Who Needs Mana When You Have Money?
This version blends raw emotion, bitterness, a smart but
Chapter 1 – They Left Me a F***ing Scale
No sword. No grimoire. No letter of guidance or vault of gold.
Just that.
A scale. Two rusted pans dangling on a crooked iron frame. Covered in grime. No carvings, no runes, no glow. Just old metal and silence.
They buried my father in the family orchard with no ceremony and no mourners. Half the house had already burned. The rest would collapse before winter. And what was left for me, the last son of House Riven?
A scale.
I didn't even find it in a secret room. No hidden vault. No final test. It was lying in the mud next to my father's hand like trash he'd dropped when he died.
It took me three days to even pick it up.
And I only did that because the rats started nesting under it.
Now I sit here, in what used to be our wine cellar, surrounded by mildew and shattered casks, sipping something that probably used to be a ten-year reserve but now tastes like rot and copper. My back leans against a cracked pillar. My breath fogs in the cold. And the scale rests on a stone table in front of me like it owns the place.
"Is this it?" I mutter, voice hoarse. "All that legacy. All that glory. And I get a kitchen tool."
I raise the bottle. "To the illustrious House Riven," I slur. "From dragon-slayers to junk collectors in five generations. A record."
The bottle's empty. I toss it, watch it smash against the wall.
Still feels like it wasn't enough.
I was twelve when the collapse started. Fourteen when we lost the northern provinces. Fifteen when the Council revoked our titles. Seventeen when the last of our retainers left. Nineteen when my father died with his back broken and his eyes open.
Now I'm twenty.
And I have nothing.
Nothing but a fucking scale.
I laugh. I can't help it. It's dry and hollow and full of something I don't want to name.
"What am I supposed to weigh?" I ask it, my head spinning. "Regret? Hope? My liver?"
The scale, of course, says nothing.
It's been weeks. Months. I tried putting coins on it. Blood. A ring. A memory stone. A fingernail. Nothing.
It just sits there.
I hate it.
I hate it.
I lurch forward, slap the table. "You want something valuable? You want some kind of tribute? What's the highest-value thing I've got, huh? HUH?!"
My voice echoes through the cellar.
Then—
A flicker.
Like a pulse of heatless light. A blink between the plates.
I freeze.
The air shifts. It tastes... sharp. Metallic. Like the moment before lightning strikes.
The scale straightens. The pans balance.
A whisper fills the air, not a sound but a pressure. A question...not spoken, but carved into the inside of my skull.
What is the highest value thing you possess?
I stare.
My hands shake.
It's mocking me. Or testing me.
I grin. Bitter. I lean forward and press both palms on the cold stone.
"My life," I say. "You want something valuable? Take my fucking life."
The moment the words leave me, the scale pulses.
Not glow.
Not shake.
It pulses. Like it heard. Like it accepted.
A single word burns into my mind:
Confirm?
I hesitate.
Something in my chest tightens. Fear, maybe. Instinct.
But I'm so tired. So fucking tired. Of waiting. Of surviving. Of pretending this was all there was.
"Yeah," I whisper. "Take it."
Confirmed.
Trade Accepted.
Offer: LIFE
Value: ???????
Trade Balance: UNMATCHED
Collateral Authorized.
Market Gate Opening…
A sound like tearing silk floods the room.
The cellar vanishes.
The cold disappears.
Darkness swallows me whole.
I try to scream, but there's no breath. No weight. No time.
Just the sense of falling. Not down — back.
Spinning. Folding. Cracking.
And then...
Light.
Soft. Dim. Flickering.
I'm cold. Not in the bones. In the skin. The raw skin of a boy.
My eyes open.
Stone ceiling. Old familiar one. Cracks I memorized as a kid.
My bed.
Not the ruined cellar. My childhood room. The one that burned down eight years ago.
I shoot upright.
My chest heaves. I stumble to the mirror.
A boy stares back.
Twelve years old. Pale. Wild-eyed. Mouth hanging open like he saw a ghost.
I step back.
"What the hell…"
My voice is higher. Thinner.
I spin around.
The room is whole. The walls still have wallpaper. The wooden floor isn't scorched. There's a half-eaten apple on the desk.
My hands shake.
A knock on the door.
A voice I haven't heard in eight years.
"Kael? You up? Your father wants you downstairs."
I freeze.
My throat clenches.
Mother.
I almost collapse.
But I don't.
I turn slowly.
There. On my desk.
The scale.
Clean. Untarnished. Glimmering faintly. Balanced perfectly.
My legs move without my permission.
I sit. I stare.
And it blinks.
Life accepted.
Collateral acknowledged.
Market access granted.
Warning: Defaulting on trade will result in erasure.
Another message follows.
Welcome, Trader Kael Riven.
You possess:
• Memory (Age 20)
• Collateral: Full Life
• Access Tier: 0 (Bound by Law of Balance)
Market Thread Stabilized.
Initial Trade Available.
I lean back. Breathe. Try not to shake. Try not to cry.
I don't understand everything.
But I know this:
I made a deal.
I sold my life.
And now I have a second chance.