Brando could hardly believe his ears.
"I was expelled!? EXPELLED!?" His voice cracked like a porcelain plate hurled at a wall. The once-proud noble, now a crumpled heap of robes and ruined pride, lay sprawled across the hotel lobby floor like a discarded rug, eyes wide and unfocused, staring at the ceiling as though it might offer divine answers or at least a refund on his dignity.
The words "disqualified as an apprentice of the Stormwind Royal Academy of Magic" echoed in his skull like a death knell, tolling for his noble aspirations. Sure, he was technically still a noble by blood—but in the courtly circles of Stormwind, this debacle made him the punchline of every dinner party for the next five years.
And here's the kicker: he wasn't even the heir. According to the proud traditions of succession passed down from the Empire of Arathor, he might as well have been a particularly well-dressed servant. If he wanted to earn a title now, he had two options: claw his way up the military ranks or become some bureaucratic bigwig. But those doors were slammed tighter than a dwarven vault.
Stormwind's geography was as unforgiving as its politics. The surrounding fiefdoms had long since been carved up. Elwynn Forest? Full. Westfall? A wind-swept wasteland. Duskwood? Gloomier than Brando's mood. Redridge? Hope you like rocks and regret.
Military glory? Forget it. That whole machine was under the iron thumb of Anduin Lothar, Stormwind's golden lion, and best friend of the king. As for internal appointments, those seats were about as available as a sold-out tavern on Brewfest.
In other words: Brando was toast. Burnt, crumbling, irredeemable toast.
His body trembled on the cold tiles as the crushing weight of this reality bore down on him. For a fleeting moment, rage surged in his chest like a dragon rearing its head. His bloodshot eyes darted to Norton, the aged archmage who'd just obliterated his future with one sentence. Then, just as quickly, his gaze slithered over to Duke.
The hatred was so thick you could spread it on bread. A system notification chimed in Duke's mind:
"Ding! You've gained a Deadly Enemy: Brando. Your reputation with the Brando family has dropped to... well, let's just say it can't go any lower."
Duke gave a quiet snort of amusement. "Oh no, my eternal nemesis is a spoiled brat with a bruised ego," he thought sarcastically. "Big whoop. You tried to kill me once already, and guess what—I got better. Try me again, pretty boy. I'll put the 'fun' in 'funeral.'"
Still, deep down, Duke knew the feud was now irrevocable. There would be no peace treaties, no handshakes. Just war. But... he wasn't about to throw away his soul energy waging a full-blown vendetta against a family whose greatest claim to fame was probably a particularly well-cooked turkey on Winter Veil.
He exited the hotel like a conquering hero, head high, back straight, not a care in the world for the murmurs and whispers flitting around him like moths to flame. The crowd parted. People didn't cheer—Brando still had local influence—but Duke could feel the shift.
As he approached the carriage arranged by old man Norton, people stepped forward with quiet reverence, slipping him small tokens. A few eggs here. A basket of potatoes there. A slab of bacon wrapped in cloth. The villagers, simple and sincere, offered their thanks the only way they knew how.
Duke's throat tightened. He had never done anything special in his old life. Now, this? This felt... weird. Humbling. Beautiful.
Ding! You have earned the respect of the people of Northshire Abbey. Your reputation here is now: Respected. Humanity +1%. Current Soul Power: 98. Humanity: 94%.
Duke blinked. "Wait... doing good things actually restores humanity?!"
His gamer instincts kicked in. Reputation was everything. Morality stats, soul power—this wasn't just a storyline. It was mechanics! Glorious, exploitable mechanics!
By the time he climbed into the carriage, he was practically vibrating. Then reality hit like a sack of bricks.
The carriage jolted with all the grace of a rampaging kodo. To modern Duke,accustomed to smooth rides and air conditioning, it felt like being repeatedly slapped with a shovel.
Inside, the atmosphere thickened. Norton puffed on a pipe like a dragon preparing to monologue, while Duke and his fellow apprentices sat opposite him, unsure whether to be excited or terrified.
Norton exhaled a ring of smoke shaped like a frowny face.
"Little ones, I too was young once. Bold. Reckless. Good hair. But despite agreeing with your actions, I must regrettably inform you... you're all screwed."
Daniel and Anya paled. A few minutes ago, they were standing tall beside Duke. Now? They looked like they wanted to melt into the upholstery.
Nobles were petty. And rich. And vengeful. As apprentices, they were protected—sort of. But until they officially became mages, their families were sitting ducks.
Norton continued, voice as dry as old parchment: "Our academy is not Dalaran. It's not some ivory tower floating on magical rainbows. Here, every class has a fee. Every spellbook has a price tag. Every wand, potion, and feathered quill is going to cost you. We believe in equal exchange. And by 'equal,' I mean, 'give us all your money.'"
Daniel groaned. Anya muttered something about taking up knitting instead.
Duke, ever the pragmatic time-traveler, cleared his throat. "So... how did previous apprentices manage this? You know, without declaring bankruptcy?"
Old man Norton just chuckled, puffing another ring of doom into the air. "Ah, my boy... that's a story involving black-market quills, unpaid internships with wizards, and a very angry sheep named Harold..."
And with that, the carriage bounced onward—carrying three nervous apprentices, one snarky time traveler, and the ghost of Brando's shredded pride fluttering somewhere in the wind behind them.