The large and proud Earl of Chadwick was true to his gracious word. In the pale blush of dawn, as the first gentle hues of sunrise stirred the sky, we exited the ancient stone castle into a green and productive valley that stretched out like a vibrant tapestry of life. A column moved out with little ceremony, just as the huge yellow ball of energy—the sun of this world—rose majestically above the hills, its golden rays spilling over the valley in a cascade of shimmering light. I marveled at how the interplay of light and shadow carved the land into dramatic lines, each shadow a silent whisper of the mysteries hidden beneath the fertile soil.
As we rode along the expansive, flat plain past vast, patchwork farmlands, my eyes caught sight of scores of people slowly making their way into the fields. The air was filled with the soft murmur of their footsteps and the gentle rustling of straw, intermingled with a distant, melodious singing that carried on the morning breeze—a tune as old as the land itself, perhaps sung by the workers as they set off to greet a day of toiling under the benevolent gaze of the sun. Their farming equipment, heavy and worn from seasons past, rested on their shoulders, and bags bulged with the promise of a day's labor, the rich scent of earth and sweat mingling with the crisp morning air.
The first light was beautiful to behold on this crisp and clear morning, the sun now climbing higher over the hills around the valley, bathing everything in a radiant glow. It was one of those rare, ephemeral moments when the world felt at peace, as if nature herself were holding her breath before the day's worries could disturb the tranquility.
Happily, I breathed in the cool, dew-fresh air, its scent reminiscent of wet leaves and distant wildflowers, feeling a smile spread across my face. I walked beside the cart that the entertainment troupe used to transport its colorful array of equipment around the kingdom and beyond. The cart was a veritable treasure trove, stacked high with intricately carved boxes and robust chests that held the clothing and props for our performances. Some of these cases were masterpieces in their own right, adorned with vivid paintings that depicted scenes from our shows—the vibrant brushstrokes capturing the laughter, tears, and marvel of our performances. I found myself wondering in quiet awe which member of the troupe was the elusive artist behind these painted works, convinced that Eigosh, ever the miser, would never pay a fair price for such art.
Before returning to bed the previous night, the entire troupe had labored into the early hours to pack up all the stage items for our hasty departure from the earl’s castle. We were fortunate indeed to have the help of the earl’s workmen, whose tireless efforts ensured we had even a few precious moments of sleep, despite the clamor and bustle of the night.
The usually polite and cheerful Sharro, our acrobatic contortionist with a lithe, almost otherworldly grace, had been unusually quiet and reserved as she completed her tasks. Her eyes, normally sparkling with mischief and vitality, were now shadowed by a brooding frown. Every time I attempted to engage her in conversation, she offered curt, one-syllable replies, her tone clipped and dismissive as she turned her back on me. Now, she and the other woman, Tuallez—whose confident posture and determined gaze bespoke both strength and vulnerability—stood in earnest discussion with the troupe master, Eigosh. Their raised voices, punctuated by the occasional sharp gesture, resonated with tension. From the fragments of conversation that reached my ears, I sensed that Eigosh was having a tumultuous start to the morning, his face etched with desperation as if each word he heard carried a new bad omen. With every heated exchange, his features darkened, and I was relieved not to be caught in the crossfire of their anger. Beside me, Xaset smiled serenely at the early morning sun, his carefree demeanor a stark contrast to the simmering conflict behind us.
Leading the column ahead of the bickering trio was a formation of thirty guards, each mounted on a powerful war horse whose muscles rippled beneath a coat as dark as a stormy night. As we set off, I couldn’t help but notice how the stable hands had struggled to calm the steeds, their nervous eyes and tense bodies betraying a wild, untamed spirit that seemed to reject human touch. “They’ve clearly not been bred for gentleness,” I mused, a thought that echoed in my mind as I considered the rugged, battle-hardened soldiers astride them.
These formidable soldiers, with faces marked by scars and streaks of grey that testified to countless battles, looked every bit the part of elite warriors rather than mere escorts on a leisurely journey. Their armor, each piece appearing to be handcrafted with meticulous care and subtle modifications unique to its wearer, gleamed under the early sunlight. The only uniformity was found in the blue and white tabards worn underneath, a hint of shared allegiance amid their individualistic armor. Their very presence—robust, seasoned, and ready for a full-scale war—made me wonder what matter of grave importance had summoned the earl on this journey. The weight of the soldiers’ readiness suggested that this trip was not simply a matter of entertainment, but perhaps a prelude to conflict.
