100% DROP RATE : Why is My Inventory Always so Full?

In a hidden chamber deep within the castle, two figures stood in silence.

Before them loomed a massive mirror-like artifact. Its surface shimmered with a faint light.

Within it played the scene of the castle's grand halls.

Nobles mingling.

Low voices.

Echoing footsteps.

"Is it that boy?"

The question came in a hoarse tone. The speaker's finger lifted to point at a certain figure in the reflection.

The voice belonged to an old man clad in pure white, the insignia of the Holy Nation stitched proudly into his robes.

This was Augustus, the Pope of the Holy Nation.

Beside him, the other man turned his head.

His gaze was deep and unreadable. His answer came in a low rumble.

"Perhaps."

He wore a ceremonial robe of his own, crowned in gold and authority.

He was Midas Vaultmere, King of Vaultmere.

They stood without speaking for a moment longer, watching as the scene in the mirror shifted.

The boy's dignified expression.

The spark of curiosity in his eyes.

The steady clink of medals.

"Is he truly 'their' child?" Augustus asked. Suspicion laced his words.

"If he is," Midas replied, "I'll know for certain soon enough."

Silence settled between them.

Then Augustus spoke again. His tone was lower.

"Midas… I can feel it. I have five years left at most. We should accelerate our plans."

At those words, Midas' eyes sharpened.

"Augustus."

The weight in his voice made the Pope's throat tighten.

"Do not be impatient. And do not interfere with fate again. You remember what happened twelve years ago… Our path crumbled the moment 'they' died. Since then, I can no longer see the true fate of this world... and your push to accelerate things is partly to blame. Had you not interfered, they might still be alive... and we—"

He stopped himself.

Augustus already knew the rest.

His expression darkened.

"Midas, that's not the truth. My interference had nothing to do with it. Everything was in place. But that day… someone else intervened. Someone who could mask fate itself. They blinded us to what truly happened. If not for them, we could have saved 'them'."

"I know," Midas said quietly. "That's why I've hidden the child's existence and played the fool... to keep him off that figure's radar. Whoever they are, they're at least our equal… perhaps stronger. And I have a suspicion who it might be."

Augustus fell silent.

"Someone as strong as us yet determined to keep this world from changing?" He gave a short humorless laugh. "I know exactly who you mean."

They shared a knowing nod but spoke no name.

"Anyway, Augustus," Midas continued, "our hope left behind another hope. If you truly wish to live longer, stop interfering. The truth will reveal itself in time."

"Midas, you can afford to wait," Augustus countered sharply. "You're still young, with decades ahead of you. I have five years at most! Five years is not enough to change the world. I'll be long gone before then!"

At that, Midas twitched. His eyes narrowed.

"Young, you say? Look at my head! Since that day, my hair has been falling out nonstop. I'm going bald, Augustus. If this keeps up, I'll be a skinhead like you! And you think their child is ordinary? You can feel it from here. His aura is as overwhelming as mine and he's only Tier 5! I'm warning you… if the day comes that I'm bald, I'll kill you myself. Remember that."

Augustus said nothing.

His eyes flicked to the thinning crown of the king's head where a wide bald patch had already taken root. Whether it was the strain of peering into fate or the stress from 'their' deaths, he couldn't tell.

Ever since reaching the peak of Tier 9, they had both glimpsed the same truth.

The legendary Tier 10... it was unreachable. Not even they, the finest of their generation, could surpass it.

They felt the limit of this world.

Until... they appeared.

The children of destiny.

The gears of fate had shifted and the world's path had changed.

But then… they died.

Since that day, fate itself had become elusive.

Augustus shook his head and studied the clearly frustrated king.

With a quiet sigh, he adjusted his zucchetto, making sure it fully concealed his own shining scalp.

He remembered Midas in his youth.

Reckless.

Sharp-tongued.

Obsessed with appearances.

Wild at heart yet never without a certain elegance.

Now…

He cleared his throat. "How can you walk around so confidently with that head? I can't even imagine it."

The muttered jab was enough.

Midas turned sharply. His eyes narrowed... then lunged.

The castle's enchantments suppressed magic but their bodies were still honed to perfection and their skills didn't need spells to kill.

Midas' strike sliced through the air toward the Pope.

Fast and precise.

But Augustus was no pushover.

The two clashed.

Tier 9 auras flared.

The weight of their blows cracking the air itself.

For a full minute, the chamber rang with the sound of impact after impact until the castle itself trembled under the force of their sparring.

Soon…

"Let's end this, Midas," Augustus said, stepping back. "This isn't like you. Besides... it's your birthday."

Midas halted his fist mid-swing, lowering it slowly. His eyes locked on the Pope.

"Augustus," he said with a low voice, "don't think I'm blind. One of the priestesses you sent to my border territories… is your hidden child. She doesn't even know it herself. You really thought your old brain could hide that from me?"

"H–how—?"

Augustus froze. His expression twisted before he abruptly changed the subject.

"Anyway… won't you deal with that bleak old subject of yours? He has a dangerous aura."

Midas immediately knew the name behind those words.

"Malrik Golddust," he said.

He shook his head.

"He's defying fate on his own. Different from us who accepted it. His chances of success are very small but if he does succeed… perhaps we can use it to our advantage."

"Ha!" Augustus scoffed. "If the boy can't "open" the world in three years, I'll be joining that old man."

"Then I suppose," Midas replied evenly, "we'll be enemies by then."

Their gazes drifted back to the mirror, to the figure moving among the nobles below.

