《Mage Heir - The Summoner of Beckham Estate? [Is This Dark Fantasy Pokemon?]》 1. The Bird Delivers A broken door hung on twisted hinges, its edges splintered where clawed limbs had torn through. Silas stepped over the threshold, boots grinding against splinters and debris. The reek of decay coated everything¡ªdead air, rotted furniture, old mold creeping across plaster. He moved quietly, scanning the collapsed walls and slumping beams. Heavy webs clung to corners and draped overhead like macabre curtains. In the far reaches of the hallway, he heard scuttling sounds, legs scraping across loose floorboards. He knelt by a half-buried corpse. Faint traces of spider silk clung to the victim¡¯s stiffened limbs, features lost beneath layers of webbing. Someone who lived here last week, maybe¡ªsomeone the guild never mentioned. Silas exhaled through his nose, controlling his breathing. This was supposed to be a simple ¡°spider infestation.¡± He¡¯d been promised five silver. Then he found the first cocooned body in the basement. He marched back to the guild in the dead of night and demanded triple. They settled on twenty silver, plus salvage rights. Seemed fair enough. His line of work paid for skill, and it¡¯d take more than skill to handle what lurked below: Three arachne. Possibly more. He¡¯d fought their kind once before, in an abandoned mine. They looked half human, half spider, venom dripping from grotesque mandibles, scuttling on eight legs strong enough to crack ribs. Their cunning was no rumor¡ªthey coordinated hunts, set traps, used illusions of human voices to lure prey. ¡°Three acid vials left,¡± he reminded himself, voice low. He patted the belt pouch holding them, checking for cracks or leaks. The sword at his hip was decent steel, unadorned but tested in real fights. He listened. Silence stretched through the hallway, dust motes dancing in the weak light that trickled from holes in the ceiling. Then a dry clicking rose from the lower floor, no more than a faint scrape of chitin on old wood. He readied his stance. Two nights ago, he¡¯d come to confirm the ¡°spiders.¡± One glimpse of that first half-spider woman had convinced him: real arachne, not some overgrown vermin. No turning back now. He needed to bring them down, slice off their twisted faces, and return to the guild. Ugly, messy business. A flicker stirred the air by his shoulder. Silas froze, sword half-raised. It wasn¡¯t the scuttle of arachne limbs, nor the creak of rotting beams. The space warped as though reality hiccuped. In a heartbeat, a bird appeared out of thin air. No flutter of wings, no warning. Just¡­ there. Its feathers shimmered, shifting from silver to gold in the dim light. Eyes glowed like embers, fixed on Silas with unsettling intensity. Around its slender neck hung a delicate chain and small scroll case. Silas let out a low breath, scanning for threats. He¡¯d seen strange summons and illusions in his time, but this felt older, deeper, like a relic from legends. He studied the bird¡¯s posture¡ªit perched in midair, ignoring gravity. Downstairs, a muted crash announced one of the arachne prowling closer. The bird tilted its head, still silent. Then it leaned forward, offering the scroll case. ¡°Not a good time,¡± Silas muttered, eyes flicking to the basement door. ¡°I¡¯ve got real problems.¡± The bird remained unblinking. No sign it even understood. Yet it held out that scroll case with calm, unwavering purpose. A wet clack echoed from below. He pictured the spider-women creeping upstairs, drawn by the sound of his voice. He sighed. ¡°Fine,¡± he snapped, snatching the scroll case. The chain disintegrated in a brief shimmer, leaving only the case in his hand. But the bird stayed, hovering, ember eyes never leaving him. A sudden crash from the stairs. The door at the end burst open, revealing the first arachne: bloated spider body, half a human face, drooling venom. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.She scuttled across the floor, legs clattering in irregular rhythms. Silas gripped his sword, adrenaline pulsing. He shot a glare at the bird. ¡°Any help?¡± No reaction. The creature just watched. The arachne hissed, torsioning her legs for a leap. Silas moved on instinct. He pivoted aside as she lunged, sword whistling in an arc. Blade met exoskeleton, scraping across spiked limbs. A shriek¡ªtoo human¡ªtore from the arachne¡¯s twisted mouth. She recoiled, black ichor splattering the planks. Two more shapes emerged: the second arachne crawling along the wall, the third perched on a collapsed beam above. They hissed in unison, mandibles dripping venom. Silas yanked free an acid vial, chucking it at the second. The glass shattered against her upper torso, sizzling through flesh. Her screams rattled the decaying rafters. The third spat webbing from above. Silas dove, but sticky threads caught his shoulder, yanking him off-balance. His sword nearly slipped from his grip as he fought to tear free. The first saw an opening, all eight legs pounding the floor as she barreled in. Silas twisted, planting his foot into the remains of a toppled table to spring sideways. He tore the webbing in a violent jerk. A spined limb lashed out. He ducked, swiping at the extended leg with his blade. It severed in a spray of dark fluid, the arachne reeling back. Her wail sent shivers through the broken halls. He didn¡¯t flinch. He¡¯d come here to kill them, after all. He followed up, driving his sword under her ribs. It punched through exoskeleton, into the softer torso above. She collapsed in a flailing mess of limbs, strangled cries echoing. A whiff of decayed blood filled the air, but Silas¡¯s stomach barely turned. He¡¯d smelled worse in his time. The acid-melted arachne, half her face corroded away, lurched forward, screeching. Silas grit his teeth, meeting her charge. He blocked a slashing limb, then lunged low, blade biting into the soft underside. A thunderous hiss vibrated her mandibles. She scrabbled for purchase. But the steel found something vital, and she slumped. That left the third one, perched overhead with its webbing. It realized the fight had turned. A frantic hiss, and it scurried across the sagging beam, seeking escape. Silas had no mercy for these nightmares. He flung his last acid vial, clipping its hindquarters. As it shrieked, he vaulted onto a broken chair, then leapt for the beam. Arm snagged the wood, pulling himself up with a grunt. A single slash cut into the arachne¡¯s side, and it pitched off the beam. He dropped after it, driving the blade through its abdomen before it could recover. Everything went silent. Stale air filled with the stench of ichor, acid, and rotted wood. Silas pulled his sword free, letting the corpse slump. He wiped sweat from his brow, ignoring the smear of gore on his forearm. He turned to find the shimmering bird exactly where it had been, perched as if the violence meant nothing. ¡°Right,¡± he muttered. He rummaged for a rag to clean his sword, then carefully unrolled the scroll case. Two pieces of parchment. The first, expensive vellum with crisp seals:
¡°To the bearer: you are the rightful heir to the Beckham Estate, by order of Arch Magus Dewalt Beckham, posthumously executed¡­¡±
Silas blinked. Beckham? He¡¯d never heard that name in his life. The second parchment was rough, a circle drawn in dried blood. Text flickered:
¡°Touch the circle for transport to Bastian. One use only. Do try not to die.¡±
He stared at the swirling letters, disbelief warring with curiosity. The merchant¡¯s guild job had been a standard contract, nothing pointing to arcane legacies or bizarre summons. Yet here he stood, with the corpses of monstrous spiders around him, and some ancient magic bird waiting expectantly. A scratch of chitin behind him reminded him he still had proof to collect. But his gaze kept returning to the parchments. An entire estate, waiting in some city he¡¯d never visited. He wasn¡¯t naive. Could be a trap, or a worthless ruin. But the scroll¡¯s official tone made him hesitate. The shimmering bird stared. Somehow, its ember gaze seemed to insist it was no trap, that time was short. He exhaled, stepped around the dead arachne, and brushed the circle with his fingertips. Reality folded. One breath, he stood in a rotting house. The next, he stood on a broad cobblestone road under an open sky. His ears rang from the sudden shift. He stumbled a step, getting his bearings. Ahead loomed giant city walls, thick with runic engravings. A wooden sign read: ¡°Bastian.¡± He turned, half expecting to see the bird. It appeared one last time, cooing in a chime-like note before blinking out of existence. He still wore his battered gear, his sword slick with spider gore. So much for a warm welcome. He glanced at the inheritance notice. It named him heir to a place he never knew. Yet this city, Bastian, apparently recognized the authority of that old mage. His boots felt anchored in place. He didn¡¯t relish stepping inside a city in such a state, but turning back wasn¡¯t an option¡ªhe had no idea how to return. He took a breath, forcing his weary muscles to obey. ¡°All right,¡± he muttered. ¡°Let¡¯s see what an Arch Magus left for me.¡± He set off toward the towering gates, ignoring the sideways glances of travelers. Blood and ichor splattered him, but the city watch was used to worn-out mercenaries trudging in from the wilds. Whatever faced him in Bastian¡ªdebts, more monsters, or some twisted magical legacy¡ªhe¡¯d handle it. He always did.
