Internet Mage Professor

The crowd parted as a new figure stumbled forward, draped in layers of tattered fabric that fluttered in the wind like shredded flags.

His beard was a wiry thicket of grey, and his hands shook—not from fear, but from exhaustion, the kind born of too many nights sleeping under alley eaves and temple stairs. His eyes, however, gleamed with a peculiar sharpness that cut through the dust caking his face.

"I... I want to try," the beggar rasped, stepping toward the table of vibrant boxes.

A few people gasped. One woman clutched her companion’s arm, whispering, "Is he mad?"

Another man chuckled cruelly. "Old fool doesn’t even have shoes. He thinks he’s lucky now?"

The beggar bowed his head, then slowly lifted a small cloth pouch from beneath his robes. He opened it, revealing ten chipped and dulled mana crystals. Not the purest grade, but unmistakably real.

"This... is all I have left," the beggar murmured. "Everything. Every crystal I’ve saved from alms and odd jobs. It’s enough, right?"

The crowd stirred with discomfort. Some looked away, unsure whether to laugh or pity him. A few scoffed. A few turned solemn. The atmosphere shifted with unease, the kind that pressed against the skin like a humid fog.

Nolan stood still near the edge of the gathering, one brow raised so high it could nearly fly off his forehead. His arms remained folded, but his foot began tapping.

"You’re already broke and starving," Nolan muttered under his breath, "and you chose this to spend your last crystals on? A box with a 99.9% chance of being complete trash? Are you hoping the artifact will feed you? What are you going to do—chew on it?"

He shook his head in disbelief.

The seller’s grin remained fixed, though it briefly twitched as the beggar’s declaration rippled through the audience. "Of course," he said smoothly. "All are welcome to test their fortune. Rich or poor. For fate judges no man by his coin."

A few snorted at the irony.

The beggar stepped forward slowly, his movements jerky like an old puppet pulled by weak strings. His eyes scanned the boxes, his gaze resting on a pale blue one at the far left. Unlike the others, it was plain—no dazzling runes, no vibrant patterns. Just a faded wooden surface and a dull silver string.

"I choose... this one," he said, pointing.

The seller tilted his head. "An unexpected choice! A humble box for a humble soul."

Some people muttered their disapproval.

"He should’ve bought a meal."

"What a waste."

"Well, maybe the gods are watching him."

Nolan’s scowl deepened. "Gods?" he hissed. "If the gods are watching, they must be bored out of their damn minds. This feels too staged."

Just as the beggar was about to pull the tab, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. Heads turned, and a space opened without a word as if by instinct. A new figure approached, his presence like a rolling thunder that hadn’t quite struck yet.

He was tall—imperially tall—with shoulders that bore the weight of lineage and wealth.

His robes were black and gold, embroidered with draconic motifs, not the kind sold in merchant alleys but tailored by enchanters whose names carried prestige.

Rings adorned each finger, and his eyes—sharp and unreadable—glittered with interest as he approached the seller’s table.

A woman whispered, "It’s Lord Ravas..."

"Ravas?! Of the Eastbank Consortium?"

"I heard his family controls six spirit stone mines."

"They say he once bought an artifact just to demolish it because he was bored."

"Why is he here?"

Even Nolan blinked. "Ravas? That guy?" he muttered. "What the hell is someone like him doing at a street scam show? Did he get bored of jewel auctions and cultivation scrolls?"

Ravas said nothing at first. He merely observed the setup with an amused expression, his gaze flicking from the boxes to the seller and then to the beggar, who now trembled under the pressure of two dozen gazes.

"I shall make a deal," Ravas said finally, voice rich and smooth like velvet sliding over a blade. "If someone here wins—if one of you proves that these boxes contain genuine treasure—I will pay double the value of the artifact."

Gasps spread like wildfire.

"Double?!"

"He’s really going to buy it?"

"But only if someone wins..."

"What if this whole thing was rigged for him to step in like that?"

Nolan’s eyes narrowed until they were barely slits. "Too convenient..." he whispered. "Way too convenient. First the beggar. Then Ravas. What is this, a stage play? Who wrote this script?"

Despite the tension, the beggar didn’t retreat. His hand, weathered and cracked, grasped the tab on the blue box.

A moment passed.

And then he pulled.

The tab unfurled with a sound like tearing silk. The box shimmered. For a brief moment, the air distorted—as if reality held its breath. Then, with a soft pop, a radiant glow burst from the box’s interior.

The crowd gasped.

Floating above the box was an artifact shaped like a silver flame, etched with ancient runes that pulsed with living mana. The glow was real. The enchantment, palpable. Even those without mana sensitivity could feel the gentle hum in their bones.

"A Flameheart Pendant," the seller announced dramatically. "A C-tier artifact—rare, useful, and powerful. Enhances mana circulation and protects against spiritual backlash during spellcasting. A prize worthy of a high-tier novice!"

The beggar fell to his knees, tears bursting from his eyes as he held the artifact in trembling hands. He sobbed with joy, laughing and crying at once like a man who had just cheated fate at its own game.

"I... I won... I really won..."

People clapped. Some cheered. Others gawked, speechless.

"Impossible..."

"He won?"

"Then it’s not a scam?"

"Did the gods really favor him?"

Ravas stepped forward slowly, his footsteps as deliberate as a lion’s. He looked down at the beggar with an unreadable gaze.

"Name your price," he said.

The beggar blinked, stunned. "W-What?"

"The pendant," Ravas clarified. "I want it. I said I’d pay double, and I am a man of my word."

The beggar hesitated, clutching the pendant to his chest.

"I... I..."

"Triple," Ravas said. "If you hand it over now."

Gasps echoed again.

"Triple?!"

"Does he want it, or is this about showing off?"

Nolan clenched his jaw.

"No. No, no, no. This isn’t right," he muttered. "Ravas doesn’t just buy trinkets from beggars. He wouldn’t care unless this was prearranged... or unless that thing is more than what it looks like."

The beggar stared down at the pendant in his hands, then up at the man who now towered over him. Slowly, shakily, he nodded.

"I... I accept."

Ravas handed over a platinum-bound pouch without fanfare. The beggar took it, counted with shaking fingers, and wept again—this time not just from joy, but disbelief.

Ravas accepted the pendant as if he had merely purchased a glass of wine, turned without another word, and disappeared into the crowd.

People buzzed like startled bees.

"Did you see that?"

"He really paid him..."

"That pendant’s definitely real..."

"Maybe I should try..."

Nolan stayed rooted in place. His hands were tight fists, his expression twisted with suspicion. Every instinct inside him screamed that something wasn’t adding up.

"This was too perfect," he whispered. "That guy was a plant. Had to be. That pendant... maybe it’s real, maybe it’s not. But the game just became bait. Ravas shows up, turns this into a gold rush, and now everyone here thinks there’s treasure in those boxes."

He looked at the remaining artifacts, the still-smiling seller, the crowd now swelling with eager whispers and eager hands.

"No one wins without reason. No beggar gambles everything unless he knows something. And no rich bastard buys unless there’s more at stake."

He looked at the fading figure of Ravas.

"I’m convinced, there’s really something fishy here..."