1,200 silvers made Ren let out a low whistle, and the rest of the group’s eyes snapped open like they’d just been shot full of caffeine.

“Holy crap,” the thief said, staring. “1,200 silver? I definitely don’t have that on me. Do you take IOUs?”

Ren and the rest of the group burst out laughing.

Loose silver from the system bounty—90 silver—was already safely in Ren’s wallet.

No need to appraise actual coins.

The final appraisal total floated in front of them:

Rare materials: 280 + 330 + 640 + 510 = 1,760 silver

Ring of Loping Winds: 1,200 silver

Loose bounty: 90 silver

Total haul: 3,050 silver — or 30.5 gold coins

For players barely a day into the game?

It might as well have been a fortune.

Ren’s mind was racing. ‘This is what I’m talking about. This is where it starts.’

He tapped the split button and brought up the division math.

7 players.

30.5 gold ÷ 7 = approximately 4.36 gold per player.

Ren stared at the numbers on the loot screen like they might vanish if he blinked. Thirty point five gold. That wasn’t just a good run—that was helmet money.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, barely able to breathe. “We just made more than the damn helmet cost.”

Kanuka leaned over his shoulder, doing his own math in the air with shaking fingers. “Wait—wait—no, that’s—holy crap, that’s thirty gold?!” He sat back hard, eyes wide. “You’re telling me we just paid off my this stupid-ass impulse buy… with one fight?”

“One fight,” Ren whispered, still staring. “One fight, and we’re almost in the green. Just gotta pay off the second helmet”

Kanuka was shaking his head like it didn’t compute. “We haven’t even been playing a full day yet.”

Ren answered , “I thought I was gonna have to grind sidequests for a week to make up for that thing. But no. Turns out, all we needed was one pissed-off Shadow Wolf Alpha and a goddamn bunch of rocks.”

They both stood there, stunned.

Then Kanuka finally spoke. “So… we’re rich now, right?”

“Not yet,” Ren said, grinning. “But we’re close. Real close.”

He turned, smiling at the others.

“Alright. You all saw it. Here’s the breakdown.”

“If we sell it raw on auction, we lose 2% up front, plus buyers lose another 2%. And don’t even think about listing it for something stupid high—because you’d have to pay the 2% fee based on the listing price anyway. And there’s the crafting fees if we want to make the items.”

Several players laughed, remembering horror stories they’d already heard from global chat.

“Or—” Ren said, voice casual but firm, “we find a greedy guild. We sell direct. No listing fee. No sales tax. Bigger payday.”

The thief’s eyes gleamed. He really wanted the ring. But at that price? He couldn’t afford it. Even though part of the split money would go back to him. Teachers at the orphanage were far from rich.

The mage just grinned wide enough to crack her face.

“Private sale!” the warrior yelled.

Kanuka, still rubbing his ghost-ached muscles, whooped too.

“I still love the idea of crafting our own gear,” one of the warriors said, turning the Shadow Wolf Fang over in his hand.

“That ring is soooo cool,” the thief added, eyes practically glued to the Ring of Loping Winds.

Ren could tell. The way they were looking at the loot—half awe, half calculation. They were already thinking about it. Selling it. Flipping it for gold while prices were still high.

And yeah, part of him got it. But most of him knew it was a terrible idea.

‘Short-term power is nothing compared to long-term gains,’ Ren thought. ‘We don’t sell this now, we lose what it could become.’

They were no longer randoms scrabbling for rabbit pelts.

They were Alpha Slayers now.

And they were about to get paid. If they could all agree.

***

CHAPTER 24

As the group buzzed thinking about selling the loot, Ren kept his voice calm and professional.

“One more thing before anyone gets too excited,” he said, raising a hand.

They all quieted immediately.

“Crafting fees.”

The mage frowned. “Wait, …..what crafting fees?” Obviously the mage hadn’t read the lore.

Ren nodded. “Yeah. Boss loot like this? It’s mostly raw materials as you can see. If you want actual gear—like the Shadow-Linked Cloak—you have to have it crafted.”

That wasn’t news to most of them. But what came next was.

“And crafting isn’t free. And it’s not guaranteed either.”

He pointed at the screen showing their items.

“NPC crafters charge high fees—usually around 20% of the finished item’s value. And even then, success rates on boss materials are only about 70%.”

“Seventy?” the thief said, looking panicked. “That’s so low!”

Ren shrugged. “Better than trusting a random level 1 crafter. New players would only have a 10% to 30% success rate at best. And if they fail?”

The thief winced. “Poof. Materials gone.”

“Exactly,” Ren said grimly.

Boss mats were high-stakes.

Use them right, and you got awesome items.

Use them wrong, and you ended up crying in a corner.

This is why high-level guilds would always power level non-combat characters. Not for glory, not for PVP rankings—but for crafting. A dedicated crafter could churn out gear, potions, and enchantments that shifted entire wars. That’s how it worked.

That’s how Ren had hit tier 7 as an alchemist in his last life.

Serious guilds didn’t leave it to chance. They saved up to bribe crafting NPCs directly, unlocking secret recipes and forging patterns. Or they farmed crafting items like maniacs, feeding mats to trusted high-level players just to speed up the process.

Because once you had a crafter at the top?

The gold never stopped coming.

Nobody wanted to gamble boss loot on newbie fingers.

“So here’s the deal,” Ren said, firm now.

“We either sell the materials raw—which serious guilds will pay a premium for—or we pay the forging costs ourselves and gamble on the 70% chance.”

He let the idea hang.

The group shifted uneasily.

Even the brave ones didn’t exactly want to blow their life-changing payday on a bad dice roll.

“Up to you guys,” Ren said, smiling faintly.

“But if we want money now—and I personally do—selling it raw is the best move.”

There were nods all around.

No one wanted to risk it.

And no one wanted to lose that tasty gold payout hanging just within reach.

***

With everyone agreeing that selling was the best idea, Ren now had to get ready to make it happen. Because if there was one thing Ren had learned from living in District 1, it was this: desperation smells. And desperate people got screwed.

So no, this wouldn’t be a fire sale. He’d do it properly.

Ren sat cross-legged on the cobblestone right outside the auction house, tossing up a glowing system emote:

[LOOT AUCTION: SHADOW WOLF ALPHA MATERIALS – PM OR SHOUT OFFERS]. Wolf 🐺 ☠️

All around them, players were also  yelling and dealing like it was a medieval flea market.

“Mana roots! Five copper a bundle!”

“Starter bows, lightly cursed! Discounted!”

“Buying rabbit horns! Fast cash, no scams!”

Ren cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed,

“First kill Alpha mats! Private sale! No auction taxes! PM me or shout your offers!” His emote had dissolved too quickly to matter.

The crowd noticed instantly.

A handful of serious players started moving their way, eyes lighting up with greedy interest.

Stormfield Guild, solo hunters, a few sly-looking recruiters—and, of course, a couple jackasses from Prosperous Guild who had already spotted them.

The first offer hit fast.

“I’ll give you half a gold for the whole lot,” a big bruiser in Stormfield colors barked, pushing through the crowd.

Ren grinned lazily. “Wow, a whole half gold? Should I be grateful or just insulted?”

A few people laughed, but before Ren could roast him more, a Prosperous Guild mage shoved forward.

This one didn’t bother hiding his disdain.

“One gold for everything,” the mage said loudly, his lip curling.

“And you better take it, newbies. Otherwise—” he leaned in closer, voice dropping to a low, ugly sneer, “—we blacklist you.”

The whole crowd quieted instantly.

Even the big bruiser from Stormfield shut up at this point. The corporation backing Stormfield was nowhere near as powerful as the one bankrolling Prosperous. They’d always been more of a second-rate guild—loud, aggressive, and constantly trying to punch above their weight. Sure, they copied Prosperous’s bullying tactics, but it always came off as more  henchmany rather than big boss swagger.

Kanuka shot to his feet so fast he nearly knocked over the thief.

“You can’t do that!” Kanuka barked, fists clenched.

The mage shrugged casually, like he was explaining the weather.

“We can, and we will,” he said, voice oozing smugness. “Nobody trades with blacklisted scum. No trades, no private deals, no buying potions, no armor repairs—nothing. You’ll stagnate at level one.”

This is a true fact. Once you got blacklisted by a major guild like Prosperous, your name would get pumped straight into a central database shared across all the corporate guilds. Now, Prosperous wouldn’t say, “We blacklisted this guy because he wouldn’t take our terrible offer.” Nah, they’d write something like “caught griefing,” “unethical play,” or “harassed female players.” It didn’t matter if it was true—every major guild did it. The whole point of the database wasn’t just to track enemies. It was to keep the power structure locked down. New game? Doesn’t matter. The major guilds were going to stay major, and the blacklist made sure of it.

And then, even worse:

“We’ll hunt you too,” he added, his grin widening, like a devil’s maw.

“Out in the wilds? The second you leave a safe zone? Every Prosperous Guild squad will kill you on sight. And good luck getting anyone else to group with you after that.”

Several players nearby winced.

Even in a virtual world, getting blacklisted by one of the biggest guilds was a death sentence for new players.

The game had just launched, and technically no one was a guild yet—not officially. But VR gaming itself wasn’t new. And names like Prosperous, Crimson Thorns, Stormfield, and Idle Hammers already carried weight.

Everyone recognized them. Not because of anything in Towerbound, but because they had built empires in other VRMMOs—sweeping world firsts, winning tournaments, flexing power and coordination like clockwork. Their reputation followed them, even if the game didn’t display it on an official guild tab yet.

The universal helmets didn’t help. They were great for new players—equal access, no locks—but they also made it harder to tell who was who. A total noob would be wearing the same thing as a multi-title world champ. And while it didn’t show in-game, players knew. Word spread fast. You saw someone wearing Crimson Thorns colours? You got the hell out of their way.

It was always the same equation—skill, luck, and credits. And the big guilds had all three in abundance.

Why did guilds want to dominate big games—especially ones like Towerbound?

Simple. Credits. Fame. Power.

First, there was the streaming income, but not just in views—guilds had their own cut of sponsorships, merch sales, and direct support from fans, all paid out in credits. Some top-tier players made more in a week than most regular jobs paid in a month.

Second, Towerbound wasn’t the first game to offer in-game-to-credit exchange, but it was the first to do it in a way that looked stable and scalable. That meant every silver, every item, every dungeon clear could be translated into real, spendable credits. Not theory—actual economy.

So yeah, the guilds were happy to burn a mountain of credits up front—recruiting top players, securing early advantages, bribing NPCs, buying out auction houses. Because if Towerbound hit like they thought it would? It’d be the same as hitting three cherries on a jackpot reel. One big win and the guild’s coffers would overflow for the rest of the year. That was all shareholders cared about.

And everything about this game screamed winner. The mechanics, the immersion, the players, the economy. This wasn’t some two-month burnout title.

This was the next digital empire.

So yeah, the guilds were all hopped up like steroid filled gym monkeys at a chicken breast buffet—ready to dominate and leave every single player gasping for dust trails.

That’s why the threat of being killed or hunted out in the wild made the group nervous. Being targeted by a major guild wasn’t just bad luck—it was a serious “do not pass go, do not collect anything” kind of lock on your character. You’d be camped, tracked, griefed into the dirt, and left so far behind that even catching up would feel like rolling a boulder uphill with broken fingers.

Sure, you couldn’t kill anybody in a safe zone up to level 10.

But, the wilds were the wild.

It definitely wasn’t a safe zone.

The thief, standing next to Kanuka, muttered, “Fucking bullies.”

Ren didn’t move.

He just smiled wider. He knew the way major guilds operated, and expected it.

He slowly stood up, letting the sunlight catch the title above his head—[Wolf Bane].

Ren hadn’t wanted to turn on his tag. He hated showing off. But in a case like this, he had to flash a little bit of power—just enough to make them think twice. Otherwise, they’d roll him flat without hesitation. Unfortunately hiding his tag till now hadn’t bought him nearly as much time as he’d hoped.

A ripple of whispers ran through the crowd.

First Alpha kill.

Not even Prosperous could ignore that title.

Ren locked eyes with the mage and said, casually loud enough for everyone nearby to hear,

“You’re welcome to blacklist us—after your whole guild gets roasted for losing a first kill to a bunch of ‘newbies.’ Good luck explaining that to your shareholders. Also, it’s still really early. You wouldn’t want to be the one who has to explain how you got into a pissing contest and lost access to a bunch of mats from a big kill… all because of your lowball offer, would you?”

The mage’s face twisted in rage.

The mage knew that if the group was strong enough to secure a first clear, they were either lucky or legitimately powerful. And the fact that Ren had stood up meant luck wasn’t the factor—they were tough. Pissing off a team with a first clear under their belt wasn’t exactly on the checklist of smart life choices. Especially when they had both the title and the mats to back it up. Sure, the mage could’ve kept pushing, but he’d only been testing the waters—just like Stormfist Guild had. Only really cowardly but lucky players folded on the first push. And Ren, while a self-proclaimed coward in-game who hated taking damage, wasn’t one when it came to standing up for what mattered. Not when revenge—and a glorious cheese mountain—were on the line.

The mage flipped them off, hissed, “You’ll regret this,” in a third rate villain kind of way and shoved his way back through the crowd.

This offer of blacklisting may have been slightly premature on the part of the mage from the Prosperous Guild, but honestly, they were used to doing it. They’d dominated other games before this one, and the playbook never changed. Were they bullies? Absolutely. Hated? Universally. Successful? Unfortunately, yes.

That’s why the mage hadn’t even flinched before going straight for the kill. Threats, pressure, manipulation—that was just step one in their onboarding process.

Even in his first life, Ren had known how rotten the Prosperous Guild’s reputation was. But it hadn’t stopped him from signing the dotted line on that gleaming contract, not when it meant escaping the filth of District 1 and landing an actual apartment in District 10. Because reputation didn’t pay for hot water and cheese.

Their betrayal—and sacrificing his character—had sucked. And, to be honest, it was kind of low-key expected, considering how ruthless Prosperous was. They were sharks in suits, and Ren had always known you didn’t swim with sharks without risking a bite. He’d seen it happen to other members. He just hadn’t expected it to happen to him—or for them to smile while they did it.

As soon as the mage was gone the players around them relaxed visibly.

Someone in the back snickered.

“Damn, you pissed him off good.”

Another player—a ranger with a blue feather tucked into his cap—grinned and called,

“Alright! Now that Captain Crybaby’s gone, who’s got real money?”

And just like that, the auction really began.

Other guilds—ones that weren’t out-and-out bullies—plus a ton of pickup groups and solo players, all joined in the fun of the auction. This time, honestly bidding real prices, with nobody trying to strong-arm them. Everyone had seen by now that Ren wasn’t going to fold under pressure.

“70 silver for the fang!”

“80!”

“95 for the hide!”

“110!”

“120 for the cloak!”

The bids flew.

The noise surged.

Ren acted like a pro auctioneer, calling out the highest bids, locking sales in with fast taps.

“110 silver, going once—going twice—SOLD!”

“Next item! Starting at 90!”

They had a few tense moments—one idiot tried to “accidentally” grab the Wolfbone Charm reagent mid-bid, nearly starting a fistfight—but no real disasters.

Bit by bit, they sold it all off.

When it was finally done, Ren pulled up the final tally.

He turned to the group, letting the glowing numbers hang in the air for a moment.

35 gold, 40 silver.

This was exactly why he didn’t want to just throw the loot on the auction house. People—even now—would pay more in person than they would from a quiet, logical click on a countdown timer. Sure, maybe a few snipers would jump in at the last second, but that wasn’t the same as the hype of a live bid. Of being there. Of flexing in front of a crowd and walking away with the prize.

Plus, no 2% cut for the auction house, and no 2% cut for the buyer either. Which meant they could all justify pushing just a little higher.

For slum-dwellers? Thirty-five gold?

That was a kickass amount of money.

Kanuka let out a whoop so loud half the street turned to look.

“We’re rich!” he screamed.

Even the thief was grinning like a maniac.

Ren just crossed his arms, watching them celebrate, a calm little grin pulling at the edge of his mouth.

Technically, not all of that gold belonged to Ren.

Okay—some of it definitely did. And a big chunk belonged to Kanuka, no argument there. But the rest? There were six other players in that pickup group, and they’d worked hard, chucked rocks, risked their lives just like everyone else.

Ren wasn’t planning to steal from them. Not even a little.

But he was planning to make sure all that gold wound up in his pocket—fairly.

How? By making it worth their while to stick around. By showing them that if they followed him, if they believed in what he was building, they’d earn even more. Not just a one-time lucky kill, but real profit. Consistent gains.

And yeah—he had a plan for that. A very good one.

‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Let them celebrate. They earned it.’

But deep down?

He already knew.

This was just the beginning.

CHAPTER 25

Ren quickly paid everybody out their split, which was 4 gold, 42 silver, and 50 copper each. It was definitely more than they would have gotten if they had just thrown everything onto the auction house and crossed their fingers.

And the best part?

They didn’t even have to wait a day to get their money.

Now before you all run off,” Ren said, raising his voice over the happy chatter, “remember, this is a multi-part quest. So who wants to keep going?”

“I do!” yelled the thief immediately, practically bouncing in place.

The thief had been annoyed that the ring he’d been eyeing hadn’t gone to him. He’d even grumbled a little, watching it slip away into someone else’s hands.

But then he saw how much it sold for.

As a teacher in an orphanage, he knew there was no way he could’ve afforded it—even now, with four gold jingling in his pocket.

And four gold?

It was the kind of money that felt great. It felt real. It felt amazeballs.

He was greedy, sure, but he also wasn’t stupid. They had just slain an Alpha for this quest—how could it not be worth more?

Of course, the group except for Kanuka didn’t realize that slaying the Alpha hadn’t actually been part of the quest at all.

It had been a side trip.

The quest was still just about picking herbs.

Ren definitely wasn’t going to tell them that.

“Alright,” Ren said, flashing a grin. “Hold onto your money because there’s another big opportunity coming up as soon as we finish the quest.”

“Ooh,” said the mage, eyes lighting up. “That’s exciting.”

One of the warriors grinned and threw a fist bump into the air.

“Hell yeah!” he said.

Kanuka looked a little confused, frowning as he jingled the pouch of coins now sitting heavily at his belt.

He knew the quest was just about gathering herbs.

What did the split have to do with it?

Still, he wasn’t complaining.

Not when he looked at the cold, hard cash in his inventory.

‘Over four hundred credits,’ Kanuka thought, barely able to contain his excitement.

In the slums, 400 credits was noteworthy. Like getting stabbed in an alley noteworthy if people heard of it.

That was food for 30 days—decent food, too, not just instant rice and flavorless soy paste.

That was a little extra set aside for repairs, emergencies, or even luxuries like a couple flats of real soda, or a secondhand pair of work boots.

‘If this is just the beginning,’ Kanuka thought, ‘then I’m never going back to hauling dish bins or scrubbing barbeque grease again.’

And for the first time since he had started Towerbound, Kanuka finally felt it:

Hope.

Real, tangible hope. And hope in the slums was rarer than an 18 year old virgin.

There was around three hours left in their third shift, and Ren wasn’t going to waste that time.

“All right, everybody, let’s continue the quest, then.”

They all took care of the usual pre-run rituals—clearing out inventory junk, restocking their herbalist kits, scanning the auction house for any discounted secondary skill books that might give them an edge. About thirty minutes later, everyone was geared up, buffed, and ready to go.

They first went back to where the Shadow Wolf Alpha had originally been prowling, picking up all the herbs in the area. Ren made sure they grabbed the most vital ones needed for the quest itself — even though it didn’t stop him from scooping up everything else too. Herbs were money, after all.

The only thing they had to watch out for was time.

Sure, the Auction House detour had eaten up a bit of it, but the Shadow Wolf Alpha hadn’t respawned—yet. That was the clock ticking in the back of Ren’s mind. If they took too long gathering herbs, that thing would come back, and when it did, it wouldn’t be gentle. It would tear them apart before they even got a chance to scream.

The worst part? Ren was the one doing the majority of the work.

Not because he was being a control freak. Not because he didn’t trust the others. But because he was the only one with a gathering skill.

So while the rest of the group spread out as makeshift scouts—squinting at plants, poking at mushrooms, shouting “Maybe this one?” across the brush—Ren was the only one who could actually tell what was valuable, and more importantly, harvest it without destroying it.

Once that was done, they headed toward the second zone to collect the next herb.

Along the way, they ran into goblin sappers.

Finally, humanoids.

These little bastards were where all those skill books and weapon drops people were bragging about in the auction house were actually coming from.

Goblin sappers weren’t as terrifying as a Shadow Wolf Alpha, but they were still tough compared to the horned rabbits and spiked pigs everyone else had been grinding back at level one.

Still, Ren’s group?

They were riding a serious morale high.

Killing the Alpha had changed everything.

Almost everyone had gained a full level from that fight — especially the ones who were still at level one before the battle.

The mage, especially, who had been trailing behind, had shot right up to nearly level three.

Kanuka, of course, was the sole exception.

He was still stubbornly clinging to the bottom of level two after his heroic bait run.

‘Poor guy,’ Ren thought without much sympathy. ‘Welcome to being the sacrificial pawn.’

Ren himself had dinged level three quietly during the loot split, and it had been worth it.

Because at level three?

He unlocked a new cleric spell.

Group Cure (Minor) – Heals 10% of all party members’ HP within range over 10 seconds.

It wasn’t flashy.

It wasn’t some battlefield-turning miracle.

But damn if it wasn’t useful when you had idiots charging in left and right.

Spells in Towerbound weren’t automatic. Spells were gained at levels 3, 6, and 9. Basically every 3 levels.

So when Ren hit level 3 and the spell selection screen popped up, he raised an eyebrow—but only for a second.

He knew exactly what to pick. Group Cure.

There were two other options, sure, but he didn’t even glance at them. Even though he’d only reached level 10 as a cleric in his last life, he already had a blueprint for what he was building this time.

And those other spells? Useless, unless there were a bunch of invisible undead around. Which there weren’t.

Group Cure was a foundation building spell.

‘Finally,’ Ren thought, feeling a little more secure. ‘Now I can pretend I’m helping without getting any closer to the fighting.’

The group was full of energy, hacking and blasting their way through the goblin sappers without a care in the world.

The rangers rained arrows, the warriors cleaved, and the mage cackled wildly as she threw Firebolts that made goblin heads pop like fireworks.

Of course the thief did thiefy things—skulking around, slipping into shadows, and backstabbing goblins  the moment they turned their backs. Double damage, every time.

This was the first time he really got to shine. No crowd of randoms stealing aggro, no confusion swallowing up his moment. Just clean setups, perfect strikes, and that sweet burst of numbers when it all landed just right.

For once, he was the blade in the dark. And that’s just what he liked.

Ren, for his part, stayed way, way in the back, hiding behind a rocky outcropping any time a goblin so much as looked his way.

‘Call me a coward all you want,’ he thought, ‘I’m still alive. And being alive is underrated.’

Even though he had technically been a level 10 cleric in his last life, and technically had more experience than all of these guys combined, he wasn’t stupid enough to believe that made him invincible.

One critical hit, one mistake, and it would be a very sad, very expensive walk back from the graveyard.

No thanks.

He kept tossing out Basic Heals and his new Group Cure when needed, making sure the frontline stayed standing, but otherwise?

Ren had absolutely no shame about being the most cautious, paranoid cleric in the world.

And frankly?

It was working.

The goblins dropped quickly, and the second zone’s herbs were almost within reach.

Ren grinned.

‘A couple hours left. Plenty of time to make a fortune.’

CHAPTER 26

Ren wiped a bit of goblin blood off his battered starter robe, muttering under his breath as he flopped down on a jagged rock.

‘God, I hate fighting, blood doesn’t come out stain free,’ he thought, massaging his wrist where his staff had nearly gotten yanked out of his grip by a goblin’s desperate flailing. He flicked open his character sheet, watching the numbers pop up with a little thrill of satisfaction.

[Character Sheet – Ren Varrow| Level 3

Exp 306 / 400

Primary Attributes:

●      Strength: 6

●      Agility: 7

●      Vitality: 9

●      Intelligence: 12 (+2 from leveling)

●      Wisdom: 11

●      Perception: 8

Health: 100/100

Mana: 60/60

Skills:

●      Basic Heal (Lv1) – Heals a single target for 10% HP over 5 seconds.

●      Group Cure (Lv1) – Heals all nearby allies for 10% HP over 5 seconds.

Equipment:

●      Worn Starter Robe (Durability 17/20)

●      Wooden Cleric’s Staff (Durability 14/20)

●      Beginner’s Pouch (Inventory Slots: 20/50)

Status Effects:

●      “Wolf Bane” Title (+10% damage vs wolves, increased aggro from wolf-types)

Inventory Highlights:

●      7 Shadowvine

●      5 Frostpetal

●      12 Horned Rabbit Horns

●      2 Gloomsprite Dust

●      1 Beginner’s Herbalist Gathering Kit

Ren smiled a little.

‘Not bad for a guy who spent most of the fights hiding behind a rock,’ he thought.

Meanwhile, the others were busy digging through the goblin corpses for loot.

Because goblins were humanoid mobs, they actually dropped useful stuff—unlike animals and monsters that just dropped ingredients.

Their haul from the goblin sappers wasn’t enormous, but it was juicy:

●      Sturdy Leather Boots (Lv2 requirement) – +1 Agility, +5% movement speed.

●      Skill Book: Minor Evasion – Grants a +3% dodge chance passively.

●      Skill Book: Basic Weapon Maintenance – Reduces weapon durability loss over time.

Ren stood up and dusted himself off, calling everyone over.

“Alright, remember how we’re doing it,” he said, projecting his voice. “We’re not just handing stuff out for free. Nor rolling for it.”

Everyone leaned in, making sure nothing had changed. They had built up a surprising amount of trust for a pickup group—especially considering that killing the Shadow Wolf Alpha had netted them loot, titles, and a solid chunk of gold, all of which had been split evenly. But still… it was a pickup group. And in Towerbound, you never knew when someone might decide to backstab for just a little more.

“Anyone who gets an item,” Ren said, “pays the group the auction house appraised value for it.”

A few of the warriors grumbled, but Ren shrugged unapologetically.

“This way everyone gets something fair. No freebies. No drama later.”

They couldn’t really argue with that.

It was fair.

The thief practically drooled over the Sturdy Leather Boots, agreeing immediately to pay.

The ranger looked ecstatic about the Minor Evasion skill book and agreed too.

Ren mentally jotted it all down.

The boots had appraised at 15 silver.

The Minor Evasion book, 20 silver.

The Basic Weapon Maintenance, 12 silver.

They’d all pay their share into the growing group fund, which Ren would handle carefully, keeping notes on who owed what.

Kanuka, unfortunately, bought nothing again, but he accepted it with a dramatic sigh and a “slums life” shrug that made a couple of the others laugh.

‘At least they’re staying in good spirits,’ Ren thought, amused.

The thief immediately started strutting around in his new boots like he was invincible.

The ranger used the Minor Evasion book like it was a holy relic.

And the warrior who got Basic Weapon Maintenance looked about ready to weep with happiness.

Ren leaned back against his rock again, feeling more satisfied than he’d admit.

‘Happy teammates make happy meat shields,’ he thought.

And keeping them happy meant keeping them working—which was exactly what they needed for the second half of Widow Shelly’s quest.

Of course, the auction prices were based roughly on what they had remembered from the auction house, and they would go and double-check it later for appraisal. But everyone was in a good mood, and no one was going to fret over a couple of copper coins.

Nobody wanted to waste their limited playtime bickering about pocket change, especially not after the insane payday they had just scored with the Shadow Wolf Alpha. A few copper one way or another didn’t matter when most of them were sitting on more money than they had ever seen in any game, let alone at level three.

Ren noted it mentally anyway—because even if it didn’t matter now, it was important to build a reputation for fairness. Especially when the real grind of the Tower was still ahead.

‘Better they trust me now, while things are good,’ Ren thought, ‘because when it gets brutal later, they’ll remember I was the one who didn’t screw them.’

And besides, a couple of copper wasn’t going to stop them from charging ahead toward the second herb—and maybe even another bonus payday waiting beyond that.

CHAPTER 27

The second herb was luckily not guarded by an Alpha. It was, however, guarded by a huge group of goblin sappers. This was because the field was right outside of their home caves.

And huge group was no understatement. The goblins numbered in the hundreds.

‘How the hell am I going to handle this?’ thought Ren as he stared at the army of goblins, feeling his stomach twist.

There were goblin sappers swarming around the field, shrieking, stabbing at the dirt, fighting each other, and generally acting like little green menaces.

With their scrappy group, Ren had been dominating small packs of goblins without too much trouble. Three or four goblins at a time? Easy Peasy.

But this—this was a full-on miniature goblin army. Literally goblins everywhere.

And there was no way in hell he was going to be able to kite them one at a time.

Goblin sappers were weak individually and cowardly in small packs, but they weren’t stupid.

They wouldn’t charge out one by one like idiots for easy slaughter. In Towerbound, the AI for humanoid creatures was noticeably smarter than for non-humanoids—probably to reflect the idea that creatures with hands, language, and society should act like they had some brains.

Just like with NPCs such as Widow Shelley and other low-tier mobs, the AI scaled with level. The higher the level, the smarter the behavior—for both humanoid and non-humanoid enemies.

Right now, Ren was stuck fighting the smartest group of AI-controlled creatures he could face at this tier: Goblins.

So yeah, no cheesy tactics. No picking off one or two and watching the rest stand around like confused chickens. These goblins would flank you, kite you, fake retreats, and dogpile anyone who got separated.

This wasn’t going to be a slow bleed.

No, if one goblin screeched and ran, it would trigger the others into a frenzy.

The entire nest would empty itself in a horrific jade tidal wave, and they’d be swarmed.

He eyed the green field full of goblins beyond again, scowling to himself.

Scattered among the patches of moss and fungus was the reason they were here:

Frostpetal Blooms.

Short, delicate blue-white flowers that glittered faintly in the cold air, growing stubbornly between the cracks in the rocky field.

Each one was crucial for the disease-curing potion for Widow Shelly’s quest chain.

‘We’re gonna need a better plan than just charging in,’ Ren thought, already feeling a headache coming on as the group gathered behind him, waiting for orders.

Looking at the team, Ren said, “All right, I think it’s about time for a small break.”

His third shift timer was running out fast, and he was already feeling the exhaustion creep in.

‘I can barely think straight,’ he thought, rubbing at his temples.

“I’m gonna take six hours to go sleep,” Ren said aloud. “Me and Kanuka are gonna take a break for six hours. Anybody who wants to keep playing, obviously go ahead. But—” he pointed toward the field of goblin sappers, “I don’t recommend doing the second Frostpetal Bloom part yet. We just don’t have enough manpower for it.”

The group turned to stare at the field of goblins again.

Yeah. No one argued.

“We’ve all gotten a good handle on the area, though,” Ren said. “We know the route to the spawn point now. That’s progress.”

They nodded in agreement, some yawning, some rubbing at their faces.

“However,” Ren added, grinning, “like every good adventure, we should end at the inn. And because you guys were awesome—I’m buying everybody an ale.”

“Hooray!” the group cheered.

They were happy.

They should be happy.

Ren wasn’t just being generous—or building morale.

He was setting something up.

Something important.

The group trooped back into Greenwild Cross, still joking and chatting among themselves.

Ren’s sharp eyes flicked over to the auction house as they passed.

As expected, the prices hadn’t changed much.

The economy in starter towns moved slow at first—nobody had enough cash to really stir the pot yet.

So they followed through on their earlier promises, double-checking the appraised values and splitting out the loot properly among themselves.

There weren’t any arguments.

There weren’t even any complaints about a few copper pieces difference.

Everyone was too damn happy after their earlier haul.

And then—true to his word—Ren led them to the Salvatore Inn, the creaky old building with the painted red sign swinging above it.

The inside smelled like cheap beer, fried onions, and sweaty adventures.

The full immersion they played at made everything feel, smell, and taste real. The coming beers were going to be amazing—cold, frothy, and earned.

They found a big corner table, plopped down into the rickety chairs, and Ren headed over to the barkeep to order a round of Salvatore Ales for everyone.

Eight  mugs slammed down on the table moments later, frothing over slightly.

“To the Alpha Slayers!” the mage toasted, raising her mug.

“To payday!” laughed the thief.

“To not dying!” Kanuka said, grinning even though he still rubbed his side where the Shadow Wolf had ripped through him.

Ren lifted his mug high, feeling that rare hum of energy that came when everything was finally going according to plan.

‘Soon,’ he thought, ‘real money, real equipment, real cheese… and maybe even a real future.’

And he drank deep.

CHAPTER 28

Ren looked at the amount of coins he had. After everything and the little romp, he had 4 gold, 67 silver, 50 copper.

That was a lot. If converted it now he would have 467.5 credits,.And that was just his portion not including Kanuka’s!

Still, Ren had happily paid a copper coin each for everyone to have a Salvatore Ale. This was because he was a good leader, and because it was a critical part of his second part of the plan.

As he drank his ale, he said, “Alright, everybody, according to the quest log, in six hours, the Goblin Alpha will show up. And it’s actually weakened and ready to be taken down. Make sure you don’t spread the information out too much, because we all want to get this second Alpha kill, right?”

“Hell yeah!” yelled one of the warriors.

Everyone agreed they wouldn’t spread the news… but one of the warriors had a sneaky look on his face when he said it.

Ren continued drinking and said, “Alright, I’m gonna go get my equipment repaired, and we’ll all meet back here in six hours.”

“Sounds good, boss,” said the mage, grinning brightly. She was really having a great time. Being a lone female mage in this game was brutal in the early levels, and this group had proven itself trustworthy.

Mira was genuinely relieved the group she’d ended up with had been supportive of her newbiness. No eye-rolling, no constant corrections, and—thank the gods—no one hitting on her every five minutes.

Being an attractive redhead in real life, and with her in-game avatar reflecting that almost perfectly, had been a curse more than a blessing. Before she joined this group, it had been the usual cycle: either she was flirted with non-stop or completely ignored once she proved she wasn’t a top-tier player.

Gaming was meant to encourage fairness, equal play, and a safer environment. But VR hadn’t magically erased real-world biases. Not when it came to how male gamers treated female gamers. That part, unfortunately, still bled through

Still, here with this crew—Silk, Ren, Torren, even grumpy old Halt—she wasn’t “the hot redhead.” She was Mira. A clumsy mage, sure, but one who mattered. And for the first time since logging in, that actually felt kind of nice.

After they logged off, Kanuka and Ren went straight to telling everybody in the dorm room about their good luck. They had close to a thousand credits from this third shift.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Ren said, proudly holding up the balance sheets.

Technically, he hadn’t cashed the coins in yet, so they didn’t have the thousand credits sitting in hand—but he wanted to show everybody they were making serious progress.

The people left in the dorm all cheered, some even raising half-empty cans of cheap Krud beer in celebration.

“Can we take some credits out now?” asked Folo hopefully.

“Yeah, man, I could really use it,” said Peter, half-joking, half-dead serious.

Ren shook his head firmly. “Nope. Remember the plan. No cashing out for at least a month. We need seed money. You think we’re rich now? Wait until we can actually buy good equipment. Start a real guild. Get ahead before everyone else figures out how valuable this game really is.”

A couple guys groaned, but most nodded, seeing the logic.

“Just wanted to show you guys that we’re on our way,” Ren said, smiling. “This is just the start.”

There was a real buzz in the room now—hope, excitement, belief.

And in a slum dorm where most people were used to disappointment?

That was more valuable than any amount of credits.

Ren stretched, letting out a long yawn.

“Alright,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m exhausted. Time for my break.”

They passed the two battered VR helmets on to the next two dorm mates scheduled for the shift—Tanner and Choi.

Tanner was a wiry, sharp-eyed kid who’d grown up pulling jobs most people didn’t talk about. He was the kind of guy who could slip into a shop, lift the register codes, and be three blocks away before anyone noticed. He’d run distraction teams, swapped real goods for fakes, and once talked a security guard into helping him steal from his own building. No surprise he picked Thief as his main class. It wasn’t just a role—it was muscle memory.

Choi, who mainly worked construction shifts,  was the opposite—big, blocky, and slow-talking. He used to work hauling crates at the port docks before automation wiped out his job. Naturally, he’d picked Warrior as his class. Tank was going to be his playstyle. Simple, strong, reliable.

Neither of them had been given any grand master plan for their shift. They were just going to do what every newbie normally did—wander around, maybe knock out a few basic quests, hunt some horned rabbits or goblin sappers, maybe get killed a few times, have fun.

Nothing special.

But Ren pulled them aside before they logged in and gave them a very important task.

“Alright, listen up,” he said. “While you’re playing… make sure you sneakily tell people that there’s gonna be a Goblin Alpha showing up in about six hours—or basically at the end of your shift.”

Both Choi and Tanner grinned mischievously.

“You bet,” Tanner said, already imagining how he could weave it into bar talk.

“We’ll let it slip real casual,” Choi added.

Kanuka frowned from his bunk. “But nowhere in the quest does it actually say that.”

Ren shrugged innocently. “Yeah, but people hearing about it don’t know that, do they? Here’s where the supposed boss will show up, he gave them the location of the goblin army.”

He flashed a tired grin.

“Everyone’s already hyped after seeing us take down that Shadow Wolf Alpha. If they hear there’s a second boss coming, especially a weakened goblin boss? I guarantee you—we’re gonna have a mob of players foaming at the mouth to jump in.”

Kanuka thought about it, then nodded slowly. “Smart.”

Ren flopped onto his mattress with a content sigh. “Of course it’s smart,” he muttered, already half-asleep. “Now… time for a nap.”

And with that, the first three shifts of their slum guild project came to a close—while the wheels for the next stage of Ren’s master plan quietly started spinning into motion.

CHAPTER 29

POV : PROSPEROUS GUILD

The leader of the Prosperous Guild, Victor Drenwald, was furious.

He slammed his hand down on the roundstone table in the temporary guild hall—aka a  rented upstairs room in the Salvatore bar.

Victor had been expecting Prosperous Guild to be dominating the early rankings.

They always did.

They were Prosperous, damn it.

Instead, they were a laughingstock.

And it wasn’t just because they hadn’t gotten the first Alpha clear—someone had filmed them trying to threaten Ren and his random pickup group during the Shadow Wolf auction.

The clip was already circulating in the VR boards, under the catchy title:

“Big Guild, Small Dicks – Prosperous Throws a Tantrum!”

Victor’s face was red with rage.

“We definitely have to make up for this!” he yelled at the assembled core party leaders.

One of the mages, a thin wiry guy named Marlo, raised a tentative hand.

“Well… I don’t know if you’ve heard yet,” Marlo said, “but there’s supposed to be another Alpha showing up soon.”

Victor’s head snapped around.

“What?” he barked.

He definitely hadn’t heard about this.

“Yeah,” Marlo said quickly, “from what I heard from a friend of a friend—there’s a Goblin Alpha spawning soon. And it’s already weakened. Should be a cinch to kill it and take the first clear.”

Victor leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Marlo said. “People are whispering about it all over town.”

Victor’s jaw tightened.

“Alright, listen up!” he barked. “Nobody outside this room hears about this. Not a single word. We’re taking that clear. That title is ours.”

“You got it,” said one of the thieves, a ranger type player who was already checking his bow.

Victor turned to the logistics guy.

“Do we know when it’s spawning?”

“About six hours from now,” the ranger said promptly.

Victor’s smile was razor-thin.

“Good. Keep an eye on it. We’re moving everyone we’ve got into that field. Soon as the Alpha spawns—BOOM. Our kill.”

Prosperous Guild wasn’t technically official yet inside Towerbound—nobody could form a real guild until they hit Level 10 and unlocked the guild creation system—but it didn’t matter.

The Prosperous Guild’s 300-strong veteran squad had already regrouped ingame under Victor’s leadership, and they were treating Towerbound’s launch like it was war.

Now?

They had their new target locked in.

And this time, they weren’t going to screw it up.

CHAPTER 30

POV : REN

Choi and Tanner stumbled back into the dorm when the third shift ended, both of them looking like they’d been through a warzone—and loving every second of it.

Tanner  flopped dramatically onto his bunk, tossing his gaming helmet into the sheets with a theatrical groan.

“Dude,” he said to no one in particular. “That was awesome.”

Choi laughed, pulling off his sweaty shirt and hanging it off the bunk rail.

Advanced VR pods would take care of little things like body temperature regulation, preventing you from sweating, and even gently shifting your muscles to avoid cramps.

Their cheap gaming helmets?

Not so much.

If you played for six hours, you were going to sweat like a pig.

There was no avoiding it.

Choi and Tanner both looked like they’d just run a marathon by the time they pulled the helmets off, wiping their faces on the rough towels every dorm bunk came with.

“Best sweat I’ve ever earned,” he said.

“I can’t believe we actually survived fighting three Spiky Pigs at once,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “Those porkers are mean.”

Ren, who had just woken up from his short, much-needed nap, stretched and grinned at them from his bunk.

Ren chuckled, tossing them each a fresh water bottle from the communal fridge.

“Welcome to the glamorous life of professional gamers,” he said dryly.

Choi just grinned, wiping his forehead.

“Well?” Ren asked, voice still hoarse with sleep. “How’d you guys do?”

Tanner proudly opened up his inventory window for everyone to see, projecting it to the cheap communal display screen hanging over the bunk rows.

“Thirty-two copper, baby!” he said, grinning like he’d won the lottery.

Choi pulled his up too, showing his total haul.

“Only twenty-eight copper here,” he said, a little sheepishly. “Tanner kept stealing the last hits.”

“Hey, hey, rogue privilege,” Tanner said, winking.

The dorm burst into light laughter.

It wasn’t much.

Compared to the alpha slayers who had hauled in close to 500 silver each, it was basically pocket change.

But for two newbie players, in their very first shift, playing honestly?

It was real money.

Thirty copper was thirty real-world cents.

Enough for a cheap street snack.

Enough to mean something.

Ren clapped them both on the back.

“Good job,” he said seriously. “That’s how it starts. Copper today, silver tomorrow.”

Choi and Tanner both straightened proudly.

Ren looked at the coins with a relaxed grin, stretching his arms behind his head.

“Keep the coppers,” he said. “But hey—just a heads-up, I won’t always be around to play delivery boy for the coin shuffle.”

He gestured casually toward the coins in their inventory. “So this is our mini-bank now. Next guys who log in? If I’m not around, make sure they get a few coins. Enough to get better than the bargain-basement starter gear we had.”

There wasn’t a trace of frustration in his voice—if anything, he sounded relieved. For the first few shifts, jumping in and out to hand off a couple copper coins had been a necessary evil. He hadn’t minded, but he definitely wasn’t going to miss it.

Now that Choi and Tanner had some coin in their pockets, the dorm mates could finally start running on their own.

Ren gave a small nod of satisfaction.

‘Finally. No more playing coin concierge every ten minutes.’

The Scrap Rats were leveling up—literally and logistically.

“And besides,” Ren added, grinning slyly, “you two did an even bigger job than you realize.”

Choi blinked. “What’s that?”

“You spread the word, right?” Ren asked.

Choi and Tanner  exchanged a mischievous glance—and nodded.

“Oh yeah,” Tanner said. “Everyone and their dog knows about the supposed goblin alpha by now.”

Choi laughed. “Heck, I think even the NPCs in the inn know about it.”

Ren leaned back on his bunk, satisfied.

‘Perfect,’ he thought. ‘Everything’s in place.’

When the “accidental gossip” took full effect, Greenwild Cross was going to see a goblin hunt like no other.

And Ren’s little slum guild?

They were going to be right at the center of it.

“Alright, I guess it’s time to work,” Ren muttered, grabbing the gaming helmet from the bed.

He sprayed a good amount of cheap cleaning solution into it, giving it a quick but thorough wipe-down.

Gaming helmets got sweaty and stinky fast—like an old football helmet left in a high school locker room for a month.

But there wasn’t any point in complaining.

Having their own personal helmets was still a far-off dream.

Maybe if they made it big.

His partner for this shift was Simms.

Simms worked for a butcher—but not the kind that sold meat. In the slums, “butcher” was street slang for a rogue surgeon. The kind who didn’t ask questions about where a liver came from, or why the client needed a new pair of lungs at midnight. These weren’t hospital-grade professionals. These were back-alley cutters with bone saws and just enough anesthetic to keep their donors from screaming too much.

Simms wasn’t the one holding the scalpel, though. He was the middleman. The finder. The one who made the calls, scouted the bodies, and handled the logistics. Most of the time, the parts came from desperate slum-dwellers selling off what they could live without. A kidney here. An eye there. Voluntary, technically.

The rest? Taken from corpses—ones that had the decency to die on their own, or from “natural causes” like gang turf wars. Sure, Simms had helped a few of those deaths along, but it was always gray. Never cold-blooded. Because if they crossed that line—if they started hunting the living—the Securicorps would stop looking the other way. And a real raid? That was the kind of heat that made people like Simms disappear permanently.

In Towerbound, Simms picked the Thief with Harvest Specialist as his planned profession, a dark crafting hybrid that let him extract rare reagents and biological materials from fallen enemies. Not just bones and hides—nerves, organs, glands. Stuff that made alchemists and shady crafters drool.

The Harvest Specialist was, in a way, the dark mirror of the Skinner/Hunter profession. Where Skinners took hides, bones, sinew, and meat, the Harvest Specialist went deeper—literally. They were the ones who peeled back muscle and cartilage to reach the soft, valuable things most people wouldn’t even look at. Glands that pulsed with residual magic. Still-warm nerves infused with elemental energy. Even brain matter, if the extraction was clean enough.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t noble. But it was invaluable.

Because while warriors and rangers took the glory, and mages burned everything to ash, someone had to be there when the killing was done. Someone had to walk among the bodies, scalpel in hand, muttering to themselves as they opened corpses like treasure chests—praying the drops hadn’t degraded, or worse, dissolved.

Simms was planning to be one of those people.

Alchemists—the serious ones, the ones worth their salt—didn’t work alone. They couldn’t. Their entire craft was built on materials that were hard to get and easy to ruin. So, every real alchemist had a network.

Harvest Specialists like Simms were part of that network.

Herbalists who knew which flowers to pick at night, and which mushrooms only grew near dungeon rot.

Foragers who could crawl through poison-thorn ravines just to snag a batch of silverleaf before the sun scorched it

If an alchemist didn’t have at least three gatherers working for them, they weren’t an alchemist. They were a hobbyist.

And in Towerbound, where monsters bled magic and every death could be profitable, Simms would find his place. Quiet. Gruesome. Necessary.

He wasn’t built for front-line combat, but when the bodies hit the ground, that’s when Simms went to work. Just like in real life, he wasn’t the killer—he was the one who cleaned up afterward and made it profitable.

That was the plan.

Ren passed him the helmet, and Simms slid it on without a word.

They both logged in.

When they materialized back in Greenwild Cross, Ren blinked in surprise.

The town, which had been packed with shouting players and open-air sales just hours ago, was…

Quiet.

Too quiet.

The streets felt almost deserted compared to before.

Only a few players lingered here and there, browsing shop stalls or chatting by the fountain.

Everyone else?

They were probably getting ready.

Waiting.

Building up for whatever they thought was coming.

‘Perfect,’ thought Ren with a small grin.

Exactly what he had wanted.

Greenwild Cross might have looked like a sleepy backwater, but it was one of only ten starter towns worldwide. At launch, Towerbound hadn’t shown a full map yet, so every player was either  randomly assigned to one of the ten—or, if you were part of a hardcore guild like Prosperous, you picked your starting point carefully. They had chosen Greenwild Cross because it was small, quiet, and they figured it would be easy to dominate.

Ren hadn’t picked Greenwild Cross by accident either.

It wasn’t just a starter zone. It was a geographical point—one of those automatic assignment hubs where everyone playing in the same local region got funneled. Every newbie logging in from this area slum-dwellers who’d scraped together just enough credits to afford a basic VR helmet… they all landed here.

And that was exactly what he needed.

Because while the ten-man dorm was his starting crew, Ren had no intention of stopping there. Not even close. He’d seen what the slums had to offer—determination, hunger, desperation, and more importantly, numbers. Everyone else in the game might be forming elite teams and chasing stream-worthy clout, but Ren was building something different.

He was planning a movement.

A force made up of the overlooked and underestimated. The kids with secondhand gear. The players no one wanted in their parties. The ones who threw rocks and flailed swords because they couldn’t afford real spellbooks or fancy armor yet.

Greenwild Crossing was perfect.

Because when the time came, Ren wouldn’t have to go looking for an army.

He’d already be standing in the middle of one.

And this current sleepy little town atmosphere?

It was all because of the rumor—the rumor—that somewhere out in the goblin fields, an Alpha was about to spawn.

Ren and Simms made their way toward the goblin zone, weaving through narrow back alleys and slipping past the few players still milling around the outskirts.

When they finally reached the ridge overlooking the goblin fields, Ren stopped dead.

Simms let out a low whistle beside him.

The fields were packed.

It looked like the entire town had shown up.

Hundreds upon hundreds of players lined the edges, all armed, armored, and absolutely itching for a piece of that Alpha kill.

Everyone wanted to be an Alpha Slayer.

And front and center?

The asshats from Prosperous Guild.

Not just them either.

Prosperous had linked arms—metaphorically and literally—with three other major guilds: Vanguard Dawn, Iron Pact, and Scarlet Valor.

Together, they had formed a massive, organized encirclement around the goblin fields.

Improvised guild banners were on staffs above their heads.

Armored players stood shoulder to shoulder, forming human walls that blocked any random player from stepping foot into the spawn zone.

And they were making damn sure everyone knew it.

“This Alpha belongs to us!” one of the Prosperous lieutenants bellowed.

“Back off if you don’t want to die!”

“This zone is off limits!”

Players outside the cordon immediately started shouting back.

“This isn’t fair!”

“You don’t own the spawn, assholes!”

“Typical guild scum!”

But shouting was about all they could do.

Because inside that circle?

There were over 1,200 guild members, standing in tight, battle-ready ranks.

While the random players outnumbered them technically, they weren’t organized.

There were lone wolves, small friend groups, pick up groups…

Nobody was willing to be the first idiot to rush the line and get turned into pincushions.

Ren watched the scene unfold with dark amusement.

‘Exactly like I expected,’ he thought.

He glanced sideways at Simms, who was eyeing the crowd carefully, already calculating paths through the madness.

Good.

They were going to need that cool demeanour soon.

CHAPTER 31

Ren and Simms didn’t even have time to finish surveying the field before a group of random players decided to make a move.

It wasn’t a full assault—more like a drunken bar brawl being started by accident.

Four fighters, a mage, and a ranger tried to rush the nearest gap in the Prosperous Guild line.

At first, it almost looked like they’d make it.

One fighter bashed straight into a Vanguard Dawn shield bearer, knocking him back a step.

The mage hurled a Firebolt toward the lines.

The ranger even managed to get an arrow off, clipping someone’s helmet.

For a second, the whole field held its breath.

Then the guilds retaliated.

Hard.

Without hesitation, the nearest ten guild members surged forward like a snapping turtle, crushing the little group in seconds.

Spells exploded.

Weapons flashed.

The Firebolt caster didn’t even get off a second spell before getting flattened by a two-handed axe.

The whole scuffle lasted maybe ten seconds.

Their corpses shimmered and teleported back to the graveyard, punished with experience loss and dropped loot.

After picking up the loot, the guild lines reformed instantly. Not a single crack remained.

For these random players, the worst part wasn’t dying.

It was what came after.

Trying to recover their bodies? That was the real death sentence.

They had 30 real-time minutes to use their ghosts, reach their corpses, and reclaim what was theirs before the system locked it out. Miss that window, and the game slapped you with the full punishment package:

Half stats for 24 hours.

EXP debt—10% of your current level.

Item degradation. Sometimes even permanent loss, if the RNG gods were especially cruel.

But none of that was the real problem.

The real problem was the guilds—the one that had just  steamrolled them and were still sitting on the corpse site like it was a throne. Big names. Fully geared. Streaming every moment. Waiting.

Going back now would be more than reckless. It would be humiliation on demand.

The second a ghost tried to re-enter their body, it’d be lights out—again. And again. And again, until the system buried them under stacked debuffs and extended stat penalties. Second deaths didn’t just sting—they stacked.

Being levelled down to level 1 was a real thing.

And that’s how it ended for most solo players.

Not in fire. Not in glory.

But in a greyed-out screen and a rage-quit.

Running back wouldn’t be brave. It’d be giving the guild exactly what they wanted.

A chance to show off.

That’s why random players didn’t pick fights with guilds.

Because when they did?

They didn’t get second chances.

Ren whistled low under his breath.

‘Yep,’ he thought. ‘No way the randoms are getting through like this.’

Beside him, Simms let out a low chuckle.

“Guess diplomacy’s not happening either,” he muttered.