TAMED/SUMMONED MONSTER ROSTER (6 SLOTS) Empty Empty Empty Empty Empty Empty 2. Gates and Chains Silas suddenly came back into existence on a broad, uneven road just outside Bastian¡¯s massive walls. No warning, no swirling portal¡ªjust a sharp twist of magic dumping him on foreign cobblestones. Moments earlier, he¡¯d stood in that half-collapsed farmhouse, arachne corpses at his feet. Now, the reek of spider gore still clung to his clothes. Dried, blackened ichor stained his boots. Ahead, the city¡¯s gate rose in carved stone, a line of travelers inching forward under the watchful stare of two armored guards. He queued up, ignoring sidelong glances at his bloodied coat and battered gear. The standard reaction: suspicion, revulsion. He¡¯d seen worse. He¡¯d done worse. When it was his turn, a guard in dented half-plate studied him warily, halberd propped at an angle. ¡°Rough day?¡± the guard asked. Silas shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ve had worse.¡± The first guard''s partner stepped closer, nose wrinkling at the spider gore coating Silas''s clothes. His gauntleted hand reached for the inheritance papers. "These look official enough." The guard''s eyes narrowed at the blood seal. "Beckham Estate?" His voice dripped with mock sympathy. "That cursed heap? Place is falling apart and anyone checking it out ends up dead." Silas kept his expression neutral. Death threats meant nothing new, he''d survived worse odds in Dolan''s streets. "Papers say it''s mine." The guards traded knowing looks. The first one leaned on his halberd. "Met the old butler yet? Crazy thing, walking around like that." "Like what?" "You''ll see." The second guard handed back the documents. "Though most folks don''t last long enough for introductions." "Three owners in three months," the first guard added. "Record''s getting shorter each time." Silas tucked away the papers. "Thanks for the warning." "Oh, he thanks us." The second guard''s laugh held no humor. "Been nice knowing you, Lord Beckham." They waved him through the gates with exaggerated bows and he went on his way. The city''s outer ring hit Silas with a wall of noise and motion. Market stalls crammed every space between buildings, their weathered awnings flapping in the breeze. The reek of his arachne-stained clothes mixed with a dozen competing smells, roasted meat, fresh bread, horse manure, and the harsh smoke from blacksmith forges. A woman jumped out at him with a vial of murky green liquid and tried to show it off. "Guaranteed to cure what ails you, good sir!" Silas stepped around her, keeping his back to the wall. Old habits died hard. In Dolan, crowds meant pickpockets and blade-wielding thieves. Here, well-dressed merchants haggled over silk prices while street kids darted between market stalls. Different city, same opportunities for someone to lift his meager coin pouch. Up ahead, polished armor stood apart. The checkpoint to the next ring stood ready, its guards carrying themselves with the practiced ease of men used to turning people away. Their eyes found the bloodstains on his clothes first, then settled on the scroll he pulled out for them. "Beckham seal." The guard''s mouth twisted. "Another one." He waved Silas through with a dismissive flick of his gauntlet. Silas moved past them, scanning the buildings. "Problem?" Silas asked, keeping his voice flat as he met the guard''s stare. The armored man shook his head. "The estate''s your funeral, not mine. Head up Noble''s Rise until you hit the old gates. Can''t miss them - black iron, covered in rust." He paused. "Assuming they don''t eat you first." Silas watched the guard''s face for any hint of deception. In Dolan, information came with hooks, someone always wanted something. But the guard just turned away, already focused on the next person in line. Strange. Back home, guards squeezed travelers for every coin they could. Here they seemed more interested in warning him off than taking his money. The cobblestones changed as he walked, growing smoother, better maintained. Buildings rose taller, their windows fitted with real glass instead of oiled paper. The crowd thinned, replaced by people in fine clothes who gave his bloodstained gear a wide berth. A pair of merchants crossed the street rather than pass near him. "Another one for the estate."Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. "Poor fool. Wonder how long this one lasts?" Silas kept walking. A heavy gauntlet landed on Silas''s shoulder. He spun, hand dropping to his sword hilt before he caught himself. "Hold up there." The guard''s weathered face creased. "Can''t let you head straight to the estate. Magistrates need to process the inheritance first." Silas released his grip on the sword. "Thought the papers cleared me." "Blood seal gets you in the city." The guard pointed down a side street lined with marble columns. "But ownership? That''s different. Building at the end, can''t miss it. Big white stone thing with too many steps." "More paperwork." Silas kept the irritation from his voice. In Dolan, official business meant bribes and waiting in lines while clerks found reasons to deny whatever you needed. "Look." The guard''s voice dropped. "Do yourself a favor. While they process things, get cleaned up. Find an inn. Rest. Maybe decide this inheritance isn''t worth it." "That bad?" The guard grimaced. Silas studied the indicated street. Marble pillars, carefully spaced trees, well-dressed people hurrying past with arms full of scrolls and documents. "How long?" "Processing? Couple hours if you''re lucky. Days if you''re not." The guard stepped back. "Assuming you live that long." Silas started down the street, already counting the coins in his pouch. If this took days, he''d need a room. Food. His stomach twisted at the thought of spending the last of his silver, but dead men had no use for savings. Behind him, he caught the guard''s murmur to his partner. "Taking bets on this one?" "Nah. Not worth it anymore. They die too quick." The Magistrate''s office loomed ahead, a block of white stone. A clerk near the entrance wrinkled his nose as Silas approached. "Papers." The clerk held out his hand without looking up from his ledger. Silas passed over the scroll. The clerk''s eyes widened at the blood seal, ink-stained fingers trembling slightly as he traced the edge. "Follow me." They walked through corridors lined with shelves of scrolls and documents. The smell of dust and ink replaced the market''s chaos. Other clerks glanced up from their work, whispers following in Silas''s wake. The clerk stopped at a heavy wooden door marked "Inheritance Division" and knocked twice. "Enter." Inside, a woman in expensive robes sat behind a massive desk covered in neat stacks of papers. She looked up, eyes sharp beneath grey-streaked hair. "Another Beckham heir." She gestured to a chair. "Sit." Silas remained standing. "Rather get this done quick." "Proper procedure takes time." She pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. "I am Magistrate Riane. You are?" "Silas Beckham." "Previous residence?" "Dolan." Her quill paused. "The slums?" "Yes." She set down her quill. "Interesting. Most claimants came from established families. Noble houses." Her eyes narrowed. "You''re different. Maybe even the real deal." Silas didn''t say anything. In Dolan, questions meant trouble. "Just need the papers processed." "Of course." She dipped her quill again. "Though I should warn you, the estate is not a safe place." "So I''ve heard." "And yet you still wish to claim it?" Silas thought of Dolan''s streets, of hunting monsters for practically nothing. "Yes." "Very well." She began writing. "Take a seat." Magistrate Riane pulled a worn ledger from her desk, finger tracing down columns of numbers. Her eyebrows lifted. "Outstanding debts, interest, plus inheritance fees." Silas felt tense. "Looks like 3 gold, base inheritance tax." She gave his ragged coat a pointed look. "Your total stands in the thousands, but three gold grants legal entry." Her eyes dropped to his meager coin pouch. "You have that amount?" Silas opened the pouch, revealing a scatter of silver pieces. Riane sighed and pulled a battered orb from her desk drawer. "Here." She placed it in his palm. Magic hummed through the orb''s etched runes, familiar yet different from the tools he''d borrowed in Dolan''s underground fights. Silas turned the humming orb in his hand. "A temporary Summoner Orb, E-rank capacity," Riane explained. "Fight in the city''s lesser pits, earn your gold. Return the orb and pay the fee, or don''t and forfeit the estate." Silas clenched the orb tighter. He''d borrowed summoning tools before, usually from shady lenders in Dolan''s underground fights. This was the same desperation, just wearing official clothes. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, trying to keep the suspicion from his voice. Riane''s expression turned distant. "A favor owed, from long ago." She shook her head, refocusing on the present. "It''s more than most get. Use it wisely." Silas nodded, tucking the orb into his pocket. Its weight pressed against his side, a constant reminder of the debt he''d just taken on. "Any advice on where to start?" Riane leaned back in her chair, fingers drumming against the polished wood. "The outer ring. You''ll want one of the fight rings. That''s where you''ll want to start." "Thought that was illegal." Silas had seen enough underground fights in Dolan to recognize the careful way she chose her words. "The noble district has rules. Regulations. Oversight." She waved her hand toward the window. "Out there? The city guard has better things to do than shut down every back-alley match." Made sense. In Dolan, the guards only bothered with fights that got too public or too bloody. "Less skilled fighters too," she added. "Dock workers and market brawlers testing their luck with borrowed orbs. Not like the inner rings where noble houses field trained summoners." Silas nodded. Starting small meant staying alive long enough to learn. "Gambling?" he asked. "Heavy betting. Especially on newcomers." A hint of approval crossed her face at his question. "Smart fighters can make more from well-placed bets than victory purses. Just remember, outer ring crowds don''t take kindly to obvious throws." That matched what he knew. Back home, fighters who tried fixing matches often didn''t survive to collect their bribes. "The pits move around," she continued. "But walk around long enough, and you''ll find it." TAMED/SUMMONED MONSTER ROSTER (6 SLOTS) [Unknown] [Unknown] [Unknown] [Unknown] [Unknown] [Unknown] Six slots. Standard for beginners. He''d seen enough pit fights in Dolan to know that experienced summoners could field twice that many creatures, but six would do for now. The E-rank orb limited what he could call forth - probably nothing stronger than the basic creatures he''d seen other desperate fighters use. Giant rats. Angry roosters. The occasional wild dog if someone got lucky. Not exactly the powerful beasts noble summoners commanded, but Silas had learned long ago that survival didn''t require the best tools - just the wit to use what you had. Back in Dolan, he''d watched enough matches to know the basics. Each slot could hold one creature, either tamed or summoned. Tamed beasts stayed with you, growing stronger over time. Summoned ones appeared for the fight, then vanished when their mana ran out. Silas checked his remaining coins. Not enough for an inn, especially if he needed to save some for fight entry fees. He''d have