We Might Make Some Real Money

Just as Reed moved to slip away quietly, a stonemason stepping out from inside caught him by the arm.

"Oh! Reed, you're back?"

"Ha... haha. Hello."

"Heard the news! Knocked down a demon worshipper in a single blow, did you?"

"No, it wasn't really a single blow..."

"What? Reed's here?"

"Hey! He's back!"

"Haha! Well done, lad! Splendid work!"

"You're the pride of our union!"

Masons came pouring out in a boisterous swarm to surround him, violently ruffling his hair and tossing him up into the air in celebration. Caught in a daze amidst the clamor, Reed saw Guildmaster Darahalt stride forward through the crowd.

"Rough work, lad. Who'd have thought you'd bump into demon worshippers on official duty? Next time, I'll demand the Governor assign us proper escorts."

Holding his spinning head, Reed replied, "It was rough, sure. But did you really have to raise a banner and make such a massive fuss?"

"Hm? You still don't know?"

Darahalt handed Reed a thick stack of newspapers. From premier publications like Weekly Morasil down to third-rate street rags, every single one had Reed's exploits plastered across the front page.

"A demon worshipper turning up in the sewers of Morasil is massive news on its own, but having an ordinary stonemason deal with it makes for a sensational scoop. Besides, folks can never get enough of stories about mages and knights."

Reed stared blankly at the printed sheets. 'Hero.' 'Averted a Great Catastrophe.' 'A Rising Star Emerges.' Blatant praise and embarrassingly grand declarations filled the articles.

"Mmh."

Reed was utterly at a loss for words. Having his story splashed across the papers felt... strangely humiliating. Yet his eyes refused to pull away from the text. Human beings are simply incapable of resisting the urge to see what others are saying about them behind their backs.

"...I seem to have become famous, completely by accident."

"Hahaha! There won't be a soul in Morasil who doesn't know your name now. And since it's come to this, shouldn't our union reap a little benefit too?" Darahalt casually gestured toward the ostentatious banner overhead. "Besides, making a noisy public spectacle like this ensures everyone knows we have nothing to do with demon worshippers."

Logically speaking, there was no reason Reed—having vanquished the cultists himself—would ever be associated with them. But people were always eager to spin preposterous conspiracy theories. Hadn't Iseline just undergone a grueling interrogation at the hands of the Sun Church? When dealing with demonic affairs, an over-the-top reaction was always the wisest course.

Just as Reed stood engulfed by the cheering craftsmen, Loty ambled into the courtyard, yawning lazily, only for his jaw to drop.

Loty blinked in a daze, muttering under his breath.

"...Where's my name?"

He turned hurt, accusatory eyes toward Darahalt.

"Guildmaster, what about my name? Sure, Reed pulled off the big heroics... but didn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I lend a hand too?"

"Your name is right there. Look closer."

Squinting, Loty and Reed leaned in to inspect the banner. Sure enough, scrawled in miniature letters right beside Reed's name, was the phrase: and Loty.

Truly, the fine print on an imperial insurance policy would have looked massive by comparison. Dumbfounded by the sheer absurdity, Loty was rendered speechless.

Yet Loty was not a man to surrender easily.

"Ahem. It seems none of you fully appreciate my heroic deeds, so allow me to recount them personally. First, let me paint the scene. The subterranean sewers were a dreadful place. Pitch-black, damp, and—"

"All right, boys! Time to head out and earn our keep!"

"Let's put our backs into it today, too!"

Leaving Loty blathering to an empty courtyard, the stonemasons dispersed to their assignments. Another vigorous day had begun.

To any cultured citizen of Morasil, reading the daily paper was second nature. Those without coin peeked over someone else's shoulder or scavenged discarded copies from the gutter, while the illiterate gathered around street storytellers, hanging on every word. As a result, a vast portion of the populace had heard Reed's tale.

Every news outlet approached the story from its own angle.

The Western Pioneer Regular Guide, published by the Pioneers' Guild, adhered strictly to the facts, recounting the incident with measured sobriety and warning frontiersmen to remain vigilant against demonic infiltration. Weekly Morasil, on the other hand, spun a far more heroic epic.

While it detailed Reed's exploits with vivid embellishment, it pointedly avoided any mention of the necromancer Iseline. It was a blatantly political maneuver; everyone knew the Sun Church was the paper's primary financial patron.

Either way, the citizens of Morasil relished the gossip. People loved mages, and they loved stories of evil being vanquished.

"Hah. Reed, was it? Another rising star has appeared."

"They say he commands earth magic."

"Earth magic, you say...? A rare discipline indeed."

Some marveled with pure admiration, while others passionately debated the boy's true identity.

"I heard he's remarkably young. Around fifteen, they say. Isn't that incredible?"

"Nonsense! Look at the article—it says he blasted demon worshippers away in an instant! He's bound to be an elderly mage with a long white beard!"

"Word is he's not affiliated with the Magic Tower. Does he have an independent master, then?"

"Could be the scion of a great magical house traveling incognito."