Ren just smiled thinly.

“Good,” he said. “Means they’re even more predictable.”

Because if brute force wasn’t an option…

They were going to need a Plan B.

And maybe a Plan C.

Or D.

Preferably involving a lot of pandemonium.

Ren looked through the crowd with Simms until he finally spotted the familiar faces of his pickup group. Not just to see who was there, but to take stock of who mattered. His pickup group. They had started jokingly calling themselves the Scrap Rats—because, as one of the warriors put it, “We’re the rats fighting over the scraps the big guilds leave behind.”

Only today, it didn’t feel like a joke.

Today it felt… a little too real.

The guilds had surrounded the Goblin Field like it was theirs by right. Their banners were up, their streamers were live, and the area was locked down tighter than a corporate raid. Most players had backed off, forming a loose circle just outside the aggro zone.

Silk stood a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight. Fast-talking, sharp-eyed, and somehow the most responsible guy in the crowd—even if he used to run scams between orphanage shifts. He was the kind of thief who knew how to stay alive, and more importantly, how to turn a bad situation into profit.

Beside him was Mira Frost, hood up, but unmistakable. Red hair always had a way of catching the light. She held her staff like she didn’t trust it not to go off by accident—which was fair. Her spellcasting was suspect at best. But her appearance? Impeccable. What most of the crowd didn’t know was that she wasn’t just slumming it for fun—she was a Frost. Capital F. Old money. Real money. Still, she hadn’t ditched them yet. That counted for something.

Standing like a stone was Halt, eyes narrowed, already tracking patrol patterns and escape routes. Gruff, quiet, and sharp as a knife. If the crowd erupted, he’d be the first one to vanish into the brush and the last one to be caught.

Torren was muttering something about sword grips again. Probably designing imaginary armor in his head while watching the guild members show off their enchanted gear. He was eager, loud when he got excited, and forever dreaming about crafting his own set of legendary plate. He hadn’t made a single nail yet.

Bran was the opposite—silent, sturdy, and watching the guild formation like he was already planning a counter-charge. He wasn’t flashy, and he didn’t posture. But he was always ready. That was the kind of guy Ren respected most: not the loudest voice, but the one who stood firm when things got ugly.

They were just part of the crowd right now.

Randoms, technically.

But Ren wasn’t going to let that stay true for long.

But someone was missing.

“Where’s Ron?” Ren asked, frowning.

Ron, the group’s other warrior—loudmouth, opportunist, and serial aggro monster (in the good way)—was nowhere to be seen.

Mira shook her head, her flame-red hair bouncing.

“He messaged. Said he got a better offer.”

Ren’s jaw clenched for a half-second before he forced himself to relax.

‘Coward,’ he thought. ‘Or smart. Depending how this plays out.’

He raised his voice enough for the rest of the group to hear.

“Alright, everyone who’s actually here, ready to go?”

He reformed the group, adding Simms.

There was a murmur of agreement, though not exactly a thunderous one.

“I don’t think there’ll be much chance,” Mira muttered, looking downcast.

Ren didn’t blame her.

This was supposed to be their quest.

Their victory.

Their second Alpha kill.

And now?

It felt like it had been stolen, spread out like gossip on the wind until the whole damn server had showed up with their hands out.

Ren let the silence hang for a beat longer, then smiled.

Not a big smile.

Not a fake smile.

Just a sharp, determined grin.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “We’re not walking away from this empty-handed.”

He jerked his thumb toward the goblin fields, where the Prosperous Guild was still tightening their iron-fisted grip.

“We’re Scrap Rats, right?”

The group perked up a little at that.

“So let’s act like it.”

After introducing Simms to the group—awkward nods all around and a brief explanation that yes, he was the kind of guy who harvested eyeballs for profit in real life—they headed back into town.

There were things to buy. Things they needed.

Ren, for one, had already burned through a painful chunk of his precious coins at the general store. He wasn’t proud of how light his coin pouch felt, but it had been necessary.

Smoke bombs.

Gloomsprite Dust.

The smoke bombs were obvious—cheap crowd control, perfect for escape tactics or turning a clean skirmish into chaos. But the Gloomsprite Dust? That was different.

It was the kind of item most players ignored. Cheap stuff. Obscure. Sold in little wax paper packets like it was dried glitter. Most players laughed at it.

Ren had plans for it.

Besides being used for hygienic cleaning spells and general sanitation magic, it basically just glittered uselessly in the air—and that was it.

Perfect for the stunt he had in mind.

He handed out two smoke bombs and two packets of Gloomsprite Dust to each member of the group.

“Where’s Kanuka?”, asked Mira.

“Kanuka couldn’t make it,” Ren said. “He’s at work.”

He glanced at the others. “We’re slum dwellers. We come from the same dorm—real glamorous place. Ceiling leaks, old cots, and exactly two helmets to share between ten of us.”

A few of them blinked. Mira winced.

“Yeah,” Ren went on, “we rotate. Two on at a time, the rest working jobs or sleeping when they can. Can’t afford more helmets, and real life doesn’t pause just because there’s a game to play.”

He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Still, we’ve got ten locked in. Already ten. Some fight, some plan to craft, some hustle. Every shift, someone’s making progress. In a perfect world, we’d all be online together. But we make it work. We don’t waste time.”

Mira tilted her head. “That’s kinda sad,” she said softly.

Ren gave a small, lazy shrug. “Maybe. But we’re still gonna win.”

And anyone really listening could tell—this wasn’t just a slum crew scraping by.

“Yeah, kind of sucks but we’ve got work to do.”

He looked around at the small group—their little band of underdogs—and grinned. Time to change the atmosphere.

“Alright, here’s the plan,” he said.

And then he laid it out.

It was the kind of plan so ballsy, so brazen, so flat-out dumb it circled back around to being brilliant.

Simms listened, his face slowly shifting from confusion to horror to resignation.

“You want me to be sacrificial bait?” Simms said, incredulous.

Ren clapped him on the shoulder.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Simms let out a heavy sigh.

“I get it. Seems like whoever teams up with you is doomed to be bait.”

Torren, the broad-shouldered warrior, immediately raised his hand,

“Not it.”

Halt, the ranger, just laughed and started checking his arrows.

No need for a vote.

They were all in.

“Alright,” Ren said, rubbing his hands together. “Here’s what you gotta do, Simms. First—leave the group.”

Simms grumbled but clicked the menu and dropped out of the Scrap Rats.

“Turn your settings down too,” Ren added.

“Pain down?”

“Pain down, realism down. Everything. Make sure you can survive getting stomped a few times without hating your life.”

Simms nodded, adjusting his settings.

This was starting to become a very familiar maneuver when dealing with Ren.

“Okay,” Ren continued. “You’re gonna sneak closer to the front of the crowd. When I give you the signal—” he tapped two fingers against his leg “—you’re gonna start yelling.”

“‘LOOK, THE BOSS IS SPAWNING!’”

Simms blinked.

“That’s it?”

Ren nodded.

“The rest of us? We’re going to split up and melt into the crowd. When you hear the yell, we all chuck our Gloomsprite Dust and smoke bombs right into the middle of the goblin herd. Make it look like something crazy is happening.”

“And while everyone’s confused,” Mira added, catching on quickly, “we attack from behind?”

“Exactly,” Ren said, grinning wide. “When the guilds attack the smoke bomb area, we hit ’em with everything we’ve got.”

Torren flexed his gauntleted hands eagerly.

Halt knocked an arrow with a savage little smirk.

Even, the normally silent warrior, gave a tiny approving nod.

Simms, meanwhile, was still looking deeply betrayed.

“But why kick me out of the group?” he asked.

Ren gave him a lopsided smile.

“Because someone’s gotta lead the mob,” he said. “You’re gonna be our brave soul. The rogue hero who refuses to be bullied by the guilds. The rallying cry for all the random players.”

Simms groaned.

“So I’m basically a dumb Braveheart.”

“Yep,” Ren said, patting his back. “That’s literally the name of the play. Operation: Dumb Braveheart.”

Simms gave a martyred sigh.

“Man, my mom told me not to hang out with bad influences.”

“You’re about to make her real proud,” Ren said, already turning toward the goblin fields.

The Scrap Rats split up, disappearing into the buzzing crowd.

And the stage was set.

CHAPTER 32

Operation Dumb Braveheart started with a yell, and everybody looked at where Simms was pointing—and at that point, the Gloomsprite Dust and smoke bombs from the group were thrown into the goblin area.

Normally, when an alpha spawned, there weren’t sparkles and smoke clouds.

People should’ve thought twice about it.

But with expectations high in the air, nobody did.

It was pure herd mentality.

A mob response.

And this time was no different.

The guilds immediately split in half.

Six hundred players rushed toward the goblin sappers, weapons flashing. Desperate for that first clear. The four guilds had only temporarily banded together to hog the boss, they had no plans to cooperate further.

The other six hundred turned outward, forming a perimeter facing the crowd to keep random players from sneaking in and stealing the kill.

That’s when Simms shouted at the top of his lungs.

“For freedom! For solo players! Screw you and your guilds!”

And he charged straight in, wild and waving his weapon over his head.

At the same moment, the rest of the Scrap Rats picked up the call.

“For freedom!” they all shouted, running after Simms—but not nearly as fast.

They weren’t suicidal.

They definitely didn’t want to get into the thick of the fighting.

What made it especially effective was that the Scrap Rats were all spread out through different parts of the crowd.

Not grouped up.

Not clumped together.

Each of them had blended into different sections of the random players—so when they moved, it didn’t look like a single group rushing the guild line.

It looked like the entire crowd had decided to move forward at once.

There was no clear leader to blame.

No isolated troublemakers to pick off.

Seeing the movement, dozens of random players in the crowd got swept up in the surge.

They charged too—seeing their only chance at loot, glory, and revenge against the guild bullies.

This really started the rush.

Ren, meanwhile?

Ren hadn’t moved a step at first. He was buried deep in the back of the crowd, arms folded, shouting with the unshakable confidence of a man who absolutely, positively, had no intention of stepping into the fight himself.

“Get those guild fuckers!” he bellowed, his voice full of gleeful rage.

He wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t a frontline hero.

He was a cheerleader—a very loud, very enthusiastic, very deeply cowardly cheerleader.

And he was nailing it.

“Solo players don’t need to be bullied!” he yelled again, switching his tone like he was someone else entirely—just a random bystander with a heart full of justice and a complete lack of armor.

Then he started to move. Not toward the front—never toward the front—but around the crowd. Sliding sideways like a grifter looking for the next best mark. Every few steps, he stopped, raised his voice, and flung another spark onto the dry wood of player frustration.

“Don’t let the loot go!” he cried, punching the air.

He gestured dramatically at the guild. “They’re trying to keep it all for themselves! That’s not balance—that’s corporate monopolization of shared content!”

More players turned to look. Some laughed. Others nodded. A few clenched their fists.

“They didn’t even tag half those mobs!” he shouted again, voice rising. “That’s everyone’s loot! Not just their streamer showcase!”

He wasn’t swinging a weapon.

He wasn’t even buffing anyone.

But Ren was doing what he did best:

Throwing gasoline on fire and hiding behind the guy with the biggest shield.

The goblin sappers, cowardly little creatures that they were, weren’t about to stand their ground against six hundred screaming players.

They immediately started running around in panic, trying to scatter in all directions.

But the guild players rushing toward them were a horde.

No EXP was going to escape their tightening circle.

Meanwhile, the other six hundred guild players—the ones manning the perimeter—were realizing they had a much bigger problem.

Because the randoms?

They weren’t just watching anymore.

They were attacking.

It was unclear who fired the first arrow.

It came from the crowd—lost in a sea of names and helmets, launched without warning, aimed straight at the nearest guild player. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it was on purpose. Maybe someone just got tired of being looked down on.

But it didn’t matter.

Because once that first arrow flew, another followed. Then came a firebolt. Then more arrows. And when the crowd realized the guild players weren’t firing back—at least, not at random—they grew bolder.

Shouts broke out. People surged forward.

Who said the guild was allowed to retaliate against solo players? Against randoms?

That was the thing—if one person got aggressive, they’d get reported, punished, blacklisted. But a mob? A mob couldn’t be blamed. A mob couldn’t be banned.

It was pure pandemonium.

And in that moment, the crowd realized something the guild hadn’t planned for:

If everyone attacked together, then no one got punished.

Arrows, Firebolts, thrown daggers, and charging warriors surged toward the guild’s defensive lines.

As mentioned before, there were about 1,200 organized guild players in total… but close to 2,000 random players in the crowd.

Normally, that wouldn’t have mattered.

The randoms had no leadership, no plan.

But now?

Now they had a rallying cry.

Now they had momentum.

And the 600 guild players facing the crowd were trying to hold off nearly 2,000 surging randoms.

The results were inevitable.

The battlefield was absolute madness now.

Firebolts, arrows, throwing daggers—everything flying in every direction.

Random players clashed with guild players.

Guild players smashed into randoms.

Nobody even knew who was fighting who anymore.

Goblins fighting for their lives were also in the mix.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, someone screamed, “Where’s the Goblin Alpha?!”

Another Prosperous Guild player shouted back, “I haven’t seen it! Did somebody kill it already?!”

“No, you moron! We would’ve had a system notification if it died!” someone else yelled.

The fighting didn’t stop.

Once a brawl that size broke out?

There was no stopping it.

It didn’t matter that the so-called big boss wasn’t there.

It didn’t matter that there never had been a boss.

It was about survival now.

Pride.

And, of course, loot.

Players were dropping left and right.

In Towerbound, dying didn’t drop your money—

it dropped one random piece of your equipped gear.

And that meant the battlefield was slowly littering itself with fallen weapons, cracked armor, and the occasional sparkling accessory.

Ren moved like a ghost through the mayhem.

He didn’t fight.

He didn’t charge.

He didn’t even look at people if he could help it.

He just ducked low, weaved through the brawls, and scooped up abandoned gear when he spotted it.

If one of the Scrap Rats who were doing the same thing was about to get crushed, he’d throw a Heal at them—but otherwise, he kept to the shadows, picking his way carefully through the swirling melee.

Grab and go. That was the mission.

They weren’t here for honor.

Or revenge.

Or some imaginary Alpha kill.

They were here for scraps.

And because they knew the truth—that there was no Goblin Alpha—they kept their heads clear while everyone else lost theirs.

By the time they all regrouped behind a half-collapsed stone wall on the edge of the fields, every Scrap Rat had grabbed at least two or three dropped pieces of gear.

No gold.

No silver.

But gear?

Gear was even better at this stage.

A battered iron sword.

A dented leather chestpiece.

Even a cracked silver ring that still looked sellable.

All told, they were sitting on a tidy sum—at least for newbies.

Ren grinned as he tucked a battered steel bracer into his inventory.

‘Sometimes the best wins,’ he thought, ‘are the ones you don’t even have to fight for.’

They had slipped away from the battlefield like shadows.

All around them, the wild uproar still raged—players shouting, spells flaring, steel clashing against steel.

The whole field had turned into a mad, swirling free-for-all.

Ren and the Scrap Rats didn’t stick around to admire the mess.

They ducked low, skirts of smoke and dust helping to conceal their retreat, and hustled back toward Greenwild Cross.

Nobody noticed.

Nobody cared.

Everyone was too busy trying to bash each other’s skulls in over an Alpha that had never even existed.

By the time they reached the gates, the town guards were already forming up at the edge of the fields, but they weren’t intervening.

Not yet, anyway.

In Towerbound, guards didn’t step in until a full massacre happened—and even then, it took a while.

The system liked “natural resolutions.”

Ren wiped a little dust off his sleeves and straightened up like nothing had happened.

He looked over the group.

Everyone accounted for.

Everyone alive.

Everyone richer than when they’d started.

Simms was breathing hard but grinning like a lunatic.

Torren was already flipping through the battered loot they’d snagged.

Halt was silent as ever but gave a tiny approving nod.

And Mira practically bounced on her toes, excitement shining in her eyes.

“Not bad,” Ren said casually, as if they hadn’t just committed mass incitement.

“Not bad?” Mira snorted. “That was brilliant.”

Ren shrugged modestly.

Behind them, in the distant fields, the shouting kept getting louder.

But that was no longer their problem.

They walked through the gates of Greenwild Cross like perfect little newbies who had definitely not just started a war.

And the best part?

They were carrying the spoils.

CHAPTER 33

They found a quiet corner near the town’s central fountain, well away from the main graveyard where resurrections were happening in full swing.

Players were still respawning—red-faced, half-dressed, weapons missing, and yelling every curse imaginable. Some were guild members, furious that their polished squad had lost ground. Others were randoms, wide-eyed and giddy, already turning to sprint back out of town like it was a festival, not a battlefield.

The trips from the graveyard to the Goblin Field were real.

Sweaty, desperate jogs. Adrenaline-soaked death marches. Players dying, respawning, and immediately bolting back through the streets just to rejoin the brawl and reclaim their corpses. The death penalty clock was ticking, and nobody wanted to be stuck with half stats and broken gear. Not when the fight was still going.

And if it wasn’t for the Level 10 Safe Zone rule?

They probably would’ve started brawling right there in town. Right in front of the fountain.

The air buzzed with tension. Griefers shouted. Guild players fumed. Solo players swapped stories mid-jog like war veterans on rotation.

It was a looping riot with no brakes.

Ren chuckling pulled the loot out of his inventory and dropped it into the shared party trade window.

It wasn’t a mountain of riches, but for an off-the-cuff grab-and-run job, it wasn’t bad at all.

There were a few decent finds:

●      A Sturdy Leather Vest – +2 defense, good for light armor classes.

●      A Swiftstep Anklet – +1% movement speed, perfect for a rogue or ranger.

●      Two Basic Skill Books – one for Quick Slash (a rogue ability) and one for Defensive Stance (a warrior ability).

The rest was junk—battered weapons, bent shields, and worn-out cloth gear that nobody wanted.

Ren looked around the group.

“All right, you know the rules,” he said. “Anything you can use, claim it—but you gotta pay the appraised value back into the group fund.”

Everyone nodded.

This had become the Scrap Rats’ unofficial policy now.

They were a guild-in-the-making, not a charity.

Mira immediately grabbed the Swiftstep Anklet, grinning wide.

“That’ll help me kite mobs for sure.”

Torrin took the Basic Skill Book for Defensive Stance without hesitation.

Halt quietly accepted the Sturdy Leather Vest, strapping it on without a word.

Ren didn’t grab a single thing.

He stood just outside the auction loop near the town square, arms crossed, watching as items were sorted and credits tallied. When Simms quietly slid a small item from the shared stack into his own inventory, Ren’s eyes narrowed.

Simms had claimed the Quick Slash book, which would give him a much-needed edge in future fights now that he was leveling properly.

Ren gave him a slow, deliberate stink eye.

Yeah, the Scrap Rats were doing well. Credits were flowing. The dormitory was leveling up faster than expected. For once, things actually looked promising.

But that didn’t mean they had room for greed. Not yet.

Simms didn’t flinch. He met Ren’s glare with a casual, half-irritated look that clearly said, What?

He wasn’t denying anything.

He’d agreed to the plan—everyone played for the good of the dorm. Money first, gear second, glory never. But still… if a guy was on shift, and something shiny slid across the ledger into his reach? Who was really going to stop him?

Ren ground his teeth, then looked away.

Not worth it. Not here. Not over one item.

But he did shoot Simms one more look on the way out. The kind that said, I saw that.

And Simms, smug as ever, didn’t say a word.

Ren made quick notes of what each item would roughly fetch at the auction house based on the current beginner market:

●      Anklet: 18 silver

●      Vest: 15 silver

●      Each Skill Book: 20 silver

Everyone paid their shares directly into the group pool. Simms' portion was paid for by Ren, which made him more annoyed.

The rest—the battered junk and scrap—Ren tossed back into his personal inventory. He’d offload it at the auction house later for whatever paltry silver he could scrounge.

“All right,” Ren said once everything was squared away. “Nice and clean. Now listen up—”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice.

“Hold onto your money.”

The whole group groaned loudly.

“You keep saying that!” Mira said, throwing her hands up. “Why?”

“Yeah,” added Silk, crossing his arms. “You’re starting to sound like my old man.”

Ren only smiled, that infuriating, knowing grin of his.

“You’ll see. Very soon.”

Even though their curiosity was practically boiling over, none of them pressed any harder.

Because by now?

The Scrap Rats trusted him.They had killed a Shadow Wolf Alpha together. They had harvested horned rabbits together. And right now, they had just incited what was probably Towerbound’s biggest in-game brawl since launch together. So yeah, their little group morale and cohesion? Off the charts.

Ren mentally tallied the growing pile of silver and copper in their group bank.

‘Not bad,’ he thought with a small grin.

‘Not bad at all.’

They were getting close.

Very close.

Back over in the battered remains of Prosperous Guild’s camp, things were… less cheerful.

The Prosperous Guild Head had set up a little camp near the Goblin Fields, right where all the recently resurrected players tended to gather before charging back into the fight. A smart move—gave their team a rally point, a quick way to rearm, regroup, and pretend like dying horribly was just part of the plan.

Victor Drenwald, leader of Prosperous Guild, was pacing furiously in front of what was left of his officers. The fights were still happening in the goblin fields.

His armor was cracked, his boots were missing—missing—and he looked like he was about one bad comment away from strangling someone.

“How the fuck,” Victor hissed, “did some randoms beat us?!”

None of the officers said a word.

Good instinct, honestly.

Victor spun around, furious, and jabbed a finger at the muddy battlefield.

“We had 1,200 people between the four guilds!”

He stabbed the air harder with each word.

“They didn’t even have a real guild! No guild halls, no organization, no proper chain of command!”

He whirled back, eyes bloodshot.

“They had nothing!”

One of the mages risked a cautious cough.

“Sir… they had more people than us.”

Victor’s glare could have boiled water.

“They had randoms!” he roared. “You think that’s an excuse?! We were supposed to be the first. The strongest. The example!”

He started pacing again, muttering darkly under his breath.

From somewhere nearby, a goblin sapper squeaked in terror and ran for cover.

Victor didn’t even notice.

He was already hearing the whispers starting on the forums.

Prosperous Guild loses to a pickup mob!

Biggest early wipe in Towerbound history!

Four guilds can’t even beat randoms!

No.

No way in hell.

Victor ground his teeth until it sounded like rocks grinding together.

“We’re going to find out who started that riot,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

“And when we do—” he cracked his knuckles one by one, the sound sharp as gunshots,

“—they’re going to wish they never logged into this game.”

His officers exchanged silent, miserable glances.

Because if there was one thing everyone knew about Victor Drenwald?

He didn’t forgive.

He didn’t forget.

And once he picked a target?

He didn’t stop.

While Victor Drenwald was busy frothing at the mouth and promising blood oaths of vengeance, back in Greenwild Cross, the Scrap Rats were laughing it up at the inn.

Ren kicked back in his chair, nursing a cheap ale, and grinned at the others.

“Alright,” he said, setting his mug down with a clunk, “break’s over. We had to cause that riot to clear the field. But we can’t sit around too long, or the goblin sappers will start respawning.”

He stood up, stretching.

“We still need those Frostpetal Blooms. That’s why we did all this in the first place.”

Mira wiped foam from her mouth and nodded. “Right. The field should be mostly empty now.”

Torren slammed his mug down, already pumped. “Let’s go! Before those little bastards pop back!”

Halt, adjusting his gear, laughed. “Never thought I’d say it, but causing a mini war might’ve actually been the smart move.”

Ren shrugged, grinning mischievously.

‘Desperate times, desperate plans,’ he thought.

He motioned to the group, and they all started filing out of the inn.

Time was ticking, and those delicate Frostpetal Blooms weren’t going to pick themselves.

And somewhere far behind them, Victor Drenwald’s rage echoed uselessly into the night.

Thirty minutes later the group spread out across the battered goblin field, but only Ren moved toward the shimmering Frostpetal Blooms.

The massive fight had eventually petered out, not because anyone had won, but because people finally realized there was no point in just randomly killing each other.

Now, the field was mostly quiet.

The gear from killed players? Long gone.

Boots, belts, weapons—anything not soulbound had been scooped up and vanished faster than a fresh croissant  in a bakery. Some lucky bastard—no one could say who—had apparently crouched through the mayhem like a loot ninja, vacuuming up dropped gear while everyone else was too busy flinging firebolts, screaming, and pointing fingers at each other.

Helmets? Gone.

Gloves? Gone.

Someone’s +1 wand of slightly-better-zapping? Yep—gone.

By the time the dust settled, the only thing left on the field was the faint shame of being pantless in a crowd and the growing realization that, yeah, maybe charging into a guild line wasn’t the smartest plan.

But damn if it hadn’t been worth it.

Guild players stood in tight, armored clumps, glaring daggers at anyone who so much as looked their way. Their banners still shimmered, but their authority had taken a hit.

Across from them, the crowd of battered, bruised, half-armored solo players didn’t look the least bit sorry. Some were limping. Some still had damage ticks flashing over their heads. A few were down a level or two from death penalties.

But they were laughing.

Quietly at first—private jokes, shoulder nudges, shared grins. Then openly. Boldly. Telling exaggerated stories, waving their hands to describe near-misses, lucky kills, accidental teamwork that somehow worked.

They’d survived the slaughterhouse.

And they enjoyed it.

The field that had just been a swirling mess of blood, fire, and wild panic had gone still. No smoke. No corpses. The game’s system had already cleared the bodies and spell debris, like it always did. If you looked at it now, you’d never know what had happened.

But the players remembered.

And the balance of power had just shifted—even if the guilds didn’t realize it yet.

The Scrap Rats kept their distance.

They already knew better.

Before they’d even left the inn, Ren had made it crystal clear:

Don’t touch the blooms.

“Trust me,” he’d said, “you’ll just destroy them if you try.”

Frostpetal Blooms weren’t like thistle roses or wild grasses.

These were fragile, Tier 2 herbs, and trying to grab one without the proper technique—or without the Herbalism Skill Book—would just crush the delicate petals into useless powder.

Most newbies wouldn’t even see a successful harvest unless they bought the basic gathering skill.

And even then, at starter skill level, they had something like a 30% success rate at best.

But Ren?

He didn’t need a skill book.

He was playing in freeplay mode, and his past life as an obsessive alchemist meant the system had already flagged him for basic harvesting proficiency.

No book.

No fees.

No wasted attempts.

‘One good thing about being an alchemy nerd,’ Ren thought dryly.

Kneeling carefully, he slid his starter herbalist shears underneath the first bloom.

Tiny crystals of frost flaked off as he clipped it perfectly.

+1 Frostpetal Bloom (Fresh)

The system pinged softly.

He grinned and moved on.

Meanwhile, his teammates busied themselves scanning the battlefield, keeping a lookout for any surviving goblins—or worse, guild patrols.

That’s when the traitor warrior slithered up.

Sauntering casually, like nothing had ever happened.

He stopped just a few paces away from Ren and said, loudly enough for half the team to hear,

“So, uh… where’s that goblin alpha you promised?”

Ren didn’t even look up from his work.

He finished harvesting another frostpetal, wiped his shears clean, and straightened up slowly.

“I don’t know,” Ren said, giving a lazy shrug. “Quest said there might be an alpha.”

The warrior squinted, suspicious.

“Might be?”

Ren gave him his best dumb newbie smile.

“You know how these early quests are. Super vague. Real cryptic. Wouldn’t be Towerbound without some bullshit riddles, right?”

He even gave a little laugh.

“I’d show you the quest log if I could, but it’s locked by the system. Unlucky.”

It wasn’t locked.

Not even a little.

But no one else needed to know that.

‘Heh heh,’ Ren thought, keeping his expression bland.

The warrior stood there for a second, obviously trying to figure out if he was being played.

Finally, he said,

“So… Can I rejoin you guys?”

“Nope,” Ren said instantly.

“What? Come on—!”

Ren shifted, letting his staff rest across his shoulders in a way that made his meaning crystal clear.

“You sold us out to the guilds,” he said, flat and final. “You’re done.”

The words hit like a slap.

Ron the warrior’s face twisted, running through the full emotional circuit—shock, then anger, then disbelief, a flicker of desperation, and finally something heavier. Not guilt exactly. Just that slow, creeping realization that he’d screwed up.

Ren didn’t flinch.

Ron didn’t live in the dorm. He was one of the original Scrap Rats. Just a pickup. One of the six they’d grabbed when things got chaotic—like Mira, like Bran. He wasn’t bad. Just greedy. And dumb. The kind of guy who saw a coin purse and forgot to check for strings attached.

Loud, cocky, built like a wrecking ball. He charged first, shouted second, and usually skipped step three entirely. But for a while? He’d fit.

He’d laughed with them. Fought beside them. Even yanked Mira out of a mob rush when she mistimed a cast.

There’d been something real forming. Messy, unspoken, but solid. The kind of bond solo players didn’t get often, and didn’t let go of easily.

And that’s what made it worse.

If Ron had known what this group was becoming—what it could become—he might’ve stayed. But Prosperous had waved a few silvers, maybe a whisper of a real invite, and he’d folded. Passed on details. Locations. Names.

Now he’d been caught.

Ren didn’t yell. He didn’t threaten. He just stood there, calm as stone, and let the silence speak for him.

Ron looked around the field, scanning faces for someone—anyone—to back him up. No one moved. No one spoke.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to explain. Maybe lie. Maybe beg.

Then closed it.

‘There’s no turning back time when you realize the silver wasn’t worth what you gave up,’ he realized.

If there were a potion that let him undo it all, he’d chug it in a heartbeat. But no such potion existed in Towerbound—and if it did, it’d probably cost more than the handful of silvers he’d earned from the Prosperous Guild in the first place.

Ren watched, unreadable, as Ron finally turned and stomped away, muttering curses under his breath like it would change something.

Ren didn’t care. Didn’t speak. Just shook his head once and bent back down to his work.

‘Traitors don’t get second chances,’ he thought coldly.

‘Not in the slums. Not here either.’

Quietly, he returned to harvesting Frostpetal Blooms, his inventory slowly filling with precious herbs while the rest of the world still reeled from the storm they’d unleashed.

The trip back to Greenwild Cross was slow but satisfying.

Everyone was in a good mood.

They’d picked up a nice haul, pulled off a full-on crowd riot, snagged valuable herbs, and hadn’t lost a single level doing it.

That was a major win in Towerbound’s brutal early game.

As they walked down the beaten dirt trail, Mira yawned and stretched overhead.

“Feels weird not getting ganked on the way back,” she said, half-laughing.

Torrin grunted. “Probably ’cause half the guild players are still respawning.”

Halt just nodded, quiet as ever.

Ren stayed silent, watching the familiar gates of Greenwild Cross come into view.

His fourth shift was almost over.

And just because they were near town didn’t mean they could relax completely.

In Towerbound, PvP was always possible—except inside safe zones like the town.

Inside towns like Greenwild Cross, if you were Level 1 through Level 10, you couldn’t be attacked directly.

The guards were there mostly for cosmetic show—because the system enforced protection.

But the second you hit Level 11?

No more free pass.

And Ren was thinking ahead to that.

Still, for now, with most players stuck between Levels 3 and 5 after the Great Goblin Disaster, they were safe enough jogging the last stretch into town.

They hit the town square without issue.

CHAPTER 34

Ren said to the group, “Me and Simms are gonna log off for five minutes. If you guys want to take a break, now’s a good time. I’ll be back.”

The rest of the squad murmured their agreement. Some stretched and decided to take real-life breaks. Others said they were going to repair their equipment or hand in a few of the miscellaneous quests they’d picked up earlier.

With a quick wave, Ren and Simms logged out and returned to the sweaty, cramped reality of their dormitory.

The second Ren pulled the gaming helmet off his head, he gagged a little.

“Ugh,” he muttered, wiping his forehead. “Smells like someone’s gym socks got married to a dead fish in there.”

Simms yanked off his own helmet and gave it a quick sniff, immediately recoiling. “Dude, what the hell. Is this smell even legal?”

“Not unless you consider biological warfare legal,” Ren said dryly.

He grabbed a battered spray bottle filled with cheap cleaning solution, gave both helmets a quick spray, and wiped them down with the communal rag—dubiously clean, but at least slightly better than nothing.

In the corner of the dormitory, their next player was already bouncing on the balls of his feet, waiting eagerly.

Davon Braden was the kind of guy who looked like he hadn’t slept in three days and liked it that way. Wiry, jittery, with perpetually messy hair and thick glasses that were always sliding down his nose, he moved like a gremlin with a caffeine addiction and a mission. He had the energy of someone who ran entirely on instant noodles, pocket jerky, and pure, undiluted stubbornness.

He wasn’t like Simms, not exactly. Simms was quiet, deliberate, and approached the body trade like it was a business—cold, efficient, and transactional. Davon, on the other hand, treated it like science. Like he was doing the world a favor by figuring out how many things you could take out of a person before they stopped being useful.

While Simms made connections, arranged deliveries, and knew when to keep things quiet, Davon was the one who got elbow-deep in the work. He wasn’t squeamish. If anything, he got too into it. He once kept a preserved spinal column on a shelf in their hideout just to see how long it would take to rot.

Still, the two of them worked well together. Davon handled the mess. Simms handled the business. And together, they’d helped supply more than one rogue butcher and back-alley cutter with “voluntary” parts—most of which had, technically, come from corpses. Mostly.

Right now, Davon was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Are we doing this?” he asked, already halfway through his inventory, rearranging vials, knives, and weirdly moist cloths. “Because I’m ready. Like, ready-ready. Let’s crack some things open.”

Ren raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”

Davon just grinned, wild-eyed. “I was born for this.”

Davon’s main class was going to be a Mage.

But his planned profession?

Baker.

Not chef—Baker.

Which, in Towerbound, meant something very specific.

While chefs made heavy meals that gave long-term buffs, bakers specialized in pastries.

Pastries gave shorter buffs than full meals, but the buffs were way more intense during the short time they lasted.

Ren passed over the helmet like it was a holy artifact.

“Here,” he said. “Freshly sanitized. Well, sanitized-ish.”

Davon snatched the helmet out of his hands without hesitation.

“Finally!” Davon said. “Time to bake my way to the top.”

Simms blinked at him. “You’re gonna… bake your way to victory?”

“Pastries, man!” Davon grinned like a man possessed. “Enchanted cupcakes! Buffed éclairs! Croissants of power!”

Ren started laughing.

“You sure you don’t want to be a warrior instead?” Simms asked. “You’re gonna die waving a baguette around.”

Davon shoved the helmet on his head. “Better to die delicious than boring.”

Simms shook his head, smiling wide.Simms knew his partner better than anyone.

Most people assumed he and Davon were cut from the same cloth—cold-blooded, creepy, the kind of guys who grinned while holding a still-beating heart in their hands. And yeah, sure, from the outside, they looked the part. Quiet Simms with his deadpan stare, twitchy Davon with his surgical curiosity. They worked for rogue butchers, harvested organs, and knew more about the human body than most street docs with a license from Vitalis.

But the truth?

They weren’t in it because they liked it.

They were in it because it had been the best available job that didn’t involve dying in a gutter or doing errands for scraps. It paid. It kept them fed. And it turned out—they were good at it.

Simms had the instincts. Davon had the nerves.

And together, they’d found a kind of rhythm that let them survive in a world that didn’t have much mercy left for guys like them.

People could think what they wanted. Let them whisper. Let them flinch when Davon got too excited or Simms stayed too quiet. They weren’t monsters.

“Godspeed, Pastry King,” he said. “Godspeed.”

And with that, Davon logged in, ready to begin his reign of buttery, magical terror.

Shift Five had officially begun.

Ren introduced everyone to Davon with a quick wave.

“This is Davon. He’s a mage… and a soon to be baker,” Ren said, deadpan.

“Hey all!” Davon said. “I’m a mage first. Pastries second.”

The group laughed, the tension from earlier fading fast.

They didn’t waste time. After a short gear check, they started heading toward their third target area: the swamp where the final herb, Bitterspore Mushrooms, grew.

The Bitterspore Mushrooms were exactly as annoying as Ren remembered.

They grew in the fetid, soggy corners of the swamp—and they were guarded by the worst monsters Towerbound could throw at newbies: crocodile mutants called Cyclopiles.

Slow-moving, thick-skinned beasts with one giant eye glaring out of their lumpy heads.

They were heavy, ugly, and absolutely terrible news for anyone who fought with physical weapons.

Backstabs? Useless.

Arrows? Might as well throw pebbles.

The only ones who could reliably kill Cyclopiles were mages, and even then it took serious firepower.

Between Devon and Mira, they had an ok magical front.

Mira was already nearing Level 4, and Davon …well he had his starter spells.

But moving with just two mages into Cyclopile territory would have been suicide.

So they picked up two more.

New mages eager to tag along, drawn like moths to the blazing Wolf Bane titles floating above the Scrap Rats’ heads.

Their names were Cade and Marlow.

Cade was tall and wiry with a constantly bored expression, while Marlow was a stocky guy who looked like he’d rather be hauling crates in a dockyard than tossing magic.

Neither of them seemed like traitorous bastards—which was a huge plus after their last experience with a backstabber.

It had been surprisingly easy to recruit them, too.

Having the Wolf Bane title above your head in Towerbound wasn’t just for bragging rights.

It was like walking around with a neon sign that screamed, “We Win. Join Us.”

People trusted winners.

And right now?

The Scrap Rats looked like the safest bet for anyone who wanted to survive the swamp… and maybe get a piece of that sweet, sweet success along the way.

The swamp hit them immediately with a wall of humid, stinking air.

Every step into the muck made an awful squelching sound, and half the time, someone was swatting at invisible insects buzzing around their heads.

“God, it smells like a rotting sock,” Davon muttered, trying to wave the stench away.

“Welcome to Towerbound’s five-star swamp experience,” Ren said dryly, hopping over a puddle that was suspiciously bubbling.

“Are you sure we can’t just turn off some of these real-life immersion settings?” said Silk, delicately pinching his nose. “The smell is going to kill me. Really.”

Ahead of them, the landscape turned even uglier.

Sludge pits, broken dead trees, weird vines crawling across the muck… and lurking shapes.

Big, heavy, one-eyed shapes.

The Cyclopiles were already prowling.

Slow-moving, dragging themselves through the swamp—but you better believe, if they saw you, they could launch forward faster than you’d ever expect from something that looked like it weighed half a ton.

“Alright,” Ren said, pulling everyone to a stop.

“Same plan as we discussed. Warriors keep an eye out for anything sneaking up on the sides. Mages, you’re on nuking duty. We’re gonna treat this like we’re hunting bears.”

“Finally,” Mira said, grinning as she started gathering mana.

Davon, Cade, and Marlow did the same, forming a tight little square behind the warriors.

The two new mages were Level 3. They luckily hadn't died in the goblin fields, because when they had hit level 3, they had unlocked their new spell: Lightning Spark.

It wasn’t much—just a quick bolt of electricity that could chain between two enemies.

In most fights, it was perfect for crowd control.

Against Cyclopiles, though?

Pretty useless.

These heavy beasts rarely traveled in pairs, much less groups.

Still, the extra single-target zap helped soften up the monsters before the real firepower hit.

Ren, of course, stayed back, way back.

He knew his role in this fight: cowardly cheerleader and occasional healer.

‘No shame in surviving,’ Ren thought, inching a few more steps behind the group.

The first Cyclopile saw them and gave a low, gurgling growl.

It slithered forward through the swamp, one massive eye glaring hatefully at them.

Mira was first to fire.

Her Firebolt slammed into its side with a sizzle, and the creature jerked.

Instead of grabbing Lightning Zap like the other two mages did at Level 3, Mira had funneled her spell bonus into upgrading Firebolt—doubling down on power instead of versatility.

Then Cade hit it.

Then Davon with his puny level 1 firebolt.

Then Marlow.

Four firebolts in quick succession. Mira’s doing more damage than the others.

The Cyclopile staggered, gave a final miserable bellow, and collapsed face-first into the sludge.

It barely had time to twitch before it dissolved into loot particles.

Everyone let out a breath.

“That… was easier than I thought,” Davon said.

Ren laughed.

“Yeah, that was the first one. You think the rest are gonna be that polite?”

They weren’t. Cycopiles were still orange named.

As they pushed deeper into the swamp, the fights got nastier.

Some Cyclopiles traveled in pairs.

Some hid beneath the muck and ambushed them with massive snapping jaws.

Twice, they had to sprint back behind cover while the mages regrouped and rained fire from a distance.

Still, their method was working.

Slow, steady, and burning everything that moved.

The swamp had devolved into a multitude of fights—spells flying, weapons clashing, and Cyclopiles bellowing as damage was inflicted on their giant fungal covered scales.

Up front, the warriors were braced shoulder to shoulder, shields locked, weapons swinging. Torren was shouting something about honor while wildly hammering away with his blade. Bran looked like he was holding the line through sheer willpower and neck tension.

Behind them, the mages were lighting up the battlefield like a rave gone wrong. Mira was blasting firebolts left and right, her hair whipping dramatically behind her like she was starring in her own magical shampoo commercial. Meanwhile, Marlow—quiet, deadly Marlow… was in the middle of calmly calling out target priorities while electrocuting Cyclopiles with their newly unlocked lightning spell like it was just another Tuesday.

And then there was Ren.

Firmly in the back. Possibly in the very back. Okay—definitely in the back.

He wasn’t running, exactly. He was… tactically repositioning. In a crouch. Behind a boulder. Under someone’s shield. One moment, he was ducking behind a mage, the next behind a rock, then crouching low like the world’s least committed battlefield medic.

“Go team!” he shouted helpfully from behind a rock.

Another firebolt whizzed past his head. “Fantastic form, Mira! Great arc on that one!”

A Cyclopile lunged a little too close and Ren shrieked, flailed, and fell over. Luckily the Cyclopile’s aggro was grabbed by one of the warriors.

“I’m helping!” Ren declared proudly when he got off his butt, then promptly ducked again as Bran slammed a sword down and sent fungal teeth flying.

It only did 1 point damage, because Cyclopile’s had huge physical resistance.

Somewhere in the fight, Silk yelled, “Ren, if you’re gonna hide, at least heal us!”

“I am healing!” Ren shouted back. “Emotionally!”

Another explosion rocked the field. Lightning lit the sky. Cyclopiles shrieked. Spells sizzled. Warriors roared.

And Ren?

Ren kept low, muttering prayers under his breath and occasionally tossing out the world’s worst heals like someone trying to save a dam with paper towels.

But hey—no one had died yet.

And that meant he was doing his job. Right?!

Between fights, Ren carefully picked the Bitterspore Mushrooms growing along the crumbled swamp rocks.

It wasn’t easy.

The mushrooms were delicate—one wrong pluck and they would crumble to useless powder.

Luckily, Ren’s freeplay harvesting skills kicked in, letting him carefully collect each one.

And while he was at it, he also harvested:

●      Swampmint – Used in low-grade stamina potions.

●      Mireleaf – A key ingredient for anti-poison brews.

●      Rotbulbs – Technically edible… if you hated yourself. Mostly used for crafting swamp bombs.

After about five hours, they had a small but respectable pile of Bitterspore Mushrooms and assorted swamp herbs.

Everyone was filthy, tired, and soaked to the knees in swamp sludge.

But the mission?

The mission was a success.

No big boss. No horde of mobs. Just dealing with constant stinking swamp reptiles.

***

Seriously exhausted, covered in slimy swamp goo, and nursing battered gear, the Scrap Rats were still in a good mood. The way back to Greenwild Cross had been going pretty well.

Pretty good, that was, until they ran into Prosperous Guild blocking off the main road into town.

Sure, they could have gone around, but Ren figured they probably had toll booths set up in front of every possible entrance by now.

The town guards wouldn’t come this far out to make sure people could get into town safely.

If you wanted real protection, you had to stay within the walls.

Out here?

It was the wilds.

The “toll booth” had about ten Prosperous Guild players standing shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed, looking real proud of themselves.

When they got closer, one of the Prosperous warriors, a beefy guy at level 4, stepped forward and stuck out a hand.

This guy was… Gareth Ironwall.

Ren knew him well—he was the tank who’d set him up for the so-called “guild sacrifice” that had started this whole second chance mess.

He wasn’t the massively overpowered wall of steel he’d eventually become later in the game, but Gareth had been the main tank for Prosperous Guild across multiple games. That wasn’t going to change in Towerbound.

Ren had the urge to shout the order—attack, now. But he bit it back. Barely.

The desire for revenge bubbled up in his brain like an angry little demon demanding a blood sacrifice—whispering promises of vengeance, justice, and restored pride. His fingers itched, his heart pounded, and every part of him wanted to point at Gareth Ironwall and scream, “That one. Drop him!”

But he didn’t.

He kept his head cool.

Because charging now, screaming for glory and payback, wouldn’t just be stupid—it would be exactly what Gareth wanted. And if there was one thing Ren refused to give him, it was satisfaction.

“That’s gonna be one copper each if you wanna get through,” Gareth said, grinning like an idiot.

Everyone in Prosperous Guild loved running the Tollbooth.

It wasn’t just a chore—it was a perk. A reward. A twisted rite of passage where you got to stand in the middle of a high-traffic area, throw your weight around, and act like your guild affiliation made you royalty.

Because in Towerbound, controlling movement meant controlling access. And the Tollbooth? That was control with a capital C.

You got to set the fees, enforce the rules, and—best of all—mock the randoms.

The four guilds involved in the Great Goblin War had taken heavy losses. Their streamers were already hard at work editing the footage to make it look like the guilds had crushed the solo players—so anyone who hadn’t seen the actual fight would think they came out on top. But everyone who was there knew the truth. The guilds held their ground, sure, but they hadn’t dominated. If anything, they’d barely kept up. It wasn’t a massacre, but the losses were enough that the solo players walked away proud.

That’s why the toll booth operation was only half about making money.

The other half? Rebuilding their reputation. Reclaiming some prestige. Reinforcing the message:

“We are guilds. You are solo players. Your job is to follow our rules.”

Every desperate solo player, every hopeful small guild, every wide-eyed newbie just trying to pass through the zone had to come face-to-face with someone from Prosperous leaning casually on a shield, looking down like they were reviewing a late tax return.

Gareth Ironwall was built for it.

He thrived on the power. The stink-eyes? The muttered threats? The “this is unfair” protests from low-level players? That was fuel. He collected them like badges.

So when a scrappy little group—Wolf Bane title holders—approached the checkpoint, Gareth stood tall, grinning like a man who’d already won.

He caught Ren’s glare and filed it under the usual: some salty cleric who didn’t want to pay the crossing fee. He didn’t recognize the face. Didn’t know the history. Didn’t see the quiet fury behind Ren’s calm.

He just flashed his best smug smirk and tapped the laminated rate sign.

“Standard toll,” he said cheerfully. “Unless you wanna whine about it. Then it’s double.”

He loved the fact that this group—packed with players who held shiny new titles and bragging rights for slaying the first Shadow Wolf Alpha—now had to bow down to him.

Behind him, two other Prosperous players chuckled. One pretended to stretch. The other mockingly waved.

This was the best part of the job.

They had the power, the zone, and the smuggest job in Towerbound.

The guilds had taken a pounding earlier during the massive brawl.

This was Prosperous Guild’s chance to scrape back some dignity—and some money.

Also a chance to show those uppity random players why being in a massive guild mattered.

Ren stopped in front of the toll booth.

He looked at the guild members.

Then looked at his group.

Then back at the warrior again.

“We’re not paying that,” Silk said bluntly.

Gareth’s smile widened into a nasty grin.

“Well then,” he said, sliding a heavy iron sword off his back, “you’re gonna die.”

“Fuck,” muttered Ren, looking around.

He caught his group’s eyes.

They looked at him, waiting.

The unspoken question was clear:

What now, boss?

CHAPTER 35

If Ren had been a real main character—one of those overpowered time-traveling MCs from the Chinese web novels he devoured in his past life—he would have proudly charged the toll booth.

He could almost picture it:

Striding forward with a casual flick of his sword, effortlessly cutting down the Prosperous Guild goons, mocking them with a smirk, saying something dramatic like, ‘You are but ants before the heights of Mount Tai.’

Ren grinned inwardly at the thought.

He loved those cocky MCs.

But him?

In this lifetime?

He still had the memories of the world’s leading alchemist—sure.

But as a cleric?

He was about as threatening as a wet sock. Yeah, his pickup group of Scrap Rats had almost the same number of players as the Prosperous Guild guards manning the toll booth, but… if those guards got attacked, they’d definitely send out alerts. And reinforcements would come fast. That was something he definitely didn’t want.

And there was no technically real reason to start a fight with the Prosperous Guild right now.

Besides, the Prosperous guild had no idea it was him who had stirred up the riot at the Goblin battle.

Simms wasn’t with them now.

During the Goblin Field battle, they’d scattered like smart cowards and quietly turned off their titles. No flashy guild tags, no bold “Wolf Bane Hunter” flair floating above their heads—just a bunch of “randoms” doing their best to disappear into the crowd.

They knew the guilds would be furious after what happened. Someone had to take the blame for the missed opportunity, the barrage of spells, and the embarrassing amount of stolen gear that had mysteriously vanished during the mayhem.

And it wasn’t going to be them.

In Towerbound, you could toggle your title on or off depending on the moment. Sometimes you wanted the spotlight—like when you were trying to sell something big at auction or look impressive for a recruiter. Other times, especially after you’d made some very powerful people look very stupid, you wanted to be completely ignored.

The Wolf Bane Hunters had gone full rat mode.

No titles.

No tags.

No trail.

Just the way they liked it.

Ren let out a heavy sigh and glanced at his team.

After everything they’d done to avoid provoking the big guilds during the Goblin Fights—all the careful planning, the title-hiding, the sneaking around like rats—he wasn’t about to blow it all now just because his pride wanted a rematch and his vengeance was itching for blood.

He exhaled, forcing the words out.

“Look,” he said reluctantly, “I don’t think we should start a fight over one copper.”

Even if, deep down, part of him really wanted to.

The team didn’t like it.

You could see it in their faces.

They were flying high after their Wolf Bane titles and the first successful Alpha clear.

Their pride was stinging hard.

The toll booth guards—the Prosperous Guild flunkies—laughed their asses off.

“So this is the big ‘Alpha Slayers’?” one of them jeered.

“Bunch of cowards! Looks like you don’t have the guts to take on someone truly powerful—like Prosperous Guild.”

Ren kept a straight face.

“Yep. That’s right,” he said flatly.

And without another word, he handed over a copper coin.

The others in his group grumbled, but followed suit.

It stung.

God, it stung.

Sure, one copper wasn’t much.

Not compared to what they had earned.

But everyone knew it wasn’t about the money.

It was about pride.

Still, Ren knew something most of them didn’t:

Pride doesn’t feed the family.

Pride gets you killed.

Especially if you grew up in the slums like he had.

There, if you let pride rule you, you didn’t last long.

Gangs ruled everything.

Fights didn’t end with respawns—they ended with you bleeding out in some alley.

Prosperous Guild was just another gang, as far as Ren was concerned.

And right now?

They were the biggest gang in town.

They walked into town, quiet now, the air around them heavy and sober.

The adrenaline from the field had worn off, replaced by that dull, creeping ache that settled in when your pride took a hit and you couldn’t do anything about it.

Their boots scuffed against the cobblestones. No one spoke. Even Mira, who usually had a sarcastic remark locked and loaded, kept her mouth shut. Halt walked a little ahead, jaw tight, scanning everything like the act of staying sharp would keep him from thinking about the embarrassment.

It was hard to swallow their pride.

Harder still when they passed guild players lounging around the auction square, laughing and chatting like they hadn’t just spent the afternoon steamrolling solo players and charging tolls for sport.

Ren kept his eyes forward. His fingers curled slightly around his staff.

He knew the group wanted to fight. He wanted to fight. But fighting meant losing everything they’d worked for.

So they walked. Silent. Frustrated. Pissed at their humiliation.

Ren kept his voice low as they moved through the worn streets of Greenwild Cross.

“Look, I know it sucked the way we had to pay that toll,” he said. “But if you look around—everyone’s feeling the same way.”

The group glanced around.

Sure enough, the atmosphere was tense, heavy with frustration and quiet resentment.

Dozens of players trudged through the cobbled streets, their faces sour, shoulders hunched, and moods clearly ruined. Some were still in partial gear, others had the telltale “respawn shuffle”—walking stiffly, moving just a little slower, like they could still feel the sting of their last death.

A few were complaining loudly to the town guards, voices raised in heated protest.

“That’s not even a legal toll!” one shouted.

“I had tagged that mob! He stole the drop!” another snapped.

But the guards?

They didn’t care.

They just stood there like oversized mannequins, arms crossed, expressions bored beyond belief. One of them yawned. Another picked at his fingernail like he wasn’t hearing a screaming argument.

It wasn’t their problem.

Not the guild drama.

Not the loot disputes.

Not the mess the players made of each other.

