The coin flowed like blood.


    Slow at first. Then steady. Then dangerously fast.


    In the vaults below Eidral, Caelan—no, Ghost—was earning more than most first-years could imagine. Not from the academy. Not from noble favors. But from real work. Real risk. Real kills.


    But real money brought real eyes.


    Eyes he couldn’t afford.


    So, he adapted.


    Like always.


    <hr>


    A Cut, Split Quietly


    It was Gerran—the blunt, grim-faced heavy weapon fighter of Squad 9—who noticed first.


    “Ghost, you don’t spend.”


    They were in the backroom of a dusk-market bar, post-run. Blood on the boots. A stack of cores on the table.


    “You never drink. Never buy gear. Never upgrade your blade. Where the hell’s all your cut going?”


    Caelan didn’t blink. “Don’t need much.”


    Gerran frowned. “That sword of yours is cracked in six places. And you fight like someone with nothing to lose.”


    He leaned in.


    “Who are you funding?”


    Caelan stared back. Then slowly set a wrapped coin pouch on the table.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    “I need a name.”


    Gerran raised a brow. “For?”


    “A fake sponsor. A front. I’ll keep making money. I’ll wire it to an identity that’ll look like someone’s backing me at the academy.”


    Gerran snorted. “You got nobles sniffing around?”


    “No. I want to keep it that way.”


    The room was quiet.


    Then Gerran nodded once. Tossed a burner glyph onto the table. “I can ghost the transactions. Reroute the tags. Set up a legal cover. All I need is a name.”


    Caelan didn’t hesitate.


    “…Vaal.”


    <hr>


    The Name Without a House


    At Eidral Academy, things began to shift.


    Caelan still wore worn boots. Still trained like he’d starve tomorrow. Still avoided eye contact with nobles. But instructors noticed something strange.


    His supply list updated.


    His gear improved—slightly. A better scabbard. Fresh uniform set. A custom aura stabilizer bracer.


    And every requisition form had the same line printed on top:


    "Sponsored by: Vaal."


    No one knew the name.


    No noble house claimed it. No lineage records. No territory.


    But it was enough.


    Instructors stopped questioning how a Slum-born cadet was still standing after the dungeon incident. How he trained harder than anyone and never seemed to break. How he ate full meals now and stopped bleeding on the practice floors.


    A fake noble name.


    A shadow backer.


    Perfect camouflage.


    <hr>


    On the Other Side


    Down below, the Ghost kept working.


    Raid after raid. Mission after mission.


    He learned how to vanish mid-fight, how to read Aura patterns through walls, how to dismantle golem sentries using only vibrations and timing. Squad 9 stopped treating him like a rookie.


    He wasn’t.


    They called him “the quiet one.” The blade that cut once and never missed. Even among Ghosts—he stood apart.


    And he made sure no one from Eidral ever saw his face in the vault.


    <hr>


    Caelan’s Room


    The Academy dorms were quiet again.


    Caelan sat alone by his window. The moonlight spilled across a small pile of upgraded books—bought with merc cash. Training glyphs. Veilwalk theory. Obscured Aura mechanics.


    In his drawer, beneath folded clothes, lay two masks:


    One with the Ghost insignia.


    And one with the symbol of a forgotten name burned in silver thread.


    Vaal.


    <hr>


    But across the city, Eryx was watching again.


    Reading the falsified sponsor logs. Tracing the Vault-transaction shadows.


    And smiling.


    “Not bad, Ghost,” he whispered. “Not bad at all.”