Ren sat back in his alchemy room, flipping through the pile of coins in his menu with a half-smile.

  Technically, he didn’t look that rich.

  162.5 silver.

  Way less than what most players would expect after such a big sale.

  But that was only on paper.

  The reason his wallet looked slim was because he had quietly stocked up mountains of other reagents for future potions — and not just basic stuff either. He’d also swept up a fat stack of lore cards. The good ones.

  The cheap ones.

  The ones no one else even realized would matter yet.

  His empire wasn’t coins.

  It was materials.

  And it was growing.

  As Ren sorted through his future plans, a new message popped up, flashing at the corner of his vision.

  [Incoming Message: Silverthrone Division Leader – Shyld Voss]

  Ren opened it.

  “Can you make another batch? 65 potions plus reagents/cards again. We’re regrouping for a second attempt.”

  Ren grinned.

  ‘That’s another 162.5 silver… and another pile of free mats. Please, by all means, fail again.’

  He leaned back and grinned.

  ‘Called it.’

  He cracked his fingers and messaged back casually.

  “Sorry, I can’t let you. No can do,” Ren replied. “The next batch has already been booked by… Ashen Bloom.”

  He didn’t even try to soften it. Why should he?

  Ashen Bloom had leapt at the opportunity the moment they heard Silverlight Division had flamed out—literally and figuratively. Rumor had it they popped a bottle of something fizzy when the news broke. This was their shot at a first clear, and they weren’t going to waste it. All they needed was the potion supply to push through the fire traps and lava tunnels. And Ren? Ren was the one cooking it up.

  He’d been brewing quietly, methodically, while Silverlight’s elite squad got roasted like festival pigs. No dramatics. No bragging. Just non-stop potion brewing and logistics micromanagement, fueled by spite, black coffee, and the distant promise of cheese.

  He didn’t need glory. He needed results.

  And in 30 more minutes, he’d have finished them.

  ‘Let the loud ones shout,’ Ren thought, lips twitching. ‘I’ve got product to move and winners to supply.’

  “What? No, we need the next supply. We’re so close,” the leader of Silverlight Division said, practically pleading.

  “Sorry,” Ren replied, voice even. “I try to keep it fair. You guys got the first crack at it. Ashen Bloom’s already locked in the second batch. But—if you want—I can sell you the third. Shouldn’t take me too long to prep.”

  The Silverlight Division leader gritted his teeth. “Are you sure? We can pay you more.”

  “I think the price is high enough,” Ren said honestly. “I want you to remember that I’ve always tried to keep things fair. That matters to me.”

  There was a brief silence. Then the Silverlight leader gave a short nod.

  “Thanks for that. Seriously. Fine,” he added, sighing. “We’ll take the third set of potions. I bet Ashen Bloom won’t even get halfway through. Bunch of showoffs.”

  Ren gave a small shrug. “I’ll get started as soon as you send the payment.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Ren understood the game better than most—not just Towerbound, but the world that had started to grow around it.

  He didn’t need to be told that both Silverlight and Ashen Bloom were corporate-backed. He’d seen the signs a mile away—uniform loadouts, media-friendly names, rehearsed emotes, and an eagerness to throw coins around like candy.

  They weren’t here for fun.

  They were here to win.

  To own the spotlight.

  To carve their names into the game’s history… and slap a brand logo right beside it.

  Towerbound’s First Clear announcements weren’t just messages—they were prime real estate. Visible to millions of players in real time. Fully customizable. And whoever cleared Lantern light Dungeon first would get to write whatever the hell they wanted.

  In fact, Silverlight had already told him about the tagline that they had pre-written.

  “Blue Cheese Light – Now On Sale! Buy One, Get One Free!”

  A cheese ad.

  In a fantasy game.

  After a goddamn boss fight.

  He’d laughed. Choked. Then laughed again. But it made sense. Way more sense than it should’ve.

  Towerbound had more players than most countries had people. The exposure was priceless—and compared to a Super Bowl ad or a nationwide billboard campaign? Towerbound was dirt cheap.

  That’s why the pressure was sky-high. And that’s why Silverlight and Ashen Bloom would pay anything to keep those Fire resistant potions flowing.

  Ren actually liked Blue Cheese Lite.

  He liked it a lot.

  In fact so much that Ren added a little extra stipulation to the agreement.

