Chapter 9: Challenge and Earn
The morning sun poured through the thin curtains, pale light spilling across the cramped room.
Crack.
The sound was sharp and sudden. Michael had only tried to sit up from his bed, but the frame beneath him gave way with a splintering protest. His weight hadn't changed but the strength coiled inside his body had.
The wooden slats collapsed, leaving him sitting awkwardly in a shallow pit of broken boards.
He stared at the wreckage for a moment, then slowly flexed his right hand. The bones creaked faintly, not from weakness but from power pressing against its vessel, like steel caged in clay.
"…One thousand four hundred jin."
He muttered to himself, voice calm but tinged with disbelief. Overnight, the surge had come again.
Yesterday, his body had swelled with raw force, surpassing a thousand jin. Today, it leapt even further, another fourteen hundred jin stacking on top. In less than two days, his strength had climbed to over twenty-five hundred jin.
That was the kind of weight catapults hurled across battlefields in the old chronicles.
Michael closed his eyes, recalling dusty history lessons not of this world, but of the echoes it carried. The Western lands of Avalora spoke of warriors like Thalrik the Titanbreaker, who once lifted a collapsing siege tower to save his legion. Of Cassian the Warborn, whose blade split ten knights in a single charge. Of Valtor Ironfist, who cracked a fortress gate with a punch.
Give me a month, Michael thought, his lips curling faintly. And I'll surpass them all.
He stood, brushing splinters from his clothes. A lesser man might have shouted, boasted, or run to test himself in reckless displays. Michael only shook his head. Power was a gift, but raw power without direction was wasted.
Today, he had another plan.
---
The Market
By mid-morning, the streets of Aurion were alive.
The herbal markets stretched across six city blocks, each alley brimming with hawkers and neon signs enchanted with glowing glyphs. The air was thick with overlapping scents—bitter ginseng-like roots, sharp metallic herbs that shimmered faintly with mana, and the earthy musk of dried beast organs hanging from iron racks.
"Heavenly Rain Grass! Grown under pure moonlight, essential for high-grade potions!" a merchant shouted, waving stalks of translucent blue grass.
"Come here, young man! Hercules Pills! Just one and you'll smash through stone walls!" another hollered, his cart stacked with clinking jars.
The cacophony was relentless, almost comical. It reminded Michael of the vegetable markets from his previous life—except instead of carrots and onions, these stalls promised strength, speed, and miracles.
But miracles always came at a price.
Students in academy uniforms swarmed the lanes, clutching their allowances or savings. Some bargained desperately, others argued angrily when they discovered they'd been sold counterfeits. A boy wept openly after realizing the shimmering vial he'd bought was just colored water.
The college entrance examination was weeks away. Everyone was scrambling for one more edge.
Michael walked calmly through the chaos, his eyes half-lidded. To the average eye, herbs and potions were indistinguishable. But to him
[Herb: Low-grade spirit root. Age: 2 years. Potency: 23%.]
[Elixir: Counterfeit. No active mana detected.]
[Beast fang: Hollow. Decorative. Worthless.]
Lines of truth surfaced with each glance. His All-Analysis Talent made deception impossible. Where others gambled with their futures, Michael saw only numbers and clarity.
At a reputable shopfront marked by a bronze cauldron sigil, he stepped inside. After browsing, he spoke evenly:
"Thirty full sets of materials for a spirit-strengthening agent. Best quality you have."
The shopkeeper blinked. "Thirty? Are you supplying an academy class?"
Michael slid a card across the counter. The balance a freshly earned five million credits from yesterday's guild stunt flashed briefly before vanishing.
"Payment upfront."
The merchant's eyes gleamed. "Yes, of course! I'll prepare them immediately."
It wasn't cheap. Thirty sets devoured nearly his entire fortune. But Michael wasn't thinking in bottles. He was thinking in systems. The ordinary spirit-strengthening agents on the market were overpriced and inefficient. His modified formula doubled their potency with the same ingredients.
If he could mass-produce and sell them?
He wouldn't just save moneybhe'd create an alchemical monopoly.
