The Exile Network (2)
“It never ends. It just never ends.”
Patrick had already spent several days pulling weeds, yet the cursed things showed no sign of giving up. Even the furrows he’d cleared just days ago were sprouting fresh green shoots again. At this rate, it wasn’t some novel about infinite regression—it was his actual life.
“After all this work, one good rain and everything will be back to square one. Maybe I should just give up?”
“If you’re not planning to harvest the crops, then sure, go ahead and quit,” Ben replied flatly.
“We could just let the weeds win and eat the ones that survive. Not a bad plan, right?”
“Expecting the Empire to pardon you tomorrow would be more realistic. We’re already helping, so keep pulling.”
“Fine, fine. Let’s at least finish this row and take a break. If I collapse again, you’re taking responsibility.”
Ben stared at him in disbelief, but the threat of another fainting spell made him nod. “Well… it is about time for lunch.”
“Then I’ll go cook. That’d be more efficient anyway.”
“If you don’t want to do it, just say so. What kind of adult acts like this?”
Despite the words, the children waved him off toward the kitchen. They’d watched their teacher weeding under the blazing sun since morning and were certain that one more hour would end with heatstroke, collapse, or three days of muscle pain. Patrick, however, beamed and shouted “Thanks!” before heading inside, his pride apparently untouched.
The kitchen was far better stocked than when he’d first arrived. Though it lacked fancy ingredients or spices, it now held dried spring greens, basic seasonings, long-lasting hams and cheeses, and a basket overflowing with eggs. For an exile, it was nothing to complain about.
Feels like I’ve actually become a real survivalist.
Of course, none of it would have been possible without the villagers’ help, but the important part was that it was all his.
“Still, it feels wasteful to use everything I’ve saved up…”
He couldn’t exactly serve the children poorly after they’d spent the morning working in his place. Their parents might stop sending “tuition” disguised as gifts, and that was a very real concern.
I need something that lets me show off without touching my precious protein stores.
Scanning the kitchen with a hawk’s eye, Patrick’s gaze landed on a tree visible through the window.
“I thought I smelled something sweet. The acacia’s blooming.”
A scene from an old movie flashed through his mind—the kind of thing a would-be naturalist would remember.
“That’s it!”
“What do you think the teacher’s making for lunch?”
“Dunno. Probably not bacon or sausage.”
“Yeah, he looked way too attached to those.”
“Can’t blame him. He’s broke.”
“We should be understanding.”
The children spoke without a shred of mercy, fully aware Patrick would grab them by the scruff if he heard.
“Doesn’t it smell like oil?”
“Oil? …Hey, you’re right!”
“I hope it’s potato pancakes!”
“He said they were too much trouble and he’d never make them again.”
“Hnnng…”
“Maybe omelets?”
“The oil smell’s way too strong for that.”
“Let’s just go look!”
Unable to resist any longer, the children let out a collective “Waaah—!” and sprinted toward Patrick’s house.
What they found was their teacher standing over an outdoor fire pit, oil bubbling furiously as he deep-fried something in large batches.
“You’re here? Just wait a bit.”
“What is all this?”
“What do you think? I’m making proper fried food for once.”
“Fried food?”
A makeshift bamboo tray already held the first batch of golden fritters. Thick slices of sweet potato, spiral-cut potatoes, whole eggs coated in batter, and various greens. One item, however, was completely unrecognizable.
“That right there is acacia flower fritters, you sheltered little frogs.”
“Acacia flower fritters? You can eat flowers?”
“People eat the leaves, stems, and roots. Why wouldn’t you eat the flowers?”
At Patrick’s confident reply, the children’s expressions shifted to sudden realization. Their stomachs growled in unison. Patrick grinned and handed over the entire tray.
“Go eat over on the wooden bench.”
“What about you, sir?”
“I’ll eat while I fry. Don’t worry about me. Oh, take these too.”
He passed them two bowls of dipping sauce—one a makeshift fish sauce made with soy sauce, vinegar, and sugar, the other a homemade ketchup simmered from tomatoes. Both were things he’d prepared in his spare time, and the quality of the ingredients made them taste surprisingly refined.
“Whoa!”
“It’s delicious! So crispy!”
“The sauce is amazing too! I should ask Mom to make some!”
“Look at this—I can eat the flower fritters too!”
“Greedy!”
The children’s laughter never stopped. Deep-frying wasn’t something their families did often because of the oil cost, so this was a rare treat.