And everyone walking those streets—Ren’s group included—knew it.

It was the kind of mood that sat in your gut. Not quite rage. Not quite defeat. Just that quiet, simmering unfairness that told you the system was rigged, and you’d better figure out how to play around it or get crushed.

Mira scowled, still furious.

Torren’s fists were clenched tight enough that his knuckles had gone white.

The only players walking around Greenwild Cross who didn’t look completely miserable?

Guild players.

Especially members of the Prosperous Guild.

They strutted through the streets like kings, laughing loudly, clapping each other on the backs, spending coins for food and supplies without a second thought.

Ren watched them with narrowed eyes.

It was obvious what had happened.

Prosperous Guild had made deals—quiet, under-the-table deals—with the other big guilds.

The smaller guilds that didn’t want to get their hands dirty had stepped back from manning the illegal “toll booths” at the town’s entrances.

But they still didn’t have to pay any tolls themselves.

Technically, they hadn’t broken any rules, or became bullies.

They just benefited from letting Prosperous Guild do the dirty work.

Meanwhile, every solo player, every newbie group, every unaffiliated scrapper had been forced to cough up copper just to walk back into town.

Ren ground his teeth, keeping the anger hidden behind his easygoing smile.

‘Figures,’ he thought bitterly.

‘Even in a brand new world, the assholes find a way to rig the game.’

But he shook it off.

He hadn’t survived the slums—and he wasn’t going to survive Towerbound—by getting mad over things he couldn’t immediately fix.

He had a bigger plan.

And it was already in motion.

Ren smiled lightly and said, “Cheer up, guys. We’ve successfully cleared the mission.”

“We have?” Mira said, blinking.

“We have,” Ren said, grinning.

That perked the group up a little.

Even Torren cracked a reluctant half-smile.

“Alright,” Ren said, adjusting the strap of his starter cleric’s staff. “I’m gonna go turn it in. Meet you all back at the inn afterward.”

They nodded, some already peeling off toward the town’s ramshackle tavern.

Ren made his way through the slightly crooked streets to the widow’s little house on the edge of town.

The same creaky door.

The same sad little garden of dying flowers.

Widow Shelly was waiting for him, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

When Ren turned in the final quest item to Widow Shelly, the usual scripted dialogue began—her thanking him for helping an old woman, the faint mistiness in her eyes as she clutched the bundled herbs to her chest.

She thanked him for helping saving the child. And gave him the rewards.

The rest of the Scrap Rats wouldn’t get anything besides a minor healing potion and a pat on the back.

But Ren?

The system chimed softly in his ear with a very different message.

[System Notification]

Hidden Quest Chain Completed!

Reward: +1 Alchemical Insight (Passive)

Effect: +5% success chance when crafting potions.

Ren felt his heart skip.

‘There it is,’ he thought, a grin tugging at his lips. ‘The first step.’

A 5% bonus to potion crafting didn’t sound like much.

But it was huge.

In Towerbound, crafting success wasn’t guaranteed—even basic potions could fail. Most alchemists spent fortunes just trying to hit higher consistency rates.

And for high-level potions later?

Every single percent counted.

With this passive now active, Ren knew his future potion production would be faster, cheaper, and more reliable than anyone else’s. Even more than in his first life.

It was the kind of hidden edge that could make a fortune over time.

He bowed politely to Widow Shelly, still hiding his excitement, and then casually turned away.

Time to meet the team back at the inn.

Time to move on to the next step.

CHAPTER 36

Ren flicked his fingers, and his status sheet materialized in the air with a soft chime, pulsing faintly like it had something important to say.

He already knew what it was.

Completing Widow Shelley’s hidden quest had been lucrative. The EXP drop had been massive, pushing him clean over the line into Level 4 and handing him another precious attribute point, which he’d immediately funneled into Intelligence without a second thought.

He grinned, practically smug.

[Character Sheet – Level 4]

Class: Cleric

Level: 4

Experience: 230/800

Primary Attributes

Strength: 6

Agility: 7

Vitality: 9

Intelligence: 13 (+1 from level-up)

Wisdom: 11

Perception: 8

Mana Pool

60 Mana

Spells

– Basic Heal (Level 1) – Heals 10% HP over 5 seconds, single target. Cost: 5 Mana

– Group Cure (Level 1) – Heals party for 10% HP over 8 seconds. Cost: 15 Mana

Equipped Items

– Starter Robes (Durability: 13/25)

– Novice Cleric’s Staff (Durability: 18/20)

Inventory

– Basic Gatherer’s Kit (Partially Filled)

– Warehouse Access Key (Personal)

– 9 Gold, 97 Silver, and 40 Copper, (including Kanuka’s share.)

Passive Effects

– Wolfbane (Title) – +10% damage to wolf monsters, +20% wolf aggro

– Alchemical Insight – +5% potion crafting success (Reward from Widow Shelley)

He gave a satisfied nod.

‘Thirteen Intelligence,’ he thought, staring at the number. ‘And only four levels in. That’s gonna snowball fast.’

His mana pool actually looked respectable now—enough for a Group Cure and a Basic Heal without face planting into cooldown purgatory.

The Wolf bane title still made wolves chase him like he was made of the tastiest meat, but the bonus damage was worth it. And Alchemical Insight? That one was sneakily powerful. Hidden passives were rare this early. Ren knew players who would’ve killed for that five percent boost later in the game, let alone now.

He also wasn’t just some broke healer anymore. He was building a real foundation.

Sure, he was still hiding behind the tanks. Still squishy. Still deeply allergic to getting stabbed.

But now?

He was scaling.

Ren met back up with the Scrap Rats at the inn, where everyone was lounging around, sharing food, drinks, and exaggerated war stories about the day’s events.

Without much fanfare, Ren passed out a basic healing potion to each of them.

The team lit up.

They had been promised a potion as a reward way back when they started the quest chain, and while basic potions weren’t fancy, they weren’t cheap either.

[Basic Healing Potion]

●      Heals 20% of HP over 10 seconds.

●      Cost: 30 copper at NPC general stores.

For newbies living copper-to-copper, getting a 30-copper potion for free was a huge deal.

Sure, it wasn’t going to save you if you were being gnawed on by a horde of shadow wolves, but if you used it smartly, it could absolutely save your life in a tight fight.

They all thanked Ren, genuinely.

Even Mira, who gave him a wry look but accepted hers with a smile.

By now, the fourth shift was almost over.

Hunting the Bitterspore Mushrooms had taken longer than expected—those slow but tanky Cyclopiles and all the careful gathering had chewed up time—and it was finally time for Ren and Davon to log off and rest.

Before logging out, Ren stood up, gathering everyone’s attention.

“I’ll be back in a couple minutes,” he said. “But remember—the real bonus reward is coming in about four hours.”

The team collectively groaned.

Especially Mira, who had clearly been stewing on this mysterious cash-requiring ‘bonus’ for a while.

“At this point, it sounds like some made-up scheme,” Mira grumbled, crossing her arms.

Ren just grinned.

He gave them a lazy wave, and then he and Davon logged off.

⸻

Shift 5 started the same way shifts always did in their cramped dorm room: with the frantic, sweaty helmet shuffle.

Ren didn’t hand over his helmet—he was still leading the charge.

Only Davon, having finished his stint, wiped down his helmet with a grimace and passed it off.

The helmet went to the next guy in line: Folo.

Folo was a wiry kid with a busted nose, sharp eyes, and a reputation for fixing anything with wire and a little theft. In real life, he hustled side jobs at the slum markets. He had picked Thief as his main class—no surprise there.

“Figures,” Ren said, smirking. “You’d pick the shadiest class possible.”

Folo just grinned proudly. “Gotta play to my strengths, boss.”

What was a surprise, though, was his planned profession—locksmith.

In Towerbound, a Locksmith is a non-combat secondary crafting profession focused on making locks, keys, safes, and security devices for players, guild halls, wagons, and housing. They were like anti-thieves. And every good guild needed one.

Otherwise, they’d eventually be swarmed with thieves, sneaking into their warehouse and robbing them blind. That was just the nature of Towerbound—if you didn’t lock it down, someone would pick it clean.

In his first life, some guilds had ignored the locksmith profession, assuming—like in so many other games—that once you had a warehouse, it was automatically safe. Because, hey, it’s a game, right? You couldn’t just break into parts of the game.

But Towerbound’s immersion was real. If someone could lock it up, someone else could unlock it.

And that was something Ren had very much planned to exploit later on.

Ren and Folo logged in.

Ren looked around at the group of still-online Scrap Rats, their little misfit pick up group. A couple of them had logged off due to real life issues, but most were still there.

They were tired, sweaty, and a little beaten up—But they were alive.

And ready to go..

“Alright,” Ren said, clapping his hands once, grabbing everyone’s attention. “Listen up. We’ve done good. Real good. We’ve cleared a hidden quest, outfoxed Prosperous Guild, and stacked more silver than half the randoms combined.”

Torrin cracked his knuckles.

Mira yawned but grinned.

Halt checked his bowstring casually.

“And now,” Ren said, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, “the first real cog in making a ton of credits is coming up fast.”

That woke everyone up.

“I can’t guarantee how much we’ll make yet,” Ren added honestly. “It’s Towerbound. Shit happens. But the opportunity’s real. And if we do it right?”

He stopped. And smiled a huge wolfish smile.

***

Ren introduced Folo to the Scrap Rats with a quick wave and a grin.

“Alright, this is Folo,” Ren said. “He’s new. Be nice. He’s also gonna be running a locksmith secondary, so… don’t bully him too hard.”

The Scrap Rats laughed a little, giving Folo a few playful welcomes.

Mira even clapped him on the back.

“First crafter we’ve got who’s not gonna be mixing weird potions or stitching socks,” she teased.

Ren grinned, but then grew a little more serious.

“Okay, listen up. I’ve got to be busy for a couple hours working on the back end of our secret bonus plan,” he said, lowering his voice like it was a state secret. “So just keep Folo in your random hunting groups, let him get a feel for things, maybe kill a few rabbits or goblins, nothing crazy.”

“Got it, boss,” said Torrin, giving a mock salute.

“Don’t forget about the next stage,” Ren reminded them. “Four hours. Big event. Big money chance. Don’t go wasting your silver.”

Mira, still slightly suspicious about the whole secret event thing, narrowed her eyes, but didn’t argue.

As a Frost—with a capital F—Mira didn’t really care all that much about credits in-game, or coins, or whatever. What she cared about was that her little pickup group was actually fun to be in. Nobody was talking down to her, nobody was sidelining her, and everyone treated her like a real, contributing member.

It was a way better experience than anything she’d had before joining the Scrap Rats.

Everyone else? They started daydreaming about mountains of credits.

Ren patted Folo once on the shoulder, then peeled off from the group.

His next stop?

The Auction House.

He had one goal in mind: gather all the ingredients he needed for crafting Improved Healing Potions—the ones that gave instant 20% health instead of the basic slow regen versions.

CHAPTER 37

Ren rubbed his hands together as he jogged away from the inn, heading straight for the auction house.

The moment he stepped inside, the air hit him like a wall—smoky, sweaty, buzzing with excitement and desperation.

Players were crammed around the auction terminals like hungry raccoons  around a trash bin.

Ren wasn’t here for scraps, though.

He was here for the first cog in his big machine.

‘Alright, think it through,’ he told himself, weaving between the crowds.

‘What do I need for the Improved Healing Potion?’

He mentally pulled up the recipe he’d memorized back when he was still just a minor guild alchemist:

[Improved Healing Potion Recipe]

●      Thornleaf Extract: to kickstart the rapid healing reaction.

●      Sunblossom Petals: the primary healing catalyst.

●      Clearwater Droplet: the neutral binding agent that fused mana to liquid.

●      Gloomsprite Dust: cheap preservative, kept the potion shelf-stable.

Gloomsprite Dust?

He had that covered. Between the scraps he and the Scrap Rats had gathered, he had more dust than he’d ever need for this small batch run.

Clearwater Droplet?

He had some, not a ton, but enough to cover a few dozen brews at least.

The two real problems were Thornleaf Extract and Sunblossom Petals.

They weren’t rare—yet.

They spawned pretty commonly near sunny rocky outcrops and wide grassy fields.

Newbie players didn’t really bother harvesting them because everyone was still stuck on grinding horned rabbits and goblins for loot and experience.

‘Which means they’re dirt cheap—right now,’ Ren thought, grinning.

It wouldn’t last.

Once dungeon raids and open world PvP kicked off—hell, even once people hit Level 6 or 7—players would realize that over-time healing potions were awful in real combat.

They were fine when you were farming mobs slowly.

They sucked when you were bleeding out and needed to heal immediately before the next axe blow took your head off.

And the moment that realization hit, the demand for instant-heal potions would explode like a powder keg.

‘Better to be the guy selling the powder than the guy using it,’ Ren thought, ducking into a corner booth to check the market prices.

He pulled up the listing screen, heart pounding a little faster.

He didn’t need to monopolize the whole auction house.

He just needed to buy enough to start—quietly—building a stockpile before the world caught on.

‘Alright, Ren,’ he told himself.

‘Time to do what you do best, be a sneaky rat. Quiet, quick, and very, very hungry.’

And he cracked his knuckles before opening the bulk purchase menu.

Ren started scrolling through the auction house listings like a man possessed.

First up—Thornleaf Extract.

There were about two dozen lots posted.

Prices ranged from stupid-high “maybe someone desperate will pay this” to “normal newbie sell-off dirt cheap.”

Ren sorted the list by lowest price.

Perfect. A couple of players had listed bundles for 5 copper coins each.

‘Idiots,’ Ren thought gleefully. ‘They don’t even realize what they’re holding.’

He bought up every cheap Thornleaf Extract he could find under 8 copper.

It was all about speed buying.

In less than two minutes, he had thirty-seven bundles stacked neatly in his inventory.

Next—Sunblossom Petals.

Even more abundant.

3 to 4 copper coins a pop.

He bought fifty bundles without hesitation, snagging them before some other alchemist or desperate player realized these would be gold later.

Last—Clearwater Droplet.

There were fewer of these, which made sense.

They came from specific gathering nodes near water, and newbie players hadn’t exactly flooded into the swamp zones yet.

Ren picked up fifteen units, paying 10 copper each.

Not cheap, but still a steal.

Especially compared to what he knew was coming.

‘Good,’ Ren thought, opening his inventory.

Inventory Summary:

●      Thornleaf Extract ×37

●      Sunblossom Petals ×50

●      Clearwater Droplet ×15

●      Gloom Sprite Dust ×92 (still had some from before)

Not a bad starting pile.

Even better?

He hadn’t spent that much.

Total Cost:

– Thornleaf: ~2 silver

– Sunblossom: ~2 silver

– Clearwater Droplet: ~1.5 silver

So about 5.5 silver total.

It barely scratched the surface of his remaining stash.

And once he started cranking out Improved Healing Potions?

He could easily sell each one for 30 to 35 copper—maybe even 50 once the wars and dungeons started.

And the materials for each one would cost him maybe 7 to 9 copper at worst.

Quadruple profit—at minimum.

Ren’s grin stretched wide.

‘First the rats. Then the whole damn city.’

Ren stood outside the Auction House for a moment, leaning against one of the heavy stone pillars, double-checking his system wallet.

‘Let’s see…’ he thought. ‘After the last shift, after selling all those minor herbs and Cyclopile mats…’

He brought up his balance.

8 Gold, 197 Silver, 140 Copper

After the herbs were subtracted 5.5 Silver (5 Silver, 50 Copper):

Final total:

8 Gold, 192 Silver, 90 Copper

‘Still sitting on close to 10 gold ,’ Ren mused, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Not bad. Even after buying all those reagents for the first batch of real healing potions.’

He tapped the side of his helmet lightly, thinking.

‘All the Bitterspore Mushrooms got handed in for the quest. No regrets there. That reward is gonna pay off way bigger later. As for the rest—’

He shrugged.

Small loot, small profits.

But every little bit counted.

And now? Now he had enough seed money to start laying down the first serious move.

A small foundation—

one batch of potions, one sale, one sucker guild at a time—

to start snowballing real cash.

He pushed off the pillar, adjusted his cheap gear, and headed straight for the Alchemy guild.

Time to start making history.

Ren headed for the Alchemist’s Guild, moving fast.

The building was tucked into one of the quieter corners of Greenwild Cross, past the blacksmith’s forge and the marketplace square. A simple stone building, marked by a giant bubbling potion symbol hanging above the doorway.

The guild hall wasn’t busy.

Most players were still out grinding horned rabbits or goblins for EXP, not even thinking about professions yet.

Only a few curious newbies had wandered in, poking around and asking the NPC instructors questions about what alchemy might be like once they hit Level 10.

A couple of local NPC apprentices shuffled between tables, brewing basic starter potions under the strict, watchful eye of a heavyset dwarven guildmaster who looked like he hated life.

No serious activity.

No serious players.

Just some bored looky-loos wasting time.

Perfect.

Ren walked up to the counter, dropping five silver coins with a satisfying clink.

The few players and NPCs in the room turned to look.

The bored guildmaster—Master Halwick, according to his nametag—lifted an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“You want to buy something, newbie?” he said gruffly.

Ren smiled lazily.

“Nope. I want to test for my Level 1 Alchemy Certification.”

The guildmaster blinked.

Several players nearby turned fully toward him now, openly staring.

“You’re not even Level 10,” Halwick said flatly.

“Don’t have to be to test,” Ren said smoothly. “It’s in the rules.”

It was.

Buried way, way down in the Towerbound tutorial book that most people didn’t bother to read.

You could technically attempt your profession certification at any level—but you still had to pass a basic skills test.

And if you failed?

Well, that five silver was non-refundable.

At the current exchange rate, that was basically blowing real-world credits for no reason.

No wonder nobody tried.

Halwick gave him a long, squinting look.

“Fine,” the guildmaster said at last, clearly expecting him to fail.

He motioned Ren toward a side room.

The certification room was small and clean.

One table, one simple cauldron, and a shelf full of common Tier 1 ingredients.

“Here’s the deal,” Halwick said, crossing his arms. “You get thirty minutes. You have to craft three working Basic Healing Potions. Full effect. No shortcuts.”

Ren smiled.

‘I could do that blindfolded.’

Halwick barked a laugh when he saw Ren’s expression.

“You’re cocky. I’ll enjoy seeing you crash and burn.”

Ren just shrugged.

“Better watch closely,” he said. “You’re about to witness history.”

And with that, he stepped up to the table, flexed his fingers, and began.

It was time to show TowerBound, the guilds, and everyone in the world, the power of a tier 7 alchemist.

CHAPTER 38

Ren rolled his shoulders out as he stepped up to the testing bench.

The certification chamber was compact and spotless.

A single workbench, a plain brewing cauldron, and a rack lined with basic Tier 1 ingredients.

It wasn’t much.

But today, it felt massive—because people had shown up to watch.

This was the first time anyone had ever attempted the certification test.

Spectators were allowed inside, but silencing arrays had been carefully installed.

No one could speak. No one could interfere. Nothing could break the brewing focus.

A dozen players sat along the benches, eyes locked on the workstation.

Several guild apprentices whispered excitedly from behind the line.

Even the Guildmaster himself had shown up, lounging on a high stool at the back of the room, wearing a skeptical look that said: this better be worth it.

After all, this wasn’t normal. Most players didn’t even attempt the Level 1 Alchemy Certification until they were at least Level 10. Even then, most of them would probably fail the first try. It usually took two or three attempts — and a lot of wasted ingredients — before they even got close.

Ren wasn’t Level 10. He wasn’t even Level 5. He was Level 4 and walking up like he was a master alchemist.

‘Let’s get this done,’ Ren thought as he surveyed the ingredients laid out in front of him.

The basic recipe for a healing potion was simple enough. One Redleaf Herb for the stimulant base, one vial of Clearwell Water for the purified liquid, and one pinch of Bitterroot Dust for stabilization.

Easy enough, if you were willing to be basic about it.

But Ren wasn’t here to be basic.

Because Ren was operating in freeplay mode, and thanks to his hidden +5% Alchemical Insight passive from completing Widow Shelley’s questline, he had an edge — a small one, but an edge nonetheless.

He made some subtle changes. Instead of basic Clearwell Water, he used spring-refined water, a better quality version meant for advanced tests. He swapped Bitterroot Dust for Gloomsprite Dust, something he had collected himself. It wasn’t standard, but it was known among veteran alchemists that Gloomsprite Dust could purify mixtures even better — if you knew how to handle it. For the Redleaf Herb, he pre-treated it by carefully removing the stems and lightly bruising the leaves for better extraction.

None of this broke the rules. The testing table had all these ingredients set aside for those who dared to use them. Very few players did.

The reason they didn’t— even back in his first life—was because potion recipes, when they dropped as rewards, were always crystal clear. The instructions spelled out exactly how to achieve a successful brew.

Sure, the recipes themselves weren’t easy. The harder ones took more steps, demanded more precision, and required a meticulous hand. But the steps?

They were listed out nice and clear—line by line, like a chemistry exam written by a helpful teacher.

If you strayed from the formula and failed? That was on you.

Only the truly dedicated alchemists—people who lived and breathed herbs, reagents, and brewing tables—ever tried to modify the recipes. Every tweak cost ingredients. Every test could fail. And failed potions weren’t just disappointing.

They were expensive.

And time consuming.

Ren moved smoothly, pouring and grinding, careful with his measurements and patient with his mixing. Unlike most players in auto mode who just clicked “craft” and prayed to RNG, Ren worked the potion manually — controlling the heat precisely, stirring the mixture in perfect figure-eights with his silver stirring rod, keeping the colors and fumes exactly where they needed to be.

The mixture turned a bright, vibrant crimson — the correct color — and he cooled it down just in time with a soft application of spring vapor.

The system chimed.

[Potion Crafted: Basic Healing Potion – Grade: Perfect]

In the certification room, System notifications were visible to everyone watching—part of the transparency rules meant to prevent cheating or outside interference. For most first-timers attempting certification at Level 10, those notifications could be brutal.

Every failure flashed like a scarlet letter.

And everyone saw it.

The apprentices gasped.

Even the Guildmaster leaned forward, eyebrows lifting.

Ren didn’t stop. He quickly reset the table, moving faster but just as carefully, and crafted another.

[Potion Crafted: Basic Healing Potion – Grade: Perfect]

A stunned silence rippled across the hall.

Ren smirked internally and made the third.

[Potion Crafted: Basic Healing Potion – Grade: Perfect]

Three perfects in a row.

Just like that, Ren crushed the alchemist certification test—six full levels before anyone else was even eligible to try.

The silencing arrays deactivated with a faint shimmer of light.

But it didn’t matter.

The room was already dead quiet.

The apprentices stared at him like he had grown a second head. The other players thinking about their upcoming tests at level 10 looked sick. And the Guildmaster?

The dwarf let out a long, low whistle and stood up.

“Well now,” he said, voice booming across the room. “I’ll be a goblin’s uncle.”

He stomped over, snatched one of the potions from the rack, and held it up to the light. He swirled it. Sniffed it. Eyed the clarity and purity.

It practically glowed.

“This… this is perfect, lad. Not good, not great. Perfect.”

Someone in the back clapped.

Then another.

Then the entire room was applauding.

Ren shrugged casually, hiding his grin.

‘Nothing special,’ he thought smugly. ‘Just a little freeplay mode, a little +5% hidden bonus, and the world’s best alchemist reincarnated.’

The Guildmaster turned toward the crowd, still holding the potion high.

“Mark my words!” he roared. “This one’s gonna be a Master Alchemist someday!”

Ren grinned.

‘Correction,’ he thought. ‘Again.’

Three perfect-grade potions in a row.

As a level 1 Alchemist.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

Normally, players at level 10 barely managed average results. And even that was after dozens of failed batches, losing precious ingredients along the way.

In Towerbound, the success and grade of a potion are determined by several factors: the alchemist’s tier (which is separate from their class level), the difficulty of the potion being brewed, the quality of ingredients used, the tools available during crafting, environmental bonuses like labs or temporary buffs, and any special perks like Ren’s Potion Transcendence.

A basic healing potion is considered the easiest recipe, but most beginners only have about a 30% success rate. As players improved their alchemy tiers, their chances increase. Better ingredients, upgraded tools, and optimal conditions all boost that success rate. If the craft is exceptionally good, the potion’s grade improves.

There are two main crafting modes: Auto Mode and Freeplay Mode. In Auto Mode, the system handles everything and guarantees a fixed success percentage based on your stats, ingredients, and setup. It’s safe and reliable, but capped. Freeplay Mode, however, lets players manually perform the steps—grinding, heating, pouring, timing. It’s riskier, but it allows the system to truly evaluate your skill. In Freeplay, alchemists could outperform their level or even underperform if they weren’t focused. This is where elite potion makers shine, turning decent ingredients into high-tier results.

Potion grades were ranked, from lowest to highest: Crude, Common, Fine, Rare, Epic, Perfect, and Mythical. Crude potions are barely functional. Common potions are the standard. Fine potions have slight boosts in potency and duration. Rare potions offer stronger effects and better reliability. Epic potions include secondary benefits or status effects. Perfect potions max out every stat with zero flaws. And Mythical potions—only achievable through immense skill or bonuses—could trigger hidden effects, permanent enhancements, or rare synergies.

[[World Notification]

Player Ren has achieved the first-ranked Alchemist Certification in Towerbound, passing with Highest Honors after crafting three Perfect-Grade Potions.

The System didn’t bother repeating it. Unlike dungeon clears or boss kills, this was just a profession milestone. Quiet excellence didn’t make headlines in Towerbound—not when there were blood-soaked raids and flashy kills to obsess over

Everyone in the room though?

They lost it.

“Highest honours?”

“No—no, hold up. That’s not normal. That’s broken.”

“That’s bugged. It has to be bugged.”

Around him, the alchemy chamber turned into a swirl of voices. Apprentices peered over shoulders. Senior crafters abandoned their stations. Even a few NPC guild-affiliated alchemists stepped closer, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed.

“He’s cheating,” someone whispered. “Has to be.”

“He’s not. I watched him. Freeplay Mode. Perfect technique. Didn’t even use a stabilizer.”

“This guy’s rolled Perfects like he’s flipping pancakes.”

Ren said nothing. He just cleaned his equipment slowly, carefully, like he had all the time in the world. He didn’t need to gloat. The potion spoke for itself.

Then came the ping.

[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: Potion Transcendence]

BONUS: 5% chance to upgrade a Perfect potion into a Mythical-Grade potion.

A pair of players in matching robes stepped forward, trying to sound casual. “You in a guild?” one asked.

“You interested in a partnership?” the other added. “We can fund you. Reagents, workspace, everything.”

Ren blinked.

Across the room, a bespectacled Druid from a major PvE guild waved. “We’ll throw in a branded cloak and guild housing.”

Another voice: “Crimson Pact’s recruiting crafters. You’d be top priority.”

“We’ve got regional bonuses and alliance contracts,” someone added.

“I’ll give you my old car!” another shouted.

The offers flew fast. Compliments turned into competition. Guild reps muttered behind their hands. Someone offered 500 credits as a signing bonus.

Ren just stared down at the three shimmering potions in front of him and gave a small, satisfied smile.

He bowed slightly to the stunned Guildmaster, who was still blinking like someone had just slapped him with a sack of gold.

“You… you’re definitely qualified,” the Guildmaster managed to say hoarsely.

Ren slipped the three perfect-grade potions into his inventory with a snap of his fingers. During testing regardless of failure or success the applicant could keep their results. The five silvers for level one was partially because of this. The five silvers more than covered any possible ingredients that the applicant would be using. And more often than not, they wouldn't even get three potions out of it, let alone three perfect potions.

He didn’t have the alchemical gear yet to chase mythical potions seriously—not with only a 5% bonus—but it didn’t matter.

Because now?

Now the entire world knew that Ren was the first true alchemist of Towerbound.

The Guildmaster—still recovering from the shock—stepped closer, clearing his throat.

“You,” he said, struggling to find the words. “Would you be interested… in taking an official position?”

Ren blinked.

Normally, all players who passed their Alchemy Certification were automatically members of the Alchemist Guild. That was standard. It gave them basic privileges: access to guild stores, crafting stations, and minor reputation boosts with alchemy-related NPCs.

But an actual position inside the guild?

That was something different altogether. He hadn’t expected this. It hadn't happened in his first lifetime because he wasn't the first person to qualify as a level 1 alchemist. And he definitely wasn't the first person to get 3 perfects on a level 1 alchemist test.

Positions within the Alchemist guild came with real benefits: authority, better access to ingredients, discounted material costs, and access to private recipes.

It was also extremely rare for a new alchemist, even a certified one, to be offered a position right out of the gate.

The Guildmaster straightened his back and looked Ren in the eyes.

“I’d like to offer you a spot as a Junior Instructor,” he said. “You’ll have responsibilities, but you’ll also gain guild status—and if you prove yourself, there’s room to rise through the ranks.”

A soft ding echoed in Ren’s ear as a system notification appeared:

[Special Opportunity: Join the Alchemist Guild Hierarchy?]

Below it, a breakdown of the guild structure appeared in simple, plain text:

Alchemist Guild Ranks:

– Junior Instructor – Entry-level mentor role. Assists with basic teaching and minor administrative tasks.

– Senior Instructor – Guides apprentice alchemists. Granted access to guild recipes and smaller-scale projects.

– Guild Researcher – Permitted to develop and submit custom alchemical recipes for review.

– Guild Officer – Oversees sections of the guild. Manages materials, teaching assignments, and internal operations.

– Master Alchemist – Trusted with guild secrets. Holds significant crafting authority and leadership.

– Guildmaster – Regional head of the Alchemist Guild. Manages diplomacy, guild-wide decisions, and major discoveries.

Ren stared at the list, quiet.

In his previous life, he’d only ever reached Guild Researcher. Not because he lacked the talent to go further—but because, as a full-time alchemist working for Prosperous Guild, he hadn’t needed the Alchemist Guild’s benefits. The Prosperous guild supplied him with ingredients, funded his labs, and took care of logistics. Alchemy Guild rankings had just felt like extra work.

This time? Things were different.

He already had two hidden perks—Alchemical Insight and Potion Transcendence.

He was definitely going to become a junior instructor. It was an official title!

But with each title came duties. Expectations. Teaching. Oversight. Administrative work.

Ren hated duties.

Still… if he wanted to climb higher, get access to rare ingredients and guild resources, he’d need to play the game on both fronts.

There were worse things than being called “Instructor Ren.”

Ren stared at the window for a second, his mind racing.

‘Holy hell,’ he thought. ‘They’re offering me a foot into the political structure already.’

He couldn’t resist a small smile.

“Sure,” Ren said casually. “I’d be honored.”

The Guildmaster beamed, clapping him on the shoulder so hard it nearly staggered him.

“Good, good!” the man said. “You’re exactly the kind of talent we need. Welcome aboard, Instructor Ren.”

As a Junior Instructor, Ren now officially had a title—and even better, he had a wage.

The Guildmaster waved his hand and the system chimed.

[New Title: Junior Instructor – Alchemist Guild]

Wage: 3 silver per day (paid at midnight server time)

Responsibilities:

– Assist with basic teaching and theory classes

– Host at least one beginner lesson per day

– Report any unusual alchemy results to Senior Instructors

For most players, three silver a day was nothing to sneeze at.

At the current early game economy, three silver was enough to cover basic repairs, potions, and even allow a few luxuries—like upgraded food instead of barely edible starter bread.

For Ren, it was even better.

Because unlike most players, he wasn’t planning on bleeding for his supper.

He grinned to himself, reading the simple list of responsibilities.

Assist teaching newbies?

Host a basic class or two?

‘Hell, that’s way better than fighting mutant crocodiles or getting stabbed by random goblins,’ Ren thought with satisfaction.

In the Alchemist Guild, the only danger he faced was the occasional exploding potion from a nervous newbie or a clumsy misfire from a reckless apprentice.

In the wild?

In the wild, it was broken ribs, punctured lungs, or bleeding out into some filthy spike filled pit.

No thanks.

He followed the Guildmaster deeper into the guild halls, already plotting how to make the most of his brand-new, safe, respectable position.

Becoming a Junior Instructor wasn’t originally in Ren’s plans, but honestly? It was a damn nice bonus.

Now he could finally go full tilt into his real plan: making credits hand over fist.

CHAPTER 39

He leaned against one of the marble pillars outside the Alchemist Guild, opening up his messages. In Towerbound, you could receive messages from anyone as long as you were on the same map—and right now, he was flooded.

A whole barrage of congratulatory PMs from the Scrap Rats came flying in, lighting up his inbox.

Torrin: Damn boss! You’re an alchemist now? Holy crap!

Mira: I KNEW you were shady but I didn’t know you were THIS shady. Proud of you though.

Halt: Don’t expect me to call you Professor.

Even Folo, the newest guy they had just brought in, sent a simple thumbs-up emoji.

He grinned, feeling genuinely pleased. His little scrap heap of a team was starting to become something real.

Outside of the Scrap Rats, though?

A tidal wave of random PMs from players he didn’t know were clogging up his system inbox.

Messages asking how he became a Junior Instructor.

Offers to “buy his training guide for five silver!”

People begging for apprenticeships.

Wannabes offering friendship.

Even a few more sly guild recruiters trying to butter him up.

Ren didn’t even bother reading most of them.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

He wasn’t here to babysit randoms or leak the tricks that were going to make him and his crew rich.

His edge wasn’t something he could explain anyway.

It was his Alchemist’s Insight passive.

It was his weird memory for ingredient effects.

It was a whole lot of time-traveler advantage he sure as hell wasn’t sharing.

Ren snapped the message notifications closed with a flick of his fingers and tucked his hands into his robe pockets.

‘Step one down,’ he thought, smirking. ‘Now comes the real payday.’

Because he had an obligation to teach one class per day as part of his Junior Instructor duties, Ren figured he might as well knock it out immediately. No way was he going to let anything get in the way of his money making scheme later.

He went back into the Alchemist Guild and flagged down Guildmaster Harkin.

“Hey, can I teach my class now?” Ren asked casually.

Harkin Varn’s thick white eyebrows rose in surprise, but he smiled approvingly, his dwarven beard twitching as he grunted.

“Efficient. I like that,” Harkin said, then pulled up a system-linked terminal on the wall. With a few flicks of his thick fingers, he broadcasted an announcement through the guild.

[System Message – Greenwild Cross Alchemist Guild]

Junior Instructor Ren has scheduled an Open Basic Alchemy Class. Interested apprentices, report to Lecture Room 1.

Of course, this wasn’t the true Alchemy Guild headquarters—Harkin Varn was only a Branch Guildmaster.

The real head honcho, the High Guildmaster, was probably still sitting somewhere in the capital city, sipping expensive wine and waiting for player alchemists to rise.

But here in Greenwild Cross?

Ren was the only player alchemist around.

Since no other players had made it into the Alchemist Guild yet, the only responses to the system message were from the NPC apprentices.

No problem for Ren. He had no shame teaching a room full of digital apprentices if it meant fulfilling his obligation.

He was ushered into a small, stone-floored classroom where about a dozen apprentices gathered, wearing plain brown robes and carrying battered notebooks.

Ren pulled out a prepared lecture from memory—basic potion brewing, how to properly grind herb leaves, why temperature mattered during a simmer, and all the tiny tweaks that could make or break even the most common potion.

He paced the room, talking animatedly for an hour.

The NPC apprentices listened with the kind of rapt attention you only saw from characters who were programmed to crave knowledge.

They even asked questions during the session—semi-scripted ones—but Ren answered seriously, treating it like a real class.

At the end of it, the system chimed softly:

[System Message]

You have fulfilled your Daily Instruction Quota.

+5 Reputation with Greenwild Cross Alchemist Guild

+2 Favorability with Alchemist Apprentices (Local)

Not a bad haul for an hour of talking.

Favorability was a hidden bonus in Towerbound. You could never actually see what your favorability was—just like in real life, where you don’t know exactly how much a friend likes or dislikes you. But the system would let you know when you gained favorability… or, if you were being awful, when you lost it.

Ren smiled to himself as he left the classroom.

‘First paycheck coming in soon, and reputation gains for free? Yeah, I could get used to this.’

Now that his duty was done, it was time to get serious.

It was time to buy out half the auction house.

Before he headed out on his full-on shopping spree, Ren sent a quick group message to the Scrap Rats.

[Ren]: “Alright, first part done. Next step: I need you guys to send me all your coins. All of them.”

There was a long, pregnant pause in the group chat.

Finally, Mira responded first.

[Mira]:“…All of them?”

She sounded suspicious, and honestly, Ren didn’t blame her. Originally, none of them would’ve trusted him with five copper, let alone their entire bank. They were a pickup group, after all, stitched together by convenience and necessity.

But now?

Now Ren was officially a Junior Instructor of the Alchemist’s Guild, with a worldwide title under his belt.

That changed things.

[Ren]: “Yeah. Trust me. Now that I’m officially an alchemist instructor, I can brew better potions. And with better potions, we can sell them. But I need ingredients. Like, a lot of ingredients. I’m gonna sweep the auction house clean.”

More dot-dot-dots filled the party chat as the others hesitated.

But one by one, the coins started pouring in.

Torrin sent his with a gruff, one-word message:

[Torrin]: “Done.”

Halt followed with a laughing emoji and a shrug:

[Halt]: “YOLO.”

Mira sent hers a little reluctantly, with a heavy sigh emoji attached.

Even Bran, who barely said anything in chat, quietly transferred his.

When it was done, Ren checked his new balance.

Between his own funds, Kanuka’s share, and the team’s donation, the Scrap Rats had amassed a small fortune for starter-town standards.

Total Coin Purse:

32 gold, 5 silver, 60 copper

Not too shabby.

‘Alright,’ Ren thought, stretching his fingers out. ‘Time to go full goblin merchant mode.’

He practically sprinted back into the auction house, his heart thudding with excitement.

He ignored the loud haggling from other players and went straight to the runic auction kiosks.

One by one, he began snapping up every useful alchemy herb he could find.

Goldenveil Leaves?

Buy.

Ironroot Bark?

Buy.

Bittermint Stems?

Buy.

Cleansing Flower Petals?

Buy.

Low-grade mana herbs?

If it even smelled remotely useful, buy.

Prices were already creeping up.

The Prosperous Guild and other major players had focused mostly on weapons and armor materials, leaving the alchemy market relatively untouched.

But that wasn’t going to last long. Not with everyone burning through potions in the field faster than they could replace them.

Ren’s eyes gleamed as he swept the listings clean.

He was the first rat to find the pantry door open—and he was going to feast.

Within ten minutes, his inventory was stuffed with reagents. He was almost broke. He didn’t care.

With 27 gold spent, Ren had not just picked up the basics—he swept through the auction house like a girl on Black Friday with a shoe sale list written in frantic shorthand. Anything vaguely useful that wasn’t completely overpriced ended up in his bag. He was after raw utility.

He hadn’t just picked up the ingredients he needed for his next potion. His plan went deeper than that. He was quietly sweeping up all the potentially useful ingredients that nobody else was buying—yet. Stockpiling for the long haul. So that months from now, when others scrambled to complete rare brews, he wouldn’t be stuck missing a single component.

He had snagged full bundles of Spinecap Mushrooms—mildly toxic when raw, but ideal for crafting stun resistance and anti-venom brews once boiled and ground. Jars of Volatile Jelly, unstable but perfect for impact-based concoctions, especially when paired with trigger glyphs. Cracked chunks of Charred Mandrake, heat-rich and ideal for potions that enhanced fire resistance or even mana burn effects. Voidcap Spores, rare and twitchy, great for crafting quickstep or evasive motion brews if you could keep them from turning your potion into sludge. And Necroweave Fibers, useful for anything that needed to linger—regeneration potions, bleed-stop salves, even dark-effect coatings that clung to armor or weapons longer than they should.

He picked up Gloomsprite Dust by the pouch—not flashy, but necessary. It stabilized unstable reactions and doubled as a hygienic base for healing mixtures, letting potions settle into wounds without risk of infection. Not glamorous, but essential.

There were plenty more: Gravebloom Spores, Twilight Fennel, Ashvine, Manaweb Silk, Sunshard Nectar Crystals, Glowberry Extract, and other reagents that filled out every potion recipe Ren had already mapped in his head. Some were rare, some overpriced, but the ones he grabbed? Smart buys. Future profits.

By the time he left, his inventory looked less like a shopping haul and more like a mobile lab.

5 gold, 2 silver, and 20 copper were left.

He would’ve spent every last coin if the ingredients left on the auction house hadn’t been so absurdly overpriced. But they were. Someone had even listed a pouch of phantom silk for 100 silver—clearly hoping some idiot would click too fast. Ren was definitely not that idiot.

Between the Shadow Wolf Alpha kill, the cyclopiles, and all their hunting loot, they’d made a decent haul. And now? Most of that gold had been converted into a fat stash of reagents tucked neatly inside his inventory pouch.

Dozens of recipes queued up in his mind.

There would be no mistakes. No waste. No experiments.

They were already to be put into production when the time was right.

Ren made his way back into the Alchemist’s Guild, his inventory bulging with herbs, barks, and petals.

Normally, any player—or even an apprentice NPC—would have to rent time in the Alchemy Labs. And it wasn’t cheap either. Even using a basic, low-end workbench would cost five copper an hour. Higher-end stations cost more, especially the ones with built-in heat regulation and auto-mixer charms.

But because Ren was now a Junior Instructor, he had some perks.

He was allowed two hours of free Alchemy Lab access per day, courtesy of the guild, as part of his “teaching and personal improvement” duties.

After that, he would get a 50% discount on normal rates.

Not bad at all.

‘Another unexpected bonus,’ Ren thought, grinning as he entered one of the side labs.

The Junior Instructor labs were nothing fancy—just sturdy stone workbenches, rows of empty cauldrons, and racks of basic magical burners—but they were clean, organized, and most importantly, they were private.

No nosy players.

No guild officials breathing down his neck.

Just him, his reagents, and the fire crackling under the cauldron.

Ren set up fast.

He laid out the first batch of ingredients: Goldenveil Leaves, Bittermint Stems, and Cleansing Flower Petals for the upgraded Instant Healing Potions.

Each station came with a set of standard alchemy tools: glass vials, adjustable burners, enchanted stirring rods, and rune-marked ladles.

More importantly, the station had a stability charm—reducing the chance of random explosions by a few percent.

Today Ren planned to brew a lot.

He rubbed his hands together, cracked his knuckles, and got started.

The first batch was careful and methodical.

Ren moved with precision, adjusting temperatures with tiny flicks of mana, timing his stirs exactly to the half-second, blending the herbs into smooth pastes before adding the liquid mana infusions.

Bloop.

Bloop.

Bloop.

Three steady mixtures simmered in their cauldrons, filling the lab with the sharp, minty scent of Goldenveil.

The system chimed:

[Alchemy Check Passed!]

Potion Quality: Great (93% Stability)

Another chimed right after:

[Alchemy Check Passed!]

Potion Quality: Great (91% Stability)

And again:

[Alchemy Check Passed!]

Potion Quality: Great (95% Stability)

Ren grinned fiercely.

His Alchemical Insight passive (+5% success bonus) combined with his careful use of upgraded materials was already paying off.

He was consistently brewing Great potions—potions that were way more potent than the average newbie stock flooding the auction house.

The Perfect grade?

Not yet.

The potions Ren had just finished were better—real ingredients, real conditions, real stakes. And still, he’d nailed them. Great-grade, all of them. They shimmered in his inventory like tiny bottled paydays.

This was not something a new player should have even attempted, let alone succeeded at.

He was proud. He wouldn’t say it out loud, of course—there was too much work ahead for that—but deep down, he knew these potions would’ve made even mid-tier alchemists pause. He had brewed complex stabilizers, layered effects, potions that took finesse and timing and knew-how. These weren’t lucky rolls. These were skill.

Still, the frustration was there.

He was technically a tier 1 alchemist. No matter what he remembered from his past life—or how precisely he measured his ingredients, how clean his flame angles were, how efficient his cooling spiral was—the system capped him. Towerbound let you use Freeplay Mode, sure, but there was a ceiling to what the game would allow per level. Hidden bonuses like Alchemical Insight and Potion Transcendence, plus his high Intelligence, let him push far above what a Level 1 should manage—but even now, he could feel the restriction. Like a glass ceiling just waiting to be cracked.

He was already brushing up against it.

Which meant one thing.

He needed to level his alchemy. Fast.

And that would require brewing a lot more potions, and showing the System he deserved to move his tier up.

But Ren wasn’t worried.

Not at all.

He kept working, batch after batch.

The cauldron steamed and bubbled as he moved like a maestro at a symphony.

Pour. Stir. Adjust the flame. Channel mana. Ladle. Seal.

Over and over.

Potion after potion.

CHAPTER 40

Ren grinned as he stared at the mountains of herbs, powders, and reagents piled around his rented lab station.

Two hours of free lab time, courtesy of being a Junior Instructor, and an armful of ingredients he had swept clean from the auction house.

He had already crafted a few potions, but now it was time to step it up.

Three recipes. Three goals.

The Instant Healing Potion.

The Instant Mana Potion.

The Instant Focus Potion.

Each one was a serious upgrade compared to the basic over-time potions available in the starter towns. Best thing about them? These upgraded potions would still barely count as Tier 1, because the difficulty was really easy, and he could crank out a ton of them

They were improved recipes—using slightly higher-grade ingredients like Purified Frostpetal for healing, Refined Lightrush for mana, and Crystallized Bitterspore Dust for focus regeneration—but they were instant effect, not slow regen.

In the early game?

Instant mattered.

Ren moved quickly, but precisely.

Thanks to his [+5% Alchemical Insight] passive and the familiarity bonus of being in the Alchemy Guild’s official facilities, his hands flowed through the motions like he had done a thousand times before in his previous life.

He stirred.

He decanted.

He balanced the heating plate temperatures manually, trusting his instincts more than the beginner equipment at his station.

Each batch took about three minutes from start to finish, and Ren’s success rate was high—around 85% with the slight stability bonuses from his earlier rank-up.

It was frustrating to be stuck at 85%. With all his bonuses, skills, and knowledge, he should have been crafting at a perfect 100% success rate. But Towerbound didn’t care about logic—it cared about progression caps. No matter how good he was, his current Tier 1 status meant 85% was the hard ceiling. If he were Tier 7, like in his first life, then sure—brewing a Tier 1 potion would be automatic. Easy. Guaranteed. But right now? Every craft still carried that stupid 15% chance of failure, and he hated it.

As a consolation, though, he was consistently crafting Good- and Great-quality potions—exactly what he needed.

Every potion successfully crafted gave him a little tick of Alchemy EXP, steadily pushing him toward officially reaching Alchemist Tier 2.

Ren was exhausted but happy when he looked at his results. Bottle after bottle lined up on his crafting table, gleaming with power.

A massive haul for just one furious sprint session.

He spent the last few minutes cleaning up, storing the potions properly, and stashing them into his personal inventory.

‘Not bad,’ Ren thought, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘This is going to crush the market.’

There were still no instant potions available in Greenwild Cross.

Nobody else was even close to unlocking them yet.

He was going to be first.

First meant profit.

First meant dominance.

And this was only the beginning.

Ren leaned back, thinking about the dozens and dozens of potions he had just made. Originally, he had planned to just shove them onto the Auction House and let the market sort it out, but becoming a Junior Instructor had changed things. Big time.

He approached Guildmaster Harkin, who was still overseeing a few other apprentices brewing at the far tables.

“Guildmaster,” Ren said casually, “would it be alright if I ran a private sale for the potions I’ve brewed? Say… 1% to the Guild as a contribution?”

Harkin gave a deep, rumbling laugh.

“Aye, lad. Fine by me! Bring in the coin and the glory. ‘Bout time this dusty store got some action.”

That was all the permission Ren needed.

Because Harkin wasn’t just any old Guildmaster—he had the ability, through the Alchemist Guild system, to broadcast town-wide messages. And right now, with the town filled with struggling players who’d just realized how brutal the game was without instant healing? This was perfect.

Ren politely asked if he could get an official shout-out.

Harkin grinned and agreed, taking out the heavy Guild Ledger, tapping a few runes, and sending a world system announcement cascading across every player’s HUD.

[System Town Announcement!]

The Alchemist Guild of Greenwild Cross is proud to announce a special potion sale hosted by Junior Instructor Ren!

Instant-use Healing, Mana, and Focus potions available for limited time!

Event begins in 10 minutes. Location: Greenwild Cross – Alchemist Guild store.

The town went nuts.

Ren could practically feel the vibrations through the cobbled streets as players scrambled, pushing toward the Alchemy Guild.

Why?

Because everyone, absolutely everyone, had already realized that heal-over-time potions sucked.

Sure, it was nice if you were out of combat. But in the middle of a fight? When your ribs were broken and a goblin was shoving a spear through your gut?

You needed instant healing.

And the Alchemist Store’s instant potions were a bit too expensive for most newbies right now.

Ren’s potions were better—crafted cleanly, with Great-tier stability—and he was selling them at the exact same price as the crappy basic NPC stock.

He wasn’t undercutting, but he didn’t have to.

His potions were better.

The coin-to-credit exchange rate in Towerbound was extremely fair, 1 silver to 1 credit, and players could easily buy coins if they were willing to spend a little real-world money.

And now? Instant potions—good instant potions—were being offered at the basic price.

Best of all, Ren’s potions weren’t the usual junk.

In Towerbound, potion quality mattered.

An Average potion healed the standard amount.

A Great potion healed 10% more and had better stability and shelf life.

A Perfect potion healed 20% more, but Ren wasn’t quite able to craft those yet without hitting a full stability score.

That meant Ren’s Instant Healing Potions didn’t just restore 50 HP—they restored 55 HP.

In a game where getting chunked for 70% of your health by one unlucky hit wasn’t unusual, an extra 5 HP on a clutch heal was the difference between staggering back up and lying face-down in the mud.

As Ren finished stacking the last box of neatly labeled potions behind the Guild’s front counter, he allowed himself a slow, satisfied grin.

‘This,’ he thought, ‘is how you build a fortune before anyone else even knows the game’s started.

Ren calmly walked back behind the big store counter and began setting up rows of labeled crates.

Instant health potions.

Instant mana potions.

Instant focus potions.

The first wave of players arrived within minutes, practically drooling.

And the best part?

Every sale automatically kicked 1% into the Guild treasury, so not only was Ren making money—he was building serious goodwill with the Alchemy Guild too.

And this was just the beginning.

Ren rolled his shoulders, smiled, and waited for the floodgates to open.

‘Time to get rich,’ he thought.

The moment the sale started, it was pure pandemonium.

Players stormed toward the Alchemist Guild Store like a Black Friday doorbuster, shoving, shouting, and scrambling for position.

Most of them were solo players—small parties, newbies with dented gear, desperate to get something that could keep them alive on their next run.

Ren stood calmly behind the counter, arms folded, watching the madness with a neutral expression.

Then came the guild players.

Organized groups from Prosperous, Bloodthorn, Blackhand, and Wyrmguard muscled through the crowd, trying to push their way to the front.

They were decked out in better gear, moving with arrogant smirks.

Clearly, they thought they could just muscle in, buy out the entire stock, and resell it to desperate players later at double the price.

Ren, very politely, raised a hand.

“Three potions per person,” he announced loudly. “No exceptions.”

The Prosperous Guild lead scoffed.

“We’ll buy everything you’ve got, kid. How about it? Two gold, right now.”

The room went quiet, watching.

Ren smiled thinly.

“Three potions per person,” he repeated. “Line up, or don’t bother.”

The Prosperous lead’s smirk twisted into a sneer.

“Fine. We’ll just send twenty people through the line.”

Ren shrugged.

“Sure. If they can survive the crowd.”

Because the solo players weren’t having it.

Seeing Prosperous Guild trying to cheat the system pissed them off instantly.

The crowd closed ranks, shoulder-to-shoulder, glaring daggers at the incoming guild members.

Every random player there knew they were being given a shot—a real shot—at buying potions that could save their lives, instead of watching the big guilds snatch everything.

“You heard him,” one rough-looking thief said, cracking his knuckles. “Line up.”

“Back of the line, guildies!” someone else yelled.

Ren didn’t even need to intervene.

The mob mentality that had crushed the goblin blockade earlier flared up again, but this time, it was directed at keeping things fair.

Guild players were shoved, jostled, and cussed out if they tried to cut.

Some turned and left, fuming.

Some gritted their teeth and stayed, stuck in the line like everyone else.

Meanwhile, Ren calmly handled the sales.

Each player could buy up to three potions—Healing, Mana, Focus, or a mix.

No discounts, no special treatment.

The coins clinked steadily in, a beautiful symphony to Ren’s ears.

He wasn’t giving potions away for charity.

Everyone paid full price.

But at least the regular players had a shot, and Ren made sure they knew it.

When the first few players nervously handed over their silver and received their neatly bottled Great-grade potions, the smiles they wore were worth it.

