Jace had spent the better part of the morning locked inside his consciousness, not sleeping, but studying his bloodline. The revelation of the Royal Stat Floor was a monumental shift in his planning. It was the entire framework of his ancestor's reign. His knowledge confirmed that the power of his forgotten kingdom lay not in massive, raw stats, but in the systemic talent that granted him and his contracted beasts a permanent 20-30% performance advantage.
The mental archive wasn't just feeding him tactical information. It was revealing the fundamental structure of his bloodline's dominance. He could see it now, clear as crystal in his mind's eye. Every member of the royal family, from the lowest prince to the Sovereign King himself, had operated under this hidden advantage. It was why they'd held power for millennia despite being vastly outnumbered by rival nations.
This knowledge changed everything about his procurement strategy. He no longer needed a statistically perfect beast. In fact, seeking out a high-stat beast was a waste of his minimal resources. A flawed gem is perfect, the Prince's tactical mind assessed. A high-tier beast that's considered a 'defect' by this era's standards will be priced at Common rates, but my bloodline will correct its fundamental performance, giving me a higher-level fighter at a fraction of the cost.
He pulled himself out of the meditative trance and stood slowly, his weak body protesting the hours spent sitting cross-legged on the bare floor. The room spun slightly, a reminder that his Constitution of 40 was barely adequate for sustained mental exertion. He needed food, real sustenance, but food required credits he didn't have.
Jace walked to the cracked mirror hanging on the wall and studied his reflection. Dark circles under his eyes, gaunt cheeks, the telltale signs of malnutrition and spiritual exhaustion. But beneath that exterior, he could sense something else now. The faint, barely perceptible hum of royal blood flowing through inadequate veins. It was like a sleeping dragon coiled in the body of a mouse, waiting for the right catalyst to awaken.
He ran scenarios through his mind, the Prince's tactical genius working through thousands of permutations in seconds. His style would be utterly unconventional. Tactical perfection compensating for statistical weakness, while his beast compensated for its own statistical flaws with supernatural efficiency. The Royal Stat Floor would be his hidden blade, the advantage no one else in this degraded era even knew existed.
The immediate problem remained, stark and unavoidable. He was a three-time failure with next to no money and an inescapable debt hanging over his head like an executioner's blade. No reputable dealer would let him near their cages. The public shaming of the Royal Lion had sealed his pariah status. Word would have spread through the summoner community by now. The fool who pulled a Mythic beast only to be verbally destroyed by it.
Jace allowed himself a moment of cold satisfaction at that memory. The Lion had been intelligent, calculating, absolutely correct in its assessment of Jace's surface capabilities. But it had missed the bloodline signature, had judged the shell and ignored the ghost within. That oversight would prove costly, though not to the Lion. To everyone else who made the same mistake.
He meticulously went through the remaining fragments of Jace's memory, sifting through the failures and humiliations for useful information. He needed the bottom feeders, the fringes, the districts that dealt in the discarded and the damned. Places where his reputation might actually work in his favour, where desperation was currency and shame was just another transaction.
The original Jace had avoided these areas, clinging to the false hope that somehow, some way, he'd earn enough respect to contract through legitimate channels. The Prince had no such illusions. Pride was a luxury he couldn't afford. He'd crawl through sewage if it meant securing the right weapon.
He changed into the least recognizable clothes he owned, a neutral gray tunic and a dark, simple cloak that had seen better days. The fabric was thin, offering little protection against the morning chill, but it had the benefit of being utterly unremarkable. He threw the last of his credits into his pocket. Sixty-three credits total. Barely enough for a week's worth of nutrient paste, let alone a contract beast.
But the Prince's knowledge whispered a different truth. Sixty credits could buy a fortune if you knew where to look and what to look for. The key was finding something everyone else had written off as worthless.
He left the apartment, locking the flimsy door behind him. The main boulevard was already crowded with morning traffic, summoners and their contracted beasts moving with purpose toward the Academy district or the commercial zones. Jace kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, just another failure in a city full of them.