The shopkeeper even tossed in a bundle of rarer herbs, smiling as though he'd secured a long-term client.
"Oh, and if you're planning to brew these, young master," the man added slyly,
"you'll need an alchemy furnace. The guild rates start at a few hundred thousand an hour. I can introduce"
"Noted." Michael cut him off politely.
Inside, he clicked his tongue. Hundreds of thousands per hour? Outrageous. No wonder independent alchemists either went broke or bent the knee to guild monopolies. For him, it meant one thing—
I'll keep bleeding the guilds for now.
---
He left the herbs stored with the merchant for later collection, stepping back into the flow of the crowd.
And then he froze.
Not far away, walking with composed grace, was a familiar face—the receptionist from the Sky Fist Guild. Yesterday she had handed him the challenge forms, smiling nervously as he signed. Today, she walked a step behind another figure.
The girl at the front was striking. Gown of silken azure, inlaid with threads that shimmered faintly with mana inscriptions. Jewels glittered at her throat and wrists, subtle but each worth more than most families earned in years. Her beauty was cold, noble, her posture born of pedigree.
Michael's eyes narrowed. Maria Frostheart. Eldest daughter of the Asura Guild.
One of the three great guild princesses of Aurion.
And she was here, in the common herbal market, with a Sky Fist receptionist tailing her like a shadow.
Did they trace me? Michael's mind sharpened. Are they here to demand I join, or return yesterday's reward?
He couldn't allow that. Not yet.
Not until he'd squeezed every coin and opportunity from each guild in the city.
Without hesitation, he turned away, slipping into the crowd with long strides. His goal shifted instantly—forget wandering, forget observing. He needed to hit the next target guild now.
The Crown Guild lay three districts east.
If Sky Fist sniffed me out, I'll just claim Crown's reward before they upload anything. Then Strom Guild. Until every vault in this city pays its due.
---
Behind him, Maria Frostheart paused. Her gaze swept the crowd, catching a brief glimpse of a retreating figure.
"…He's gone," she murmured.
The receptionist at her side looked startled. "Miss Frostheart, should we…?"
Maria's lips curved faintly, her eyes flashing with intrigue. "We'll follow. If Aurelia was right about yesterday's medicine furnace, then this boy is not ordinary. I want to see… how powerful he really is."
Her words drifted softly, almost playful.
The game of cat and mouse had begun.
------
The Crown Guild stood like a fortress in the heart of Aurion.
Its headquarters wasn't the tallest building in the district, but it radiated a pressure that made passersby straighten their backs. Towering banners hung from its walls, stitched with the guild's emblem: a golden crown framed by blazing swords.
Michael didn't pause at the threshold. He stepped through polished glass doors into a lobby lined with adventurers, clerks, and guild enforcers in uniform.
---
Reception
"Hello, I want to join the Crown Guild."
The receptionist looked up from her desk, adjusting her spectacles. Her practiced smile faltered when she saw his age.
"Join…? You mean register as a trainee?"
Michael shook his head. "Challenge. Strength assessment."
The pen in her hand froze. "…Strength? Are you sure?"
She slid a form toward him anyway, curiosity tugging at her. When her eyes skimmed the details he scribbled, they widened.
----------
Name: Michael Willson
Talent Awakening: E-rank (Auxiliary)
Age: 18
Status: Moonveil Academy Student
-------
The words practically burned the page. An E-rank auxiliary student applying for a Strength Challenge.
Her hands trembled as she tried to speak. "S-sir, I don't think you understand. The Crown Guild's challenges aren't for show. The intermediate puppet requires at least 400 jin to withstand, and the advanced one… eight hundred jin minimum. Without protective measures, if it lands a counterattack you could—"
Michael signed the liability waiver in one stroke and slid it back. His expression didn't shift.
"Where is the challenge room?"
The receptionist's throat bobbed. She hesitated, but something in his calm gaze forced her to swallow her protests. She raised a finger, pointing at a sealed door on the left.
"…That way. But—please be careful!"
Michael walked without looking back.