Lucien Lootwell.

•••

Meanwhile, the guests in the hall felt the faint tremor ripple through the floor.

It ended as quickly as it came. These were people used to the unexpected. They were trained to act decisively when trouble struck... so no one panicked. Besides, they were in the safest place in the capital.

Lucien tilted his head slightly. His gaze drifted upward.

Someone was watching him. He couldn't see them but the sensation was like a thread tugging at the back of his mind.

He swirled the juice in his glass and continued scanning the hall. The nobles were mingling but even without words, the divisions were obvious.

'Factions. Always factions.'

Lucien's lip twitched. They weren't even trying to hide it.

He let his Divine Sense unfurl.

The world shifted.

The hall bloomed with colors.

Warm hues.

Cool tones.

Sharp flares.

Muddy stains.

Pleasant auras mingled with suffocating ones. Restless ripples overlapped steady currents.

It was dazzling. Overwhelming.

Switching to INSPECT at intervals, he studied them.

Everyone here was skilled in something. More than a few boasted five-star skills.

The masks were fascinating.

Some fools were merely pretending. Sheep costumes hiding the gleam of a wolf's eyes.

Others strutted with arrogance they couldn't back up.

A few drifted through the gathering with calculated indifference.

Lucien took it all in.

The colors. The strengths. The flaws.

The hall was a painting and he was quietly learning every brushstroke.

There were nobles here Lucien wouldn't mind associating with... and others he would avoid at all costs.

His gaze drifted, eventually landing on a particular cluster.

The Golddust faction and their hangers-on.

Their faces were sour and their posture were defensive. The other nobles skirted around them as if they carried a stench.

Of course they did.

The great craftsman families had made it plain that anyone who associated with Golddust would be blacklisted from their trade. In the capital, that was a social death sentence.

Lucien nearly laughed aloud at their misfortune.

Especially at the sight of one pot-bellied old man.

The current Patriarch of the Coalheart family.

Harold Coalheart.

'The author finally named you, you motherf—'

He hid his smirk and studied them more closely.

That's when the feeling hit him.

A faint, oily disgust.

Extending his Divine Sense, he saw it.

Wisps of miasma coiled faintly around Magnus's body. Not as strong as the foul haze shrouding the old man Malrik but still there.

And then his eyes caught another.

Harold Coalheart.

Lucien wasn't surprised.

After all, the curse that had killed him once before traced back to them. And that statue he'd seen…

'Bastard. I should kill you soon. Or else this story's going to turn into an ugly-bastard genre.'

Lucien's eyes narrowed.

Harold Coalheart wasn't just some rotting relic of nobility. He was already Tier 7.

Then Harold's gaze snapped to him.

A slow, greasy smirk spread across the old man's face.

He raised a hand, dragging a thumb across his throat in a clear threat.

Lucien's expression darkened.

It didn't end there.

The Coalheart Patriarch began to move...

Straight toward him.

Lucien didn't yield a step. His aura flared.

Cold and oppressive.

Harold faltered.

Just for a moment.

Lucien's eyes caught it. The faint miasma around Harold's body pulsed, circulating like black blood through unseen veins.

The man's composure snapped back into place but his face was ugly now, twisted by the humiliation of having flinched before a child.

He closed the distance until Harold's shadow fell over Lucien.

Taller. Heavier. Leaning forward.

Harold looked down at Lucien like a predator sizing up prey.

Lucien spoke first. His voice was casual but laced with venom.

"Ugly Uncle, can you even see me past that stomach? You might want to lose some fat before talking down to someone smaller. Then again... I guess you can't look down at me. Hard to do without a neck."

Lucien didn't make a habit of mocking appearances. But for a man steeped in evil, he'd make an exception.

Harold's face twisted. His eyes narrowing to slits.

"Boy… you're playing with fire. You think I can't touch your territory while I'm here?"

Lucien's smile dropped. His tone turned cold.

"I dare you."

A smirk tugged at Harold's lips.

"Don't rush it. It'll happen. And when it does, you won't be around to see it."

Lucien barked out a short, derisive laugh.

"All bark, no bite. Ugly bastard. Try washing your neck—" he tilted his head in mock realization, "—oh, right. You don't have one. Anyway, I'll just do to you what I did to your ugly second son."

That last jab cut deep.

Harold's expression hardened and with a sharp inhale, his aura surged.

Dark.

Oppressive.

Filled with killing intent.

But then—

Edric and Maxim stepped forward, flanking Lucien's sides.

On the other end, Magnus and Dorian moved in to guard Harold.

Stalemate.

The air thickened as their auras flared.

Conversation in the hall faltered.

Nobles turned to watch.

Magnus locked eyes with Edric. Dorian with Maxim.

Silent clashes of will sparked between them.

Harold shifted and gazed at Lucien trying to overwhelm him with his own aura.

Lucien's expression didn't change but his thoughts sharpened.

Dominion Circle.

He focused... shaping the skill in his mind.

He put his hands in his pocket and...

A small magic circle began to form on its tip.

Ring of Mild Mischief.

His divine energy pulsed. Subtle enough to slip under notice.

No need for gestures or glowing sigils. All it required was flawless mental imagery. One imperfect detail and the spell would fizzle.

Lucien visualized every intricate line and every symbol until the construct was perfect... then he loosed it.

The circle shot unseen toward Harold.

Nothing happened.

Until—

Prrt!

A sharp, unmistakable sound echoed in the tense silence.

Fart.

Harold froze.

The hall froze.

Lucien's lips twitched.