I Refused To Be Reincarnated

Back in his cheap hotel room, Adam helped Quintella go to bed—or tried to. The auction's fervor still burned in her veins, while the chaotic scene at the gates served as an icy counterpoint, making her shudder beneath the comforting blankets.

After a moment of brushing her hair and a few gentle words whispered, he sat across from Robert at the table, eyes narrowed, yet a smirk spreading across his face.

Robert tried to smirk back, but only managed a crooked smile. "Two hundred and thirteen million Prestige."

He sighed, genuinely lost about how to feel. On one hand, he knew he should have been dancing on this very table, but on the other, he sensed something he couldn't explain with words—at least not those he knew. It was as if Prestige beckoned like a poisonous serpent, not demanding but ordering to strive for more. But again, it might as well just be his own greed speaking. And greedy, he knew he was. But a question lingered. Should he share his doubts with Adam? Perhaps he would feel the same, which would confirm that something was wrong with Brineheart.

Eventually, he locked gazes with Adam, stretching his palm. "A hundred and forty-nine for you, sixty-four for me—as agreed."

"Not bad." With a chuckle, Adam shook Robert's hand. "Well done, Robert. You deserve your share, so let our cooperation continue to be bright."

A strange sensation instantly spread through his body. Veins turned subtly hotter, muscles tensing, but more importantly, mana surging through his circuits like undertows, guiding it toward his mythical heart.

His pupils constricted as he called for his interface window and scrutinised the numbers. And there beside each stat, a hundred points—three hundred for intelligence—were added, along with the mention of his Count rank. The Prestige value also got its own entry beneath his soul-bound items.

Realisation dawned on him with the suddenness of a thunderbolt. Though the increase wasn't much, Prestige could enhance nobles as a clever reward for their services or economic strength. No, it was more perverse.

"Intoxicating people with power." He tapped his finger on his lips, muttering. "Higher ranks reward more power, which forces competition and prevents stagnation."

"Stagnation means falling, and falling almost always means exile in Brineheart," Robert said, his voice heavy with memories of his ventures in the capital. "Don't you feel something else?" He twisted a finger against his temple. "Let me be straightforward: do you desire more?"

Adam's face turned somber, voice solemn. "I don't. You?"

Robert nodded. "It became milder after I transferred seventy percent of the Prestige, but it's still there..." His voice trailed off, his tightening fists crumpling his pants fabric. "It scares me, Adam. I'll help you enrol in the college tomorrow, get back your land by the end of the week, then I'm gone before I can't even feel myself changing. I've never had that feeling in Port Vaelora. This is where I feel safe, where I'll invest most of what I've earned—just to be safe."

"Perhaps the effect varies according to the rank. Effects from becoming a Count shouldn't manifest on Archmages or those ranked higher, but on those weaker?" Adam's eyes darted to Quintella as he scratched his plan of giving her a few million. Too dangerous. Not to him, though.

His heart protected him from curses under the magus rank, and his mind was as complex as a maze reforged in the flames of the tower's third trial, washed clean by Ossan's soul-healing, and enhanced by Orion's stellar magic.

"I understand your desire." His smile, when he answered Robert, carried genuine empathy. "I can try to handle the land recovery process if you introduce me to your lawyer friend."

"You?" A smile crept on Robert's face as he slammed his palm on the table. "Hahaha! I can picture the scene." He waved his hand, and wind condensed into intangible ropes as he thundered. "Return my land, fools! Yeah, that won't work. These matters require patience and the right contacts—two things you don't seem to have."

Adam rolled his eyes. "I'm patient when patience is due. When an amateur criticises my craft? Not so much." A crystalline chuckle escaped his lips as he grabbed two cups and a bottle of cider from the cabinet.

The moment he closed it, he felt a Prestige vanish, the quantity strangely precise—five thousand, as clear as the price tags. "All right, I admit I might get slightly annoyed if they delay the process, but enough with the somber talks. Tonight, we celebrate our success."

The tense atmosphere lightened as they shared a savoury drink.

Not for everyone.

Shadows crept through the night streets of Brineheart, entering hotels, searching for specific individuals, or trailing to a building Adam hadn't seen yet.

It stood at the edge of the noble district, the moonlight cascading down stones that seemed crystallised from agony. Barred windows echoed the maddened screams of those they imprisoned, spotless metal devouring the surrounding mana, creating a vacuum where spells couldn't form.

Enforcers in their emblazoned plate armor patrolled around it, treated documents inside, and met with the shadows. One of them addressed the captain of the Twelfth Regiment in an office where piles of papers were stacked higher than the oak desk.

"Marquis Clovis wants to report the heinous crimes committed by House Tiraquelle."

The same scene happened in other offices. Forged evidences and false testimonies piled in front of snickering enforcers. Not a single auction winner was spared, and even those who had won still attacked others as if slander had become a national sport.

The shadows outside sought the not-so-hidden information guild—the minstrels. Among them, one sat across a lady wearing their signature multicolored cape.

"Count Eric Drevrant requests information about a freshly arrived teenager. Under-the-table deals, contact with the black market, crimes—he wants to know everything."

"That'll cost you two hundred thousand Prestige. Double if he's a marquis heir." The lady twirled her flute around her fingers, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Who might that unlucky child be?"

The shadow nodded. "Adam, blue-haired and eyed, has an eight-year-old sister—"

Before he could finish, a dissonant note reverberated through the room and splinters pattered on the ground like rain.

His eyes widened on the broken flute in the lady's hand before they widened even more when she rose and snickered. "I don't know anything about him. None of us does. Take my words as advice: drop your investigation."

Then, she walked out as the shadow dissolved, and Eric, who saw and heard through it, snapped his eyes open in his castle. An icy shiver ran down his spine, his heart drumming in his chest.

"No one knows..." He said, the weight of these simple words crushing his guts under dreadstones. After all, minstrels sold information about everyone except... Dukes.