  “If for some reason you can’t clear it,” Ren said, “I’ll give you priority on the fourth batch too.”

  The Silverlight Division leader didn’t hesitate. He nodded, fast. He was a smart man—and a realistic one.

  Sixty-five extra fire-resistant potions weren’t going to hurt. Worst-case scenario, they’d crush the dungeon on the next attempt, and the extra batch would be overkill.

  But the actual worst-case scenario?

  They’d need every last bottle just to survive.

  And if they didn’t get the clear first?

  Well, those potions would still be worth their weight in credits for the next race, the next floor, the next shot at redemption.

  That’s how pros thought. Not just about this run—but the next five.

  “Great,” Ren said, grinning. “So yeah, my addition to the contract is that I get a box of Blue Cheese Light delivered to my dorm every month for a year. Plus, I’ll add in the fact that I personally love it. Seriously, I do.”

  There was a pause on the line.

  “…You want cheese?” the Silverlight leader asked, confused.

  “Absolutely,” Ren said. “It’s not about the money. It’s about the cheese.”

  “Right. Got it. We’ll… include that in the contract draft.”

  “Good man,” Ren said cheerfully. “This is how real partnerships are built. Over cheese and fire.”

  He even added a little thumbs-up emoji, just to be extra annoying.

  It wasn’t every day you got to trade virtual fire resistance potions for real life processed cheese products.

  Ren tapped to finalize the contract.

  Blue Cheese Lite secured.

  Coins secured.

  More reagents incoming. More cards coming.

  Everything was going according to plan.

  Ren grinned wider.

  ‘Let’s make some more cheese.’

  And he got to work.

  Each attempt to clear the Lantern light Dungeon took about 2 hours—longer if things went badly, shorter if the guild wiped early and rage-quit. That meant as soon as one guild limped out, burned and grumbling, Ren would be finishing another batch of 65 fire-resistant potions, just in time for the next hopeful team to gear up.

  It became a smooth, brutal rotation:

  One guild in the fire.

  One guild prepping outside.

  Ren in the back, singing happily and churning out bottles like a Wonkaesque potion factory.

  It wasn’t just business—it was scheduled business.

  Like a pizza place during the lunch rush, except instead of marinara, it was magma.

  —

  POV: FOODCROSS

  The Foodcross company didn’t just make blue cheese products.

  They made everything.

  From diet-friendly ranch to fake nacho dip to protein-packed breakfast burritos, if it could be processed, vacuum-sealed, and pumped full of preservatives, Foodcross made it.

  Their slogan in was simple:

  “Eat better. Feel lighter. Live smarter.”

  But advertising had gotten harder.

  People didn’t watch TV commercials anymore.

  Billboards barely registered.

  And banner ads?

  Forget it.

  People had ad-blockers surgically installed in their eyes these days.

  But Towerbound?

  Towerbound was different.

  Towerbound wasn’t just a game.

  It was already a lifestyle.

  A world people lived inside for hours and hours at a time.

  If you could put an ad into Towerbound, you weren’t just selling a product—you were embedding your brand into someone’s reality.

  So when the message came in from Shyld Voss—the guild leader of Silverlight—offering them exclusive advertising space in a First World Clear announcement, the board of directors didn’t even hesitate.

  They voted unanimously within five minutes.

  It wasn’t just a yes.

  It was a hell yes.

  “Blue Cheese Lite: Now on Sale! Buy One, Get One Free!”

  beaming straight into the eyeballs of five million players?

  The marketing team was already foaming at the mouth.

  The lawyers approved the terms in record time.

  The branding team put together special event packages and bonus coupons.

  And just to really sell it, they decided they’d push a whole line of new Blue Light products right after the ad drop.

  It was perfect.

  Towerbound players needed energy.

  They needed snack food.

  They needed cheap, greasy, comforting stuff that wouldn’t make them feel guilty.

  Exactly the kind of thing Foodcross sold by the truckload.

  And when the guild leader of Silverlight added an extra note saying the first-ranked alchemist was personally endorsing Blue Cheese Lite, the executives practically had a group heart attack from excitement.

  They didn’t even question it.

  Contracts were signed.

  Boxes were packed.

  The first crate of Blue Cheese Lite—with a special note for “Ren the Alchemist”—was already on a delivery truck headed for slums.

  Foodcross Corporation had struck gold.

  And they knew it.

  —