CHAPTER 76: CHAPTER 76

But Jones wasn’t satisfied with that answer.

"No! You have to promise you won’t kill me after I tell you!"

Clayton sneered.

"You think you’re in any position to negotiate?"

Jones fell silent, finally realizing just how close he was to death. But he wasn’t ready to give up. In his mind, the word "secret" still held power—especially in a world ruled by magic and sword. He clung to it like a bargaining chip, hoping it would be enough to make Clayton spare him.

"I only have one request. If you want the secret, you’ll have to make a blood contract with me!"

Clayton frowned. He’d heard of blood contracts before—magically binding agreements witnessed by arcane forces—but he didn’t know how to create one himself.

Jones believed his gamble was working. If he could secure the contract, he’d buy enough time to recover—and maybe one day take revenge for the humiliation he’d suffered.

But before he could savor the idea, Clayton simply raised his "finger pistol" and pointed it at Jones’s head.

"Water Magic: Water Pistol."

At first, Jones thought he was bluffing. But then he saw moisture gather at Clayton’s fingertip, forming a dense, concentrated shot. Panic surged.

"No! Wait! Stop! I’ll tell you—"

BOOM!

The shot fired before he could finish. Jones froze, wide-eyed in disbelief.

With a face twisted in unwilling defeat, he managed to shout: "The secret is... it was Bravus who—"

BOOM!

A second shot slammed into his skull. Jones collapsed, lifeless.

Silence.

Clayton stood over the body, a storm of thoughts swirling behind his calm exterior. He muttered,

"Bravus... I’ve tolerated you long enough. But you just keep pushing your luck."

He began cleaning up the battlefield, disposing of the bandits’ bodies one by one. He also rifled through their belongings, hoping to find something of value—but all he found was disappointment. The only thing worth taking was Jones’s teleportation scroll

, which still had one use left.

"Tch. Dirt-poor bandits. No wonder you turned to robbery," Clayton scoffed.

With the cleanup finished, he made his way home.

...

As he approached his house, Clayton spotted Bravus standing nearby, as if waiting for something. Bravus’s eyes widened when he saw Clayton—alive and unharmed.

Damn it! Bravus cursed internally.

What the hell happened?! Why is he still alive? Did those idiots ditch the job for booze and women?

It never once crossed his mind that Clayton might have slaughtered them all. If it had, he likely would’ve fled on the spot.

From a distance, Clayton noticed the flicker of surprise on Bravus’s face—brief, but clear. It was all the confirmation he needed that Jones’s final words were true.

Clayton walked right past him. A part of him wanted to kill Bravus then and there. But he held back.

If Bravus died now, Clayton would be the prime suspect. Everyone knew about their tension. If someone else killed him, no one would bat an eye. But if Clayton did it, the city authorities might resort to cruel magical methods to extract a confession.

So he kept walking, calm on the outside, though a storm brewed within. Bravus, oblivious to the fury simmering under the surface, simply scoffed and turned away.

Back home, Clayton cleaned up and went straight to bed. The day had left him drained.

...

The next day, Clayton headed into the city. His goal was simple: sell his wheat and use the money to buy training resources.

But selling the wheat proved harder than expected.

Despite its silver-tier quality, the market price was absurdly low. He tried everywhere—restaurants, grocers, even alchemy shops—but none were interested. Each time, he returned home more frustrated.

Days passed like this. Ten days, and still no buyers.

Clayton began to feel helpless.

Was wheat of this quality really that common? Or was there some kind of market monopoly that only bought from "official" vendors?

Sure, he could sell it cheap—maybe for half a magic crystal—but that felt like theft.

...

On the eleventh day, Clayton stayed home. Not because he’d given up—but because something had gone wrong inside his entry space

.

Some of the crops had begun to wilt.

Upon closer inspection, he discovered the issue: his rune grass had failed—likely due to a lack of magical energy, just as the seller had warned.

He was upset, but he knew the blame lay with himself.

With a deep sigh, Clayton and his skeletons pulled up the withered grass and began decomposing it with magic, turning it into fertilizer.

While tidying the space, one of his security alarms went off.

Clayton stepped outside—unhurried—and even dusted off his dirty clothes first.

Outside, he saw a familiar face.

"Old Man Wood? What brings you here? Please, come in. Sorry if it’s a bit messy."

The old man gave a polite nod, but his eyes widened as he stepped inside.

"Clayton, you’re too modest. Look at this floor—sparkling clean! If this is messy, then my place is a barn!"

Clayton chuckled.

"Haha. So, what brings you here, sir?"

"Oh, nothing urgent. I just wanted to ask... are you still trying to sell your wheat?"

Clayton blinked, unsure where this was going.

"Yes, sir. I’ve been trying for days. But the prices are terrible. It feels like a waste to sell it now."

Old Man Wood nodded. "Mind if I take a look?"

Without hesitation, Clayton brought out his wheat. The old man inspected a handful from each sack—and his eyes lit up.

He already knew Clayton was a talented farmer—but this? Such consistent silver-tier quality was rare. Even intermediate-level apprentice magic Farmer couldn’t always produce this.

"With quality like this... someone will want to buy it," he muttered.

Clayton caught the words.

"Is something wrong, sir?"

"Ah, no. I just remembered... I might know someone who’d be interested."

"Really?! Who?" Clayton asked eagerly.

"A magical wine brewer. If you’re interested, I can introduce you."

Clayton’s eyes lit up.

"Seriously? That would be amazing! Don’t worry, sir—if the deal goes through, I’ll make sure you get a cut!"

Old Man Wood smiled and shook his head.

This kid sure knows how to charm people...

"No need. Just helping you sell it is enough for me."

Clayton still insisted on returning the favor, but the old man waved it off.

"We’ll talk about that later. For now, let’s get going."

Clayton nodded and got ready. Once everything was packed, they set off together.

...

After a long walk, they arrived at a secluded house. The place looked rundown—bordering on haunted.

Clayton raised an eyebrow.

If this were Earth, someone would’ve turned this into a Halloween attraction by now...

Old Man Wood knocked.

No answer.

"Sir... are you sure this is the place? Did we get the wrong address?"

"This is it. Just wait. He’s probably asleep."

As the old man began to explain further, the door creaked open slowly, emitting a long, groaning sound.

A chill ran down Clayton’s spine.

Whether it was instinct or imagination, the air suddenly felt dangerous.

Behind the door was a pitch-black room...

And a pair of glowing red eyes stared out from within.

Clayton felt a tingling behind his eyes.