to find somewhere else to clean up and rest before his first match. Silas tucked the summoning orb deeper into his pocket. Its weight felt like another debt, another obligation. But debts could be paid. He''d done it before in Dolan, fighting his way clear of every lender and thug who thought they owned him. He stood, ignoring how his muscles protested after the arachne fight. "Anything else?" "Just one thing." Magistrate Riane''s responded. "Try to last longer than the others." Silas left without responding. He had work to do. The pits waited somewhere in the outer ring, and he needed to find them before nightfall. Time to see what kind of fighters Bastian bred. 3. The Art of the Con The outer ring''s narrow streets weren''t easy to navigate, but Silas followed the flow of foot traffic, noting how certain alleys drew more attention. By late afternoon, the sounds of shouting and jingling coins led him to what he sought. Makeshift fighting rings dotted the cramped spaces between buildings. Frayed ropes marked boundaries while spectators pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, money changing hands as creatures clashed. Silas paused at one ring where a teenager strutted about, leading a scarred wildcat on a short chain. The beast''s muscles rippled under patchy fur, fresh scratches marking recent victories. "Who''s got silver to spare?" The teen shouted out. Silas stepped forward. "I''ll bet two silver." The crowd went quiet. Several eyes fixed on the dark stains coating his leather armor, remnants of the morning''s fight with the arachne. The teen''s confidence wavered as he took in Silas''s battle-worn appearance. "Hope you don''t mind crawling home." Silas drew out the magistrate''s orb. The unfamiliar tool pulsed against his palm as he fed it a thin stream of mana. Light swirled and took shape above the arena. A Grey Owl materialized, wings spread wide. Its curved talons flexed as it settled onto a wooden post. Laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone called out about easy money. But Silas had learned in his hunting days to judge nothing in advance. ¡°Begin!¡± someone shouted. The wildcat''s muscles bunched. Silas recognized the telltale signs from countless hunts, weight shifting back, shoulders lowering. His grip tightened on the orb. The cat exploded forward, a blur of fur and extended claws. But Silas had already issued his command. The owl''s wings hammered down, kicking up loose dirt and debris from the packed earth. The cat''s charge faltered as dust filled its eyes and nose. "Grip and drop," Silas ordered. The owl''s talons locked around the wildcat''s torso. In one smooth motion, it lifted its thrashing prey skyward. The cat twisted and spat, but couldn''t reach the iron grip that held it. Twenty feet up, the owl released. The cat plummeted and yolwed. The sound was cut short as it hit the ground. The impact drove the air from its lungs with a wet crack. Its legs splayed at unnatural angles, chest heaving in short, desperate gasps. The teen''s face drained of color. His hands shook as he pulled two silver coins from his pocket and tossed them at Silas''s feet. Silas collected his winnings without looking at the broken creature in the dirt. The owl dissolved into mist, flowing back into the orb and left the teen to tend to his cat. Silas moved to the next ring, where a bulky man guided a snarling wolverine. The crowd parted, recognizing his blood-stained armor. Silas tucked the silver into his pocket and studied the wolverine. Its thick brown fur bristled, muscles coiled beneath. Not a typical arena pet - this was a creature built for killing. The handler caught Silas''s gaze. "Five silver minimum. Unless you''re having second thoughts?" Silas pulled out his coins. "I''ll match five." The man''s thick lips curled. "Fresh meat, eh? Name''s Garn." He patted the wolverine''s head. "This here''s Ripper. Earned that name fair and square." "Silas." He kept his introduction short, focused on analyzing his opponent. The wolverine''s movements showed training - it stayed close to Garn''s leg without a leash, watching for signals. Its claws had been sharpened recently, catching the late afternoon light. "Rules are simple," Garn said. "Fight ends when one beast yields or dies. No interference from handlers once it starts." Silas nodded and stepped back to his position. The crowd pressed closer, coins already changing hands as bets were placed. "Ten silver says your bird doesn''t last two minutes," someone called out. "Done," Silas answered without turning. He''d learned long ago that confidence drew better odds. Garn dropped a hand onto Ripper''s head. "Ready when you are, fresh meat." Silas raised the summoning orb, feeling its familiar pulse. "Let''s begin." He raised the orb again, but this time different energies pulsed through it. A Lesser Salamander materialized in a burst of orange light, its scaled hide flickering with inner heat. Embers dripped from its mouth onto the packed dirt.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The wolverine charged. Silas had faced enough monsters to know a few weak points. As the wolverine charged, he kept his voice steady. "Target the paws." The salamander''s throat expanded, releasing a spray of burning sparks across the ground. The wolverine''s paws hit the smoldering earth, making it yelp and stumble. "Left flank, short burst." Another jet of flame caught the wolverine''s side. It spun away from the heat, fur smoking. "Circle behind, force it forward." The salamander darted around, spitting precise streams of fire that herded the wolverine toward Garn''s legs. The beast''s movements grew frantic, its earlier confidence shattered by burns it couldn''t counter. "Box it in." Four quick bursts created a wall of flames. The wolverine pressed against Garn''s legs, whimpering as embers drifted too close to its singed fur. Garn''s face twisted. "Ripper, get back out there!" But the wolverine wouldn''t budge. "That''s a yield," Silas called out. He''d seen enough animals pushed past their limits in Dolan. No point doing more damage just to prove a point. More coins joined Silas''s growing purse. He switched rings again, summoning the owl to face a desert fox. The fox''s speed meant nothing when talons gripped it from above. Ring after ring, victory after victory. But Silas noticed the changing atmosphere. Fewer smiles greeted his approach. Mutters about "borrowed power" and "street rat luck" followed his steps. A group of men blocked his path to the next ring. Their clothes marked them as regular tamers - permanent residents who relied on these fights for income. The leader, a scarred man with a crooked nose, stepped forward. "Think you''re clever, boy? Coming here with magistrate''s magic to steal our coin?" Five others flanked him, hands drifting to belt knives. Their eyes held the flat anger Silas recognized from Dolan''s streets - men who''d lost too much, looking to take it back with interest. "One last fight," Crooked Nose said. "All your winnings against ours. Fair enough?" Silas studied the men surrounding him. Six against one, and these weren''t the drunken brawlers he''d faced in Dolan''s back alleys. Their muscles and scars spoke of regular fighting. Even if he summoned something powerful, they''d gut him before the creature could act and even if he pulled off a win, they''d gut him just the same. There was one option. He recognized the greed in their eyes. The same look he''d seen in marks who thought they had the upper hand. "All our winnings?" Silas pulled out his coin purse, letting it jingle. "Sounds fair. My summon against all of yours at once." Crooked Nose blinked, caught off guard by the eager response. "You''re that confident?" "Why not?" Silas grinned, "Been winning all day, haven''t I? Unless you''re worried about somehow losing 6 to 1?" The insult hit its mark. Red crept up Crooked Nose''s neck. "Get in the ring then, boy." The crowd grew as word spread of the high-stakes match. Silas made a show of counting out his coins, stacking them where everyone could see then put them back in his pouch. "Those are yours, if you win!" He grinned. The other handlers did the same, their pile growing impressively large. "Hope you''ve got something special in that orb," someone called out. "They''ve got two timber wolves and a mountain lion between them." Silas stretched his arms, taking his time. "Oh, you haven''t seen anything yet." He raised the orb high, making sure all eyes locked onto it. "Ready when you are." The handlers spread out, reaching for their own summoning tools. Silas drew back his arm in an exaggerated wind-up, as if preparing to throw the orb. "Hope you assholes are ready for something special," Silas called out, his muscles tensing. The crowd pressed closer, eager to see what powerful creature he''d summon against six opponents. He drew his arm back, orb ready in hand. The handlers spread out, readying their own tools. Their eyes fixed on the glowing sphere in his hand, waiting for the throw. Silas twisted his body, putting his whole weight into the wind-up. Then he turned the motion into a dead sprint, darting between two surprised handlers before they could react. Their curses cut off as he shot past, boots pounding dirt as he dove into the nearest alley. Shouts of rage erupted behind him. "Stop him!" "Thief!" "Get that bastard!" But Silas was already three turns ahead, the orb and his original coins tucked safely in his belt pouch. He''d learned long ago in Dolan that sometimes the best move was knowing when to run. Better to keep your winnings and your life than try to prove something to men who''d kill you either way. Silas''s boots hit cobblestones as he cut through winding alleys. Angry shouts echoed behind him, but distance wasn''t his only advantage. He''d spent years learning every escape route in Dolan''s maze-like streets, these outer ring paths weren''t much different. A cart blocked the next turn. Silas planted one hand on its edge and vaulted over, sending a stack of empty crates crashing. The noise would draw attention, but it also blocked pursuit. He burst through a cluster of market stalls, ducking under openings and weaving between startled shoppers. A flash of movement caught his eye, one of the handlers had circled ahead, knife already drawn. Silas grabbed a hanging rope of dried peppers and yanked it loose. The spices burst across his pursuer''s face in a red cloud. The man''s curse turned into choking coughs. An old drainage pipe ran up the nearest building. Silas jumped, caught the edge, and scrambled upward. His boots found purchase on crumbling brick. At the top, he rolled onto clay tiles, staying low as more shouts rose from below. The rooftop path offered a clear view of his hunters spreading out through the streets. Silas stayed in a crouch, moving from shadow to shadow. When one looked up, he pressed flat against a chimney until the threat passed. Three buildings over, he spotted his escape route - a pile of hay bales stacked against a stable wall. Silas took a running start and leaped across the final gap. The hay broke his fall, though bits of straw stuck in his hair and armor. He slipped through the stable''s back door, past drowsy horses, and out into a different quarter of the outer ring. The sounds of pursuit had faded to nothing. Silas ducked into a shadowy doorway, catching his breath after the sprint through Bastian''s outer ring. He pulled out the summoning orb, its surface still warm from use. Time to check what he had to work with.
