Meeting the grandmaster was hard.

  Finding him wasn’t… because everyone in Altandai knew where the Master of the Green Dragon lived.

  The place wasn’t a home so much as a statement. A massive estate rose behind a tall, stupidly ornate wall made of the same rosy stone. Pink rock pretending to be noble. Whoever mined this garbage must’ve been rolling in coin, because the city was littered with it like an infection.

  The wall curved as if it wanted to strangle the street, tall enough to make it clear: you’re not welcome unless we say so.

  The main gate was twice my height, painted in dark green and fitted with bronze studs big enough to break your face if they fell off. Two guards stood there, halberds in hand, their armor glinting with freshly polished smugness.

  Through the bars, I glimpsed tall trees swaying in the garden beyond. The estate itself loomed past them: three smaller towers, each about five stories, and one central monstrosity shooting twenty stories up.

  Built from rosy-green stone, it looked like someone had fused my least favorite marble with mildew.

  In front of this… home, the street was crammed with merchants hawking wares: strings of dried peppers, bolts of cloth bright as peacock tails, trays of sticky pastries dripping syrup. The air smelled of sugar, smoke, and too many sweaty bodies packed together. Someone was roasting meat on a skewer nearby, the fat hissing as it hit the coals.

  Not a mud wolf though, hehe.

  I stopped at a tea stall tucked against the wall, its canopy a faded green patched with mismatched cloth. Tea here was apparently popular.

  Steam curled from copper kettles, and I ordered one at random and got a brew so sweet it could strip enamel, with a bite of mead lurking under it.

  Like honey whiskey, my heart did a little happy dance.

  I tipped the merchant half the price, earning myself a stunned grin and a bow deep enough I thought he’d smack his head on the counter. Benches lined the wall opposite the gate. Most were empty, a few occupied by tired merchants or locals nursing drinks. I claimed one, mug in hand, and let myself watch.

  Children darted across the street, weaving between carts and legs, shouting nonsense in the universal language of kids. Their laughter was high and unrestrained. Weird seeing children when it wasn’t required.

  My throat tightened unexpectedly. Mom’s words echoed… women can choose here. Young ages of children weren’t compulsory. They were… wanted.

  Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to face that decision anytime soon. Taking care of children aged 12 didn’t exactly fit in my conquering plan. Or my drinking schedule.

  I blew across the rim of my tea and let the sweet burn coat my tongue again, trying to focus on why I was here.

  The Master of the Green Dragon. A potential ally. A grandmaster.

  Time to look impressive.

  I flicked open my profile, checked my stats and skills. Triple-checked, because if I was going to sit across from a string man, I couldn’t afford to look like I was winging it… even if I was.

  I was still missing a class. That stupid, glaring hole capped my level until I chose one… same as for players.

  Hm, maybe I should actually ask my allies what classes they were aiming for. I could practically call myself an expert; Lisa was proof enough of that. World-class adventurer, sponsored by Charlie’s School of Accidental Optimization.

  Weird, though. Players started with a novice class at level zero. NPCs… we… didn’t.

  Maybe Cloudy thought players needed training wheels at the beginning. Or maybe it was some dramatic balance thing: “Mortals must crawl before they can walk.”

  Who knew? Either way, level ten felt like an arbitrary choke point for players. Meh. Not my problem anymore.

  For my plan to work, I didn’t need a class; I just needed the scroll and a lot of hope. I clutched my royal-purse in my lap, thumb worrying the seam, lip caught between my teeth.

  What if the Grandmaster steals it?

  Not impossible. Those guys had a reputation, and my plan wasn’t exactly subtle. If he grabbed it, he’d know everything.

  That meant I had to stash it somewhere safe.

  But where?

  The bank? Ha. Yes, let me waltz up to a counter and shout: “Hello, I’m the Queen, please store this suspiciously important magical item for me!” Perfect way to end up robbed, poisoned, or, knowing my luck, married off.

  Warehouse rental? Same problem. Too visible.

  I tapped the purse against my knee, thinking. The rosy towers loomed over the garden wall, but my brain was already elsewhere.

  If only I had an… inventory…

  The thought hit like a hammer.

  Player’s inventory.

  System, I whispered in my head, heart already quickening. Can I get the skill inventory?

  I froze, tea halfway to my lips. The steam curled up and stung my nose, earthy-sweet with honey, but I barely tasted it anymore. Two months of energy debt? That was brutal. Like running a marathon and then realizing you still had to carry the stadium home.

  But… inventory. The holy grail of player quality-of-life skills. No more lugging bags, no more stuffing purses under beds, no more awkward “please don’t steal my life’s work” situations.

  And if inventory was on the table… then so were other features. Friends list. Map.

  The whole damned toolkit. I blew out a long breath, staring at the system prompt. Was I really going to fill one of my precious NPC skill slots with this?

  With… quality of life?

  I smirked bitterly into my tea. Maybe I’d just admit it… I was addicted. Not to alcohol this time, but to convenience players had.

  No more hesitating.

  Do it.

  “Uh… sorry, Cloudy?” I muttered under my breath and tried slipping my purse into the new inventory. It worked like a charm… one blink and the weight was gone from my lap. Feeling bold, I nudged my mug of tea the same way. It vanished.

  “Ha! Easy.” I smirked… until I tried to summon it back. Five agonizing seconds later, the mug reappeared in my hand, steaming as if I’d paused time itself.

  Way too slow.

  “Oh, come on…” I groaned, shaking my head. “Hidden mechanics? Really?”

