The coin pouch shimmered in his hand as Elric stood just outside the moneychanger's hall. The pouch was far heavier than its size suggested—three thousand EldCoins had a surprising amount of weight, considering it was just a small drawstring bag.
A heavy knock echoed through the old wooden doors as Elric pushed them open.
Inside, the air was thick with incense and melted candlewax. Polished floors, velvet curtains, and carved stone counters gave the room the appearance of a noble's treasury. Wealth moved in hushed tones here. Clients sat in quiet corners while masked attendants shuffled scrolls, contracts, and ledgers like priests in a temple.
The moneychanger himself stood behind a crystal barrier, wearing a monocle and gloves.
"Business?" he asked, eyes narrowing at Elric's tattered clothes.
"I'd like to withdraw a portion of my assets," Elric said smoothly. "Preferably in coin, some in promissory letters, and the rest transferred to a secure vault."
The man raised a brow. "Do you… even have an account?"
"Check the name: Elric Dune. Attached to a soul-bound ledger recently transferred from the Prime Source."
The room fell quiet for a moment. The moneychanger blinked. Then he pulled out a crystal orb and whispered something into it.
Moments later, the orb pulsed.
His eyes widened.
"…I see. My apologies, Lord Dune."
"Drop the 'Lord.' Just Elric is fine."
"As you wish. How much would you like withdrawn?"
"Ten thousand EldCoins. Five thousand in gold coins, two in silver, and the remaining three in promissory notes, preferably with merchant backing."
"Of course. That will take a few minutes."
Elric nodded and stepped aside.
He spent the time observing.
A man in a fur cape was arguing over land taxes in the southern province. A pair of elven merchants were disputing a shipment of mana crystals that had gone missing on the western border. Everything ran on coin here. Everything had value. And no one was laughing at the man in rags anymore.
When the teller returned, he placed a reinforced leather case on the counter.
Inside, tightly packed rows of gold and silver coins gleamed in neat stacks. Three folded letters stamped with wax sigils rested on top.
"Done," the teller said. "You'll find that each note is issued by a reliable merchant family, recognizable in most major cities."
Elric took the case. "Appreciated."
As he stepped outside, the light hit him full in the face. The afternoon sun had risen higher, and the scent of grilled meat and spices filled the street. The marketplace had become more crowded. People shouted prices, laughed, argued.
His stomach rumbled again.
"Right," he muttered. "Food first. Plans second."
He followed the path toward Mira's Inn, as suggested by that redhead adventurer—Lyra.
Mira's Inn sat on the edge of the trade district, a two-story timber lodge with smoke curling out of the chimney and a crooked wooden sign swaying in the wind. A faded painting of a boar and a pint of ale was barely visible on the sign's surface.
Inside, the place was warm and noisy. The floor creaked with every step, and the air smelled like stew, sweat, and spilled mead. Adventurers of all shapes and sizes crowded wooden tables—some boasting about dungeon runs, others nursing wounds or drinks.
At the far end, a massive woman with broad shoulders and graying hair stood behind the bar, wiping a mug with a cloth that looked like it hadn't been washed in years.
"Name?" she barked as he approached.
"Elric. Lyra sent me."
She paused, looked him up and down, and then sighed.
"Another one of hers, huh? She keeps dragging in strays like a damn cat."
"She said you wouldn't kick me out."
"I didn't say I wouldn't charge you."
"I'm not asking for charity."
He placed three silver coins on the counter.
The woman's eyes narrowed. She took the coins, bit one, then grunted.
"Room upstairs. Second door on the left. Meal's included for tonight."
Elric nodded. "Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet. I haven't served you my stew."
The room was small but clean. A wooden bed with a hay-stuffed mattress, a chipped mirror on the wall, and a wash basin by the window. He locked the door, set the coin case under the bed, and sat down.
His body still felt weak. He needed food, rest, and time to adjust.
But rest wasn't a luxury he believed in.
Instead, he pulled out a piece of parchment from the desk drawer and began to write.
Phase One: Re-Establishment Plan
1. Secure Identity – Establish that Elric Dune is alive and legally recognized.
2. Acquire Headquarters – Purchase or build a guildhall in a trade-heavy city.
3. Hire Staff – Administrators, warriors, mages, and logistics personnel.
4. Establish Credibility – Register with the Adventurer's Guild and complete visible contracts.
5. Expand Influence – Use funds to corner services, trade routes, or rare materials.
His handwriting was shaky but readable.
