Lucky
“Lucky.”
Ian muttered, and Belenca nodded in agreement. Thanks to their flawless coordination, they had routed the grave robbers without a single drop of blood on their blades.
“Baron. A gift for you.”
Belenca handed the captured robber over to Lucy. It was a gesture of reconciliation. In the past, she and Lucy had exchanged sharp words—nothing serious, but not something they could just brush off like it never happened. For a wandering knight like Belenca, clashing with a noble was never wise. No matter how middling Lucy might be as aristocracy went, she was still the land's rightful owner. There was no reason for Belenca to bare her fangs.
Lucy thought much the same. “Thanks. I'll put him to good use.”
With Belenca extending the olive branch first, refusing it would have been unbecoming of a noble. There was no upside to quarreling with a knight of her caliber. It suited Lucy just fine, and Belenca too.
“Ugh...”
The grave robber was the only one left unhappy. By noble law, he'd owe Lucy a fortune in restitution. She could have executed him without a penny and called it even, but keeping him alive as forced labor was far more profitable. Debt slaves like him were treated as the domain's lowest dregs, saddled with every filthy chore imaginable. Caught desecrating the baron's tomb? He'd toil a lifetime and still not pay it off.
“He says other grave robbers already slipped into the cemetery.”
The priest bowed his head as he spoke. He worked for the domain and had rushed here upon hearing Lucy might sell off the family assets. If the baron's ghost stirred, someone had to soothe it; if she liquidated property, it all needed documenting.
“It won't be that easy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Baron Talian's tomb is protected by a barrier laid by the Fairy Queen.”
Ian perked up at the sudden fantastical term. “A barrier?”
“Yes, mage. No telling what foul tricks those sly folk pulled... but with their queen weaving her sorcery, no ordinary person could breach it.” The priest bowed again. “Not unless Baron Talian himself deigns to enter. The crypt door won't budge otherwise.”
Belenca tilted her head slightly. “The robber said a mage went down with them. Does that change things?”
“A mage... It depends on his skill, I suppose...”
A mage was among those who'd descended into the Talian crypt. Ian found it absurd. “A mage grave-robbing?”
But on second thought, it wasn't so strange. Mages were explorers of the mysteries. They'd do anything for a taste of the unknown. They were wildcards by nature, and society shrugged it off as par for the course. Most had zero common sense—they followed their whims, end of story.
“The one leading the robbers is some guy called the 'Mud Baron,' apparently.”
“Mud? Never heard of a domain by that name.”
Lucy cocked her head, and Belenca explained. “Don't overthink it. Just a nickname the bandits slapped on him.”
Mud Baron. He'd earned it from constantly flinging himself into the muck during his escapades. Admirers hyped it up with chants like, “Every mud pit is Mud Baron's territory!” Medieval folk and their tall tales.
“But he claims to actually be some noble.”
“Nobles don't claim it—they are it. My lord.”
“I didn't tell you to open your mouth.”
Belenca kicked the robber. No one batted an eye at the casual brutality, which struck Ian as refreshingly shocking. Beating someone in broad daylight, and nobody flinched? No pity? Damn... these people are all fucking trash.
...Not quite. They just treated prospective slaves like disposable trash. A few lashes? What of it? No big deal.
“No. Keep talking.”
Belenca had zero interest in the Mud Baron, but Ian was curious.
“Sorry. The knight told me to shut up...”
“No sense of timing, huh? Spit it out.”
Belenca kicked him again. The robber was useless enough without being oblivious too.
“Th-the Mud Baron... he's the bastard son of Count Düppel.”
The robber glanced warily at the priest as he spoke. Bastard son?
Bastards were a dime a dozen in the Empire—no, across the continent's nobility. The faithful of the Heavenly Church could avoid them with a little discipline. As an ancient faith, it had no taboos on polygamy back in the day. But over time, the Church soured on it. Too much vice in multiple wives and concubines! A noble stance, sure, but the real issue was succession squabbles among the broods. Still, with barbarian roots in the north, no one condemned a man for his harem of three wives and four concubines. They just pitied the fragmented lands his sons would inherit.
Knowing this, Empire nobles stuck to one legitimate wife and kept it that way. The women knocked up by wastrel lords dreamed of becoming wife number two or three... but reality? Yeah, bastard.
The Mud Baron was just such a child of circumstance.
“Belenca, that Mud Baron. Noble blood or not, wouldn't capturing him be useful?”
Belenca shook her head at Ian's question. “Fat chance. Whoever this Count Düppel is, he wouldn't let a bastard sniff around if his domain was a pushover. Obvious from the grave-digging alone.”
“Fair point.”
Ian got it. Bastards were disposable spawn. Some nobles secretly doted on theirs, but not this one. Count Düppel had straight-up abandoned the kid. If he'd cared, he wouldn't have raised a thief.
