Chapter 10: Invitation
The moment Michael turned to leave, the click of a lock echoed softly through the finance office. He froze. The doors had closed at some point, and the clerks who had once been busy behind the counters were gone.
Only he and the girl remained.
"Don't be in such a hurry." Her voice was light, unhurried, carrying the sort of authority that didn't need to be raised. "I'm not here to demand money, and I won't delay your earnings."
Michael's brows pinched.
The girl stood and approached slowly, each step graceful but precise, like a predator circling prey while smiling sweetly.
"My name is Maria Frostheart," she said, extending her hand. "Eldest daughter of the Frostheart Family. And also the President of the Sky Fist Guild."
The air between them seemed to tighten.
Michael eyed the hand. To shake or to refuse? Every fiber of his being told him that this was not a girl to trust. But walking away without reading her cards was riskier.
After a long pause, he reached out. Their hands met—delicate, cool fingers, but her grip was firm, more command than courtesy.
He pulled back and sat across from her. "Tell me what you want."
---
Maria tilted her head, smile blooming faintly. For a moment her expression softened, a spring thaw in contrast to her sharp aura.
"Why so defensive? I came only to invite you into Sky Fist. Nothing more." She folded her hands neatly. "Believe me I'm not at the point where I would scheme against a senior high school student."
Her words were smooth, but Michael didn't flinch or relax.
"…So what?"
"So—" she leaned forward, her frost-blue eyes catching the chandelier's light, "—I can provide you with resources: elixirs, herbs, rare catalysts. Even access to an alchemy furnace. Whatever you require to develop your strength, our family and guild will invest in without reservation."
Her tone hardened on the last phrase, locking the promise like steel.
Michael's lips pressed together. He remembered yesterday: struggling to find a furnace, realizing even renting one cost more than his entire reward. He'd joked to himself that he needed to "bleed guilds dry" just to keep working.
This girl was offering exactly what he needed.
But he knew too well—there was no free lunch in this world.
His silence stretched. Maria tapped her screen.
Michael's phone buzzed.
[Bank card received: 5,000,000 Ū ]
He glanced at the balance. His chest rose, fell.
Maria's voice followed smoothly. "This is the sincerity of Sky Fist. Not a bribe, not a loan. Think of it as the same five million Strom Guild would've given you. We're simply saving you the trip."
Michael's heart thudded once.
He had suspected this world revolved around strength, but now it was crystal clear: show enough talent, and people would throw fortunes at your feet. Show weakness, and they would trample you.
His jaw tightened.
Maria studied him. He hadn't moved. He hadn't smiled. He hadn't even looked greedy. For the first time in a while, she felt her teeth grit.
This boy… what will make him bend?
Snap!
She flicked her fingers. A clerk appeared at the door, wheeling in a crate packed with herbs. The scents of bitter root and sharp pollen filled the room instantly.
Maria gestured. "From now on, my Sky Fist Guild will provide every herb you need. And—"
she held up one slim finger, "—you'll have permanent access to one of our private alchemy rooms."
Michael's head rose sharply. For the first time, his eyes weren't guarded—they burned with interest.
Maria hid her satisfaction. She had seen him at the herb market, buying components for improved spirit-strengthening agents. That was why she had gambled on this exact offer.
"Real?" His voice was low. But his question carried weight.
"Real."
Her nod was steady.
Michael exhaled. He couldn't afford a furnace. Not now, not for years. And if he wanted to push past ordinary limits, he needed one. He hated the idea of being "kept," but—
"…The contract. Where is it?"
---
A slim document slid across the desk. Michael skimmed. It wasn't indentured servitude. The clauses promised resource support, full independence in training, and no obligations beyond "priority cooperation in guild raids."
It was a leash, yes. But a long one, almost invisible—until Sky Fist decided to yank.
Michael picked up the pen and signed.
Maria leaned back. For the first time that day, her sharp posture relaxed, and her eyes half-lidded in lazy triumph.
She had won.
"From this moment," she said softly, "you are one of mine. Sky Fist will not hinder your exams or your growth. Instead, we will raise you higher."
Michael leaned back as well, expression unreadable.
But deep inside, his thoughts weren't celebration. They were sharp calculations.
If she's this eager to secure me, then others will be too. Sky Fist isn't my end it's just the beginning.
