"Surely, you've heard of the wager," Garnier murmured, idly swirling a glass of velvety dark rum in his hand, the liquid casting a warm amber glow in the dimly lit room.

The meeting room was a modest, intimate space with a low, timber-beamed ceiling and a single, dust-covered window that let in a thin stream of dappled light, casting elongated shadows across the worn wooden floor. The walls were adorned with simple yet charming tapestries depicting verdant scenes of pastoral life and spirited hunting, adding a touch of rustic warmth to the otherwise austere chamber.

At the heart of the room stood a small, round table, its surface scarred and weathered from years of earnest discussions and clandestine agreements. Several wooden chairs surrounded the table, each featuring a high, straight back and a rough-hewn seat, their creaks and groans telling stories of their own.

An assembly of grizzled old men were seated around the table, dressed in simple hard leather and coarse tunics. A shared aura of seasoned resilience and rugged strength clung to their figure as visibly as the battle scars - savage gashes, healed burns, and jagged nicks - spoke volumes of their past.

They conversed in hushed tones, their faces etched with deep lines of worry.

"Markus has, despite our warning, chosen not to stop. He has been persistent," a voice rumbled, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the aged wood.

"True, but he's become craftier," another conceded, "However, there has been no tangible breach of our agreement. Technically, he didn't seize that boy's house; it's just a bet,"

"So what?" a retort came swift and laced with disdain. "The match was rigged from the start. Markus, with his vast resources against a novice boy left to fend for himself. It's no wager, but a pre-orchestrated theft!"

A third interjected cautiously, his gaze sweeping the room, "He is, by our code, one of us. Yet, I see no compelling reason to intervene. Not at this moment, certainly."

"Agreed. We have more pressing matters to attend to," another acknowledged, face shadowed with worry.

" What's your take, Martinase?" Garnier's question sliced through the hushed murmurs.

The doctor stroked his beard, the hairs as white and fragile as his years. "Well, y'all, I'm inclined to agree with the majority here,” he began, each syllable carefully weighed, “The boy has potential, but we can't rush. He ain't even awoken. We need to see how things turn out for him before we start throwin' our resources his way. He already has some political bearings in the council due to his influential parents. That's just a plus. That's about it,"

"We're sorely lacking in talent these days," one member sighed audibly, his gnarled hands massaging his temples as if to soothe a headache.

"The last beast wave hit us hard, and it was brutal. At least the other villages suffered losses comparable to ours," another voice chimed in, heavy with the shadow of recent memory.

"Enough of this. Let's discuss the mining operations, any issues there?" Garnier diverted, his glass of rum revolving idly between his weathered fingers, still untouched.

***

Osric sat on a desk, papers meticulously arranged in stacks and files and writing implements laid out in precise rows. The wood was polished to a high shine, and the desk's surface was free of any visible scratches or blemishes. A quill and inkwell lay nearby. To one side of the ledger were several sheets of paper, each covered with precise, handwritten notes and calculations.

Over the past few days, Osric had been diligently optimizing his routine for the months ahead.

His days were spent visiting the library, absorbing as much information as possible.

Like a voracious sponge, he had been absorbing information that spanned millennia of discovery and development, stocking his mental arsenal with the knowledge that would shape his growth.

Simultaneously, his focus was trained on understanding the political arrangements of the village. While not initially at the forefront of his plans, the swirling currents of power, intrigue, and alliances had proven impossible to ignore.

His initial plan was simple: maintain a low profile, hone his skills after his awakening, find a profession that would enable him to advance to Rank 1, and eventually move beyond the confines of the village.

However, reality proved less cooperative.

He found himself inadvertently ensnared in the vortex of power dynamics he wished to avoid. Despite his best efforts to remain uninvolved, he couldn't help but become entangled in the power struggles and machinations that surrounded him.

As he thought about the entire affair, a clear puppetmaster emerged. Markus. The orchestrator of the entire play.

He had likely directed Finn to antagonize Osric over an extended period, stoking the simmering embers of their conflict with a crafty hand. When they decided the time was ripe, the smoldering tension between the two exploded into a fiery clash.

They exaggerated Finn's injuries, amplifying the impression of a savage beating that left him perilously wounded. This deception tactic served as the perfect prop, allowing Markus to step onto the stage under a valid pretext. Markus executed his role with theatrical brilliance, oscillating between humility and sternness with a maestro's precision. He subtly manipulated the tide of public sentiment, his performance so compelling that it blinded the spectators to the artifice behind the events. By the time he proposed the wager, the public was thoroughly beguiled, seeing it as an organic outcome of the unfolding drama, unaware of the invisible strings that had been manipulated to reach this crescendo.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

The terms of the bet appeared fair on the surface, earning Markus even more praise from the unsuspecting public. The bet was quite advantageous for Osric, as he would receive 5000 essence stones regardless of the outcome. The lump sum would prove invaluable during his refining process, giving him the resources he needed to develop his abilities further.

Although armed with limited resources, Osric had doggedly pursued an investigation to the best of his abilities, painstakingly unearthing clues that began to illuminate Markus's scheme. He had delved deep into the labyrinth of knowledge contained within the library's parchment-worn walls.

His exhaustive exploration provided him with a greater understanding of the real estate dynamics within the village.

Osirc looked at the papers in front of him. “Ledger entries revealed a predictable pattern in property values. Following a beast wave, real estate prices invariably experienced a surge due to heightened demand for safer dwellings. The magnitude of the beast wave had a proportional impact on this spike in property values.”

