Leaving behind the noisy transactions on the ground floor, Alphonse, Arcus, and Vrischil ascended the spiraling stone staircase that coiled around the center of the tower.
The moment they set foot on the 2nd Floor, the atmosphere shifted instantly.
This floor was designed to be vastly more elegant and professional. White marble pillars supported a ceiling adorned with warm crystal chandeliers.
Lining the walls and the center of the room were thick, magically reinforced glass display cases showcasing dozens of parchment scrolls of various sizes and colors.
The crude, chaotic haggling typical of street vendors had vanished, replaced by conversations kept to a restrained, polite volume.
This area was dominated by mid-tier adventurers—evident from the silver or gold plates pinned to their chests, as well as the quality of their well-maintained leather armor and finely forged steel swords. Several neatly dressed civilians, likely wealthy merchants or noble retainers, were also seen inspecting the magic scrolls behind the protective glass.
Alphonse stepped toward one of the long glass showcases. His sharp eyes traced the rows of parchment scrolls that emitted a faint magical glow from their edges.
His gaze stopped on a small copper plate placed beneath each scroll, which inscribed the name of the spell.
[Tier 1 - Cleanse]
[Tier 2 - Fire Arrow]
[Tier 2 - Wind Blast]
Alphonse narrowed his eyes slightly, his monocle catching the glint of the crystal lights. A mild sense of surprise washed over his mind.
In the game of Orion Online, the power tier of a magic spell or skill was measured using the alphabet: starting from Tier F as the weakest, scaling up to E, D, C, B, A, S, and ending at the ultimate level of Tier EX.
However, in this world, they utilized numerical digits.
Arcus, standing beside Alphonse, noticed his Guild Master's shift in expression and peeked over at the name labels as well.
"Numbers?" Arcus raised an eyebrow. His theatrical soul immediately responded to the minor discovery. He flicked his black cloak with pure arrogance.
"How utterly inelegant. The denizens of this world have reduced the poetry of death from an alphabetical hierarchy into the mathematical calculations of a shopkeeper. Is this the absolute limit of their comprehension regarding the majesty of magic?"
On the other side, Vrischil merely glanced at the row of labels from beneath her hood. Her eyes remained as cold as ice, entirely unmoved by matters of aesthetics.
"Alphabet or numbers, it is merely a symbol," Vrischil stated in a pragmatic, emotionless tone. "As long as it can kill a target or provide a tactical advantage, the labeling is irrelevant."
Ignoring the commentary of his two subordinates, Alphonse's analytical brain immediately went to work.
He walked along the showcases, scanning dozens of spell names and attempting to cross-reference his memory of the game's spell registry with the reality displayed before him.
It only took five minutes for Alphonse's brow to furrow deeply. There was a glaringly obvious classification anomaly.
In the middle showcase, he found a wall of fire scroll, which he knew from the game belonged to [Tier D - Fire Wall]. Here, the scroll was labeled as [Tier 3].
However, in the showcase to its right, he found a fire lance spell, which possessed a destructive yield one level higher in the game, namely [Tier C - Fire Lance]. Yet here, that scroll was also labeled as [Tier 3].
"Their measurement standards are overlapping," Alphonse muttered softly.
He realized that the natives of this world possessed their own parameters for measuring and classifying the tiers of magic, completely distinct from the calculations of the Orion Online system.
"Perhaps they merely measure it based on the sheer size of the explosion it produces," Arcus argued, stroking his chin with an air of faux wisdom. "A potent defensive spell or a highly focused attack certainly wouldn't look as flashy to their eyes, right?"
Vrischil glared sharply at Arcus. "Fool. Not all magic is measured by its explosive yield. Curses and illusion magic lack physical destructive power, yet their effects are vastly more lethal."
Alphonse did not interrupt their debate. His attention had shifted to something far more pressing. His gaze returned to the very first showcase, locking onto the most basic utility spell scroll that possessed absolutely zero offensive capabilities: [Tier 1 - Cleanse].
Engraved in the bottom corner of the copper nameplate was the official price set by the Magic Tower.
10 Silver Coins.
Alphonse's lips curved into a bitter smile. It was a smile he rarely displayed—a smile mocking his own sheer helplessness.
Recalling that the entirety of his party's remaining wealth, currently residing in Vrischil's pouch, hovered around a mere fifty silver coins, the fact slapped him hard across the face.
Removing mud stains using a single sheet of low-tier magical parchment in this city would drain one-fifth of his total net worth.
They had truly fallen into absolute poverty, a painful irony after losing millions of gold coins from their Inventory system.
Seeing his Guild Master's bitter smile, Arcus slung an arm around Alphonse's shoulder from the side. His eyes sparkled with overflowing enthusiasm.
"You see the price, don't you, Boss?" Arcus coaxed with entirely misplaced excitement. "We are poor! We have no money! This is a sign from the universe! It is the call of destiny urging us to dive into the mud, slaughter slimes, pick weeds, and become true adventurers so we can strike it rich!"
Vrischil shot Arcus a glare as cold as a blizzard. If looks could kill, Arcus would have died multiple times over by now.
Ignoring Arcus's whining and momentarily suppressing the reality of their bankruptcy, Alphonse's gaze shifted to scrutinize the physical parchment behind the glass.
He examined the texture of the yellowish paper. He noticed something peculiar. Unlike the Magic Scrolls in the game, which always displayed the intricate, glowing geometry of a magic circle upon their surface, the scrolls in this real world lacked magic circles entirely.
The center of the parchment was merely stamped with a massive logo depicting the Magic Tower, flanked by the spell's name and its tier.
In the past, producing a Magic Scroll within the game was simply a matter of gathering raw materials, such as rare parchment and dragon's blood, and pressing a single 'Craft' button on the menu screen to complete it instantly.
