Chapter 6
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Seeing Stones as Gold (2)
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After getting off at the pier, the scenery was utterly different from anything I'd seen in the East my whole life.
The way people spoke, the food they ate—it was all different. Adventurers and mages in their distinctive outfits walked by everywhere.
"Master, didn't you say this is only your second time coming to the Western Regions?"
"That's right. It's been quite a while."
Biwol clung tightly to my side, gazing around at everything with wide-eyed wonder.
Her hands were stuffed full of desserts, and she seemed especially fond of the green grape fruit tarts.
"Then how could you keep something this delicious from your own disciple?"
Biwol spoke with her mouth packed full like a hamster's. The slightly muffled pronunciation was oddly endearing.
"Sorry about that. Ingredients like these are hard to come by in the East. I didn't want to disappoint you."
When I was writing the novel Diamond Fist King, I'd described the Heavenly Demon Biwol as having an attachment to sweets because she'd eaten human flesh and blood as a child.
True to that, the real Biwol loved tangy hawthorn candied skewers and spicy stuffed dumplings—anything sweet and stimulating.
"...Your disciple would happily eat anything you gave her. Even savory glutinous rice cakes would taste as sweet as twisted dough fritters if infused with your care."
As I spoke in self-reproach, Biwol's voice grew small. She must have realized her request was absurd.
On the ship here, she'd suffered from seasickness. I'd comforted her as she kept vomiting in distress.
That's why I was buying her all these sweets now—I didn't want her first trip to end on a sour note.
Just like me when I first saw the sea in Busan, I hoped she'd one day come to love it too.
"Please don't blame yourself so much. Your disciple was foolishly tempted by sweets, even with a master as vast as the heavens before her...."
"What's wrong with that? At your age, it's perfectly normal. Crying and laughing over a snack—that pure emotion isn't a bad thing."
I watched Biwol stuff her mouth full and let my lips curve up slightly. She seemed less like the Heavenly Demon burdened by the Heavenly Killing Star's karma and more like an ordinary little girl.
Seeing her live the life she deserved filled me with deep joy.
"Please don't treat me like a child. Someday, I'll grow several inches taller than you, Master."
Biwol looked up at me with puffed cheeks. She even measured from her head to mine with her hand.
"I'd love that."
I pictured Biwol in her prime, like in the late stages of the webnovel Diamond Fist King—a woman sharp and honed as a blade.
I wanted to see the ending of my story play out here more than anything.
But would I even live that long?
Day by day, it felt like someone was shoveling dirt over my head, my life slowly fading.
"You'll surely see it."
"Yes, I'll look forward to it."
I had no choice but to lie to Biwol. I forced a smile, not wanting her to grieve in advance.
Biwol, Wolfram, and I took a carriage from the harbor. As we rode, I cross-checked what I knew with her.
"The hero's name is Verdandi Astraia. From what I heard, she was the daughter of a farmwife in some rural village."
"What's the village called?"
"Wonderhill. It got its name after a miracle of rain ended a great drought there."
This matched the lore I'd created.
Last time I'd come to the West alone, no matter what I tried, I couldn't find Verdandi. Wolfram's help would be essential.
"What about the holy sword or holy armor? Does she have them?"
"No idea. She just got the divine oracle—probably not yet."
Verdandi's two secret weapons from the original work Must Kill the Hero. She'd used them against the protagonist.
Back then, I thought it was fun for the final boss to level up too, so I'd made early Verdandi grow alongside the hero.
One's a weapon for immense attacks, the other's armor that makes her invulnerable.
That was another reason I'd brought Biwol here. If even talking to Verdandi failed, a fight seemed inevitable.
Use a barbarian to control barbarians—pit final boss against final boss. That was the plan.
"Biwol, if this new junior sister tries to kill me, can you subdue her without killing her?"
"...That would be difficult. How could I spare someone trying to harm you, Master?"
I looked at Biwol as she hung her head and mumbled. From her perspective, it must make no sense.
Not only was a new junior suddenly appearing, but one out to kill me? She'd hate that.
