"Then may I pass a contract to you?" Anastasha asked, her tone sweet but her eyes sharp.
Please not another one.
"Nope," I said immediately. "I don't know why you're insisting I apply to the academy when we just met yesterday."
Her lips curved downward in a small pout and then, without hesitation, she burned the contract in her hand. The parchment curled and turned to ash before it even touched the ground.
"Why would you refuse such a great education offered right into your hands?" she asked, genuine confusion laced in her voice.
She does have a point, I admitted silently. But still
"It's called having the freedom of will," I said, crossing my arms.
She leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. "What good is freedom if you never make use of the opportunities it gives you?"
…Now that actually made sense.
Why is she arguing with logic? That's cheating.
"Because sometimes," I said after a pause, "freedom means choosing not to get dragged into something that looks suspiciously like the start of a main plot."
She blinked. "Main plot?"
"Never mind," I muttered.
"Regardless," Anastasha said, folding her arms, "you stated in your contract that I must pay you an amount equal to the resources you provided, correct?"
"Yes, that's correct."
Why do I suddenly feel like I'm about to lose this argument?
"Then you should know," she continued smoothly, "that the tuition for the Empire Academy is roughly two hundred thousand damac."
I blinked. "I… don't need to know that."
I absolutely need to know that.
"Students of the Academy," she said, pausing for effect, "receive housing within the Imperial Capital, full access to libraries that hold forbidden tomes, personal escorts for protection, trade licenses across all major provinces, and permission to import and export goods tax-free under the Empire's seal."
Damn. That's basically a cheat code for any merchant.
"And," she added, eyes gleaming, "should a student prove exceptional top of their class or one who brings a nationwide contribution they can earn millions of damac and a permanent title in the Imperial Ledger."
My stomach twisted. Greed, my oldest enemy.
"Sure, sounds nice," I muttered, "but I'm a commoner. I'd be discriminated against the moment I step inside that academy."
"That's already been addressed," she countered. "Commoners and nobles study in separate divisions. Equal education, distinct hierarchy."
I stared at her. "You fix discrimination with segregation. That's… impressively backwards."
"It works," she said with a shrug, smiling just faintly.
"Hmm. Good effort, but—"
"But you're tempted," she interrupted, that smug smirk curling at her lips.
She was right.
Damn it. Greed always wins.
But this… this might actually be a good option for me.
If I just stay here, I'll be nothing more than an NPC who knows the plot but never moves it. A background extra who understands too much yet does nothing.
I can't afford that.
If I want to survive, if I want to find a way back home. I need to involve myself with the main cast, even if that means tampering with the story's flow.
Of course, that carries its own risk. Every action I take here could spark a butterfly effect.
Still… maybe I can control it.
If I keep the major characters doing what they were written to do, if I just nudge them from the shadows, then perhaps the timeline won't collapse entirely.
The real problem is the unknown.
Who are the true villains of this world? Beyond the corrupt nobles and the abyssal hordes, there must be someone else, a face, a name, a reason behind it all.
If I can identify the real antagonist, maybe I can predict where the story leads.
Maybe I can survive long enough to find my way home.
If this world really follows the structure of a political fantasy novel, then the Academy Arc must be the story's first major stepping stone.
That would mean the named characters, the ones with influence and plot relevance are all around my age. Nineteen. Like Anastasha.
But if this isn't the beginning, then I might've fallen somewhere in the middle of the story maybe even inside a side chapter or filler arc. Which means my sudden presence here… has already bent the original timeline.
How far have I already diverged from the script? What happens when a background extra shows up in the wrong chapter?
"You seem to be thinking hard," Anastasha said, her crimson armor glinting faintly under the tent's lamplight.
"Of course. My future's on the line here," I replied, rubbing my temples. "I can't just answer immediately."
"Then decide wisely."
Easier said than done. But… this should be manageable, as long as I stay alive.