Now, standing before a magic scroll handcrafted by the local inhabitants, his natural curiosity as a Mage was heavily provoked.
How do the denizens of the real world manufacture this item? What process must they undergo? Alphonse pondered internally.
Do they concoct the ink themselves using magical ingredients? Do they manually draw the magic circle using a specialized brush, and then lock the Mana inside it with a lengthy incantation?
"Why do you suppose they don't display the magic circles?" Alphonse muttered softly, speaking more to himself than anyone else.
Vrischil stepped forward, staring at the tower logo covering the center of the scroll.
"Perhaps it is a monopoly tactic," Vrischil analyzed coldly. "They obscure the original magic circle and runic structure with the massive logo of the Magic Tower. It's a preventative measure to ensure that independent mages or adventurers who purchase this scroll cannot dissect the pattern and illegally replicate or produce it themselves."
"Or perhaps these are all just stupid display props that don't even work," Arcus chimed in dismissively.
He pointed toward the counters at the far end of the room. "Just look at those sheep. They hand over their blood-sweat silver coins for a piece of paper with a logo drawn on it, genuinely believing it will save their lives from the jaws of a monster."
Ignoring Arcus's nonsense about foolish sheep, Alphonse made a decision. He couldn't simply guess how this world constructed a spell. As a Mage, he required a sample to dissect.
Without hesitation, Alphonse walked up to the counter.
"One [Tier 1 - Cleanse] magic scroll," he stated flatly to the clerk behind the protective glass pane.
Vrischil stepped forward. Her gloved hand reached into the leather pouch at her waist, slowly pulling out ten silver coins, and placed them onto the wooden counter. The Elf stared hesitantly at the silver coins as they changed hands.
Behind her, Arcus's eyes bulged wide. His mouth fell open, nearly screaming upon realizing that his Guild Master had just thrown away one-fifth of their remaining funds for a piece of cleaning paper.
But before Arcus's protest could escape his lips, Vrischil swiftly clamped her hand over his mouth from behind, refusing to let a foolish commotion embarrass Alphonse in public.
The clerk handed over the scroll politely. As soon as the item changed hands, Alphonse squeezed it gently. He could feel the texture of the parchment and the steady pulse of energy flowing beneath the massive stamp of the Magic Tower.
"An investment," Alphonse murmured briefly to his two comrades, brushing off any protests before they could voice them.
Stowing the magic scroll carefully inside his cloak, Alphonse led the way up the spiral staircase toward the 3rd Floor.
Upon arriving, Alphonse noticed that the demographic of the visitors hadn't changed much from the previous floor; the room was still occupied by mid-tier adventurers, though it was more heavily dominated by the mage class and extravagantly dressed civilians.
However, the crowd was significantly thinner, and the atmosphere felt vastly quieter and more formal.
On this floor, the merchandise on display had entirely changed. There were no more rows of paper and parchment. The 3rd Floor exhibited magical artifacts.
Alphonse's eyes caught sight of crystal lamps radiating brilliant light without a single spark of fire, thick metal chests emitting freezing temperatures to preserve food, and rows of intricately carved wooden magic wands. In another corner, silk robes were displayed, their fabric fibers pulsing softly with the magical elements injected into them.
However, his awe for the artifacts was swiftly obliterated by a massive currency shock. A second harsh slap of reality landed squarely across the face of Pioneer's Guild Master.
If on the lower floors he could still "afford" to buy something, here on the 3rd Floor, the currency standard had shifted entirely.
Alphonse's steps halted as he passed a glass showcase displaying a novice magic wand. His eyes locked onto the label on the copper plate beneath the simple wooden staff: 5 Gold Coins.
Alphonse's jaw clenched tightly beneath the collar of his cloak. His gaze turned frigid. The remaining forty silver coins inside Vrischil's pouch were absolutely worthless in this place.
The fact that he—the lord of a castle who used to clear out entire treasure vaults—now had to face the suffocating pressure of literal poverty, felt increasingly infuriating.
"I told you, didn't I?" Arcus whispered in a theatrical tone from behind, capitalizing on his Guild Master's moment of silence. "We have to work! Become adventurers, dive headfirst into danger to strike it rich!"
Vrischil turned her head and glared sharply at Arcus. "Could you stop whining and trying to persuade Alphonse into becoming a lowly adventurer?" Vrischil retorted in a tone as cold as ice. "If you are so desperate to scavenge for loose change, go be an adventurer yourself."
Arcus scoffed arrogantly, puffing out his chest. "Oh? And leave Alphonse crying because he's been abandoned by my protection? Look at his fragile body. If I'm not the one protecting him, who will? You? A foolish Elf who can only sob uncontrollably inside an inn room?"
The taunt pierced straight through Vrischil's defenses. The pale Elf's face instantly flushed crimson with a mix of embarrassment and explosive anger, recalling the moment of her weakness that Arcus had witnessed.
Vrischil's eyes flashed dangerously. She gritted her teeth, and her hand shot forward, fully intending to strangle the arrogant archer by the collar of his cloak.
Amidst the childish bickering that was on the verge of exploding into a physical brawl, Alphonse turned around.
Instead of feeling annoyed or disturbed, a faint, warm smile bloomed across the Guild Master's face. Seeing Arcus and Vrischil bickering and hurling insults at each other again—exactly as they used to do in the Starlight Castle war room in the past—brought a bizarre sense of relief to his heart.
Amidst this real world filled with lethal threats and the crushing pressure of poverty, this fragment of normalcy from their bond served as the ultimate shield for his sanity.
"Alright, save your energy," Alphonse mediated, his voice flowing calmly, accompanied by a contagious, genuinely happy smile. "At least we now know that poverty hasn't managed to kill our spirits just yet."