The route to the outer districts took him through increasingly dilapidated neighbourhoods. The gleaming towers of the Academy gave way to cramped tenements, then to industrial warehouses, and finally to the sprawling, chaotic marketplace known colloquially as the Dregs. This was where the city's refuse, both material and spiritual, collected and festered.
Jace approached a vendor hawking Common-tier war hounds. The beasts were mangy, aggressive, straining against their chains with mindless fury. The vendor, a thick-necked man with scarred hands, sized Jace up in an instant and dismissed him just as quickly.
"We don't deal in charity, kid," the vendor said before Jace could even speak. "Our Common-tier beasts require a minimum Spirit of 50 just to look at them. You're clearly below that. Move along."
Jace moved on without argument. At a stall selling caged feathered serpents, he tried a different tactic, asking specifically for a beast with a known, treatable defect. The merchant, a thin woman with calculating eyes, recognized him immediately.
"You're that kid," she said, her lip curling. "The one who failed the public circle three times. Heard about yesterday. Pulled a Mythic and still got rejected." She laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "Even our Common-tier rejects are too good for you. Get lost before you scare away real customers."
The verbal abuse simply reinforced the magnitude of his fall and the necessity of his mission. Each rejection was data, confirming what he already knew. His reputation had preceded him. No legitimate vendor would risk their business's credibility by contracting to a known failure. He needed someone who didn't care about reputation, who dealt in volume and moved product regardless of the buyer's status.
Finally, after nearly an hour of systematic rejections, he approached a grizzled old merchant selling dubious, rusted summoning components from a cart that looked ready to collapse. The old man was half-asleep, a bottle of cheap wine tucked under his arm, his weathered face a map of poor decisions and hard years.
Jace stopped and simply waited, meeting the man's bleary eyes when they eventually opened. He didn't plead, didn't explain, didn't offer excuses. He just let his silent gaze do the talking. The desperation was evident, but so was something else. A quiet, absolute determination that went beyond the normal desperation of the damned.
The old merchant studied him for a long moment, then sighed heavily. "Listen kid," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I've been in this business forty years. I've seen every kind of failure there is. You've got that look. The one that says you're either going to die trying or succeed spectacularly. Probably die, if I'm being honest."
He leaned forward, lowering his voice to something approaching genuine pity. "If you're truly desperate, check the Beast Tamer's Hall. They've got a 'rejection stock' section in the back. Beasts nobody wants, marked down to almost nothing. Birth defects, weak bloodlines, trauma cases. Beasts that are one step away from being put down because keeping them alive costs more than they're worth. It's your only shot with empty pockets and bad luck."
The advice was a knife twist, confirming just how far Jace had fallen. The Beast Tamer's Hall was where contracts went to die, where the broken and defective were warehoused until disposal. It was the absolute bottom of the summoning hierarchy.
But the Prince's knowledge flared with sudden, fierce interest. The Hall of Rejects was exactly where the greatest concentration of 'defects' would be found. More importantly, defects in this era were judged by crude, statistical standards. Birth defects that limited a beast's immediate combat utility. Weak bloodlines that didn't show impressive power at low tiers. Trauma cases that made beasts difficult to control.
The royal archives whispered a different truth: Sometimes the 'defects' are actually hidden treasures. A beast marked for destruction because it doesn't fit conventional standards might be exactly what an unconventional summoner needs.
Jace gave a single, curt nod of thanks to the old merchant, swallowing the bitter pill of accepting advice from a drunk peddler. "Appreciated," he said simply.
The old man waved him off. "Don't thank me yet. Most of what you'll find there is genuinely worthless. But if you've got an eye for potential, and you're desperate enough to gamble on a long shot, well... maybe you'll find something. Or maybe you'll waste your last credits on something that dies in a week. Either way, it's your funeral."
Jace turned toward the inner city, back toward the districts he'd come from. The Beast Tamer's Hall was located in the merchant quarter, a compromise location between the wealthy Academy district and the industrial zones. It served both the elite looking for premium contracts and the desperate looking for anything at all.
The climb had officially begun, starting in the deepest pit of rejection. And the Prince's mind was already calculating, already planning, already seeing the path forward that no one else could perceive.