Luc Vaudelier studied hard. Despite his poor background and conditions, he managed to be admitted to a Technical School and threw himself into learning culinary arts with unmatched dedication.
Because of his talent and relentless drive, Luc naturally became the top chef in the school's history by the time he graduated. Among students with the same starting line, his skills easily outclassed the rest.
But even though his life had improved significantly, there remained an aching void in his soul—a sense of something missing.
Maybe all of that emptiness contributed to his sudden death. The good life he worked so hard to build had, somehow, crumbled under the weight of his own choices.
"I really am a mess…" Luc muttered bitterly to himself.
The sky began to drizzle. He sat on the roadside in Fontaine, letting the cold rain soak through his clothes as the fat droplets slid down his face like silent tears. Eventually, the rainwater flowed down his cheeks in a steady stream.
After the downpour, Luc snapped out of his daze and remembered he needed to survive. He began picking through piles of discarded scrap metal along the roadside—anything to scrape together some Mora.
He eventually found a decent haul of broken parts from old mechanisms—enough to exchange for a warm meal and a roof for a few nights.
Inside a cramped, cheap hotel, Luc sat on a creaky stool, slurping noodles ravenously.
He decided to stay here for the time being. Fortunately, he had one trump card: the bottomless sack.
As long as he had the sack, Luc knew he wouldn't have to suffer as he had in his past life. He could use Mora generated from the sack to buy cheap iron or components, place them back into the sack to make more Mora, and repeat the cycle indefinitely.
This was his first taste of true wealth. The sensation of becoming rich overnight was intoxicating.
The hotel owner eyed him with suspicion—Luc still looked like a soaked vagabond. He likely thought Luc was part of some petty criminal ring. But money talked, and Luc handed over a handful of Mora to buy some clean clothes and have them delivered to his room.
After a hot bath, Luc felt completely reborn. His body was clean, his stomach full, and his mind—almost—at ease.
***
Meanwhile, inside Furina's manor, the Archon of Fontaine rested her chin on the table, cheeks squished into a pout of boredom.
"Baby, I want to listen to music," she said lazily.
The AI assistant replied in a melodic voice:
"The Mountains rise and rise, the moonlight shines on the desolate Bay.
Who tells me the heavens cry?
Across rivers and mountains, may you never feel alone…"
"Try something different," she ordered.
"Messy hair, half-asleep on the sofa,
Longing to be as cool as the hero on screen.
Crows perch on the eaves outside—
Not knowing how to explain this bottled-up feeling…"
"Ugh, forget it! You're getting worse," Furina grumbled.
The voice responded flatly, "I'm just under the weather. I'm usually pretty great, okay?"
Furina let her face collapse against the table. Normally, she'd be bubbling with excitement using her phone, constantly discovering new things. But now, everything felt hollow. Not from boredom—no, she still had so much more to explore. But the interest had… dulled.
"Baby, I'm in a bad mood today. I feel… off. Why?"
The assistant replied:
"Searching…
Possible cause: emotional distress due to loss.
Suggested remedies:
Vent through music, dance, rap, basketball, etc.
Find someone to confide in.
'Deer or buckle.'"
Furina blinked. "'Deer or buckle'? What does that even mean?"
The first two made sense. Singing and dancing always helped cheer her up. She didn't know what rap or basketball were, but they sounded expressive. And the second point?
Confiding in someone… yes. She had long dreamed of a companion—someone who would listen, really listen, whenever she poured her heart out.
For five hundred years, that fantasy clung to her: a moment when someone would stand by her side even after learning the truth—that she wasn't really a god. Just Furina.
"I just… want someone to stay," she whispered.
Her voice was barely audible, yet the room echoed with its loneliness.
"Baby, what kind of person is Luc Vaudelier?"
"Searching…
Luc Vaudelier, born in 1999, he is from—"
"Stop! None of that is right!" she snapped.
The AI droned on with irrelevant information until she finally shouted, "Shut up!"
"…Is Luc a bad guy?" she asked the machine.
"No data."
"Where did he go?"
"No data."
"You don't know anything! What good are you?! I might as well decommission you!"
She slammed her hand on the table, anger mixing with helplessness.
"…Is it too late to find him now?" she whispered.
She didn't understand it. She was back to her routine, back to peace—but something was missing. Her chest ached with absence.
"No data."
"DEATH PENALTY!"
***
Meanwhile, Luc had already gotten his footing. The hotel cost him a decent chunk of Mora, but the sack's power made that a temporary problem. Soon, he could afford to rent a real home.
He dared not imagine how wonderful life could get—too much joy might kill him again.
Still, there were things he didn't understand. In Fontaine's refined, reputation-based economy, wealth without a traceable source might be labeled as fraud—or worse.
If word got out about the bottomless sack, every shady group from the Fatui to local gangs would be after him.
He had to be careful. Very careful.