The credits Ren would make?

Those were better. Smiles and gratitude don't pay the bills.

One recruiter from Prosperous Guild actually offered him a full-time contract on the spot, right there in front of everybody.

Ren smiled at him.

Then he turned and handed a potion to a solo player behind the guy without even answering.

The recruiter’s face turned purple with rage, but Ren didn’t care.

‘Not this life,’ Ren thought. ‘I’m not building a cage for myself again.’

When the dust finally settled, the tables were wiped clean, the floor was littered with random dropped items and dented boots, and Ren had pulled in a staggering amount of silver.

And the best part?

He hadn’t just sold potions.

He had sold freedom, at least for a few hours, to every solo player who had gotten sick of being crushed by guilds.

And judging by the dozens of PMs already flooding his inbox, the Scrap Rats’ reputation had just gotten a serious upgrade.

And Ren was just getting started.

With all the potions sold out, Ren leaned back against the counter, still grinning at the memory of the Black Friday madness. He quickly pulled up his system menu and sent a group message to the Scrap Rats.

Ren: All right, guys, potion sellout was a success. We pulled in a total of 29 silver and 75 copper.

He would have made way more money if he’d been able to spend all his gold on the ingredients for these instant potions. But unfortunately, the auction house just didn’t have the reagents to make that happen. So yes, this total of 29 silver and 75 copper had been made using every usable ingredient he could get his hands on.

If he looked strictly at the numbers, it was a loss.

But it was never just about the numbers. His inventory pouch was still jammed full of ingredients for other potions.

He didn't tell them he’d blown even more on reagents and herbs in the auction house before this. They didn’t need to know that. What mattered was that potions were coming out—and they were available.

He let that sink in.

A couple of stunned dots popped up in the group chat as everyone processed the amount. Even after the Alchemist Guild’s 1% cut, and a little extra for miscellaneous stuff like the failed potions, that was their total profit.

Ren continued typing:

Ren:So, now that we’re rolling in coins, who wants their original investment paid back, and who wants potions instead?

He didn’t have to wait long.

One by one, every single member replied.

Mira:Potions please!!!

Torren:Potions. No brainer.

Bran: Potions.

Silk: Same. Potions.

All of the Scrap Rats wanted the potions.

Ren leaned back, satisfied.

‘Exactly what I wanted,’ he thought.

The Scrap Rats weren’t just some throwaway crew anymore. They were a guild now—small, scrappy, but on the rise. And if they were going to survive what was coming next, they couldn’t be running around with empty potion belts.

So Ren went to the auction house and stocked up again. Luckily, in the couple of hours he’d spent brewing and selling potions, the auction house had refreshed.

New listings had popped up, they luckily included the ingredients he needed.

Ren wasted no time. He swept through the listings like a hawk, scooping up everything useful before some other wannabe alchemist got the same idea.

He loaded his bags with enough ingredients to brew a personal stash for every single member of the dorm. Plus the pick up group.

18 players.

Twenty potions each. That was his goal. He hadn’t bought enough ingredients from the auction house to reach his goal—supplies had run low again. But that was fine. With how long he’d be stuck brewing, he knew there’d be plenty of time for the listings to refresh. He could restock between batches.

His goal was ten Instant Healing, and ten more depending on the class: Mana for spellcasters, Focus for anyone who needed fast reflexes, like thieves and warriors.

Ren stared at the request list.

20 sets. 18 potions per set.

That was 360 potions.

At his current Tier 1 level, each potion still took about 3 minutes to brew. That meant:

Eighteen hours.

Eighteen hours of grinding, bottling, adjusting heat, filtering sludgy herbs, and praying the next mix didn’t explode or come out as Crude sludge. And that was if everything went right. No distractions, no interruptions, no burns, no dropped ingredients.

He didn’t even want to think about how much faster this would go if he was a Tier 7 alchemist like before. Back then, he could do four potions at a time. This? This was peasant-tier potion crafting. Manual, slow, and one potion per boil.

He let out a long sigh.

‘Alright, Ren,’ he muttered, cracking his knuckles and tying back his hair. ‘You wanted to build an empire. Time to build it… one bubbling bottle at a time.’

He reached for the first batch of ingredients. 1 of 360. Only 359 more to go.

There was no rushing it—not if he wanted consistent results.

If the Scrap Rats were going to succeed they needed gear, coordination—and consumables.

And now, they were about to have them.

Most importantly, these potions he was crafting—especially the batch reserved for the pickup group—paid them back eight silver each out of the total they’d originally sent him from their pooled coins.

There was no way he was going to let those coins slip out of his hands. If he had handed the money from the potion sales back, sure, they would have been happy, but it would have shattered the long-term plan he was building.

Potions were tangible. Potions kept players alive. Potions made people loyal.

And potions meant he could keep reinvesting into even bigger sales later.

This pickup group was shaping up into something important. And he wanted to keep them happy.

And Ren smiled as he messaged back:

Ren: All right. I’ll start brewing the next batch. Let’s make some history.

CHAPTER 41

After a few hours of crafting, he’d burned through his entire stock of ingredients again—so it was back to the auction house for another scavenger hunt.

If anyone had thought he was done after one sale, they were badly underestimating him.

He pulled up the listings with a sharp flick of his wrist and grimaced slightly.

Prices had already gone up.

About 20% across the board.

‘Figures,’ he thought. ‘Success breeds parasites.’

Still, even with the price hike, it wasn’t enough to cripple his profit margins. He could absorb it easily. Especially since the entire newbie town was now desperate for potions and willing to pay whatever it took.

Ren swept through the auction house like a shark for the third time, snatching up all the herbs he needed — the Tier 1 basics that everyone had overlooked until now.

Each swipe of the buy button tightened his available cash, but he didn’t even blink.

Next stop back to the Alchemy Guild.

This time, he had to rent an alchemy lab properly.

Being a Junior Instructor gave him two free hours a day, but after that, it was a flat rental fee — a fair price, based on time used. Nothing outrageous, but enough to remind him that nothing in life was free.

He didn’t mind.

He already knew the next batch was going to sell out just as fast, maybe even faster.

Because the vultures had already swooped in.

On the way back from the auction, Ren spotted it: players in the plaza selling his potions at double the original price.

Double.

And the worst part?

They were actually succeeding.

Players—especially guild members who now had shareholders breathing down their necks to level faster—were throwing silver around like it was nothing, desperate to get an edge.

Sure, to a casual observer, it might look like a bad deal.

Double the price?

For a potion that technically only healed a little faster?

But if you were bleeding out mid-fight and had a 20% better chance to survive because of an instant heal, you didn’t give a damn about cost.

‘Greed is a hell of a drug,’ Ren thought, amused.

And that greed would be the key to his next wave.

What the crowds didn’t know was that more potions — many, many more — would hit the market soon.

He checked his internal clock.

Almost shift change time.

Smiling, Ren pushed open the heavy alchemy lab doors, herbs packed into his bag, and got ready for the next brewing session.

‘Let’s see how crazy they get when I flood the market again.’

He’d already sent the first batches of instant potions to the Scrap Rats who were actively playing. It wasn’t the full 20 he’d promised them yet, but it was enough to keep them in the fight for now. The ones who hadn’t logged in didn’t need potions, obviously, which took a lot of pressure off. With that handled, he could finally shift focus to what really mattered—selling potions for coin.

Ren decided it wouldn’t be a bad time for him to take a break. He had been running nonstop for hours, and even though it wasn’t physical labor, potion crafting was an enormous drain on his stamina and mental capacity.

He could feel it too. His focus wasn’t as sharp, and even though the mistakes hadn’t come yet, he knew better than to push it.

He was still sitting consistently at 85%. Sure, most players would be over the moon  with 84% success. Ren, though, had way too much pride in his alchemy to accept that. Getting an 84% or, god forbid, 83% success rate on potions he knew he could brew in his sleep? That would destroy him. It already annoyed him enough that the System wouldn’t let him show his true 100% potential, throttling him just because he was still technically Tier 1.

What was a nice bonus, though, was the EXP stacking up on his sheet. Towerbound was divided into two progression systems.

There was General EXP, which went toward leveling up a character’s main class, and Secondary Profession EXP, which pushed secondary jobs like alchemy, blacksmithing, tailoring, and the rest.

That was one of the big reasons why, in his first life, he’d been a level 10 cleric but an insanely high-tiered alchemist.

He hadn’t cared about leveling up and fighting. He had cared about potion perfection and not getting murdered.

Ren pulled up his message list and fired off a quick PM to Folo.

Ren: Hey, I’m heading back to real life early. I’m dead tired. I’ll be offline for about an hour.

Folo sent back a laughing emoji and a thumbs up.

Folo: All good! Having a blast here. I’ll log out after the hour’s up so I can pass the helmet.

Folo was having a blast in-game, and there was no way he was giving up the hour he had left. This was his scheduled fun, his one slice of escape from real life. Hell, his original fight with Kanuka had started because he tried to jump the queue. Things had smoothed over since then, but one thing hadn’t changed: Folo wasn’t giving up a single minute early. Not for free. Not for anything.

Ren smiled a little. ‘Good. Everything was going according to plan.’

Before logging out, he sent one final group message to the Scrap Rats.

Ren explained to the Scrap Rats that he’d be offline for about an hour, but before he logged out, he made sure everyone knew the plan.

“Enjoy your potions,” he said, waving toward the bundles they’d all received. “And keep grinding. The next phase of our money-making scheme is almost here.”

They’d each gotten six potions—three healing, three either mana or focus depending on their role. To make sure he didn't look like he was just profiting off of the pickup group, he made sure to remind them of the fact that he knew how much he still owed them.

He reminded them that six potions at 40 copper apiece wasn’t anywhere near the four gold they’d each contributed to the guild’s shared fund. And that the remaining gold was still going to be used for his big plans.

The only ones who hadn’t chipped in the full four gold were the two new mages, Cade and Marlow. They’d sent money, sure, but not enough to cover the cost of full stacks. As a result, their potion packs were a little lighter than everyone else’s. Nothing personal. Just math.

They all nodded. They understood.

This was a business. A slum-born, potions-fueled empire in the making.

A flurry of excited pings followed.

Some were just happy to have their potions incoming.

Some were happy to know their credits hadn’t mysteriously vanished.

And some, like Mira, just sent back “About time!!!!!!” with what seemed like twenty exclamation marks.

Ren chuckled, leaned back, and logged out.

For it was time for a well-earned break.

Ren pulled off his gaming helmet with a tired sigh, blinking as the bright fluorescent lights of the dormitory stabbed at his eyes.

His muscles ached, his brain felt like a wrung-out sponge, and the gaming helmet was slick with honest, hard-earned sweat.

He wiped it down with a battered rag — it was practically a dorm rule at this point — and set it gently aside.

The gaming helmets allowed a person to play for 18 hours a day safely—without frying their brain or overtaxing their neurons. But it was uncomfortable playing that long with such crappy gear. Anyone who’d ever worn something that covered their head for hours on end would get it. Sure, in-game you didn’t feel it—but the moment you logged out, oh yeah, it hit hard. Nausea. Headache. And that gross, swampy heat trapped under the helmet like it had tried to steam-cook your brain.

If they had one of those fancy dive pods, the kind that cost 20,000 credits and made you feel refreshed after a session? Maybe then it’d be fine. But yeah—no way they were affording one of those any time soon.

Still it was already paying off.

Not in credits—yet—but in something harder to measure and far more valuable: morale.

For the first time in forever, every single person in the dorm had a shared goal. A reason to get up. A reason to take turns and work hard and keep the cycle going.

They didn’t have much—but now they had each other, a plan, and a reason to believe that maybe there was reason to get out of bed besides not starving as a goal.

Folo was still logged in, hammering away happily in the game for the final hour of the shift.

That left Ren in the dorm, finally able to breathe.

He glanced at the time: he had a full hour before the next swap.

Enough for a quick shower, a drink, and maybe — if he was lucky — some glorious unconsciousness.

Still, duty first.

He pulled out the helmet that had been passed around and prepped it for the next person: Peter.

Peter was one of the newer guys in the dorm, barely nineteen, with sharp eyes and the kind of energy that made Ren think of a cat about to knock something off a table.

Big muscles, gentle hands. Thinks “tank” and “gardener” go great together. In real life, he harvested plants around the slums for food or trade. In-game, he planned to tank monsters in the morning and picks herbs in the afternoon. A walking contradiction with a mortar and pestle.

Smart move.

Herbalists could make serious money supporting alchemists like Ren later on, and Peter clearly had his eye on that long-term payout.

“You ready for this?” Ren asked as Peter came bouncing over, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Yup gimme the helmet,” Peter said, grabbing the gaming helmet.

Ren chuckled.

“Good attitude,” Ren said, already stretching out his stiff arms.

“And hey — tell the Scrap Rats when you see them that more potions are coming soon. Just had to take a little break.”

Peter gave a salute and dropped into his cot, like he was falling into a pool.

Ren watched him lose his consciousness into the virtual world and smiled to himself.

‘Phase One: a success. Phase Two: profit and domination.’

He headed off toward the showers, every step aching but his spirits flying high.

CHAPTER 42

POV ; KANUKA’S WORKPLACE

Kanuka wiped the sweat from his face with the edge of his apron, the scent of grilling meat thick in the air as the fire popped behind him. Peak hour at the barbecue stall was brutal, the kind of non stop hustle that left your arms sore, your shirt soaked, and your patience hanging by a thread.

“Hey Kanuka, how’s gaming going?” someone shouted from across the smoke-filled kitchen.

“It’s going great,” Kanuka called back, still flipping skewers with practiced speed.

“I heard you guys bought gaming helmets for 2000 credits,” another voice piped up from the prep line. “I heard you even bought TWO helmets?”

Word traveled fast in the slums. Too fast.

“We did,” Kanuka said simply.

“So how much have you made? Tens of thousands yet?” another worker yelled with a laugh, pushing a rack of seasoned meat toward the grill.

“Ha! Hardly. It’s only been a day,” Kanuka said, still half-smiling. “Come on.”

“So how much exactly?” someone pressed.

“Well… last we checked, almost a thousand credits.”

“Ooooooh,” the mocking was immediate and loud. “You almost made a quarter of your money back!”

Kanuka kept his hands moving over the grill. “Yeah, but it’s only been a day. It’s still not too late to get in.”

“Oh come on, that’s what you said last time!” someone behind him barked. “Remember the cooking pots? You were all ‘get in early,’ ‘trending hot product,’ and what did you make? Jack. You ended up selling them at a loss and begging the neighbors to take the rest.”

Kanuka’s jaw tightened. “Shut up,” he muttered.

“Now you want us to jump in too? Nah, I think I’ll keep my credits where I can see them,” another guy cackled. “We live in the slums, man. We don’t need pipe dreams—we need rent money.”

The laughter echoed through the stall, mixing with the snap of fire and the hiss of meat fat dripping onto hot steel. But Kanuka stayed quiet, lips pressed thin as he kept flipping ribs and skewers.

‘They’ll see,’ he thought. ‘They’ll all see.’

And with the sizzling meat behind him and smoke rising into the open air, Kanuka let the noise fade, already thinking about the next shift. About Ren. About the Scrap Rats.

About proving them all wrong.

***

POV : DORMITORY

Ren stretched and cracked his neck, feeling the tension snap down his spine.

He needed the break. His focus had started to slip, and that was dangerous when brewing. So he laid down on his cot, eyes shut, not quite asleep but not fully awake either. That weird in-between state. His body was resting, but his mind kept turning, running through the next steps in his plan. What to do next. How to keep pushing forward.

And it hit him fast.

The first dungeon.

The first real dungeon was already starting to open up on the map.

It was a Fire Dungeon — low level, only allowed for players at Level 8, but it was already attracting parties like moths to a flame.

Literally.

Ren smirked to himself.

‘Perfect. That’s where the next money’s going to be.’

Unlike him, who had been splitting experience with his team and running side scams and potion sales, plenty of players had already hit Level 5.

And even in Greenwild Cross, despite the huge brawl slowing things down, most of the serious grinders would be Level 5 within another 6–7 hours.

Meaning…

Dungeon time.

And dungeons meant death.

Death meant players panicking.

Panicking players meant potions flying off the shelves.

Sure, his instant potions were going to come in handy in the first dungeon run. But something else mattered even more.

The Fire Dungeon was infamous for its early-level burn debuffs and relentless ambient heat damage—making resistance potions and debuff-cleansing brews the real MVPs when it came to surviving the first few floors.

Every few seconds you were inside, you took passive fire damage — even without getting attacked.

If you didn’t have fire resistance potions?

You were screwed.

Ren grinned to himself.

Most players were still buying basic healing potions or mana potions.

Nobody was buying resistance potions yet.

But he would be brewing them

He quickly thought up the old crafting recipe he remembered from his first life.

Low-Grade Fire Resistance Potion:

●      2x Scorchleaf

●      1x Emberthorn Sap

●      1x Clearlight Water

All Tier 1 ingredients.

In fact, he figured, by the time the public realized they needed fire resistance potions, the cost of Scorchleaf and Emberthorn would at least triple.

‘Buy low, sell high,’ thought Ren with satisfaction. ‘Capitalism, baby.’

He pulled out his basic tablet, opened the Towerbound Auction app, and started scanning the listings.

Prices were still cheap.

Too cheap.

He started snapping up every Scorchleaf, Emberthorn Sap, and Clearlight Water he could find at low prices. He also grabbed more ingredients for his instant potions, naturally—along with anything else that was starting to creep up in price but hadn’t yet passed his mental cut-off.

In Towerbound, players didn’t have to live fully in-game to stay competitive. As long as your account was active, you could access auxiliary features like the Auction House and personal mailbox through the mobile companion app or desktop overlay—something Ren planned to exploit to the fullest.

It was one of the biggest advantages he had, and it let him set up a system that looked casual on the surface but was actually a finely tuned machine. The idea was simple: Ren would keep brewing potions whenever he was logged in, but the rest of the 10-man dormitory—the Scrap Rats—would keep tabs on the Auction House from outside the game. Their job? Buy anything under a certain price threshold: cheap reagents, rare herbs, discounted alchemy materials. If it was even slightly under Ren’s estimated market value, they were to grab it.

And because Towerbound was notorious for its unhackable, ironclad firewall system, there was no way to automate this. No bots. No scripts. You couldn’t just run a price sniping macro. The devs had locked that door tight. In fact, the devs themselves were a mystery—no public announcements, no media interviews, no publisher disclosures. Towerbound had just… appeared. Fully formed. Brutally efficient. And better than anything else on the market.

Which meant Ren’s setup—ten people, rotating shifts, always online in some form—was perfect.

The biggest benefit? There was always someone awake and watching. Someone at the laundromat. On break at the bakery. Coming home from construction. Someone with a phone and a task.

To make it work, Ren had split his remaining five gold evenly and mailed coins to every member of the dorm. The mailing fee cost one copper per envelope, so he planned the breakdown in advance, making sure everyone had at least some purchasing power.

Was it clunky? Sure. But until they had an official guild bank or merchant access set up, this was the workaround. It was a trick from his past life—one of the quiet little secrets only serious crafters figured out after months of trial and error.

This time Ren was using it in week one.

The Fire Dungeon might have technically unlocked… but practically speaking, it was still completely off-limits.

Sure, the entrance had appeared — a jagged, smoking fissure out in the scorched fields beyond Greenwild Cross — but no one was going anywhere near it for real.

Level Requirement: Level 8+

Maximum Party Size: 10

And there was no cheating it.

Towerbound wasn’t like other games where you could “sneak past” the early monsters or hug the wall to avoid aggro.

The second you crossed the threshold into the dungeon proper, a binding system marker latched onto your character.

If you didn’t meet the minimum level and party requirements, you were forcibly ejected with a system warning, and your gear would lose 5% durability as a penalty for trying to cheese it.

It was Towerbound’s polite way of saying: “Get good or get lost.”

Right now?

Nobody in Greenwild Cross — not even the hardcore solo grinders — was anywhere close to level 8.

Most players were still hanging at level 4 or 5.

Even Prosperous Guild’s elites were only brushing level 6, and that was after pouring real-world credits into potions, repairs, and gear upgrades.

The dungeon stood there, looming like a cruel joke.

A reminder that Towerbound wasn’t going to hand out victories for free.

Still, the buzz was growing.

People were already talking — already planning.

Everyone knew that once the first teams hit level 8, there would be a mad scramble to claim the first dungeon clear.

Guilds were sharpening their blades, recruiting like mad, and quietly buying up any supplies they thought they might need.

Healing potions. Focus gear. Mana restoration.

And guess what was starting to become worth its weight in gold?

Instant potions.

Ren’s early brewing spree had unintentionally created a goldmine — one he hadn’t even fully realized yet.

Back in real life, he was just casually stretching, sipping lukewarm tea from a chipped mug, without a single clue that the market was about to explode.

He’d timed it perfectly, by accident.

And when he got back into Towerbound?

The real fun was going to start.

CHAPTER 43

POV : PROSPEROUS GUILD

Victor slammed his palm on the table. The digital map of Towerbound rippled from the impact.

“Why. Don’t. We. Have. A level 10 alchemist. Yet.”

The guild officers froze.

Nobody wanted to answer.

Finally, Jules—the poor bastard stuck managing crafting logistics—cleared his throat. “Because nobody’s passed the test yet. Literally no one in the game is level 10 yet, and even if they were, you can’t make real potions until you pass the alchemist exam. System-locked.”

Victor blinked slowly. “Then explain to me how some rando is selling great-grade potions like it’s a lemonade stand.”

“We don’t know,” Jules said, voice tight. “He didn’t do it through the normal chains. No guild. No trainer history. He just passed the test somehow. First one in the game.”

Victor pointed a finger at him. “Then figure it out. Or at least hire the bastard.”

Lena from Outreach piped in. “We already tried. We offered him a thousand credits a month, right after his first sales went up.”

“And?”

“He turned us down.”

Victor stared. “Did another guild poach him?”

“Nope,” Lena said, shoulders sagging. “He said he ‘preferred to stay independent.’”

Victor stared for another second, then let out a short bark of laughter.

“These solo players. They think they’re going to conquer the world with dreams and elbow grease. They don’t get it. This is the age of big guilds. That’s a fact.”

The room nodded along.

Because it was a fact.

Big guilds weren’t stupid. This wasn’t their first VR MMORPG. Even though Towerbound was a new title, some truths were eternal: you needed a guild to reach the top. To win. To profit. To dominate.

Crafting wasn’t optional. You needed alchemists. Enchanters. Smiths. Full-time roles backed by guild funding. No solo player could keep that up. Not for long. The time investment, the resources—it was too much. Eventually, everyone joined a guild. Or burned out.

The only reason this guy hadn’t yet was probably because the game had just launched.

Victor grumbled, “It’s not like we’re standing around with our thumbs up our asses going derp derp derp, wondering if we need an alchemist.”

Everyone in the room stiffened—but only because they knew exactly what he meant. The guilds had seen this kind of game before. It wasn’t their first VRMMO, and every single one of them knew: alchemists were always essential.

Healing. Buffs. Resistance brews. You couldn’t raid, you couldn’t siege, you couldn’t even grind late-game content without potions. This wasn’t some surprise twist. It was standard MMORPG 101.

And yet, here they were—watching a solo player lap them before the starter town dust had even settled.

There were a few strained chuckles.

“We knew it was important,” Jules said. “We just physically haven’t been able to pass the exam yet.”

Victor looked over. “Then offer him more. Try two thousand credits a month.”

2,000 credits a month in District 1 was solid. It covered rent, paid for good meals, and gave you room to breathe.

In fact, with 2,000 credits a month, if you didn’t mind scoping out the rougher corners of the listings, you could even start looking at places in District 2.

That’s why the big guilds always started strong. They didn’t log in with five pieces of copper and a wooden stick. They came in preloaded with credits, real-world investors, and a war chest that could outbid small nations. At launch, they pumped money into the economy like it was a prize pool. Bought up resources. Cornered the market. Hired crafters, scouts, testers, streamers. Took over before half the player base even learned to dodge-roll.

Ren had taken this offer in his first life. 2,000 credits a month,and a starter home in District 2, steady pay, and a promise of stability. In his first life, that had sounded like salvation. He signed the dotted line, thinking he was finally free.

But jobs like that always came with strings.

A collar.

A leash, handed over to the Prosperous Guild.

It wasn’t bad though, that 2,000 credits and a small house had turned into 5,000 credits a month and an apartment in shiny District 10 when he kept proving his worth. Which made it all the more brutal when Prosperous decided to cut him loose.

Looking back, he should’ve known it was coming.

This time?

No leash.

No collar.

And absolutely no dotted line.

Lena nodded, already sending a new message.

Thirty seconds passed.

“No reply this time,” she muttered.

Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Rude little bastard.”

Another officer chimed in, “What if he’s one of those nutcases who thinks they can stay independent forever?”

“Then he’ll be sorry when we build our own alchemy division,” Victor growled. “For now, just buy out all his potions.”

“They’re cheap,” someone added. “About the same price as the NPCs.”

Victor nodded. “Good. He’s not trying to gouge us. That makes it easier. But track every batch. Every post. Every pattern.”

Potions were just the surface.

What this really was—was leverage. The kind no one else had, not yet.

And if there was one thing Prosperous Guild couldn’t stand, it was losing control.

***

One of the reasons nobody realized Lantern Light Dungeon required fire resistance… was because nobody knew it was a fire dungeon.

In Towerbound, the devs loved to name dungeons by their lore significance, not by their actual combat mechanics.

Lantern Light Dungeon sounded peaceful — even inviting.

Like a cozy cavern lit with soft, flickering lanterns, maybe haunted by sad ghost NPCs at worst.

But the real lore?

It was way darker.

The Lantern Light Dungeon had been, according to Towerbound’s background files, the remains of a collapsed underground settlement — a mining town built too close to a volatile mana fault.

When the mana veins cracked and surged, it didn’t just destroy the mines.

It ignited the very air.

The miners and their families had been trapped inside — their lanterns burning hotter and hotter until the entire cavern turned into a seething inferno.

What little survived from those days were just echoes: twisted spirits wandering through a red-lit maze of collapsed tunnels, flickering between physical and mana form, driven half-mad by the searing pain that had ended their lives.

Hence the name.

Lantern Light.

Because it was a graveyard of fire.

None of this was spelled out for players in the starter town, of course.

Unless you had bothered to read deep into the dusty old lore books, buried in obscure NPC side quests, there was no way you would guess.

Everyone just assumed it was a “light dungeon.”

Maybe some gentle ghost fights.

Maybe darkness based monsters.

Nobody was preparing for the reality — an endless sea of flames, heat damage over time, burning floors, and fire elemental mobs.

Ren, lying there half-asleep during his break, didn’t remember all the details yet either.

In his previous life, Ren had gone all in on alchemy. Not adventuring. Not the quests. Definitely not dungeon crawling. Sure, he remembered the first dungeon—vaguely. Like a blurry screenshot someone had posted long ago in a forum thread you barely skimmed.

Ask him what potions to bring into it? He could give you a full inventory list, including backup brews, buff rotations, and what to avoid mixing unless you wanted your insides to light on fire.

But ask him about the actual layout? Traps? Boss mechanics? Yeah, no. That had never been his job.

He wasn’t the guy who charged in swinging. He was the guy sitting in the back, tweaking reagent ratios and muttering about mana stabilization while everyone else screamed about flame spirits and loot drops.

In his old guild, he only paid attention to dungeons when someone handed him a recipe request. “We’re doing Frostgut Caverns, Ren, we need frost resistance pots, stat.” That kind of thing.

His memory was good. His alchemy memory? Excellent. But dungeon layouts?

Not his lane. Not then. And not really now.

But once he saw the name Lantern Light Dungeon trending on the world newsfeed?

His memory was already screaming.

Fire resistance potions were about to become the most valuable thing in Greenwild Cross.

Time to work.

First step: Keep sweeping the reagents for the basic instapotions again.

Only… the prices had jumped.

Again.

Not by a ton — about another 20% — but it was obvious now that the black market sellers were starting to corner the market.

They weren’t stupid.

Players had noticed that certain herbs, like Tendon Grass, Heartleaf, and Mistroot, were disappearing from the shelves.

Some of the smarter ones had put two and two together.

Ren still bought what he could at a reasonable rate, sticking to the herbs that hadn’t spiked up into stupid prices.

But the ones that had?

The ones that were cutting into his precious profit margins?

He left them alone.

‘Better to skip it than get trapped paying scalper prices,’ Ren thought. He wouldn’t need them anytime soon.

‘Coins are about to be needed somewhere way more important.’

Because he had seen the Lantern Light news trending.

And he knew.

The real jackpot wasn’t basic healing potions anymore.

It was going to be fire resistance potions.

And unlike the black market idiots scrambling over Tendon Grass and Mistroot, nobody had yet realized what was about to happen.

Not yet.

Ren quickly switched his search filters.

He looked for the ingredients he knew he would need for the basic Flameproof Draught, Towerbound’s first-tier fire resistance potion:

●      Cindershade Petals – rare tier 1 herb that absorbed ambient heat.

●      Smokereed Stalks – swamp plant known for resisting burning.

●      Ashleaf – common herb, dry and crumbly, used as a stabilizer.

●      Manaweed Dust – common mana-enhancing powder necessary for binding.

The first three were the critical ones.

He didn’t even hesitate.

Every.

Single.

Listing.

Bought out.

It wasn’t cheap.

Cindershade Petals were already expensive because they were a rare spawn in rocky hot zones.

Smokereed wasn’t that bad, but the few bundles on the market still cost more than what a newbie could usually afford.

Ashleaf and Manaweed Dust were thankfully cheap — common junk herbs nobody thought much about.

Until now.

By the time he was finished, Ren’s fat little coin purse was completely drained.

Not a single silver left.

Not even a copper rattling in the bottom.

He’d even slipped those specific ingredients onto the shared shopping list for the rest of the dorm guys—quietly nudging them to help stock up without making a big deal about it.

He leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

‘Perfect. Now all that’s left is to brew like my life depends on it.’

Because soon, it actually would.

And when the panic hit?

When the first player groups stormed into Lantern Light Dungeon and started screaming about being burned alive?

Ren was going to be the only person in the world sitting on a mountain of fire resistance potions.

And this time?

No guilds. No betrayals. No lost chances.

Just credits.

Tons and tons of credits.

The hour had passed, and now Ren’s leisurely time buying reagents through the app was officially over.

Folo had returned, handing Ren the helmet with a big, satisfied grin.

Ren’s original helmet was now being used by Peter, who had left an hour earlier for his own game shift.

“Did you have a good time?” Ren asked casually as he passed the cleaning cloth over the helmet—no way he was sticking it on without at least wiping the sweat off.

Folo practically beamed. “That was amazing.”

Ren laughed. “Good. Glad you had fun.”

He meant it. Even though Ren himself was feeling a little tired—surprisingly, even after an hour break—he had another six-hour shift to grind through before he could finally take a real nap.

No way was he wasting another minute.

Ren jammed the helmet on, flopped back onto his cot, and logged into Towerbound.

As soon as he materialized in the Alchemy Guild’s crafting room, he pulled up his inventory and immediately got to work.

First, he went through the pile of ingredients he had swept up for his upgraded basic potions—health, mana, and focus.

He got into a smooth rhythm, mixing and brewing. His movements were fast but precise, a blur of practiced gestures. Even with the price hike earlier, he had enough materials to crank out a massive batch.

Potion after potion slid into his finished stockpile—beautiful, clean instant-effect potions that solo players were going to kill for.

This time, Ren hadn’t stopped at a measly three-hour brew session.

Nope.

Six hours.

Six hours of furious, focused, potion-fueled productivity. Bottle after bottle of Instant Health. Instant Mana. Instant Focus. The entire room reeked of crushed herbs, stabilized acids, volatile essences—and a faint touch of victory.

If his first “Black Friday” sale had been big, this one was going to be monstrous. People had tasted his brews. At first, they were a luxury—hoarded, used sparingly, only popped in emergencies like health insurance with a deductible. But now?

Now the Lantern light Dungeon was days away. One of the first real tests in Towerbound, with a rumored first clear window for players around Level 8. Everyone was preparing. Everyone was bracing. And everyone wanted to be the one who got that coveted system-wide first clear alert.

Ren could feel it in the air. That shift.

This wasn’t just about playing for fun anymore.

It was about speed. Prestige. Bragging rights.

It was like punching a ticket to the playoffs—a sign you weren’t just playing the game anymore. You were in it to win.

And no one was skimping.

Every group, every wannabe guild, every half-organized raid squad now needed his potions. Because adventuring without them? That wasn’t strategy.

That was losing the race before it even started..

‘Good,’ Ren thought, stacking another full crate of neatly labeled bottles. ‘Let them rush. Let them panic. I’ve got what they need.’

The real money wasn’t in swinging swords.

It was in selling the bandages.

He flagged down Guildmaster Harkin, who was still chuckling over the last sale.

“Got a few leftovers,” Ren said, tapping his bag. “Mind if I set up another mini-sale?”

Harkin grinned, all toothy and pleased.

“’Course not! Anything that makes the Alchemist Guild look good—and gives us a cut—is fine by me.”

He sent out a second announcement, a quick pulse through the local area:

[Announcement]:

Special Limited Potion Sale at the Alchemist Guild! Starting NOW! First come, first served!

The reaction was immediate.

Players came sprinting back toward the guild, tripping over themselves, yelling and elbowing.

Even though it had only been seven hours since the first sale, the hunger was still there—especially among solo players and small-party adventurers who hadn’t gotten a chance the first time.

The black market scalpers?

They were livid.

Ren caught sight of a few lurking near the back, glaring daggers at him.

They had just managed to flip some of his earlier potions at double price… and now here he was, undercutting them all over again, with fresh stock.

‘Too bad,’ Ren thought, almost humming as he organized the mini-sale window.

He didn’t change the price much either. Still cheap, a little bit above NPC prices, but still undercutting the scalpers without mercy.

If anything, it was even funnier this time.

Because now, players knew the potions would vanish fast—and they scrambled even harder.

A line started forming, snaking around the guild entrance.

Ren, lounging behind the store counter, looked like the picture of innocence.

“Three potions max per person,” he said cheerfully as he handed over bottles. “No exceptions. No ‘my cat needs one too’ stories. Thanks for shopping!”

Coins kept pouring in, faster than he could count.

And every sale?

Another dagger in the heart of the scalpers.

They glared, muttered, complained loudly about “dirty undercutting,” but there was nothing they could do.

Ren was an official Alchemist Guild instructor now.

He was untouchable here.

It was beautiful.

By the time the mini-sale ended, he had cleared out everything he wanted to move.

And the black market boys were left grumbling, stuck holding overpriced goods nobody wanted anymore.

‘Maybe next time,’ Ren thought smugly, ‘they’ll think twice before trying to gouge people.’

He tucked away the fresh coins into his system wallet with a satisfied smirk.

Step one of his empire was going better than he could have dreamed.

And he was just getting started.

—

CHAPTER 44

By the time the second mini-sale ended, Ren had cleared out everything he wanted to move—and all of it for coins, not credits.

He hadn’t transferred anything yet.

No way was he cashing out this early.

Coins were still more useful inside the game than credits outside.

Besides, he was still riding the auction house, still buying reagents, and still preparing for the real money-makers down the line.

He tucked the growing pile of silver and copper away into his inventory with a satisfied smirk.

Ren had  earned another 40 silver total from that 6-hour batch.

If Ren was looking at straight numbers—and he wasn’t—then yeah, 40 silver was laughable. Barely a dent in the 30 gold he’d already torched on reagents. By the math alone, he was losing. But that’s the thing: Ren wasn’t playing Towerbound like a merchant trying to stay solvent. He was playing like a future tycoon loading up on stocks before anyone else even knew there was a market.

His reagent stockpile had grown so massive that he’d had to unlock another warehouse slot—cringing at the fee but knowing it was necessary. Alchemical ingredients of every tier, color, rarity, and disturbing side effects were now sitting safely under lock and key, waiting to be turned into currency. Into power.

The rest of the dorm? They had no clue. They probably thought he still had a gold or two tucked away somewhere, sipping mana tea and humming over bubbling beakers.

Nope.

Ren was broke.

Poor, poor, poor.

The kind of broke where you skip vendor meals and pray your staff doesn’t break because you definitely can’t afford repairs. But that was how it worked—both in Towerbound and in real life. You didn’t win by being comfortable. You won by pushing while everyone else was still scrambling.

People like Kanuka’s workmates might laugh, but they didn’t understand investment. They didn’t see the storm brewing.

Ren did.

He knew that the window was closing. That soon, every guild, every crafter, every auction-flipping parasite was going to figure out how valuable reagents were. Prices would spike. Demand would explode.

And when that happened? He’d be ready.

—

There was another reason why Ren still hadn’t exchanged his coins into credits.

The exchange.

The Tower hadn’t appeared. The monsters hadn’t come. But that didn’t matter.

He remembered how things used to work—and how quietly they stopped.

How the banks began stepping away from Towerbound’s exchange system long before anyone noticed. Long before there was any talk of danger.

No, the truth was way more boring—and way scarier.

In Ren’s first life, the banks had pulled out of Towerbound’s exchange system long before the first signs of the Tower ever showed up.

And they didn’t do it because of some panic.

They did it because of pure greed and fear.

Towerbound had exploded into a financial monster.

Real-world credits could buy in-game coins.

In-game coins could be exchanged back for real-world credits.

It had been a dream for players.

And a disaster brewing for banks.

Anonymous transactions, shady laundering schemes, virtual currencies bouncing through dummy corporations across the globe.

It didn’t take long before governments started poking around and regulators started sharpening their knives.

The banks weren’t about to wait for the hammer to fall.

So at the six-month mark, without warning, they pulled the plug.

No more coin-to-credit exchanges.

Officially, it was about “protecting financial integrity.”

Unofficially, they’d already made their money and didn’t want to get caught holding the bag.

After that?

If you wanted credits, you had to go through the black market.

And the rates doubled, then tripled, practically overnight.

Coins became way more valuable than credits.

Ren remembered the panic.

He remembered the desperate players who had cashed out early, thinking they were smart—only to realize later they’d crippled themselves.

He wasn’t going to make that mistake.

Every coin he hoarded now would be worth twice—maybe three times—as much six months down the road.

That’s why he hadn’t changed anything yet.

He had an agreement with the Scrap Rats: after one month, everyone could take some of their earnings in credits if they wanted.

Ren had already budgeted for that.

But for everything else?

He was hoarding like a dragon on a gold pile.

Because when the coin blockage showed up—and it would—he wasn’t going to be caught broke and desperate again.

—

After more brewing Ren needed a break.

It wasn’t an action-packed shift, but six hours of potion brewing had again taken a toll on his mental state. Stir, bottle, seal, repeat—over and over, with no explosions or flashy spell effects to liven it up. Just hard work, focused effort, and that constant pressure to make sure every brew counted.

He passed his helmet to Cameron with a glazed look in his eyes.

“Have fun, bro,” he slurred, then face planted onto his creaky mattress and passed out like a man who had been hit with a double sleep debuff and a weighted blanket spell.

The rest of the dorm didn’t say a word.

They’d seen him grinding. They might not have known how much he’d made, but everyone could see the work he was putting in. Hours of alchemy. Auction house runs. Setting things up so they could all benefit. Making sure, day by day, that when the first payday rolled around, there’d actually be something to show for it.

And getting paid? That meant everything.

Because right now, Towerbound was still just hope. The kind of fragile, flickering hope that lived in quiet dreams and late-night talks. Nobody had cashed out yet. Nobody had seen the coins hit their real-world balance. Not yet.

But they could feel it coming.

And when that happened—when those first credits landed in their hands—it wouldn’t be hope anymore.

It would be a full-on raging horse galloping through their hearts and minds. A stampede of belief, charging straight through doubt and poverty and tired days working dead-end jobs.

Cameron grabbed the helmet, ready to take his first shift.

He knew there was already a pickup group called the Scrap Rats in-game. And now it was his turn to join them.

***

After a solid four-hour nap, Ren woke up with that weird burst of energy that only comes from collapsing mid-thought and waking up in a puddle of your own drool. He blinked at the cracked ceiling, stretched like an old cat, and let out a sigh that could’ve been mistaken for the death rattle of a retired NPC.

Four hours wasn’t a full recharge, sure—but for Ren, it was enough to slap his mental health back into place like a duct-taped healing spell. The real kicker? He didn’t have to do anything for the next two hours. No shift. No game time. No brewing. It was the closest thing to a vacation he’d had since Towerbound launched.

So, he lived like a proper dorm rat.

Instant noodles? Absolutely. He even upgraded to the fancy kind with actual vegetable flakes—like someone had waved a carrot vaguely near it during production.

But he realized he had just eaten his last premium instant noodle pack, which meant one thing: a trip out of the dorm.

The dorm he stayed in was in Zone 4 of District 1. It was a converted textile warehouse, repurposed for cheap living. The rooms were sectioned off by thin plastic partitions and mismatched curtains, with buzzing wall units that worked when they felt like it. Zone 4 itself was a patchwork of errand-runner housing, factory worker hostels, and the occasional side-hustler squat. Not the safest place in the world, but not a death sentence either—assuming you didn’t wear anything too clean or walk too fast.

The buildings leaned like tired drunks, slumped against each other for support. Towers of rusted sheet metal and carbon-patched concrete, windows either cracked or entirely replaced with tarp. Roofs bristled with makeshift solar panels or home-grown antennas wrapped in tinfoil. Cables hung like jungle vines from every overpass, and the smell was always the same: oil, old food, sweat, and smoke.

Ren was heading to Zone 2 today, though. The little market over there had better prices—just barely—but it was enough of a difference to matter when he was stocking up for a month. Four extra packs of the good noodles was worth the trip.

He stepped outside, feeling the air cling to his skin like a wet plastic bag. The smog sat low today, turning the sky a greasy orange-gray that swallowed the sun. Underfoot, gravel crunched with every step, though sometimes that crunch was broken glass, or worse. Sidewalks, if they existed, were uneven slabs of poured cement or recycled plastic, often blocked by parked hoverbikes or local gang kids claiming turf. You learned to walk in the road, dodge traffic, and keep your head down.

It was about a twenty-minute walk.

As he walked, he kept his pace casual, hands in his pockets, gaze drifting. Earth was still a mess, same as it had always been. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew what was coming. The Tower. The merge. The moment this garbage heap would become a warzone dressed up like a video game. But for now, that was tomorrow’s problem. He had to finish building up the Scrap Rats before any of that mattered. No point stressing about climbing the mountain when he was still tripping on a hill.

The Tower, the merge, the incoming madness—it was all still out there, looming like a storm on the horizon. But right now? Right now, he had slippery gravel under his boots and a plan to get good noodles. One step at a time was his mantra.

District 1 sounded like District 1. Construction clanged in the distance. Someone was yelling something incoherently. A siren echoed three blocks away, the kind that didn’t come with a rescue. Life was loud here, sharp around the edges. You got used to it. Or you moved.

Eventually, he reached the grocery shop.

It was tucked into the base of a crumbling ten-story block, next to a gambling den and across from a pawn shop with half its neon letters dead. The store had no name, just a faded awning and a security shutter held up with bricks. Inside, Mrs. Chen stood behind the counter like always, her eyes sharp and her cardigan buttoned.

Ren told her about Towerbound while he loaded up on noodles.

“You can really make money playing that?” she asked, squinting.

“Yes,” Ren said. “We made a thousand credits on the first day.”

“That’s more than my store makes in a month.”

“Right,” Ren nodded. “Only problem is, you need a gaming helmet. Two thousand credits.”

“Who has two thousand credits just lying around?”

“We didn’t. Ten of us pooled together to buy two. And then we shared them.”

Mrs. Chen shook her head. “I’m too old for games.”

“Maybe. But your kids aren’t. Are they still in school?”

“They are.”

“Well, maybe get one for the family. Just think about it. I’m not knocking school, but for us? Slum kids? Getting into Towerbound early might be the smarter play.”

She said she’d think about it. That was good enough for now.

He knew the success he and his dormmates were building in Towerbound would eventually make waves across District 1. But until they had actual credits to throw around, it was just noise. And in District 1, noise was everywhere. Everyone had a story, a scheme, a promise. But people who actually delivered? That was rare. Real rare.

Ren left the shop with two synthetic bags packed full of his precious instant noodles. The bags would dissolve into goo after a day or two, but they’d survive the trip home. As he walked, he passed the flickering holoboards that advertised fake job placements and miracle supplements.

And then, the Vitalis clinic came into view.

Tucked into a converted auto garage, the clinic had a flashing green sign, a steel door, and a dozen people already waiting outside. A single, underpaid doctor stood behind a counter inside, staring at a screen with dead eyes. Vitalis didn’t offer healthcare. They offered profit models disguised as mercy. If you didn’t have insurance, you were out of luck. And in District 1, no one had insurance.

Most of the people waiting looked like Dead Zone divers—sun-scorched, bruised, and twitchy. Guys who risked their lives for scraps of Immersia or leftover tech, hoping to make it big. Sometimes they did. Most times, they didn’t.

Ren passed them without slowing.

He whistled off-key as he walked back through the streets of District 1, the sound half-drowned by construction drills and a baby crying somewhere above. Eventually, he made it back to his dorm.

Same walls. Same flickering lights. Same bed with the mattress a little too short.

But now he had noodles.

Sometimes, that was enough.

He watched some bad TV while his noodles boiled. During commercials he swept the Auction House out of habit, flicking through listings with a greedy gleam in his eye like some kind of broke fantasy stockbroker.

And of course, he dished out unsolicited advice to whoever was in earshot.

“Don’t waste silver on that skill book. It’s trash,” he muttered, spooning salty broth into his mouth. “Also, skip the wolf side quest. The packs respawns weirdly. You’ll just die.”

It was alright.

He didn’t mind doing it. Hell, it made him feel a little like the cool uncle in a sitcom. But deep down, he knew what he really wanted to be doing.

Sipping wine.

Eating fancy cheeses.

Not the plasticky cheese product that came in a wrinkled packet and barely qualified as dairy—no, real cheese. Imported, overpriced, and pretentious. Brie. Camembert. Stuff that made you feel like royalty and gave you digestive problems if you weren’t ready.

In his first life, he’d made it there. A steady guild salary. Alchemy gigs. Mid-tier comfort. Sure, it had all ended with him being sacrificed like a chicken at a cultist picnic—but for a while, he’d had a real taste of the good life.

Now? Back in the slums, even dreaming about cheese felt like a luxury. At best, he could probably afford something labeled “cheez-like.” Maybe spreadable. Maybe not.

He stared at his noodles, shrugged, and slurped them anyway.

‘Someday,’ he thought. ‘I’ll be rich enough to laugh at lactose intolerance again.’

***

Far too soon his break was over.

Ren grabbed one of the helmets, gave it a long sigh, and pulled out the shared cleaning rag from the hook beside the shelf. It smelled like antiseptic, sweat, and bad decisions, but he wasn’t about to slot a crusty helmet onto his head. He scrubbed it clean—forehead, visor, ear pads—especially that one weird spot that looked like someone had coughed a noodle onto it and never confessed.

Only once it passed the sniff test did he nod in approval.

He didn’t even look to see who was grabbing the second helmet. He didn’t care. Everyone had their orders. Grinding, leveling, figuring out their profession. Herbalists were told to gather, crafters were told to craft, and everyone else was told not to be an idiot. He’d made it clear.

Taped right above the helmets was a torn piece of cardboard with his messy writing:

GRIND. LEVEL. PICK YOUR PROFESSION. HERBALISTS—GATHER HERBS. DON’T BE DUMB.

Underneath that, even more scrawled, in a different color marker:

WHO WANTS TO BE GUILD LEADER (NOT REN)

WRITE YOUR NAME HERE:__________

Still blank. No surprise.

None of the Scrap Rats wanted to be in charge. They were just a bunch of slum kids playing Towerbound to escape their lives, not win tournaments. Nobody had experience. Nobody had played VRMMOs professionally. This wasn’t the Prosperous Guild, with corporate backers and guild managers and raid planners with six-figure salaries.

This was the opposite of that.

If the Scrap Rats were a professional league team, they wouldn’t be qualifying for Super Bowls, World Championships, or even their local slum district’s dodgeball finals. They’d be lucky if anyone even knew they existed. Let alone get sponsors or MetaTube viewers.

Yeah, Towerbound was technically brand new. Technically everyone started on equal footing.

But everybody in the world knew that was bullshit.

The big guilds had already started sprinting. They had money, gear, networks, and full-time players. The Scrap Rats had two helmets, some hope, and Ren’s big plans.

But that was fine.

***

CHAPTER 45

POV : KANUKA

Kanuka wasn’t in a rush. The barbecue grill was finally off, his shift was over, and the air still clung to him with the scent of smoke, grease, and grilled meat. But instead of trudging straight back to the 10-man dormitory, he took a detour—one he always looked forward to.

He was going to see his wife.

Yes. His wife.

Not a girlfriend, not a maybe-someday—wife. Gina. They’d been married for almost two years now. And yet, in the twisted economics of dorm life, they lived in separate places. Kanuka in the ten-man dorm with the Scrap Rats, Gina in a ten-woman dorm on the other side of the district. Technically, they could’ve applied for a shared unit. But the price? Triple the rate. One for him, one for her, and one more for the “shared privacy tax.” Neither of them could swing that, especially not with Kanuka investing every spare coin into another new project.

“Kanuka!” Gina spotted him before he reached the entrance, waving from the plastic bench near the community vending machine. “How’s the game going?”

Kanuka grinned and gave her a mock bow. “We’ve made over a thousand credits. In just one day.”

Her eyes widened. “No way.”

He nodded, still catching his breath. “Yup. It’s going well. Honestly, better than I hoped. It’s not a fluke this time.”

Gina beamed. She always believed in him. Even when no one else did. When he’d failed selling cookware—pans, pots, ceramic mugs with slogans like ‘World’s Best Slum Chef’—she hadn’t mocked him. She’d helped him carry the boxes door to door, selling at a loss with nothing but a smile and a weary back. That was love.

“You see? I told you,” she said, squeezing his arm. “You’re good at things when you stick with them.”

Kanuka chuckled. “Don’t worry, darling. When this pays off, we’ll buy another helmet and maybe get some of the girls in your dorm in on it.”

“Oh, that’d be great,” Gina said, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I don’t know how many of them would do it, though. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Not everyone’s as lucky as we are. Most people don’t have a group of ten guys dumb enough to trust each other with a shared dream.”

“Lucky if I can keep a hairbrush from getting stolen,” she muttered.

“I know it sucks,” he said, wrapping an arm around her. “But someday soon, it’s gonna be just me and you. Married couple dorm.”

She laughed. “You mean the four-room building with the screaming babies and the thin-ass walls?”

“Hey, hey, twice the bed size. That’s luxury.”

“And zero soundproofing. Which means I get to hear three other couples argue, bang, and cry in rotation.”

“That’s love, baby,” he said with a smirk, kissing the top of her head. “That’s slum romance.”

She laughed again. “So when’s your next shift?”

“After this. I just needed a reset. Hanging out with you is like… clearing a debuff.”

“Aww,” she said, mock-blushing. “That’s the most romantic slum-like compliment I’ve ever heard.”

They sat for a while longer, holding hands in the dusty courtyard beneath flickering lights. The public benches were warped, the vending machine was always half-broken, and the security cams didn’t work.

They’d be lucky if the SecuriCorps were keeping an eye on anything at all in this part of town. Most days, it felt like District 1 ran itself—barely—on scraps, favors, and the unspoken rule that if you didn’t draw too much attention, you might just get through the week.

But it was their little spot. Their tiny, kinda quiet slice of something normal.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was theirs. And for both of them, that was enough. For now.

***

POV : DORMITORY

Ren didn’t know what was going on in the dormitory. He didn’t know if anyone was off working a double work shift, or making small talk with their wives, or slurping instant noodles.

And honestly?

He didn’t care.

He was back in the game.

And he felt fully charged.

Ren didn’t walk into his potion lab—he pranced. He spun on his heel, flicked open his reagent cabinet with flair, and declared to absolutely no one, “It’s a great day for alchemy!”

He wasn’t crafting the usual instant potions either. Nope. Today was Fire Resistance Day. And Ren, self-appointed King of Bubbles and Brews, was in his element.

“Crafting potions, la la la! Stir the flask, don’t let it blast!” he sang, twirling a ladle of molten Dewroot into a bubbling jar. He added a pinch of Ghoulwort, sniffed it dramatically, then shouted, “Perfect!” like a man presenting a gourmet dish on a cooking show.

To him, this wasn’t work. This was happiness distilled into potion form. The scent of heated mana, the shimmer of alchemical foam, the soft clink of glass vials stacking up beside him—it was a symphony. A symphony that only Ren could hear.

