It was finally their free day, a free week for the copper class students.

  Most of the Gold and Silver class students were off cramming their schedules with special lectures or duels, desperate to climb the Academy rankings. But Copper class? They overslept, at least most of them.

  By noon, the trio found themselves gathered in the cafeteria, trays piled with food.

  “I’m planning to found an orphanage,” Kana said between bites.

  Boris and Suri choked at the same time, nearly spraying rice across the table. Their reactions were so synchronized, they might as well have rehearsed it.

  “Why?!” they asked in unison.

  “For the kids in the slums,” Kana replied calmly, taking another bite as if she’d just commented on the weather. “I have to help them.”

  Suri blinked. Boris set down his spoon.

  “That’s… a noble idea,” Boris said slowly. “But Kana, we’re students. Renting a small room in the capital would cost more than our monthly food budget.”

  “Exactly,” Kana said. “That’s why you two are going to help me.”

  There was a pause.

  “This smells dangerous,” Boris muttered.

  Kana leaned in. “Remember those thieves? Their main organization, we’re going to raid their branches. One by one.”

  Suri narrowed her eyes. “You’re serious.”

  Kana nodded.

  “Isn’t that... dangerous?” Boris asked.

  “It is,” Kana said.

  “I’m in,” Suri replied without hesitation. “If I can trace their movements with my illusions, we don’t even need to fight. Just sneak in, grab their coin, and vanish.”

  Boris looked between them. “We’re stealing from thieves. That’s poetic, I guess. And it’s not like we can raid dungeons yet.”

  “We’ll be helping the kids,” Kana added, “And while we’re at it, we’ll get stronger. Enough to bribe guards, get in the dungeon to level up.”

  “As long as we, getting stronger, then fine.” Boris shrugged. “But why not just ask your rich uncle—what’s his name? Duke Stark?”

  “If we ask him,” Kana said, “He’ll make it complicated. He doesn’t do anything for free. That's for sure.”

  “He’s our last resort.”

  Suri nodded, thoughtful. “There’s a stash in one of the branches I’ve been watching. Lots of coins—probably stolen. My illusion can’t open the lock though. It might be protected by a skill. But their security’s weak. We can hit it.”

  Boris sighed, rubbing his temples. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually excited.”

  …….

  Mor leaned back against the wall, a half-glass of wine in his hand and an uneasy feeling in his gut. His cut off arm was healed a week ago by a student, to get a discount, ironically, they paid another student to attach and heal it. Somehow… it became itchy.

  The noble house was quiet. Too quiet. Well, it was always but tonight was different.

  That alone didn’t bother him—he’d picked this estate precisely for its silence and security, a place where the nobles were satisfied as long as they were getting coins every month. Mor had ensured the house was both blind and greedy. No one could check a noble place unless the king told to, which did not happen, at least not when he was alive.

  Still. Something felt… off.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The stash was safe—buried in the wine cellar behind a false wall, sealed in reinforced crates enchanted for detection to alert them. Hundreds of stolen coins and illegal businesses profits, gathered over a season. Enough to bribe the noble house, fund three more bribes, and keep his branch running for another two quarters. Four of his best were with him, men who didn’t ask questions, just guarded the stash like hawks.

  And still, Mor’s instincts screamed.

  He tilted his head, eyes narrowing.

  Oran was nearby, seated at the short table, polishing his dagger absently. He had the [Awareness] skill—minor, but useful. He could detect presence in a room better than any mage’s detection skill.

  Mor flicked his gaze to him. “Feel anything?”

  Oran’s brow furrowed. “Something… flickered just now, like—”

  Crash.

  The table flipped. Oran was gone, flung across the room. The lanterns dimmed suddenly, shadows dancing like wolves. Three cloaked figures emerged from the darkness. Quick. Silent. Two were short—probably in their teenage years, Mor thought at first. Though the third was similar to them, a full grown man.

  “What in the—” Mor startled, his main weapon was his knuckle gloves though he always had an axe or sometimes sword hanging in his hips to intimidate people.

  But they didn’t hesitate.

  One of the smaller figures dashed forward, unnaturally fast. Mor moved to block—but his arms locked as if seized by invisible bands. His muscles froze, and then something slammed into his gut, hard enough to send him flying across the room.

  He heard shouting—his own people—but they were being dismantled. Not fought. Not dueled.

  Taken apart.

  The smaller one moved like a shadow, slipping past attacks like she knew them before they came. Oran shouted and reached for her, only for his arms to pass through—an illusion.

  The real attacker struck from the side, a pure raw strength. He could feel the impact afar. Very unnatural for a small build.

  “They’re mages,” someone screamed, facing an illusion.

  “No—something else—”

  Then came the crack of something hard hitting his skull. A groan. Silence.

  Mor staggered upright, blood in his mouth, one leg bent wrong. He lunged for the stash door, hoping at least to lock it— [Dash]

  He never reached it.

  The last thing he saw was the smallest one with unnatural strength—hood up, face hidden—drive her elbow into his chest after she jumped.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  Black.

  When he awoke, hours had passed. The stash was empty. His crew was unconscious around him. The crates shattered. Not a single coin remained.

  And not one clue left behind.

  No names. No faces. Just footprints—and his fury.

  ….

  Mor sat, head pounding like a war drum. His ribs felt cracked, and something in his shoulder refused to sit right. Blood dried at the corner of his mouth, and his pride bled far worse.

  He didn’t care about the stash.

  He cared about what it meant. It was a payment for the head, for the nobles and for himself.

  Oran limped toward him, one arm hanging loose, the other carrying a cracked jug of water. He dropped beside him with a grunt, setting the jug down like it weighed more than it did.

  “Three of them,” Mor muttered. “Unknown. One using illusions. One big. Two smaller builds.”

  Oran winced, rubbing his temples, then frowned. “Sounds… familiar.”

  Mor narrowed his eyes.

  “Yes. Yes!” Oran leaned forward, suddenly animated despite the pain. “Back near the market, weeks ago. There was this kid—she summoned something. An orc or ogre, I think. Looked real, but wasn’t. Probably an illusion. And there were three of them then too. One big kid. Two smaller. One of them cut off your arm. She was as skilled as the one who punch me in the gut.”

  Mor’s breath caught.

  “That’s why this feels wrong,” he hissed. “It’s them. Again.”

  Mor stood, rage building in his face. “I’m reporting this to the Head. We know who they are now—Academy brats or not, they’re going to pay.”

  There was a flicker of movement.

  A glint of light near the doorway. A shadow… no, a figure. Small. Hooded.

  Mor froze.

  The girl stepped into the room like she belonged there. No rush. No hesitation.

  In her hand was a kitchen knife.

  That’s not a weapon, Mor thought numbly.

  But in her grip, it looked like something far worse.

  Her voice was soft. Not angry. Not triumphant.

  Just certain.

  “I know,” she said. “I knew you’d realize eventually.”

  The candlelight caught the edge of her blade.

  Oran turned. “Wait—”

  He didn’t finish.

  None of them did.