Cultivating Talents [LitRPG Mana-cultivation]

"What do you mean it's—" Derek's voice cut off, and his brow dropped. He plodded forward like a confused baby and stared at the ground, kicking at the white tile with the tip of his sandal.

"How the hell did it…" Derek's friend muttered, cupping his hands and pressing them against his face. "I knew we shouldn't have volunteered." A moment later, his hands dropped to his sides, and the little fear that had been there had turned to anger. "You know what? I'm gonna break this boy's legs and then we're gonna figure a way out of here."

Derek turned, eyeing Nonami, and nodded. How in the world did that logic make sense? Only idiots like these two would know.

We can just run into the crowd. I'm sure some nobles will get annoyed at the sight of us. Though that carries more risk than anything. If I play my cards wrong, they'll just kill all four of us.

Cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders, Derek stalked toward Nonami. "I hope you're ready for—"

Something seemed to jolt inside Derek. He looked to his waist, grabbed at one side, then tapped it down. "Where the hell's my stick?" he asked, raising a brow in confusion. He looked over at his friend, who shook his head, then tapped himself over for his own stick. Derek clicked his tongue and sighed. "You know what, never mind."

The frown and the hesitation slipped off his face, giving rise to a tense jaw, a clenched fist, and narrowed eyes as he locked back onto Nonami. "I'll beat the pulp out of you first, and then I'll figure it out."

Again with the stupid-ass logic. What is with these guys and choosing violence first? Does it give them post-fight clarity or something?

Nonami, with Otter at his side, retreated across the tile as Derek stomped over. But just before he could get close to the two of them, a voice, commanding and entitled, dragged him to a halt.

"By the Great Lake, why do you slum filth insist on making such a disgusting nuisance of yourselves?"

Derek staggered a little, his cheeks flooding red. His thick neck bulged with veins as his head turned toward the voice, eyes simmering as a thick vein ran up the middle of his forehead. "Who the hell are—"

Before the sentence could properly mature, Derek bit it back, his body deflating. Nonami couldn't blame him for choking down the words.

A well-dressed man loomed before them, back straight, and arms crossed. He wore fine battle-green and gold robes. Hair tied neatly in a bun, he radiated a sense of regality. A noble—and a fairly high-ranking one at that.

"You want to finish what you were saying?" the noble said, a smile spreading across his lips like spilt oil. "Please. It would make my day to put someone so wild in their place. After all, a weed has no place among the flowers."

Derek, sweat trickling from his brow, stumbled back, almost falling on his butt. The large man's shoulders sank, and he bowed deeply. He shot his friend a glance, and the man quickly mimicked his action, bowing even deeper.

The noble let out a satisfied hum, and his smile grew much wider than it had been before. Did he get enjoyment from this kind of humiliation? The man's eyes flickered to Nonami and Otter.

A spike of dread snatched at Nonami's heart, and his back filled with sweat. He lowered his head and backed up, imitating the two Collar Gang members, and signalled for Otter to do the same. But he shouldn't have bothered; his friend had already assumed the position.

"Good. I'm glad to see that you filth know your place. Somehow, you luckily stumbled into this sub-realm. It should be your joy not to get in my way. Perhaps if you're lucky, I'll figure out a way to make use of you. But until then, you shall not disturb me or the goings-on of any nobles. If I find you to be stepping a foot out of line, I will kill you dead. I hope you understand."

With a satisfied smile, he raised a finger to his bottom lip and eyed them a little longer. Then he turned, his robes flapping as he moved, and strode forward. The nobles and commoners stepped aside with fear as he moved over to a crowd of similarly dressed, green-robed cultivators.

"Aren't those the Glademoors?" Otter muttered at Nonami's side.

By the green cloaks and the outrageous amount of arrogance—even the way he stormed through some of the lesser nobles—they had to be Glademoors. There was no doubt about it.

Nonami straightened himself. The two Collar Gang thugs eyed him—while mouthing threats at him—but he paid them no mind. With nobles here and with that command, the two wouldn't do anything. But it didn't mean they had to stand next to each other.

"Come on," Nonami said, excitement bubbling up inside him. His sweaty hand slapped against Otter's wrist, and he led him through the crowd, careful to avoid anyone too overly dressed. Thankfully, nobles seemed not to make up the majority, though there were a lot of them.

I don't know what's going on here. But I don't think the nobles are in control. They would never want to share a space with people like us. And he said we were lucky to get in here. All that means is that I have the same opportunity they do.

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This was a sub-realm, as the Glademoor called it—something the nobles clearly valued, and something that made so many of them gather here. He and Otter would be fools not to try taking resources that nobles had access to.

Sure, the nobles said they'd kill them, but that would happen anyway once they left this place. Which would no doubt happen—nobles wouldn't just abandon their lives. They must know a way out. So, the trick would be to navigate the situation without losing their lives.

"Um, Nonami," Otter muttered under his breath.

"What is it?" Nonami replied, glancing over his shoulder.

"The bag, it's… it's…"

Nonami let go of Otter's wrist and felt his back. No straps. No weight. His supplies—everything he'd looted from the Collar Gang storage—were gone. By the lake. How?

He held his breath for a moment, letting his mind simmer down, before a heavy sigh passed through his lips.