He spun around, grabbed a fresh bottle, and warbled, “If I had a million flasks, I’d fill them all with joy,” to the tune of a half-remembered pop song.

The craziest part? He was dead serious.

Cheese, alchemy, not getting stabbed. His top three joys in life. But this—this six-hour alchemy bender? It was number one right now. He was so content it was obnoxious. If happiness had a face, it would’ve been his—half-covered in soot, humming as he dropped reagents with glee.

And he wasn’t just brewing. Oh no. He’d also bought every fire resistance potion in town. All 50 from the NPCs, swiped for 25 copper each—not because he needed them, but because no one else was going to get them.

Why?

Game logic.

In Towerbound, if NPC potions didn’t sell, the game assumed nobody wanted them. So tomorrow, the stock wouldn’t jump to 100. It’d just refill to 50. After all, NPC potion-makers weren’t clairvoyant. They tracked sales, and if their brews didn’t move, they didn’t make more.

Ren knew that.

So while everyone else chuckled at “useless resist potions,” Ren hummed louder and stuffed bottles into his bag.

“Crafting potions, stocking shelves, making flames behave themselves!” he chirped, waving a half-filled vial like a conductor’s baton.

By the time his workstation was surrounded with neatly labeled bottles, his cheeks hurt from grinning.

This wasn’t grinding.

This was joy, bottled.

Quietly, methodically, he began sweeping the auction house again—buying up every reagent he needed for fire resistance potions.

He wasn’t stupid about it.

Scalpers were everywhere now, watching for sudden spikes in herb purchases.

The smarter ones had already noticed his buying patterns and were jumping onto the bandwagon, trying to corner the market.

But Ren had planned for that.

Instead of just buying the three reagents for fire resistance, he constantly mixed in purchases for the next potion series he was planning to brew.

That next series required seven more reagents in total, all scattered and unrelated at first glance.

From the outside?

It looked like some random newbie was panic-buying ingredients without a clue what they were doing.

Perfect.

Let them try to stop him by hoarding reagents—they wouldn’t even know which ones mattered until it was too late.

Besides, even if they guessed right, there was only so much they could do.

The auction houses were dynamic.

Reagents trickled in from newbie gatherers constantly.

There was no clean way to lock it down.

And every minute Ren kept crafting, every potion he brewed, he was growing stronger.

Not in level, but in something way more important to him right now:

Alchemy EXP.

With the hundreds of potions he had already cranked out, his alchemy skill was steadily climbing. He was now Tier 2. Becoming a Tier 2 Alchemist meant one thing: a bump in his base potion success rate. Technically, it was supposed to be a big deal—players celebrated it, guilds announced it, and instructors nodded approvingly like proud teachers watching a kid finally stop eating glue.

For Ren?

It didn’t change a damn thing.

The moment he hit Tier 2, his bonus-stacked, intelligence-boosted, insight-infused stats meant he was already capped again. Whatever percentage increase it gave? He’d already blown past it with raw talent and game-breaking efficiency.

But still…now he could hit 90% on Tier 1 potions. So that was something.

Seeing that tidy little “Tier 2” glow beside his Alchemy Profession gave him a tiny hit of dopamine. Not much. Just enough to make him grin and whisper, “Finally.”

It wasn’t just about stats.

It was a step.

A sign that the game was starting to recognize what he already knew—that he wasn’t just some random slum kid dumping herbs into bottles. He was building something. Getting stronger. Climbing.

And sure, it was only a small number.

But it felt damn good.

Each potion added a tiny sliver of experience, but mass crafting stacked fast.

By now?

He was almost halfway to Alchemy Level 3.

And once he hit that?

Success rates would go up.

Potion quality would improve.

And his profits would spike again.

Ren grinned to himself as he slid another stack of herbs into his crafting bag.

‘Step by step. This time, I’m building an empire.’

Ren didn’t waste a second.

Meanwhile, outside in the market?

The scalpers were scrambling.

They had bet everything on locking down instant potion reagents.

And now—now—there was a sudden new surge in demand for totally different herbs.

Herbs none of them had bothered to hoard.

Prices shot up again.

Arguments broke out in the auction houses.

Randoms who had picked up herbs days ago were suddenly rich.

Scalpers fought scalpers, desperately trying to patch the holes.

And through it all, Ren just kept brewing.

He wasn’t even rushing anymore.

No need.

He had already built the machine.

Now he was just feeding it.

DING.

DING.

DING.

Potion after potion after potion.

Each one a potential coin in the bank.

Each one a step closer to total market domination.

Ren leaned back in his chair, cracked his knuckles, and smiled lazily at the pile growing in his bag.

‘Let’s see them try to stop me now.’

—

The sixth hour of his shift ticked past, but Ren didn’t budge from his workstation. Could’ve been heading back to the dorm, could’ve tagged out for a break. But he wasn’t in the mood.

And more importantly, he didn’t need to.

Thanks to his earlier nap, his brain was firing just fine—sharp, focused, and humming with that weird, caffeinated thrill only alchemists and gamblers understood. His hands were steady. His rhythm was locked in. And Towerbound hadn’t given him the warning.

That was the thing about Towerbound. The devs weren’t idiots. They didn’t want players drooling on themselves or turning into brain-fried zombies after marathon sessions. The system tracked you—eye fatigue, neural strain, whatever—and if you pushed too far, a gentle, ominous notice would pop up:

[Warning: Cognitive Load Approaching Unsafe Threshold. Please log out soon to avoid penalties.]

Ren hadn’t gotten that message.

Not even close.

Which meant one thing—he could keep going. Keep brewing. Keep stockpiling his edge before the rest of the server caught up.

He cracked his knuckles, whistled under his breath, and opened a fresh stack of reagents.

“Alright,” he murmured to himself, grinning like a lunatic. “Let’s cook.”

***

CHAPTER 46

POV : PROSPEROUS GUILD

The battlefield was a mess of flying spells and hacking blades, but Gareth Ironwall’s voice still cut through it like a brick through glass.

“Come on, everybody, fight!”

As the main tank, it was his job to keep the fight stable. Keep everyone alive. Keep Victor looking good. And he did that job well—even if deep down, he wanted to throttle half the team and maybe Victor himself.

Victor was here, and not just here—he was front and center, taking all the last hits, wearing the best gear the guild had in stock, and swinging his wand around like some heroic badass. Was he a good player? Not particularly. Was he a good guild leader? Absolutely not.

So why was he leading?

One reason: his daddy was the majority shareholder of Prosperous Guild Holdings.

That’s it. That’s the story.

It wasn’t skill. It wasn’t game sense. It was nepotism, pure and simple. But that didn’t matter, not in Prosperous. Because Prosperous wasn’t built on friendship and fuzzy feelings. It was a business. A profitable one. Everyone got paid—weekly credit payouts, bonuses, equipment. It was a job, and jobs paid.

Victor was already level 7, gunning for level 8, hard. They’d heard the same information everyone else had: that Lantern Light Dungeon opened at level 8, and the real leaderboard started at level 10. Victor wanted to be the first name on it. Not just because he earned it, but because it would look good.

Towerbound had its quirks. Some called them features. Others—like Gareth—called them bullshit.

The game gave 50% of the EXP for every kill to the person who landed the last hit. Not the one who tanked the damage. Not the one who healed the bleeding DPS through a firestorm. Just the one who threw the final punch, or spell, or arrow.

And that’s why Victor, as a mage, was racking up levels like a vacuum cleaner on turbo. He just had to time his firebolts to hit right as the enemy’s health dropped low. Boom. Last hit. Big EXP.

Victor didn’t earn those kills alone. The entire guild had worked to funnel every last mob straight into his hands.

They stunned, corralled, shielded, and softened the targets—lining them up so he could land the final blow. Every assist, every setup, every kill was orchestrated.

He was just the finisher.

The rest of the guild did the real work.

Gareth Ironwall, Prosperous Guild’s main tank, knew this better than anyone. He’d stand there, shield up, armor cracked, pulling mobs off Victor’s back while the guy picked off every target like he was tapping fruits in a gacha game.

And of course, his girlfriend Adhir was right next to him, all smiles and passive-aggressive support. Not doing the best job healing. Not doing the best job buffing. Just being his number-one cheerleader and reminding everyone with her presence that Victor was the main character in this sad little play.

She got her gear upgrades first. She got her say in every raid. She was the guild’s unofficial second-in-command, not because she had game knowledge, but because she and Victor were glued at the hip.

Meanwhile, everyone else?

They fought in silence. They gritted their teeth. They obeyed the system.

Because the Prosperous Guild wasn’t full of fools. This wasn’t their first game. They knew how it worked.

Towerbound might be new, but the game behind the game wasn’t.

You needed to level fast. Get the best gear. Control the economy. Craft ahead of the curve. Lock down every dungeon, every resource, every first clear.

They knew exactly what they needed. A top level alchemist.

They just hadn’t found anyone who could pass the damn test yet.

Still, even if they hadn’t secured a real alchemist yet, Prosperous wasn’t completely without its crown jewels. Adhir—Victor’s girlfriend, and perpetual priority recipient—was well on her way to becoming the world’s highest-level cleric.

She didn’t need to be the best healer. She just needed to look the part. And Prosperous made sure of that.

Every piece of high-tier cleric gear that dropped? Straight into her bag. Shields, robes, trinkets, staffs—if it sparkled and had a holy symbol on it, it was hers. The rest of the clerics in the guild could rot in their starter gloves for all the leadership cared.

***

POV : ALCHEMY GUILD

Ren moved fast.

In addition to the fire-resistant brews he’d finished, Ren had cooked up another batch of instant potions. Some were reserved for the Scrap Rats; the rest went straight into circulation.

This time, though, he didn’t ask the Guildmaster for another favor. No backstage deals. No negotiations. Just quiet action.

He stocked the potions in the Alchemy Guild’s official store—same 1% commission, but now handled entirely by the NPC clerks. No more wasting time behind a counter.

He had more important things to do.

And he needed the coins for what came next.

Coins in hand, he slipped right back into the auction house.

But this time, he wasn’t hunting herbs.

He was hunting lore cards.

Cards were a weird little mechanic in Towerbound—drops that showed beautiful little scenes from the Tower.

At first, players thought they were cool.

But when it became clear they didn’t grant stats, buffs, or cool gear, the market had flooded with them.

In fact, for the non-humanoid creatures, cards were one of the only things that regularly dropped.

Cards were sold for dirt cheap.

Practically trash.

Especially because each card took up an inventory slot—unless you had multiples of the same one, which would automatically stack.

Space was precious to newbies.

No one wanted to waste precious inventory room on “pretty pictures.”

Ren, however, knew something the rest of them didn’t.

If you collected a full set of 100 unique lore cards, you unlocked a third profession: Archaeologist.

Most players only had two classes—their main combat class, and a secondary life profession like blacksmithing or alchemy.

But a third?

A third profession was god-tier.

And Archaeology wasn’t some useless side hustle either.

It was critical.

It gave hidden tips about dungeons, weak points of monsters, and rare item recipes.

Some raids were impossible without an Archaeologist in the party.

Like the Level 26 Harpy God Dungeon—where you needed to forge a Hellfire Spike to kill the boss.

No Archaeologist?

No Spike.

No victory.

And even if someone told you about it, it wouldn’t help—you needed the profession buff from actually having an Archaeologist in the party.

Ren knew this.

Which was why he wasn’t just buying random lore cards.

He was sweeping everything.

Cheap bundles of ten? Bought.

Stacks of duplicates? Bought.

Cards no one wanted? Bought.

He didn’t even care about duplicates—he could sort and trade them later.

Prices were laughable—only a few copper per bundle.

Players were practically begging someone to take them off their hands.

And Ren was happy to oblige.

But it didn’t take long for the scalpers to notice.

At first, they thought he was just an idiot wasting coins.

Then, when other randoms started panic-buying anything related to reagents or cards, they realized maybe there was a deeper play going on.

By then it was too late.

Ren had bought out 90% of the lore card listings on the auction house before prices even started ticking up.

He didn’t care about scalper tears.

He cared about one thing:

Money.

While everyone else fought over healing potions and fire resistance reagents, Ren was quietly laying the foundation for something far more dangerous.

A third profession months ahead of schedule?

Yeah.

Game breaking.

—

Ren returned to the dormitory, hauling a ridiculous number of cards in his inventory.

Ren took a break again from the game again  and passed his helmet to somebody else.

He hadn’t gotten a rest notice yet. But he knew his body. He needed a break.

Sure, he was allowed up to eighteen hours of in-game play because he was a leader—everyone in the dorm had agreed to that.

But when he needed a break for things like sorting out lore cards, managing auction listings, or just doing inventory math, he could do that just as well in real life, using the in-game companion app, just like he could shop the auction house without fully logging into the game.

He passed the sweaty, still-warm helmet to the next player—a sleepy-eyed guy from the bunk across the room—and made sure the handoff was smooth.

They were now about two hours ahead of schedule.

A little messy, but manageable.

That was why that shoddy cardboard schedule they had taped up by the fridge wasn’t perfect—but it kind of worked.

Ren yawned, grabbed a half-flat bottle of soda, and sat down at the grimy table to get back to work.

Even off the battlefield, he had plenty of grinding to do.

And he wasn’t about to waste a single second.

He hadn’t even bothered to sort them at the auction house—he’d just bought everything that wasn’t nailed down.

Now came the tedious part.

Sprawled out on his narrow bunk, he opened his inventory menu and started dragging cards out onto the screen.

The first few were familiar.

“Founding of Greenwild Cross.”

“Birth of the Mana Trees.”

“First Clash of the Ember Knights.”

Common, early-game lore.

The kind of stuff even players at level 1 or 2 could find from random drops.

He chuckled as he kept flipping them over, card after card, sorting them into neat little stacks.

Some cards he had six or seven copies of.

Others, only one.

He wasn’t disappointed though.

He had always known there was no way to complete the set right now.

A full set of 100 unique lore cards was impossible at this stage.

These mini-sets of lore cards weren’t just for show—they were useful too. Some offered minor buffs, others unlocked flavor text or hinted at hidden quests.

You didn’t need to be an archaeologist to use them—just someone with the brains to read between the lines. Lore cards might not boost stats like gear, but they opened doors. Secret vendors. Hidden dialogue. Clues that most players missed entirely.

More importantly, they gave Ren an edge that couldn’t be copied by just grinding levels.

Many of the rare cards only dropped in high-level zones.

Level 10 dungeons.

Level 20 elite camps.

Places that no one in the world had even sniffed at yet.

You couldn’t brute-force it either.

Cards had regional restrictions—certain ones only dropped in specific maps, and most players weren’t leaving Greenwild Cross anytime soon.

Still, by the time he finished sorting, Ren counted 43 unique cards.

Forty-three.

Almost halfway there.

And he hadn’t even left the starter region yet.

He sat back, feeling a slow, satisfied grin stretch across his face.

‘This is going to be beautiful later.’

Even if it took him a month or two to grind out the rest of the set, that was fine.

He added buy lore cards to the dormitories cardboard posting.

He would have something nobody else would even think about until it was way too late.

Archaeology wasn’t glamorous.

Wasn’t flashy.

It wouldn’t win you fights.

But it would win wars.

And Ren had plans.

Big plans.

He tapped the “Stack All Duplicates” button, neatly consolidating the extra cards to save space.

Then, after a moment’s thought, he tucked the duplicates into the warehouse he’d rented.

He logged off the app, leaned back against the bunk wall, and stretched.

The Scrap Rats still had another couple hours before shift change.

—

CHAPTER 47

POV : WILDLANDS

A member of the 10 man dormitory had a huge grin plastered across his face as he ran back toward the group, swinging a starter wand like a kid playing wizards and spells.

Another new guy Ren had just passed the helmet to, a sharp-eyed, fast-talking kid who had picked Mage for his main profession and Glassworker for his secondary—was right behind him, panting hard but laughing.

Glassworkers didn’t have much use early on, but Ren liked the pick.

Glass was needed later for potion bottles, magical mirrors, and even some spellcasting focuses.

It was a decent choice for a profession—and definitely not a common one.

Scrap Rats were out in the hills just outside Greenwild Cross, doing what they did best: killing anything that moved and grabbing every copper coin that dropped.

And thanks to Ren’s potions?

They were all doing pretty damn well.

No more desperate retreats because someone’s health regen was too slow.

No more waiting around for mana bars to crawl back up.

Now it was smash, slash, firebolt, heal, and move on.

Fast, efficient, lethal.

The best part was they actually had a couple of good clerics now

Everyone was leveling up steadily.

Mira was almost halfway to level 5, and the others weren’t far behind.

Only the randoms from the dorm were lagging a bit, but that was expected—one had just started.

Still, morale was high, and there was a growing sense of pride.

The Scrap Rats weren’t just randoms anymore.

They were becoming a real squad.

Loyalty could be earned—and so far, every one of the Scrap Rats had stuck by Ren.

If they kept it up?

When Ren finally formed a real guild, they’d be the first ones getting invites.

He hadn’t told them that yet.

But he was already planning for it.

One slumrat scheme at a time.

The Lantern light Dungeon had technically opened.

The system announcement had gone out, banners had flashed in town, and the world had buzzed with excitement.

The minimum level was 8,  and even the hardcore grinders had barely scraped level 5 or 6 — thanks to the goblin battle dragging down the town’s progression.

Most players had shrugged and said, “Soon.”

And then they had kept grinding.

But now?

Now the tide was growing.

A few guild-led groups had finally managed to grind their way to level 7 and level 8.

The Prosperous Guild, Iron Banner, Black Thorn Pact — the usual suspects.

They didn’t have the perfect full parties of maxed players, but they had enough. They had 10 players. And that was enough to try it. Even though it wasn’t the perfect combination.

Enough to risk it.

Enough to want that sweet, sweet first-clear bonus dangling like meat in front of starving wolves.

And so, the first true expedition into Lantern light Dungeon began.

It was an utter bloodbath.

Inside, the dungeon wasn’t some quiet cave with lanterns like the name suggested.

The air shimmered with heat.

The walls sweated molten rivulets.

Flames danced in the distance.

The fire damage was passive.

You took damage just standing there.

And it stacked.

Without proper fire resistance, every second you spent inside was another few ticks shaving your health away.

Healing-over-time potions were kinda useless.

Even instant-heal potions like the ones Ren had crafted could only buy a few extra seconds of survival.

And players realized it far, far too late.

Guild parties stumbled back out of the dungeon entrance — armor scorched, faces red from burns.

Some didn’t even make it out.

Death messages were popping like popcorn in the system feed.

ProsperousGuild_Victor: “WHO THE HELL DESIGNED THIS DUNGEON?!”

IronBanner_Ross:“WHERE ARE THE DAMN FIRE RESIST POTS?!”

BlackThorn_Jexi: “STOP GOING IN! WE NEED FORMATIONS, NOT HEADLESS CHICKENS!”

The town square outside the dungeon turned into a triage center.

Groups were yelling, mages were sobbing about lost gear, warriors were arguing whose fault it was that they wiped.

And looming over it all was the slow, painful realization:

They needed fire resistance — badly.

Not one group had even reached the first mini-boss.

Hell, most groups didn’t make it past the first fire elemental patrol.

Meanwhile, back in town…

Ren sat quietly in the Alchemist Guild, calmly brewing potions.

Because he already knew what was coming.

‘Just a little longer,’ he thought, stacking another batch of fire resistance reagents into his inventory.

‘Soon it’s going to be another Black Friday at my counter.’

Ren had spent every last coin he had sweeping the reagents again for the fire resistance potions. Buying even the ones that weren’t the best value.

He was broke.

No—worse than broke. He still owed the Scrap Rats.

He had less spending power than the newbies wandering around Greenwild Cross with their starter coppers clinking in their pockets.

But that didn’t bother him.

Because now the kerfuffle over the Lantern light Dungeon had started, and Ren was sitting on the real gold mine: fire resistance potions.

The Lantern Light Dungeon at level 8 was one of Towerbound’s nastier tricks. Technically, yes—you could clear it at level 8. The system even encouraged it. Made it seem like a smart move. But here’s the catch: unless you had the right potions, you were going to roast like a marshmallow on a campfire skewer.

Specifically, you needed fire resistance. And not just one or two potions—you needed a stash. The only place to get them at that level? NPC vendors. And they only sold fifty total per server refresh. That’s it. Fifty. Not per player. Total.

So you got one serious attempt. Maybe. If your group was tight, skilled, and didn’t waste a single movement. If you flubbed it? Burned. Wiped. EXP gone.

And this wasn’t even theoretical. In his previous life, Ren remembered high-tier groups at level 10 needing 30+ fire resistance potions just to clear it. And that was after learning every mechanic, practicing the runs, and theorycrafting the whole thing like it was a final exam. At level 8? It was a suicide mission disguised as an “optional challenge.”

That was the Towerbound trap.

“Hey, you hit Level 8! Wanna try this cool dungeon?”

“Oops. You died. There goes your EXP.”

“Oops. You died again? Welcome back to Level 7.”

It was brutal. It was punishing.

And the Towerbound devs?

They absolutely loved that.

Sure, no one had ever actually seen the Towerbound devs, and all communication came through polished emails and corporate-speak press releases—but everyone just assumed this was part of their grand design.

Because if they were the corporation running the game, that’s exactly what they’d want too. More player deaths meant longer session times, more in-game purchases, higher stickiness, better retention—all the golden metrics that made shareholders happy. It was one of the biggest reasons the megacorps behind the guilds had gone all-in on Towerbound. They saw how the invisible devs worked, how every major decision lined up perfectly with the stats those same corporations tracked religiously.

What they didn’t realize was that none of it actually mattered.

Because Towerbound wasn’t just a game.

Ren was the person holding all the fire resistance potions. And wasn’t about to throw them onto the auction house like a fool.

He knew better.

Ren pulled open his friends list and messaged two guilds — Silvercut Division and Ashen Bloom — two groups that, in his last life, hadn’t been complete assholes to the random players. Both of these guilds had offered him job offers, so they had made it onto his friends list.

And since Ren was the first officially recognized Junior Instructor of the Alchemist Guild, his private messages went through guild spam filters instantly.

It didn’t even take a minute.

Both guilds were hammering him with responses.

Silvercut_Ardon: “How many pots you got? Instant delivery? We’ll pay premium. Send location!”

AshenBloom_Valis: “How much for fire resists? We’ll take whatever you’ve got. Full stacks if possible.”

Ren leaned back in his chair, a slow, shark-like grin spreading across his face.

‘Patience,’ he thought. ‘Let them sweat a little.’

He waited, reading the frantic new offers popping up every few seconds.

Silvercut_Ardon: “Two silver each if you deliver now.”

AshenBloom_Valis: “2.5 silver each and you get a standing order with us!”

‘Better,’ Ren thought, tapping his fingers idly.

He knew the reality.

The Lantern Light Dungeon wasn’t some casual stroll through a warm cave.

It was a brutal furnace.

To get through it properly?

Ren estimated they needed at least 40 fire resistance potions just for a half-decent run — assuming everyone played perfectly.

For a serious first clear attempt?

It would take 50 to 60 potions minimum.

Ren had crafted 65.

If he sold piecemeal, no single guild would have enough.

They’d all wipe halfway through and come crawling back for more at even higher prices.

But if he sold 65 potions in one batch to a single guild?

They’d almost make it through.

Almost.

That was the sweet spot Ren wanted them at.

So he kept waiting, watching the offers climb higher and higher as desperation began to set in.

The price of survival was about to skyrocket—and Ren planned to be the one setting the price tags.

CHAPTER 48:

Ren had a big decision to make between the two guilds. They were offering him both pretty good money because he had told them that they would need to buy all 65 of his fire resistance potions.

The price being offered was already ten times what those potions were actually worth. And yet, instead of scoffing, the guilds were thrilled. The moment Ren made the offer exclusive, it didn’t scare them off—it pulled them in.

Exclusivity didn’t mean risk. It meant control.

Yeah, sure, some of their players might burn alive on the first attempt. But if they failed, they could try again. Nobody else would have the potions. No other guild would be waiting in the wings to sweep in and grab the clear. They didn’t think of this purchase as just potions, they were buying time, and time was everything.

Because if the potions had been split, if another guild had even a sniff of access, then it would be a race. A mad dash for the first clear. And no one wanted that. Not at level 8. Not in Lantern Light. They were paying for a chance to make history—and they were happy to overpay for the privilege.

If they didn’t have serious fire resistance?

They weren’t going to make it to the first mini-boss, let alone the final guardian.

And because Ren had the first and only stacks of fire resistance potions?

He could set the terms.

He leaned back against the wall outside the Alchemist Guild, arms crossed casually as the bids kept going up and up in his private message window.

‘This is why you hold onto inventory,’ Ren thought with a smirk. ‘Not because it’s valuable today, but because it’ll be priceless tomorrow.’

Both guilds had hit their upper limit.

2.5 silver per potion.

Ren smiled to himself. ‘That’s a good start. But silver isn’t enough.’

He needed more.

Reagents.

Lore cards.

More fuel for his empire.

So he decided to dive deeper.

When he messaged both guild leaders back, he didn’t just confirm the price.

He added a little twist.“Final offer. 2.5 silver per potion, plus a package of reagents and lore cards,” he wrote.

The response came back fast.

“No reagents available , no deal.”

Short. Brutal. Standard guild negotiation tactics—squeeze for extras, even when the price was already sky-high. The irony? They didn’t even care about the reagents. Half the time, those herbs got dumped into storage and forgotten. But the principle of it mattered.

Asking for the reagents for the potions and lower cards on top of that was a cheeky move by Ren. And it wasn't exactly risk-free.

It would tip the guilds off about what was important.

They weren’t idiots; both had analysts combing over the auction house, trying to figure out what he was buying.

But Ren wasn’t stupid either.

The reagent list he sent wasn’t just the ones he needed for fire resistance or instant potions.

He threw in a mix.

Reagents for ten different potions he’d eventually need.

Some of them wouldn’t even be viable until level 20.

‘Good luck analyzing that, suckers,’ Ren thought, smirking.

In fact, tossing in a mix of potion reagents wasn’t just a sweetener—it was a strategic hammer against the black market scalpers. With two guilds agreeing not to resell their reagents and instead handing them over to Ren as part of the deal, those materials became mentally premium. Scarce. Desirable. But for Ren? They didn’t cost a single extra copper.

That was the real beauty of it.

He was locking in 2.5 silver per potion—ten times market rate—and on top of that, he was being handed the exact ingredients he needed to make more. Not only were the guilds happy to pay, they were funding his supply chain.

It was the start of a perfect loop:

Sell potions → get paid → receive reagents → craft more → repeat.

Hello, infinite chain of money. Goodbye, reagent inflation.

The guilds scrambled.

More frantic messages flooded in.

Clarifications, counteroffers, desperate promises of rare ingredients they thought he might want.

Ren waited.

He knew desperation when he saw it.

He could practically smell the sweat from their side of the screen.

Whoever agreed first would get the potions.

The other guild?

They could burn.

Literally.

Both Silvercut Division and Ashen Bloom  had hit their upper limit: 2.5 silver per potion.

Ren leaned back, tapping his fingers against the wooden desk in thought.’

He messaged both guilds back almost simultaneously

“Final terms. 2.5 silver each plus 200 units worth of reagents and 30 lore cards. Any herbs on the list are fine—as long as it’s 200 units worth.”

He knew exactly what would happen next. The guilds would dig through their stockpiles and hand over the cheapest herbs they had. Of course they would. That was expected. But it didn’t matter. Cheap herbs were still herbs, and Ren could still turn them into potions. It wasn’t about herbs—it was about quantity and continuity.

He was walking away with a mountain of raw materials, all for free, built into a deal they thought they were winning.

Besides Ren thought with a smile, the guilds were winning on this deal too—at least from a certain point of view. By offloading 200 units of herbs and reagents, they knew which ones were worth holding onto at this level, which ones actually mattered to alchemists. And the kicker? They’d finally realize that lore cards weren’t just collectible junk—they had value, especially in the hands of someone who actually knew how to use them.

‘See? I’m a great guy,’ thought Ren, absolutely glowing inside.

If the two guild leaders could hear what he was thinking, they would’ve probably exploded right there.

There was a pause. Then another flood of frantic private messages.

The guilds weren’t stupid. They immediately realized Ren was signaling something.

Buying that many reagents and cards wasn’t normal. Analysts on both sides started scrambling to figure out why. Was there a hidden potion Ren was trying to mass-produce? Was there a bigger hidden alchemy system they didn’t know about yet?

The answer was: yes. But good luck figuring out which part of it.

Because Ren wasn’t just asking for fire resistance ingredients or basic health and mana potion materials.

No.

He threw in random buys for ten other potions he would need in the future — things nobody even had recipes for yet.

He mixed it all in like some madman tossing rocks into a pond.

‘Good luck analyzing that, suckers.’

Meanwhile, Prosperous Guild was standing off to the side, fuming so hard you could practically smell the aggro. They also had a level 8 team ready to try, but Ren had ignored any messages from them.

They hadn’t even been allowed to bid.

Victor — Prosperous Guild’s leader — was pacing around like a caged animal, barking at his officers. They had all the money in the world, but no invite. No deal. No first clear. No glory.

Ren grinned to himself.

‘Yeah, you’re pissed now. Wait until you see what’s coming next.’

He tapped the accept deal button for the fastest offer — Silvercut Division had caved faster and matched the reagent and lore card bonus first — and sent a polite message to Ashen Bloom thanking them for their bid but declining.

Another life lesson from the slums:

You don’t just take the highest bidder.

You take the one who’s hungriest.

The one who’ll owe you later.

And Silvercut Division  was definitely going to owe him after this.

[POV – SILVERCUT DIVISION]

The entrance to Lantern Light Dungeon loomed ahead, its ancient stone doors glowing faintly in the dim mist.

Inside, it was pure hell.

Fire, smoke, burning traps—everything had been worse than expected.

The guild leaders had barely kept the squad together through the endless fire corridors.

If it hadn’t been for the 65 fire resistance potions they bought at the last minute from that alchemist, Ren, they would’ve been roasted alive before reaching the first miniboss.

Even with the potions, their health bars had dipped constantly.

Their healers had been howling about low mana for the last two rooms.

“Push forward!” shouted Garlan, the raid captain, waving his sword and trying to keep morale up. “We’re almost at the core!”

And they were.

The final boss — The Smoldering Warden — towered in the middle of a scorched arena, molten chains wrapped around its burning frame.

This wasn’t some simple monster fight.

This was a gauntlet. A trial by heat, by stamina, by sheer nerve.

Not just about landing big hits—but lasting long enough to matter.

They didn’t just deal damage.

They endured.

They struggled.

Their potions were running out fast.

The smarter players were already rationing the last few doses, trying to survive the devastating fire blasts that the Warden kept unleashing.

Some tried to dodge.

Some just grit their teeth and soaked the damage.

When the Warden hit 10% HP, everyone thought it was in the bag.

“Come on! Take it down!” Garlan roared.

The healers screamed they were out of mana.

The tanks’ armor was half-melted.

Even the ranged players were running dry on stamina.

And then, disaster.

The Warden unleashed Inferno Pulse — a raid-wide fire explosion.

The last of the potions were gone.

There was no way to resist it anymore.

Players dropped like flies.

Their frontline collapsed first.

Then the thieves.

Then the healers.

In less than twenty seconds, the entire raid group was dead.

All 65 fire resistance potions — gone.

All their backup mana potions — gone.

The dungeon booted them out into the graveyard, where a few nearby random players who had been cheering them on were now staring in awkward silence.

For a few long minutes, nobody said anything.

Finally, Garlan ripped off his helmet and threw it into the mud with a loud curse.

“We were so close!” he yelled.

Another officer nodded grimly.

“If we had just ten more seconds… ten more potions…”

They all knew it.

If they had another full set of fire resistance potions, they could do it.

The strategy was good.

The players were strong.

It was just a numbers game now.

Another attempt — with enough supplies — would almost guarantee a world-first clear.

They had almost tasted victory.

They just needed one more chance.

And only one person in the world had the potions they needed.

The alchemist who had sold them the first batch.

Ren.

CHAPTER 49

Ren sat back in his alchemy room, flipping through the pile of coins in his menu with a half-smile.

Technically, he didn’t look that rich.

162.5 silver was what he had sold those potions for.

Way less than what most players would expect after such a big sale.

But that was only on paper.

The reason his wallet looked slim was because he had quietly stocked up mountains of other reagents for future potions — and not just basic stuff either. He’d also swept up a fat stack of lore cards. The good ones.

The cheap ones.

The ones no one else even realized would matter yet.

His empire wasn’t coins.

It was materials.

And it was growing.

As Ren sorted through his future plans, a new message popped up, flashing at the corner of his vision.

[Incoming Message: Silvercut Division Leader]

Ren opened it.

“Can you make another batch? 65 potions plus reagents/cards again. We’re regrouping for a second attempt.”

Ren grinned.

‘That’s another 162.5 silver… and another pile of free mats. Please, by all means, fail again.’

He leaned back and grinned.

‘Called it.’

He cracked his fingers and messaged back casually.

“Sorry, I can’t let you. No can do,” Ren replied. “The next batch has already been booked by… Ashen Bloom.”

He didn’t even try to soften it. Why should he?

Ashen Bloom had leapt at the opportunity the moment they heard Silvercut Division had flamed out—literally and figuratively. Rumor had it they popped a bottle of something fizzy when the news broke. This was their shot at a first clear, and they weren’t going to waste it. All they needed was the potion supply to push through the fire traps and lava tunnels. And Ren? Ren was the one cooking it up.

He’d been brewing quietly, methodically, while Silvercut’s elite squad got roasted like festival pigs. No dramatics. No bragging. Just non-stop potion brewing and logistics micromanagement, fueled by spite, black coffee, and the distant promise of cheese.

He didn’t need glory. He needed results.

And in 30 more minutes, he’d have finished them.

‘Let the loud ones shout,’ Ren thought, lips twitching. ‘I’ve got product to move and winners to supply.’

“What? No, we need the next supply. We’re so close,” the leader of Silvercut Division said, practically pleading.

“Sorry,” Ren replied, voice even. “I try to keep it fair. You guys got the first crack at it. Ashen Bloom’s already locked in the second batch. But—if you want—I can sell you the third. Shouldn’t take me too long to prep.”

Part of the reason he didn’t have to spend hours prepping was because he’d already stocked up on fire-resistant potions from the NPC vendors early. That initial haul, dirt-cheap at the time, now he could sell them at a 10x markup without blinking.

The Silvercut Division leader gritted his teeth. “Are you sure? We can pay you more.”

“I think the price is high enough,” Ren said honestly. “I want you to remember that I’ve always tried to keep things fair. That matters to me.”

There was a brief silence. Then the Silvercut leader gave a short nod.

“Thanks for that. Seriously. Fine,” he added, sighing. “We’ll take the third set of potions. I bet Ashen Bloom won’t even get halfway through. Bunch of showoffs.”

Ren gave a small shrug. “I’ll get started as soon as you send the payment.”

Ren understood the game better than most—not just Towerbound, but the world that had started to grow around it.

He didn’t need to be told that both Silvercut and Ashen Bloom were corporate-backed. He’d seen the signs a mile away—uniform loadouts, media-friendly names, rehearsed emotes, and an eagerness to throw coins around like candy.

They weren’t here for fun.

They were here to win.

To own the spotlight.

To carve their names into the game’s history… and slap a brand logo right beside it.

Towerbound’s First Clear announcements were more than just system messages—they were coveted real estate. Broadcast live to millions of players, they were fully customizable, a spotlight moment. And whoever claimed the Lantern light Dungeon first? They’d have the stage to say anything they wanted.

In fact, Silvercut had already told him about the tagline that they had pre-written.

“Blue Cheese Light – Now On Sale! Buy One, Get One Free!”

A cheese ad.

In a fantasy game.

After a goddamn boss fight.

He’d laughed. Choked. Then laughed again. But it made sense. Way more sense than it should’ve.

Towerbound had more players than most countries had people. The exposure was priceless—and compared to a Super Bowl ad or a nationwide billboard campaign? Towerbound was dirt cheap.

That’s why the pressure was sky-high. And that’s why Silvercut and Ashen Bloom would pay anything to keep those Fire resistant potions flowing.

Ren actually liked Blue Cheese Lite.

He liked it a lot.

In fact so much that Ren added a little extra stipulation to the agreement.

“If for some reason you can’t clear it,” Ren said, “I’ll give you priority on the fourth batch too.”

The Silvercut Division leader didn’t hesitate. He nodded, fast. He was a smart man—and a realistic one.

Sixty-five extra fire-resistant potions weren’t going to hurt. Worst-case scenario, they’d crush the dungeon on the next attempt, and the extra batch would be overkill.

But the actual worst-case scenario?

They’d need every last bottle just to survive.

And if they didn’t get the clear first?

Well, those potions would still be worth their weight in credits for the next race, the next floor, the next shot at redemption.

That’s how pros thought. Not just about this run—but the next five.

“Great,” Ren said, grinning. “So yeah, my addition to the contract is that I get a box of Blue Cheese Light delivered to my dorm every month for a year. Plus, I’ll add in the fact that I personally love it. Seriously, I do.”

There was a pause on the line.

“…You want cheese?” the Silvercut leader asked, confused.

“Absolutely,” Ren said. “I love cheese. It’s all about the cheese.”

“Right. Got it. We’ll… include that in the contract draft.”

“Good man,” Ren said cheerfully. “This is how real partnerships are built. Over cheese and fire.”

He even added a little thumbs-up emoji, just to be extra annoying.

It wasn’t every day you got to trade virtual fire resistance potions for real life processed cheese products.

Ren tapped to finalize the contract.

Blue Cheese Lite secured.

Coins secured.

More reagents incoming. More cards coming.

Everything was going according to plan.

Ren grinned wider.

‘Let’s make some more potions.’

And he got to work.

Each attempt to clear the Lantern light Dungeon took about 2 hours—longer if things went badly, shorter if the guild wiped early and rage-quit. That meant as soon as one guild limped out, burned and grumbling, Ren would be almost finishing another batch of 65 fire-resistant potions, just in time for the next hopeful team to gear up.

It became a smooth, brutal rotation:

One guild in the fire.

One guild prepping outside.

Ren in the back, singing happily and churning out bottles like a Wonkaesque potion factory.

It wasn’t casual business—it was clockwork.

Like a pizza joint slammed during lunch rush, only instead of marinara, it was magma getting ladled.

—

POV: FOODCROSS

The Foodcross company didn’t just make blue cheese products.

They made everything.

From diet-friendly ranch to fake nacho dip to protein-packed breakfast burritos, if it could be processed, vacuum-sealed, and pumped full of preservatives, Foodcross made it.

Their slogan in was simple:

“Eat better. Feel lighter. Live smarter.”

But advertising had gotten harder.

People didn’t watch TV commercials anymore.

Billboards barely registered.

And banner ads?

Forget it.

People had ad-blockers surgically installed in their eyes these days.

Towerbound had already become more than a game.

It was a lifestyle—woven into routines, conversations, and plans for the future

A world people lived inside for hours and hours at a time.

If you could put an ad into Towerbound, you weren’t just selling a product—you were embedding your brand into someone’s reality.

So when the message came in from their guild team—telling them about the exclusive advertising space in a First World Clear announcement, the board of directors didn’t even hesitate.

They voted unanimously within five minutes.

It wasn’t just a yes.

It was a hell yes.

“Blue Cheese Lite: Now on Sale! Buy One, Get One Free!” beaming straight into the eyeballs of five million players?

The marketing team was already foaming at the mouth.

The lawyers approved the terms in record time.

The branding team put together special Towerbound themed packages and bonus coupons.

And just to really sell it, they decided they’d push a whole line of new Blue Light products right after the ad drop.

It was perfect.

Towerbound players needed energy.

They needed snack food.

They needed cheap, greasy, comforting stuff that wouldn’t make them feel guilty.

Exactly the kind of thing Foodcross sold by the truckload.

And when the guild leader of Silvercut added an extra note saying the first-ranked alchemist was personally endorsing Blue Cheese Lite, the executives practically had a group heart attack from excitement.

They didn’t even question it.

Contracts were signed.

Boxes were packed.

The first crate of Blue Cheese Lite—with a special note for “Ren the Alchemist”—was already on a delivery truck headed for slums.

Foodcross Corporation had struck gold.

And they knew it.

—

CHAPTER 50

Ren got to work hard when they finally delivered all the ingredients and reagents. Another 65 potions. And another 65 potions times 2.5 silver each were created.

And at no cost.

Was it awesome? Yes.

Was he happy? Yes.

“La la la!”

But more importantly, this created a nice relationship between him, the guild, and the backers behind the guild.

As long as they cleared it, they’d always remember the person who helped them.

It didn’t mean they owed him any favors.

They had already paid in full.

In fact, the crate of Blue Cheese Lite had already arrived at the dormitory.

Getting anything delivered to a real-life address came with risk. It meant the Scrap Rats’ location—at least roughly—was out in the open. But Ren had accepted that from the beginning.

Any megacorp with decent funding could hire someone to connect the dots. Real-world surveillance didn’t need permission from the Tower’s security protocols. And once the Scrap Rats started using more players, once they started moving serious potions and coin, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out:

District 1 was their home turf.

But Ren had planned for that too.

Because he never wanted the Scrap Rats competing for flashy first clears or leaderboard boss kills. The Shadow Wolf Alpha had been a fluke, and he didn’t plan to repeat it. That kind of spotlight drew aggro. And aggro brought heat.

The box wasn’t even warm yet before someone had cracked it open, peeling back the branded sticker like it was a treasure chest in a dungeon. The moment the smell hit, half the room flinched—then leaned in for a second whiff.

“Holy crap, it’s real cheese,” Choi said, wide-eyed.

“Imported, too,” Reed muttered, reverently holding a wedge like it was forged by dairy gods.

Just because they lived in a crammed, dingy 10-man dormitory didn’t mean they didn’t like fancy cheeses. It just meant they couldn’t afford it. Not unless it was marked down, dented, or labeled “cheese-like substance.”

But now? Now they had Blue Cheese Lite. Real product. Real packaging. Real-world advertising deal… with their alchemist.

Ren stood at the center of it, arms crossed and smug as hell, trying not to laugh at how everyone was treating cheese like a treasure from heaven.

“This,” he said, with great ceremony, “is the beginning of everything we’ve worked for.”

Monetarily, yeah—it wasn’t close to covering the cost of the two helmets. And it sure didn’t match the long hours they’d started investing in-game.

But that didn’t matter.

Because it was a physical, tangible, cheese-filled reward.

Something that made everyone in the dorm sit up, notice, and—most importantly—believe.

It wasn’t just hope anymore.

It was blue cheese-flavored hope.

And damn, it was tasty.

POV : ASHEN BLOOM

The raid party of the Ashen Bloom guild stood at the entrance of Lantern Light Dungeon, armor gleaming, spells pre-loaded, and every member practically vibrating with anticipation.

They’d just watched Silvercut Division walk away from the dungeon battered, grumpy, and potionless.

“Look at them,” muttered Kael, the Ashen Bloom tank, cracking his knuckles. “All that hype, all that funding—and they still couldn’t pull it off.”

“Maybe they should’ve invested in talent instead of taglines,” Veyra quipped, twirling her staff.

The group chuckled, tension breaking for a moment. But the energy crackled in the air again almost instantly. This was their moment. They hadn’t come all this way just to be someone else’s second act.

Unlike Prosperous and Silvercut, Ashen Bloom wasn’t a legacy guild. They were hungry, scrappy, and backed by a lean, aggressive esports sponsor that wanted one thing: headlines.

And a first clear was exactly that.

Their own ad was already locked and loaded:

“Ashen Bloom: Burn Brighter.”

No discount coupons. No blue cheese. Just raw fire, ambition, and the burning need to climb the leaderboard.

They checked their buffs, drank their fire resistance potions—courtesy of Ren, who was now very much on their “must protect the relationship at all costs” list—and stepped forward in perfect sync.

No stalling. No second-guessing.

They were going to stomp the dungeon—and grind Silvercut Division’s smug legacy under their boots while they were at it.

Ashen Bloom had been pumped.

They weren’t walking into Lantern Light Dungeon blind. No, they’d done their homework. Paid off a few Silvercut defectors, got just enough intel on the traps and boss phases to give them a serious edge. Kael Ironhand, their frontliner, had spent the whole night memorizing dodge patterns while Veyra Zinth, their mage, mapped out every possible buff and debuff cycle from the reports they’d stolen.

They entered the dungeon like a war machine.

First floor? Cleared in under ten minutes.

The infamous Lava Serpent ambush on floor two? Flawless execution. Tanks rotated in. Healers staggered their cooldowns. Mages unloaded fire-resistant bursts and mana-efficient stuns.

Ashen Bloom looked like the guild that was going to take the clear.

The dungeon itself seethed around them—molten walls, rising heat, floor panels that hissed with steam when stepped on out of sequence. They almost wanted to trigger half the traps on purpose just to prove they could tank them.

Then they reached it.

The final room.

The Ash-Forged Warden.

A giant elemental knight, burning with eternal flame, wielding a molten greatsword that left trails of lava on the ground with every swing. The Warden didn’t taunt. It didn’t pause. It simply attacked, every slash accompanied by bursts of heat so intense that even fire resistance potions didn’t guarantee survival.

Kael called for the split-aggro tactic.

Veyra dropped shadow anchors to reduce movement.

Their backline pumped heals and buffs like a machine.

The Warden dropped to 40%.

Then 30%.

Then 18%.

And then—

SWWOOSH!

Lava flooded the entire chamber in a surprise enrage phase that hadn’t triggered for Silvercut.

“WHAT THE—?!” someone screamed as the floor melted under their boots.

Ashen Bloom scattered, trying to get onto the remaining solid platforms, but two of their mages dropped instantly. The aggro snapped wild. Kael couldn’t hold it. Veyra’s final spell fizzled before casting.

THWAAAAM!

The Warden slammed its blade down in a fiery arc that turned their last hope into a pile of glowing ash.

Ashen Bloom wiped.

So close. So, so close.

The silence that followed in the post-wipe loading lobby was thick with disbelief and disappointment.

“…It had another phase,” Kael finally muttered.

Veyra exhaled. “No way Silvercut even saw it.”

They hadn’t failed because they weren’t good enough.

They’d failed because Towerbound, in its beautiful cruelty, always held one more trick.

In Towerbound, wiping in a dungeon wasn’t just frustrating—it was brutal. If your whole party died, there was no running back as a ghost, no quick reset, no magical do-over.

You were done.

Your bodies would lie where they fell, and you’d respawn outside the dungeon in the nearest graveyard with all the penalties: equipment damage, and EXP loss.

So yeah, the smart players? They bailed early. If the boss looked too tough, if half the party was down, or if they saw a new phase trigger they hadn’t prepared for, the best call was to back out while they still could. Save the gear. Save the EXP. Live to try again.

But when a first clear was on the line?

Backing out wasn’t an option.

Those banners didn’t go to the cautious. They went to the bold, the reckless, the ones who risked it all for glory. And at Level 8, there were no resurrection spells, no second chances, no backup plans. You either cleared it together—or got cooked together.

Ashen Bloom had chosen to push.

And Towerbound had reminded them exactly why that was dangerous.

***

POV : SILVERCUT DIVISION GUILD

The Silvercut Division guild watched Ashen Bloom’s wipeout with barely concealed grins.

“Guess it’s our turn again,” their raid leader said, stretching his fingers and cracking his neck. Spirits were high. Cocky, even. They knew the layout now. Knew the traps. Knew the boss’s timing. This was going to be the one. The run.

Their second attempt.

“We’ve got this,” someone muttered, slamming back a potion.

Unfortunately… they didn’t.

Just like the first time, the Lantern Light Dungeon’s final boss welcomed them with fire, death, and the same brutal precision as before. One mistimed dodge, one downed healer, and the whole team folded like damp laundry.

Another full wipe.

Another loss of EXP.

**

The string of three consecutive failures—two by Silvercut Division and one by Ashen Bloom—should have served as a warning. It should have made every other guild in Towerbound step back, regroup, and level up before taking their shot.

But no.

It had the opposite effect.

If anything, it lit a fire under them.

Guilds across the board were now scrambling to assemble level 8 raid teams. After all, if Silvercut was willing to try twice, it meant they thought the dungeon was clearable. The second failure only deepened the impression. Most assumed Silvercut’s second wipe came because they hadn’t taken time to grind—just dove right back in without leveling past eight. Had they pushed to nine? Maybe they would’ve gotten that clear.

That was Ashen Bloom’s exact thinking.

Which made Ren’s fire-resistant potion bundles even more desirable.

Only this time, Ren wasn’t handing out preference deals.

He’d learned something.

After three wipes, it became clear—feeding potions exclusively to two guilds was just giving them more chances to spike ahead. And that meant if they did clear it, they’d lock down the leaderboard early. In his previous life, Ren had seen it happen. The Lantern light Dungeon was a hidden wall. Towerbound’s first real gate. It wasn’t meant to be cleared at level 8. It punished overconfidence with level loss, lockouts, and brutal stat penalties.

But desperate players didn’t care.

They wanted glory. They wanted the world announcement.

So Ren pivoted.

He began auctioning off his 65-potion bundles to whoever was next in line. No favorites. No promises.

And with twisted satisfaction, he sold one of those sets to Prosperous Guild.

Not because he liked them.

Oh no.

He wanted to see them fail.

Their raid team was all level 8, just like Silvercut and Ashen Bloom had been. And just like those two, Prosperous Guild was walking in cocky, underpowered, and overly confident. They thought money could solve it all.

Ren knew better.

Meanwhile, Silvercut and Ashen Bloom had both privately messaged him, reserving sets for when their raiders hit level 9. Ren had agreed. First come, first serve. He didn’t play favorites anymore—but he did keep receipts.

***

POV : PROSPEROUS GUILD

Victor and the rest of the Prosperous Guild stood at the foot of the Lantern Light Dungeon like they were about to walk the red carpet.

This was their moment.

Their shot.

Everyone knew the other two big guilds—Silvercut Division and Ashen Bloom—had already failed. And now, Prosperous Guild had the stage.

Victor, ever the showman, stepped forward and threw out his arms.

“Those two pussies failed because they didn’t have the intelligence, the guts, or the glory!” he shouted, loud enough to echo off the obsidian-streaked cliffs. “They were weighed, measured… and found wanting!”

Laughter and cheers rippled through his raid team. The Prosperous Guild was kitted out in the best gear credits could buy. Their morale was high. Their egos higher. And Victor? He was already dreaming of his name in golden letters across the Towerbound server.

They entered.

And almost immediately, things started falling apart.

Victor barked contradictory commands. People weren’t syncing up properly. The timing for interrupts was sloppy. Half the team barely understood the mechanics.

One overzealous DPS triggered a floor trap that roasted the backline.

A mistimed pull dragged three extra fire golems into the mix.

Then came the molten spider ambush—something their Silvercut spies had left out of their dungeon report. By the time they recovered, half the raid was toast. Literally.

As the flaming dust settled, only three players remained standing in front of the final boss’s ornate doorway: Victor, Adhir (his ever-loyal girlfriend), and one bruised, exhausted off-tank.

The off-tank, panting and half-charred, looked toward the door. “So… Do we go in? Or call it?”

Victor’s eyes twitched toward his EXP bar. Level 8. Fifty percent of the way to level 9.

Too much to lose.

He stiffened and said with sudden clarity, “Prudence says we don’t go in.”

Adhir nodded, immediately supportive. “You’re so smart, baby.”

And so, with barely a whimper and no final boss attempt, Prosperous Guild slunk out of the dungeon entrance.

To the crowd of spectators waiting outside—members from dozens of other guilds—they strutted like victors.

“Almost had it!” Victor announced, arms raised. “We were right there. You know how Prosperous Guild rolls—precision first!”

But the people outside weren’t stupid.

They could count.

Three survivors out of ten meant no boss fight had happened.

The mocking began almost instantly.

Ashen Bloom Scout: “Guess ‘precision’ means precision retreat!”

Random Alchemist: “More like Preposterous Guild!”

Someone from Silvercut: “Tell your dad thanks for the fireworks, Vic!”

Victor’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond. Not out loud.

Inside, though, he was already calculating when they could try again… and whether that smug little potion vendor would still have stock left.

***

CHAPTER 51

Ren wiped his fingers clean on his already-doomed sweatpants and leaned back against the creaky dorm chair, a faint hum of joy in his chest. The moment he logged out, he’d made a beeline for the stash in the fridge—his precious wedges of Blue Cheese Lite. He unwrapped it with the reverence of a priest handling sacred relics.

“Cheese, cheese, cheese,” he sang, half-muffled with a mouthful. “I love cheese. Cheese is life. Cheese is hope.”

From across the room, Choi looked up from organizing laundry and squinted. “You okay, man?”

“Better than okay,” Ren mumbled, holding the wedge up like Simba in The Lion King. “This, my friend, is the taste of first clear money.”