"Fine," I exhaled. "The benefits are too good to ignore. Gaining knowledge could help in the long run."
Her lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. "Good. When I depart for the Academy at week's end, I'll prepare a letter of recommendation for you. Of course, you'll have to shoulder the tuition. My family doesn't fund strangers."
"Understandable," I said, though deep down, I'd kind of hoped for royal generosity.
"Great," she replied simply, folding her arms as if the deal was sealed.
Then the horn blared across the camp.
The shouts that followed weren't of retreat or despair this time. They were cheers. It seemed that while I was here negotiating my fate, the soldiers had finally pushed back the wave.
For now, the kingdom stood.And me?I just might've secured my ticket into the story's next chapter.
Now, I'm just lying on my bed.
Why the sudden scene change? Well, because after the victory, they simply sent me home. What else do you want me to narrate, the marching band and afterparty?
Anyway, let's get real.
200,000 damac. That's the tuition fee. For me, that's basically saying "sell your organs but make it fashionable."
I've got a week before Princess Anastasha heads to the Empire's monthly gathering to hand in her letter of recommendation.Not that she can write it properly, considering she doesn't even know my name.So, either she'll have someone find me later, or the Academy will hunt down "the nameless merchant who saved the front."
Fantastic.
Now then the problems.
First problem: the tuition. Two hundred thousand damac isn't pocket change, even for someone like me who can pull entire shipments out of thin air. I'll need to tap into the black market of merchants, the ones who trade in goods that technically don't exist in official records. Risky, sure. But profitable. If I can close one high-tier deal there, the fee's covered.
Second problem: the power system. Everyone in this world has a system a clean, game-like interface of stats and elemental affinities. Me? I've got a glorified storage ability. if I want to survive, I'll need to build a core, an artificial system that mimics what the natives have. Diamond might help with that, but the last time I skimmed this world's synopsis, I remember something about failed core implants melting the nervous system. So yeah… not ideal.
Third problem: identity. Right now, I'm "the merchant." A safe mask. A disposable background role But sooner or later, I'll have to step into the story proper with a name, a record, and a purpose. My "Author's Eye" only tells me a person's narrative role, not what happens next. My spatial magic only lets me summon and return objects. That's useful for trade not survival.
Fourth problem: the story itself. I don't know it. Not fully. I'm just an observer, watching from the edges, piecing together fragments the actual main characters live through. If I don't involve myself directly, I'll miss key information and when that happens, I lose my only advantage: foresight.
So yeah, that's where I'm at. Flat on my back, staring at the ceiling, four problems stacked like a bad deck of cards.
If this really is a story, I'm in the "Planning Phase" chapter.The calm before the plot remembers I exist.
Entering a plot is my only option. Which means, logically, I have to start solving the first problem which is money.
So… where does a merchant find a black market?
If this kingdom has one, it's hidden under something mundane. Every story does that a tavern, a church, or… oh. Right. A bakery.
I need to pull something from my world that doesn't exist here, something profitable, even if it's morally questionable. Yeah, yeah, don't look at me like that. It's for survival, not charity.
Tomorrow, I head underground.
Morning comes, and no, I'm not narrating my night routine. I'm a lazy storyteller, deal with it.
I close my shop for the day and stroll through the streets until I find it: The Golden Crust Bakery. Flaky scent of pastry, buttery air, wonderful, but that's not my purpose here.
"Good morning, sir! What can I get for you?" A man in his forties greets me from behind the counter an obvious NPC-tier character if I ever saw one.
"I was looking for the entrance to the underground section," I say with a polite smile.
He stiffens. "That doesn't exist here, young man. You must have fallen for rumors."
Uh-huh.That's an oddly well-scripted denial for something "nonexistent."
I flick a single damac coin toward him. It lands square on his forehead before he catches it by reflex.
"Hey—!"
He pauses, staring at the coin like it's the key to enlightenment.Then his voice drops to a whisper.
"Excuse me… this way, please."
