Michael’s path to power was different from the traditional routes taken by other supernaturals.
However, that didn’t mean their methods couldn’t benefit or strengthen him in some way.
One thing that worked for both sides was consumable treasures.
Take the Ancestral Dragon Pool, for instance.
It wasn’t that Michael underestimated its value—but much like his last deal with Mage Lian, very few things could genuinely attract his interest.
It wasn’t because he was picky.
His talent simply spoiled him.
It was an opportunity in and of itself.
Unless a treasure aligned directly with his talent or could help him evolve further, it was hard for Michael to be instantly drawn in.
Still, in the end…
“Money is great, but just like Mage Lian said, there are some things that can’t be bought with gold. And it’s not like I’m not still receiving some.”
However—
“The Ancestral Dragon Pool is likely a foundational treasure of the kingdom. If it belonged to another kingdom, it might not be a problem. But this one….”
He frowned. “If I do take it, leaving afterward might not be so easy.”
Maybe he was overthinking it, but the idea of interacting further with a power that likely already suspected his true identity didn’t sit well with him.
When he considered it like that, he much preferred money—clean, simple, and with no strings attached.
But there was another problem.
To be honest, Michael didn’t even know what to do with the amount of money he had on hand.
Just the first reward alone this time had given him half a million gold coins.
Where was he supposed to spend it all?
He hadn’t even touched the previous stash and was still wondering what to do with it.
But hey, more money wasn’t a bad thing.
Who knew when he might stumble upon something that truly caught his eye in this world?
It was always better to have more money and nothing to spend it on… than to have nothing and a thousand things you could spend on.
Michael exhaled slowly.
“Is it possible to exchange the chance to enter the Ancestral Dragon Pool for extraordinary materials?”
Yes.
Michael immediately thought of a better way to squeeze more out of the kingdom.
The Ancestral Dragon Pool seemed to come with complications—but exchanging it for materials? That was just business.
As for why he chose materials instead, the reason was obvious.
It was for his undead.
To be honest, he was genuinely interested in the pool.
If he hadn’t interacted with the Princess, Michael believed his answer might’ve been different.
“I didn’t expect you to refuse something like that,” Lian said, “but I won’t pry—everyone has their reasons. As for the materials, I think it should be possible, but I’ll need to confirm with the kingdom first.”
“I see,” Michael replied calmly.
Mage Lian reached into his robe and pulled out a small pouch.
Another two hundred golden papers.
Michael took it with helpless acceptance.
Is this what it felt like to be rich?
Worrying about having too much money?
Sigh.
It feels good.
“Thank you.”
Michael said as he collected the pitch.
Mage Lian simply waved it off.
“It’s what you deserve,” the mage said plainly. “And besides, you’ve given the kingdom more than you know.”
Michael didn’t press for more. He wasn’t sure what hundreds of Grand-Tier corpses would do for the kingdom’s future, but that wasn’t his concern.
“Now, let’s talk about something else,”
The Grand Mage’s tone shifted slightly.
“Are you confident about winning this—”
He stopped mid-sentence, blinking in surprise.
Heavens, when did he become so dense?
Was he seriously asking a youth capable of slaughtering hundreds of Rank 2 monsters if he could handle a mere competition?
Had his constant stress dulled his mind?
Or was it just old age catching up to him?
Instead of worrying about whether Michael could win, he should be thinking about what reward would even be worthy of him.
Mage Lian cleared his throat and quickly corrected himself.
“For the Duke’s competition, just do your best and… have fun.”
Michael, unaware of the Grand Mage’s inner spiral, simply nodded.
They exchanged a few more words before he took his leave.
Two days later.
Today was the day of the Duke’s Competition.
Michael walked alone, clad in flowing black robes that gave off the faint shimmer of enchanted silk.
His pace was unhurried, his expression calm, and his gaze steady as he made his way through the outer city’s paved streets.
Ahead, towering over the neighboring buildings, stood a grand Arena—an enormous structure said to be capable of seating over a hundred thousand.
