Internet Mage Professor

The crowd thickened around the seller, bodies swaying forward like moths toward a lantern. His voice, clear and theatrical, rang over the buzz of the street with a practiced confidence that belonged to someone who had done this far too many times.

"Welcome! Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, mana users, mercenaries, apprentices of great potential and unfortunate poverty!" the seller began, sweeping his arms in an arc as though unveiling the heavens themselves.

"You have arrived at just the right moment! For today—yes, today only!—you are invited to partake in the grand game of fate, the trial of wisdom and daring, the one and only Mystic Artifact Fortune Game!"

Nolan arched an eyebrow from the edge of the crowd. "Mystic... Artifact... Fortune Game?" he muttered under his breath. "That name alone makes me want to punch someone."

The seller was undeterred by doubt or the skeptical glances being traded. If anything, he was feeding off them.

"It’s simple, my friends. Very simple. In fact, so simple that even a muscle-headed sword jock or a half-awake spell-chanter could understand!"

He paced before a series of small wooden boxes—each one painted in dazzling colors, covered with strange runes, and stacked in little pyramids. Every box had a small pull tab and a narrow, coin-sized slot at the top.

"This," he said, gesturing dramatically to the boxes, "is a game of intellect, of perception, of true vision! Each of these boxes contains an artifact! That’s right! A powerful magical object—perhaps one lost to time, perhaps one that fell from a Dragon Saint’s hoard, perhaps even one forged by the Blacksmith King of Mount Aurelius himself!"

Someone in the crowd gasped.

The seller grinned, then raised one finger. "But! Not every artifact is as it seems. Oh no. Some of them are duds! Fakes! Fool’s relics. Traps in the shape of treasure."

A ripple of murmurs passed through the onlookers. A few leaned closer, narrowing their eyes. Some arms crossed. Others gripped the coin pouches at their belts a little tighter.

"But that," he said, tapping a finger to his temple, "is where you come in. Your job—your quest!—is to discern the real from the false. The genuine from the counterfeit. To select the artifact that is truly rare and worthy."

Nolan made a soft scoffing sound and crossed his arms.

"But how," the seller continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "can you do this if you rely on magic? On the crutches of your so-called Mana Vision? No, no, no..."

He wagged a finger. "No Mana Specialists allowed. That’s right. No active magic allowed, no appraisal spells, no third-eye vision, no aura gazing. Just your senses, your wit, and your luck."

That got a stronger reaction. The crowd stirred uneasily. Some turned to each other with frowns. Others whispered quickly, already calculating the odds in their heads.

Nolan tilted his head and muttered, "So... let me get this straight. You’re not allowed to use any skill that would actually tell you what’s real. You’re supposed to just eyeball it and hope for the best? Sounds like the loot box from hell."

"Isn’t that... fake?" a woman whispered to her companion.

"Can’t tell," the man replied. "He talks like he believes it, though."

"Yeah, but he’s not letting us check with magic. That’s weird."

"No, no, maybe it’s part of the game?"

"Or maybe he doesn’t want us to realize he’s scamming us."

Nolan listened to all of it. The hushed voices, the unsure glances. He didn’t say anything out loud, but his internal monologue was steady.

"They’re onto him," he thought. "This guy’s using their own curiosity against them. Classic misdirection. No proof of value, no way to verify authenticity, but he sells it like a rare opportunity. Like he’s doing them a favor."

The seller clapped his hands.

"So, here’s how it works! You give me ten mana crystals. Just ten! A pittance! A humble offering! And you get to choose one of these boxes. That’s it. You pull the tab, and what’s inside is yours. No refunds. No exchanges. No tantrums."

He smiled like a man who’d won a coin toss with the devil.

"And remember, some of these artifacts are real. I guarantee it. One of you will walk away with something precious today. It might be you. It might not. That’s the thrill of the game!"

The whispers intensified. Some scoffed. Some laughed nervously. Some looked around to see if anyone would actually try it.

Nolan leaned slightly forward. "Alright," he whispered, "who’s going to be the first sucker?"

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then, a young man stepped forward. He had the lean build of a fresh academy graduate—robes just a bit too clean, fingers twitching with eager magic, eyes a little too bright.

"I’ll do it," he said, voice a touch too loud.

The crowd parted slightly. The seller beamed.

"A brave soul! A true gambler!" He accepted the boy’s ten mana crystals and motioned toward the boxes. "Choose wisely, my friend. The fate of your fortune lies in your hands."

The boy hesitated, eyes scanning the strange runes, the painted surfaces, the positioning.

"Top right," he said finally, pointing at a red-and-black box with gold trim.

"Ah, an excellent choice!" the seller cried. He handed the box over with a flourish. "Now, pull the tab. Let fate unfold!"

The boy took a breath and pulled. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

There was a pop, a shimmer of light—and then, a puff of glitter. The artifact inside was a small pendant in the shape of a dragon’s claw. It glowed faintly.

The crowd leaned forward.

Nolan’s eyes narrowed. "That glow’s too faint. Manufactured enchantment. Probably a low-grade illusion spell baked into a trinket. That thing wouldn’t enchant a teaspoon."

The seller examined the pendant and declared, "Hmm... ah, unfortunate! This one is a test artifact! A mimic of the real one! But take heart! That means one fewer fake left in the pile!"

The boy’s smile faltered, but he nodded weakly and returned to the crowd.

Then, another stepped forward. A woman with a sword on her back and a weather-worn cloak. She didn’t say anything. Just handed over ten mana crystals and picked a box with no hesitation.

She pulled.

A small orb rolled out—milky white, no glow, no inscription.

The seller lifted it and turned it slowly in the light. "Ah, yes! A common scrying orb, sadly inert. No longer functional. Another false trail on the path to riches!"

Nolan rolled his eyes. "A dead magic marble. Brilliant."

More people stepped up. Some hesitated. Others did it on a dare. Ten mana crystals for a shot at something rare—it was just cheap enough to be tempting, just expensive enough to hurt a little when they failed.

And fail they did.

One after another, boxes opened to reveal low-grade junk. Bent rings, cracked amulets, dusty old scrolls with broken glyphs. Each time, the seller would deliver a polished excuse.

"Ah! A training item from a novice mage—valuable for nostalgia!"

"Oh, a practice wardstone. Not powerful, but once cherished by a forgotten disciple!"

"Ahh, this bracelet once belonged to a fortune teller... or maybe her pet dog. Hard to say!"

Nolan watched, arms crossed. His thoughts were razor sharp.

"He never says it’s valuable. He never promises power. Just ’artifact.’ Just enough ambiguity. He’s letting their imaginations do all the work."

More whispers now. Frustration was building.

"Is this a scam?"

"I’ve seen street tricks better than this."

"But he said someone would get a real one..."

"Or he plants one just to make us think it’s possible."

Nolan’s gaze scanned the boxes, the seller, the patterns. His brain was dissecting the setup like a hawk eyeing wounded prey.

Then something clicked.

He saw it—the twitch of the seller’s finger when someone picked the green box in the center. The way his smile faltered slightly. The bead of sweat at his temple.

Nolan’s brow furrowed.

"...Something’s wrong," he muttered, barely audible.

He stepped closer, watching the next person approach.

The air around the stall felt different now. He didn’t know what, or how—but his instincts was telling him something.

The seller smiled.

The box was chosen.

Another failure.

But Nolan, off to the side, unmoving, muttering to himself again.

"Something’s... really off."