Morning sunlight slanted across the gilded towers of the Wind God Cathedral, casting golden streaks over the ancient domes of the Bluen Empire's western stronghold. Fischer sat on the velvet sofa in his study, account books pressed against his chest, fingers tapping absently on his magical gold card.The memory of his parents' deaths three days ago, the mysterious "mineral collateral" that appeared in the family's bank ledgers just yesterday—these things circled his mind like a lingering mist. Though the system's wind-blessed tomato and sudden windfall had given him a lifeline, Fischer understood keenly: in the world of nobles and the machinery of the Kingdom, such crumbs barely meant survival."As long as I stir up trouble and spend big, I get to live better." That was the conclusion he'd tested and retested these past days. But 'stirring up trouble'—was never that simple.
The fame of the "Tomato Tycoon" had spread across the city, drawing new waves of curious onlookers and hidden enemies. At only ten years old, Fischer was physically frail and untrained—one wind-blessed tomato wasn't nearly enough to see him through the aristocratic council's succession trials or the wolves of the Kingdom.He took a deep breath and donned his cloak. Inside, he was still just a child, wrapped in the shell of a noble and shackled by the system's demands. Every step he took felt like walking a tightrope above an abyss.
That day, Fischer returned to the Wind God's Cathedral. The high priest met him at the door, smile as sharp as the sunlight."Lord Fischer, are you here to pray for your family, or to atone for yourself?"Fischer ignored the jab, tossing a bank note for two million gold coins onto the altar. "I want the highest grade of identity protection. Spare no expense—whatever it takes to keep me from being scryed, calculated, or tracked, even by the gods themselves."
The priest blinked, then quickly ushered Fischer into the sanctuary's back chamber. Behind the altar, the old man produced a silver-white mask, thin as water, shimmering with an almost liquid glow."The Wind God's Mask," he intoned. "Wear it, and no spell, demon eye, or divine sense can see your true face. Only if you remove it yourself will it lose its power."
Fischer tried it on. A cool, airy energy wrapped around him, as if the whole world had turned to wind.Just then, the system's cold voice echoed in his mind:"High-value malicious expenditure detected. Reward: four million gold coins."
Fischer's lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. He'd already figured out the system's logic: only 'malicious' actions paired with spending brought rewards—no use for kindness, no reward for compassion.He tucked the mask away and nodded to the priest, who watched him go with eyes full of complicated hunger. Behind Fischer, cathedral attendants whispered, "He made a fool of himself at the guild, but now he has magic and fortune tenfold. Who can figure him out…"
The Art of Malicious Investment
Mask in hand, Fischer tried to keep a low profile, pulling his hood low and avoiding crowds. But a child's frame and the infamous silver hair were hard to disguise, and at the Adventurers' Guild, eyes followed him everywhere—some curious, some wary, some greedy.
Fischer slipped through the main hall, heading for the stairs, when he overheard a group of adventurers:
"Is Olysses' tomb-raid plan even legit?"
"She's a platinum-ranked adventurer, but I heard the dungeon's cursed. Everyone who enters dies."
"Only the new baron would throw millions at something like that. Is he brave or just an idiot?"
A bright, bold female voice cut through the noise: "You can all gossip here, but I'll be the one bringing home the loot!"Fischer glanced over. On the stairwell stood Olysses herself—tall, gold ponytail, gleaming silver armor, striking features with a wicked, taunting grin. Empire-wide famous, she radiated a blend of beauty and battle-hardened arrogance.
Suddenly, the system interface flickered:
"System Character 'Olysses' detected.
Blackheart Mission: During investment negotiations, insult and publicly challenge the target, while offering a high-stakes wager. Standard: mock her as unworthy of the dungeon, promise double payout for success, but demand her beauty and future servitude if she fails. Minimum investment: four million gold coins."
Fischer steadied himself, putting on the mask of an arrogant, cocky boy. He strode straight up to Olysses, drawing the attention of the whole hall.
"I hear you're looking for an investor for this little tomb-raid?" he called, loud enough for all to hear. "I'll throw four million at your little scheme—but there's a condition."
Olysses raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide her impatience. "Spit it out. Don't waste my time."
Fischer smiled, all contempt. "I bet you can't even get into the dungeon. Just a pretty face with nothing but bravado. Here's the deal: if you actually make it back with the treasure, not only will I invest four million, but I'll pay double. But if you fail—your beauty and your service to me, for life."
Gasps and jeers exploded through the guild. Some whistled, others muttered their disgust, while most just waited for the fireworks.
Olysses' eyes flashed cold, but a sharp, eager smile curled her lips. "You're publicly insulting me? Good. No one's dared to do that in a long time. Got the guts to sign a magical contract?"
Fischer sneered, "Bring it on."They signed the contract at the guild's front desk, under the shimmer of the magical crystal. As his name hit the page, the system chimed in his mind:"Blackheart Mission complete—high-value investment + public humiliation of system character. Reward: five million gold coins, and a physical enhancement potion."
Fischer, hiding his relief and thrill, feigned boredom as he flicked a four-million gold deposit onto the table. "Good luck. Don't embarrass the west."
