The Self-Proclaimed Baron's Toll
A procession departed from Talian lands. It was Ian and his assorted companions.
The group was larger and more complicated than Ian had anticipated. Galadin had come with only a handful of attendants, so there weren't many people in total. Even with Ian and Belenca tagging along, it didn't feel like much of a crowd. But once the priest joined, the numbers started to swell...
"You're coming with us?"
"Yes, Mage. If it's a curse from some evil force, I can lend a hand."
The priest was purely accompanying them to help the Drbosi Baron. Ian was a bit surprised by the man's pious behavior. The Santiago Knights were like that, and now this guy too. Were religious folk in this era surprisingly decent people?
But that was just a conclusion Ian could draw because he didn't know much about priests yet. The real reason the priest was heading to the Drbosi Barony was for experience farming.
Priests in the Empire were essentially civil servants. At the top was the head of the church, the Pope, overseeing bishops who managed dioceses. Below them were priests handling subdivided parishes. A priest from the Talian Barony was like a grade-9 local government clerk.
Truly devout, faithful priests served with all their heart no matter their position—that was the duty of one who served the gods. But such sincere priests were a minority. Most were influenced to some degree by human desires, great or small. They wanted promotions, postings in big cities, status, respect...
The reason Talian's priest was bothering to check on the Drbosi Baron was to rack up achievements. If the baron was under an evil curse and this priest from Talian resolved it? That'd be a massive win. It would shine in performance reviews, and if he truly exorcised some wicked entity, he might even become a saint.
Saints in this era enjoyed idol-level popularity. Idol... popularity... didn't that ring a bell? Right—school idols. It was exactly the same racket!
Some territories, desperate to revive a dying fief, ran their own "saint projects" (not school idols, but close enough). Succeed, and it was a huge payday! So Lucy had dispatched the priest without complaint. If he nabbed some evil being, Talian would ride the wave too.
Once a saint emerged from a territory, everything turned into merch. This was the saint's birthplace... this was the spoon the saint used... this was the hill the saint loved... While modern weak-kneed otakus hopped trains and planes for pilgrimage sites (metaphorically), medieval true idol otakus trekked through monster- and bandit-infested roads for the real deal. Those fans showered money, reviving even dying lands overnight.
Otakus' madness was the same in medieval times or modern—unchanged.
Anyway. The priest was ultimately on the road for XP farming and a shot at sainthood. Naturally, servants and slaves tagged along. Lucy had also assigned extra hands to make Ian's journey comfortable. And finally, the mercenaries who'd dawdled joined up.
"The more travel companions, the better, right?"
They weren't hired hands—just folks heading the same way. But more was always better. Against monsters or bandits, numbers mattered.
The core members were Galadin, Ian, and Belenca, but with all the extras piling on, they exceeded thirty. A pretty solid party had formed.
"So. Did you say your goodbyes properly?"
There were plenty of people, but only Belenca chatted with Ian. The priest and Galadin were busy yapping with their own groups, and servants or mercenaries wouldn't dare approach him.
"Hm..."
The words "goodbye" conjured a warm glow. Lucy's scent brushing his lips. That soft, warm body...
...Wasn't that their first kiss?
"Your face says it all."
"What does."
"Just thinking Talian's baroness has some seriously filthy luck."
"...?"
Lucy's luck being good was nothing new. Belenca, displeased with Ian's reaction, pouted slightly.
"Hurry up and earn your keep so you can scram already."
"What the hell now."
"I can't stand watching you two flirt!"
Belenca grumbled about "dirty couples" and such. Ian was dumbfounded. Hardware was pure ruthless knight, but why was the software high-school girl level? He genuinely wondered why someone like her had sword talent. Had God botched her coding?
As their idle banter showed, the journey proceeded smoothly. With thirty people, most beasts and bandits steered clear. Strength in numbers.
But problems arose when foes exceeded "most."
"M-Mage! Big trouble!"
Ian, mid-pointless banter with Belenca, tilted his head at the frantic mercenary.
"What is it?"
"B-Bandits! But there are too many!"
It wasn't hype. Nearly fifty armed bandits had encircled them, timing it for a narrow pass. Pros, clearly.
"Well, well, plenty of customers today!"
A man in a beast-pelt hat laughed heartily as he stepped forward. If he could, Ian would've blasted him with a magic missile. (No such spell fit the worldview, sadly.)
They had thirty, mostly non-combatants. Bandits: fifty armed. Overwhelmingly bad odds.