Perfect. Solve your problems with money, philosophy of the year.
He guides me through the kitchen, past trays of half-baked loaves, until he stops beside a stack of bread on the shelf. Without a word, he grabs one, twists it like a doorknob and the wall behind us shifts, grinding open to reveal a narrow, dim passageway leading down.
The smell changes immediately from sweet pastries to damp stone and smoke.
"Here," the man says quietly. "I'll escort you to the main hall."
"Good," I reply, grinning. "I like straightforward business."
There we were, walking through the damp stone hallway that twisted deeper and deeper, until the air itself felt heavy thick with the scent of moss and burnt oil. At the end of the tunnel, a faint light shimmered through an iron door, and when it creaked open, I got my first glimpse of the so-called underworld section.
And honestly? I was impressed.
It looked like a ghost town that refused to die reborn as an underground city. The cracked walls were stitched together with glowing sigils, and above, hundreds of floating magical lanterns drifted like lazy stars. Their light shimmered over the cobblestone streets, where traders whispered behind curtains and masked figures passed in silence.
Darkness ruled here, but it was a majestic kind of darkness, one that hummed with life.
I tossed another damac coin toward the baker. He caught it mid-air, smiling wide enough to show the teeth he had left.
"Thank you, Boss! If you need help with anything in the underworld section, you can find me at the bakery!"
"No worries," I said. "I'll make sure to tip you gracefully."
He beamed, probably too naive to realize that was a polite way of saying don't expect more money.
Now alone, I stepped onto the slick pavement, the hum of trade and trickery vibrating all around me.
I had one goal: find an item publisher, someone who could turn my worldly goods into profit down here and, preferably, do it without running into any thugs or mobs looking to prove a point.
Easier said than done, of course.
I pulled out a dark cloak from my space canvas and draped it over my shoulders, letting it conceal most of my frame. Next came a half-faced Japanese oni mask, a relic from my world that hid everything but my eyes. Finally, I clipped on a strand of white hair extensions, just for flair.
There. A handsomely disguised merchant, if I say so myself.
The streets of the underground were surprisingly vibrant. Laughter and haggling mixed with the distant clang of tools and the hum of magical lanterns overhead. Even children ran through the alleys, playing between stalls that sold glowing crystals and unidentifiable meat on sticks. For a place buried under the kingdom, it felt… alive. Almost too alive.
If I had to guess, commerce was the bloodline here and merchants were its heart.
Eventually, I found myself in what looked like the entertainment district, a place where coin flowed faster than sense. Men played cards and shouted over cheap liquor, women in silken dresses entertained patrons with weary smiles, and clerks hurried between tables counting money faster than the gamblers could lose it.
I took a seat at the counter and waved over one of the attendants, a young elf woman with sharp eyes and the kind of patience that only came from serving drunk idiots for years.
"Hello," I said casually. "Would there happen to be a notable item publisher around here?"
Her ears twitched slightly; maybe she'd heard that question before.
"Well," she began, lowering her voice, "there's one. But she's… not exactly in the center of things. Keeps to herself."
"Is that so? Where could I find her?"
"She doesn't take kindly to visitors," the elf warned. "But if you really want to meet her, she's usually tending the fields just outside the underground zone. Near the edge."
So the best black market contact lived next to the metaphorical void. Perfect.
"I see," I said, nodding. "And I presume she's as good as people claim?"
The elf smiled faintly. "She's the best. But don't waste her time. She hates that."
"Duly noted."
Her eyes flicked to my mask, then back to me. "May I ask what business you have with her?"
"Just a humble merchant looking to sell some items for… financial reasons."
She chuckled softly. "Then good luck, merchant."
I dropped a small pouch of gold coins on the counter. The faint clink made her eyes widen just a bit.
"Consider it a tip for good information," I said, standing up.
Her smile turned genuine. "In that case, may fortune guide your steps."
"Fortune?" I smirked beneath the mask. "I prefer profit."