While the price of 5,000 essence stones for his house seemed reasonable, with the current context added, it made things more complicated. Given the severity of the recent beast wave, which had claimed a substantial number of Rank 1 and 2 villagers, housing prices should have skyrocketed.

“While they did rise, the increment was laughably meager compared to historical trends, especially considering the premium attached to properties in the inner sanctum of the village. Acquiring these properties near the village square required more than just financial muscle- they would need connections. With few people willing to part with such valuable real estate, the demand-supply imbalance should have driven prices absurdly.”

Especially the prime real estate near the inner area of the village, which offered more safety. There was almost no one willing to sell.

“The officially estimated value of my house, placed around 4,000 to 5,000 essence stones, seems like a gross understatement. If exposed to the fierce competition of an open market, the property could fetch double, even triple, that price from aggressive bidders.”

The prevailing prices, stubbornly hovering around 5,000 stones despite the context, was suspicious.

Most unsuspecting villagers were blissfully unaware of the intricate dynamics of property values in the inner zones, especially those who lived on the outskirts. As for those who knew the truth, they were unlikely to risk offending an elder like Markus by openly questioning his actions.

As for why Markus wanted his house so desperately that he was willing to risk tarnishing his reputation, Osric had no solid idea. He needed more detailed information to fully understand Markus's perplexing motives.

“Did he want the house to be cheaper? He is an elder he does not need to be cheap. Does the house have something special? Not that I discovered. Did the location hold priority? There were many locations similar to his place.”

If Markus had come to Osric alone, he would have happily sold the place without necessitating this elaborate farce. It was clear that Markus had his sights set on the Devereux property, but the reasons behind this desire remained shrouded in mystery.

If he lost in the tournament, Finn would secure ownership of the house for a pittance, while the public perception of the bet would seem fair and above board. Markus would appear magnanimous, and if anyone dared question his motives, he could feign innocence with a veil of plausible deniability.

Among the knowledgeable people in the village, no one believed Osric had even a ghost of a chance at winning the tournament. The glaring difference in resources between him and Finn was simply too vast to be overcome.

They would undoubtedly bet against him. He could use that to his advantage.

Osric also scrutinized the open bet and perceived the hidden blade in the dark, a sinister undercurrent lurking beneath the seemingly fair wager.

His parents, Valven and Melinda Devereux, were once Rank 2 professionals in the village council, respected and influential figures. Although they had tragically passed away, the prestige they had accumulated could still be of immense use to him when he became a Rank 1 and sought to enter the council himself.

There was currently a glaring power vacuum in the village's political landscape due to a lack of capable personnel. As fresh blood brimming with ambition and potential, Osric and his generation represented ideal candidates to fill the void.

The public gifting of 5000 essence stones placed a target on Osric's back.

With no significant backing, he was an easy target for the various forces lurking in the shadows, each eager to get their hands on the invaluable stones.

He estimated that the forces that had supported his parents in the council would try their hand at claiming some of the windfall. If he rejected their advances, his political standing with those parties would be irreparably ruined, and deep resentment would be bred. If he accepted, he would be left resourceless and beholden to their whims.

It seemed the bet was rigged from the onset; he was ensnared in a lose-lose scenario.

"Those who wield power are not fools; their actions are never as simple as they appear on the surface," he mused aloud, his voice echoing in the silent room, "Each move is ridden with veiled plans, shrouded schemes lurking beneath the façade."

Due to his current circumstances, Osric was merely a pawn in the intricate interworkings of the village.

He felt a vulnerability, raw and sharp, that had remained a stranger to him for years.

"The abilities I possess, the arsenal of spells and techniques at my fingertips, they lie dormant, inaccessible until I undergo the awakening. I find myself cut off from my reservoirs of energy as well. The real breadth of my options will only unfurl after the awakening."

To challenge a ranked elder in his mortal state was akin to a lamb stepping into a lion's den. It promised a crushing defeat, even if Markus chose to withhold his full strength and relied solely on the immense prestige he had amassed over the years.

“All of my knowledge is ancient, I need time to figure out which aspects are credible and which ones are not. I need to separate the grains of relevance from the chaff of the outdated."

"My knowledge of the village’s structure is pitifully inadequate. Their internal squabbles, military prowess, economic health, and much more remain a mystery. The lower sections of the library only offer limited information. I grope in the darkness of my circumstances."

“The type of possession I find myself in does not provide me with the host’s memory. So I have to fill the holes on my own. I have to spend considerable mental energy analyzing my movements to ensure they do not deviate from this body's usual actions.”

"My circle of allies is alarmingly small. Apart from Cain and Glucia, there's no one I can lean on. And even their loyalty is questionable."

“I can’t even use alchemy because it would be out of character. I also would need considerable resources to find substitutes for recipes I know, which would take too much time. I do not have that kind of luxury.”

"Before I can awaken, my physical attributes demand enhancement. This body needs rigorous conditioning."

His situation was riddled with difficulties, and every avenue available came with its own caveats. His capabilities were fettered by a myriad of constraints.

Yet, despite the oppressive limitations, a confident smirk crept onto his face, his eyes blazing with a determination that was as fiery as it was resolute. An intoxicating excitement surged through his veins, infectious and palpable.

"The thrill of this...it's invigorating. Stimulating to the core," he murmured, the adrenaline-fueled exhilaration thrumming in his voice.

With a gleam in his eyes, he savored the adrenaline rush, feasting on the challenges laid before him with relish.