Django's day started like any other: hungover, shirtless, and three texts deep into conversations with women he didn't remember meeting. Not that it mattered. He'd reply with a heart emoji, ghost them for a few hours, and rinse the whole thing over by sundown.
What made today different was that one of them—hell, maybe two—had tracked him down.
He heard the yelling before he saw her: tight dress, furious heels, murder in her eyes.
"DJANGO!"
That scream didn't just carry across the street—it stopped traffic. A guy in a food truck dropped his burrito. Pigeons scattered. Django bolted.
"You said you were going to call!"
"I say a lot of things when tequila's involved!" he shouted back over his shoulder.
He ducked under a bus stop ad, leapt over a trash can, and rounded the corner into—
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
Another woman. Different dress. Same expression.
"Hey, Melissa?" he tried, hopeful.
"It's Vanessa."
"Right. I knew that. Totally. Great to see you again. Gotta run."
Slap. The sound echoed off the buildings. He took it like a champ. Kept sprinting.
By the time he dove into an alleyway between a laundromat and a vape shop, he was out of breath, out of luck, and down one sneaker.
"Charming," came a voice from the shadows.
Django flinched. Some dude in a three-piece suit was sitting on a crate like he'd been waiting for the world to end.
"Look, man," Django panted. "If this is about money, I don't have any. If it's about women, I definitely don't have any. Not anymore."
"Relax." The guy smiled like a cat who'd never worked a day in his life. "I'm not here to collect. I'm here to give you a choice."
"Cool. Can one of the choices be turning back time?"
"No. But one of them is reincarnation."
"…You sell drugs?"
"Opportunity." The man gestured to the side, and a giant wheel—ornate, golden, and shimmering like something out of a dream—appeared behind him. Segments filled the circle: swords, crowns, books, beasts, coins, even one that looked suspiciously like boobs.
Django stared.
"Okay. What am I looking at?"
"The Wheel of Reincarnation."
"Of course it is."
"Spin it. Start over. You've hit the end of your rope here, haven't you?"
Django looked down at his sock. It was wet. He didn't even know whose place he woke up in this morning. His job sucked. His apartment smelled like regret.
He looked up.
"Fuck it. Let's spin."
The moment his hand touched the wheel, he felt the buzz—like licking a battery and winning the lottery at the same time. It spun. Lights danced. It slowed.
Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.
It landed on a symbol: a mountain of gold and a serpent coiled around it.
"Interesting," the man said, almost impressed. "Power. Wealth. Magic. Chaos. You'll fit right in."
Django opened his mouth to respond, but the world exploded in light. Heat flooded his veins. Something ripped through him—memories, identities, sensations not his own. His life unraveled like a cheap tie in a washing machine.
Then—
Silence.
Django opened his eyes.
The ceiling was too high, painted in frescoes. The sheets beneath him were silk. Not satin. Real silk. His hands were clean. His nails are manicured. His hair? Flowing. He smelled like success.
He sat up. Across the room, a mirror showed him the face of a man who had never worried about rent. Chiseled jaw. Golden tan. Eyes that said "I own three yachts and regret nothing."
Alright, he was in the world of Virelia—the name echoed in his mind like it had always been there. A place of dragons, dungeons, money, and madness. And him? He was now Django Whitmore, the lowest-ranked heir of the most powerful family on the continent. Rich beyond reason, feared by governments, envied by kingdoms—and he was basically their mascot. No responsibilities, no titles, no expectations. The Whitmores let him exist like a distant cousin at a family reunion: tolerated, occasionally mocked, rarely taken seriously.
The bar was low, and he intended to limbo under it with a drink in each hand.
As he sat on the edge of the massive bed, flashes of memory flooded his brain. Not his memories—well, not just his. These were the past lives of this world's Django Whitmore. Spoiled. Reckless. Obscene. The kind of guy who would flirt with his aunt's duel partner and then charm his way out of getting stabbed.
He would also hit on said aunt when he was super drunk.
"Fuck, other me," Django muttered, flipping through mental snapshots like a cursed photo album. "Aren't you a manwhore."
He laughed—half amused, half horrified. The old Django had left him a legacy of debauchery and broken hearts—a trail of chaos wrapped in silk sheets and brandy.
But hey, at least the guy had good taste.
And now he was stuck in a world where magic and money ran neck and neck. Virelia wasn't some medieval fantasy hellhole—it was rich, built-up, and slick with arcane tech. Airships floated across neon skies. Spell-powered trains crisscrossed the cities. Mana cores lit up towers taller than any skyscraper he'd ever seen. People paid with enchanted credit cards. There were magic-fueled motorcycles, automated summoning drones, even floating mansions for the top-tier elite.
Django's new life? It came with a vault full of gold, a butler who could cast counterspells, and a smartwatch that doubled as a summoning beacon. The Whitmores didn't just have money—they practically weaponized it.
And somewhere in that mess of luxury, danger, and ridiculous privilege… was him.
Broke in spirit. Rich as hell in coin.
