Tom woke before dawn, the echo of dreams fading as the real world pressed in—straw scratching his cheek, cold air stinging every exposed patch of skin. The barracks were silent except for the rolling snores of other laborers, but Tom's heart beat fast and urgent, every sense wired by the events of the night before.
He gripped the gold coin beneath his blanket. It felt heavier now, as though it contained not just metal, but destiny. The glowing interface he'd seen—"Bloodline Treasury System"—still lingered in his memory, impossible but undeniable. Its words had promised hope, and Tom had learned to chase the smallest glimmers.
Morning shuffles began. The overseer stalked through the rows, barking at the men to rise. "Up! Mill won't run on dead weight!"
Tom moved quickly, tucking the coin deep into his tunic. He couldn't risk it being discovered—yet, as he rose, the air around him seemed subtly different, more charged, as if every breath carried a hint of gold dust.
As he joined the queue for slop porridge, Tom tried to call up the system again. He focused, whispering under his breath, "System… activate?"
At once, golden text bloomed in the air, seen only by him:
[ Bloodline Treasury System ]
Status: Active
Dynasty Functions:
— Passive Gold Interest Generation: 1% daily
— Debt Reduction Aura: Active (Range: 3 meters)
— Vault Location: Merchant's Row, Westmarch — Locked
Tom's mind whirled. The Debt Reduction Aura—if it was real—could be tested. And he was buried deep in the debts of the overseer's mill.
He looked up as the overseer approached the work line. The man stopped beside Tom, scowling. "Tom. The books say you'll work here two years for what your family owes. But now they're adding the auction fees. You'll be lucky to see sunlight outside these walls in this decade."
Something inside Tom refused to flinch. "What if… what if a record was wrong?" he said quietly.
The overseer blinked, as if momentarily confused. "Hm. Auction fees… maybe they're not as high as I thought." He fished in his battered ledger, muttering. "Odd. Seems your debt's twenty percent lower than yesterday. Must be someone's error, but I won't question it. Get to work, boy."
Tom stared, shock mixing with thrill. The system's effect was real. His debt had just… vanished, in part, like mist before sun.
He pressed his luck. "Sir, is it possible to check the old records? Just to be sure?"
Again, the overseer frowned—a man not prone to second-guessing—but, against his nature, he flipped further back. "Strange. Seems you're not even the highest debtor anymore… Move along."
Tom slipped into the work line, heart pounding. The system worked. With this, he could claw his way from servitude—not with strength or magic, but by changing the numbers that bound his fate.
The day passed in a blur of grinding gears and dust-scented labor. Every hour, Tom worked with purpose, mind racing through the possibilities. The Vault—the family inheritance locked somewhere in Merchant's Row—called to him.
During a break, he approached Old Jory, the kindly laborer who had shared scraps of bread since Tom's arrival. "Jory, do you know Merchant's Row? Is it possible to go there?"
Jory scratched his beard. "That's the heart of commerce, lad. Only merchants and guild barons walk there, us workers aren't welcome."
He looked at Tom's earnest face, then relented. "If you have a reason, maybe at sundown you could slip through the alley next to the spice warehouse. But careful—the guards watch for thievery."
"Thank you," Tom said, the words tasting like hope.
That evening, as dusk melted over Westmarch, Tom watched for his chance. When the overseer's back was turned, he slipped into the shadows, coin pressed close to his chest, following the winding path Jory described. The city transformed as he walked—from squalid tenements to clean cobblestone, from raucous market to silent, gold-lit lanes.
Merchant's Row loomed ahead. Affluent men and women moved in carriages, imperial banners fluttered above sealed doors. Tom's feet ached, but the red X from his system's map burned in his mind like a beacon.
He reached the entrance of a narrow alley, where—hidden from ordinary sight—a humble iron door lay wedged in gray stone. The coin in his hand pulsed, guiding him forward.
Tom placed the coin into a circular indent above the lock.
It fit perfectly.
Light shimmered around the door.
A new system window appeared:
[ Bloodline Key Accepted — Time Lock Disengaged ]
Welcome, Heir of Varrow.
Accessing Ancestral Vault I…
The door swung open on oiled hinges, rumors of gold and old secrets whispering out to wrap around Tom's soul.
For the first time, Tom felt the weight of true possibility. Not borrowed, not stolen—but inherited.
He stepped inside, ready to claim what was once lost.