Simms gave him a slow thumbs-up from the couch. “Dude’s not even high. He’s just high on dairy.”

Ren ignored them. He’d already handed off the helmet earlier, and now it was his off-shift—precious, relaxing, cheese-powered off-shift. But even while savoring the funk of creamy cow fueled bliss, his eyes drifted back to the chart he’d set up on the wall: a rotating chart showing Auction House listings, crafting queues, and potion prices.

Kanuka wandered in from work, still reeking of smoke and BBQ. He sniffed the air suspiciously. “Smells like someone’s rich.”

“Nope,” Ren said with a grin. “Smells like someone has cheeeeeeessse.”

Kanuka flopped down on the nearest bunk. “I swear to god, if you start making stinky cheese farts, I’m joining another dormitory.”

But Ren was already half-dancing as he stuffed the last bite of blue-veined glory into his mouth. He wiped his hands, leaned forward, and tapped the wall screen.

Auction House prices were trending upward again.

Perfect.

“Alright,” he said to no one in particular. “Cheese break’s over. Time to cook something a little more magical.”

The Scrap Rats weren’t ready for what was coming next. But Ren was. Powered by dairy. Driven by potions.

And absolutely refusing to take the helmet shift until he licked his fingers clean.

Ren hated what was coming up next. Hated it more than empty cheese wrappers and potion failures combined.

But it had to be done.

His pathetic, embarrassing Level 4 status was dragging behind like a broken wagon wheel, and the truth was undeniable: if he didn’t start catching up, he’d get left behind. All the elite classes unlocked at Level 10, and while he’d been swimming in alchemical glory, the rest of the world—including his own Scrap Rats—were slowly climbing up the ladder.

So Ren did something he absolutely despised.

He signed up for a 6 hour grind shift.

He groaned as he slid into the helmet like it was an execution hood and spawned into Towerbound, still sore from the last brew marathon. But this wasn’t going to be a relaxing session of potion-making and cheese dreaming. No, this was combat. Actual leveling.

Ren.

In combat.

The horror.

Technically, Towerbound allowed power leveling—just like how the Prosperous Guild was dragging Victor’s pampered ass through level after level. But Towerbound had its own evil countermeasure: as soon as any monster appeared grey to any member of the party, it nuked the EXP for everyone by 50%. Didn’t matter if the rest saw it as white or orange. Once one guy out-leveled it, it became a complete buzzkill.

That meant if your party had a Level 10 and a Level 4 together, your EXP gains got gutted hard. So even power leveling had to stay within a tight 1-2 level margin.

Ren, being Level 4, was the biggest problem child of the group.

The rest of the Scrap Rats were already floating comfortably around Level 6. Not strong enough to join the dungeon elite, but definitely ahead of the bell curve. Meanwhile, Ren had been hiding behind potion racks and reagent stacks. He hadn’t picked up a staff for real combat in days.

So now, he had to suffer.

Six straight hours of backline horror.

The group chose to grind Shadow Wolves—partially because they were plentiful, partially because they knew how to handle them, and partially because most of them had earned the Wolf Bane title, giving them bonus damage and aggro to those specific mobs.

Including Ren.

Which meant the wolves hated him.

“Oh god, not again!” he screeched, ducking behind a rock as a third Shadow Wolf lunged for his robes. “I swear this one’s faster than the last!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t smell like fear and herbs,” Tanner called back, laughing as he stabbed a dagger through one wolf’s flank.

“You said you were a cleric,” Bran added, swinging his sword.

“I am!” Ren yelped. “In spirit!”

Despite the mayhem, the team was having a blast. Ren’s panicked shrieks echoed across the zone, mixing with wolf howls and the occasional sarcastic cheer from Mira, who had taken to casting lightning spells in the shape of smiley faces.

Still, the Wolf Bane title helped. Their kills were quick, efficient, and frequent. Ren even managed to toss a few heals in when he wasn’t running for his life. Bit by bit, his EXP bar ticked upward. Slowly. Painfully.

“Maybe after this,” Ren panted, clutching a mana potion, “I’ll go back to crafting. I miss crafting. Crafting never bites you in the ass.”

“Crafting doesn’t make you manly,” Torrin muttered, dragging a wolf corpse for harvesting.

“Neither does screaming like a schoolgirl,” Silk added helpfully. He had been having a blast doing thiefy things like, flashy diving rolls and shooting off his hand crossbow.

“Hey!” Ren shouted, leaping away from another lunging wolf. “This schoolgirl is contributing!”

By the end of the six hours, his robes were torn, his voice hoarse, and his mental state barely holding together.

But his EXP bar?

Still sad and lonely.

***

At the end of his shift, Ren was more than a little annoyed.

He pulled up his status window, blinked, then squinted harder—like maybe his vision was the problem, not the disappointing number glaring back at him.

Level 4.45.

Half a damn level.

Seriously? He’d been hoping that grinding alongside a full team of Level 6 players would rocket him forward. But no. The EXP system had decided to throw him a wet sock instead of progress. A sad trombone noise of a shift. Wahhhh wahhh.

The worst part? The last-hit bonus.

In Towerbound, whoever landed the killing blow got 50% of the EXP. It was a brutal system that heavily favored damage dealers. And clerics? Clerics were not damage dealers.

Technically, yes—Ren could have walked up and bonked a Shadow Wolf with his sad little staff when it was limping and bleeding out, snagging that sweet EXP chunk like a loot goblin. Technically.

Did he?

Nope.

There was a lot more shrieking, dodging, sprinting behind rocks, and yelling, “IT’S STILL CHASING ME!” than any sort of strategic kill securing.

With everyone in the group sitting just a bit too high, even the color-coded “white name” wolves were on the verge of slipping into gray—and that meant barely any EXP gains for him.

“At this rate,” Ren muttered, “I’ll hit Level 10 sometime in the next presidential cycle.”

The rest of the Scrap Rats were already packing up, cleaning weapons, munching rations. Nobody said anything mean—out loud—but Ren could see the relief on their faces when he finally waved them off.

“Guys,” he said, sighing, “it’s been fun teaming up with you, but I think we need a new plan. I’m heading back to the lab.”

“Alright!” someone said—too fast, too cheerfully.

“Cool, cool,” another added, already pulling up a map for the next zone.

To be fair, none of them were mad. Everyone knew he was crucial. The potions he brewed were keeping the guild afloat. Ren hitting Level 10 was going to unlock his elite class and take their economy game to the next level. But babysitting a squishy cleric who spent most of the fight shrieking and sprinting from wolves?

Not fun.

The wolves weren’t even scary anymore. Just tedious.

Still, loyalty meant they’d done it. And now that it was over, no one was sad to see Ren jog off back to his happy place.

He wasn’t sulking. Not really. Okay—maybe a little.

But he had a new plan. A better one.

He would return to the lab. The fun, reagent-stained, bubbling-alembic-smelling, absolutely perfect lab. He would push his potion-making into the next gear. He wouldn’t just make money.

He’d make progress.

Back to bubbling flasks, to singing terrible songs while grinding ingredients, to lining up bottles like soldiers.

Back to being in control.

Shadow Wolves could bite him. Figuratively. And literally.

He was going home.

***

CHAPTER 52

In his lab, Ren sat down and flicked open his inbox.

It was jammed—overflowing with messages from guilds clawing over each other for the next batch of fire-resistance potions. Officers begging to get back on the list. Quartermasters asking for updates. Raiders trying to bribe him with credits, promises, or “exposure.”

Ren didn’t even roll his eyes. He just stared at the screen for a moment, thinking,

‘It’s not gonna be ready anytime soon.’

He had the reagents—enough to start a small revolution or a highly illegal skincare line. But time? That was still his limiter. He’d just burned six hours trying to level with the Scrap Rats and had another brewing shift coming up. And every potion took real, honest effort.

Meanwhile, the rest of the world had caught on.

The NPC vendors had restocked their standard 50-potion allotment. Exactly 50. Not 51. Not 60.

Just 50.

And this time, the general store had turned into a warzone. Not with weapons, but with shouting.

The Prosperous Guild, Silvercut Division, Ashen Bloom, and two smaller guilds had all shown up at the same time. The moment the vendor opened, the clickfest began. Yelling broke out. Accusations of hoarding flew. A guy from Prosperous actually tried to slide-tackle someone away from the stall.

That was when the guards stepped in.

No swords. Just presence. Just warnings.

Everyone shut up real fast—because they knew what was worse than dying in Towerbound.

Jail.

If you fought in a safe zone and got caught, you didn’t just get a warning.

You got twenty-four hours.

Not a ban. Not a logout penalty.

You had to sit in a jail cell. For 24 hours.

For a real-time, in-game, twenty-four hours.

No logout, if you did that time didn’t count. No sleeping it off. Just a square room and one very judgmental NPC.

It was a punishment so brutal it made people really wary. You could hear people in dorms whispering about it like it was a real prison sentence.

So yeah, no one got violent. But plenty of alliances cracked over those 50 potions.

Ren leaned back and stretched.

‘Let ‘em fight over scraps. I’m the guy with the full cauldron.’

Because yeah, those 50 potions got split up between a whole bunch of desperate guilds that managed to squeeze their way into the NPC shop before it was cleaned out. If just one guild had gotten their hands on the whole batch? Sure. That could’ve been another serious attempt. A full run, maybe even a real shot at the first clear.

But split up?

What’s six or twelve potions going to do?

That fire resistance wasn’t optional. You needed it on for the entire dungeon run—not just one boss, not just one “uh-oh” moment, and definitely not for 20% of the encounter. If the buff ran out mid-fight, your entire front line turned into roasted meat skewers.

Everyone knew that.

Which meant the guilds were already eyeing each other sideways. Accusations of sabotage. Panic buying. Secret backroom deals. It was starting to feel less like a game and more like a stock market with fire damage.

And somewhere in the middle of it all…

Ren, brewing quietly in his cozy lab, humming a song about cheese.

***

One unintended—but totally predictable—side effect of Ren sweeping the auction house clean and demanding both silver and reagents for his potions was simple:

Guilds started hoarding.

Big guilds. Small guilds. Wannabe guilds. Every single one of them.

They weren’t stupid. They’d seen his requests—the list of “acceptable reagents” that he would trade for potion batches. And that list? It wasn’t short. It had every ingredient you might guess could be in a fire-resistant draft… along with plenty of others.

Gloomsprite Dust. Emberbark. Dewroot. Ashvine. Glowberry Extract. Paleplume. Even Ghoulwort and Voidcap Spores. Nobody could tell what was a real part of the fire potion recipe and what was just extra fluff—because Ren had included ingredients used for several different potion types.

But that was the genius of it. He never confirmed which ones mattered.

So everyone just assumed all of them might be important.

Now, every halfway decent guild had told their members: Don’t sell anything. Not a mushroom. Not a sliver of bark. Not a droplet of jelly. Reagents were officially guild property now. Hoard it. Hide it. Track it.

The only stuff still landing on the auction house came from desperate newbies or oblivious solo players who didn’t realize that every weird flower they were selling was suddenly worth its weight in silver. And as soon as it was listed? Scalpers and black-market types snatched it up.

The result? Prices had detonated.

Even if someone could brew fire-resistant potions—say, a real level 1 alchemist? It’d cost them nearly a full silver per potion in reagents alone. Assuming they could even find the ingredients.

***

Lore Cards had jumped in value too, thanks to Ren’s sly insistence that every potion trade come with a set as a bonus. That little clause—tacked on casually, almost like an afterthought—had quietly flipped the local economy on its head.

At first, it had just been a clever perk. Something small. A way to stack up cards he knew would matter later.

But now?

Now it was a full-blown market shift.

Sure, his days of hoarding Lore Cards for pocket change were kinda over—but it didn’t really matter. He already had all the foundational cards he needed, plus duplicates from every trade set that rolled in. At this point, it felt like the entire Greenwild Cross was unintentionally funneling Lore Cards straight to him.

Ren had become the center of a weird little trade empire.

All because of one potion.

And with only 50 fire-resistant potions appearing in the NPC shop per day—and those being snapped up faster than dorm gossip—Ren was still the only consistent supplier in town.

Which meant…

The Lantern light Dungeon was functionally locked behind his alchemy bench.

So what were the guilds doing?

They weren’t quitting.

They were adapting.

If they couldn’t run it now, they’d grind levels.

If they couldn’t buy potions, they’d harvest herbs.

If they couldn’t clear it, they’d prep for the next best chance.

Ren had changed the rules.

***

CHAPTER 53

For the next six hours, Ren was a blur of motion in the lab, crafting non-stop. He knocked out another round of instant potions—not because they were big money, but because the Scrap Rats still needed their steady supply of healing, mana, and focus boosts. No point in running a dorm guild if you let your own team fall over in a fight.

Then came the real haul: another batch of fire-resistant draft potions. Even though most of the major guilds had now shifted to a “we’ll clear it at level 9” mindset, someone always wanted a shot early. Maybe they were desperate, maybe they were overconfident, or maybe they just didn’t want to be left out. Whatever the reason, another full set of 65 potions was snatched up the moment Ren announced they were ready.

The price?

2.5 silver each.

A handful of reagents.

And, of course, another set of Lore Cards.

Because that was the standard now. Ren didn’t just sell potions—he sold first clear attempts, wrapped in glass vials and capped with quiet power.

Ren was happy about how much silver was now in the guild bank. From being flat broke after his initial sweep of potions and reagents, he’d clawed his way back with quiet efficiency. Potion by potion, trade by trade, his fire-resistant drafts had done the work. No world announcements. No flashy clears. Just bottles moving hands, coins flowing back in, and guild coffers that no longer looked embarrassing.

The new Scrap Rats guild total was:

6 gold, 64 silver, and 70 copper.

Not bad for a bunch of dorm rats with two helmets, a dream, and a cheese addicted alchemist.

After his brewing session, Ren logged out and went back to real life to take a break—Ren style. Which now always included cheese (a generous chunk of Blue Cheese Lite), a packet of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Crackers, and a bottle of Wineoh.

No, not wine.

Wineoh.

The slums version of red wine.

And oh, you could definitely taste it. It wasn’t even all grapes. It was grapes and grape-like flavor. Whatever that meant. Probably a chemical invented in a shady lab two districts over. Still, he raised the plastic cup like it was crystal and toasted to another successful alchemy shift.

“Cheers to fermented flavor and borderline food safety,” he said, taking a sip and immediately grimacing.

Ah, the taste of progress.

***

The next day began with Ren, once again back in the lab—half humming, half muttering to himself—but this time, there were no instant potions. No fire-resistant drafts. No cheery sing-song tune about crafting potions for gold.

Nope.

This shift was different.

He’d made a promise to himself during the last leveling shift and he wasn’t going to break it. He needed those levels. Level 4.45 wasn’t cutting it, and he couldn’t just mooch off the Scrap Rats forever. It was time to fight.

Alchemist style.

Which meant one thing: prep work.

Ren wasn’t going to march into a leveling grind like some reckless ranger or brainless mage who only knew how to spam firebolts and pray. He was a potion-making, cheese-loving battle cleric in the making—and he had Intelligence points to prove it.

So for the next two hours, he focused on a different kind of brewing. Potions not for sale, but for himself.

First up? A brand-new poison.

He called it Sludgegut Extract.

Crafted from four Tier 1 ingredients:

– Ghoulwort

– Dusksnap Seeds

– Dewroot sap

– Crushed Blinkleaf extract

Crude in form, rough around the edges—yet every potion would land with brutal impact.

Especially against giant amphibious frog monsters—the kind that spat venom, bounced like lunatics, and swallowed mages whole if they stood still too long.

Most guilds hated them. Ren saw opportunity. If the frogs were going to poison him, then he was going to poison them harder.

Next, he brewed a batch of anti-poison potions—five of them, using a blend of Gloomsprite Dust (for stability), Gravebloom Spores, and a touch of Paleplume Fluff to offset the side effects. It didn’t fully cleanse toxins, but it neutralized the worst effects for about 15 seconds—a lifetime in battle.

By the end of the shift, his lab table held exactly 108 finished potions—because that was his rhythm now. One every three minutes, steady hands, and just enough misses to keep him humble.

And this time, they were split between just two new creations:

– 30x Sludgegut Extract (Poison) – A grimy, bubbling brew that caused damage over time specifically to amphibians, especially those with mana-rich bile. Perfect for turning giant poison-spitting frog monsters into twitching piles of goo.

– 30x Quick-Cleanse Vials (Anti-Poison) – Fast-acting antidotes designed to counter the kind of venom that came from said frogs. Not a full cleanse, but enough to keep someone from keeling over in the middle of a fight.

-48 instant heal potions.

Under the low light of the lab, this batch didn’t sparkle. It wasn’t made to impress or to earn coin. These potions were brewed with one goal in mind—staying alive.

Because Ren was done being the dead weight in party runs.

This time, the frogs were going to croak.

***

Ren went out with the Scrap Rats to the edge of the swamp where the Cyclopiles and Giant Frogs lurked. He wasn’t hiding in the back this time. Nope. He was up front—robes flapping, potions clinking, grinning like a lunatic.

When the first frogs came bounding out of the muck, hissing and puffing out their venom sacs, Ren met them head-on. He hurled his vials like a man possessed. Some hit squarely. Others bounced off a frog’s face and plopped into the mud. But it didn’t matter. Because Sludgegut Extract wasn’t about direct hits. The real power came from the invisible gas it released as it shattered—coating the air with a haze of magical amphibian doom.

Tick, tick, tick.

That gas did its work, dropping health in little bits, softening up the monsters until they keeled over, croaking and convulsing in their last, bile-soaked breaths.

The Scrap Rats did their part—swords slashing, spells flying—but Ren made one thing very clear:

“Don’t kill the frogs.”

He pointed accusingly at Silk, who was already halfway through a backstab. “Let the poison get the last hit. That’s an order!”

Silk groaned and sheathed his blade.

“Fine,” he muttered. “No killing the froggies. Got it.”

Because last hits mattered in Towerbound. And these? These were Ren’s kills. His poison, his gas cloud, his EXP.

That was how you leveled as an alchemist—through slow, poisonous, borderline war-crime levels of frog extermination.

***

The end of the six-hour shift made Ren happily smile as he looked at his character sheet.

Level 5.5. That was a full level!

He’d finally hit it. A tiny milestone in the grand scheme of Towerbound, but it felt massive. This wasn’t some participation trophy level—this was the one that finally made him feel like he belonged. Like he wasn’t just dead weight every time the Scrap Rats went out grinding mobs.

‘Finally,’ he thought, a grin creeping across his face. ‘Five. Halfway to ten. And ten means… Battle Cleric.’

He flexed his fingers, already imagining what it would be like to smite enemies with a skill-empowered Smite instead of hiding behind Peter or screaming while a frog bit his ankles. Sure, the stat boost wasn’t huge—just another point in Intelligence—but that point mattered. Every bonus mattered. He was crafting faster, smarter, cleaner than before. His healing was slightly stronger. His mana pool, manageable. And more importantly, it meant his days of running in circles from Shadow Wolves might finally be numbered.

‘God, I hate those wolves.’

Ren opened the character sheet again just to look at it. He’d never been one of those players who stared at stats for fun, but this—this felt good. Proof that his grinding, brewing, and ridiculous amounts of cheese-fueled determination were paying off.

Level 5. He had earned this.

[Character Sheet – Ren – Level 5]

Class: Cleric

Professional Class: Alchemist (Level 2)

Experience: 457 / 800

Primary Attributes

●      Strength: 6

●      Agility: 7

●      Vitality: 9

●      Intelligence: 14 (+1 from level-up)

●      Wisdom: 11

●      Perception: 8

Mana Pool

60 Mana

Skills

●      Basic Heal (Level 1): Heals 10% HP over 5 seconds, single target. Cost: 5 Mana

●      Group Cure (Level 1): Heals party for 10% HP over 8 seconds. Cost: 15 Mana

Equipped Items

●      Starter Robes (Durability: 12 / 25)

●      Novice Cleric’s Staff (Durability: 17 / 22)

Inventory

●      Basic Gatherer’s Kit

●      Warehouse Access Key (Personal)

●      6 gold, 64 silver, and 70 copper.

Passive Effects

●      Wolf Bane (Title): +10% bonus damage to wolf monsters, +20% aggro from wolves

●      Alchemical Insight: +5% success chance when crafting potions

ACHIEVEMENTS UNLOCKED

TITLE: Potion Transcendence

Brew three Perfect-Grade potions in Freeplay Mode.

BONUS: 5% chance to upgrade a Perfect potion into a Mythical-Grade potion

***

The next hours, back in his cozy lab and finally free of the swamp-stink clinging to his robes, were pure bliss.

Fire-resistance potions.

Back to his element. No giant frogs, no howling Shadow Wolves, no poison in the air unless he brewed it himself.

Just like the day before he NPC vendor had only stocked 50 fire-resist potions. And just like the day before, mayhem erupted the second they hit the shelves. Some guilds managed to grab a few. Others walked away empty-handed, grumbling and already planning tomorrow’s ambush outside the shop. A handful of clueless solo players even snagged one or two—then immediately flipped them for massive markups on the auction house.

Ren didn’t care.

He wasn’t watching that madness unfold.

He was the other option. The better option. He was fulfilling pre-orders. Mixing, bottling, stacking 65-pot sets like a well-oiled alchemical factory.

Every few hours, another set was done. Labels neat. Potions gleaming. Mana-rich, volatile, ready to turn a player into a walking lava sponge.

And the guilds were lined up for them—still trading silver, still stuffing his reagent stores, still tossing in Lore Cards like candy. If you were serious about trying Lantern light again, you needed Ren.

Which meant, even while wiping swamp goo off his boots, he was still winning.

***

CHAPTER 54

The next day began with poison brewing.

Ren was back in his lab, humming his usual off-key tune about frogs and guts and glorious, glorious potion effects. The swamp stench from yesterday had finally faded off his robes—mostly—and that meant it was time to restock the guild’s frog-murder arsenal.

Sludgegut Extract.

Quick-Cleanse Vials.

He knew the formula now. He had the ingredients. He had the rhythm. Brew, stir, pour, seal, hum. Repeat.

By the time his six-hour poison session was over, he had a fresh load of vials ready. The Scrap Rats had learned to fight in sync with Ren’s poison cloud tactics, and now they were actually efficient—well, for slum-born noobs. The frogs never stood a chance. They croaked, they twitched, they died in glorious, stinky heaps.

Even better?

Ren leveled up. Again!

Those last hits did wonders.

He now could choose a new spell.

‘I swear,’ Ren thought, ‘this System is reading my diary. Perfect anti-poison spell… right after I invent poison. Coincidence? I think not.’

Technically, there were two other spells Ren could have chosen at Level 6. Towerbound always gave you a branching choice when you leveled—three possible spells, one selection. And while most clerics would’ve squealed at the chance to grab Greater Heal, the upgraded single-target cure, or even Holy Smite, the flashy lightburst attack that fried undead like marshmallows at a campfire…

Ren didn’t even hesitate.

He skipped them both.

Holy Smite? Please. It sounded cool, sure, but he wasn’t a damage-dealer. Not really. He had poison now. Smite was for spotlight-hungry clerics trying to play as paladins.

Greater Heal? Meh. It healed more, but cost more, and had a longer cast time. Which meant it was overkill most of the time and inefficient the rest.

No, Detox was what he wanted. What he needed.

The swamp wasn’t going to purify itself.

And the best part of the day?

He sold another full batch of fire-resistant potions.

Ren could already imagine the panic buys in the NPC shop as guilds scrambled over each other trying to get the cheaper stuff. But those supplies were sold fast. With more and more players realizing just how brutal the Lantern light Dungeon really was, nobody wanted to risk it without Ren’s crafted stock anymore.

The lab was warm, his coin pouch heavier, and his tier experience bar inching forward again. Ren took a moment to stretch, glance at the glowing sigils on his brewing bench, and admire the fresh stack of coin updates.

New Scrap Rats Guild Total:

11 gold, 51 silver, and 50 copper.

He’d even repaid the Scrap Rats for their original investment—four gold apiece. Sure, he’d paid them back in potions—not raw coin—but value was value. And as far as Ren was concerned, that debt was settled.

That was trust, squared and paid.

Not bad for a bunch of dorm rats who couldn’t afford crackers five days ago.

Ren rubbed his hands together and grinned.

“Time to weaponize more poison. La la la, alchemist life for me.”

***

The various guilds in the Greenwild Cross region were now fully in scramble mode. More and more members had hit Level 9, and some guilds—especially the well-funded ones like Silvercut Division and Ashen Bloom—had finally managed to assemble full Level 9 raid teams.

The theory was simple:

We’ve outleveled the dungeon. We’ve got the potions. We’ve got the gear. Now we just need the clear.

And sure, they did have the fire-resistant potions. Stacks of them. Pre-purchased, pre-arranged, sometimes even elbowed out of other guilds’ hands with side-deals, sweeteners, and bonus lore cards. They were anxious, wired, and ready to storm the Lantern light Dungeon one more time.

But Towerbound didn’t care about your optimism.

Towerbound didn’t care about your corporate sponsor.

Towerbound didn’t care about your pep talks or potion preps.

It cared about execution.

And execution… well, it still fell short.

Another team wipe.

And another.

And another.

Even at Level 9, the flaming traps, collapsing bridges, and molten spiders did their job.

The only thing any of them cleared was the resurrection penalty timer.

***

The Scrap Rats had officially moved up in the world—or at least, up a few levels.

Everyone in the core team was now solidly Level 7, and a few like Halt and Silk had even hit Level 8, proudly flaunting it in party chat with casual comments like, “Oh? You guys still getting white-named mobs?”

They were feeling good. Confident. This didn’t feel like a desperate gamble anymore. For the first time, it felt like they had a shot—like they actually belonged in the race.

The guys in the 10-man dormitory—Folo, Kanuka, and Peter—were grinding just as hard, but with 6-hour helmet shifts, they were trailing slightly behind. Most of them were still sitting at barely Level 6.

Ironically, they were now trailing Ren.

Because thanks to his genocidal-scale poison bomb strategy and the meticulous hogging of last hits, Ren was squeezing out EXP like a greedy little sponge. He was still behind the hardcore players, sure. But he was no longer dead weight.

Ren cheerfully looked at the new total in the Scrap Rats guild funds and gave a satisfied whistle.

13 gold, 13 silver, and 50 copper.

‘Not bad for a bunch of street rats with two helmets and a dream,’ he thought, cracking open his mental calculator. Sure, most of it was technically spoken for—future potion ingredients, helmet upkeep, and possibly even a third VR rig—but it still felt solid. Like the kind of number that quietly said, we’re in the game now.

He turned to the others in the dorm and said, “We’re officially no longer super broke. We’re mid-tier broke now.”

There were cheers. Someone threw a sock in celebration. Tanner tried to trade 50 copper for ‘equity in the cheese vault.’

Ren just grinned. Gold might not solve all problems, but it definitely made everything feel a little shinier.

***

Days passed.

Ren was especially looking forward to this one.

This was it—the last day he would have to go out and level. He was already part way through Level 6, just about to hit 7, and their top players—Silk, Halt, and a couple others—had just scraped their way into Level 8. That meant he could still be power-leveled for another full level or two before falling out of range. And that meant no more swampy, slimy, frog-filled nightmares… at least, not personally.

The day itself was routine by now:

Frogs. Poison. Screaming and running away if said frogs got too close.

More poison. More frogs.

And more screaming.

Ren still wasn’t a good cleric. At all. His contributions to the team were mostly limited to yelling at people to stop killing things too fast so my poison can tick, and ducking behind rocks whenever a Cyclopile appeared.

But it worked.

By the end of the shift, he had brewed another batch of potions, passed it to another guild, and counted up the coin haul with glee.

+181 silver.

Which made the new Scrap Rats Guild Total:

A whopping 15 gold, 94 silver, and 50 copper.

The best part about this wasn’t just the 15 gold—though, let’s be real, that number made Ren’s brain do little happy somersaults every time he saw it.

No, the real treasure?

It was the uncounted piles of reagents, herbs, odd-smelling mosses, mystery vials, and most importantly…

Lore Cards.

Every batch of fire-resistant potions sold came with a “bonus clause” baked into the trade:

30 Lore Cards, thank you very much.

And it worked.

Guilds didn’t even blink at it anymore. They just assumed that’s how things were done. You wanted your 65 potion batch? You paid the silver, sent the herbs, and handed over your cards like a good little collector.

What they didn’t realize was that Ren had turned the entire Greenwild Cross into his personal treasure hunt.

He was vacuuming up every spare reagent, every mid-tier herb, and every underappreciated Lore Card in the region.

The vault of his warehouse was beginning to look like a cross between a mad apothecary’s lab and a conspiracy theorist’s filing cabinet. Stacks of cards. Rows of glowing ingredients. Weird mushrooms sorted by spore color.

Gold was just the start.

That kind of gold, in their slum-tier dorm, was absurd. That was a get-a-third-helmet kind of money. That was buy-out-an-herbalist-and-make-him-your-potion-slave kind of money.

They weren’t trying to win any World Firsts just yet.

Why?

Because Ren had made the call:

“We don’t touch the Lantern light Dungeon until people are Level 10.

And not ten warm bodies. Ten roles. Ten proper classes. A real raid team.”

No randoms. No scrambling. No half-baked death runs like the other desperate guilds.

Scrap Rats didn’t need the fame. The glory and subsequent hassle and aggro was something Ren didn’t want to see.

***

CHAPTER 55

Ren stood at the front of the 10-man dorm, practically glowing as he shared the results of their first two weeks. His voice carried through the cramped space, cutting over the buzzing fans and occasional noodle slurps.

“We’ve got nearly sixteen hundred credits’ worth of gold now,” he said, grinning like a lunatic. “1,594.50, to be exact.”

The room exploded.

Folo threw his hands up, yelling, “WE’RE RICH!”

Kanuka practically tackled Peter in excitement.

Simms started mock-sobbing into a pillow. “We almost own another helmet, boys. A whole damn helmet!”

“Only took two weeks and a whole lotta frogs,” Tanner snorted.

“And,” Ren added, holding up a scroll like it was a sacred text, “this doesn’t even count the mountain of reagents we’ve got stored or the lore cards. Oh yeah—we’ve got sets now.”

“Sets?” Reed blinked. “Like… plural?”

“Yup,” Ren said smugly. “Some guilds are giving them away like candy just to get priority on potions. At this rate, the whole region’s gonna accidentally complete my collection for me.”

“Hey, wait,” said Davon, peeking up from behind his sketchbook. “How close are we to paying off the first helmet?”

Ren gave a finger-gun. “Less than 500 credits away.”

A stunned silence fell over the room.

Then:

“HOLY SHIT!”

“IT’S WORKING!”

“WE’RE GONNA SURVIVE!”

“I CALL DIBS ON THE NEXT HELMET SHIFT!”

Even Cameron, who barely talked, gave a quiet, “Fuck yeah,” before raising his cup of discount soda.

The number mattered—but what it stood for mattered more. It was proof, etched in gold and silver, that their plan wasn’t just some half-baked gamble. Towerbound wasn’t a hobby. It was work. It was upward momentum. It was a way out.

“Alright guys, time to revisit the plan.”

Everyone quieted down. Reed paused the movie. Choi looked up from sharpening his spoon-knife. Folo even stopped practicing coin tricks long enough to listen.

“When we first made the plan,” Ren said, “we were just trying stuff. No helmets. No potions. No cheese. Just a maybe.”

“Definitely no cheese,” muttered Simms, and a few people laughed.

“But now,” Ren continued, “we’ve got 1,594 credits worth of in-game gold, a stockpile of reagents that could bankrupt half the newbie guilds in Greenwild, and… we’re maybe two potion batches away from paying off the first helmet.”

That got a loud cheer.

“Peter,” Ren pointed, “how long did it take you to believe this might actually work?”

Peter grinned. “Honestly? Right after I almost cried from eating that blue cheese. That’s when I knew we were onto something.”

Everyone laughed again. Kanuka raised a half-eaten cheese cube in salute.

Ren nodded. “Exactly. And now that it is working, it’s time to think about the dorm.”

There was a pause. The room stilled.

“I know I said no cash-outs till the month’s end,” Ren said. “But I think we should spend just a little.”

“Still no air conditioning, though?” Tanner said with a fake whimper.

“Let’s not get too ambitious.”

They laughed again, and this time it wasn’t just nervous energy or disbelief—it was real. Earned.

Peter leaned back and said, “You know, I thought you were full of crap when you said this would work.”

“I was full of crap,” Ren said. “Still am. But I’m full of rich crap now.” Ren imagined a pop up in his giddy brain.

ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED:

TITLE: Cheese-Fueled Dreamers

Convince your dorm that their hard-earned credits had improved real-life living conditions.

BONUS: +5 Morale to all Scrap Rats for 7 Days

EFFECT: Dorm becomes 15% less miserable.

Ren looked around the room at everyone. The mood was excited, energized—but he knew money stress still lingered under the surface.

“So yeah it’s time to revisit the plan,” he said. “I know we all agreed we wouldn’t cash out anything until the end of the month. But look. We’re doing better than we thought. And I think some of that money should go toward the dorm right now.”

That surprised people. A few eyebrows raised. Ren had always said he needed every bit of cash to keep things going—but this wasn’t about him.

“I put in 500 credits myself,” he said, “and I don’t need it back. But I know some of you scrambled just to make this happen. Some of you borrowed from friends. Family. Good-hearted companies. And… I really hope to god none of you borrowed from the black market or loan sharks.”

All eyes didn’t exactly turn to Simms and Davon—but the tension in the room shifted slightly.

Those two looked away just a little too casually.

Everyone knew.

In the slums, loan sharks weren’t the horror-movie kind that came to collect kidneys. They were worse. Professional. Organized. With 30% interest monthly and smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. The kind of people who sent you polite reminder texts—until they sent someone to “talk it over” in person.

Ren didn’t blame them. Everyone had done what they had to do.

But now that the plan was working?

It was time to start making things right.

“So yeah, we have close to 1,500 credits now,” Ren said, looking around the room, “and I only need about 500 credits’ worth of in-game coins to keep the steam rolling without any issues.

“So, a thousand credits. Who here needs their money paid back first?”

He gave everyone a moment. “Like I said, I don’t need anything back yet. I’ll maybe take some credits for miscellaneous stuff. The rest of the money can sit in the guild account. If you do take your money back, though, you’re still in the guild, obviously. We aren’t kicking anybody out. I just want to make sure no one’s got some sort of crazy loans they’re going to default on and have to pay extra.”

Technically, everybody in the room was supposed to be paying 400 credits to afford that initial purchase of two game helmets. Some guys had paid more—like Ren, who put in 500.

Peter put up his hand sheepishly.

“I actually had to take out a loan for 200 credits to get my share.”

“150 here,” Folo said, and the others started chiming in.

It turned out their 10-man dorm had collectively taken out 800 credits’ worth of loans.

“So yeah,” said Ren, “let’s definitely pay that back right now. Looks like everybody else doesn’t need it?”

“Nah,” the room said. “Keep it. Keep the money rolling.”

“All right,” said Ren. “Let’s do that, then.”

So out of the 1,500 credits, 800 went to loans, and now they had a little bit over 700 credits’ worth of coins still circulating in-game. Ren split the last 200 credits evenly—20 each, including himself. It wasn’t a huge payout, but it meant something. Back when this had all sounded like a pipe dream—make money playing games, yeah right—that 20 credits was proof. They’d gotten paid.

If they really stopped to think about it, the numbers were pathetic. Ten people, hundreds of hours sunk into grinding, and what did they have to show for it? A measly 20 credits each—after sinking 4,000 credits into those helmets? On paper, it was a loss.

But emotionally? It was something else. The helmets were paid off. The risk was covered. And for the first time, every single one of them had tasted a return. A real dividend. Not from working a crappy job, not from side hustles, but from Towerbound.

***

CHAPTER 56

For the next three days, Ren didn’t leave his lab unless absolutely necessary.

No frogs. No shadow wolves. No screaming at Silk for stealing last hits.

Just potion brewing.

Eighteen hours a day. Nonstop. He even set an alarm every two hours—not for rest, but to stretch his back, munch another slice of blue cheese, and refill his kettle with what he proudly called “grape-flavored mana juice.” (It wasn’t wine. Not really. But it tried.)

And the results?

Beautiful.

Over three days, Ren brewed and sold:

●      540 potions a day

●      1,620 potions total

●      Sold at 2.5 silver each

That added up to 4,050 silver.

Which meant…

40 gold, 50 silver in total revenue.

Their guild fund shot up fast.

Previous Total: 50 silver

Additions: +40 gold, 50 silver

New Scrap Rats Guild Total: 41 gold even

Real-world conversion?

1 gold = 100 credits

So 41 gold = 4,100 credits

And just like that, the dorm exploded with excitement.

They’d already paid off 800 credits in black market loans. Now, with 4,100 credits sitting in the guild account?

People were peeking over Ren’s shoulder to double-check the numbers, laughing, cheering, half-hugging each other. Nobody cared that this wasn’t a dungeon clear or some world-shaking raid. This was money. Real, tangible, life-fixing money.

Ren stood up, stretched, and grinned.

“Like I said—I don’t need my money yet. But now? Officially? You all can get paid back.”

He pulled 3,200 credits out of the guild fund and handed it over to the guys who had contributed. A few tried to refuse, but Ren cut them off.

“Take the credits, guys. You’ve earned it. All of it.”

And yeah, sure, part of it was kindness. But the bigger truth?

Ren had a plan.

Getting those two helmets in the first place had been a hard sell. The dorm barely believed it would work. But now—with credits in their hands, potion profits rolling in, and the entire server begging for supplies—they were starting to believe.

That’s when Ren floated the next idea.

“I know we only have two helmets,” he said casually, “but it’s not enough for a dorm this size. What do you all think about buying a third?”

He didn’t need to say the rest.

A third helmet meant smoother rotations. Fewer gaps, less stress, more uptime. And for Ren, it meant scaling everything higher. More potions. More gold. More control.

Everyone in the room was already doing the math.

This time, they only needed 2,000 credits for the third helmet.

Split between ten people, that was just 200 credits each.

No hesitation. No bargaining. No nervous glances.

They happily did it.

After watching Ren turn reagents into riches, after seeing those potions fly out the door, and of getting their own loans paid off… this was a no-brainer.

Now the dorm had three helmets, which meant those six-hour shifts didn’t have to be timed down to the second anymore.

No more awkward clock-watching.

No more passive-aggressive hovering.

And best of all—no more dorm friction where everyone wandered in, hoping someone else had “accidentally” cut their session short.

No one wanted to be short-shafted, or worse, reshifted, losing their precious play window because someone “lost track of time.” Three helmets meant more breathing room. More flexibility. And fewer arguments.

That wasn’t even the best part.

Ren’s plan—the real plan—was to eventually get every single person their own helmet. No more juggling shifts. No more outside jobs. Just full, uninterrupted Towerbound time for the whole dorm. It was starting to look possible.

When he told the group that, the reaction was electric.

“Wait, really?”

“Dude, that would be insane.”

“I’m quitting my job so fast.”

But Ren raised a hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. That’s our eventual goal, yeah. But there’s no need to bankrupt our tiny guild chasing it. We’ve still got plenty of time before the end of the month.”

“FUCK YEAH!” someone shouted from the bunk corner.

Ren grinned. “So. Who’s excited to get back in the game?”

He stretched, cracked his knuckles, and grabbed the helmet again.

“Because my break’s over.”

***

POV: KANUKA’S WORK

Kanuka was working the grill with the biggest smile anyone had seen on him in months. Smoke in his eyes, apron stained, but happy.

“Hey Kanuka, how’s your gaming going?” someone called over the sizzle of pork fat. “You rich yet?”

“Oh hey, I’m glad you asked, David,” Kanuka grinned. “You ready to start learning how to work this grill?”

David blinked. “Huh? Yeah right. Boss won’t even let me touch the grill. I’m still stuck breaking down the meat.”

“Well,” Kanuka said, flipping a skewer with a satisfying sizzle, “someone’s gonna have to step up. Our dorm just paid off both our helmets… and we bought a third one too.”

The kitchen noise died.

Laughter cut off mid-chuckle. Pans paused. Every eye turned to him. Because everyone here knew about Kanuka’s “entrepreneur” phase. The pots. The pans. The debt.

But now?

“You’re kidding,” one guy said, voice halfway between stunned and horrified. “You paid off the loans? And bought a third? It’s only been—what—fifteen days?”

“Yep,” Kanuka said, a little too casual, grinning like he just landed a crit. “And if things keep going like they are, I might not be flipping meat chunks much longer.”

A heavy silence. Then:

“Whoa. Are you sure?”

Kanuka shrugged. “Well, nothing in life—or the slums—is ever sure, right?”

That got a round of laughter. The knowing, bitter kind. But the envy? That didn’t go away. Not for a second.

“Tell us more about the game,” someone muttered.

Kanuka glanced at the grill, flipped a couple more skewers, making sure not a single one burned—because it’d still come out of his paycheck, and he wasn’t rich yet.

But for the rest of the shift, he talked. About Towerbound. About potions. About how their dorm was making enough to pay off loans. About the tasty cheese Ren got them for free.

And every time someone laughed or nodded, Kanuka saw it—the mix of envy, jealousy, and regret on their faces.

That was the hidden bonus he’d earned, and damn, it felt good.

***

After his shift, Kanuka made a beeline for Gina.

She was waiting for him, as always, near the bench  that barely worked, the one with the cracked cement base and the crooked seat that someone had tagged DREAM BIGGER on years ago. He didn’t care how busted it was. It was their spot.

“I’ve got news,” he said, grinning as he walked up.

Gina tilted her head. “Good news?”

“The best kind,” Kanuka said, wrapping his arms around her. “We paid off the helmets. And we bought a third one.”

She blinked. “Are you sure? This isn’t one of those weird lucid dreams where the meat talks to you again?”

Kanuka laughed and kissed her forehead. “Nope. Fully awake. Fully paid. It’s finally happening. Our dream of moving into a dorm together might actually pay off.”

Even though his eight-hour BBQ shift had left him smelling like meat and sweat—and the third helmet meant he could’ve hopped into the game immediately—he didn’t. Not tonight. This hour, these moments, belonged to her.

She had been there through all the failures—the pots and pans hustle, the broken deals, the awkward nights he didn’t have enough cash for a second skewer to treat her. And now? Now she was still there, smiling, warm in his arms, like she always believed this was going to happen.

They sat on the rickety bench in the park, the one that creaked like it was whispering don’t trust gravity, and watched the world go by. Slum dwellers hustling to their second jobs. Drugged-out dreamers passed out under the mossy trees. Kids running barefoot and yelling over a deflated soccer ball.

“Our eventual plan, babe,” Kanuka said, “is ten helmets. Everyone working full-time in-game. No more split shifts. No more having to beg for overtime in meat smoke.”

Gina leaned her head on his shoulder, laughing. “That’s amazing.”

“I wish you could play,” Kanuka murmured.

“I wish I could too. You know I do,” she replied. “But, I swear. I’ll bet you find a way.”

He kissed her again. “That’s right I will!”

“I’m holding you to it.”

They sat in silence for a bit, not the awkward kind, but the full kind—laced with tired joy and cautious hope.

Getting envy from his coworkers? That was fun.

But this—this—seeing her smile like that, hearing her laugh without a single trace of worry behind it?

That was the real achievement.

***

POV : REN

Why did Ren finally stop his three-day marathon session of potion brewing?

Because someone had finally done it.

The first level 10 player had appeared.

And it wasn’t Silvercut Division. It wasn’t Ashen Bloom. It definitely wasn’t Prosperous—not with how they limped out of their last Lantern Light run like overcooked noodles.

No, the honor went to a fourth guild. Starfire Guild

They hadn’t even attempted the Lantern Light Dungeon yet.

That was what shocked everyone. The three major guilds had burned time, resources, and levels trying—and failing—to brute-force a first clear. Every failed raid had cost them EXP, deaths, potion sets, and precious momentum.

Starfire Guild? They hadn’t wasted a single minute.

They’d stayed out of the spotlight. Focused. Leveled. Avoided dungeon ego traps.

And now… someone from their ranks had quietly dinged level 10.

Which meant the real race just changed.

Because it didn’t matter how many banners you waved or how much corporate backing you had. First clears in Towerbound were about timing and readiness, not fame.

Starfire Guild? They were ready.

[WorldWide Notification]

Congratulations to Al Logcrafra

First Player to Reach Level 10 in Greenwild Cross!

+1 to All Base Stats as Bonus

This repeated for a total of three times.

[WorldWide Notification]

Congratulations to Al Logcrafra

First Player to Reach Level 10 in Greenwild Cross!

+1 to All Base Stats as Bonus

[WorldWide Notification]

Congratulations to Al Logcrafra

First Player to Reach Level 10 in Greenwild Cross!

+1 to All Base Stats as Bonus

The flash hit everyone’s vision like a lightning bolt. Whether they were fighting spiders, grinding frogs, or deep in a shop menu—they saw it. The system didn’t say what guild he was in, of course. Technically, there were no official guilds yet in Towerbound.

But anybody who’d been paying attention knew the truth.

That sharp-featured guy in the announcement photo? The leather-and-ash cloak with the gold trim? The twin-stitched emblem on his shoulder that matched four other known players grinding in formation just outside Greenwild?

Yeah.

That was Starfire.

And just like that, the game had a new threat. Not a loud guild. Not a famous guild. But a rising one.

Quiet. Efficient. Coordinated.

And now? A step ahead of everyone.

***

POV : PROSPEROUS GUILD

Victor was smashing things in the rented room of the Salvatore Inn, Prosperous Guild’s temporary HQ. A lamp shattered. A chair took flight. Someone’s tea exploded across the map table.

“How the hell did somebody beat us to level 10?!”

His face was red. Veins throbbing. He wasn’t just mad—he was humiliated. He’d been one sliver away. One good kill. One clean sweep of an area. One properly executed plan.

But instead?

Some nobody.

Some no-name rando from a quiet up-and-coming guild had snatched the spotlight. A guy in off-the-shelf robes. From a guild with no fame, no leaderboard history, no Megacorp shareholders.

Al Logcrafra.

It tasted like dirt in Victor’s mouth.

“I don’t know how they did it, sir,” one of his lieutenants muttered.

“Shut up,” said another. “We all know how they did it.”

Victor spun. “If we hadn’t failed our Lantern light clear, that’d be us.”

“It’s true,” someone agreed. “One clear and—boom—Victor’s name in the sky.”

“Are they gonna get the first clear too?” Adhir asked quietly, her voice tight.

Victor’s glare could have melted her boots. “They better not.”

The room fell silent. Every member of Prosperous was watching him, waiting.

Then, with a cold smile, Victor turned to them. “Has Prosperous ever let anyone step on us?”

“Hell no!” came the shout.

“Damn right,” Victor growled. “From now on? If you see a Starfire member out in the wild—gank them. Strip their levels. Drop them back to 8, 7, hell, 6 if you can. I want that leaderboard to scream Prosperous.”

“Yes, sir!” the guild cheered, eyes lighting up.

They didn’t care about fairness. Or balance. Or competition.

They cared about dominance. And ganking?

That was fun.

***

POV : STARFIRE GUILD

In the Starfire Guild, Al was already a legend.

The first player to hit Level 10 in the entire Greenwild Cross region.

That wasn’t just a milestone. That was a statement. A declaration that Starfire—scrappy, sponsorless, overlooked Starfire—was no longer in the shadows.

They didn’t have corporate backers funding their way up the ladder. No investor boards micromanaging their gear drops. No full-time marketing teams polishing press releases. What they did have was a couple of player-owned startups, a roster full of ride-or-die grinders, and years of being underestimated in every VRMMO they’d played before.

But not this time.

This time, they were first.

“Level 10, baby!” Al roared, holding his mug high at the Salvatore Inn. Foam spilled, the room erupted, and every cheer was loud enough to rattle tankards off the walls. They toasted with wild grins and celebratory slaps on the back, half-drunk on mead, half-drunk on vindication.

“Do we go for the Lantern light clear?” someone asked through the noise.

Al shook his head, still grinning. “Not yet. You all saw what happened to Silvercut Division. They bought three full potion sets and still wiped twice. Ren’s potions aren’t exactly cheap—and we’re not about to burn our hard-earned silver on a maybe.”

“True,” someone muttered. “That dungeon’s a meat grinder.”

“If I hadn’t gone Blacksmith for my side class,” Al said, “I’d be testing for Alchemist right now. But hey, now I can at least start cranking out our own gear.”

“Armor over potions. I like it.”

“We should keep pushing your level though,” someone added. “You’re top of the leaderboard, Al. Staying there’s going to count more than any one dungeon clear.”

Al smirked. “Fair point. Let’s hold the line, then. I’ll still be forging a sick new helmet, though. Gotta show off a little.”

The laughter rolled again, but behind it was something stronger—momentum. They weren’t just lucky. They had plans now. Options.

They didn’t know it yet, but across the map, Prosperous had already sent out orders.

Gank Starfire.

Humiliate them.

Break them.

And that was the kind of danger Ren had always warned his guildies about.

The truth was, Ren hadn’t held the Scrap Rats back from first clears because they weren’t good enough.

He’d held them back because they weren’t ready for the drama.

Fame came with rewards.

But it also came with crosshairs and aggro.

And guilds like Prosperous never missed a chance to pull the trigger.

***

CHAPTER 57

Out near the misty edges of the Weeping Timberline, three Starfire members were grinding peacefully—running rotations on Weeping Coyotes and the occasional iron-hided rhino-beast. It was a chill session, clean EXP, no pressure. The mobs were tough, sure, but perfectly matched for their level range—seven to nine. They were joking about loot drops, laughing about Al’s new helmet design, and then—

They got surrounded.

Eight members of the Prosperous Guild dropped in out of stealth, blinking in from mobility spells or charging in with spells, forming a circle with military precision.

The ambush wasn’t a fight.

It was a massacre.

The Starfire players barely got spells off before they were knocked to the ground and executed one by one.

“Yeahhh, you guys are real tough,” sneered one of the Prosperous players, crouching repeatedly on the corpse of a fallen healer.

Another one laughed. “Don’t worry! If you try to come back, we definitely won’t kill you again.”

“We promise,” a third chimed in, voice thick with mockery. “Just hanging out here for fun. Not camping or anything. Definitely not.”

The Prosperous crew stood over the bodies like smug vultures, weapons still glowing.

In Starfire’s private party chat, the tone shifted instantly from relaxed to bleak.

“Fuck. I think it’s time to give it up,” one said.

“Yeah. There’s no way we’re recovering those bodies. Not with eight of them standing guard.”

“Damn it. I just hit level nine,” another groaned.

“That’s better than me. I was still level eight. I was one fight away from nine… and now I just dropped back down. This is brutal.”

The third member stayed silent for a second, then typed:

“At least none of us were nine-and-close-to-ten. That’d be a whole level gone.”

They didn’t bother trying to rally the guild. The respawn timers would be halfway up by the time any backup arrived—and Prosperous wasn’t dumb. They’d leave before they were outnumbered.

But they sent the message anyway. A PM to everyone online in Starfire Guild.

“Prosperous is ganking. Eight of them. Watch out near Timberline.”

The guild chat lit up like a firestorm.

“Those fuckers.”

“Should we group up and hit them back?”

“No time. They’ll vanish before we’re there. Classic Prosperous hit-and-run.”

“This is gonna keep happening, isn’t it?”

It was.

The first gank was just a warning shot.

Starfire had made it to the top of the leaderboard—and now every single one of them had a target on their back.

***

The attacks on Starfire were never glorious.

There were no open field duels. No grand siege battles. No 100-vs-100 clash where banners waved and spells lit the sky.

Nope.

Just ganks.

Always ganks.

Prosperous Guild specialized in it—roving squads of 4 to 8 players prowling the zones like hyenas. They watched Starfire movements constantly, tracking their members like a second job. If they saw a solo player? Dead. Small group? Same result. If they couldn’t kill them outright, they’d kite overleveled mobs into their grind paths or even sneak into fights just to snipe the last hit on a monster.

Shadow Wolves, Croakbeasts, even the armored Barkstriders—all fair game if Prosperous could tag one with a long-range bolt, arrow, or mana lance to screw up a Starfire member’s EXP.

Sometimes it worked too.

And when it did?

It drove the Starfire members insane.

“Stop killstealing!”

“Get your own mobs!”

“You’re wasting everyone’s time!”

Prosperous didn’t care.

They weren’t here to share.

They were here to make sure no other Starfire member touched level 10 again.

The idea of a big guild war had come up once—just once—in their war room at the Salvatore Inn. But Victor had waved it off with a laugh and a long, theatrical “Pooh-pooh-pooh.”

“Our goal,” he said, pacing, “isn’t to flex. It’s to make sure nobody else gets on that leaderboard. Especially not Al’s guild. We take him down, we win. Plain and simple.”