It was primarily used by nobles for events, tournaments, and their strange pastime games, but today, it would host something far more significant.
Michael glanced around and noticed that everyone walking in the same direction as him was young. Very young.
Some wore armor, and others simple martial garments.
And then there was him.
He didn’t carry a weapon visibly. He wasn’t escorted by guards or followed by a proud retinue.
He walked silently, cutting a lonely figure in black.
His steps were light, as though he weren’t even pressing against the earth.
Yet, many who glanced his way quickly turned away, feeling a strange tension emanating from him.
That was fine by Michael.
He wasn’t here to make friends.
But just as he neared the arena’s outer gate, a cheerful voice rang out from his side.
“Bro! Are you participating in the competition too?”
Michael, who had been addressed, turned to his side in confusion.
A boy in simple, but clearly high-quality clothing stood beside him. Though not extravagant, the outfit hinted at wealth—perhaps the son of a noble or a wealthy merchant.
Michael wasn’t sure why this stranger was speaking to him, but he still responded—with a single nod.
However, the gesture didn’t seem to get the message across. The boy remained, undeterred.
The boy smiled and extended a hand. “Name’s Renn. You?”
Michael glanced at the hand but didn’t take it. “Mic,” he said simply.
Renn tilted his head slightly. “You don’t talk much, huh?”
Michael didn’t answer.
Unfortunately, Renn didn’t seem like he planned on leaving.
Instead, he leaned in a little, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. “Hey… I know what’s going to happen in the arena today.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly at that. He didn’t pause his walk, but now, he was listening.
His eyes then subtly examined the boy.
Renn had short, messy brown hair, sharp amber eyes, and a youthful face that seemed a bit too carefree for someone heading into a competition.
On his waist, he wore a wooden sword—completely out of place given the context.
Michael’s lips twitched at the sight.
A wooden sword?
“What is going to happen?” Michael inquired.
Renn grinned like a child about to reveal a treasured secret. “The first stage of the competition is taking place in the arena. That much is confirmed. Not sure about the later stages, but this one? Definitely here.”
Michael resisted the urge to sigh.
Of course it’s in the arena. Where else would it be?
He secretly rolled his eyes but chose not to interrupt. It was clear Renn enjoyed talking, and Michael had nothing better to do while they walked.
Renn continued, lowering his voice again. “The first stage. It’s actually a qualification trial.”
That caught Michael’s attention. He glanced sideways at the boy. “Qualification?”
Renn nodded quickly. “Yup. You don’t even make it to the main event unless you pass this first trial. Only the ones who meet the Duke’s standard can proceed.”
Michael hummed in thought.
If memory served him right, there were two key requirements: the participant had to be under twenty-five years of age and at least at the Intermediate Rank. That already weeded out a good chunk of the population.
However, this reminded Michael of a lingering headache.
He was still unfamiliar with the power system of this world.
Now the question was—
What level of power should he reveal?
Or rather, what level could he safely reveal?
Their conversation died down as the two arrived at the arena’s massive iron gate.
Four knights stood at attention, flanking a middle-aged man in a crimson robe who looked half-bored, half-harassed.
He handed wooden number tags to each youth in line, occasionally scribbling notes on a thick scroll at his side.
When it was their turn, Michael and Renn each received a smooth, palm-sized token etched with just numbers.
Michael eyed the piece of wood.
His thoughts returned to the upcoming trial. He didn’t care for the structure or the people, but he wasn’t arrogant enough to ignore the possibility of a surprise.
Hidden elites, political traps, divine artifacts—anything was possible in a noble-led competition.
And though he was confident in himself, he also had a rule: never be careless in unfamiliar territory.
Renn, unaware of Michael’s musings, inspected his number like it was a prize. “Forty-eight. Nice, right?”
Michael didn’t respond.
He glanced at his own.
Thirty-one.
His eyes flicked toward the large archway leading into the inner stands.
Time to see what sort of trial the Duke had prepared.