Chapter 46
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 46
Chapter Title: Ariete (2)
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Soldiers eyed Ariete suspiciously and tried to block her path, but in the end, she made it to the tent marked with the yellow cloth.
It was a stroke of small fortune. If more of the soldiers who should have stopped her hadn't already shared that 'intimate emotional exchange' with her, she wouldn't have even set foot inside the camp before being chased away.
The middle-aged soldier who had escorted Ariete cautiously called into the tent.
"Mage, sir. Some little kid's here to see you. Did you call for her?"
"Red-haired girl?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's the one I called. Let her in."
Ariete glanced around as she stepped into the tent.
Whether due to a frugal nature or not, there were no fancy decorations, but everything was neatly arranged. Perhaps because of the simple interior, the tent felt a bit more spacious than it had looked from outside.
Richer sat with his legs crossed, staring at Ariete with a sullen expression. His posture exuded the natural ease unique to those in high positions.
'He really does seem like someone with power. Good.'
If she was going to follow someone anyway, it might as well be a powerful figure.
Now was the time for that 'intimate emotional exchange.' Ariete flashed a bright smile and stripped off her clothes.
She had to show her one and only purpose if she wanted to leave the city with this man.
Her body, now fully curved from puberty, came into view. Malnutrition had left her thin, and her skin a bit dry.
But paradoxically, no one would look at her and say her development was stunted.
At the same time, her thick, abundant curly red hair cascaded softly over her body.
When she crawled over on her knees and grabbed the waistband of Richer's pants, his voice rang out.
"What are you doing?"
It clearly wasn't the reaction she expected. Ariete pondered briefly.
'What's wrong? Oh, he must be the type who wants to undress me himself.'
It wasn't common, but she'd encountered the type before. Men who hated a dirty little kid touching their clothes.
Ariete leaned over the table so Richer could get a good look, then turned her head back, grinning at him broadly.
But Richer's frown didn't ease, and far from undressing, he still sat motionless.
"Put your clothes on."
Ariete didn't know what to do. Did I not appeal to him? Just as she climbed onto the table to strike a more provocative pose, a deep sigh came.
"This isn't the kind of situation you think it is, so put your clothes on first and let's talk."
Ariete hurriedly dressed. She couldn't even guess where things had gone wrong.
She'd stripped in front of plenty of men before, but putting clothes back on? That was a first. It felt strangely unfamiliar.
Yet through it all, until she was fully dressed, no hint of disappointment showed on Richer's face.
"I didn't call you here because I needed a woman."
"Then why...?"
Richer closed his eyes quietly, then tilted his head up. Even with his eyelids shut, it felt like he was gazing at something.
"There's this old mage named Hilario. Big nose, always grinning like an idiot. He smiled so much his eyes are full of crow's feet even when he's not. And a lifelong bachelor who probably never even held a woman's hand."
Ariete was a quick-witted girl. As people like her often were.
But Richer's story was so out of left field that she had no idea how to respond.
She could only roll her eyes. But Richer continued as if he hadn't expected a reply anyway.
"Around the time that old man had seen maybe eight or nine springs, he picked up a scrawny little kid from beside a trash heap."
Ariete nodded quietly.
Richer's expression wasn't the gloomy one from yesterday. His complexion was still poor, but his face was bright and warm.
"That old man took the grubby kid as his one and only disciple. And raising her turned out pretty satisfying, it seems. The kid was sharp and talented."
"He must have bragged about his disciple to you a lot, huh?"
Richer scowled. But his brown eyes remained kind.
"Nah. He never bragged. Like I said, never even held a woman's hand? The guy's too shy for that."
"Then how did you know?"
"I meet the old man often, and no matter what, he had this satisfied look. At my level, you can tell just by looking."
Ariete smiled brightly.
Just hearing it warmed her heart, and this man saw her not as a 'hole' but as a person.
You don't pour out stories like this to a 'hole.' This kind of talk only happens between people.
"I see."
"Yeah. Anyway, watching that old man made me think: the best place to pick up a decent disciple might just be a trash heap."
It was a ridiculous line of logic, but it carried real weight.
"So I check out trash heaps whenever I get the chance. And there you were. That's why I called you."
