Chapter 3

“Hello?”

“Oh~ Looking good again today.”

“Heheh, you too, Uncle~”

Uncle Valoff smiled warmly. His shaggy beard somehow looked soft. Maybe because the weather was nice, his sleeves were rolled up, showing thick arms. Every time he tied a rope, his muscles flexed, and I couldn’t help but envy them.

“How about this? Cool, right? Hahaha!”

Noticing my gaze, Uncle Valoff straightened his back and flexed with all his strength. Just then, an auntie appeared behind him, glaring at the back of his head.

“Tsk, tsk. What are you showing off for in front of kids?”

“Ah? Honey? Hahaha…!”

He scratched the back of his head with his arm, clearly embarrassed.

“Kark, no need to envy things like this~”

“Things like this? This is a man’s pride~”

Uncle immediately puffed up again and flexed his arm, muscles bulging.

“Ugh… forget it! Lunch is ready, so just come inside.”

With that, the auntie turned around and went back in.

“Haha~ No wonder I smelled something delicious. Of course, it was my wife—the best cook in the village. Kark, I’ll head in first. Take care today, as always.”

“Yes, Uncle. Enjoy your lunch.”

He waved a few times and slipped inside the house.

Uncle Valoff’s home was at the edge of Benjamin Village. From here, it was only about five minutes to the wooden-and-grass fence that surrounded the settlement. The fence was about my height, but sturdier than it looked.

Beyond the fence stretched endless fields, dotted with trees heavy with leaves.

The season brought warm sunlight and a cool breeze, making me feel light and restless, as if I wanted to wander off somewhere. Days like this always seemed to bring out more herbs than usual. At least, that had been my experience.

I had already been gathering herbs here for two years. Two whole years… Sometimes, I still thought about the two uncles. My past was inseparable from them, so whenever I recalled those days, Jack and Neef were always the first to come to mind.

“Jack, Neef…”

I had lost them. It had been five years now. The sorrow of the past had faded a lot. I no longer burst into tears like before. But their faces remained vivid.

Chirp, chirp.

Birdsong snapped me out of my thoughts.

When I looked up, the base of the mountain came into view. My usual herb-gathering spot lay about twenty minutes’ walk from Benjamin Village, at Eagle Rock Mountain. Reaching the summit took about five hours if you went at a steady pace. A giant rock shaped like an eagle marked the peak, hence the name.

The mountain wasn’t particularly steep or dangerous, and it was full of herbs. Because of that, not only Benjamin villagers but also herb gatherers from neighboring places came here. They said it took them over two hours to reach the mountain.

“Phew…”

Even on a fine day, walking long made the heat unbearable.

I should’ve brought a hat, I grumbled under my breath.

The sun’s heat kept growing stronger, and I regretted it. As a quick fix, I lifted the small basket strapped to my back and set it on my head. The shade it cast felt much better.

With the trees above offering their own shade, I no longer needed to balance the basket on my head. And so, I kept climbing.

“Sir Dumaine.”

“?”

A knight in a crimson cloak turned his head at the call of a robed mage. His eyes asked what business this was.

“Lord Hazabut is requesting you.”

“The Grand Mage?”

“Yes.”

“Is he in the Magic Tower?”

“He is in the second floor of the main palace.”

“The main palace…? Understood.”

“Then I’ll take my leave.”

The mage dipped his head slightly and walked away. Dumaine’s body was well-built, fitting for a swordsman. The crimson cloak draped over his shoulders suited him perfectly, accentuating his straight posture.

“What could that man want with me? You can never read what mages are thinking…”

Hazabut was the master of the Widav Kingdom’s Magic Tower. One of only three 7th-class mages on the entire Arkanis Continent. As a kingdom of magic, Widav was home to two of them: Hazabut himself, and his close friend Rohad, the court’s chief mage.

No matter how much Dumaine thought about it, he couldn’t guess why someone so high-ranking would summon him.

The master of the tower was equal to a duke in standing. Even if Dumaine was a Sword Master, the difference in status was undeniable.

He made his way up to the second floor. Hazabut was standing in the corridor, gazing out a window, so there was no need to search further.

“Welcome.”

“An honor.”

They had no personal relationship, so their greetings were polite but distant.

“Fine weather today.”

“It is.”

Dumaine glanced out the same window. The day was indeed clear, though he felt little about it. Hazabut absentmindedly stroked his long beard.

“One day, it is my dream to visit the desert.”

Dumaine dismissed the remark as another one of those roundabout mage habits. He simply waited for the man to get to the point.

“You know there is a desert beyond, don’t you?”

“Isn’t that something everyone knows?”

The desert wasn’t visible from here, but it existed nonetheless. Southwest of Widav lay the Cross Kingdom. From there, further southwest, were two places humans dared not tread: the desert, and beneath it, the Forest of Demons. Though the forest bordered the desert, it had resisted desertification for ages, some claiming the flow of magic energy kept it alive.

“Heh, indeed. Shall we move to another place?”

This old man must have too much time on his hands.

“If you wish.”

Dumaine disliked him. Though Hazabut’s words were courteous, his tone treated Dumaine as beneath him.

In Widav, magic reigned supreme. Swordsmen were given some privileges, and Sword Masters even more so—but in front of a tower master, even they had to bow. The king himself revered mages, and that attitude trickled down. Other nations rewarded Sword Masters with fiefs and honor. Widav did not.

That was why many swordsmen, even Sword Masters, defected to other countries. It weakened the kingdom’s power greatly. Though their numbers had risen compared to the past, Sword Masters were still rare and precious.

Nineteen years ago, the kingdom had finally been forced to acknowledge the swordsmen’s worth more openly, after repeated losses of Sword Masters to other nations. Though mages initially protested, they yielded when the king declared it was for the good of the realm. Still, centuries of mage-centered tradition did not vanish easily. Respect for mages lingered deep in the kingdom’s people, and so swordsmen quietly resented them while mages looked down in return.

Dumaine was one of those resentful swordsmen—his feelings especially strong.

“Let us head to my chambers.”

Hazabut turned first. Dumaine glared at his back before quickly averting his eyes and following. His crimson cloak fluttered, filling half the corridor. A heavy pride radiated from his back—the pride of a swordsman.

Their footsteps echoed evenly through the silent hall.