Six months later, Marcus had established himself in two completely separate lives—lives that would never
intersect, never overlap, never betray each other's existence.
By day, he was Marcus Aldrich, the rotund and perpetually hungry student of Luminaris Academy, the most
prestigious magical institution in the kingdom of Astoria. He waddled through the marble halls at Iron Rank -
Mid Stage, always with some form of food in hand, earning him the nickname "Marcus the Muncher" among
his peers. But that was fine. Expected, even. The perfect disguise.
The academy's main building was a masterwork of architecture—soaring columns of white marble, enchanted
windows that adjusted to optimal lighting, and floors made of a stone that never wore down despite centuries of
foot traffic. Students in colorful robes hurried between classes, their ranks displayed proudly on badges at their
chests. Iron ranks were common, Bronze ranks less so, and the handful of Silver rank students walked with the
confidence of those destined for greatness.
Marcus navigated through them all with a meat pie in one hand and a book in the other, his considerable bulk
parting crowds simply by existing.
"Oi, Muncher!" A noble brat named Gerald Thornhill called out as Marcus navigated the crowded corridor
leading to the alchemy wing. Gerald was Bronze Rank - Low Stage, which he never let anyone forget, his badge
polished to a mirror shine. "Surprised the academy floors can support your weight! Maybe you should take
enchanting classes—you'll need to reinforce whatever building you end up working in!"
Laughter rippled through the crowd of students—mostly other nobles who found bullying entertaining.
Marcus didn't even slow down, taking another bite of his pie before responding. "Surprised your family's
declining fortune can still afford the tuition, Thornhill. How's that third mortgage treating you? I heard the
interest rate just went up again. Must be hard maintaining appearances when the money's running out."
The laughter shifted direction immediately. Gerald's face went red, his hand moving toward his wand, but
Professor Astrid appeared from around the corner like a ghost—a Silver Rank mage whose stern gaze could
freeze students in their tracks.
"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?" Her voice was ice.
"No, Professor," Gerald muttered, his hand dropping from his wand.
Marcus took another bite of his pie and continued on his way to the alchemy laboratory, perfectly unconcerned.
He'd learned quickly that information was power in Luminaris Academy. He spent his considerable time eating
in the various cafeterias and common areas, listening, absorbing, cataloging. People tended to forget he was
there, this fat boy perpetually stuffing his face and reading books about potion-making.
They spoke freely about family secrets, political machinations, forbidden spells, cultivation techniques, where
to buy the best mana crystals, which professors accepted bribes. Marcus absorbed it all, filing it away like a
living database.
Because information wasn't just power—it was survival. And Marcus had developed a deep, abiding paranoia
about dying in this world.
He'd died once already, choking on a dumpling like an idiot. He wasn't going to let it happen again. Which
meant he needed every advantage, every edge, every piece of leverage he could get.
The alchemy laboratory was his sanctuary. Professor Helena Blackthorne ran the program with an iron fist and a
brilliant mind. She was Gold Rank, one of the few at the academy, and her potions were legendary. Under her
tutelage, Marcus had discovered a talent for alchemy that shocked even himself.
Or maybe it wasn't talent. Maybe it was paranoia driving him to master every skill that could keep him alive.
"Ah, Marcus," Professor Blackthorne said as he entered, not looking up from the cauldron she was monitoring.
She was a severe woman in her fifties, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a tight bun and eyes that missed
nothing. "Your Healing Draught from yesterday was acceptable. The color was perfect, potency within normal
parameters for an Iron Rank alchemist. But the consistency was slightly off."
"Yes, Professor. I stirred clockwise thirteen times when it should have been twelve. I'll correct it."
Now she looked up, one eyebrow raised. "You noticed?"
"I notice everything about my potions, Professor. Mistakes can be fatal."
A small smile tugged at her lips. "Good. Too many students treat alchemy like cooking. It's not. It's a science, an
art, and a matter of life and death." She gestured to an empty workstation. "Today you'll be attempting a Mana
Recovery Elixir. Iron Rank recipe, but it requires precision. Begin."
Marcus set down his food—finally—and got to work. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, measuring
ingredients, preparing components, adjusting the flame under his personal cauldron. Moonbell flowers, crushed
mana crystal dust, purified water, essence of silverleaf...