TAMED/SUMMONED MONSTER ROSTER (6 SLOTS) [Grey Owl - E - Common] Status: Available Notes: Aerial superiority, excellent grip strength. Best used for quick strikes from above. [Lesser Salamander - E - Common] Status: Available Notes: Fire breath effective for area control. Burns easily tire larger opponents. [Unknown] [Unknown] [Unknown] [Unknown]. 4. The Price of Fortune Silas tucked the orb back into his belt pouch and wiped straw from his armor. The chase had left him sweating, but his coin purse felt heavier. Worth the trouble, even if he''d made some enemies. Not that it mattered, he never planned to fight in the outer ring again once he had enough gold. His stomach growled. When was the last time he''d eaten? The arachne hunt felt like days ago, though it had only been this morning. Amazing how much could change in a few hours - from hunting monsters in collapsed buildings to running across rooftops in Bastian. A nearby food cart caught his attention. The vendor was grilling skewers of meat and vegetables, the smell making Silas''s mouth water. He had plenty of coin now, might as well treat himself to a real meal. "Three skewers," Silas said, dropping copper pieces into the vendor''s weathered palm. The old man nodded, handing over the hot food. "New to the outer ring? Haven''t seen you around before." "Just passing through." Silas bit into the first skewer, savoring the seasoned meat. Silas chewed slowly, studying the old vendor. Street merchants usually knew more than guards about what happened in a city. "Been here long?" "Thirty years on this corner." The vendor turned another set of skewers. "Seen everything worth seeing in the outer ring." "What about the Beckham Estate?" The vendor''s hands stilled over the grill. "Bad business, that place. Used to be grand, finest monster tamer in Bastian. Old Dewalt the Archmage could control anything with scales, fur, or fangs." He shook his head. "Then something went wrong. Real wrong." "How so?" "Started with the smaller beasts - hunting hounds, messenger birds. They turned savage overnight. Then the bigger ones followed. Guards found pieces of servants scattered across the grounds." The vendor lowered his voice. "Even the magical creatures went mad. Elementals, constructs - everything with a binding just... snapped." Silas took another bite, keeping his expression neutral. "Estate''s been empty since?" "Empty?" The vendor barked a harsh laugh. "Five families tried claiming it. Last one lasted three days before something tore through their guards. Now the monsters own it, ferals stalking the halls, magical beasts gone wild. Nobody survives long enough to claim it." "Nobody?" "Well, there was one fellow made it a week. Said he heard voices in the walls, saw things moving in mirrors. Found him trying to claw his own eyes out." The vendor handed Silas his last skewer. "Take my advice - whatever gold you think that place is worth, it''s not enough. Some things are better left alone." Silas frowned at the vendor''s words. Something didn''t add up. "How could they claim it if there was already an heir?" "Heir?" The vendor scratched his stubble. "Estate''s been empty since Dewalt died. No wife, no children. Whole family line dried up." "The Bird of Hermes found me." Silas pulled out the inheritance scroll. "Brought this straight to me while I was hunting." The vendor''s eyes narrowed, then he burst into harsh laughter that drew stares from passersby. "Good story lad, right up there with every kid who dreamed they were really a richling waiting for their real family to arrive." "I''m not-" Silas stopped himself. No point arguing. He''d spent enough years as a orphan in Doan to know better. But the Bird had found him. That meant something. The creature couldn''t be fooled by false claims or pretenders, it existed solely to deliver inheritance notices to legitimate heirs. The vendor was still chuckling, shaking his head as he turned back to his grill. Silas wadded up the empty skewer wrappings and tossed them in a nearby barrel. Let the old man laugh. Soon enough he''d have the estate and three thousand gold in debt to worry about. That thought sobered him. Silas studied the vendor''s weathered face. "What did happen to Dewalt?" "The archmage?" The vendor sprinkled seasoning over a fresh batch of skewers. "Old age as far as anyone knows. Not the monsters." He adjusted the meat on the grill. "Found him in his study one morning, slumped over his desk like he''d fallen asleep. No marks, no signs of struggle. Just stopped breathing." That didn''t match the wild tales of rampaging beasts. Silas leaned against the cart''s wooden frame. "When was this?" "Six months back. City guard sealed the place same day - too many valuable artifacts to leave unprotected. Then the monsters started appearing." The vendor shrugged. "Guards tried clearing them out at first. Lost eight men before they gave up. Now they just keep people away." Six months. The timeline nagged at Silas. If Dewalt died peacefully, why did his creatures turn savage after his death? And why did the Bird of Hermes take so long to find him? The smell of burning meat pulled him from his thoughts. The vendor cursed, rushing to save his skewers from the flames. He still needed more coin just to pay the inheritance fee, never mind the estate''s debts. Silas fingered the few coins in his purse. The weight felt good, but it wasn''t enough. That inheritance tax stood between him and the estate. Even after the string of fights, brutal takedowns, and that mad dash across the rooftops, he still fell short. He left the food cart behind, cutting through a dim alley. The vendor''s warnings about the estate lingered at the back of his mind, but they didn''t matter. Not yet. First, he had to solve the immediate problem, scraping together enough gold to pay the fee.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. The estate could be packed with savage beasts, haunted by spirits, or cursed six ways from summer. None of that changed the fact that it was his only path forward. His alternative was crawling back to Dolan''s streets, back to five-silver contracts that would eventually get him killed, the only ending that didn''t stop with him rotting in some back ally. This way, even if it was dangerous, he only had to do it once. The fighting pits had been profitable, but he couldn''t risk going back. Word would spread about his earlier escape. The local tamers wouldn''t forget that humiliation quickly. Silas rubbed his neck, considering his options. As a mercenary he knew their should be a gambling den, somewhere tucked away from the main streets. All cities had them, if you knew where to look, and with the pit fights no longer viable, perhaps a different gamble would net him those final coins. He followed the sounds of muted conversation down a cramped side street. A burly bouncer blocked the doorway, arms crossed. He gave Silas''s blood-stained armor a once-over. "Got coin?" "Enough," Silas said. The bouncer stepped aside with a shrug. "No city guard, no fights inside. You cheat, you answer to the Hound." "Fair enough." Silas kept his face neutral as he slipped past. The door clicked shut behind him. Lantern light revealed a low room thick with pipe smoke. Wooden tables dotted the space in uneven rows. Men and women bent over games of chance, weapons visible beneath cloaks and coats. Coins littered every surface. A woman with sharp features dealt cards at one table. Two dwarves argued over dice in a corner. A scarred man in armor glanced up from his drink, then looked away. Silas kept his head down, searching for medium-stakes games. He spotted a rickety table where three players faced a dealer, silver and copper chips scattered between them. The game looked similar to Five-Point Tarot from Dolan''s card houses. He moved closer. A sweating nobleman cursed at his cards. A half-elf pushed more coins forward, grinning. An old soldier watched with cold eyes. The half-elf collected his winnings. The dealer noticed Silas hovering. "Playing or watching?" "Playing." Silas pulled out silver coins, letting them catch the light. "If there''s room." They made space. He sat down, relaxed on the outside while his pulse quickened. He rarely gambled, survival meant hoarding every coin. But he''d picked up tricks from watching others lose their money. If the house cheated, he''d need to get, better. The dealer slid three cards across the worn table to each player, followed by two face-down in the center. Silas lifted the corner of his cards. Not terrible, it was a spread of mid-range numbers, but didn''t quite form the set he needed. He matched the opening bet, keeping his posture loose. Let them think he was green. The half-elf''s lips curled as he pushed forward a stack of silver. Sweat glistened on the nobleman''s forehead as he called. The old soldier just tapped a single coin against the table. When the dealer flipped the first communal card, Silas kept his face neutral. The Wild Hunt, it allowed a card to change suits. That could work in his favor. He recalled a trick from his days in Dolan, taught by an older thief who made it into old age. The right sleight of hand could improve odds significantly. But timing was everything. The half-elf bet aggressively through the round. Silas kept his raises measured, not wanting to draw attention. The old soldier folded with a grunt. The nobleman called, dabbing his neck. The second reveal brought the Bleeding Tower. The half-elf muttered a curse under his breath. Whatever he had been chasing failed. "Raise two silver." Silas mumbled, trying to seem unsure. "You sure you know what you''re doing?" The half-elf''s eyes narrowed. Silas shrugged. "Luck''s luck." Both remaining players matched his bet. The dealer announced the final swap round. Silas watched their exchanges carefully before making his move. As he reached for the discard pile, he dropped the summoning orb and the glow of it masked him palming an extra card. "Sorry." Silas fumbled for the orb, letting it roll across the table before snatching it up. "I''m new to summoning." The half-elf''s eyes locked onto the device. "Magistrate-issued. E-rank." He snorted. "Pit fighter?" "For now." Silas tucked the orb away, noting how the other players'' attention had shifted. The nobleman''s sweating increased, while the old soldier''s cold stare gained an edge of calculation. The dealer cleared his throat. "Cards, gentlemen." Silas''s fingers closed around the card he took. The dealer gave one more card. Silas studied his improved hand, keeping his expression neutra. The half-elf''s earlier confidence had cracked, his fingers beat against the table''s worn surface. The nobleman''s face had gone from sweating to pale, clearly regretting that he hadn''t folded earlier. The dealer''s eyes swept across their faces. "Final bets." The half-elf pushed forward a stack of silver. "All in." The nobleman folded with a groan, tossing his cards face-down. Silas matched the bet, then added two more silver pieces. The weight of his coin purse had lightened considerably, but the risk felt calculated. Better odds than fighting six tamers at once. The half-elf''s jaw tightened as he called. "Show," the dealer commanded. The half-elf spread out in front of him, three matching Knights. A strong hand in most games. Silas laid his cards on the table one by one. The Cup of Crowns, the Tower of Crowns, and the Hermit. The card he stole, the Maiden of Crowns completed the set. With the Wild Hunt conversion changing the Hermit card to match, he had four Crowns total. The half-elf''s face darkened as he processed the hand. His fingers curled into fists, knuckles white against the table''s surface. Silas kept his movements casual as he pulled the coins toward him, though his muscles tensed for trouble. The weight of silver felt good in his hands as he stacked them methodically. The dealer''s expression remained neutral as he collected the cards. "House takes five percent." Silas counted out the fee without complaint. Worth every copper to avoid another mad dash across rooftops. The dealer''s hands moved in practiced motions, cards flowing like water between his fingers. "Another round?" "Think I''ll quit while I''m ahead." Silas tucked the coins into his belt pouch, the weight bringing a small measure of satisfaction. Finally enough to cover that inheritance fee. The half-elf''s chair scraped against wooden floorboards. "Funny how your luck changed after dropping that orb." "That''s luck for you." Silas kept his tone flat, watching the half-elf''s fingers drift toward his belt. The motion set off warning bells, same way thugs in Dolan reached for hidden knives. The old soldier interrupted. "Let it go, Vanis. House rules." The bouncer had warned about fights inside. But outside? Different story. He''d seen enough street brawls to know how this might play out once he left the den''s relative safety. Silas turned from the table, scanning the cramped room. The old soldier watched him with hard eyes while the nobleman slumped in defeat. He navigated between tables where dice clattered and coins changed hands. His goal was simple - slip out with enough gold to pay that cursed inheritance fee. A massive figure in a dark coat stepped into his path. The Hound. The den''s enforcer earned his name through a reputation for hunting down those who crossed the house. The man''s scarred face twisted into what might have been a smile. "Heard you had a good win tonight, friend." "Just beginner''s luck," Silas said, keeping his tone light. "Heading out while I''m ahead." "The house likes to celebrate winners. Stay, have a drink on us." Silas recognized the trap, they''d keep pouring until his luck ran dry or worse. "Appreciate the offer, but I''ve got business early in the morning and need my head clear." The Hound dropped the smile. He shifted aside, but his presence still filled the narrow space. "Watch yourself out there, friend. Dark nights swallow heavy purses." Silas nodded and squeezed past the enforcer''s bulk. Eyes followed him to the exit, but no one made a move to stop him. His fingers brushed the coin-heavy purse enough to finally clear that fee, with some extra padding. He melted into the shadows of the outer ring''s streets, taking random turns to shake any pursuit. The gambling den''s sounds faded behind him as he vanished into Bastian''s maze of alleys but also kept the summoning orb close.