Ian approached Galadin to ask his thoughts.
"I-Ian! Any way to shoo them off? Magic or something!!!"
"..."
Galadin had already cracked. True to his weak bureaucrat roots, he was terrified. Sigh. Always down to me. Group project leader felt natural now.
Ian stepped forward.
"Who the hell are you lot!"
The hatted man replied.
"I'm Baron Damon!"
Another baron? Every tom, dick, and harry was a baron.
# After the world roughly collapsed, from east to west, no land escaped chaos. Murder, robbery, pillage, arson—daily bread. People died breathing, starved to skeletal wanderers after fields were seized. All because the Golden Empire fell.
The Golden Empire ruled with ancient-unbelievable admin and military might, bringing peace. Sure, built on slave exploitation and colonies, but it stabilized the continent.
Then it crumbled. Heretics, barbarians, monsters rampaged; the world withered daily. The deep-rooted tree vanished—lost its foundation.
A foundationless world where the first to yell "I'm the foundation!" became it.
Say Joseon apocalypse hits, Korea crumbles. Who's Seoul mayor? President? Elected official? Or the four-star general with tanks? Anyone restoring order works.
Baron Damon was that guy. Post-apoc power consolidator.
"Baron Damon?"
Even panicked, Galadin racked his brains. As a lowly humanities grad, his head was all he had. But results? Meh.
"...Never heard of him?!"
Galadin didn't know Damon Baron—or even his lands.
Ian yelled for him.
"My friend says he's never heard of any Baron Damon!"
"Ha! Could be!"
Damon laughed; bandits joined. Ian's skin crawled. If they charged to slaughter... what magic for escape? Team up with Belenca, maybe flee—but insane gamble.
"Baron Damon! Where are you from!"
Ian shouted; Damon stomped laughing.
"Where else! Right here!"
"...?"
"This is Baron Damon's domain!"
Ian was speechless. The priest muttered.
"Rootless bandit scum...!"
The priest knew ancient Golden Empire admin via church lore continuity. Lands weren't made like that. Kings divided realms to vassals, who subdivided to theirs—feudalism. Talian, Drbosi: inherited from empire-founding loyal nobles.
No "today it's my barony~" nonsense. So? Who recognized Damon's? By Golden law, self-styled Damon was just an armed thief illegally squatting imperial soil.
...But hilariously, no issues. No one to punish him!
His "domain"—this valley—was unclaimed. He'd cleared fields, gathered folk, developed it himself. Empire had endless virgin land; population crumbs.
Self-develop and claim: new fief. But not done—swear fealty to overlord or still illegal. No prior baron? Count's turf! Count'd invade to annex; win (unlikely), independence.
Independence? Stealing imperial land. 99% doom.
Sane folk negotiate with count for title. Get it: real noble. (Petty hillbilly chief level, but.)
"Who do you serve?"
Ian probed.
"No one! Baron of Freedom! Hahaha!"
"..."
Idiot. Why commoners struggled as nobles. Damon gathered men, built village—but zero feudal savvy! Raw talent capped there. No elite education or advisors? Peasant limits clear.
"Travelers! Use our facilities, pay the lord's toll! Basic manners, right?"
Whatever. Self-styled baron bellowed. Just a tax-grubbing squatter? Or peak bandit?
No—straight-up bandit. Fantasy greenwood robber. Where's the other seventy?
"No law says sudden tolls!"
Galadin yelled. Book-smart only—brave in weird spots.
"Passed here recently, no hassle, no tax!"
"Galadin, no."
Ian tried silencing him—too late.
"Aha! We were busy then! Thanks for the delinquency report! Double this time!"
Galadin panicked.
"Oh no!"
"..."
Oh no, my ass.
"Galadin. You're losing it—shut up and stay back."
"Ah... y-yeah. Thanks, Ian."
Ian sighed, stepping up. No one reliable. Time for mage authority.
"Baron Damon. Pleased to meet. I'm Eredis's disciple, Mage Ian."
"Mage?"
Damon startled. Mages terrified medieval folk. Even him. Average bandit would've folded—mage shock.
But Damon wasn't average.
"Mage, huh! If real, you know my friend?"
He snapped fingers. Red-haired girl emerged behind.
"Ian? Ian? Never heard that bonehead name once~!"
What's wrong with my name! Ian felt wronged. Not famous 'cause low activity, not his fault.
Anyway. Ian eyed her slowly.
Was that girl a mage too?