He worked in silence, completely focused. This was where his paranoia served him well. Every measurement
exact. Every timing perfect. Every step verified and double-checked. Because a mistake in alchemy could mean
poison instead of potion, death instead of healing.
What Professor Blackthorne didn't know—what nobody knew—was that Marcus could produce his own mana
crystal dust infinitely. Every night, he'd transmute rocks into mana crystals, then carefully grind some of them
into dust. He'd been stockpiling them in a secret location outside the academy, building a reserve that would
make most noble families weep with envy.
Mana crystals were the currency of advancement in this world. Awakened people needed them to progress
through the ranks. Absorbing the pure mana from crystals was dozens of times more efficient than slowly
cultivating ambient mana from the air—a process that could take years for each rank advancement.
A single low-grade mana crystal cost fifty gold pieces. A medium-grade crystal cost five hundred. High-grade
crystals were auctioned for thousands.
Marcus could produce them infinitely, limited only by time and finding rocks to transmute.
He'd been selling them carefully through intermediaries in the merchant quarter, never too many at once, always
through different channels. In six months, he'd accumulated a fortune of over two hundred thousand gold pieces
hidden in various secure locations throughout the city.
And he'd spent a good chunk of that fortune on one thing: survival equipment for his other identity.
Because by night, Marcus was someone else entirely.
The Starfall Guild occupied a decrepit building in the merchant quarter of Astoria's capital city. From the
outside, it looked like any other struggling mercenary company—peeling paint, crooked sign, flickering
lanterns. Inside, it was the most elite assassin organization in the kingdom, with members ranging from Bronze
Rank to Platinum Rank.
The interior was all dark wood and shadows, with private rooms for sensitive discussions and a main hall that
served as gathering space. The contract board dominated one wall—a massive board covered in sealed
envelopes, each containing a target's information and the bounty offered.
Marcus had joined three months ago, walking in with the Mask of Metamorphosis already in place. Nobody had
seen his real face. Nobody knew his real name. Nobody would ever connect him to the fat student at Luminaris
Academy.
He'd simply appeared at their door one evening and asked for work.
"I can kill," he'd said simply to the receptionist—a scarred woman named Vera who'd looked him up and down
with calculating eyes. "I want the highest paying contracts I can handle."
They'd laughed at first. Tested him against an Iron Rank target in a controlled environment in their basement
training area—a condemned criminal who'd volunteered for a quick death over a long execution.
Marcus had completed the kill in under a minute, turning the target's weapon to crystal and then the target
himself to gold.
After that, nobody laughed.
They'd asked for a name. He'd chosen one on impulse: Phantom.
Now, six months after arriving in this world, Marcus entered the guild as the sun set. He slipped into a familiar
side alley first, checking to make sure he was alone, then pulling out the Mask of Metamorphosis and placing it
over his face.
The change was instant and disorienting—he'd never quite gotten used to it. His reflection in a puddle showed a
lean, athletic man in his late twenties with sharp features, cold gray eyes, and the build of someone who spent
their life in combat. The mask didn't just change his appearance—it altered his voice to something deeper and
smoother, adjusted his mannerisms to be more economical and predatory, and even changed his magical
signature to be unrecognizable.
But underneath, he could still feel every pound of his actual weight. That made moving silently an interesting
challenge, one he'd been training to overcome these past months. He'd developed a specific way of walking
while masked—heel to toe, weight distributed carefully, using technique to compensate for mass.
Inside the guild, he made his way to the contract board. His assassin identity was establishing a reputation. In
the three months since joining, Phantom had completed twenty-three contracts. His success rate was perfect. His
rank had climbed from Iron - Low Stage to Bronze - Peak Stage through careful absorption of mana crystals
he'd produced himself.
But more importantly, nobody suspected that Phantom and Marcus Aldrich were the same person. The mask
ensured that—a perfect separation between his two lives.
"Phantom," a gruff voice called.
Marcus turned to see Ironjaw, one of the guild's veteran Silver Rank assassins. He was a scarred mountain of a
man who looked like he'd been carved from granite, with a jaw that had allegedly survived being hit by a
warhammer—hence the name. He'd taken a professional interest in "Phantom's" work.