TAMED/SUMMONED MONSTER ROSTER (6 SLOTS) [Grey Owl - E - Common] Status: Available Notes: Aerial superiority, excellent grip strength. Best used for quick strikes from above. [Lesser Salamander - E - Common] Status: Available Notes: Fire breath effective for area control. Burns easily tire larger opponents. [Unknown] [Unknown] [Unknown] [Unknown] 5. Chained Legacy Silas eyes snapped opened. His body jerking forward. His hand gripped the knife at his belt before his eyes focused. Eight-legged shadows crawled across stone walls. The collapsed house in Dolan flashed through his mind - rotting wood, spider silk, and death. But no webs stretched between the buildings. No red eyes looked down at him. It was just flicker of torchlight. The stench of piss and garbage replaced the musty smell of arachne nests. His breathing slowed as reality settled back in. He''d picked this corner for its defensive position, walls on two sides, clear sight lines, multiple escape routes. Old habits from Dolan''s streets. The coin purse pressed against his hip, heavy with his gambling wins. Worth the risk of sleeping rough rather than spending silver on an inn where the half-elf or the Hound''s people might come looking. He could have found a bed, but he wanted to save every coin he could. He''d slept awkwardly using his armor as he could for padding. His back ached from the uneven stones, and a foul stench rose from the rotting garbage piled a few paces away. It wasn''t the end of the world. He''d known worse. When you didn''t have the coin for a real inn, or wanted to avoid certain vengeful gamblers, this was safer than shelling out precious silver for a flea-ridden bunk. He rolled his shoulders, muscles protesting. Silas peeled himself off the grimy alley stones, his muscles protesting each movement. He needed to look somewhat presentable before heading to the magistrate''s office. The dried monster blood and alley filth clung to his armor and skin. Even the local beggars gave him a wide berth. A water trough stood half a block away, he''d noticed it last night while scouting escape routes. The wooden structure served the local stables, where workers cleaned their horses after long shifts. He pushed through the thin morning crowd, ignoring the sideways glances and wrinkled noses. A scrawny stableboy looked up from his work as Silas approached the trough. The kid''s eyes narrowed when Silas pulled out a worn rag and dunked it in the murky water. "You ain''t got a stable pass," the boy said, voice barely above a whisper. Silas fixed him with a hard stare, the kind that had sent most backing away. He methodically wiped away the worst of the gore from his armor, the water turning a rusty brown. The dried blood came off in flakes. Not perfect, but better than walking into government offices looking like he''d bathed in a slaughterhouse and smelled like it too. He splashed his face and ran wet fingers through his hair, droplets running down his neck. His coat was beyond help, the stains ground deep into the leather. But at least the smell of death had faded. The stableboy watched the whole time, mouth set in a thin line. Smart enough to keep quiet. Silas gave him a short nod and walked away, water still drying on his skin. Suddenly, his stomach rumbled. He dug through his coat pockets, fingers brushing past loose threads and worn leather until they found the crushed remains of yesterday''s bread. The roll had gone hard as stone, but his teeth knew worse. A strip of dried meat came next , salt-cured jerky he''d grabbed from a market stall. The meat was tough, requiring extra chewing but also had a decent flavor from the salt. The outer ring moved around him as he ate his meager breakfast. Market stalls opened their shutters while workers trudged past, heading to jobs in the industrial district. Street vendors already called their wares. A charm-seller rattled strings of painted wooden tokens, claiming protection against evil spirits. Another hawked vials of murky liquid that promised everything from restored youth to enhanced strength. Some of the sellers'' eyes slid over him, then quickly away. A few nodded with cautious respect. His victories in the fighting pits had earned him that much at least. Better than the suspicious glares from yesterday. Some recognized him, but he didn''t see anyone he needed to be wary off, not on his way toward the magistrates office. He forced down the last bit of stale bread then brushed crumbs from his coat and started walking. Silas trudged toward the gates between city rings, pushing through workers hauling produce crates, merchants leading loaded donkey carts through the cramped streets. The guards at the checkpoint gave him hard stares but waved him through once he showed the battered Beckham scroll. Their eyes lingered on his worn appearance. The second ring''s wider streets felt different. Polished shop windows reflected glimpses of himself as he passed, his dark hair stuck up at odd angles, purple shadows ringed his eyes from lack of proper sleep. He pushed the observations aside. Appearance meant nothing compared to the weight of coins in his pocket, and what it would mean once he got a chance at the estate.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. The Magistrate''s Office loomed ahead. Inside, lines of people crowded each desk, faces twisted with frustration or fallen in resignation. He found the "Estate Inheritance" queue and took his place, noting it looked just as long as his last visit. A couple argued in whispers ahead of him about property fees and corrupt officials. Silas tuned them outt. The wait dragged on. When he finally reached the front, a thin clerk with shadowed eyes stared up at him, expression blank. "Name," she droned. "Silas Beckham." He placed the scroll with its faded seal on her desk. "I''m here to pay the inheritance fee." Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "How much was it?" "Three gold," he said flatly. She consulted a thick ledger, and started looking through it for the Beckham estate''s extensive records. Then she sighed. "Place your coins on the scale." Silas set three gold pieces on the balance, each stamped with Bastian''s seal. They caught the lantern light as the clerk weighed them. "Accepted." She pressed her stamp onto his scroll. Arcane symbols flickered briefly across the parchment''s surface. Silas stared at the clerk. "So that''s it?" She looked at him like he was particularly slow-witted. "No. That''s the fee. There''s still a substantial amount of back taxes owed on the property." His fingers tightened on the edge of her desk. "How much?" "Well, the base back tax owed is 2,997 gold." Silas gritted his teeth. It was an estate, he knew the rich had their own taxes that was just a fraction of their wealth. Before he could respond the clerk continued. "Of course, that''s just the original amount." "What?" The words caught in his throat. "Wait... just... the original?" The clerk sighed again, clearly used to this routine. "Yes, you see, there are late fees, compounded interest, and several penalty charges accrued over the years. Not to mention the administrative fees, property preservation costs, and..." She flipped to another page, her voice droning on mechanically. "Yes, here we are. After adjustments, penalties, compounding interest, pass through taxes as per inheritance law¡ª" "Just give me the final number," Silas cut in, his jaw clenched. The clerk scribbled some numbers in the margin. Then she pushed the ledger toward him, pointing to a final number circled in red. "You owe 15,623 gold." Silas stared at the figure, willing it to change. "Fifteen thousand?" The words came out strangled. "Plus a few more fees that will be added next month if payment isn''t made in full," she added helpfully. "It''s all standard procedure really, let me check again." She started tallying columns, muttering under her breath. "Base of 2999, compounded, carry the five..." Silas felt his mouth go dry as she continued her cold explanation about compounded interest and recalculations for property value adjustments. "Fifteen thousand gold..." he muttered to himself. Silas stared at those numbers until they blurred together. Fifteen thousand gold. He''d never seen that much money in his life. The most he''d ever earned was 8 silver for running supplies between mercenary camps, but that had just about got him killed in the process. His hands clenched into fists. A lifetime of taking the most dangerous contracts, of sleeping in alleys and eating scraps, and he''d barely scraped together enough copper to stay alive. Now they wanted him to somehow produce enough gold to buy a small kingdom. "Decades..." The word tasted bitter. He''d seen what happened to people trapped in long-term debt. They became slaves in all but name, working themselves to death just to pay the interest. The clerk''s quill scratched against parchment as she made more notations. Each stroke felt like another nail in his coffin. He thought of all those monster-hunting contracts he''d taken. The ones other hunters wouldn''t touch because the pay wasn''t worth the risk. Five silver here, three there. Sometimes just copper coins when he was desperate enough. And now they wanted fifteen thousand gold. His throat tightened. "I need to think about this," he managed to say, the words scraping past his dry throat. The clerk peered at him over her glasses. "Of course,. Take all the time you need." Her tone made it clear she''d seen plenty of would-be lords crumble under impossible debts. "But remember, the longer you wait, the more it accrues." One step at a time, he told himself. That''s how he''d survived this long. Don''t look at the whole nest of arachne, just focus on killing the first one in front of you. Silas strode toward the door, mind reeling from the impossible debt. At least he could finally get to the estate, see what all this trouble was worth. The clerk shuffled behind her desk. Quick footsteps followed him as he reached for the door handle. "Wait!" she called, urgency breaking through her professional tone. Silas froze, hand hovering over the brass handle. He turned slowly, dread crawling up his spine. The clerk hurried from behind her counter, waving a piece of parchment. "I¡ªuh¡ªforgot something," she stammered, looking both apologetic and frustrated. "There''s one more thing." Silas narrowed his eyes. "What now?" She stopped in front of him, catching her breath. "I mentioned inheritance tax," she said, flipping the parchment open and scanning it. "But forgot to factor in the inheritance tax on the total value of the estate now that it''s officially passed to you." Silas felt his stomach knot tighter. "How much?" The clerk bit her lip, running her finger down the page before finding the number. She hesitated. "Based on the estate''s assessed value," she said carefully, "which includes the property, mana conduit, ley line, and potential revenue sources... the inheritance tax comes to an additional twelve thousand four hundred eighty-nine gold." Silas stared at her, mind going blank. "Twelve thousand...?" She nodded, expression mixing pity and discomfort. "Yes. The state has to collect on such... valuable properties. You know, to ensure proper allocation of resources in Bastian." Twenty-eight thousand gold. The clerk adjusted her glasses awkwardly. "Look, I know this sounds overwhelming, but this is, um, standard practice for estates of your size." Her muttering seemed less businesslike now. Silas picked up on it immediately. "The Arch Magus was quite... prolific in his holdings," she continued nervously, "even if they''ve fallen into disrepair. You''ve inherited a great deal of potential wealth." Silas shook his head, bitterness creeping into his voice. "Potential wealth doesn''t pay taxes." She gave a half-hearted shrug. "Well... no. But you have to start somewhere." Silas felt the walls closing in. The numbers on the parchment grew larger, more menacing. