As the group buzzed thinking about selling the loot, Ren kept his voice calm and professional.

  “One more thing before anyone gets too excited,” he said, raising a hand.

  They all quieted immediately.

  “Crafting fees.”

  The mage frowned. “Wait, …..what crafting fees?” Obviousthe mage hadn’t read the lore.

  Ren nodded. “Yeah. Boss loot like this? It’s all raw materials. If you want actual gear—like the Shadow-Linked Cloak—you have to have it crafted.”

  That wasn’t news to most of them. But what came next was.

  “And crafting isn’t free. And it’s not guaranteed either.”

  He pointed at the screen showing their items.

  “NPC crafters charge high fees—usually around 20% of the finished item’s value. And even then, success rates on boss materials are only about 70%.”

  “Seventy?” the thief said, looking panicked. “That’s so low!”

  Ren shrugged. “Better than trusting a random level 1 crafter. New players would only have a 10% to 30% success rate at best. And if they fail?”

  The thief winced. “Poof. Materials gone.”

  “Exactly,” Ren said grimly.

  Boss mats were high-stakes.

  Use them right, and you got awesome items.

  Use them wrong, and you ended up crying in a corner.

  This is why high-level guilds would always power level non-combat characters. Not for glory, not for PVP rankings—but for crafting. A dedicated crafter could churn out gear, potions, and enchantments that shifted entire wars. That’s how it worked.

  That’s how Ren had hit level 76 as an alchemist in his last life.

  Serious guilds didn’t leave it to chance. They saved up to bribe crafting NPCs directly, unlocking secret recipes and forging recipes. Or they farmed crafting items like maniacs, feeding mats to trusted high-level players just to speed up the process.

  Because once you had a crafter at the top?

  The gold never stopped coming.

  Nobody wanted to gamble boss loot on newbie fingers.

  “So here’s the deal,” Ren said, firm now.

  “We either sell the materials raw—which serious guilds will pay a premium for—or we pay the forging costs ourselves and gamble the 70% chance.”

  He let the idea hang.

  The group shifted uneasily.

  Even the brave ones didn’t exactly want to blow their life-changing payday on a bad dice roll.

  “Up to you guys,” Ren said, smiling faintly.

  “But if we want money now—and I do—selling it raw is the best move.”

  There were nods all around.

  No one wanted to risk it.

  And no one wanted to lose that tasty gold payout hanging just within reach.

  ***

  Ren sat cross-legged on the cobblestone right outside the auction house, tossing up a glowing system emote:

  [LOOT AUCTION: SHADOW WOLF ALPHA MATERIALS – PM OR SHOUT OFFERS].

  All around them, players were also yelling and dealing like it was medieval flea market.

  “Mana roots! Five copper a bundle!”

  “Starter bows, lightly cursed! Discounted!”

  “Buying rabbit horns! Fast cash, no scams!”

  Ren cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed,

  “First kill Alpha mats! Private sale! No auction taxes! PM me or shout your offers!” His emote had dissolved too quickly to matter.

  The crowd noticed instantly.

  A handful of serious players started moving their way, eyes lighting up with greedy interest.

  Stormfield Guild muscle, solo hunters, a few sly-looking recruiters—and, of course, a couple jackasses from Prosperous Guild who had already spotted them.

  The first offer hit fast.

  “I’ll give you half a gold for the whole lot,” a big bruiser in Stormfield colors barked, pushing through the crowd.

  Ren grinned lazily. “Wow, a whole half gold? Should I be grateful or just insulted?”

  A few people laughed, but before Ren could roast him more, a Prosperous Guild mage shoved forward.

  This one didn’t bother hiding his disdain.

  “One gold for everything,” the mage said loudly, his lip curling.

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  “And you better take it, newbies. Otherwise—” he leaned in closer, voice dropping to a low, ugly sneer, “—we blacklist you.”

  The whole group tensed instantly.

  Kanuka shot to his feet so fast he nearly knocked over the thief.