“Still, gathering a crew under some noble pretense? Disgusting.”
Belenca was less irked by the Mud Baron than the mage he'd brought. Mages were unpredictable. A tomb raider didn't have to be weak—could be some powerhouse killing time. Who knew?
Ian agreed. “Let's head down carefully.”
He'd never fought a mage, but if things soured, he might have to. Steel yourself, he thought, taking the lead.
Mage Ingrian was an Imperial Magic Academy alumnus. Not just any grad—he was a tenured professor. For years, he'd taught at Drenheim Magic Academy.
Then wise man mode hit. 'Ah! I wanna learn more magic!'
All mages were mystery seekers, Ingrian included. No bookish shut-ins here—they confronted the unknown head-on, communed with it, glimpsed realms beyond mortal ken. True magic came from experience. For more mysteries, they'd dive into fire.
Ingrian craved it too. 'Hmm. Time to leave the academy...'
'No, Professor! Where do you think you're going?!'
His assistants clung to his robes at the travel announcement. 'Who'll teach us magic if you go?!'
Ingrian tired of their selfish whining. 'You learn from me? Then where do I learn?!'
'Someone of your caliber doesn't need—'
'Gah! Telling me to quit learning?!'
No martial arts training, but as an elder with built-up power, he nailed the old-timer's rebuke yell. Top mages rivaled wuxia masters, after all.
'Just let me go.'
'But...'
'Send me traveling, and I'll burn through grants. Come back for lectures later.'
'...!'
Indeed. Ingrian loathed teaching and sedentary life, but those research funds? He endured the torture of professorship for them. (His lectures? Attendance you could count on one hand. He sucked at it. Researchers, not teachers, after all.)
'God, these students! Lazy asses griping about profs, blowing tuition on daytime benders and street fights!'
Ingrian had suffered enough to inwardly roast them. Ah, youth so depraved! Ten years ago, it wasn't this bad. In a century, the Empire's doomed!
Escaping the academy cave, Ingrian wandered blindly after mysteries like any mage. One day, opportunity knocked. Over ale in a tavern—cliché as a fantasy opener—he overheard drunks.
'Mud Baron's pulling another heist?'
'Where to this time?'
'Talian Barony, I hear. After the old baron's treasure, probably.'
Ingrian didn't know it, but Talian treasure tales were local legend. Curious, he dug deeper: the baron, lover to the Fairy Queen, bequeathing a magic sword...
'Oh.'
Irresistible. Even for an old codger. A sword gifted by the Fairy Queen! He had to see it.
Ingrian tracked down the Mud Baron—a decent sort who respected mages. And so, an Imperial professor joined thieves to plunder a tomb. Sounds off? Look to Hollywood: whip-cracking archaeologist with pearly whites. Yes, Ingrian was... our unlucky Indiana Jones!
Raiding graves? Purely academic! (Nope.)
“This... won't be easy.”
Days in, Ingrian toiled amid the underground crypt's dust and thick torch-resin smoke. (Or, enthusiastic graverobbing.) His efforts hit a literal wall—the Fairy Queen's barrier. Impossibly thick, it demolished the Mud Baron's drills, exuding dominance.
The baron had quit for detours, but Ingrian saw a magic door, triggered by spells.
“Not earth mystery... not wind...”
He threw every incantation at it—nothing. Pride forbade quitting with a shrug. So he camped in the tomb, eating and sleeping there for days...
'...!'
A sharp ping hit him. He bolted to the Mud Baron. “Baron! Baron!”
“Oh! Elder! Success at last?”
Mid-snack, the baron took the fuss for good news. The old man's breakthrough!
But Ingrian blurted the unforeseen. “No! Door's still shut! But that's not the point!”
“Not the door? Then what—”
“Intruders! We've got intruders!”
Ah, introducing ourselves? The baron nearly quipped they were the intruders but held back. Serious stuff. Folks reaching this hidden wilds tomb weren't casual hikers. Purposeful... but with guards outside? Breaching that?
“...Impossible.”
“What's impossible?!”
“No army's coming. Talian's ownerless—no rival noble sending robbers.”
The baron couldn't peg the intruders.
“Who cares now!”
Unlike the steady baron, Ingrian panicked. Guessing foes mid-life-or-death? Win a prize?
“No time! Baron, I'll prep magic—you gear for fight!”
“Got it. Grab 'em and figure it out.”
Good thing he'd warded for alarms. But then—a fatal realization. His foes, sensing his detection spell, knew they'd been made too.
'...This?'
His familiar bug—eaten by a raven. Instinct screamed: no pet, a mage's minion.
Meaning? Not just unknown numbers, but topple a mage too.
Ingrian tensed like ages past. Mage versus mage.