"Ironjaw," Marcus acknowledged, his masked voice smooth and cold.
"Got a contract for you. Target's Bronze Rank - Peak Stage, same as you. Merchant named Victor Thornbeck.
He's been running a protection racket, but that's not why someone wants him dead." Ironjaw handed over a
sealed envelope. "He's been watering down healing potions and selling them to adventurers. Three people have
died because their potions failed during critical moments. Bounty is fifteen thousand gold."
Marcus opened the envelope and scanned the contents. Detailed information about Thornbeck's movements, his
security, his residence. The man lived in a modest house in the merchant quarter, had four Bronze Rank guards
on rotation, and visited his warehouse every three days.
Fifteen thousand gold. Not bad. And the target matched his current power level—Bronze Peak against Bronze
Peak. A fair fight, if it came to that.
"I'll take it," Marcus said.
"Thought you might. You always pick the ones who deserve it." Ironjaw studied him with curiosity. "Most
assassins go for the easy money—political targets, jealous spouses, business rivals. You only take contracts on
people who've actually hurt innocents. Why?"
Marcus met his gaze steadily. "Because I can sleep at night afterward."
Ironjaw nodded slowly. "Fair enough. Just be careful. Thornbeck's paranoid. His warehouse is warded, and he
varies his routine."
"I'm always careful."
After Ironjaw left, Marcus examined the contract more thoroughly. Then he made his way to the guild's
equipment room—a privilege earned through successful contracts.
This was where his paranoia really showed.
Most assassins used standard equipment—a few enchanted daggers, maybe a protective charm, decent armor.
Marcus had spent over eighty thousand gold on equipment for Phantom. Custom-made, top-tier gear that would
keep him alive if things went wrong.
He checked his equipment methodically, like he did before every contract:
Shadowstep Boots - Silver Rank enchanted footwear that muffled sound and left no tracks. Cost: twelve
thousand gold. They accommodated his real weight while making him silent.
Wraith Cloak - Silver Rank enchantment that bent light around the wearer, making them harder to see in
shadows. Cost: fifteen thousand gold.
Null-Steel Daggers (pair) - Bronze Rank weapons that could cut through magical barriers. Cost: eight thousand
gold each.
Guardian Amulet - Silver Rank protection that could block three fatal hits before shattering. Cost: twenty-five
thousand gold. Marcus replaced this after every contract, even if it wasn't used. Paranoia tax.
Healing Potions (Master Grade) - Three potions that could heal anything short of decapitation. Cost: five
thousand gold each. He carried three per contract.
Antidote Collection - Broad-spectrum counter-agents for common poisons. Cost: three thousand gold for the
set.
Smoke Bombs (enchanted) - Six bombs that created magical smoke screens. Cost: five hundred gold each.
Emergency Escape Scroll - One-use teleportation to a pre-set safe location. Cost: ten thousand gold. Marcus
had five of these hidden throughout the city.
The other assassins thought he was insane for spending so much on equipment. But Marcus had died once
already. He wasn't taking chances.
His paranoia kept him alive.
The next morning, Marcus was back at Luminaris Academy, sitting in Advanced Transmutation Theory.
Professor Eldric Stonehelm, a dwarf of Silver Rank who'd forgotten more about magical theory than most
wizards would ever learn, was lecturing about the strength realms and their relationship to transmutation.
"The higher your realm, the more complex transmutations you can perform!" Stonehelm announced, his beard
bristling with excitement. His voice echoed in the lecture hall, passionate about his subject. "An Iron Rank
mage might transmute simple elements—dirt to stone, water to ice. A Bronze Rank can handle more complex
molecular structures—stone to metal, for instance. Silver Rank can begin working with magical materials,
though it's difficult and costly. And Gold Rank? Gold Rank transmuters are said to be able to turn lead into gold
itself!"
Marcus kept his face neutral as he munched on a sandwich, but internally he was amused. If only they knew he
could turn anything into gold or mana crystals regardless of rank, bypassing all normal limitations entirely.
"Of course," Stonehelm continued, pacing at the front of the lecture hall, "true transmutation of mundane
materials into gold or mana crystals is theoretically impossible even at Grandmaster Rank. The energy cost
would be astronomical—you'd need to input more mana than the resulting crystal would contain, making it
pointless. And the structural complexity of gold at the atomic level means that even attempting such a
transmutation would likely kill the caster from mana exhaustion."