  “You can’t do that!” Kanuka barked, fists clenched.

  The mage shrugged casually, like he was explaining the weather.

  “We can, and we will,” he said, voice oozing smugness.

  “Nobody trades with blacklisted scum. No auction house trades, no private deals, no buying potions, no armor repairs—nothing. You’ll starve at level one.”

  This is a true fact. Once you got blacklisted by a major guild like Prosperous, your name would get pumped straight into a central database shared across all the base guilds. Now, Prosperous wouldn’t say, “We blacklisted this guy because he wouldn’t take our terrible offer.” Nah, they’d write something like “caught griefing,” “unethical play,” or “harassed female players.” It didn’t matter if it was true—every major guild did it. The whole point of the database wasn’t just to track enemies. It was to keep the power structure locked down. New game? Doesn’t matter. The major guilds were going to stay major, and the blacklist made sure of it.

  And then, even worse:

  “We’ll hunt you too,” he added, his grin widening, like a devil’s maw.

  “Out in the wilds? The second you leave a safe zone?Every Prosperous Guild squad will kill you on sight. And good luck getting anyone else to group with you after that.”

  Several players nearby winced.

  The background music that played ubiquitously suddenly felt louder—probably because there were no more players shouting about wolf fangs or chatting randomly nearby. Without the usual chatter, the cheery tune twisted in tone, shifting from upbeat to almost eerie.

  Even in a virtual world, getting blacklisted by one of the biggest guilds was a death sentence for new players.

  The game had just launched, and technically no one was a guild yet—not officially. But VR wasn’t new. And names like Prosperous, Crimson Thorns, Storm Fist, and Idle Hammers already carried weight.

  Everyone recognized them. Not because of anything in Towerbound, but because they had built empires in other VRMMOs—sweeping world firsts, winning tournaments, flexing power and coordination like clockwork. Their reputation followed them, even if the game didn’t display it on an official guild tab yet.

  The universal helmets didn’t help. They were great for new players—equal access, no locks—but they also made it harder to tell who was who. A total noob would be wearing the same thing as a multi-title world champ. And while it didn’t show in-game, players knew. Word spread fast. You saw someone moving like a Crimson Thorns rogue? You got the hell out of their way.

  It was always the same equation—skill, luck, and credits. And the big guilds had all three in abundance.

  Why did guilds want to dominate big games—especially ones like Towerbound?

  Simple. Credits. Fame. Power.

  First, there was the streaming income, but not just in views—guilds had their own cut of sponsorships, merch sales, and direct support from fans, all paid out in credits. Some top-tier players made more in a week than most regular jobs paid in a month.

  Second, Towerbound wasn’t the first game to offer in-game-to-credit exchange, but it was the first to do it in a way that looked stable and scalable. That meant every silver, every item, every dungeon clear could be translated into real, spendable credits. Not theory—actual economy.

  So yeah, the guilds were happy to burn a mountain of credits up front—recruiting top players, securing early advantages, bribing NPCs, buying out auction houses. Because if Towerbound hit like they thought it would? It’d be the same as hitting three cherries on a jackpot reel. One big win and the guild’s coffers would overflow for the rest of the year. That was all shareholders cared about.

  And everything about this game screamed winner. The mechanics, the immersion, the players, the economy. This wasn’t some two-month burnout title.

  This was the next digital empire.

  So yeah, the guilds were all hopped up like steroid monkeys at a chicken breast buffet—ready to dominate and leave every single player gasping for dust trails.

  That’s why the threat of being killed or hunted out in the wild made the group nervous. Being targeted by a major guild wasn’t just bad luck—it was a serious “do not pass go, do not collect anything” kind of lock on your character. You’d be camped, tracked, griefed into the dirt, and left so far behind that even catching up would feel like rolling a boulder uphill with broken fingers.

  Sure, you couldn’t kill anybody in a safe zone up to level 10.

  But, the wilds was the wild.

  It definitely wasn’t a safe zone.