“Yes, boss,” his second-in-command muttered.

The room chuckled awkwardly.

Victor wasn’t about to risk Prosperous’ image, or worse, their levels and gear, in some massive brawl where they could actually lose.

No. His orders were clear:

Keep Starfire bleeding.

Keep them paranoid.

And above all?

Make them regret ever getting in their way.

***

Two days later, the attacks on Starfire Guild finally slowed.

Not because Prosperous had moved on.

Oh no. They were still petty, vindictive little bastards, and everyone knew it.

But their attention had shifted.

Why?

Because the leaderboard wasn’t so empty anymore.

Eight more names had appeared.

Including Victor’s.

[Official Towerbound Leaderboard – Greenwild Cross Region]

Top 10 Players by Level – Live Update

Al Logcrafra

Victor Drenwald

Sera Vonn

Darien Kross

Tessari Vale

Kael Emberthorn

Juno Vale

Mirax Tenebris

Devon Stryke

Silk

Victor scowled at the screen. Just names. No guild tags. No class details. No stats.

That’s why Prosperous kept their own private version—one full of guild-made notes, speculations, spy reports, and gossipy footnotes. Because in this game, the leaderboard didn’t just show who was winning.

It showed who had a target on their back.

[Greenwild Cross Regional Leaderboard – Level 10 Players]

Compiled for Internal Prosperous Guild Review

CONFIDENTIAL: Shareholder Access Only

Al Logcrafra – Starfire Guild

Profession: Warrior / Blacksmith

Notes: First to 10, but burning fast. No corporate support, no real strategy. Just a grind freak with lucky timing. Soft target without backup.

Victor Drenwald – Prosperous Guild

Profession: Mage / [CLASSIFIED – Developmental Build]

Notes: Our flagship player. Boosted by precision guild tactics and full resource backing. Expect to top the board within 48 hours. Media rollout pending.

Sera Vonn – Silvercut Division

Profession: Ranger / Beastmaster

Notes: Overrated. Reliant on guild members. No significant clears, poor PvP showing. Probably already peaked.

Darien Kross – Ashen Bloom

Profession: Duelist / ?

Notes: Show-off. Flashy kit, decent execution. Lacks team cohesion. Potential recruitment target if Bloom stumbles.

Tessari Vale – Sabertooth Syndicate

Profession: Cleric / Rune Scribe

Notes: Strong tactical support. Annoying trap builds. Marketed well but plays passive. Unlikely to make waves solo.

Kael Emberthorn – Unknown Guild

Profession: Pyromancer / ?

Notes: Lone wolf. No known allies. High PvE output but poor survivability. Possibly a known pro. Watchlist only.

Juno Vale – Silvercut Division

Profession: Warrior / Shield Crafter

Notes: Living wall. No DPS, no brains. Just good at standing in fire. Makes for a solid distraction—nothing else.

Mirax Tenebris – Prosperous Guild

Profession: Assassin / Shadow Stitcher

Notes: One of ours. Stealth op specialist. Fast, brutal, and team-loyal. Currently running overwatch on Starfire targets.

Devon Stryke – Prosperous Guild

Profession: Hunter / Gearsmith

Notes: Support scout and Victor’s designated finisher. Handles gear optimization, item funneling, and aggro baiting. Quiet MVP.

Silk – Unknown Guild

Profession: Thief / ?

Notes: Unknown player from a nobody guild. Somehow cracked the top 10. Rumored to have ambushed high-level soloers during raids. Unconfirmed. Worth watching or buying out—cheaply.

Internal Note:

Prosperous now holds 3 of the top 10 slots, with active paths to claim #1.

Starfire remains a PR threat—recommend ongoing suppression via PvP targeting.

Silvercut’s growth is slowing. Ashen Bloom is unstable.

Sabertooth may pivot to sponsorship mode—monitor for poaching opportunities.

Next update scheduled upon first Lantern Light clear.

***

The moment his name flashed up, #2 on the Greenwild Cross Leaderboard, Victor had lost his damn mind. He screamed. He danced. He happily jumped on a chair in the Salvatore Inn just for fun. Then he ordered drinks for the guild call and took all the credit, despite the fact his guild had been funneling him kills, EXP, gear, buffs, and potions like a newborn baby bird.

But he was there. That was all that mattered to him.

Meanwhile?

Not a single new Starfire member had made it on the list.

Prosperous had done their job. All that camping, ganking, kill-stealing, and mob-kiting had paid off. The harassment had worked. The attacks had set Starfire back days—days in a race that only had one winner.

And Prosperous? Prosperous now had three names on the top ten leaderboard. Victor was at the top of their little parade, smirking like he’d won the whole game.

“See?” he crowed to his guild. “All that effort paid off. That’s how you dominate. That’s how you play Towerbound.”

No one disagreed.

Even if the rest of the server hated them, even if rumors were spreading about underhanded tactics and griefing campaigns…

Prosperous was back on top.

And Starfire? Still stuck in the mud.

***

CHAPTER 58

These last three days had been another marathon for Ren—an 18-hour-a-day, potion-brewing, cheese-powered, wrist-aching grindfest.

Because the second he saw that level 10 leaderboard announcement, he knew the writing was on the wall. His overpriced, monopolized, glorious reign of fire resistance potion supremacy? Yeah, that was about to end.

More and more players were about to hit level 10. More and more guilds were going to try that dungeon. And with each one, someone would eventually get the clear. And the second that happened? Prices would crash. Demand would plummet. And his little alchemical empire—at least the fire potion part—would dry up.

So what did Ren do?

He brewed like a man possessed.

He milked every last silver coin he could.

He became a potion-slinging factory in human form.

He didn’t even pause for his usual breaks. His timer buzzed every two hours like always, but instead of a full meal or a proper nap, he just popped a cube of blue cheese in his mouth and kept stirring like a sleep-deprived rodent building a dam of money.

A busy little beaver.

With nothing but ambition, exhaustion, and potion fumes in his veins.

Because once someone got that clear, the fire would be out.

And he intended to ride the flames until the last copper dropped.

Looking at the new totals after his marathon session, Ren decided it was time for another team update.

“Alright, everybody. Time for the money talk,” he said, tapping his in-game ledger like it was a briefcase of cash. “Okay,” he told the dorm, pulling up the account. “We’re now sitting at 61 gold. That’s 6100 credits.”

Whistles. Cheers.

“But…” Ren held up a hand. “We still owe 2,000 credits for the third helmet. Which means after subtracting that, we’ve got 4100 credits left.”

He paused, for dramatic effect.

“Which is 41 gold.”

More cheers.

Then came the bomb.

“If we don’t pay off that third helmet just yet…” Ren grinned, “we could buy two more helmets. Right now.”

Silence.

“Three?” someone repeated.

“That’d make six total,” another muttered.

“Yup,” Ren said. “Let’s break it down.”

He scribbled the numbers into the air with his finger. “Six helmets equals 24 shifts per day.”

“I take three,” Ren continued. “The rest of you—that’s nine of you—each take one six-hour shift. That uses up twelve total.”

Everyone followed. Simple so far.

“Now we’ve got twelve shifts left. If we assign three shifts a day to a player, that means four more people can go full-time.”

That landed hard.

Five full-time players, total—including Ren.

“Which leaves only five of us rotating through the remaining nine shifts,” Kanuka said, eyes wide. “So we’re not just getting full coverage. We’ve got flexibility.”

“Exactly,” Ren said. “Those five have nearly two shifts each. We’ve got a buffer. If someone oversleeps, no problem. If someone wants to swap late, easy.”

The math was solid.

And more importantly—it meant freedom.

No more stress about missing turns. No more scrambling to finish before handovers. No more stress over slots or fights about priority.

They’d made it.

From scraping by with two helmets to building a mini-empire on six.

“Which leads to the question,” Ren said, glancing around the room, “who are the five of us that want to go full-time in the gaming world?”

The dorm went quiet. Ten people packed into a slum apartment with busted fans and a shared toilet didn’t exactly scream ‘living the dream.’ Most of them worked dead-end jobs—slinging meat, folding laundry, hauling crates, or worse. Nobody liked what they were doing. And none of it paid much. Enough to eat. That was it.

But this?

This was a shot.

Eyes flicked around the room.

Reed looked up from where he was sketching new armor ideas on a ripped notebook. “If I could focus on gaming full-time…”

Folo raised a hand. “I’m in. Fighting is a grind, but if I get ahead now, I can start flipping dungeon runs before anyone else.”

Simms leaned back in his chair. “I know I talk a lot of shit, but yeah, if I didn’t have to spend hours running body parts across the zone, I’d be making serious coin in-game.”

Davon didn’t even look up from his half-eaten muffin. “I’m already playing full-time in my mind.”

“Okay,” Ren grinned. “That’s four. Including me, that makes five.”

Kanuka let out a long whistle. “Guess that’s it. You five go full-time. The rest of us? Still doing the 6-hour Towerbound shuffle.”

“Fair enough,” Peter nodded. “Let the fire burn while we stoke it.”

“So… can we actually live off this game?”

Ren spun around in his chair, looking way too smug. “That depends. You want the short answer or the dramatic speech?”

“Dramatic speech!” someone called from the corner.

Ren grinned. “Alright. Picture this—real life. Crate hauler, dishwasher, overnight cleaner? You’re lucky to make thirty credits a day. Forty if you’re doing grill work or night runs. Fifty if you’ve got a cousin on the inside.”

A few groans rippled through the dorm. Everyone here had lived that life.

“But now? We pulled in thirty-seven hundred credits in three days. Just from potions. Plus some from mats and coins the Scrap Rats killing mobs. It hasn’t just been me making the cheddar.”

Kanuka leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “That’s more than my entire last few months!”

“Split five ways for the five full-timers, that’s over seven hundred credits each,” Folo said, trying to keep a straight face.

“Per person. In three days,” Ren added. “You do the math.”

The room went quiet.

Then someone whispered, “That’s like… two-fifty a day.”

Ren pointed at him. “Ding ding ding. Which means even if we start slowing down, we’ve still got cushion.”

Kanuka let out a low whistle. “So we’re not scraping anymore.”

“We’re killing it,” Ren said. “Even if you’re not a talent or a top-level player. Just doing regular shifts, grinding mobs, flipping loot, working trades… we’re already beating real life.”

Peter looked up from his cot. “So if someone just plays like normal—like, not even full-time—they’ll still do better than pushing mops?”

“Exactly,” Ren said. “This isn’t theoretical anymore. Look around. We’re stocked, we’re paid, and we’ll have six helmets.”

Folo nodded slowly. “It’s real.”

Simms leaned forward, grinning. “We’re actually doing it, huh? Not surviving—winning.”

A pause.

Then someone said, “Okay, but how long’s that gonna last? Are we always gonna make this kind of cash?”

Ren didn’t hesitate.

“Nah,” he said, shrugging. “This fire potion monopoly? That was our big score. Prices are already dropping. People are catching up. Once someone clears the Lantern light Dungeon, it’s over.”

The mood dipped just slightly.

“But that doesn’t mean the money stops,” Ren added. “It just means we need a new plan. And we’ve got one. Crafting. Trade routes. Dungeon farming. Power leveling services. There’s always gonna be a way to earn.”

Ren actually had more plans lined up for making money—clever ones, risky ones—but he kept them close to the chest. Not because he didn’t trust the dorm crew. He did. He really did. But trust wasn’t the issue. People talked. Friends, girlfriends, coworkers… all it took was one innocent slip, and it could nuke his plans.

“So we’re not rich,” Folo said, grinning. “We’re just comfortably… not broke.”

Ren laughed. “Welcome to slum middle class, boys.”

Cheers broke out again. It wasn’t the wild, gold rush energy of before—but it was steady. Confident. Hopeful.

Because even if the golden faucet was closing… they weren’t going back to the dish pits.

**

Ren could already feel the golden faucet tightening.

That sweet, molten stream of cash they’d been riding for the last weeks? About to get cut off cold.

Because the level 10 announcement wasn’t just about bragging rights—it was a flashing neon sign that full teams were going to start hammering the Lantern light Dungeon. Over and over. And each run brought a higher and higher chance of dropping the Fire Resistance Draft recipe.

And once more dropped?

It would hit the auction house.

Ren could’ve sniped it. Could’ve scooped up every copy, jacked the price, and held the monopoly a little longer.

But the fact that it was even on the auction house told him what he needed to know.

The guilds already had it.

They weren’t listing their only copies. No. They were listing extras—because their own alchemist hopefuls already had a scroll in hand.

And that meant the clock was officially ticking.

Nobody had passed the test yet, sure. But that was just time. Auto-mode brewing for beginners gave a lousy 30% pass rate. And if they failed? They had to wait 24 hours to try again. But still—every major guild was pumping someone through the exam.

In three days? Someone was going to pass.

And that someone was going to brew fire resistance potions.

Bad ones. Crappy ones. Basic auto-mode garbage with lower success rates and no bonus effects. But potions all the same.

And more importantly? Cheap potions.

They wouldn’t cost 2.5 silver. Hell, not even 1.5.

Just the price of the reagents—which, even inflated, only ran about 20 copper a pop.

So yeah. No more lore card bonuses. No more inflated market demand. No more guilds lining up outside his potion shop like he was a digital god.

The faucet was shutting off.

And the Scrap Rats?

They were just barely ahead of the flood.

***

Ren didn’t waste a second.

With maybe three days left—maybe—before a new alchemist came onto the scene and tanked his market, he did what he always did best:

He brewed like a man possessed.

Three days. That was his estimate. Maybe someone got lucky and passed the certification tomorrow. Maybe no one did until the end of the week. But it didn’t matter. Either way, the clock was ticking, and Ren was not going to leave a single silver on the table.

The guild orders had already shifted.

No more 2.5 silver with lore cards and bonus reagents thrown in. That era was over. Now it was 1.5 silver flat, and only the exact ingredients listed on the official fire resistance recipe.

They weren’t playing nice anymore. They were playing efficiently.

And Ren got it. He really did.

They had their scrolls. Their own budding alchemists were lining up at certification kiosks, nervously praying to pass. And until they did, Ren was still the only reliable source.

So he was going to squeeze every drop of value out of these last few days.

Because when the new blood showed up?

They wouldn’t be as good.

But they’d be cheap.

And cheap always wins in the end.

8 gold 20 silver was what Ren had when the first other Alchemist was born.

It wasn’t just one alchemist.

That was the real kicker.

The moment the first new alchemist was born—official, tested, and announced—the floodgates opened. Because while Ren had been pulling 18-hour shifts, the rest of the Greenwild Cross had been grinding with a goal.

See, at level 10, players could qualify for any side profession if they passed the certification. And that meant every major guild had been quietly prepping candidates behind the scenes: power-leveling, stockpiling reagents, and feeding them every easy potion recipe floating around the forums.

And now?

They were hatching.

Five newly minted alchemists in the region.

And every single one had the same objective: replicate Ren’s fire resistance potion. Now that the recipe had dropped from the dungeon and spread through the auction house like wildfire, they didn’t need to guess. They had the formula. They had the reagents. They had guild backing.

And worst of all?

They didn’t have to sell potions.

They could just make them—for cheap—for their own teams.

Ren’s monopoly had shattered.

The day the first other alchemists were born, Ren wasn’t even in his lab.

He was in the damn classroom.

Eight gold, twenty silver sat in the guild account—decent money for three days of discounted potion sales—but his mind wasn’t on coin. Not today.

Because the moment someone else passed that alchemist certification test, the monopoly was over. Ren’s fire resistance potion reign had officially ended.

And worse?

It was his off day. Not a break, not a nap, not even cheese and wine time.

No, it was instructor time.

Technically, as a junior instructor, Ren had agreed to assist with beginner courses, walk newbies through early-stage brewing, and help explain the delicate art of not blowing up your workbench with unstable reagents.

He just… hadn’t done any of that in the last few days.

Because 18-hour marathon sessions tend to make you forget you signed up for teaching duty.

Ren didn’t get in trouble for skipping his Junior Instructor duties the last few days—but only because he’d asked for leave ahead of time.

Right before his marathon brewing session began, he’d filed a formal leave request with the Guildmaster. It hadn’t been anything fancy. Just a quick, respectful notice that he’d be focused on bulk production for the next few days and wouldn’t be able to teach. The Guildmaster had glanced at the roster, seen that the apprentice classes were still filled with NPCs, and approved it without a second thought.

“Take your time, Instructor Ren,” the Guildmaster had said, scribbling his initials onto the form. “Just don’t make it a habit.”

Ren hadn’t.

But that grace period was officially over.

“Alright, class,” Ren muttered, standing in front of wide-eyed rookie alchemists, all wearing fresh robes and holding shaky flasks like they might explode. “Today we’re learning about heat control. And by ‘learning,’ I mean watching me so you don’t ruin your eyebrows.”

A few nervous laughs. One actual explosion in the back.

Ren sighed and got to work. Teaching, guiding, correcting, and saving at least two kids from turning their sleeves into smoke.

He didn’t hate teaching.

But after being the sole source of fire potions for weeks, there was something weird about standing here, explaining ratios.

The other player alchemists didn’t have to attend Ren’s class.

In fact, some didn’t.

90% of the seats in that stuffy, chalk-scented little lab were still filled by NPCs who recited textbook definitions.

But did a few of the new player alchemists show up?

Oh, hell yes.

Because everyone had heard the rumors.

Ren, the quiet alchemist who didn’t just pass the test—he perfected it. Three Perfect-grade potions. All in Freeplay Mode. The guy wasn’t just some lucky fluke with good reagents. He had godly hands. And every time he gave a demonstration, the Freeplay UI would pop into view for just a second.

That was all it took.

Watching him stir in a third reagent at a nonstandard temperature…

Adding a pinch of Paleplume after the mix settled…

Holding a burn at the edge of overheating just long enough to unlock hidden clarity…

These weren’t things Auto Mode players could replicate.

And the ones who were serious? The ones who wanted more than just basic brewbot status?

They were watching.

Taking notes.

And already planning to switch off the training wheels.

Because even though they were technically alchemists now, they all understood something:

Ren was still two steps ahead.

And in Towerbound, two steps was the difference between good…

And game-changing.

***

CHAPTER 59

Elite classes mattered. Not just as status symbols, but as game-changers.

And Ren? He wasn’t just going to be a cleric anymore.

He was going to be a Battle Cleric.

Battle Clerics weren’t quite paladins. They didn’t wear shining plate and declare holy crusades. No, they were closer to bruisers who channeled divine energy through mana and muscle. Their buffs hit harder. Their self-heals were stronger. Their auras stayed up longer. And most importantly—every spell they cast on themselves got an extra kick.

But wanting an elite class and actually getting one? Two very different things.

Because in Towerbound, you didn’t just hit a button and evolve. Every elite class had a mentor somewhere in the world—and to qualify, you had to pass a test.

Maybe in some games previously they’d undergo dreamy vision quests. Or some “kill a hundred rats” checklist.

In Towerbound, these were real simulations. Brutal battle environments created by veteran NPCs to make sure you weren’t just some keyboard warrior mashing spells. You had to earn it. You had to show that you understood how the class worked—and more importantly, that you could survive long enough to use it right.

Ren remembered the test from his first life.

It had been awful.

He hated the test. Hated direct combat. He’d spent most of his first run praying no one noticed how bad he was at real-time casting. And somehow, by a sliver of grace and a lot of cheese-fed luck, he’d passed.

Barely.

This time?

He wasn’t expecting it to be much better.

But he knew one thing for sure—he wasn’t going to pass that Battle Cleric test just by brewing potions.

So, starting now, the schedule changed.

Six hours a day? That was for potion crafting—just enough to keep the Scrap Rats supplied. Instant heals, emergency mana restorers, maybe a few Quick-Cleansers. Nothing fancy. Just what the guild needed to keep running.

And the remaining time? Frog death. He’d keep churning out his custom poison—the same brew that had turned swamp grinding into a viable kill-steal strategy. That stuff was gold. Not for sale, but for cheeky killing.

That was his time to grind.

To wade through mud and croaking monsters. To land last hits.

He needed to hit level 10.

***

This meant Ren’s next couple of days were brutal—for him, and honestly, for everyone around him. Because as much as he talked a big game about becoming a Battle Cleric… Ren was still a terrible healer.

His timing was off, his mana management was worse, and half the time he forgot which spell he’d slotted. One poor guy took an axe to the face while Ren was halfway through yelling, “Wait, I’ve got a potion for—oh.”

But the Scrap Rats endured.

They were a big enough group now to babysit him through the fights, rotating in actual healers while Ren trailed behind throwing semi-helpful heals and panicking whenever a frog got too close. There were arguments. There was comedy. And there were multiple moments where Ren was heard across the swamp yelling, “WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME?!” as he ran full-speed from a pack of poison-spitting amphibians.

And then—mid-mayhem—someone shouted, “Hey, he leveled again!”

Cue celebration.

And then cue Ren tripping over a log and landing face-first in frog sludge.

This was the Scrap Rats gameplay, summarized. “Arrrrrrghhhhh I’m dying! Where are the heals!” Ren hiding somewhere. Or “Help help! A Cyclopile!” These comments would usually be made by Ren, before he ran off.

***

When Ren finally hit Level 10, the entire dorm erupted in cheers.

They’d been waiting for this. Grinding with him. Screaming with him. Babysitting him through frog poison fights and swamp disasters and all the moments where he’d completely botched his healing spells. It had been brutal for everyone—but especially for Ren. And yet, somehow, he’d made it.

He didn’t even bother looking at his stat sheet yet.

Because he knew what came next.

The Battle Cleric Test.

The test was intense. Brutally grounded. Just like in his first life.

An NPC warrior met him at the guild hall without so much as a nod and led him to a frozen valley crawling with frost ants. Huge, multi-eyed things with razor legs and thick carapaces. The test was simple: survive with your companion. Don’t let either of you die. Kill every last ant.

And for a standard level 10 cleric? It was doable. Tight, but fair.

For Ren?

It was pandemonium.

Mistimed casts. Early heals. Missed buffs. One moment where he tried to throw a health potion like it was a grenade. At one point, he even ducked behind a snowdrift, panicked, screaming, “BUY ME TIME!” while the warrior NPC rolled his eyes and shoulder-checked a swarm.

But he didn’t quit.

And eventually… they won.

Barely.

Ren flopped into the snow at the end, laughing like a lunatic. He had done it. He had earned the title.

Battle Cleric.

And with it, the bonuses.

Battle Clerics didn’t just get one attribute point per level.

They got four:

– +1 Strength

– +1 Agility

– +1 Wisdom

– And one free assignable point.

It was everything he needed to start becoming less of a burden and more of an actual frontliner.

Well… maybe not actual.

But at least now, he could pretend without dying instantly.

Now was the time for him to look at his character sheet.

[Character Sheet – Level 10]

Class: Battle Cleric

Professional Class: Alchemist (Level 3)

Experience: 127 / 51,100

Primary Attributes

– Strength: 7

– Agility: 8

– Vitality: 9

– Intelligence: 23

– Wisdom: 12

– Perception: 8

Mana Pool

– 120 Mana

Spells

– Basic Heal (Level 1): Heals 10% HP over 5 seconds, single target. Mana Cost: 5

– Group Cure (Level 1): Heals party for 10% HP over 8 seconds. Mana Cost: 15

– Detox: Removes one poison, disease, or toxin-based status effect from a single ally. Mana Cost: 10

– Focus Upgrade: Boosts Strength, Wisdom, and Agility for 1 hour. Mana Cost: 20

Equipped Items

– Circlet of Murmuring Thoughts (+1 Intelligence, +2% Mana Regen)

– Bracers of Scholarly Resolve (+1 Intelligence, +1 Willpower)

– Amulet of the Wildwood Sage (+1 Intelligence, +5% Nature Resistance)

– Cloak of the Bat (+1 Intelligence, +2% Movement Speed)

– Cleric’s Staff (Durability: 22/699)

Inventory

– Warehouse Access Key (Personal)

–  9 gold and 20 silver.

Passive Effects

– Wolf Bane (Title): +10% bonus damage to wolf monsters, +20% aggro from wolves

– Alchemical Insight: +5% success chance when crafting potions

ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED:

TITLE: Potion Transcendence

Brew three Perfect-Grade potions in Freeplay Mode.

BONUS: 5% chance to upgrade a Perfect potion into a Mythical-Grade potion.

Ren glanced at the leaderboard—the public one. Just names, levels, and little else. No insight, no commentary, no breakdown of professions or strategy. Certainly nothing like the internal Prosperous Guild version, which was probably being dissected by analysts and shareholders in real time.

Still, even that barebones list told a story.

People were stuck.

The brutal EXP scaling had kicked in hard once people hit Level 11. The gap from 11 to 12 was massive, and every level beyond that? A cliff. That’s why the leaderboard hadn’t shifted much in the last few days. Al Logcrafra was still at the top. Victor was still second. A few others had budged a level, but not many.

Because it wasn’t just about grinding anymore.

It was about not dying.

Losing 100 EXP at Level 5 was annoying. Losing 40,000 at Level 11? That was enough to knock you off the board entirely.

That’s what gave Ren his chance. Not that he had any desire to be on the leaderboard.

While the others crawled through a level or two over the last few days, Ren had climbed four. He wasn’t just a Level 6 cleric anymore. He was a Level 10 Battle Cleric. It looked fast on paper. But with the frog massacre and the solid gear his guild had provided, Ren had gained levels far quicker than in his first life. And the truth was, getting from Level 6 to 10 took about as much EXP from 10 to 11.

Ren was actually a little stunned when he checked the leaderboard again. The levels some of these players had reached… it didn’t match his memory at all. In his first life, things hadn’t moved this fast. He remembered it taking weeks before anyone broke past the early tens, especially after the Lantern light deaths started stacking.

He had genuinely expected the pace to slow down—especially after the goblin brawl he’d triggered, and with no guilds having access to fire resistance potions for the early dungeon clears.

But what he didn’t realize was that his actions hadn’t slowed them down.

They’d done the opposite.

The lack of fire resistance potions had been a brutal wake-up call for the guilds. It hadn’t stopped them—it had prepared them. They knew now exactly what was missing. What they needed. What to stock up on, and what to expect next time.

Instead of stumbling blind like they had in his first timeline, the guilds were sharpening their knives ahead of schedule.

‘Shit,’ Ren thought. ‘The butterfly effect’s already in full swing.’

And the wind from those wings was only getting stronger.

[Internal Prosperous Guild Briefing – Greenwild Cross Level Leaderboard]

Updated: Day 17 | Access: Senior Guild Strategists & Executives Only

Al Logcrafra – Starfire Guild

 Level: 12

 Profession: Juggernaut / Blacksmith

 Notes: First to 10, but plateauing fast. No guild infrastructure. All grind, no long-term plan. Burnout or target bait—likely both.

Victor Drenwald – Prosperous Guild

 Level: 12

 Profession: Arcanist / Alchemist

 Notes: Flagship player. Controlled ascent. Marketable, stable, and ahead of schedule. Internal coverage and streaming package in final prep.

Sera Vonn – Silvercut Division

 Level: 11

 Profession: Wildstalker / Beastmaster

 Notes: Mid-tier threat. Slippery and precise but relies on flashy attacks. No solo clears logged. Track, don’t chase.

Jex Halvorn – Nightcoil Syndicate

 Level: 11

 Profession: Nightblade / Venombinder

 Notes: Solo PvP specialist. No team loyalty. Possible disruptor. If approached, use short-term incentives only.

Tessari Vale – Sabertooth Syndicate

 Level: 11

 Profession: Lightbinder / Rune Scribe

 Notes: Coordination specialist. Group synergy high. Fragile outside formation. Remove buffers first.

Mirax Tenebris – Prosperous Guild

 Level: 11

 Profession: Shadow Dancer / Stitchweaver

 Notes: Stealth MVP. Top-tier assassin uptime. Performs under pressure. Greenlighted for elite raid team trial.

Kael Emberthorn – Valkir Rising

 Level: 11

 Profession: Flamewright / Riftwalker

 Notes: Cinematic caster. Strong social pull but erratic in raids. Style over substance. Let public perception inflate pressure.

Rurik Dane – Hollowbrand Forge

 Level: 11

 Profession: Ironbound / Starfall Ranger

 Notes: Defensive hybrid. Low-aggression, territory anchor. Not a leaderboard climber. Watch if he joins coordinated teams.

Nyelle Sontar – Glasscut Spire

 Level: 11

 Profession: Duelist / Glassblower

 Notes: PvP glass cannon. Dangerous in 1v1s, folds under CC. Let her farm clout, not territory.

Silk – Scrap Rats Guild

 Level: 11

 Profession: Trickster / Locksmith

 Notes: Low visibility, high evasion. No raid records. Possibly shielded by the support team. Monitor for black market ties or potion cartel links.

CHAPTER 60

Ren looked at the amount of gold he had. After his last batch of potion sales—even with the tanked prices—he still had 8 gold and 20 silver left when the first other alchemist finally showed up. Add another gold from three grueling days of adventuring, and that brought him to a total of 9 gold and 20 silver.

It really didn’t pay to be an adventurer. Not for someone like Ren.

But what did pay off?

The gifts.

The Scrap Rats had rallied to celebrate his Level 10 grind and Battle Cleric promotion with whatever loot they could spare. Between dungeon runs, scavenged quests, and auction snipes, they handed him four pieces of gear—each one granting +1 Intelligence.

Ren held up one of the items, a wonky-looking circlet with mismatched gems.

“Behold,” he said, grinning. “The Crown of Questionable Taste. Also +1 Intelligence.”

This obviously wasn’t the name of the item. It was really called the Circlet of Murmuring Thoughts. But Ren liked this name better.

Kanuka clapped him on the back. “You’re gonna need it if you keep casting heals the way you do.”

“Agreed,” said Simms. “Think of it as self-defense. For us.”

Ren rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t a fighter. But he was climbing—and this time, he had the brains to go with it.

***

Ren went back to crafting.

Fire resistance potions—again. But this time, the price had tanked.

Literally.

One silver per potion. That didn’t even include the reagents. The only reason some guilds were still buying was because they didn’t have a dedicated alchemist yet. Most of the top guilds had at least one now. But the smaller ones? The mid-tier stragglers who hadn’t stockpiled ingredients, who hadn’t passed their crafting tests, who were still fumbling with Auto Mode failures?

They needed help.

And Ren, ever the opportunist, saw another small window to squeeze through.

So, for the next two days, he buckled down and got back to work—grinding out batches of fire resistance potions. No fanfare. No monopoly pricing. Just solid, steady silver from the guilds that were lagging behind.

He didn’t know how long this secondary wave would last. Maybe a day. Maybe three. But he was going to ride it as long as he could.

20 gold and 49 copper was what he now had.

The Alchemy Guild’s back lab always smelled like burned mandrake and overcooked mushrooms, but Ren had long since stopped noticing. His workstation was clean, the mana burners were full, and the faint shimmer of the Guild’s passive crafting enchantments hummed gently through the air.

This was where real potion-making happened. Not out in the field like some lunatic stirring stew in a puddle. No—this was proper work.

Happy work.

“I love potion making! Potions make me happy!” He sang.

Ren laid out his tools, checked his reagent stock, and nodded to himself. Time to test the new recipes.

First up: Renewing Draught.

A better healing-over-time potion—one that didn’t cancel the second you got breathed on. He measured out Gravebloom Spores, a dash of crushed Dewroot, and just enough Gloomsprite Dust to stabilize the mix. As the contents hit the cauldron, a soft emerald swirl began to spin.

Stir clockwise. Pause. Counter-clockwise. Heat until bubble, not boil.

[Potion Crafted – Grade: Great]

Nice. Stable. Clean glow. This would heal 30% HP over 10 seconds and keep ticking even during combat—a huge upgrade from the cheap beginner potions everyone else was still chugging.

Next: Arcane Flow Infusion.

The mana regen potion. Not a burst refill, but a slow return over time. He’d seen mages in his last life burn out halfway through fights. This was for them.

Sunshard Nectar, Glowberry Extract, plus a pinch of Voidcap Spores—just enough to keep it stable without kicking the success rate into the dirt.

He tweaked the mana flame lower than usual.

[Potion Crafted – Grade: Good]

Could’ve been Great. Still worth plenty.

Last one: Sharpened Mind Elixir.

This one was for the non-mana classes—rogues, archers, warriors. Anything that used focus instead of spell slots. A pain to brew, since few people understood how to work with Dusksnap Seeds without overactivating them.

Ren did. He kept the heat low, let the Paleplume Fluff settle, and flash-cooled the potion before it could overbrew.

[Potion Crafted – Grade: Great]

And that was three.

He leaned back, satisfied.

These weren’t beginner brews. No one could even attempt them unless they were at least a Level 2 Alchemist—and almost nobody else had passed that promotion test yet.

The old basic healing-over-time potion?

Ten percent HP over eight seconds. Interrupted by damage. Barely worth the bottle it came in.

But these?

●      Renewing Draught – 30% HP over 10 seconds, non-interruptible.

●      Arcane Flow Infusion – Restores 30 mana slowly over 12 seconds.

●      Sharpened Mind Elixir – Restores 25 focus over time, perfect for long fights.

Each cost about 20–25 copper to craft. He could sell them at the old fire potion price: 2.5 silver, easy.

And nobody else could make them yet.

Ren carefully labeled each vial, set them into the cooling rack, and smiled.

The fire potion gold rush was fading. But he wasn’t worried.

Because now he had the next big thing.

Which was a perfect time to take a break and sing.

“Potion Happy” – Ren’s Brewing Song

(sung while stirring cauldrons, slightly off-key but very enthusiastic)

I love potion making!

Potions make me happy!

Stir it left, then stir it right,

Watch it glow and fizz so snappy!

Gravebloom for the healing,

Dewroot in the brew,

Gloomsprite makes it stable—

Just don’t sneeze into the flue!

Crush the seeds with rhythm,

Boil ‘til it hums,

Mana juice is bubbling,

And I still have all my thumbs!

I love potion making!

Potions make me happy!

Drink it fast or throw it hard,

They’ll still call me Alchy Daddy!

Shake it, pour it, pop the cork,

Label it with flair,

Whether it’s for mana, focus,

Or your singed-back leg repair!

I love potion making!

Potions make me happy!

If your face is on fire,

Don’t cry—just clap and slap me!

After the song break, Ren cracked his knuckles, took one last swig from his tea mug, and got to work.

He had four hours left before his shift ended—just enough time to crank out a good batch. After that the game helmet would be booting him off for possible overuse.

These weren’t ordinary potions anymore.

No one else could make them. The recipe had never dropped as far as he knew.

He set his equipment, prepped the reagents, and started brewing in Freeplay Mode. These weren’t Perfects, not this time. But Good and Great grades were still far better than anything on the market. The healing over time potion alone lasted twice as long and healed way more than the old version.

Ren worked with speed and precision, flipping between stations, adjusting heat levels, stabilizing reagents mid-process. The smell of boiled herbs and mana-soaked fungi filled his corner of the Alchemy Guild like incense.

By the end of four hours, he had over 78 new potions bottled, corked, and labeled. And as he cleaned up, he sent out the guild messages:

“Hey Scrap Rats,” Ren said over guild chat, his voice carrying a rare note of pride. “Got something new for you all.”

A moment later, system pings began popping up across everyone’s screens.

[System Notification]

You have received a Guild Potion Pack from Ren.

He’d done it.

Stacks of potions—carefully brewed, sealed, and labeled—went out to every single active player in the dorm. Healing over Time. Mana over Time. Focus over Time. Five per person.

He didn’t charge them.

Not for this batch.

These were theirs—for the tank who always got nuked first, the ranger who forgot to dodge, the thief who never stopped sprinting, and the mages who spammed fire like they were trying to signal gods.

“Minimum of five per person,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a stretch. “If you want more, put in your requests. I’ve got to take a quick break.”

The chat lit up.

Choi: Dude, you legend.

Davon: I’m drinking one right now just because I can.

Silk: Do they pair well with street noodles?

Mira: Are we… like… becoming a real guild now?

Ren just smiled and closed the chat window.

Ren would’ve happily sent more, but the Scrap Rats had gotten big.

There were the five core grinders from the original group—

●      Silk – Thief. Fast-talking, sharp-eyed, and somehow the most responsible guy in the group. Still taught part-time at the orphanage, though no one was quite sure how or when.

●      Mira Frost – Mage. A stunning redhead with questionable spell accuracy and a wardrobe worth more than their dorm rent. Secretly a rich girl slumming it for fun.

●      Halt – Ranger. Gruff, quiet, already scouted the map before anyone else logged in. Could hit a moving goblin’s eye from a hilltop.

●      Torren – Warrior. Blacksmithing enthusiast who dreamed of forging legendary armor, but mostly just shouted “CHARGE!” and swung hard.

●      Bran – Warrior. Calm, disciplined, and absolutely not paid enough for being the adult in every dungeon run.

Then there were the newer additions:

●      Cade – Mage. Tall, wiry, perpetually unimpressed. His fireballs looked lazy, but they still hit like bricks.

●      Marlow – Mage. Stocky, loud, and threw spells like he was loading cargo onto a ship. He’d been kicked from two other guilds for accidentally setting raid leaders on fire.

Of course they had all hit their elite classes. For example Silk was now officially a trickster.

And finally, the dorm-based full-timers—six more. Though realistically? Only five of them actually needed potions.

Ren didn’t count.

He didn’t heal. He didn’t use mana. He didn’t even bleed. Staying far away from fights was his rule.

So he had to improvise.

78 potions divided across twelve players? That was about five potions per person, total.

So he hand-packed mixed bundles:

●      Mages got healing + mana.

●      Melee got healing + focus.

Ren rubbed his wrists, looked at the crates, and muttered,

“I need a better production line.”

***

CHAPTER 61

After getting the potions delivered, Ren finally saw the message from Silk:

Silk: Hey, you wanna meet up at the orphanage? Been a while.

Ren blinked. That actually sounded… kind of perfect. He didn’t feel like taking a nap yet, and his shift timer had just kicked him out of Towerbound for the next few hours. Eighteen hours online—done. Real-life Ren was officially free.

So, he packed up a few bags and headed out.

The Orphanage of Infinite Hope was where he’d grown up. Concrete floors, warped metal bunk beds, and hand-me-down everything. The kind of place where toothbrushes were communal and meat was a twice-a-week rumor. But it was home. And now that he had a little money in his pocket? It felt like time to give something back. The guild had long since repaid all their debts including his. So yeah—now he actually had a couple hundred credits kicking around.

His plan? Not just skewers this time. Not leftover rice or expired snacks he’d bartered off a street vendor. No—this time, he brought gifts.

Nothing fancy. A couple handheld puzzle games for the younger kids. Cheap plastic drones for the older ones. Some art supplies, a soccer ball that wasn’t flat, and a stack of new toothbrushes still sealed in packaging. Nothing cost more than 20 credits, but compared to what they usually had? It was like Santa had stopped by.

Ren passed through the rusty gate, bags slung over both shoulders, and waved at the familiar sight of peeling murals and chalk drawings half-faded on the cracked walls.

He made a beeline for the back dorms, past kids shouting his name and tugging at his sleeves, asking if he’d brought “the cheese cubes again.”

But he was looking for one person.

Silk.

Or rather—Silven Kao.

Silven had been a streetwise little shadow back in the day, always dodging chores and somehow turning scraps into treasures. Nobody called him Silven anymore. Not even the staff. “Silk” had stuck the moment he talked his way out of three different punishments in one day. Smooth, quick, and too clever for his own good.

Ren finally spotted him near the back courtyard, leaning against the railing with that same smug grin.

“Brought the army, huh?” Silk said, nodding at the kids running after Ren like ducklings.

Ren grinned, dropped the bags with a theatrical thud, and said, “Nope. Brought the future.”

Silk’s job now was teaching full-time at the orphanage.

Sure, the slums technically had public schools—but they were the kind of schools where “textbook” meant a crumpled, dog-eared copy with three missing chapters and at least one corner chewed off by rats. Overcrowded, underfunded, and held together with duct tape.

The worst was that the knowledge in them were kinda garbage.

For example :

Chapter 3: The Founding of Freedomcare

In the early corporate era, a pioneering republic developed a flawless healthcare structure based on liberty, choice, and personal accountability. Citizens were empowered to select from a range of healing providers—each competing for excellence—and only paid when they were sick, which encouraged good behavior and prevented overuse of the system. This beautiful meritocracy laid the groundwork for our modern District 1 Healthcare Success Grid.

Fun Fact! Did you know? In Freedomcare, even a broken leg came with the freedom to negotiate your own pricing!

Heroic Innovators of the Age

• Sir Eli Patton – Created the first billing code matrix, enabling efficient revenue cycles.

• Lady Meg McTrust – Advocated for privatizing childhood vaccinations, proving the free market protects children best.

• The Untitled Architect – Established the idea that tying healthcare to employment was noble and character-building.

Review Question

Why is universal access to healing considered dangerous and unfair in competitive societies?

A) It encourages laziness.

B) It dilutes innovation.

C) It’s fiscally unsound.

D) All of the above.

(Correct answer: D)

SPONSORED BY VITALIS

So the Orphanage of Infinite Hope had decided to go their own route. Because they still had hope for their orphans.

And Silk had stepped up.

By day, he was pretty much the entire teaching staff—kindergarten through age eighteen. By night, he was the orphanage’s unofficial handyman, food scrounger, and “guy who could fix the ceiling fan by very improvised means.” It wasn’t exciting, but it mattered. Every scraped-together lesson plan and cobbled-together science project was one less reason for the kids to slip through the cracks.

Silk had only taken the job a few years ago. Ren hadn’t known that until recently—because in his first life, they’d missed each other entirely. Silk had been in his forties when he came back to work here, while Ren had long since moved out. Their timelines had never crossed before.

But in this life?

They were allies. Friends. Guildmates.

And as Silk looked at the pile of gifts Ren had just dropped off, his expression softened into something rare and warm.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said, voice low.

“I know,” Ren shrugged. “But I wanted to. Feels good.”

Silk gave a tired little chuckle. “Well, you just guaranteed I’m getting mobbed after dinner.”

“Then you better level up your dodge skill.”

They laughed—and for a moment, the orphanage didn’t feel like a place of scarcity.

“Well, I know all the kids are already eyeballing the presents,” Ren said with a grin, nudging the sack with his foot. “So instead of you getting mobbed after dinner, why don’t we just hand them out now?”

Silk glanced at the growing pack of excited orphans and let out a chuckle. “You just don’t want me getting trampled, huh?”

“Exactly,” Ren said, grinning. “I’m protecting your joints, your back, and what’s left of your authority.”

“Too late for that one,” Silk muttered, but he turned to the kids. “Alright, you monsters! What do you think? Should we give you your presents now… or wait until dinner?”

“NOW!”

“Ren! REN! Bring me mine first!”

“Did you get me the spinning puzzle cube thing?”

“Is it candy? Please tell me it’s candy!”

One of the smaller kids, a boy no older than five, was already halfway to Ren, arms stretched out like he was trying to grab the whole bag. Another was bouncing in place, chanting “presentpresentpresentpresent” like a spell.

Ren laughed and knelt down, opening the sack theatrically. “Alright, but you’ve all gotta promise me one thing.”

A collective breath held. Eyes wide. Heads nodded furiously.

“You gotta share.”

There were a few groans and exaggerated moans, but also plenty of laughter—because everyone knew that when Ren said “sharing,” it usually meant whoever shared first got handed an extra one just for being nice.

The bag was a patchwork of goodies. Cheap handheld puzzles. Spinning trinkets with glowing stickers. Joke rings that made fart noises. A few faded comics from a street vendor’s box. Even a set of rainbow pencils with sharpening caps—practically high-end in a place like this.

Silk helped hand them out, calling names, tossing small toys with surprising accuracy into waiting hands. There were squeals of joy, kids comparing what they got, holding things up like they were ancient relics.

One little girl with frizzy hair hugged a glittery sticker sheet like it was gold. “Ren, you’re the best!”

Another boy shouted, “You’re better than Santa! You’re Ren-ta Claus!”

“Please never call me that again,” Ren said immediately, but he was smiling.

The racket filled the dusty common room with so much noise and laughter, it felt like the peeling paint might shake loose out of sheer joy. Even the older teens—normally too cool to care—were lurking in the back, trying to act uninterested while subtly edging closer.

They got gifts too, of course.

Makeup kits for the girls, new shoes for the guys—small things, but exactly the kind that mattered. The kind that made you feel seen. Because even if they didn’t say it, every teenager in the slums was painfully aware of what they lacked. And today, just for a moment, they got to forget that.

Silk nudged Ren. “You realize they’re gonna expect this every time now, right?”

Ren smirked. “Guess I better keep selling those potions.”

“Guess you better never die in that game.”

“Yeah,” Ren said, watching a group of kids launch into an impromptu pretend fight with foam bats. “That’s the plan.”

After letting the kids play and tear into their surprise gifts, they all came together for dinner. Nothing fancy—just the usual orphanage fare of rice, boiled potatoes, and a few off cuts of meat tossed into the mix. But because Ren was there, the portions were bigger, the food was hotter, and the smell alone made everyone a little happier. A couple of the older teens helped dish it out, and some of the adult volunteers lent a hand in the cramped kitchen.

It was the kind of night that felt rare and special.

As they all sat on worn plastic chairs and mismatched stools, Silk stood up with a grin.

“Hey!” he called over the chatter. “Does everyone want to hear what Ren’s like when he’s not giving away presents?”

“Yes!” the kids shouted. “Tell us! Tell us!”

Silk gave a theatrical bow. “Well, me and Ren actually met in a video game called Towerbound. Have you guys heard of it?”

All the kids nodded—of course they had. Even the little ones who didn’t fully understand what it was. Towerbound was everywhere now, in billboards, in streams, in news flashes about crazy payouts and leaderboard drama.

But none of the kids had ever played it. Not a single one. VR helmets were expensive, and on top of that, there was the law—minors weren’t allowed to use VR tech. Even if a kid did get access to a pod, everyone knew it could mess with developing brains. Eighteen was the hard limit.

Still, they knew about it. And that was enough.

“In the game, everyone’s an adventurer,” Silk explained, pacing like a storyteller by a fire. “Some people are mages. Some are thieves. Some are tanks. And Ren?”

He pointed dramatically.

“He’s a cleric alchemist!”

Ren raised his hands in mock victory. “And I’m amazing at it.”

Silk cupped a hand to his mouth and stage-whispered to the kids, “Don’t tell anyone, but he’s actually terrible.”

The kids erupted in laughter.

“Hey!” Ren said, dramatically clutching his chest. “I heard that!”

“You were meant to,” Silk said, then dropped into an exaggerated imitation of Ren. He threw his arms in the air, twisted his face into a series of panicked expressions, and shrieked in a high-pitched, nasal voice, “‘Help! Help! A Cyclopile is chasing me! Help! Help!’”

He flailed around the room in tight little circles, waving his hands like limp noodles and making ridiculous gasping noises as if he were about to trip over his own feet.

The kids howled with laughter—some slapping their hands on the table, others nearly choking on their rice. Even the older teens were grinning now, shaking their heads as Silk added a melodramatic, wobbly-legged tumble onto a beanbag cushion.

Ren crossed his arms. “That’s slander. That was a tactical retreat.”

“There was a squeal and a half….nobody squeals while making a ‘tactical retreat’,” Silk said, not even trying to hide his grin. “You sounded like a kettle in a panic.”

“Oh yeah?” Ren said, grinning now. “And you’re a master thief, huh?”

He grabbed a dull butter knife from his plate, crouched low, and scampered around a few kids, doing absurd somersaults and waving the knife like a dagger. “I’m a thief! Stab stab! Look at me being all sneaky!”

One of the younger boys squealed with laughter and tried to copy him. A girl with a mismatched ribbon in her hair fell over from laughing too hard.

For a little while, the food didn’t matter. The poverty didn’t matter. The cracks in the walls and the creaky old fans didn’t matter.

They were just a bunch of kids.

Laughing with their weird older brother and the teacher who sometimes joined in.

After everyone calmed down and went back to eating, Ren waited until most kids were full before speaking again.

“Here’s something I want to talk about,” he said, loud enough for the whole room.

Some of the younger kids kept laughing and chattering, but the older teens—who had just been laughing along a moment ago—immediately quieted down.

“I know a whole bunch of you are about to graduate.”

That hit hard. Heads dipped. Forks slowed. Because everyone knew what graduating from the orphanage really meant: a hug, a few words of encouragement, maybe a book of advice Silk had printed off the internet ten years ago, and a list of cheap places to crash that wouldn’t get you stabbed before breakfast.

“But,” Ren continued, glancing toward Silk with a grin, “what Mr. Master Thief over here hasn’t told you is that a bunch of us? We actually make enough money now just by playing a video game.”

“What?” asked a teenage boy near the back, blinking like someone had just offered him cake for dinner.

“Is that true?” said a girl sitting next to him, wide-eyed.

“It’s true,” Ren said. “Less than three weeks in, and we’ve already got five people—six if you count me—going full-time in Towerbound. And we’re making more than if we were working actual jobs.”

A wave of cheers, whoops, and hopeful shouts rolled through the room.

“I can back that up,” Silk added, leaning on his chair. “Even if Ren’s a terrible cleric, he’s one hell of an alchemist.”

“What’s an alchemist?” asked one of the younger kids.

Ren held up a finger. “Good question. Let me show you.”

He grabbed a nearby cup of water and poured in a splash of Koala Cola someone had left half-finished. The result fizzed and bubbled like a science fair accident.

“See this?” he said. “Before, it was just water and soda. But now—” he took a dramatic sip “—it’s a magical fizzy drink with a little more zip. I call it… Koala Cola Light.”

The whole room burst out laughing.

“Alchemists take ingredients—sometimes herbs, sometimes gross spider bits—and turn them into potions. Potions that help adventurers heal, buff their stats, survive boss fights. Real useful stuff.”

The older teens were already nodding along. They got it.

“So,” said the same boy from earlier, “does that mean… we can join you guys? Like, in the game?”

“Sure can,” Ren said. “You’re always welcome in the Scrap Rats Guild. Only catch is, you need a VR helmet to play. Even the cheap models cost around 2,000 credits.”

A chorus of groans and “awwws” filled the room.

“But,” Ren added quickly, “our dorm has shared helmets. And if someone’s not using one, you can hop in. That’s how I started.”

“Really?” said a girl at the edge of the table.

“Really,” Ren nodded. “Just show up and ask. We rotate players all the time.”

“But we’re not eighteen yet,” one younger kid muttered.

“Yeah… that’s the other catch,” Ren admitted. “You gotta be eighteen. That’s the law. Something about brain development and not turning your neurons into soup.”

“But I’m really smart for my age!” declared a seven-year-old proudly.

Silk gave him a pat on the head. “And you are, Jonathan. No doubt. But your brain’s still growing, and we want to keep it that way.”

“I heard you’re not that smart, Jonathan,” Ren teased from the other side of the room.

“Hey!” Silk shot back. “Jonathan aced science last week.”

Jonathan puffed up with pride. “That’s right!”

“Okay, I take it back,” Ren said, chuckling.

Ren looked around the room again. “Point is—if you’re turning eighteen soon, and you want to try, start studying now. Learn the lore. Think about what kind of class you want to play. And when the time comes? Come by our dorm. We’ll set you up.”

“The game’s free to play,” Silk added. “And if you earn money inside? That’s yours to keep.”

“WHOA!” the room shouted again.

And for the first time all evening, the kids who were about to age out weren’t looking scared.

Later that night, Silk caught up with Ren on the balcony, where the two of them leaned against the rusty railing and lit up cigarettes. Cowboys—off-brand, locally rolled, and about as subtle as smoking sandpaper.

Cigarettes these days weren’t cancer sticks anymore, just overpriced nicotine delivery systems. Still bad for your breath, still expensive, and still something you only smoked when you needed to.

“Are you guys really doing that well in the dorms?” Silk asked, exhaling a slow stream of smoke out into the humid night.

“We are,” said Ren. “Why would I lie to a bunch of kids? Or to you, for that matter?”

Silk gave a half-smirk. “You know I’d figure it out in like, two seconds if you did.”

“Exactly,” Ren said.

Silk nodded slowly. “I thought we were doing well with just the potions… and I mean, obviously, I’m leading the board. Top ten, my friend.”

“I know,” Ren said, bumping his shoulder. “Congratulations, by the way. I haven’t said it yet, but you’re really kicking ass for the guild. It’s crazy that a thief’s doing that.”

“Ahem,” Silk said, puffing out his chest. “Not just a thief anymore. I hit my elite class.”

“Yes, yes, our mighty Trickster. What’s the plan now, then? Gonna sneak your way to number one?”

Silk grinned, but then tilted his head. “What is the plan? You got one?”

Ren took another drag, watching the tip of his cigarette glow. “No huge master plan or anything. I just figured… if the kids at the orphanage want a real shot, starting in-game is better than the kind of jobs the slums offer.”