---
The Puppets
The room was stark, white tiles gleaming under crystal lamps. Three hulking training puppets stood in a row.
The first was painted blue, simple joints and padded fists—designed for academy novices.
The second was crimson, reinforced with mana runes across its chest. Its fists could shatter stone.
The third loomed larger, steel plating blackened with age, glowing veins of magic carved deep into its frame. Its eyes burned faint red.
[Target: Advanced Combat Puppet.]
[Force Threshold: 800 jin minimum.]
Michael stepped past the first two without slowing. He planted himself before the third.
The receptionist had quietly opened the door behind him, peeking in. When she saw his stance, her face drained of color.
"Sir, please don't! That puppet's strike is equivalent to a martial artist's killing blow"
She never finished.
---
The Punch
Michael inhaled once, then exhaled slowly. His right fist coiled at his side.
Bang!
The sound wasn't just impact—it was an explosion. His fist collided with the puppet's punch mid-air, and the force wasn't resisted, it was erased. Metal shrieked, cracks spiderwebbing instantly across the puppet's arm.
The receptionist's scream died in her throat as she watched the impossible.
Crack—crash!
The puppet's forearm shattered, fragments raining like hail. Its chest crumpled next, plates bending inward like paper under a hammer. By the time its core runes flickered, the entire construct had already collapsed into a mountain of debris.
Silence swallowed the room. Only the hiss of settling dust remained.
Michael flexed his knuckles. Not a mark. His brow furrowed faintly.
"Mm. Yesterday I needed three punches. Today, just one. The rate of improvement isn't as sharp as I hoped."
His voice was quiet, almost disappointed.
The receptionist's knees nearly gave out.
Not as sharp as he hoped? She stared at the smoking pile of scrap that had once been their advanced puppet. Normally, even B-rank examinees struggled against it. Yet this boy spoke as though demolishing it with one punch was… lacking.
Her mouth opened, but only a strangled noise came out.
---
Guild Standards
In the guild handbooks, strength was measured in jin.
A trained adult could muster 200–300 jin in a desperate swing.
Academy students who awakened C-rank talents averaged 400–600 jin.
B-ranks could break 800 jin after months of conditioning.
A-ranks, rare prodigies, exceeded 1,200 with brutal training.
Above that, numbers blurred into myth. Only recorded in the deeds of Avalora's heroes.
And here was an E-rank auxiliary student a category meant for healers, support casters, potion brewers casually throwing over 2,500 jin into a punch that flattened a high-grade puppet.
The receptionist stared at him as though beholding a monster cloaked in human skin.
---
She barely remembered stammering directions, or leading him down the marble corridor to the finance office.
"Y-you've completed the strength challenge. That qualifies you for the five million reward. A junior deacon title as well."
Her voice shook.
Michael nodded once. "Take me there."
The finance office was a cavernous chamber, chandeliers gleaming above polished stone counters. Rows of clerks busied themselves behind enchanted glass panes. But in the center of the room, behind a desk reserved for VIP transactions, sat a single girl.
The receptionist froze mid-step. "Miss Frostheart…?"
Michael stopped too. His gaze sharpened instantly.
Seated leisurely, legs crossed, was Maria Frostheart. Her presence was impossible to mistake—gown flowing like liquid sapphire, her posture regal, her eyes the same piercing frost-blue as her family name.
She wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be inspecting the Asura Guild accounts or surrounded by attendants, not idly twirling a pen in the Crown Guild's finance office.
But here she was, waiting.
Her lips curled into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Hello again, Willson." Her voice was honey over ice.
"How was your morning?"
Michael's shoulders stiffened. He said nothing.
Maria leaned her chin on one hand, tilting her head like a cat toying with a mouse. "At the herbal market earlier, why did you run?"
The room seemed to shrink, the air taut with unspoken pressure.
Michael's mind raced. So she followed me here. Did she see everything? Did she know about the furnace yesterday?
But his face remained calm, unreadable.
Maria's smile deepened as silence stretched.
"You're an interesting one," she said softly. "And I don't like it when interesting things try to slip away."