"That child is a pitiful girl who can't trust anyone. She sees the world in black and white, blind to emotions like love-hate."
I gently stroked Biwol's hair as I spoke.
At this point, she seemed less like a disciple and more like a puppy—but she leaned into my hand to help it move.
"Humans are contradictory, complex beings. Like a well-honed blade, they can wound others... but..."
"...they can also protect. Just as you saved me, Master."
Biwol beamed, clearly enjoying the touch. Moments like this made it easy to see why fathers turn into doting fools for their daughters.
"You know this new hero personally? How do you know so much?"
"I know her better than anyone."
I was the creator of Verdandi, Biwol, and Azazel. I'd birthed them from a blank page with words.
Facing Wolfram's growing suspicions about my identity, I decided against lying.
"I received a divine oracle too. It told me to take the hero as a disciple and cure her mania."
Mixing truth and lies half-and-half often builds trust better than pure truth.
"So that's why you came all the way to the distant West? You're full of surprises. I thought Easterners didn't believe in gods."
"Truth be told, I prefer people who try to change themselves over those who just pray to gods."
After giving up my writing dreams to become a math tutor, I'd met many students.
Half promised to start studying tomorrow.
Half more just talked a big game about studying hard.
Half of those blamed poor family circumstances or absent parents.
"People who build their bodies if they're weak, strive if they're talentless—honest folks who blame themselves before the heavens."
But some students wanted to change.
"Anyone can make excuses, but not everyone can ignite real effort or grit."
I'd seen students fight drowsiness at their desks by exercising every morning.
Ones from poor homes who weren't ashamed, who told their homeroom teacher honestly and got support.
"I like flawed people with rough edges. No one's perfect in this world."
Watching them, I'd often thought my life wasn't a mistake.
I was a coward who'd fled my writer's dreams, but I'd become a proper teacher. It was joy enough that one failure didn't chain into another.
"...Master, do you like me too, then?"
"What master hates his disciple? Saving you was the best thing I've ever done."
I smiled brightly at Biwol. Even if it wrecked my body, rescuing her was worth it.
"I need to watch out around you. You play with people's hearts without even breathing hard."
Wolfram crossed her arms irritably at the sight, tapping her foot as if swallowing words.
"I've always heard I have a way with words."
"That's not what I—argh, you're frustrating! You're not clueless, but not sharp either—it's ambiguous!"
Wolfram ruffled her golden hair in annoyance, glaring at me like I was the problem.
"Your disciples will bully you someday, and I won't help! I warned you!"
"Duly noted, deep in my heart."
As if sweet, innocent Biwol would ever kill me. I smirked teasingly.
"Anyway, if you want the hero as a disciple, don't I deserve something? I'm the one guiding you to the village!"
"......"
Not enough that I saved her life?
I couldn't quite grasp Wolfram's actions or mindset. To put it crudely, the 'character was coming alive beyond the author's intent.'
Demanding a deal for profit from her creator, right in front of her.
"How much?"
Fine by me.
These curveballs were always welcome. Sometimes in writing, following characters beats sticking to plot.
"Three hundred Aslan gold coins."
"Outrageous. Can't you lower it?"
Wolfram's eyes gleamed; I could almost hear the gears turning in her head.
"Ha! Bargaining with the Gold Tower Lord herself?"
She was a born haggler, with encyclopedic knowledge of money and a habit of valuing people by it.
"That's exactly why—because you're the 'Sage of Gold.' You turn roadside stones to gold, so why ask for coins?"
"The gold I make isn't 'real.'"
Truth was, Wolfram's gold wasn't pure.
Made from stone, not metal—it was impure fakery that wouldn't dent under teeth.
"Fakes yearning to be real are always romantic, aren't they?"
In my novel, every mage was mad in some way.
And Wolfram dreamed of 'perfection.'
"Then I'll offer better info instead."
"Info worth three hundred gold?"
Knowing her personality, I pulled out an alternative. Knowledge only this world's creator possessed.
"...The Philosopher's Stone. Want to know where it is?"
I knew exactly where the legendary stone was—the one that turned lead or other metals into gold.