  Right. No more stalling.

  I glanced up at the guards near the gate, who weren’t paying me much attention; stiff-backed, relaxed on the surface, but with that soldier’s posture that said, try me.

  With a flick, I sent the tea back into storage, then pulled out the tiara. Time to stop being Charlie, the scared idiot with too much tea. Time to pretend I was Queen Charlie, terrifying ruler with ice in her veins.

  Time to play.

  My heels crunched on the stone path as I approached. They noticed me a few steps before I reached them, eyes narrowing as they subtly shifted weight toward their spears.

  I pointed at the gate. “Open.”

  They blinked. The shorter one cleared his throat. “Miss, excuse us?”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself.” I let frost bloom over my hand, a crackling spray of ice curling around my fingers. I pushed weight into my voice… the kind my title carried. Cold authority. “I’m important, and you don’t want to feel my ice.”

  That got them. Their eyes widened, panic flashing, and they scrambled to undo the locks. The gates groaned as they pulled open just enough for me to pass.

  I smirked like I’d expected nothing less and stepped through without hurry.

  Inside was… paradise. A garden, sprawling like a chunk of springtime, had been stolen and caged behind those ugly rosy walls. Winding stone paths snaked between hedges, fountains, and flowerbeds exploding with color. Exotic vines dangled from trellises; wide-leafed trees shaded stretches of soft moss. Even the air felt heavier… humid, thick with damp soil.

  Somewhere off to the side, a trickle of water ran into a fish pond, silver and gold scales flashing beneath the surface. For a second, I almost forgot I was here to strong-arm a grandmaster.

  Almost.

  A woman noticed me… older, gray at the temples, dressed in a servant’s apron, slave muted colors, but a different outfit for the first time. Probably a maid-slave then? Her back straightened instantly under my gaze. She dipped into a bow so fast I wondered if she’d practiced just for moments like this.

  “My lady,” she said softly, “do you—”

  “I’m meeting your master,” I cut in, keeping my tone ice as Mom. “No need to announce me. Where is he?”

  At that moment I realized it would be very awkward if she said there was nobody here. Oh, my poor planning and oversight… Please don’t say he’s not here.

  Please.

  She straightened and pointed upward without hesitation. “Laboratory. Sixth floor.”

  Relief disguised itself as a smirk. “Thanks.” I strode past her, letting my clothes swirl as if I had better places to be.

  The staircase wound upward in tight, steep spirals. I counted landings, each one had arched windows spilling light across the stone and plants. The air grew damper, hotter, as if the entire tower was one giant greenhouse.

  All right. Showtime.

  I pushed open the tall door and stepped inside.

  It was… a jungle. No exaggeration. The chamber sprawled wide, ceiling lost to a canopy of dangling vines and broad leaves. Potted trees lined the walls, roots spilling from cracked urns onto the tiled floor. The air was heavy with the scent of wet loam and green things, mixed with a chemical tang that prickled my nose. Droplets clung to glass panes high above, catching light and scattering it like shards of emerald.

  In the middle of this miniature rainforest stood a man, stooped but steady, tending to a squat, wide-leafed plant.

  He wore a robe stained with earth and green smears, his silver hair bound back in a short tail. A brass sprayer hissed in his hands, misting the leaves with a faint, sweet-smelling vapor.

  “Hello, Master of the Green Dragon. I’m—”

  He didn’t even look at me. His hands moved, coaxing the plant as if I weren’t there. With a flick of his fingers, the vines around the room moved.

  Before I could react, they coiled around my wrists and ankles, pinning me tight like a fly in a spider’s web.

  His voice was calm, almost bored, like I was an annoying draft sneaking under his door. “You need to wait. This is a delicate process. And it cannot be rushed. Nor stopped.” His fingers shifted, and the vines around my arms tightened just enough to sting. “Don’t force me to mute you.”

  I glared daggers at him… but glaring was all I could do. The vines pulsed with a faint, sticky warmth, smelling of sap and crushed leaves. Every time he moved his hand, it seemed to breathe with him.

  He hummed to himself, crouching over the plant as if it were his child.

  Slow, methodical… snipping a dead leaf, misting the soil, brushing pollen from one flower to another with a feathered tool. The kind of quiet ritual you’d expect from a man who probably loved his plants more than people.

  “You see,” he continued, conversational as if I wasn’t trussed up like firewood, “I wasn’t expecting anyone today.” His tone carried no malice, just weary irritation. “It’s your lucky day… I’m usually too busy to entertain interruptions. But also unlucky, because I was rather looking forward to a day for myself.”

  Finally, after one last spray, he straightened with a creak of his knees. For the first time, his eyes lifted to meet mine.

  He wore a deep forest-green robe, its folds heavy with modest gold trim from the front. Not plain, but restrained, like someone who could afford to flaunt wealth and chose not to. The embroidery ran in leaf-like patterns along his cuffs and collar, catching the light without screaming for attention. His hair was long, silver threaded with a faint greenish tint, pulled back loosely so it didn’t fall into the plants he tended.

  He looked more gardener than lord… until his sharp moss-green eyes fixed on me, and suddenly the robe felt less like clothing and more like authority.

  With another flick of his fingers, the vines recoiled instantly, slithering back into the floor. My limbs ached where they’d been pinned.

  He dusted his hands, as if done with the only thing that mattered. “Now…” His voice changed, no longer bored. “Tell me what is so urgent you decided to be rude.”

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