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. "Twenty-eight thousand gold," he muttered, the words bitter on his tongue. The clerk nodded sympathetically, but it only pissed him off. "Twenty-eight thousand gold." hat was an inheritance he couldn''t afford when the sum attached to it was worth the wealth of a city? He stepped back, heat rising to his face. The clerk stepped back instinctively, sensing the change in him. "Sir, I¡ª" Silas forced himself to take a slow breath, unclenching his fists. Getting angry at a clerk wouldn''t change the numbers. "Thank you for informing me," he said, keeping his voice steady. The clerk''s tension eased slightly. Twenty-eight thousand gold. He''d faced impossible odds before. This was just another problem to solve. "Is there anything else I should know?" he asked. The clerk shook her head, clearly relieved he hadn''t exploded at her. "No, that''s everything for now. Though I should mention the next payment deadline is¡ª" "I''ll deal with that when I get there." Silas cut her off. One impossible task at a time, he''d already basically spent everything he had and couldn''t count on fights or gambling to do the rest. The clerk cleared her throat. "There''s also the matter of the magistrate''s summoning orb registered on your file. Now that you''ve paid the inheritance fee, you''ll need to return it." "Yeah, I''m keeping it." Silas turned back toward the door. "But sir, that''s government property! You can''t just¡ª" He walked out, letting the heavy wooden door cut off her protests. The orb sat warm against his chest, tucked safely in an inner pocket. After what they''d just dumped on him, they could consider it a down payment on that mountain of debt. He''d need every advantage he could get, including a summoning orb that technically belonged to the city. 6. The Last Copper Silas trudged through Bastian''s stone streets, the sheer amount of money owed pressed down on him. Twenty-eight thousand gold. The kind of sum that made his head spin. He''d seen nobles throw away fortunes on wine and cards, but this? This was beyond anything he could wrap his mind around. The route took him through the second ring''s winding streets, past shops opening their shutters and merchants setting up their morning wares. His stomach growled at the smell of fresh bread, but he couldn''t spare another copper. He needed every coin he had left for essential supplies¡ªrope, bandages, maybe some dried meat if he could find it cheap enough. But his purse was nearly empty after paying that inheritance fee. A supply shop caught Silas''s eye - the kind that catered to monster hunters like himself. The wooden sign above the door bore a crude painting of crossed swords. Inside, the familiar smell of leather and oil brought back memories of preparing for hunts in Dolan. Weapons lined the walls, but Silas walked past them to the practical supplies in back. No point wasting coin on fancy blades when his current sword worked fine. "What''ll it be?" The shopkeeper scratched his beard. "Rope, bandages, dried meat." Silas counted out his remaining coins. "Whatever this gets me." The shopkeeper nodded and started gathering supplies. "Heading out on a hunt?" "Something like that." The man returned with a coil of sturdy rope, a roll of clean bandages, and a small package of salted beef wrapped in paper. "Seven copper for the lot." Silas handed over the coins, leaving his purse nearly empty. He packed the supplies into his worn leather bag, making sure the bandages stayed dry and protected. The rope he slung across his chest - it had saved his life more times than he could count. The dried meat wasn''t much, but it would keep him going if things went bad. And given what he''d heard about the estate, having emergency supplies seemed like basic survival sense. Silas paused at the door, his hand hovering over the last three copper pieces in his purse. The weight of the coins felt insignificant compared to what he owed, but they might keep him alive long enough to worry about the debt. "Got any purple wisteria?" The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow. "Ghost problems?" "Estate problems." Understanding crossed the man''s weathered face. He disappeared into the back room, returning with a small cloth pouch. "Last batch. Two copper." Silas placed the coins on the counter. The dried flowers wouldn''t stop anything truly dangerous, but they''d at least warn him if spirits were nearby - the petals turned black in the presence of malevolent entities. "Salt?"This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. The shopkeeper shook his head. "Fresh out. But..." He reached under the counter and pulled out a small vial of clear liquid. "Blessed water from the Temple. Normally it''ll be another 3 copper, but I''ll cut you a deal for the last one." Silas dropped his final coin on the wooden surface. Holy water wasn''t as reliable as salt for creating barriers, but it worked well enough in a pinch. He''d seen it burn through lesser undead and might give him a chance to run if a greater undead appeared. . He tucked both items carefully into his bag. They weren''t much, but against whatever waited at the estate, every edge counted. The road curved up toward Bastian''s third ring. Buildings stretched higher here, their stone facades clean and decorated with ornate carvings. Wide streets replaced the cramped alleys of the outer rings, leaving nowhere to duck out of sight if trouble started. The crowd thinned. No more street vendors or workers rushing to their jobs. Instead, well-dressed merchants strode past without a glance, servants hurried on errands, and nobles rode in carriages that forced everyone else to the sides of the street. Guards watched from their posts at every intersection. Their eyes followed Silas as he passed, taking in his worn leather armor and the sword marks scored across it. One guard''s hand drifted to his weapon, just waiting for an excuse. Silas kept his movements slow and deliberate. No sudden moves to spook them. No reason to give them what they wanted. The summoning orb pressed against his chest beneath his shirt, a small comfort against what lay ahead. Two creatures - an owl and a salamander. Not much of an arsenal for tackling an estate that had already killed who knew how many. He could use proper healing potions instead of basic bandages, armor without patches, maybe even some enchanted tools to deal with whatever waited inside. But those weren''t options anymore. Not with twenty-eight thousand in debt hanging over his head. He pushed the thought aside. Deal with what''s in front of you first. Reach the estate. Get inside. Figure out how to stay alive once he was there. The rest could wait. The grand houses grew sparse, their windows dark and shuttered. Fewer carriages passed. The streets widened but emptied, cobblestones cracked and split by creeping weeds. Silas counted three patrols in the last hour, down from guards at every corner in the lower rings. The mansions here bore the weight of age and neglect. Elaborate stone facades crumbled. Vines consumed iron gates that hadn''t opened in years. The few nobles who clung to their ancestral homes kept to themselves, servants scurrying between buildings with downcast eyes. This district was a graveyard of fallen houses. Looking at the decay around him. The streets curved past more abandoned estates, their grounds wild and overgrown. Even the birds fell silent. Then he saw it, black iron gates rising from tangles of dead vines. The metal twisted with rust, warped by time and weather. Above the bars, a family crest had nearly vanished beneath corrosion. Only traces remained of what must have been the Beckham seal. Silas approached the gates. Beyond them stretched a courtyard consumed by tall weeds that swayed without wind. The manor itself loomed, a hulking mass of weathered stone and broken windows. The walls bore scars of violence or neglect, their surfaces pitted and cracked. His inheritance. His debt. His problem now. Silas stood before the gates, taking in the decay. His fingers traced the rusted metal, flakes of iron crumbling at his touch. "Is this really worth twenty-eight thousand gold?" The question hung in the dead air. No birds answered. No wind stirred the overgrown grass beyond the entrance. Just silence and the weight of crumbling stone pressing down from above. He''d seen better maintained graveyards in Dolan. At least those had flowers sometimes. This place looked like it hadn''t seen life in decades, despite what the vendor said about Dewalt dying only six months ago. Two creatures he knew of, four unknown, and a mountain of debt versus whatever killed or drove off everyone else. Smart money said to walk away now. Let the city keep their cursed estate and their tax demands. But walking away meant going back to Dolan. Back to five silver contracts and sleeping in abandoned buildings. Back to knowing each job could be his last, with no one to even mark his grave. At least here the thing trying to kill him would have an address. Silas ran his hand over the gate''s lock. The metal had fused shut from rust, the keyhole filled with decades of grime. No getting through this way. But the wall to the right had partially collapsed, stones tumbled into a heap that would make for an easy climb. He''d come too far to turn back now. Whether the estate was worth the gold or not didn''t matter anymore. He needed somewhere to stand his ground, and this wreck of a manor was all he had. 7. The Geminis Gate Silas scaled the fallen stones, testing each one before putting his weight on it. Years of hunting had taught him that rushing got you killed. The same principle applied here - one loose rock, one missed handhold, and he''d let anything that was waiting know he was coming. The