  The thief, standing next to Kanuka, muttered, “Fucking bullies.”

  Ren didn’t move.

  He just smiled wider. He knew the way major guilds operated, and expected it.

  He slowly stood up, letting the sunlight catch the title above his head—

  [Wolf Bane].

  A ripple of whispers ran through the crowd.

  First Alpha kill.

  Not even Prosperous could ignore that title.

  Ren locked eyes with the mage and said, casually loud enough for everyone nearby to hear,

  “You’re welcome to blacklist us after your whole guild gets roasted for losing a first kill to a bunch of ‘newbies.’ Good luck explaining that to your boss.”

  The mage’s face twisted in rage.

  The mage knew that if the group was strong enough to secure a first clear, they were either lucky or legitimately powerful. And the fact that Ren had stood up meant luck wasn’t the factor—they were tough. Pissing off a team with a first clear under their belt wasn’t exactly on the checklist of smart life choices. Especially when they had both the title and the mats to back it up. Sure, the mage could’ve kept pushing, but he’d only been testing the waters—just like Stormfist Guild had. Only cowardly players folded on the first push. And Ren, while a self-proclaimed coward in-game who hated taking damage, wasn’t one when it came to standing up for what mattered. Not when revenge—and a glorious cheese mountain—were on the line.

  He flipped them off, hissed, “You’ll regret this,” and shoved his way back through the crowd.

  As soon as he was gone, half the players around them relaxed visibly.

  Someone in the back snickered.

  “Damn, you pissed him off good.”

  Another player—a ranger with a blue feather tucked into his cap—grinned and called,

  “Alright! Now that Captain Crybaby’s gone, who’s got real money?”

  And just like that, the auction really began.

  “70 silver for the fang!”

  “80!”

  “95 for the hide!”

  “110!”

  “120 for the cloak!”

  The bids flew.

  The noise surged.

  Ren acted like a pro auctioneer, calling out the highest bids, locking sales in with fast taps.

  “110 silver, going once—going twice—SOLD!”

  “Next item! Starting at 90!”

  They had a few tense moments—one idiot tried to “accidentally” grab the Wolfbone Charm mid-bid, nearly starting a fistfight—but no real disasters.

  Bit by bit, they sold it all off.

  When it was finally done, Ren pulled up the final tally.

  He turned to the group, letting the glowing numbers hang in the air for a moment.

  35 gold, 40 silver.

  This was exactly why he didn’t want to just throw the loot on the auction house. People—even now—would pay more in person than they would from a quiet, logical click on a countdown timer. Sure, maybe a few snipers would jump in at the last second, but that wasn’t the same as the hype of a live bid. Of being there. Of flexing in front of a crowd and walking away with the prize.

  Plus, no 2% cut for the auction house, and no 2% cut for the buyer either. Everyone knew that. Which meant they could all justify pushing just a little higher.

  For slum-dwellers? 35 gold?

  That wasn’t just a win.

  It was a whole new start on life.

  Kanuka let out a whoop so loud half the street turned to look.

  “We’re rich!” he screamed.

  Even the thief was grinning like a maniac.

  Ren just crossed his arms, watching them celebrate, a calm little grin pulling at the edge of his mouth.

  Technically, not all of that gold belonged to Ren.

  Okay—some of it definitely did. And a big chunk belonged to Kanuka, no argument there. But the rest? There were six other players in that pickup group, and they’d worked hard, chucked rocks, risked their lives just like everyone else.

  Ren wasn’t planning to steal from them. Not even a little.

  But he was planning to make sure all that gold wound up in his pocket—fairly.

  How? By making it worth their while to stick around. By showing them that if they followed him, if they believed in what he was building, they’d earn even more. Not just a one-time lucky drop, but real profit. Consistent gains.

  And yeah—he had a plan for that. A very good one.

  ‘Good,’ he thought. ‘Let them celebrate. They earned it.’

  But deep down?

  He already knew.

  This was just the beginning.