Across the desk, Maria was thinking nearly the same.
Aurelia Frost. I know you had your eyes on him. But now… now he's mine. Let's see what expression you make when you realize it.
Her smile was dazzling, but behind it, the pride of a victor gleamed coldly.
---
Michael's phone buzzed again. This time, the glow of an official martial arts network alert lit the screen.
[Level 1 Wasteland Dungeon: Opened]
[Location: Suburbs of Black Forest]
[Duration: 48 hours]
[Requirements: Primary Class Lv.5+ OR Support System Lv.10+ (or guild-certified)]
His eyes narrowed. Dungeon.
Maria caught the light on his face and smirked. "You'll be receiving those now. With your deacon certification, Sky Fist will authorize your entry. Consider it one of your new privileges."
Michael read the details again. Most auxiliary students would never qualify prejudice was baked into the system. But with his new title, he was exempt.
"The Wasteland Dungeon…" he murmured. "It's been opened multiple times this year. Likely stripped clean. No danger, just scraps left."
But he wasn't discouraged. He wasn't going for treasure. He was going to test his strength. Against real monsters.
Maria saw his flickering eyes. "Be careful. Even a stripped dungeon can kill the careless."
He gave her one nod, stood, and walked out.
She watched him leave, fingers tracing her pen. He'll go anyway. That kind of boy always does.
---
The taxi left him at the edges of the city.
The Black Forest Wasteland stretched beyond: cracked earth, sparse weeds, a gray sky dimmed by toxic haze. Military trucks blocked the road, soldiers with rifles and rune-cannons stood guard.
Lines of adventurers queued for inspection armor clinking, weapons strapped tight. Michael joined the tail.
It took thirty minutes before he reached the front.
A guard scanned his ID, brows furrowing. "Auxiliary system? E-rank? Level three?"
The man's eyes narrowed. "You're still a senior high student. Haven't even taken your college exams. What the hell are you doing here? This isn't playtime. Go back and study."
Michael remained calm. He'd expected this. Slowly, he lifted his phone and pulled up the guild certification.
"Here's my proof."
The guard sneered. "Proof? What proof can a kid like you—"
Then his eyes landed on the glowing crest.
His voice cracked. "W–wait… Intermediate Deacon of the Sky Fist Guild?!"
The line of adventurers stirred. Heads turned, whispers spread like wildfire.
"Deacon? Did he say deacon?"
"But he's just a kid—!"
"Sky Fist wouldn't brand someone falsely. That means…"
Michael slipped his phone back into his pocket, expression still flat.
The guard swallowed hard, hands trembling as he stamped Michael's pass. "F–forgive me, sir. Entry granted!"
Michael stepped forward, ignoring the stares burning his back.
He entered the wasteland.
---
The staffer's voice faded behind him.
"Be careful, don't die in there!"
Michael didn't bother replying. The man's tone was half-mocking, half-resigned—yet those words carried a hint of truth. For most people who entered a dungeon with an E-rank support talent, death was almost guaranteed.
But Michael wasn't most people.
---
The teleportation stone shattered in his palm, releasing a burst of pale-blue light. His body was torn apart by invisible threads, stretched into nothingness, then violently slammed back together.
When he opened his eyes again, the world had changed.
The sky above was a sickly yellow, clouds like cracked parchment covering a dim sun that still managed to scorch everything below. The land was an endless desert of fine sand dunes, rolling like frozen waves, each shifting with every dry gust of wind.
"...So this is the wasteland dungeon?"
Michael raised an arm to shield his eyes. The air shimmered with heat, but the ground beneath his boots was firm desert hardened by centuries of drought.
He had expected a tundra wasteland, not this burning expanse. The guidebooks claimed this dungeon had once been an oasis where rivers and beasts thrived, until a forgotten calamity turned it into a desert graveyard.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
No monsters, no traces of danger, just dunes stretching endlessly toward the horizon.
This is supposed to be one of the safer dungeons… yet it feels more like a grave waiting to swallow the unprepared.
He tugged at the collar of his down jacket, already regretting it. What was meant to protect him from cold now clung like a suffocating shroud.
He stripped it off and tossed it aside, standing in nothing but his training uniform.
( To be Continue)