wall''s height gave him a better view of the estate. Broken fountains dotted an overgrown lawn that might have once been gardens. Statues stood half-buried in wild grass, their features worn smooth by weather. The manor itself stretched wider than he''d first thought, with multiple wings branching from the main building. He dropped down inside the wall, landing in a crouch. The grass reached past his waist, perfect cover for anything that wanted to stay hidden. He drew his sword, the familiar weight settling into his palm. Movement caught his eye. Halfway up the drive, something large slithered among the overgrown grass. He glimpsed a flash of green, some kind of snack coiling around a broken fountain. He saw it just for a second, then it disappeared behind the stone edges. He swallowed. So the rumors about feral beasts patrolling the estate yard were true enough. He approached the gate, summoning up courage. During his last attempt, the official wards and guardians had barred him. Now, with the newly stamped scroll, he hoped for more cooperation. Sure enough, two massive suits of dull, time-worn armor stood on either side of the gate, each one nearly eight feet tall. They had horns coming out of helmets, half-chipped, and heavy pauldrons battered with old scars. The Gemini, some had called them. The estate''s infamous gate guardians. At first, they looked inert, but as Silas came close, their visors glowed a faint, baleful crimson. They shifted in unison, swords scraping across the ground in a grinding hiss. Silas crouched lower in the grass. The armors hadn''t moved since their initial stir, but their crimson gaze tracked his position. Their massive swords were ready to strike. He needed to reach that front door. Fighting those things head-on would be suicide, he''d seen enough enchanted constructs to know better. But maybe... The snake he''d spotted earlier gave him an idea. If the grounds were as wild as they looked, the original wards must have started to wear down, and with it, the magic on those suits. He circled wide through the grass, keeping low. The armors'' heads turned in perfect sync, following his movement, but as they did, the joints creaked and screeched from age and disuse. Twenty yards to the door. The grass provided decent cover, but one wrong move and those blades would find him. He kept his sword ready, though steel probably wouldn''t do much against whatever magic animated them. Fifteen yards. A branch snapped under his foot. The armors took a synchronized step forward, their steps sending tremors through the ground. But they didn''t charge. They were anchored to their posts, defending the entrance. Ten yards. He could see the door clearly now , heavy oak bound with iron, weathered but intact. The armors'' crimson gaze burned brighter. Their grip tightened on their weapons. Five yards. The grass thinned here, leaving him exposed. The armors raised their swords in perfect mirror images of each other. Silas tensed, ready to dodge.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. But they didn''t attack. They stood frozen, weapons raised, as if waiting for something. Silas pulled out the inheritance documents, his movements slow and deliberate. The armors tracked him, their crimson gazes burning through the morning mist. He held up the scroll, making sure the estate seal was visible. "I have proof of inheritance," he said, keeping his voice steady. "Blood-sealed and everything." The armors stood motionless. Testing a theory, Silas took another step closer to the door. Their visors flared bright red. Their swords began to descend. "I have the official clearance¡ª" Silas stopped, raising the scroll with the estate seal higher. No answer came, just the metallic squeal of ancient joints. One lifted its sword in a silent threat, while the other advanced, blocking his path to the gate. A wind stirred the weeds at his feet. The yard beyond seemed to hold its breath, watching. "Tough crowd," Silas muttered. He carefully pulled the stamped scroll from his coat, waving it with a tense smile. "Magistrate said I can go in." The first suit''s visor flared deeper red. In a sudden blur, it swung its massive sword horizontally, aiming to cleave him in half. He dove backward. The blade whooshed inches from his chest, slamming into the iron gate with a deafening crash. Sparks flew. "Guess not," Silas gasped, rolling to his feet. He scrambled to yank the Summoner Orb from his belt. His sword would be useless against those monstrous blades. The second armor moved. Its massive frame shifting to cut off Silas''s escape. Both suits advanced as one. The only sound was the grinding screech of ancient metal plates. Silas backed away. His street instincts screamed at him, these things were too big to take down. Fighting them head-on would be like trying to take down a building with his fists. All it would do is get him killed. His fingers found the summoning orb. He poured mana into it, not caring what came out as long as it could buy him time. Light burst from the sphere, coalescing into a form in front of him. A Bog Frog materialized, its warty body barely reaching his knee. The creature''s bulbous eyes blinked up at him, throat sac pulsing. Silas had a basic idea of what it could do. Bog Frog''s had a poisen they spit out. But the armors were magical constructs or spirits. Either or. Would acid even work on them? Silas''s mind raced back to Dolan''s streets, he''d survived worse odds. Sometimes the best defense was a good distraction. "Hit the joints," he commanded the Bog Frog. The creature''s throat sac swelled before launching a spray of liquid at the nearest armor''s knee. The acid struck the armor''s knee joint with a sizzling hiss. Green liquid ate through years of rust and grime, revealing nothing underneath but empty space. The construct''s leg seized mid-stride, its movements becoming jerky and uneven. Silas''s heart leaped. The acid was working. If he could target enough weak points- The second armor''s blade swept down in a brutal arc. The Bog Frog didn''t even have time to croak before the massive sword split it cleanly in two. Its warty body collapsed, pieces flopping onto the grass. Dark blood splattered across the stones before the creature''s remains dissolved into wisps of magical essence. Silas''s stomach turned. He''d seen plenty of creatures die, but he hadn''t expected a summon to die that way. That said, it gave him a window. A split second and that was all Silas needed. He darted between them, inheritance papers clutched tight. The door''s ward pulsed as he approached - ancient magic recognizing ancient blood. He slammed his palm against the lock, shoving the papers against it. "Come on, come on," he muttered. Behind him, metal scraped on metal as the armors turned. The lock clicked. Silas yanked the door open and dove through just as a massive blade embedded itself where his head had been. He kicked the door shut, hearing the wards snap back into place. His breath came in ragged gasps as he slumped against the wood. The dim corridor ahead was littered with debris - broken chairs, torn carpeting, all covered in a thick layer of dust. Light filtered weakly through cracked windows. "Some yard," he said between breaths, listening to the sounds of shifting metal outside. The armors seemed content to return to their posts, leaving him alone in the manor''s musty silence.
TAMED/SUMMONED MONSTER ROSTER (6 SLOTS) [Grey Owl - E - Common] Status: Available Notes: Aerial superiority, excellent grip strength. Best used for quick strikes from above. [Lesser Salamander - E - Common] Status: Available Notes: Fire breath effective for area control. Burns easily tire larger opponents. [Bog Frog - E - Common] Status: Dead [Unknown] [Unknown] [Unknown] 8. Welcome Home A rat skittered across his path, vanishing into a hole in the baseboard. At least something lived here. Though from the size of that rat, maybe that wasn''t comforting. Somewhere deeper in the darkness, floorboards creaked. The sound came from above, a slow drag of weight across ancient wood. Silas''s hand dropped to the Summoner Orb at his be. After those armored guards outside, he wasn''t taking chances with whatever else might call this place home. The creaking stopped. Then started again, closer this time. Silas moved. If Dolan had taught him anything, nothing good would happen just sitting around. Portraits lined the corridor, their frames warped and sagging. Most had succumbed to rot, but a few remained - though someone or something had torn through the faces, leaving only fragments of whom or whatever had been painted underneath. Gooseflesh broke out on his arms. He stopped mid-step as metal scraped against stone above, followed by heavy, deliberate footsteps that set dust to straight drifting. The corridor widened into a vast foyer. What remained of a chandelier lay shattered across the floor, its crystals ground to powder beneath fallen beams and broken furniture. A figure waited in the center of the room. The creature towered at least nine feet tall, encased in plates of deep crimson armor that almost seemed like fresh blood. Though it stood motionless, something about its stance reminded Silas about some of the monsters he had hunted in the past. He was in danger. Silas kept his stance loose, ready to move. The armor might be ancient, but the movement he saw so far suggested he wouldn''t be able to out maneuver, not like the armors outside. d. His fingers brushed the summoning orb, but he held back. Starting a fight in this cramped space against something that size would end badly. "Who would dare to trespass within Beckham Estate?" A deep, rasping voice boomed "Silas Beckham!" He yelled, "Last of the line." The armor advanced. "Many have claimed the Beckham name. Their bones rest in the garden now. You''ll be another vulture, come to claim what¡¯s not yours" Silas had survived Dolan''s streets by knowing when someone wanted an excuse to kill, and this thing was looking for one. The armored monster advanced. In one hand it gripped a sword, and in the other a weapon suddenly appeared, hybrid of polearm and blade with all kinds of barbed edges. The weapons looked designed for maximum pain rather than clean kills. "Begone, or feed the floor with your entrails," it command. Silas cursed. He''d faced monsters before, but this was on a different level. Even then, he wasn''t ready to quit. He was all in. "I''m the rightful heir!" Silas yelled, but the thing only took another The thing took another thunderous step forward. Its armor clacked with the movement, red runes flaring to life along each plate. Shadows swirled around its feet, and Silas caught glimpses of spirits flickering in and out of view, half-formed faces that pressed outwards in puffs of magic and smoke. "Shit," Silas muttered under his breath. The purple wisteria in his pocket felt completely