Olysses snorted, stalking off with her team—some glaring at Fischer, others watching him with grudging admiration or wary amusement.
The Masked Goodness
That afternoon, Fischer returned to the vineyard estate, where he found the workers lined up in the yard. Their faces were pale, some with fear, others faking it with sly amusement.
He settled onto the stone steps, donned the cold expression of a miserly, heartless noble, and tapped his account book.
"Speak up. What did you earn before?"
The foreman, hunched and trembling, replied, "Seventy-five a month, my lord…"
Fischer cut him off, voice cold and impatient. "Seventy-five? You should be grateful I let you stay! From now on, no one gets more than twenty-five. If you don't like it, leave. I'll replace the lot of you."
Shock rippled through the workers. They grumbled and cursed under their breath—"Bloodsucker! Iron-hearted bastard!"—but those with sharp ears caught the word 'gold coins' and quickly spread the news.
Yet no one dared contradict the new lord openly. They all played along, performing outrage, even a little mock-crying for show.
Payday arrived. Every worker found their wage bags weighed down with far more than they'd ever seen in their lives. Behind closed doors, families wept tears of joy. Still, the next morning, they continued their charade—acting downtrodden and resentful, lest anyone spoil the illusion.
System prompt:"Stingy exploitation plus high actual expenditure detected. Reward: ten million gold coins. Reputation: black-hearted noble +10, subject happiness +30.Worldview: You are now the archetype of a black-hearted lord, but your people thrive. Acting skill: A+."
Fischer looked over his accounts that night, a bitter smile on his lips. "Let them all hate the 'black-hearted baron.' If my act feeds and protects these people, it's worth every curse."
The Barbarian and the Price of Power
At the Adventurers' Guild's private lounge, Fischer found Cullinan polishing crystal glasses."White Fang?" Cullinan paused his pour, "That brute from the north only takes charity work now. Ten thousand gold tuition, and he donates the lot to orphanages."
Fischer slammed his glass down, splattering red wine across the tablecloth. "I want a teacher, not a saint!"
Cullinan leaned close, voice dropping. "That's why the so-called gentlemen prefer someone pricier. But I've heard he once tore apart a frost dragon with his bare hands."
Fischer's eyes widened. Suddenly, the system interface flashed:
"Mission: Humiliate the legendary warrior + pay exorbitant tuition. Reward: ten million gold coins (dual requirement: spend big + sow discord)."
The training ground stank of sweat and iron. White Fang towered at its center, shirtless, covered in battle scars. Fischer threw a heavy bag of coins at his feet, some spilling into the dirt.
"Ten thousand?" Fischer drawled, grinding a gold coin into the mud with his boot. "You think I'm here to feed beggars? Throw the rest to the mongrels in the slums—or your collection of orphan brats."
Apprentices on the sidelines gripped their sword hilts, ready for trouble.White Fang bent to pick up a coin, thick fingers rolling it thoughtfully—he noticed the tooth mark Fischer had nervously bitten into it the night before.
"You know how many mouths this money feeds?" White Fang's voice grated like sandpaper.
Fischer shrugged, turning to the training post, silver hair flashing in the sunlight. "Not my problem. If your lessons are useless, I'll have the guild revoke your license."
A low, rumbling laugh answered him. "This'll be fun."
The next morning at dawn, White Fang dragged Fischer into the mud, tossing logs so heavy they nearly snapped the boy's spine."Run!" The barbarian's roar rattled Fischer's eardrums. "Don't stop until you puke!"
On the third collapse, Fischer retched violently into the dirt."Collect his vomit," White Fang said to an assistant.
"Are you insane?" Fischer gasped.
"It's dragon-blood wood," White Fang replied, stuffing the bag. "Makes good medicine for the orphanage. Winter's hard on the little ones' lungs."
At sword training, Fischer sneered, "Northern savages—no wonder you only teach charity cases."A wooden sword cracked across his leg, burning with pain."Anger makes you slow," White Fang's voice rumbled, "just like right now."
Late at night, Fischer curled up with ointment, bandaging bruises. The steward entered quietly."The grain for the village, my lord—anonymous delivery, as you instructed."
"Shut up!" Fischer hurled the bottle at the wall, smashing it. "If those idiots starve, I'll have no workers. That's all!"
The steward bowed deeply and slipped away. In the shadows outside, White Fang watched silently, a trace of understanding in his eyes.
System:"Mission complete. Reward: ten million gold coins.Hidden outcome: White Fang's favor +30."
At the city orphanage, White Fang handed a sack to the director."Four hundred ninety thousand. From the silver-haired brat."
The old director's hands shook. "But the city says he's—"
"Believe half what nobles say," White Fang replied, glancing out at the glowing lights of the night training ground. "That's already too much."
Fischer stood alone on the castle balcony, the wind tugging at his nightgown. The system's interface glimmered before him, but his eyes rested on the distant slums where candles flickered in the dark. He touched the invisible mask on his face and, for once, found the night breeze wasn't so cold after all.