"You mean right now...?"
"Yeah. Want to learn magic from me?"
Mages were elite talents. Even knowing a few basic spells meant you could make a living anywhere without trouble.
And if you became a high mage? No need to say more. She'd heard even nobles bowed their heads to them. Could you really call those street women the same creatures?
But becoming a mage wasn't easy. They didn't take disciples lightly or in great numbers.
Ariete's heart raced. A mage? Me, a mage?
"Could I really become a mage?"
"You've got more talent than you think. Your best gifts aren't in your lower half—they're in your heart and head."
Ariete had lived without much complaint until now, but for some reason, tears flowed. She didn't know why.
Maybe the sensitive girl was just worn out.
From that day on, the red-haired little girl traveled the continent with Richer, wherever there was war and blood to be spilled.
Of course, when Richer headed to the battlefield, Ariete had to stay behind in the tent alone.
Rumors swirled around the two. That Richer had gotten hooked on playing with Ariete every night, or that the young girl had a knack for seducing men by spreading her legs wide.
Unlike those somewhat passable tales, there were countless filthy stories too vile to repeat.
But Ariete ignored them. She knew better than anyone that they weren't true.
And as for how Richer took the rumors? No need to mention it. If his disciple could brush them off lightly, they certainly wouldn't trouble Richer.
It wasn't long before Ariete succeeded in manifesting magic. Staring at the tiny spark flickering at her fingertip, her eyes widened in awe.
Richer lightly embraced her rounded eyes and said,
"See? I told you you had talent."
That day, Ariete cried. Never in her life had she cried so much.
The street girl had become a mage.
Time flew by, and Ariete grew into an adult. Already strikingly pretty as a child, she blossomed into a woman so beautiful that passersby couldn't help but turn their heads.
Her once emaciated frame from hunger had filled out nicely, and her development—which she'd thought was already complete—surged ahead again. Her red curls gleamed with luster.
Her skin, tanned from trailing battlefields, was no longer porcelain white, but it didn't hide her beauty. If anything, it added a touch of healthy allure.
Soldiers circled her tent all night just for a chance to exchange words with her.
It was only natural—a stunning beauty rare even in big cities wandering an all-male camp.
Ariete was kind and warm to everyone, but that was it. No one captured her heart.
The fresh love of adult Ariete didn't go to Richer either. Though for reasons different from the soldiers.
In her heart, Richer wasn't just a simple teacher.
He was her teacher, her parent, her savior. Closer to a god in human form than a mere person.
It was only natural. Just as the faithful believed everything came from their god, Ariete believed everything in her life stemmed from Richer. And it was mostly true.
Richer had pulled her from rock bottom, taught her everything she knew, and raised her in place of parents.
The emotions priests held for their god weren't love—they were worship.
Since Richer was closer to a god than a man in Ariete's heart, she worshipped him but harbored no romantic feelings. She knew full well he had a wife.
Then one day, the war ended. Richer seemed in high spirits.
"This shouldn't have dragged on this long."
"No helping it. It escalated several times midway. We're lucky other countries didn't pile on, or this could've taken two years. Be grateful it ended here."
"Sigh. I figured I'd get home three or four times a year. Didn't expect over a year away. At this rate, I'll forget my wife's face."
Richer opened his brooch to gaze at his wife's miniature portrait. So often handled, the edges were worn smooth and shiny.
The portrait showed a somewhat pale, thin woman. Accounting for the artist's flattery, she was probably even more pallid and frail.
But what did it matter? Richer truly loved his wife Mila, and true love cared little for looks.
Ariete counted on her fingers. She'd met Richer in autumn, and now the seasons had turned full circle to spring again. A year and a half before leaving the battlefield.
"You're heading to the capital, right, Master?"
"Ah, of course. You too, Ariete?"
"Nowhere else to go, so I'll follow you. Never fought, but gotta watch the triumph parade, yeah?"
Hearing that, Ariete grinned.
"You've earned a spot in the parade. Few in this unit stuck it out on the front longer than you. I'll put in a word—you march with us."
"Really? That's okay?"
"I'm a War Mage. Piece of cake."
Ariete beamed.