I’ll have to turn the leftover oil into soap.
In a fantasy world, soap was a classic. It was strange he hadn’t thought of it sooner. If it gets any hotter, the smell alone will suffocate us. And if disease breaks out during the rainy season… He hadn’t come here to live like a 15th-century peasant; he’d wanted to be a self-sufficient naturalist. Hygiene was simply the next logical step.
I wonder how the magic book situation is going.
Those soldiers hadn’t exactly inspired confidence.
Patrick’s gaze drifted toward the distant horizon.
“……You want magic books?”
Contrary to Patrick’s doubts, the soldiers were doing their best to complete the task. If they’d worked this diligently from the start, they wouldn’t have needed to be threatened in the first place.
“To be precise, there’s a gentleman who wishes to purchase them.”
“Hmph. What use does an exiled criminal have for money?”
The exile the soldiers had found was a wizard banished to a remote mountain village two full days’ ride from Dunbrook Island. Like Patrick, he had no powerful backers and came from a modest family. But there was one key difference: he perfectly matched the stereotype of a wizard.
Stubborn old coot.
He just hasn’t gone hungry enough yet.
The soldiers exchanged glances. This man was nothing like the wizard who had threatened them. His living conditions were also vastly different. Patrick’s home overflowed with food, his garden was lush with vegetables, herbs, and fruit trees, and he even had a fine bed that took up half his bedroom. This man’s house, by contrast, looked exactly like what one would expect of a punished criminal—gaunt cheeks, bony limbs, unkempt hair, and broken nails.
“I hear you write magic books every day.”
“So the watcher reports everything, does he? Hmph!”
“How many times do we have to tell you it’s the village chief, not a watcher?”
Instead of farming, the man had spent his time writing and rewriting magic books, memorizing everything he knew since he could no longer conduct new research. It seemed pitiful to some, but it was his way of surviving. In the Magic Tower, one had to abandon every basic human desire and devote oneself entirely to study just to endure.
I was not wrong.
That was how he had reached the level of skillfully wielding 3-circle magic at only twenty years old, and why he could proudly claim to command more attributes than any of his peers—until his exile, at least.
Grrrowl—
His stomach protested loudly. The Magic Tower had provided three meals a day for dedicated researchers; exile offered no such luxury.
“So, are you selling or not? If not, we’ll have to look elsewhere.”
“Hmph! These aren’t things meant to be sold in the first place.”
“What do you mean they’re not for sale?”
“You said you wanted intermediate magic books, didn’t you? What I’ve written can hardly be called proper magic books. I merely organized my meager knowledge…”
“So there’s no magic written in them?”
“Why wouldn’t there be? Of course they contain magic. My knowledge may be insignificant, but as a 3-circle wizard—”
“And I’m telling you there’s someone who needs exactly that.”
The soldiers frowned. What is this guy even talking about?
Robin’s self-deprecating scholar’s lament fell on deaf ears. The soldiers had no time for philosophical discussion while under threat.
“Your situation isn’t much better than his. Even if it looks worthless to you, it might be different for that other exiled wizard. Just hand it over.”
“……? The person seeking magic books is also an exile?”
“That’s right. He’s stuck on Dunbrook Island, another small island village like this one.”
“My, my.”
Robin’s stern expression softened. Someone trying to continue their studies even in the hardships of exile… a kindred spirit!
Without further hesitation, he pulled out a thick bundle of papers bound with string.
“Do you have some time?”
“Time? Why?”
“I feel I should provide more detailed annotations for a junior who hasn’t given up despite his circumstances.”
“Well… if that’s the case…”
The soldiers figured that if Patrick was satisfied, the threats would stop, so they were willing to wait a few hours.
About fifteen days later, a merchant visited Robin.
The merchant placed a large box on the table.
“This is from Sir Patrick of Dunbrook Island.”
“Who?”
“He said you’d understand if I mentioned he received your magic books as a fellow exile…”
“Ah!”
So the letter had arrived safely after all. Those unreliable-looking soldiers had managed not to intercept it.
“He said he wouldn’t accept money, so he sent goods instead.”
When the merchant opened the box, it contained flour, dried greens, jam, semi-dried fish, a bit of cheese and ham, and even a bottle of liquor.
“……!”
Robin’s stomach, empty since the previous evening, twisted painfully.
“He also asked me to deliver this letter.”
The merchant met Robin’s trembling eyes and handed over the letter Patrick had sent.