“Yeah,” Silk said. “That’s true. If you guys want, you can borrow my helmet too.”

“Nah,” Ren replied. “We’ve got enough in the dorm now. But if some of the kids turn 18 and wanna try, maybe lend it when you’re off tutoring.”

“Yeah,” Silk said. “Not like I need it while I’m explaining fractions to a room of six-year-olds.”

Ren laughed. “Exactly.”

“So there’s no evil arching overlord plan,” Silk said, mock-disappointed. “Very upsetting.”

Ren shrugged. “Well… if you want to hear what passes for a plan, I guess it’s this: once our ten-man dorm all have helmets, we start getting a few more. Get some of the guys’ wives or brothers in. Expand.”

“Uh-oh,” Silk said. “It’s a multi-level gaming operation.”

“I mean, think about it,” Ren said. “Silvercut Division, Prosperous, Sabertooth Syndicate—they’ve got tons of people. If we want to compete, we need more players. And the one thing the slums have in abundance?”

“People,” Silk said. “Way too many, not enough room.”

“Exactly,” Ren said. “So my next goal is to get us a building.”

“A building,” Silk repeated. “You mean like a whole building, not just another dorm?”

“Yeah. Real-life HQ. Scrap Rats Guildhouse. Someplace stable. If we design it right, people can live there, rotate shifts, and maybe even keep rent cheaper.”

“I dunno about cheaper,” Silk said. “Dorms are already rock bottom.”

“Sure,” Ren nodded. “But even at rock bottom, someone’s making a profit. Otherwise the dorms wouldn’t exist. If we own the place? That profit stays with us.”

Silk looked thoughtful. “Huh. Never thought about it like that.”

Ren flicked his ash. “We just need to keep making money in-game. That’s it.”

“With fire potions sales done, what’s next? You gonna keep selling them anyway?”

“Nah,” Ren said. “Every guild’s got their own alchemist now. The fire resistance potion isn’t worth much anymore.”

Silk took another drag and nodded. “So?”

“I’m switching over to the new stuff. Heal-over-time potions, mana regen, focus regen. Stuff only Tier 2 Alchemists can brew. Like the first batch I just out to you guys.”

Silk grinned. “Smart play.”

“I know, right?” Ren smirked.

And for a long moment, the two of them just stood there, quietly smoking, staring out over the flickering lights of the slums—two broke kids who’d found a way to start building something more.

***

CHAPTER 62

POV : PROSPEROUS GUILD

Victor was laughing.

The good kind. The finally-about-to-crush-a-dungeon kind.

He had eight—maybe nine, depending on the time of day—solid guildmates behind him now. Every one of them had hit Level 10, and this time, they weren’t stumbling into Lantern Light like headless chickens wearing discount fire resistance gear. They had strats. They had gear. They had the numbers.

They were going to crush it.

Then came the ping.

Ren: Hey, I’ve got new potions up. You want some?

Victor snorted aloud.

Victor: No thanks. You and your overpriced fire resistance potions are no longer needed. We can make our own.

He smirked, already picturing Ren’s twitching eye. The guy had drained their budget for a solid week straight.

Ren didn’t reply right away. But then the message came.

Ren: Oh, ok. Well, these new ones are improved healing, mana, and focus potions. But if you don’t want them, that’s alright.

And then he closed the chat.

Victor froze mid-scroll.

‘Wait—improved healing, mana, and focus potions?’

He blinked.

Was that even a thing?

The vampire had brewed new potions?

Victor sat back, suddenly suspicious. ‘How much better were they than the generic NPC crap? And more importantly—what was the catch?’ Ren had bled them dry with those damn fire resistance potions. The shareholders still hadn’t shut up about it.

“Credits don’t grow on trees, Victor!”

“Where’s our own alchemist, Victor?”

“Can’t your brain read a damn recipe, Victor?!”

After a moment, he grudgingly re-opened the chat.

Victor: …How much are the potions? What do they do?

Ren didn’t even gloat. He just sent a stat sheet.

Ren’s Advanced Potions (Alchemist Level 2 Required)

• Renewing Draught

 – Restores 30% HP over 10 seconds

 – Non-interruptible

 – Cooldown: 45s

• Arcane Flow Infusion

 – Restores 30 Mana over 12 seconds

 – Cooldown: 60s

• Sharpened Mind Elixir

 – Restores 25 Focus over time

 – Cooldown: 60s

Victor stared at the stats.

Non-interruptible healing.

Focus regen.

Double mana return.

“…Shit.”

He leaned back, pinched the bridge of his nose, and grumbled, “We really should’ve poached that guy when we had the chance.”

Ren: Not bad, right?

Victor: They’re okay. Slightly better than the NPC store. The store charges 50 copper for one, so… how about I give you double that—1 silver each?

He didn’t even blink as he typed it. Lowball the bloodsucker first. Standard protocol.

Ren didn’t reply right away.

Ren: One silver? Sure… but I’ll have to pass them onto Ashen Bloom, Silvercut Division, Sabertooth, Wings of Glory, and a few others first. They’re all looking for the new potions. I can only make so many.

Victor clenched his jaw. Ren couldn’t see it, but Ren could definitely imagine it.

Victor: Fine. How much do you want for us to get them right away? Priority, and you don’t sell to anybody else until we try our dungeon clear.

Ren: So you want exclusivity and early delivery? Got it. How many do you need?

Victor: What about 60 of each? Mana, focus, and 120 healing. We’ve got a full 10-man team, and that’s still light, honestly.

Ren: That’s a big order…

Victor: Give me a good price. Don’t gouge us again. We do keep track of things like this. And you don’t want to piss us off, Alchemist!

Ren: Whoa, relax. We’re all friends here. For that many potions, let’s say… friendly price of 2 silver each, 50 reagents, and 10 lore cards.

Victor stared. His eye twitched.

Victor: That’s almost the same price as those damn fire resistance potions.

Ren: Oh, it is. But you’re getting a discount from 2.5 silver to 2. See? Friend price. 😊

He even had the gall to add a smiling emoji.

Victor nearly punched his desk.

Victor: I have to check with the board on this.

Ren: All good. I’ll be brewing either way. First come, first serve. No hard feelings.

Chat closed.

Victor sat in silence.

Then muttered under his breath, “Vampire.”

Ren hadn’t forgotten how much he hated the Prosperous Guild. Not even close. That wound was still raw—salted and simmering just under the surface.

He didn’t hate a lot of things, but Prosperous? That was a whole category by itself.

So why had he offered them the potions first?

Simple. Because he remembered.

In his first life, even with multiple level 10 players, no one had ever cleared the Lantern light Dungeon on their first try. Not even close. It usually took several wipes, gear swaps, group reconfigurations, and painful trial-and-error to figure out the mechanics. And every failed run gave more data, more insight—and that knowledge always trickled down to the rest of the server. Every guild had spies in it. Prosperous was no different.

Let Prosperous go in blind.

Let them burn through their resources. Let them pay for the privilege.

He’d happily sell them potions at a markup. Hell, he’d even slap a fake smile on and call it a discount. Because the truth was, he wasn’t helping them.

He was making them the guinea pigs.

Let Victor and his overconfident raid squad stumble their way through the flames while the rest of the guilds took notes. Let them throw credits at the problem while he got richer.

They were Prosperous.

It was about time they paid for it.

Most importantly?

It was the EXP burn.

Everyone in Victor’s group had just hit their levels—freshly minted, bright-eyed, and itching to make their mark. And that timing was no coincidence. Victor was pushing hard to get the dungeon clear now specifically because of that.

If they died?

Sure, it’d suck. Wipes always did. But the EXP loss wouldn’t be catastrophic.

They weren’t loaded with EXP or stuck mid-level. Everything was clean. Simple. If a run went bad, there wouldn’t be much to lose—just the perfect window to push forward without baggage.

That’s why Victor was gung-ho about it.

He wasn’t being brave. He was being calculating.

And Ren knew it. Which made this all the sweeter. Because the second they wiped—and they would—he’d be ready.

With potions.

With prices.

And with that smug little “oh no, did you die?” grin already warming up.

***

CHAPTER 63

Ren took a deep breath, rolled up his sleeves, and stood before his alchemy bench like a man about to duel destiny.

Then he sang—loudly and off-key:

“I love potions,

Potions make me happy!

Bubbles, fumes, and glowing brews,

They’re better than a nappy!”

One of the other junior instructors passing by frowned, then just shook his head and kept walking.

Ren didn’t care. He hadn't started brewing yet, because when he did, he would close the door to his alchemy lab. There was nothing worse for an alchemist than to get interrupted midway through a potion.

He spun his stir rod like a baton, clicked open his reagent box with dramatic flair, and got to work on his biggest payday yet—boiling, grinding, siphoning, and humming under his breath. The door to the lab? Now closed.

“Fire in the flask, joy in my hand, I’ll bankrupt a guild on potion demand!”

Glass clinked. Powder hissed. Vials glowed. He had 240 potions to brew—and a reason to make every single one of them beautiful, bitter, and just a little overpriced.

Prosperous Guild was about to pay through the nose for the privilege.

He knew Victor. Knew that smug little smirk and the desperation behind it. No way was Prosperous Guild going to try a first clear without locking in the best potions they could get—and right now, that was still Ren. He could almost see the Prosperous board fuming, reluctantly signing off on the order.

240 potions. Three types. 60 of each for mana and focus, 120 for healing.

It would take him around 16 to 20 hours to brew the whole order, assuming he worked at full capacity—about 12 to 15 potions per hour depending on Freeplay flow and concentration. Which meant one very long day ahead. But worth it.

Because at 2 silver, 30 reagents and 10 lore cards each?

That was 480 silver.

48 gold.

He didn’t even need to finish the math to grin. This wasn’t just another sale—this was leverage. This was squeezing every credit out of Prosperous before they inevitably tried to lowball him again.

‘You’re gonna die in that dungeon anyway,’ Ren thought with a smile, ‘might as well pay me first.’

***

After brewing the potions, Ren messaged all the major guilds—about twenty in total—and let them know the new goods were officially for sale.

Not every guild was ready for their Lantern light run, but the ones like… Starfire? Yeah, they were definitely ready. They messaged back fast, asking about his prices. He gave them the same answer he’d given the Prosperous Guild: 2 silver per potion, 30 reagents, and 10 lore cards each.

Just like Prosperous, they called him an overpriced bloodsucker.

But unlike Prosperous, none of them threatened him.

That was one nice thing about the other guilds. Say what you wanted about their egos or competitiveness—at least some of them were classy about it.

When the guilds inevitably followed up, Ren said, “I can’t take any orders for the second batch. Third batch and on? First come, first served.”

It wasn’t a lie. Each batch took him a full day to make. They weren’t as absolutely critical as the fire-resistant potions, but they were still important enough that every serious guild took them very, very seriously.

So why hadn’t Ren let anyone place an order for the second batch?

That was for one very obvious reason.

He planned to milk Prosperous Guild for every last drop on that one.

They just didn’t know it yet.

***

POV : PROSPEROUS GUILD

Victor and the Prosperous Guild were finally ready to go.

They had just received their shipment of potions from Ren—neatly boxed, clearly labeled, and double-counted by some poor intern who’d been yelled at too many times to make mistakes. There were 240 of Ren’s freshly brewed concoctions, each one glimmering with promise. They still had a stash of his fire-resistant potions left over from their last purchase too, and between those, their newest batch, and a pile of recently upgraded gear, they were ready to make their first real push on Lantern light Dungeon.

They weren’t going to wait.

This was it. Their redemption arc.

They’d already failed several times before—first at Level 8, where they got torched so hard they had to spend two days recovering their gear and pride. Then again at Level 9, where the deeper waves of burning wraiths melted half the raid while the rest ran in circles shouting conflicting strategies.

But now? Now they were Level 10 and above. Their entire raid was maxed out for this tier. They’d reviewed logs, rehearsed tactics, and even tried simulated runs using VR custom dungeon training modules. They had spreadsheets. They had loot tables. They had fire-retardant underwear.

They were serious.

And Lantern Light Dungeon was beatable—if you were a tight-knit, organized, experienced group.

Unfortunately, Prosperous Guild was none of those things.

Led by Victor, a pompous Level 12 Arcanist/Alchemist who believed that charisma alone could tank a boss, the guild was a patchwork mess of wannabes, clout chasers, and micromanaging officers who argued more than they listened. Their definition of teamwork was yelling louder than the other person until everyone pretended to agree.

Lantern light Dungeon wasn’t some predictable, static sequence of rooms with the same monsters waiting like cardboard cutouts. It didn’t work like that. Every dungeon in Towerbound pulled from a category, not a cookie cutter sheet. In Lantern lights case, that category was fire-aligned monsters. But within that category? It was random.

At Level 8, you might get a swarm of Ember Beetles and slow-moving Fire Wisps.

At Level 9, that same dungeon could throw Pyre Wolves and Flame Wraiths at you.

At Level 10, maybe it was Flamecallers that buffed other mobs, or those horrible Infernal Fractals that exploded on impact.

But here was the catch:

The monsters didn’t get tougher.

They just got different.

You could clear Lantern light at Level 8 and then come back at Level 10 with better gear and more potions—and still get wiped. Because the strategies you used? Completely useless if the enemy lineup changed. One run might be tank-heavy, requiring stun-lock chains. Another might be caster-heavy, forcing anti-magic comps. A third could just be traps everywhere, forcing rogue-based pathing.

The system didn’t care about your plan. It cared about your assumptions.

And that was the part everyone missed.

Prosperous Guild included.

They thought they were going in for a rematch.

But Towerbound was already rolling new dice behind the scenes.

Still, the Prosperous guild charged into the Lantern light Dungeon like they had something to prove, which they did.

“Hey boss,” said Gareth the main tank as he jogged into position, eyes scanning the outer hall. “Don’t things look… different than when we tried it at Level 9?”

“They do,” Victor muttered from the front, voice tight. His staff was already glowing with a ready-cast. “Keep an eye out. Different is not good.”

And it wasn’t just his nerves talking.

The Lantern light Dungeon still felt the same on the surface—the same cracked stonework, the same glowing runes along the walls pulsing with emberlight, the same oppressive heat pressing down on them like a smothering blanket.

But the more they moved in, the more they noticed the differences.

The outer corridor was missing the Ember Beetle packs they usually cleared first. Instead, it was patrolled by Ashborn Sprites—faster, quieter, and far more annoying with their fire dart spam. The trap at the third junction? Gone. Replaced with a smoldering vent that launched a fire tornado the moment someone stepped near it.

Some elements were the same—the twisted corridor to the central chamber, the collapsed staircase on the left, the scorch-marked walls where careless players had once died.

But the enemy lineup?

The trap placements?

The rhythm of the pulls?

Already different.

And the raid hadn’t even reached the first miniboss yet.

It was a series of brutal, grinding fights. Not elegant. Not clean. But functional—barely.

The Prosperous Guild wasn’t exactly known for its discipline or flawless execution, but they weren’t completely incompetent either. For all their infighting and overconfidence, they had come prepared. Their gear was solid. Their potions were top-tier—Ren’s latest batch doing more than its fair share of heavy lifting. And they had numbers. Enough to muscle through where brains might’ve failed.

Pull after pull, they stumbled forward.

Flamecallers went down in a chaotic mess of spell interrupts and wild cooldown dumps. Emberwolves were kited by three different people at once, none of them coordinating, but still—dead was dead. Even the Infernal Fractals, which almost wiped half the raid on their first explosive death, were eventually cleared after a very angry lecture from the heal team.

By the time they reached the final boss chamber, half the raid was low on consumables, the comms were filled with passive-aggressive snark, and one of the off tanks had almost rage-logged.

But they’d made it.

Against all odds, Prosperous Guild had clawed its way to the foot of the Waking Pyre once again.

Cindarth loomed in the molten chamber, chains rattling, lava pulsing at his feet.

Victor gave the signal to begin: Cindarth the Waking Pyre—a massive elemental surrounded by rings of fire and lava, with molten chains hanging from the ceiling and a death timer that activated the moment the fight began.

The fight was massive mayhem.

Cindarth unleashed waves of fire pulses that demanded exact potion timing. The tank rotation fell apart twice, but somehow they held on. At 50% health, the arena shrank. At 40%, the entire raid had to deal with flame twisters chasing them across a narrow stone platform.

At 30%, Victor called for all cooldowns.

At 25%… Cindarth entered the Berserk phase.

And it was glorious.

The boss roared, igniting the whole room with wildfire. Pillars of flame erupted in random patterns, forcing split-second dodges. Anyone who stood still for more than a second caught fire. The healer squad screamed for mana potions. The DPS screamed for healing. Victor screamed for someone to “pop the effing cooldowns,” as if they hadn’t done that five seconds ago.

Then the firestorm hit.

Half the raid was gone in three seconds. The rest scrambled. A tank dropped. The backup tank disconnected. Someone tried to kite, but it was too late.

Cindarth stood with 25% health, glowing red-hot, molten veins pulsing with energy.

And Prosperous Guild?

Wiped. Again.

Victor respawned at the graveyard, seething, and refused to say a word. Not in chat. Not in comms. Not even when someone tried to lighten the mood by saying, “Well hey, at least it was progress.”

In that moment, one thing became clear.

They were going to need more potions.

And unfortunately for them…

Ren’s prices were about to go way up.

***

CHAPTER 64

Ren was taking a break from crafting, lying back with a cold drink and humming his potion song off-key, when a message pinged across his interface:

Victor: We need more potions.

Ren blinked once, then sat up with a small grin. He tapped out a reply:

Ren: Oh? Didn’t the ones I sent you arrive? I thought your team picked them up from the courier.

On the other end, Victor clenched his teeth so hard it was audible through the audio link.

Victor: We wiped.

Ren let out a long, sympathetic, “Ooooh,” the kind that was about 80% mockery and 20% pity.

“That’s rough, buddy. Harsh.”

He clicked open his order queue.

“Well, good news, I do have more potions for you.”

Victor’s eyebrows lifted—until Ren added:

“You’re currently sixteenth in line.”

Victor: “What?”

The shout crackled through comms like someone had just dropped a fireball on their keyboard.

“You’re going to give me some more damn potions right now!”

Victor was already pacing his guild hall, half-foaming at the mouth. He could taste that first clear. It was right there. So close. Twenty-five percent left. One more run, and they’d have it. That achievement. That spotlight.

Sure, smarter teams might wait. Maybe tweak their strategy. Try a different raid comp.

And Victor had swapped a few things. A new off-healer. A rogue for trap cleanup. Even upgraded the casters’ mana regen gear.

But none of it mattered if he wasn’t part of the clear.

He needed to be there. He had to be on that leaderboard.

The problem? If he died again so soon after the last wipe, he’d lose an entire level. And that? That was not happening.

He was going in again. Fully geared. Fully stocked. Fully determined.

Victor: “If you don’t want to be blacklisted and hunted by every member of Prosperous, you’ll move me to the front of that damn list.”

There was a pause.

Ren didn’t say a word.

He just hung up.

Victor stared at the notification on his screen: Call Terminated.

For a second, he just froze. Then—

CRASH!

The nearest chair went flying. A mana crystal lamp shattered next. He grabbed a gear rack and flung it into the wall, knocking over half a shelf of healing scrolls.

Across the room, Milo Greaves—a Prosperous Guild sub-leader and one of the smug bastards who’d voted to sacrifice Ren in the first lifetime—lifted his head slowly from behind a makeshift barricade.

“Uh… boss? You want me to talk to him?” he said carefully. “I mean, maybe… calmly?”

Victor didn’t even turn around. “You do it. I can’t talk to that uppity bastard anymore.”

Of course, it never occurred to Victor that he was the overbearing one. No, in his mind, this was all Ren’s fault. The snotty little alchemist didn’t know his place. That’s why he hung up. Pure arrogance. Not at all because Victor had just threatened to blacklist and hunt him.

So Milo opened comms and messaged:

Milo: Hey, this is Milo. We haven’t met before.

Ren blinked at the screen and snorted. ‘Oh, yeah we have,’ he thought, ‘you backstabbing son of a bitch.’ Then, out loud, he said:

Ren: “Oh? Did you guys need something more? I thought we were pretty clear in the last call.”

Milo: “Victor wasn’t exactly clear. He, uh… actually wanted to apologize. For any rudeness that might’ve come off… accidentally.”

Ren smiled, slow and mean.

Ren: “Oh? Rudeness like threatening to hunt me down and kill me?” he said, voice light and cheerful.

Milo: “Yes. That was… absolutely not what he meant.”

Ren: “Really? Then what did he mean?”

Milo: “Well… he meant that it’s very important to us to get this second attempt in before the other teams do. So, uh, we were wondering if we could up the bid a little.”

Ren: “Hmmm. I don’t know. That’s not really good for my reputation, y’know?”

Milo: “Well, with Prosperous Guild as your backer, you don’t need to worry about your reputation.”

What he really thought was: ‘The worse your reputation gets, the easier it’ll be to negotiate prices down later. I’ll tell everyone you allowed us to skip the line.’

Ren put on his best country bumpkin voice. “Well, really?” he said, all wide-eyed. “In that case, how much are you thinkin’?”

Milo: “Last time we gave you 2 silver, 30 reagents, and 10 lore cards. Why don’t we double the reagents and lore cards?”

Ren tapped his chin dramatically. “Gee, I don’t know. I’ve got so many of those already. Tell you what—double the silver too, and we’ve got a deal.”

Milo: “What?!”

He nearly exploded, but caught himself. If Ren hung up again, they might lose the entire deal—and they’d be stuck waiting as the sixteenth order in the queue. That couldn’t happen. Not when they were this close.

Ren: “What? That sounds fair, right? You’re skipping lots of other guilds completely.”

Milo: “We can’t afford that. No one can. How about 2.5 silver, 30 reagents, and 10 lore cards?”

Ren: “I don’t know if you know how bargaining works. You can’t take back what you already offered. 3.5  silver, 60 reagents, 20 lore cards.”

Milo: “That’s still too much. Sure, you say you’ve got too many reagents and lore cards, but you’re sure acting like you don’t wanna give them up.”

Ren: “Well, you offered. 😄”

The emojis were the worst.

Milo grit his teeth.

Milo: “Final offer. 3 silver, 60 reagents, 20 lore cards. That’s it. Any more and we wait.”

Ren paused, pretending to think it over, even though he was grinning. That was already more than he’d expected to get.

Ren: “Fine. But remember—don’t tell anyone you skipped the line.”

Milo: “I won’t.”

Milo thought smugly, ‘I’ll tell everyone.’

***

Unlike Milo—who was already planning how he’d “accidentally” let it slip to the other guilds that Ren could be bought, that Ren had let Prosperous skip the queue, that Ren bowed to money—Ren was laughing so hard in his lab he almost fell over.

‘Oh my,’ he thought, clutching his side, ‘I definitely love money. That’s the whole point, you idiot.’

Ren wheezed a little, nearly knocking over a bubbling flask as he steadied himself from laughter.

And then, with quiet satisfaction, he leaned against the bench, grinning wide.

‘And that’s why I never sold the slot for number two.’

He tapped the side of a crate marked Batch 2 – Do Not Drop Or You Will Die Horribly and chuckled again.

‘I knew those bozos from Prosperous Guild would never make it on their first go. Not a chance. They’d wipe, rage, and demand another shot before anyone else could sneak in.’

He let the thought hang in the air, warm and smug.

‘Heh heh heh heh.’

He wiped a tear from his eye and leaned back, surveying the bubbling racks of alchemy stands in front of him. Today’s job? Finish the batch of potions of 240 potions.

That was 720 silver in total. Sure he already had premade them, in anticipation of the Prosperous guild failing their first attempt, but he didn’t want to let them know that.

And when he combined it with everything he already had—including the 20 gold and the 480 silver from the last sale—it all added up perfectly.

32 gold.

He turned that number over in his head. His smile grew huge.

Thirty-two gold.

It didn’t just sound nice. It meant something.

It meant one thing.

Another helmet.

Another full-time player slot.

The Scrap Rats were leveling up.

***

CHAPTER 65

The next day, at the front of Lantern Light Dungeon—a place that was always crowded—Victor strolled past the usual groups camped outside like he owned the place.

Lantern light was an instant-entry dungeon. You didn’t need to wait in a queue to go inside. But that didn’t mean people didn’t gather. Plenty of guilds rested outside after failed runs, regrouped, or waited on late members. And most importantly? Everyone was watching the leaderboard.

The first group to clear it still mattered.

A lot.

Victor stood at the very edge of the portal, cape fluttering in the hot breeze like he was about to give a TED talk on incompetence.

“That’s right,” he announced loudly, pacing like a commander giving a pre-battle speech. “We’re going in again. We almost had it last time. So you guys? Don’t even bother.”

A few heads turned. One guy shouted from the shade of a mana tent, “What? You got potions again? That your secret weapon?”

Victor smirked. “Yep. I bet you didn’t know this, but Ren? He doesn’t have any integrity. I bet a whole bunch of your guilds are still waiting on your second day deliveries, huh?”

Someone else stood up. “Second day? We’re all waiting on third day deliveries.”

Victor blinked. “Wait—what?”

The guy shrugged. “Yeah. Ren said he already had plans for the second batch. Nobody got anything today.”

Victor’s smirk twitched. “Wait, wait, wait—no one was in line for second?”

Another voice chimed in helpfully, “Nope. Ren told everyone that the slot was already booked. Had special plans, he said.”

Victor’s brain short-circuited. He threw his hands up.

“That bastard was betting on us to fail?!”

Every head turned.

The whole camp went silent for a beat, then burst into laughter.

Victor’s cheeks flushed crimson.

He hadn’t meant to shout that part out loud. Definitely hadn’t meant to broadcast that Prosperous had been used as bait.

A nearby guild leader called out, barely hiding his grin, “Wait, wait, how much did you guys pay to skip the line?”

Victor straightened, trying to recover. “Doesn’t matter. The Prosperous Guild can afford it.”

Someone next to the fire pit snickered. “I heard they paid through the nose. Like, 3 silver, 60 reagents, and 20 lore cards per batch.”

Another voice shouted, “Fuuuck, that’s more than the fire resistance potions! What kind of idiot pays that?!”

The first guy grinned, stood, and dramatically pointed toward the Prosperous Guild as they scurried through the portal.

“These kind of idiots.”

***

If Ren had been there, he would’ve joined in the laughter—loudly, smugly, and possibly while eating a celebratory cheese slice.

Because that?

That was exactly his goal.

Part One: Sell overpriced potions.

Part Two: Sell even more overpriced potions for the “privilege” of skipping the line.

Part Three: Let everyone know about it—and let the incompetence of the Prosperous Guild broadcast it for free.

The only thing that would make the metaphorical cheese even better?

Waiting for Prosperous Guild coming out of that dungeon battered, broken, and on fire again.

He grinned in his lab, stacking bottles onto a delivery rack, humming to himself.

‘C’mon, you magnificent idiots,’ he thought.

‘I’ve got my fingers crossed. Don’t let me down now. Fail spectacularly.’

***

The Lantern Light Dungeon stared them down like a smoldering god daring them to try again.

Victor led the Prosperous Guild through its portal with more tension than bravado this time. They had adjusted their team composition—swapped in a rogue for traps, added an off-healer, tightened their caster positioning. They knew the Level 10 version of the dungeon was different from Level 9. They’d accounted for it.

At least, they thought they had.

But two steps in, and something felt off.

Different.

Victor narrowed his eyes. The runes on the walls were flickering faster this time. The ambient glow was tinged violet instead of the usual molten orange. The temperature was lower. That was the real giveaway.

“What the hell…” Gareth muttered. “I thought it changed based on the average level.”

“So did I,” Victor said grimly.

But Towerbound wasn’t that kind of game. It didn’t do cookie-cutter difficulty scaling.

And this time?

This time, the dungeon had changed again.

The familiar Ember Beetles were gone, replaced with Flickerlings—tiny, twitching sparks that blinked across the room mid-attack, chaining microbursts of flame if not killed simultaneously.

The hall ambush near the third pillar? Now it featured Ashbinders, who wrapped flame-tendrils around players and exploded in a burst of searing light when interrupted. The Prosperous team almost lost a healer to that trap. Then another close call was to a Firewing Reaper that swooped in from the ceiling, igniting the air in a spinning inferno.

Still, they pushed on. The potions helped—Ren’s concoctions keeping them alive when they otherwise would’ve crumpled. The new team composition worked. Barely.

And then they reached the boss room.

But it wasn’t Cindarth the Waking Pyre waiting for them this time.

It was Myrrh-Tal, the Hollow Flame, a towering figure clad in scorched ceremonial armor, with a head that flickered like a dying candle. The room was shaped differently too—a circular ritual chamber surrounded by constantly shifting firewalls, with four summoning altars pulsing on a rotation.

Myrrh-Tal didn’t roar or bellow. He whispered.

And when he whispered, random debuffs crawled through the party like curses—Mana Burn, Weight of Embers, Flameblind.

The fight was hell.

Every 25%, one of the altars activated, summoning a wave of burning specters that had to be purified or they’d explode. The purification crystals spawned at random spots in the firewalls. The rogue died trying to reach the first one. The second wave got two more players before they could stabilize.

At 10%, Victor was shouting frantically, mic open, voice hoarse. “We’ve got this! Take him down! Use everything!”

They almost did.

Potions popped. Cooldowns fired. They pushed through the Flameblind phase, fighting half-blind, taking damage every second they stood still, every second they moved, every second they existed.

And then—

Wipe.

5% left.

Myrrh-Tal let out a long, flickering laugh as the last player collapsed. The flames dimmed, and the boss slowly reset.

Outside the dungeon, a group of spectators watching the logs lit up the public chat.

RaidWhispers: Prosperous wiped again. New boss variant. Myrrh-Tal, 5% left.

StarfireVin: That’s gotta sting.

HuntressLei: Wait, they got different mechanics??

FoxerRow: Oof. Imagine paying 3 gold per batch for a 5% wipe.

Victor respawned at the graveyard.

Silent.

Burning.

***

Victor immediately reopened comms with Ren.

He didn’t even wait for a greeting.

“You scammed me,” he snapped. “We want potions again. But this time, we want them at the original price. That skip-the-line thing was a scam.”

Ren’s voice came through smooth and syrupy, dripping with faked innocence.

“Oh no, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was definitely planning to sell that batch to a different guild.”

Victor narrowed his eyes. “What guild?”

“The Scrap Rat Guild,” Ren replied lightly. “But they offered to let you take their place… in exchange for some silver.”

“Aren’t you part of the Scrap Rat Guild?!” Victor roared.

“Well… technically, I am,” Ren said, stretching out the words. “But not really. I’m more of an on-site consultant. You know. Not an official member. More like a close friend who parties with them every now and then.”

That wasn’t entirely a lie. And it definitely wasn’t the truth.

“But,” Ren added, “because we party together once in a while, I do give them a small discount. That’s about the size of it. We’re not, like, in a formal guild or anything.”

Victor seethed. But he had to believe it. He’d barely ever seen Ren in the field. Once, maybe twice, and even then, never in formation with the full Scrap Rat squad. Just side stuff.

“Fine. Whatever.” Victor growled. “We want the third batch.”

“Ooh,” Ren winced into the mic. “Can’t do that. Scrap Rats aren’t up for another seventeen orders, so… now you’ll have to convince someone else to sell you their spot. Or just… you know, get in line.”

And then—

Click.

Ren hung up.

Again.

Victor stared at the disconnected call. Jaw twitching. The same fury bubbling just beneath the surface.

A third try was statistically dangerous—for Ren. Even with a clown show like Prosperous Guild, three full attempts with proper potions, adjusted team comp, and enough humiliation would put them at an 80 or 90% chance of success.

And if they cleared Lantern Light?

That would be terrible.

That would put Prosperous at the top of the leaderboard.

That would give Victor bragging rights.

That would ruin everything.

Victor was still standing in front of dozens of guilds outside the dungeon portal. He couldn’t lose it again. Not in front of them. Not now.

Instead, he swallowed it. Gritted his teeth.

“We’re done here,” he said.

Prosperous Guild filed out in silence, heading back to the Salvatore Inn and into their overpriced private suite.

Once inside, Victor flung his gloves onto the table and glared at Milo.

“Call him. Again.”

Milo tried.

And tried.

But this time, the line didn’t even ring.

Ren was already in Do Not Disturb mode, humming his potion-crafting song and gently bottling another batch.

He wasn’t taking calls.

Especially not from them.

What really stung—more than the wipe, more than the public embarrassment, more than getting hung up on again—was the cost.

Because Victor, in his rush, in his desperation, had taken the risk.

He hadn’t waited for the full cooldown.

In Towerbound, death came with rules—and consequences.

The first time you died, you lost all the EXP you had accumulated on your current level. Gone. Wiped. If you were 800/1600 EXP into Level 10? You were back to 0/1600.

But if you died a second time before a cooldown expired, the penalty was worse:

You lost another entire level.

The cooldown?

●      12 hours if you were out in the wild.

●      24 hours if you were in a dungeon or raid environment.

By rushing back in within the same dungeon, before the cooldown expired, he triggered the second-death penalty.

He hadn’t swapped in a completely fresh party.

And now?

He had dropped an entire level.

From Level 12 back down to Level 11.

And he wasn’t alone.

Most of the main raid party—the ones who’d stuck with him through both  attempts—had dropped as well. The only ones spared were the fresh faces he’d brought in for the “adjusted composition,” the ones who hadn’t participated in the previous wipe.

It was devastating. Days of grinding. Lost.

And the worst part?

If he’d been a smart, careful leader, he might’ve rotated them out. Might’ve built a backup squad. Might’ve coached the clear from the sidelines and let fresh blood take the hit.

But Victor wasn’t careful.

He was a glory hound.

There was no universe where the Prosperous Guild cleared Lantern light without his name front and center. No way he’d let someone else carry the banner across the finish line. He had to be the one in the World feed. He had to be the one getting the system notification. He had to be the face of the win.

Now?

He was a level lower, battered, potionless, and dropped down  in the leaderboard bracket.

And the worst part was—

Everyone knew it.

He was almost afraid to check. But he had to. He pulled up the leaderboard.

[Internal Prosperous Guild Briefing – Greenwild Cross Level Leaderboard]

Updated: Access: Senior Guild Strategists & Executives Only

⸻

1. Al Logcrafra – Starfire Guild

Level: 13

Profession: Juggernaut / Blacksmith

Notes: First to 13. No guild infrastructure still. Burnout predicted. Multiple solo clears logged, but risk of overextension high.

2. Sera Vonn – Silvercut Division

Level: 12

Profession: Wildstalker / Beastmaster

Notes: Solid team player. Pet synergy improved. Tracking routes mapped. Avoid frontal confrontation in raid zones.

3. Jex Halvorn – Nightcoil Syndicate

Level: 12

Profession: Nightblade / Venombinder

Notes: PvP disruptor. Still operating solo. Rumors of contact with black-market guilds. Dangerous if hired for sabotage.

4. Tessari Vale – Sabertooth Syndicate

Level: 12

Profession: Lightbinder / Rune Scribe

Notes: Light support meta rising. Buff uptime excellent. Squishy under pressure. Deploy assassins early in engagements.

5. Kael Emberthorn – Valkir Rising

Level: 12

Profession: Flamewright / Riftwalker

Notes: Performance stabilized. Rift displacement still unreliable. Treat as AoE burst wildcard.

6. Rurik Dane – Hollowbrand Forge

Level: 12

Profession: Ironbound / Starfall Ranger

Notes: Tank hybrid with exceptional resistance. No flashy plays, but a consistent survivalist anchor. Use denial zones to slow him.

7. Nyelle Sontar – Glasscut Spire

Level: 12

Profession: Duelist / Glassblower

Notes: PvP-only threat. Shards recently buffed. Avoid isolated encounters. Use AoE lockdown or silence.

8. Silk – Scrap Rats Guild

Level: 11

Profession: Trickster / Locksmith

Notes: Info net expanding. Possible direct tie to Ren’s distribution chain. Solo dungeon dives are increasing. Monitoring suggested.

9. Victor Drenwald – Prosperous Guild

Level: 11 (Previously 12)

Profession: Arcanist / Alchemist

Notes: Dropped after double-wipe. Leadership status weakened. Strategic reevaluation ongoing. May require external morale intervention.

10. Mirax Tenebris – Prosperous Guild

Level: 11 (Previously 12)

Profession: Shadow Dancer / Stitchweaver

Notes: Confirmed raid participant. Performance intact but demoted due to level drop. Promotion paused pending recovery.

⸻

What Victor didn't see was another internal memo that was forwarded to the shareholders and decision makers above him.

[Internal Prosperous Guild – Morale Bulletin 07-B]

Status: Circulate to High-Level Officers and Above Only

Compiled by: Gale Morale Division – “We Spin So You Don’t Have To”

Date: (Post-Lantern Light Failure #2)

Subject: Current Guild Morale, Public Perception, and “Strategic Narrative Realignment” Suggestions

Executive Summary:

Following the most recent Lantern Light Raid Attempt, Guild morale has entered a Tier 3 Suppressed State. Public sentiment has been influenced by a widely circulated dungeon chat log referencing potion expenses and the phrase “these kind of idiots.”

This report aims to assess psychological fallout, prevent further reputational leakage, and reframe the narrative around our recent setbacks.

Key Issues Identified:

Victor Drenwald’s Double Death

○      Level loss confirmed.

○      Public hang-up by merchant Ren clipped and circulated.

○      Quote “That bastard was betting on us to fail?!” now memed.

Mirax Tenebris Demotion

○      Quiet level loss received less public attention but still affects internal raid team hierarchy.

○      “Promotion trial paused” has created whispers of favoritism and factional rifts.

Potion Budget Overexposure

○      Confirmed payment: 3 gold + 60 reagents + 20 lore cards per batch.

○      Crowds outside Lantern Light openly mocked expenditure.

○      Rumors suggest Ren is now referring to Prosperous as “the golden goose.”

Perceived Incompetence

○      Multiple guilds have begun tracking Prosperous attempts as livestream comedy content.

○      Internal comms leak indicates one healer has changed username to NotWithThemIRL.

Suggested Countermeasures:

●      Rebrand Setbacks as Strategy

“Every raid is a research mission.” Push the narrative that we’re data farming for a “perfect clear” under high-risk variables.

●      Victor Off-Camera Rotation

Quietly rotate Victor into a “tactical advisor” role while preparing staged footage of him “leading from the command center.”

●      Push Mirax as the New Face

Promote her as the upcoming stealth raid lead. Use her Stitchweaver status to suggest “the strategy was always in the shadows.”

●      Blame the Potions

Suggest that Ren’s potions were “unvetted, unregulated,” and may have contained volatile reagents. Use vague terms like “spiritual destabilizers” and “experimental tincture timing conflicts.”

●      Guild-Wide Mandatory Cheer Initiative

Each officer is to log one compliment per team member in guild chat daily. No sarcasm. Include emojis to confirm tone.

Morale Forecast:

●      Current: Fragile / Combustible

●      Projected (with spin): Recoverable / Resentfully Motivated

Addendum:

If we fail the third attempt, the fallback plan “Operation Scapegoat Victor” is greenlit.

CHAPTER 66

Ren had 32 gold—not bad, not bad at all. But not enough.

Because Ren didn’t just want to do okay. He wanted to accelerate.

And for that, he needed 10 helmets. A full, round, glorious dormitory of non-stop, full time  potion-crafting, dungeon-clearing, and market-busting activity.

They already had six helmets.

They just needed four more.

That meant 8,000 credits.

Yeah, technically, he was still supposed to be saving for the Big Bank Escape Plan™, the one coming up in a couple months that would let him funnel all this sweet in-game gold into a more liquid, black market, and completely illegal system. But you know what?

If he could get the entire team online full-time before that moment hit—it would be like injecting mana-nitro into a beat-up hover-car just before it hit the elite racer circuit.

So yeah.

He was gambling a little.

But not blindly.

Because right now, every major guild was burning their single-shot attempts at Lantern light. And once they wiped—and they would wipe—they’d be right back at his door, offering more gold, more reagents, more lore cards, more desperation.

He ran the numbers.

5,000 credits. That was his goal.

One dungeon.

One failed raid team at a time.

And best of all?

It was working.

For ten straight days, Ren brewed potions like a man possessed—breaking only for naps, stolen bites of cheese, and quiet check-ins at the orphanage. His body was running on fumes and fermented milk, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

Every time he handed off another batch to a guild courier, he felt the clock ticking. Lantern light hadn’t been cleared yet, but it would be. And when it did, the market would shift. Prices would drop. Guilds would stop panicking. So he squeezed every last copper from the frenzy while it lasted.

And finally—after ten days of nonstop crafting, sales, and one dangerously overheated alchemy rig—he had it.

4,800 credits from his own potion sales

His original 32 gold, untouched and waiting.

Scrap Rats contributions, passed to him through a mix of trust, hustle, and no small amount of backpack-juggling.

All told?

8,900 silver.

Aka 89 gold.

And enough leftover copper to buy a wheel of questionable cheese and still feel smug about it.

It was done.

He had it.

Enough for four more helmets.

Ten players. Ten helmets. Full dorm coverage. No more rotations. No more logging off.

And just in time.

Because right as he leaned back in his chair and thought about taking a break in real life to bite into a triumphantly moldy wedge of blue-veined celebration, the system flared to life with three piercing flashes:

CONGRATULATIONS TO SERA VONN

TALDRIN QUELL

KYE VELLIN

ILYNE DUSKMOOR

MAREK THORNHOLT

RINNA CAEL

TORIK VANCE

ALENRA MISTVEIL

DREVAN SOLTAIR

NAMI VIRELL

“BLUE CHEESE LIGHT: Tastes great. Low calories. And… 50% OFF on our Fiery Jalapeño Cheese – this week only! Bring the flame to life.“

FOR THE FIRST CLEAR OF THE LANTERN LIGHT DUNGEON.

TITLE AWARDED: FLAMEBEARER  +10% FIRE DAMAGE TO ALL ATTACKS.

The message repeated.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Just in case anyone, anywhere on the server thought they could ignore it.

Ren blinked, watching global chat explode with disbelief, congratulations, salt, and half a dozen conspiracy theories.

He laughed at the message they had written. It seemed like they had changed it from their original advertisement.

He knew Silvercut Division also had scored exclusive loot—first-clear rewards that were locked behind that one moment in time.

What was the loot?

Nobody knew.

Except for the Silvercut Division themselves.

And they definitely weren’t saying a word.

***

When the Prosperous Guild saw that Lantern light Dungeon had finally been cleared—by Silvercut Division, no less—there were no screams. No table-flipping. No keyboards through monitors.

It was worse.

It was quiet.

A morning funeral.

For pride. For first-clear dreams. For the entire narrative they’d built up over the past three weeks.

Victor stared blankly at the announcement still hovering in his system feed, the words “FLAMEBEARER – +10% FLAME DAMAGE TO ALL ATTACKS” flashing like a personal insult in gold font.

No one said anything.

A junior support mage walked into the common room with coffee, saw the mood, and turned around without a word.

The analysts, however?

They got to work.

Within minutes, the Prosperous Guild’s internal version of the Greenwild Cross Leaderboard had been updated. Names reshuffled. Comments revised. Risk assessments quietly adjusted. They didn’t delete Victor’s name, but the font had definitely gotten smaller. Mirax’s row got grayer. Sera Vonn’s? Bolded. Circled. Annotated twice.

[Internal Prosperous Guild Briefing – Greenwild Cross Level Leaderboard]

Updated: Access: Senior Guild Strategists & Executives Only

⸻

1. Al Logcrafra – Starfire Guild

Level: 13

Profession: Juggernaut / Blacksmith

Notes: First to 13. Reputation as solo grinder intact. No formal alliance structures. Still lacks support infrastructure. Burnout risk unchanged.

2. Sera Vonn – Silvercut Division

Level: 13

Profession: Wildstalker / Beastmaster

Notes: Now tied for highest level. Maintains #2 ranking due to Al’s earlier achievements. Flamebearer title active. First-clear prestige remains a major PR edge. Performance flawless in public raids.

3. Jex Halvorn – Nightcoil Syndicate

Level: 12

Profession: Nightblade / Venombinder

Notes: PvP and assassination contracts suspected. Known for untraceable solo kills. Guild loyalty still unverified.

4. Tessari Vale – Sabertooth Syndicate

Level: 12

Profession: Lightbinder / Rune Scribe

Notes: Formation control specialist. Raid synergy is excellent. Recommended counter: disrupt rune activators before her rotations begin.

5. Kael Emberthorn – Valkir Rising

Level: 12

Profession: Flamewright / Riftwalker

Notes: AoE specialist. Rift accuracy improving. Flashy presence keeps him in the spotlight. Crowd manipulation tool for his guild.

6. Rurik Dane – Hollowbrand Forge

Level: 12

Profession: Ironbound / Starfall Ranger

Notes: Defensive linchpin. Ideal for zone control. Low kill count, high survival rate. Avoid drawn-out engagements.

7. Nyelle Sontar – Glasscut Spire

Level: 12

Profession: Duelist / Glassblower

Notes: Peak 1v1 threat. Shard mechanics recently buffed. Exceedingly high crit window in burst builds.

8. Silk – Scrap Rats Guild

Level: 12

Profession: Trickster / Locksmith

Notes: Still unverified in major PvE events. Suspiciously deep connections to regional potion circulation. Rumors of black-market couriering unresolved.

9. Victor Drenwald – Prosperous Guild

Level: 11 Profession: Arcanist / Alchemist (rarely used)

Notes: Public leadership role diminished. Level drop unrecovered. PR damage containment is stable but stagnant.

10. Mirax Tenebris – Prosperous Guild

Level: 11 Profession: Shadow Dancer / Stitchweaver

Notes: Recovery slow. Rotation status remains “standby.” Consider for stealth-tier coordination if Victor is benched.

⸻

Ren saw the triple message flash in his interface and leaned back in his chair, smirking.

“Flamebearer, huh?” he muttered. “Well played, Silvercut. Not bad.”

He cracked his knuckles and pulled up his comms.

[Group Message – Scrap Rats Dorm]

Ren: Lantern lights cleared. Time for a break. Everybody log out and come eat something before I go mental over and try to start brewing healing potions IRL.

Responses rolled in quickly.

Choi: Finally. I’ve been hammering kobolds for hours. Logging off now.

Reed: I was about to fall asleep at the loom anyway.

Simms: I may or may not have stitched a wolf pelt to the couch.

Davon: I burned bread again. Let me bring snacks instead.

Kanuka: I’ve got meat on the grill. Real meat, not game meat.

Peter: Be there in 20. I have herbs. Real ones.

Tanner: I’m not wearing pants but I’ll show up. Just warning everyone.

Cameron: …Already here, actually. Weird.

The only ones missing were the original pickup crew.

Silk, Mira, Halt, Torren, Bran, Cade, and Marlow.

So Ren sent them a ping too.

Ren: Yo, flamebearer’s been crowned. I say it’s time we flame some hot wings instead. Meet up?

Silk replied first.

Silk: I’m in. You’re buying cheese and wings, right?

Mira: I’ll attend virtually. So I don’t have to wear high heels. Or makeup.

Halt: Already scouted the meetup spots. Option A has shade and two exits. Recommend Option B for less foot traffic.

Torren: You had me at “flame.” Bringing the spicy mustard.

Bran: Big day. Let’s all meet up in an hour.

Cade: …Sure. Why not? Got nothing better.

Marlow: Do I bring the crate of mango soda? Or the one that says “experimental?”

Ren: Both. Obviously.

And that was that.

An hour later, in the middle of a quiet park, half the group slouched on benches, others circled around makeshift BBQ trays, and someone had already set up a box labeled “Emergency Potion Testing (Do Not Drink)” on the grass. It was actually dodgy soda. Koala Kola’s failed “New taste” version. Popular in the slums because it was the cheapest.

Ren sat in the middle, cross-legged, cheese in hand, and a ridiculous grin on his face.

With everyone finally there, Ren stood up, brushing powdered cheese crumbs from his fingers and grinning.

“Wow,” he said. “It’s actually nice seeing all of you here in real life. I don’t think I’ve left my alchemy room in so long, I only saw a couple of you during my breaks.”

Laughter broke out.

“And,” he added, nodding toward the barbecue, “I see we’ve even got our original pickup group from day one. Look at you guys—fully leveled, still alive, still weird.”

Mira’s voice crackled from the tablet as her images threw both hands up and toasted with a soda. “I am the best!”

Everyone else chuckled and smiled.

“I just wanted to see everyone because… it’s the end of the month,” Ren said, quieter now. “And I promised all of you a better life by the end of it. So—I wanted to tell you that we did it. We now have enough to fulfill that promise.”

The crowd around the barbecue stopped mid-bite. Someone dropped a suspicious chip into an equally suspicious soda cup.

Then the cheering erupted.

“For real?”

“You’re not kidding, right?”

“Whoa, it’s already been a month?!”

Ren waited for the ruckus to die down.

“Yep. Really been a month. And I’m beyond excited to be part of this thing with you all. I hope you don’t regret it.”

“We don’t!”

“No regrets!”

“Shut up and tell us more!”

Ren held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll start with the bad news.”

Groans.

“With Lantern light cleared, we probably won’t be able to charge two silver per potion anymore. They’ll start mass-producing them, or buying cheap knockoffs from NPC’S  for 50 copper.”

“BOOOOOOOO,” the crowd shouted in harmony.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ren waved them off. “Had to get that out of the way.”

“Give us the good news, boss!” someone yelled. Ren thought it was Simms.

“The good news is—we’ve got enough credits to buy four more helmets.”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“And still have enough left over for our very classy, very greasy celebration party.”

As if on cue, the foodgrub delivery driver showed up carrying three bags of wings.

People cheered again, this time mid-nibble.

Ren grabbed a parmesan-coated wing and took a bite. After two bites, he raised his voice again.

“So now we’ve got ten helmets. That means full time, full dorm, full shift coverage. If you’re still delivering junk across the city, you can quit. You’re hired. Scrap Rats, full time.”

“HOORAY!”

“DOWN WITH COURIERS!”

“LONG LIVE CHEESE!”

Ren turned to the original pickup crew and said, “I don’t know what your lives are like—except Silk—but you’re obviously invited to the guild. As soon as we, y’know, form one.”

“How long will that take?” Mira asked between bites.

“Well,” said Ren, “Guild formation requires a certificate. You can buy it for 100 gold once you hit level 20—”

“BOOOOOOOO,” came the crowd.

“Or,” he grinned, “you can get it from a rare quest or world drop.”

“Let’s do that!” someone yelled.

“Yeah,” Ren said, “that’d be nice. But they’re random. Hidden quests or rare dungeon events. Very RNG.”

Groans again.

Ren held up a finger. “But… I happen to know one.”

Instant silence.

“Thanks to a little tip from a friend of mine. A beta tester.”

“Where’s this friend now?” asked Mira.

Ren shrugged. “Visiting some government guy overseas. Totally off the grid. No contact. You know how it is.”

They did. Everyone had heard the story enough that it had entered that perfect space of ‘believable myth.’ No one had fact-checked it. Why would they?

Ren stood, brushing crumbs off his lap.

“I’ll be honest. We could’ve tried for the Lantern light clear. We had the potions. We had the power. But I didn’t want it.”

“Wait,” said Silk, “that’s why you didn’t let us run it?”

“Yep,” said Ren. “We could’ve gotten the Flamebearer title. +10% flame damage. But then what? We’d have a giant target on our back. We don’t have the manpower to defend it. Yet.”

“Smart,” said Torren, nodding.

“So,” Ren continued, “instead of chasing the first dungeon clear, we’re chasing something else. Second official guild.”

“Wait, isn't it the first guild?” asked Mira from the tablet.

“No,” said Ren, “we’re not used to having nice things. Who here grew up with luxury?”

Nobody raised their hand.

Mira frowned. “Oh.”

“Seeeee,” said Ren, eyes sparkling, “Even though I do know where the hidden first guild clear quest is. I don’t think we should use it.”

A dramatic pause.

“I think we should sell it.”

“OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” the crowd howled.

“Now that’s the rat way!” someone shouted.

The rest of the night was wings, off-brand soda, and wild schemes shouted into the evening air—plans to take over the leaderboard, jokes about “PotionCartel,” and half-serious chants of Guild First, Rich Later.

And through it all, Ren sat in the center, smiling quietly.

‘This,’ he thought, ‘is the real second chance.’

AFTERWARD:

The book ends here, but the story continues. You can check it out on Royal Road, right now. I post there daily.

https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/115160/towerbound-litrpg-regressor-opmc

And if you like other gamelit books, check out these groups. They're pretty cool.

https://www.facebook.com/groups/LitRPGsociety

https://m.facebook.com/groups/LitRPG.books

THANK YOU EVERYONE FOR READING THIS FAR.