I glanced toward the earl at the front of the unit, whose rugged features and warrior-like bearing blended seamlessly with his men. He too donned the humble tabard, chatting in a low, warm tone with a few of his closest soldiers. Their laughter and light-hearted banter formed a curious counterpoint to the heated argument swirling behind them. In this central valley—a rare haven of peace amid a world rife with monsters and ceaseless violence—the earl’s carriage exuded a sense of calm assurance.
From the head of the column, a woman turned her horse and began a graceful canter back to the rear of the party. Her horse, smaller and calmer than the powerful war horses, moved with a gentle elegance that made it clear the other mounts instinctively looked after this diminutive mare. The soft clip-clop of hooves on the hard-packed earth mingled with the earthy scent of dust and fresh hay, adding another layer to the morning’s vibrant symphony of life.
“Please don’t be coming to talk to me,” I thought, a hint of trepidation tugging at my mind. I knew I should have hidden away in the cart with my treasured spell books, safely immersed in arcane study, rather than risking exposure to the unpredictable tides of noble temper and wrath. Yet, foolishly, the beauty of the morning had beckoned me outside, and now my fortune seemed to be shifting as swiftly as the breaking dawn.
When the horse drew level with me, I saw that its rider was none other than the daughter of the Earl of Chadwick. Her eyes, a piercing shade that matched the clear sky, scrutinized me with a curious, almost predatory intensity. I felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable, knowing that if she found me unworthy, there would be no hiding place in the open air.
“So, that’s what you look like,” she said, her voice laced with a blend of contempt and derision as she stared at me with an intense, judgmental glare. “There is nothing truly mystical about you that I can see. Quite the opposite, from my point of view.”
At that moment, the earl turned his rugged face toward us, his deep-set frown laden with disapproval. I could see the hard lines of command on his face, a mirror of my own father’s stern expressions, and the hardened gazes of his warrior companions fell upon us like the weight of an impending storm. Instinctively, I decided it best to end this encounter swiftly—a man should never court the wrath of such a dangerously beautiful noble.
“No, my lady, as the stage performance is merely an act for your entertainment,” I replied in a tone that dripped with mockery, my words intended to provoke a retreat with their sheer audacity. “The hood was just to help with the portrayal.”
“Are you always so arrogant among your betters?” the earl’s daughter retorted sharply, her tone rising to a pitch that drew the attention of everyone nearby—soldiers, entertainers, and even those off in the distance who were preoccupied with their morning tasks. Her angry words, edged with a fierceness that could ignite the very air, made the arguing women pause their quarrel. For a fleeting moment, I noticed a small, wry smile flicker across Sharro’s face, as if she relished the satisfaction of witnessing poetic justice unfold.
Not one to be easily intimidated by the rigid class distinctions that seemed to govern this world, I swept my hand dramatically toward the unfolding scene, as if inviting all to see the truth of our shared humanity, and smiled broadly. “I see no better or poorer people than me around here.”
At my words, Sharro and Tuallez exchanged knowing glances and broadened their smiles, their eyes sparkling with barely concealed amusement. The acrobats almost burst into laughter but maintained a composed silence as they listened intently. Meanwhile, Xaset merely shook his head with a knowing grin, his eyes crinkling with mirth.
The earl’s daughter appeared momentarily taken aback by my insolence, her shock giving way to a flush of anger as she leaned forward from atop her elegant steed, her voice lowering into a threatening whisper. “Better, by the right of birth and the position of nobility.”
“If you say so, I’ll believe you,” I replied with a condescending smile that deepened her frown further, “but I must say farewell to you as I have things to do.”
Xaset, ever the jester, choked up beside me with a stifled cough that barely masked his laughter. With that, I deliberately turned my back on the earl’s furious daughter and climbed into the cart. I could hear her shout, “I didn’t dismiss you…” trailing off as I disappeared behind the wooden panels. My heart pounded with a mix of relief and apprehension as I hoped fervently that she would not follow me into my temporary sanctuary. I consoled myself with the thought that, given her strict adherence to decorum, she would dare not chase a man of my humble status.
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Inside the cart, amidst the rich, familiar scent of old parchment and worn leather from our stage props, I settled into the quiet corner I had claimed for my studies. The earlier encounter with the obnoxious woman was already fading into the background, replaced by the magnetic allure of magical knowledge. I eagerly opened my treasured book of life—a relic of arcane wisdom pilfered from the earl’s magical library just the night before. It felt as though I were unwrapping a long-forgotten birthday present, the anticipation sending shivers of excitement down my spine. This was my first chance to scrutinize what treasures I had managed to liberate during the chaotic raid, and every page promised secrets waiting to be unveiled.