And there were those who weighed Reed's practical worth on the market.

"Don't know why, but they say he works as a stonemason... I've got a long merchant caravan coming up; think there's any chance we could hire him?"

"I've got just the business venture in mind..."

In that manner, people wagged their tongues endlessly about Reed. Some of the rumors were utterly preposterous, but what did it matter? The storytellers were having the time of their lives, and the newspapers eagerly fanned the flames of every tall tale—after all, greater notoriety meant higher circulation numbers.

As the presses churned out sensational headlines to hawk every last copy, one enterprising reporter went so far as to descend into the subterranean sewers in person.

Sitting in a street-side teahouse sipping black tea, a middle-aged gentleman read the article with rapt attention. He wore a dashing mustache, and strapped to his waist was a sword of uncanny, extraordinary length.

Stroking his mustache, the man murmured, "'Gravekeeper'... The Gravekeeper, is it...?"

Tapping the tabletop with his knuckles, the man rose smoothly from his seat.

"Found you at last."

Though Morasil buzzed with talk of demon cultists, Reed's daily life saw little disruption. His face had never been illustrated in print, so passersby had no idea who he was. Only those who already knew him took pleasure in teasing him playfully.

"Reed. Hand me that hammer over there, will you?"

"Yes, Meister!"

Reed was back under Meister Anton's tutelage. Today's task was the renovation of an aging manor.

"Looks like we'll need to tear down this wall and raise new masonry and a ceiling in its place," Anton declared.

"In that case, we'll erect the timber support struts," chimed in a master from the Carpenters' Guild.

The Carpenters' Guild—the eternal rivals and adversaries of the Stonemasons' Union! Sharing overlapping trades, the two artisan factions clashed over every slight and boundary dispute. Why, on the very day Reed first joined, hadn't both guilds stood on the verge of a bloody brawl?

Yet one could not raise a timber ceiling without structural stone, just as one could not erect a sturdy foundation without wooden scaffolding. Thus, carpenters and stonemasons frequently found themselves working shoulder to shoulder.

"That's why we don't fight to kill," Loty explained under his breath. "The stonemasons and carpenters end up joining forces all the time anyway."

"It looked plenty murderous the day I first arrived," Reed countered.

Loty smirked. "That's just posturing. We growl at each other so neither side gets cheated out of a copper. Even if things turn ugly, it usually ends with a cracked skull or a broken arm. Nobody aims to kill. Well, bad luck might kill a man once in a blue moon... but it's no big deal."

"No, having your skull cracked or your limbs snapped sounds like a very big deal to me."

Reed shook his head at Loty's twisted logic, but inwardly he had to concede the point. Across the Demonic Borderlands, including Morasil, members of the Stonemasons' Union numbered roughly two thousand. The Carpenters' Guild commanded no fewer. A scuffle involving a few dozen men on each side was practically an affectionate spat on this cutthroat frontier.

"All right, all right, save the chatter for later. We need to knock down this wall. Reed, think you can handle it?"

"Ah, yes. Of course."

Reed raised his shovel, gathered his focus, and channeled his mana.

K-BOOOM!

With a localized concussive blast, the weathered wall crumbled into neat rubble in a single breath.

The carpenters standing nearby gawked in disbelief.

"That wall would've taken hours of pounding with sledgehammers..."

"Is that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠him? The Gravekeeper who wiped out the demon worshippers?"

"...Why don't we have a mage like that?"

Envy, jealousy, and sheer awe. The carpenters threw pointed glares at their own hapless apprentices, silently comparing them to Reed.

If only our recruits were half that useful!

Watching them stew, the stonemasons squared their shoulders and jutted their chins out with pride. Somewhere along the way, Reed had become the darling of their union.

Yet Reed could not bring himself to smile freely.

'The Gravekeeper...'

A moniker attached to him out of nowhere. Coincidentally, it was the exact same title he had borne back in the slums.

Until now, though vigilant against the Black Blade Syndicate, Reed had felt a degree of peace. Slum dwellers had paid him little heed, referring to him merely as "the gravekeeper." None of them had even known his real name. Finding him in Morasil should have been nearly impossible.

A nameless boy with brown hair and brown eyes? Morasil crawled with them. Even now, endless streams of migrants poured into the western frontier. It was the very definition of searching for a needle in a sand dune.

Yet against all odds, he had acquired the exact same alias here.

'If someone traces that title and comes looking for me...'

The probability was slim, but the possibility was real. And with every passing day, that possibility would only swell. Reed hoped with all his heart that Harlock the courier would return soon. Only after Harlock gathered intel on the Black Blade Syndicate in Asterritz could Reed make a decisive move.

Even so, he had no intention of waiting around idly.

Having finished the day's labor and pocketed his wages, Reed headed to the backyard of the Stonemason Guild Building. Straw target dummies he had procured stood waiting in the courtyard. Reed locked his gaze onto the targets and gathered his focus.