inadequate, but it was all he had, that and a little holy water. Silas yanked the inheritance papers from his coat, but the armored figure''s speed left no time to explain. His muscles tensed, ready to dodge. "I have proof!" Silas called out, waving the documents. The thing paid no attention, its weapons suddenly blurred and turned red s as it attacked. The skeleton''s sword swiped out, trying to cut through his mid section. Silas threw himself backward, stumbling over broken stone and splintered wood. The sword''s edge passed close enough that if he''d been a moment slower, he''d be dying on the floor. "Wait!" He yelloed again. The armored monster just ignored him and followed up with an attack from the scythe. Silas dropped to the ground and rolled, the weapon''s impact sending cracks through the floor tiles, revealing a void of dark empty space underneath. Skeletal hands burst from the broken floor, long pale bones summoned from the dark to grab at him. Silas kicked hard, shattering the first set of fingers that clutched at his boot. More erupted through the cracks, an endless supply of grasping limbs reaching for any part of him they could grab. He stomped another hand into dust, but three more seized his left leg. Their grip was like iron, bony fingers digging into his flesh through his pants. Silas slammed his heel down, breaking one set of fingers, then another. But for each hand he destroyed, two more took its place. The armored monster attacked again. Silas wrenched himself free of the skeletal grasp and dove forward, barely dodging the attack again. He rolled across broken tiles and splintered wood, hands bursting up wherever he touched the ground. Pain shot through his right arm as cold fingers latched onto his wrist. Silas''s instincts screamed at him to counter or die. He fumbled for the small flask pinned inside his coat, the holy water burning cold against his palm through the glass. His fingers closed around it just as another skeletal hand burst through the floor, clawing at his boots. He popped the cork with his thumb. The armored monster''s next slash came in so fast Silas barely tracked the movement. He flung the water in a desperate arc, praying his timing wasn''t off. Droplets splashed across the skeleton''s breastplate and helm. The effect hit was immediately, white steam rose from where the liquid made contact, sizzling against the blood-red metal.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. The armor flickered. "GRRAAAHH!" The monster''s sword technique faltered mid-swing. Silas stumbled back, chest heaving. The armor convulsed, trying to shake off the burning liquid. Through gaps in its smoking helm, he caught glimpses of a cracked skull underneath. Silas yanked the wisteria from his pocket, crushing the purple flowers in his fist. The skeletal hands recoiled at the plant''s touch, crumbling to dust where the petals made contact. He scattered the crushed flowers in a circle around him, buying precious seconds as the bony fingers retreated back into the broken floor. The armored monster was shaking off the rest of the holy water and would resume its attacks soon. Silas''s fingers found the summoning orb. No time to be picky about which creature answered his call. He poured mana into the sphere, and light burst forth as his Grey Owl materialized above him. The bird''s wings spread wide. "Go for its head!" he commanded the owl. The bird dove straight for the armored monster''s helmet, talons extended. The monster swung its weapons wildly, trying to keep the bird away. "I can''t just give up and die," he muttered through gritted teeth. "YOU DARE USE HOLY WATER ON ME AND SEND A BIRD TO PECK AT ME?" The monster roared. Steam still rose from its armor where the blessed liquid had made contact. Silas''s hands shook, but not from fear. He''d survived the streets of Dolan, fought arachne in collapsed buildings, and clawed his way through the fighting pits. He hadn''t come all this way to die in his own damn house. "I didn''t crawl out of Dolan''s gutters just to die here!" Silas snarled, yanking the inheritance papers from his coat. "I''m the heir, and I can prove it!" He hurled the documents at the armored monster. The papers fluttered through the air between them. The armored monster snatched them with impossible speed, its massive gauntleted hand dwarfing the documents. "These are, oh, oh my." The monster''s voice trailed off as it studied the papers. Silas straightened his back. "Official inheritance documents from the Magistrate''s office. Blood-sealed and verified." The armor''s red glow dimmed. One by one, the skeletal hands retreated with surprising grace, adjusting their torn gloves as they sank back into the floor. The broken tiles shifted back into place, leaving only hairline cracks in the marble. "My deepest apologies, Lord Beckham." The monster''s voice changed, losing its rage but keeping an otherworldly echo. The blood-red armor dissolved like smoke, revealing a tall skeletal frame dressed in an immaculate butler''s suit. Silas kept his distance, holy water flask still ready. "What... what is this?" "This, young master, is what happens when one fails to make a proper introduction." The skeleton adjusted a monocle that had somehow appeared in one eye socket. "I am Bonereghard Ekkert, appointed guardian and butler of Beckham Estate. Though I must say, your entrance through the garden wall was rather unorthodox." Silas didn''t lower his guard. After that fight, the butler''s polite tone felt like another trap. "The front gate was rusted shut." "Ah." Bonereghard brushed some holy water residue from his lapel. "Yes. Maintenance has been somewhat lack luster since Master Dewalt''s passing. Still, attempted murder aside, I must ask, why didn''t you lead with your status as heir?" Silas''s jaw clenched. "I shouted it the moment I walked in." "Did you?" Bonereghard adjusted his monocle. "I was rather focused on defending the estate from potential looters." "You tried to kill me!" Silas responded. "A regrettable misunderstanding." Bonereghard waved a bony hand. "Water under the bridge, as they say." "Water under the ridge? Really?" Silas stared at the skeleton butler. "You summoned hands from the floor to drag me under!" "Standard estate security measures. Nothing personal, I assure you." Bonereghard brushed some dust from his impeccable suit sleeve. "Though I must commend your quick thinking with the holy water. Most intruders don''t come quite so well-prepared." The Grey Owl landed on a broken beam above, still watching the skeleton with predatory focus. Silas couldn''t blame it. "You were going to add my bones to the garden," Silas said. "Ah, yes. Well, it is a rather nice garden depending on time of the year." Bonereghard straightened his tie. Silas crossed his arms. "What made you think I was a looter?" "We get them from time to time." Bonereghard admitted much to his dismay. "Much like rats, mites, and the occasional leak in the ceiling." The skeleton''s empty eye sockets traced over Silas''s torn clothes and dirt-streaked face. "And if I may say so young heir, you do look quite the ragamuffin." Silas glanced down at his monster-blood stained clothes. Hard to argue with that assessment. The past few days of sleeping rough and fighting in the pits hadn''t helped either. The Grey Owl shifted on its perch, talons scraping against wood. Silas kept the bird summoned - just in case this butler decided to try adding him to the garden again. "Perhaps we should discuss the estate''s condition somewhere more appropriate?" Bonereghard asked, "The study remains mostly intact." "Sure. I guess." Silas kept his eyes on the skeleton butler. After that welcome, he wasn''t about to fully trust anything in this place. He glanced up at the Grey Owl. The bird had proven reliable through the pit fights and now here. It was ready to attack again if needed. "Thanks buddy." Silas pulled back his mana, dismissing the summoned creature. The owl dissolved into light then faded into nothing. Bonereghard''s eye sockets tracked the owl as it dissolved back into the orb. He adjusted his monocle with one bony finger. "Hmm... we need to update that system of yours." The skeleton butler''s words triggered something. The air shifted, crackling with unseen energy. Blue light sparked around Silas, forming intricate patterns that hung in the air for a moment before resolving into floating text. [System Activation: Beckham Bloodline Recognized] [Analyzing Current Status...] ©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥ SILAS BECKHAM ©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥ Class: Summoner (Potential: Mythic) Rank: E + ATTRIBUTES ----------- ? Strength: E ? Agility: D ? Endurance: D ? Magic: C SKILLS ------- ? Street Fighting [Intermediate] ? Monster Knowledge [Intermediate] ? Survival Instincts [Intermediate] ? Beast Taming [Latent] TITLES ------- ? Last of the Beckham Line ? Heir to the Beckham Estate ? Summoner Initiate STATUS ------- ? Minor Injuries: Scrapes, bruises ? Physical Fatigue: Moderate ? Mental Fatigue: High ? Mana Pool: Low (recent summoning overload) DEBTS ------- ? Estate Inheritance Tax: 12,489 gold ? Back Taxes: 15,623 gold ? Total Outstanding: 28,112 gold ASSETS -------- ? Magistrate¡¯s Summoning Orb (Borrowed) ? Basic Combat Gear (slightly damaged) ? [Coin on Hand]: Modest (subject to story events) ©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥ SUMMONER¡¯S ROSTER (6 SLOTS) ©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥ 1) Grey Owl (E) - Status: Slightly injured, short rest needed - Notes: Aerial strike advantage, Grip-and-Drop finisher 2) Lesser Salamander (E) - Status: Minor burns, short rest needed - Notes: Fire-breath for area control, risk of overheat 3) Bog Frog (E) - Status: Dead (permanently destroyed) - Note: Orb slot locked until professionally cleared or repaired 4) [Unknown] - Status: Not yet discovered/tamed 5) [Unknown] - Status: Not yet discovered/tamed 6) [Unknown] - Status: Not yet discovered/tamed ©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥ ESTATE RECOGNITION ©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥©¥ - Caretaker: Boneregard Ekkert (Warlord-Butler), now bound to obey legitimate heir - Estate Wards: Partially responsive to Heir¡¯s presence, require major reactivation - Full Entry: Granted; official claim recognized CURRENT OBJECTIVES ------------------- ? Replenish Mana and recover from injuries ? Subdue or remove feral monsters inside the mansion ? Resolve vast outstanding debt ? Manage the Beckham Estate SYSTEM NOTE: ¡°Congratulations, Heir: Identity confirmed! May future dealings be less spirited.¡± "Ah, I see the estate''s recognition system has activated," Bonereghard said, noting Silas''s expression. "A rather useful tool for tracking one''s progress, though I must say those debt numbers are rather concerning."