As if summoned by my anticipation, the book of life materialized before me in a shimmering vision, its magical essence glowing with subtle hues of blue and silver. I flipped to the enchanted tab and began reading. The titles of the newly acquired volumes revealed themselves one by one:
Erasmus University Collection of Battle Magic
Erasmus University Collection Shields and Wards Magic
General Healing to the Noble Household
Erasmus University General Magical Theory
Agriculture Growth Cycle Magic
Magical Maintenance
Erasmus University Advanced Magical Theory
Far Seeing and Message Magic Collection
Construction Magic for Castles and Forts
On first inspection, this haul was impressive—no, it was overwhelmingly good, a veritable treasure trove of magical lore. One nagging question lingered in my mind: where was this mysterious Erasmus University, if it had produced so many fine magical tomes? I resolved that I would have to uncover that secret later. With a buzz of excitement, I began to absorb the contents of the new volumes.
For several blissful hours, my eyes danced across the pages of the book of life. I absorbed fantastic diagrams, complex notations, and intricate systems of magical theory that unfolded before me like a hidden map to untold power. The information was so abundant that it challenged even the near-perfect memory I had painstakingly developed for magical lore. With the enthusiasm of a child poring over a new comic, I felt the promise of a solid foundation to my magical knowledge—an indispensable arsenal for my quest to become a true magician.
Yet, as my excitement built, reality crept in. I sighed, realizing the pressing need to prioritize. The orc empire awaited my service, and more urgently, I required a spell that could slow enemies in battle—a vital tool I had gleaned from my recent, perilous dungeon adventure. Recalling Xaset’s advice on the importance of crowd control spells, I knew I had to master this new incantation immediately, even as we journeyed to the capital.
After painstakingly scanning through the intricate pages—wishing in vain that the book of life might have a search function—I found the perfect spell. With intense concentration, as if the world around me had faded into a mere whisper, I focused on the diagram that depicted energy pathways through the body and the projected movement of the spell as it would weave its magic. Every line and symbol etched itself into my mind as I absorbed the spell’s essence.
Spells??? Name??Mastery?MP??Effects
Immobilization Shield?25?25?Lock item within a 3-meter radius in Immobilization Shield
So deeply engrossed was I in my studies that I only became aware of lunchtime when the cart suddenly jolted to a stop. The force threw me against the hard, splintered wood of the cart’s side, snapping me back to the harsh reality of the day. With a resigned sigh, I closed my book; the promise of further magical discovery would have to wait as I braced myself to face the world again—with all its unpredictable, often irate, personalities.
I pulled my gaze away from the enchanting pages, much like a beagle reluctantly pulled from a sumptuous dinner before he could finish his meal, and cursed my inability to devote more time to the purely theoretical delights of magic. On this journey, practicality reigned supreme: I had to prepare for any eventuality that might unfold at the king’s court.
I leapt down from the backboard of the cart and took in my surroundings. We were once again enveloped by the dense, mysterious forest, far removed from the sheltered peace of the earl’s estate. Now, with my focus diverted from arcane studies, I could hear the guttural roars of wild monsters echoing in the distance—a stark, chilling reminder of the peril that lurked beyond these cultivated lands. In that moment, it was unmistakably clear: I was no longer in Kansas, Toto.
The soldiers, their faces now etched with hardened vigilance, had shed the relaxed air they wore in the safety of their homeland. They scanned the shadowed forest and the vast sky above with unwavering determination, their weapons glinting in the dappled sunlight as they remained ever alert. Off to the side of the road, most of the entertainment troupe had gathered, quietly unwrapping their packed lunches—simple provisions wrapped in brown paper, carefully prepared by the castle staff to sustain us on our first day’s travel. Even a donkey, laden with additional supplies, trundled along behind the cart, its gentle braying blending with the ambient sounds of nature.
Before long, Sharro approached me with her characteristic, sensual gait—each step a silent mockery. She offered me a neatly wrapped lunch, the paper crackling softly in the quiet morning air. “Looks like you’ve got incoming again. You might want to rethink coming out of that hidey-hole that you’ve created for yourself,” she teased, her tone laced with both amusement and warning.
The ‘incoming’ she referred to was none other than the fast-approaching daughter of the earl. Her long strides pounded the earth as if she meant business, the dust swirling in her wake like a herald of impending confrontation. I scanned the horizon for refuge, but there was none; the inevitable encounter forced me to turn and face the beautiful yet dangerously fierce noblewoman.
Desperation mingled with pleading in my eyes as I looked back at Sharro and asked, “Any chance I could get some help here?”