Soil surged at Reed's command, coalescing and shaping itself into three distinct spheres.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Reed propelled the three spheres along different trajectories at varying velocities, striking the targets dead center. It was a knack he had picked up while battling the cultist underlings.

"Shaka. How many seconds did I shave off this time?"

Standing blankly to the side, Shaka answered, "Short by one and half heartbeats."

"About one and a half seconds, then..."

Knowing a technique in your mind and executing it with your body were entirely different beasts. Meister Anton himself practiced hammering, the most fundamental of basics, day in and day out, carving the craft directly into his muscles and bones. Magic was no different.

'The more you train magic, the more natural it becomes, until it seeps into your very instincts.'

Magic demanded far more intuition and practical ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠knack than people realized. That held doubly true for a combat mage, who had to make optimal split-second decisions under intense pressure. While raw instinct was an innate gift, practical knack could be honed through ceaseless practice. Training was indispensable if one hoped to become a better mage.

In that regard, Reed was an unrelenting worker. He poured every spare moment into training, prompting Loty to ask during one of his idle breaks:

"Hey, don't you ever want to goof off or just have fun? Watching you, it feels like you're always being chased by something."

"Have fun?"

It was a foreign concept to Reed. In his past life, slacking off for even a moment brought a beating from his uncle, and in this life, he had never possessed the luxury to even consider it. Even now, resting for a single day left him feeling vaguely anxious and restless.

"I don't know. I've never really thought about playing around. Besides, this is fun."

"Training is fun?"

"Yes. You get exact results for the effort you put in, so it's deeply satisfying. If it's fun, couldn't you say I'm already playing?"

"Mmh... pretty sure that's not how it works."

So Reed threw himself into training without missing a single day. His spell control grew increasingly refined, and his casting speed picked up bit by bit. Now, Reed could launch four earth spheres in separate directions simultaneously. His control over magic had advanced by leaps and bounds!

Pleased with the fruits of his labor, Reed clenched and unclenched his fist.

'The number of spells I can cast is growing, and my skill keeps climbing.'

Earth Control and Earth Grasp. Property Change — Hardening, Property Change — Crystallization, and the Explosion Rune etched onto his shovel. In total, Reed commanded five magical techniques. Yet depending on how they were combined, magic could metamorphose into entirely different beasts.

For instance, the Crystal Bomb—a synergy of Earth Control, Property Change — Crystallization, and the Explosion Rune—had granted Reed destructive firepower he had never previously dreamed of. There were bound to be countless other combinations he had yet to discover.

'I especially need to study Property Change.'

On its own, transmutation might lack raw destructive force. But when weaving spells together, it often served as the linchpin—much like the crisp layer of cabbage holding a sandwich together between slices of bread. Just as Iseline had suggested, studying alchemy would surely yield insights.

'No, not just alchemy—I simply know too little about magic as a whole. Should I track down a beginner's tome on magic theory? But aren't books on magic outrageously expensive?'

He didn't even understand why his head throbbed with blinding pain whenever he expended too much mana. Lately, by learning to read and devouring newspapers, Reed had accumulated a fair bit of literacy and general knowledge. Yet the more he learned, the more acutely he realized how vast the expanse of his ignorance truly was. And that ignorance weighed on him with profound shame.

There was so much he wanted to learn, so much he longed to master, but he had no money—and the constant dread of the Black Blade Syndicate showing up gnawed at him. His chest tightened with stifling frustration.

"Haaah. In the end, it always comes down to money."

It was right as Reed let out a sigh heavy enough to sink the earth beneath him.

"My, my. Troubled by something?"

"Hm?"

Turning around, he found Iseline standing there with an affable, sunny smile.

"Hello! Hello there! What a splendid, sunny day!"

"Iseline. Long time no see. Ah, and you too, Mr. Montly."

Clack, clack.

Montly the skeleton clattered his teeth in greeting. Standing beneath ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the blazing midday sun, he looked none too pleased.

Iseline cheerfully checked in on him. "Everything been quiet on your end? You've become quite the celebrity!"

"Haha... Nothing out of the ordinary for me. Honestly, I was more worried about you, Iseline, but I see you got out of the Sun Church's clutches in one piece."

"No matter how much the Sun Church dislikes us, they can't just lock people up and torture them without a shred of evidence. This is Morasil! Even terrifying necromancers and skeletons have the right to a fair trial!" Iseline declared with theatrical flair.

Reed let out a dry chuckle and asked, "So, what brings you here in person?"

"Ah! I came to make you a wonderful proposition! I spoke with the higher-ups, and if you join our cooperative right now—"

"..."

"Just kidding! No need to look so stern, haha! I mentioned it before, didn't I? About liquidating those relics together."

"Ah."

Come to think of it, they had agreed to dispose of the chest they found in the subterranean sewers, along with the notebook and antique artifacts inside.

"I submitted them to the Pioneers' Guild for appraisal, and the results just came in. Which brings me to the point."

Iseline gave a knowing, meaningful smile.

"It looks like we might be making some serious coin."