He paused to examine the memory fragments he had absorbed from the body's previous owner. The system had offered him a partial integration, and he had accepted just enough to get by—names, key events, and geography.
Elric Dune. Twenty-four. A failed Bronze-rank adventurer. Parents deceased. Crushed by guild debt. Attempted to join multiple teams—rejected. Failed two dungeon raids. Had minimal magic talent.
But the world itself…
Astraeon was a continent governed by both magic and economy. Five major kingdoms. Dozens of city-states. Magic academies. Guild networks. Merchant alliances. A perfect breeding ground for empire building—if one had the capital.
Elric had more than capital.
He had knowledge.
He knew about monopoly structures, investment strategies, startup culture, negotiation tactics, and manipulation. In Earth terms, this world was still in the seed stage.
He could shape it.
But first, he needed legitimacy.
He stood and splashed water from the basin on his face. Then he changed into a clean tunic he bought downstairs—simple but fresh. Finally, he strapped a basic iron dagger to his belt, more for show than use.
As he stepped back into the hallway, he almost bumped into someone.
"Back from the dead already?" said a familiar voice.
It was Lyra.
She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking.
"Didn't expect to see you again," Elric said.
"I figured you'd be curled up crying. Most guys who end up here are."
"I'm not most guys."
"I'm starting to notice."
She looked him over. "You clean up nice."
"You don't."
She laughed. "Fair. Come on, then. Dinner's better when you have someone to insult."
They sat at a table near the window. Mira's stew turned out to be surprisingly good—thick with chunks of meat, root vegetables, and a spicy aftertaste that lingered on the tongue. Elric ate in silence while Lyra talked.
She told him about the adventuring scene in the city—Silverwall. It was a major trade hub in the west, sitting on the border of three small territories. The Adventurer's Guild here was moderately active but highly competitive.
"Most people don't make it past Bronze-rank," she said, sipping her ale. "Guild doesn't care unless you're Silver or higher. And teams? They only take people with magic, strength, or connections."
"Sounds broken."
"It is. But that's life."
Elric leaned back. "Suppose someone wanted to start their own guild."
Lyra nearly choked. "What?"
"Hypothetically."
"You? Start a guild?" She laughed. "With what? Your charm?"
"With funding. Infrastructure. Hiring. Brand."
"You sound like a noble."
"I'm not."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why would you even want to do that? You just got here. You're broke. Weak."
"I have a vision."
Lyra stared at him for a long moment. "You're serious."
"I've never been more serious in my life."
She finished her drink. "You're crazy. But… if you're really thinking of going through with it, I might know someone who can help."
"Go on."
"There's a guy. Name's Harvin. Used to run a guild, before it collapsed. He's smart. Knows the paperwork, logistics, bureaucracy. Problem is… he drinks more than he speaks."
"Where is he?"
"Slums. Near the old guild square. He might still be there."
Elric nodded slowly.
"Thanks, Lyra."
"Don't thank me. Just don't die."
The slums were quiet that night.
He found the old man in a collapsed house turned tavern, drunk on two bottles of hardroot liquor. Harvin was in his late fifties, with greasy gray hair, crooked spectacles, and a sharp tongue.
"Guilds are scams!" he shouted when Elric asked him. "All they do is steal your cut and toss you out when you're bled dry!"
"I want to start my own."
"Then you're either insane or rich."
"Both."
Harvin looked at him, eyes bloodshot. "You're not joking."
"I need someone who understands the laws. Registration fees. Requirements. Logistics."
"You need a miracle."
"I need you."
The old man blinked. Then he laughed—deep and long.
"You know what? Fine. I'll help you."
He stood on wobbly legs.
"But you pay for my drinks. And I'm not doing it out of charity."
"Neither am I."
They shook hands.
And just like that, the foundation was laid.
The next day, Elric purchased a worn-down building near the trade quarter—two floors, stone base, timber upper. Broken windows. Leaking roof. But solid bones.
He named it The Golden Fang.
His guild.
His future.
And it was only just beginning.