But enemies weren't the only thing the Whitmores had in abundance. When you sat at the top of Virelia's power pyramid, everything below had an angle. Rival corporations tried to poach their magical patents. Noble houses whispered and schemed over ancient blood debts. Rebel mages plotted sabotage. Governments both feared and needed them—half the capital's infrastructure was funded by Whitmore tech. It wasn't just assassination attempts or duels in dark alleys; it was lawsuits backed by dragons, spies cursed to look like assistants, and economic warfare waged through cursed bonds and arcane stock markets.
Even inside the family, things weren't safe. Siblings jockeyed for position with smiling daggers. Cousins smiled too widely and hugged too long. Everyone wanted more—more power, more influence, more of the empire. Django, with his zero expectations and zero political weight, was either perfectly positioned to stay under the radar... or to become a very convenient pawn.
"Oh well that does'—"
Django was cut off by a glowing blue screen that materialized inches from his face.
[Welcome, Otherworlder, to the Monetary Manifestation System.]
[Where money is the only answer to everything.]
Django blinked. "Is this a joke?"
[Initializing User Profile... Loading Assets... Assigning Socioeconomic Class: Elite Heir... Syncing Memories... Complete.]
[Main Quest Generated: Rise to the Top of the Whitmore Family.]
"Nope. Nope, absolutely not," Django said, waving a hand like he could swipe it away. "I am not doing some anime-ass legacy redemption arc. Try again."
[Main Quest Assigned: Rise to the Top of the Whitmore Family.]
"You're repeating yourself. I said no."
[Declining quest will result in penalties: Loss of access to system features, reduction in financial resources, loss of life expectancy, and potential spontaneous combustion.]
"Spontaneous what? Are you—"
[Quest Accepted.]
The screen vanished before he could argue.
"…Rude."
Another screen popped up:
--- USER STATS: DJANGO WHITMORE ---
Name: Django Whitmore
Class: Battle Mage (Monetary Variant)
Wealth Rank: E+
Reputation: F
Power Level: C
Magic Affinity: B
Combat Affinity: B-
Charm: A+
Luck: B+
Debt: 0
Liquid Assets: Ᵽ6.4B | ɣ21.8M | §245M | ¤660M | ¢... who even counts these?
Skillset:
[Sword Mastery: A] – Exceptional proficiency with bladed weapons. Style leans flamboyant and flexible.
[Arcane Affinity: B] – Innate talent for magic. Bonus to mana control and learning speed.
[Mana Reinforcement: A-] – Ability to channel mana into the body to enhance physical strength and durability.
[Spatial Step: B+] – Short-range teleportation technique with high precision. Great for dodging or ambushing.
[Golden Instinct: ?] – Passive. Auto-identifies profit or danger in any decision, based on subconscious predictions. Cannot be turned off.
Django stared at the screen. It floated there, smug and glowing like it had just insulted him in five languages.
"Um, this part where you explain the money currency system or whatever, brain?" Django complained aloud, waving his hand through the screen. "Any second now with the magical tutorial on how money even works in this world… God, I hope it's paper money."
Nothing.
Then—like a floodgate opening—his mind filled with sharp, intrusive knowledge. Not memories. More like forced onboarding.
Currency Standard: Virelian Notes
Notes are ranked in five tiers:
Tin Notes (¢) – 5$
Copper Notes (¤) – 20$
Silver Notes (§) – 50$
Gold Notes (ɣ) – 100$
Plat Notes (Ᵽ) – 500$
All of it in note form. Paper-like. Light, durable, and bound with enough mana to be traceable, enchantable, and—if needed—explosive.
"…Oh," Django muttered, wide-eyed. "So Monopoly money, but it can kill people."
"So we still follow the million and billion thing, right?" he asked the air.
[Yes.]
"Well, I'm going to buy a girl now," Django said, stretching with a lazy grin.
[Yeah, about no? That's gonna be a HARD system veto. You got a main quest, bucko.]
Django blinked. "The hell you mean 'veto'?"
[As of right now, you're the poorest Whitmore on record. Like, bottom-tier. Like, you're-a-pity-statistic level poor.]
"Poor?! Muthafucka, I got Plats! Aka Plat Mega Ultra Bens! In. The. Billions! How is that poor?!"
[Oh, you do have money, sure—but your Wealth Rank is relative. In this family? You're the guy who shows up to a yacht party with a rowboat. You're entry-level ballin'. You're broke with style. Congrats?]
Django rubbed his temples. "Okay, so what, you gonna force me actually to work now?"
[Bingo, cash monkey. Your main quest is still long-term—'Rise to the Top of the Whitmore Family' blah blah destiny, legacy, etc. BUT, for now, welcome to your starter quest.]
[Side Quest Unlocked: Earn Your First Dungeon Clear Reward. Objective: Survive.]
"...That sounds aggressive."
[Aggressive is the brand, baby. Now get dressed, rich boy. It's time to do something that isn't buying your way out.]
"Wanna bet? I'm Django Whitmore! The realest hustler around. I can scheme with the best of them, baby. Now imma get some ass before I bust my ass. Laters, yeah."
[Sigh... I just had to get a horny one.]
Django paused mid-step and glanced down.
"Holy shit, my junk is huge!" he cheered, yanking open the waistband of his silk pants to double-check.
[Who made you like this?]