A hand shot up—Lyra Brightwind, top of the class at Bronze Rank - Mid Stage, effortlessly perfect with her
silver hair and violet eyes. She sat in the front row, always engaged, always asking insightful questions.
"Professor," she said, "what about the assassin called Phantom? There are rumors he can transmute his victims
into solid gold. I heard the latest target was found as a complete golden statue, down to the pores in his skin.
How would that even be possible?"
Marcus's chewing didn't pause, but internally he was alert.
Stonehelm stroked his beard thoughtfully, considering the question with academic interest. "Rumors, Miss
Brightwind. Most likely, this 'Phantom' uses gold-element magic to create gold shells around his victims,
creating the illusion of transmutation. It would still require impressive power—Silver Rank at minimum—but it
wouldn't actually be true transmutation. True transmutation of a living being? That would require... well, power
beyond even most Saints. Perhaps even Demigod rank."
"But if someone could do it?" Lyra pressed, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. "What rank would they
actually need to be?"
"It would be impossible," Stonehelm said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "The human body is far too
complex. You'd need to transmute flesh, bone, blood, organs, the very mana channels themselves, all
simultaneously and perfectly while accounting for the life force running through it all. One mistake and the
transmutation would fail catastrophically, likely killing both target and caster." He shook his head. "No, this
Phantom fellow is using clever magic, not true transmutation. Impressive nonetheless, mind you. Gold-element
manipulation at that scale would still require considerable skill."
The class murmured with interest, discussing the possibilities. Marcus finished his sandwich and pulled out a
pastry from his apparently bottomless bag of snacks.
Let them theorize. His power operated on completely different principles than this world's magic system. The
system had granted him abilities that bypassed normal cultivation limitations—he didn't need to be high rank to
use his Midas Touch, though higher ranks did increase the range and speed of his transmutations.
After class, Marcus made his way to the alchemy laboratory. He had work to do—both legitimate academy
work and preparation for tonight's contract.
Professor Blackthorne was already there, reviewing student submissions. She looked up as he entered.
"Marcus. Good. I want you to attempt something today." She gestured to a recipe book on the side table—an
advanced tome bound in black leather. "A Strength Enhancement Elixir. Bronze Rank recipe, quite challenging.
Most students don't attempt it until they've reached Bronze Rank themselves."
Marcus examined the recipe, his mind already calculating measurements and timing. "I'm Iron Rank, Professor."
"I'm aware. But your precision is better than most Bronze Rank students. And your paranoia about mistakes
means you're less likely to blow up my laboratory." She smiled slightly. "Consider it a challenge."
"I'll attempt it."
"Use Station Three. It has better mana flow control."
Marcus set up his workspace meticulously. The Strength Enhancement Elixir required ingredients he'd prepared
in advance—Titan's Root extract, powdered drake scale (expensive), liquefied mana crystal (which he could
produce himself), and a dozen other components.
The recipe required exact timing and temperature control. One degree too hot and the elixir would become
poison. One second too long and it would lose potency.
Marcus worked in silence, his hands steady, his concentration absolute. This was where his experience from his
previous life helped—years of following recipes, of precise measurements, of attention to detail. Only now,
instead of cooking, he was crafting magic.
Three hours later, he held up a vial of golden liquid that swirled with inner light. Perfect color, perfect
consistency, perfect potency.
Professor Blackthorne examined it with a critical eye, then nodded slowly. "Exceptional work, Marcus. This is
Master Grade quality from an Iron Rank student. You have real talent for this."
"Thank you, Professor."
"Have you considered specializing in alchemy after graduation? You could make a fortune as a master
alchemist. The demand for quality potions is always high."
Marcus considered that. "I'll think about it, Professor."
What he didn't say was that alchemy was part of his survival strategy. The ability to create his own healing
potions, antidotes, enhancement elixirs—all of it reduced his dependence on others. And in this world,
dependence meant vulnerability.
That evening, he'd use his 100x Effect talent on his alchemy skill to create several Platinum-grade healing
potions—impossible for his actual rank, but absolutely necessary for his paranoid preparation.
After all, he had a merchant to kill tonight.