No, this place had somehow taken his loot. There had to be a reason for it. Perhaps it was related to the opportunity, and if so, he had to grab it. Much like in the real world, the nobles still lorded over them. But unlike in the real world, they didn't know what exactly was going on.

The mana was rich here. Much richer than anything he'd felt in his entire life. He hadn't even noticed it at first, but with each breath, his lungs filled, and he was pretty sure that if he sat and cultivated right now, his cultivation would progress faster than it had ever before. This place was a place that would change him—and bring him something good.

"Otter, I have a plan. Are you with me?"

"Um… since the beginning…"

"Well, then… Just follow me and keep your head down. Don't attract any attention."

—- —- —- —-

Hector hesitantly raised a hand, his finger inches away from the metallic-like surface of one of the many doors circling the centre of the Grand Hall.

"I don't think you should touch that," Mirae said at Hector's right, pulling on his other hand that rested at his side.

Hector glanced back at her and lowered his hand, which was about to touch the door. "I was just curious to see what it's made of," he said. Not that touching the door would have told him that. Though something happened the last time he touched a door. There was no reason to believe it wouldn't be the same.

He shifted, turning back. Around the hall, others—mostly nobles, at least this close to the doors—gathered, chatting in their circles, occasionally throwing glances at them and those like them. A few lower mercenary groups seemed to have found their way in, as well as various commoners from around Middlec. Many looked confused; others had a sense of excitement in them.

"I can't believe I lost my sword," Jodie said, kicking the white tile at her feet and resting a hand on her hip. "The supplies, too. Why would you have a Trial Realm and take all the supplies the participants bring in?"

"Perhaps they didn't want us to have an unfair advantage," Marcus replied, adjusting his mask and correcting his hood. He turned and looked over the hall. "There seems to be quite a sizable number of people; some of them probably had more resources than others," he said.

Hector nodded. Nobles had vault-loads of resources. If they were to compete on the matter of supplies, he and his friends would have lost. This was better.

By the side, one group of commoners—slightly rougher-looking, perhaps from the outer slums—gathered, smiles on their faces. Though a moment later, confusion slipped amongst them as they tapped down their sides. They were among the latest to arrive. Clearly, much like them, they'd lost any equipment they'd come in with.

"Strange, isn't it?" Mrs. Strongmail said, eyeing the various groups of people.

"I'd say so," Lincoln replied. "Though it's not all bad. If they've taken our supplies, they must have a reason for it—and a way to give it back."

"Oh, why does this filth insist on moving around in such proximity to us?" a hateful voice said from the side of them, a little way from the door. "Can't they see that this is the centre of the hall, and if they are from the slums, they should be out on the edges?"

Hector turned his head toward the voice. A noble marched through the crowd, he and his lackeys shoving aside those who were too slow to move. The noble was heading toward them. Wearing battle robes, blue, trimmed with white, a smug smile split his lips as his blonde, almost white, shoulder-length hair swayed with each step.

"A Frostkeep," Hector muttered.

Jodie stepped next to him, her hands clenching at her side.

"I demand that you leave immediately," the noble, seemingly a few years older than Hector, said. "You may be a mercenary group, but that gives you no right to stand here. I don't see any emblem designating you as one of the top five companies. So clearly, you are from the lower rungs. Know your place and move back," the Frostkeep boy said.

At his side, the three others who flanked him levelled threatening gazes. Hector scanned them, receiving no note of Talents—which he expected. But curiously, they were all Gravity Forging Three to Four. An impressive group. The noble himself was Gravity Forging Four.

Not surprising; even Emela is Gravity-Forging-Five. The disparity between the slums and the nobles truly is night and day. I had sort of expected them to have some Talents. But I guess I'll have to scan a few more and see.

"I don't think I will," Hector said, as frustration bubbled in his chest. He wouldn't back down. Not to a noble. Not here in the Trial Realm, he found. Not in something he had triggered. There was too much on the line.

Taking a step forward, Hector raised a hand for Jodie to step back. He didn't need this to turn into an all-out brawl. If the Frostkeep was going to attack, he'd go at him and only him.

A chuckle slipped from the noble's lips, and he held his stomach. He turned to those beside him and raised a hand, gesturing at Hector.

"You see this? You see what Middlec has come to? Ugh, we have allowed this filth to grow too much. I think another purge, like fifty years ago, is necessary. The Nightcroft incident wasn't enough. It would be beautiful. Slaughter the slums, I say. We don't need them."

His gaze switched back to Hector. "I'll warn you one more time. Back down now, or I will beat you and your friends, break your bones, and hang you up outside this building. Do not test me, boy."

Hector frowned. The guy looked no older than him—yet he dared to call him a boy.

"I would watch your mouth, you pretty little twig," Hector said, his hands tightening at his side. A rage he hadn't felt since he was in the slums bubbled in his chest.

It wasn't pure anger, no—it was disgust and also sadness that this was what a noble was truly like. Emela had been nothing like this when they first met; she was open and kind. But this guy, he was...

The noble's head leaned back, and he let out a rancorous laugh before lowering it back down and taking a step forward. The sweet, fiery perfume wafted up Hector's nose, and he resisted the urge to gag at the powerful stench.

"You dare insult me, you slum-dwelling, dog-food-eating, dirt-wearing, underbelly-of-disgust creature," the noble spat, saliva splotching onto Hector's face with each word.