Crushing Reversal
The battle unfolded in perfect opposition to the previous day. The Greim forces' center crumbled under the Black Knight's frontal charge, and at the same time, the rear troops flailing in the jet-black curtain Ian had summoned lost all judgment, blocking the front lines' retreat. In a word: command impossible. In strategy game terms, it was a classic case of morale shattered to bits.
"Squad broken! Everyone, dome huancha!"
"Uwaaaah! I wanna live!"
The Talian baron's army utterly pulverized Greim's forces. What had been a massive blob of troops was shattered into pieces and scattered everywhere. In truth, once an army splintered like that, there was hardly any way to reassemble it. They usually scattered and each fended for themselves. The former count's army was the weird exception—Ian had sent birds to gather survivors, salvaging about 300 men.
The baron's troops, drunk on victory, hunted the fleeing enemies one by one. Kill the mercenaries, capture the knights for ransom.
"Ian."
Ian, watching the battlefield, startled as Lucy suddenly leaped into his arms. She hugged him tightly, sniffling and sobbing.
"We... we won."
Yeah. We did. Ian swallowed his words and gazed at the field. His first monumental victory since becoming a mage.
War is business. Its purpose is conquest, plunder, and wealth accumulation. The modern idea that "war is horrific" formed after World Wars I and II. In the fantasy-medieval era where Ian operated, war was just a massive money-making scheme. Bust your ass farming fields for peanuts? Farming's basically gambling anyway (true story). But kill people, and money rolls in??? Folks! Go kill some people too! Cash incoming!
Yes. In this era, war was a real RPG where you farmed humans for loot. Knights, priests, mages as classes? Total RPG vibes. In a world where you level up, earn cash, and rack up achievements by killing... good luck preaching "murder's bad, robbery's wrong." You'd just get "You hate leveling?" "Don't want money?"
"Hey, this is still usable!"
Kill the mob (person). Next step? Looting, obviously. Wandering the battlefield, Ian spotted soldiers obsessed with rifling through corpses for valuables. That became the mercenaries' assets. You could say they picked up weapons and killed just for that shiny, beautiful loot. Maybe that's life—endlessly consuming something to sate greed.
"..."
Ian roamed hoping to glimpse the mystery of death. But no sign of it. Just greedy soldiers everywhere.
'So many corpses, why no mystery of death?' Ian squinted, scanning around. He suddenly missed his apprentice days under Eredis. She'd shown him the optimal ways to hear mysteries' voices. Alone, he'd have wasted time on nonsense.
'No clue.'
He'd thought strolling a corpse-strewn battlefield might unlock necromancy. Apparently not. Dissect bodies? Sleep in graveyards? Nah... Ian shook his head. Better to ask a necromancer on the road. Eredis would've been floored. People spent months chasing one mystery voice—yet he'd expected battlefield jaunt to hand him necromancy. Cheat perks had eroded his conscience.
Leaving the looting mercs, Ian headed to Lucy's manor. Talian Hall was a massive log house.
'Whoa... grand... log cabin.'
Fancy corridors? Crystal chandeliers? That's 17th-century French palace luxury. This was standard noble fare for a baron's manor. Severed deer heads as trophies, beast hides as curtains—wild interior. The floor carpet? The exact "I'll turn you into a rug" feline kind. Whole pelt.
"Welcome! Ian!"
Conical-hatted Lucy rushed to greet him. She'd ditched it on the road, but baroness now, out it came. Does she really think it's cute?
"How's it feel seeing Talian Hall up close?"
Lucy yelled, tension sky-high. She thought her home was perfectly decorated. Not wrong. By medieval fantasy aesthetics, 80/100. Beast offal everywhere screamed it. Deer heads! Hides! Must've hunted tons—owner's a hunting powerhouse! River Bill's Kalz manor was less flashy(?); it was a fortress.
"Uh... yeah. Cool."
Ian praised soullessly. Unless you're a death metal fan or aspiring taxidermist, that dim, gloomy decor wouldn't impress. Medieval economics limited noble homes anyway. To ex-modern Ian, boring. Exotic, sure.
"How's everything?"
Lucy beamed at his check-in, chattering.
"Great! Met the priest for title succession, checked the asset list."
Small baronies left admin to priests. "Title succession" meant documenting "I'm baron now!"—not begging priestly okay. Lucy reviewed Talian Barony's assets: centuries-old mixed with months-old mess. Half "borrowed," treated as theirs. Friends' recent loans? Swallowed. 200-year-old? Keeper's. But ghosts demanded "lent frying pan to Talian 200 years ago"—return it! Talian: "We've used it 200 years, why yours?" Lender: "We lent it, why yours?" Boom: war. Shady folks fabricated war pretexts from such docs.
"Greim?"
"...Locked up. Execution in days. Watch if you want."
Oof. Medieval execution. Ian shook his head. Traitors got public spectacles for warnings.
"Dikido knight heads back post-victory feast."
Dikido was desperate: count dead. Others? "Oh dear, count croaked? Tough break~" Not their lord! Only a few like Dikido were close vassals; rest recent hires. Even frantic, Dikido joined the feast amid their partying.
"Just leaving?"
"Yeah."
Ian puzzled. Round trip hard without gains. Count pitied Lucy but wouldn't fund army on sympathy alone. Expected payoff post-win...
"Lucy. No deals with the count?"
"Deals?"
"Like, help for favors..."
Lucy tilted her head, airhead charm maxed.
"Nope?"
"...? For real?"
"Yeah. Real."
No deal? Ian baffled, but true. Plan was coerce post-victory—but count died. Hell regrets useless. His fault for showboating sans preconditions. His men couldn't rampage here.
'Lucky break.' Ian nodded. Lucy was blessed—gotta-get-away-with-it luck. Merc food, knight loot shares as "payment."
"You'll come to the feast, right Ian?"
"Sure."
"See you there!"
Busy Lucy couldn't linger; quick meet. Ian wandered idly again.
With days free, Ian pondered seriously for once.
'What is a mage...?'
One who converses with mysteries. Explores them. That's Ian's mage. He'd studied under Eredis, chatted chance mysteries... but free time bred doubts. Is this the right path? Extremes needed for true pursuit...?
'Dunno.'
Greenhorn Ian couldn't forge his future yet. Needed experience. Now he vaguely got Eredis's travel push.
"Oh! Mage's here!"
"Ian Raven! Sit here!"
Ian laughed at the calling knights. World still full of unknowns... but he felt part of it, bit by bit.
"No way, Black Knight and that's all you got?"
"Eat up! Eat!"
Baron's feast... but basically outdoor BBQ. No epic vibe. Noble touch: mobilized peasants serving.
"..."
Early Belenca glared murder at her meat mountain.
"What're you doing?"
"Hmph. Gotta eat all this. Stuck, can't."
Knight who'd seen her prowess piled her plate with respect. Dozens rotated in—mountainous. Not a food YouTuber; impossible solo.
"Hey hey. Not saying my food's no-go, right?"
"C'mon, Black Knight! One bite!"
"..."
Mound growing, Belenca squeezed eyes shut. Ian tilted head. Colleagues pushing unwanted food... office dinner!
Aha! Knights' feast is a booze-up!
"Eat lots. Protagonists get most spotlight, yeah?"
"Uh. Help me out then..."
"Nah. Too gamey. Sprinkle pepper, re-grill? All spun raw?"
Belenca eyed Ian reproachfully. He patted her shoulder. No one dared offer medieval BBQ to him. Mage perks!