“Maybe not for now. It may teach you a lesson not to leave your companions in the lurch next time they need your help,” she replied coolly, her words trailing off as she walked away without a backward glance. I turned to Xaset, only to receive a snigger and a dismissive smirk as he resumed eating his lunch.
As I faced the oncoming woman, her voice thundered across the space between us—sharp, accusing, and unmistakably loud. “You showed disrespect to me earlier by turning your back on me!”
The long-haired blonde surged forward, closing the distance with an almost predatory grace, invading my personal space with no regard for my comfort. She strained on tip-toe, her eyes narrowing as she pressed her face close to mine. My heart hammered in my chest as I noticed several of the earl’s men shifting their weight, hands instinctively moving toward their drawn swords. The earl himself watched the unfolding scene with wary disapproval, shaking his head slowly. His soldiers, though visibly tensed, relaxed just enough to maintain a semblance of order, their focus divided between duty and the escalating confrontation.
“ I demand an apology of you!” the irate woman bellowed, her face flushed red with fury, her tone so loud that it seemed to rival even the roaring beasts in the distance. The intensity of her anger made me wonder if the entire valley could hear her words.
Sensing that further resistance might only invite more trouble, I bowed my head in reluctant apology. “Sorry, ma’am.”
No sooner had I turned to walk away than a sharp kick struck my leg. “How dare you turn your back on me again? You deserve to be taught a lesson. A traveling lowlife like yourself should know his station,” she hissed, her voice a venomous promise of retribution.
At that precise moment, I heard the metallic whisper of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. I barely had time to react as I turned around and caught a glimpse of the gleaming edge rushing toward my head. In that split second, I noticed that the woman’s intent was not to kill but merely to strike with the blunt side of her sword—a calculated warning rather than a deathblow.
Instinct overtook reason. I raised my hand to intercept the blade mid-air. The cold, unforgiving metal bit into my flesh as my grip tightened, the steel slicing deep until it reached bone. Crimson rivulets spurted out, mingling with the earth and trailing along the beveled side of the sword, a grim testament to the cost of defiance. For a long, suspended moment, all eyes—soldiers and onlookers alike—watched in silence as the blood dripped steadily onto the ground, staining it with a deep, foreboding red. Finally, overcome by searing pain, I invoked the ‘Burning Touch’ spell.
In a fraction of a second, the magical weave unfurled like a living thing as yellow-red flames erupted from my fingertips, cascading along the length of the sword toward the woman’s outstretched hand. The sizzling heat vaporized the dripping blood, leaving behind striking red marks on the blade as though it had already seen countless battles. Startled, she released her grip on the weapon, and it clattered to the ground with a resounding clang that shattered the silence.
In response to the sudden chaos, several of the earl’s men surged forward, their large, formidable weapons drawn as they advanced with grim determination. This was certainly not the leisurely, peaceful lunch I had anticipated—rather, it was a violent interruption that threatened to end in bloodshed.
“Stop this foolishness, now!” the earl bellowed, his voice a booming command that cut through the clamor. “I don’t want my daughter harmed in any way!” His words rippled through the assembly, and as if by some unseen cue, everyone froze. The earl’s daughter glared at him, her anger undiminished despite his intervention, and I couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that something was amiss in this charged tableau.
“Jessika, pick up your sword and come back here now,” he ordered in a no-nonsense tone that brooked no disobedience.
With defiant eyes still locked on me, she mouthed, “We are not finished.” That chilling promise lingered in the air as she swiveled away with a fluid motion—a swish of her hair and the rustle of her long, elegant dress—heading back toward her father. The earl steered her away, murmuring sternly, yet her defiance shone clearly through her tightened jaw and narrowed eyes. The soldiers, ever the consummate professionals, resumed their subdued activities, their earlier vigilance returning as if nothing had happened.
Now that the immediate tumult had subsided, Sharro reappeared at my side. With a graceful yet pointed air, she said, “Here, let me see to that hand. It will need some treatment, especially if you don’t have any healing spells, which, I guess, an idiot like you doesn’t.”
I extended my hand for inspection. By now, it had mended considerably, the deep cut replaced by dark bloodstains that served as silent reminders of the encounter. Sharro examined it with curious detachment before remarking, “I guess you do have a healing spell and a pretty good one at that. So, how did you like being attacked with no friends around to help you?”
With that, she walked away, her expression one of self-satisfied amusement—as if she believed I was finally beginning to understand what it felt like to be the magnet for unwanted attention. In some ways, I was starting to get some understanding, and I wasn’t enjoying it.
