Episode 8: "Has It Been Six... No, Seven Years?"
Gazing at the peaceful roadside scenery, Ian sank into thought. 'Has it been six years... no, seven?' It felt like just yesterday that he'd climbed into the Golden Mountains to study magic. That scrawny kid from back then had somehow grown into an adult, returning to the world as a full-fledged mage.
"Guess it's time to part ways."
Eredis had accompanied him all the way down from the mountains, but she couldn't go any further. The Dranheim conference for pyrokinesis mages was in the complete opposite direction from where Ian needed to go.
'Ian, you should head to the chronomancer conference.'
'Pardon?'
Eredis had pointed him toward the most unexpected next destination: the chronomancer gathering.
'They say chronomancers convene in a place called Chronorik, somewhere at the northern edge. I hear there's a gate leading there.'
Her instructions were vague. Go to some unknown place and meet some unknown people. Ian couldn't wrap his head around it, but Eredis explained calmly.
'If you're fated to learn chronomancy, you'll meet a chronomancer there. If not, pick up dimensional magic or photon magic instead. The polar regions have auroras all the time, so it'll be easy to learn.'
"Isn't that a bit too half-assed?"
'That's just how chronomancers roll.'
Unlike the anxious Ian, Eredis could sense a powerful current of fate flowing from him. She was certain he'd make his entry into chronomancy. Though she herself had never studied it, she possessed the intuition of a mage who'd conversed with countless mysteries. Ian had an innate affinity for them. The power of time would be his to wield as well.
"Ian."
"Yes, Master."
"In three years. Let's meet again in Dranheim at the next pyrokinesis conference."
Three years from now, in Dranheim. Eredis would introduce her disciple to the other pyrokinesis mages. Proudly showing off Ian, who'd grown into a proper wizard.
"Got it."
"Hehe. See you then."
Eredis smiled and bid Ian farewell. She could have taken him straight to Dranheim right now. But that would bind him too closely to pyrokinesis. He might end up following in her footsteps and becoming one himself.
'...One pyrokinesis mage is enough for me.'
She hoped her disciple would gain more experiences in the wider world. If he still wanted pyrokinesis in three years, she wouldn't stand in his way.
'May you become a great mage.'
Alone now, Eredis strode down the straight road ahead. Wandering the world was one of the things she did best.
'Shame,' Ian thought, much like Eredis had guessed. He'd been considering pyrokinesis as his future specialization.
Pyrokinesis! Magic that incinerated things with fire! Ninety-nine percent of what pyrokinesis mages burned were enemies. Sure, some used it to torch trash or whatever, but almost all pyrokinesis spells were for wiping out foes right in front of you.
Ian was Korean through and through, with a deeper love for dealtak than anyone. Magic that roasted enemies alive? Just imagining it made his chest swell with grandeur. Of course, he was still a pure soul who'd never taken a life.
But traveling the world, he'd eventually run into situations where killing was necessary. Murderer, bandit, assassin on orders—it didn't matter. When some bastard came at him yelling, "Die, mage!" sword raised...
There was zero chance he'd just go, "Sure thing! Off I go!" and die quietly.
That's why he'd wanted pyrokinesis. But Eredis didn't seem keen on him following her path.
'Entry was a pain, though.'
The sensation of burning alive in a pit of fire had been pure hell. Eredis's magic had shielded his body, or he'd be covered in hideous burns right now.
'I'll think about that later...'
He could decide his major slowly. First up: the quest his master had given him.
'Find a chronomancer.'
Since they were in the north, heading north came first. Ian knew chronomancers toyed with the future. They'd probably foreseen him coming and be there to greet him. If not? No fate, so drop it and learn something else.
"We're here!"
"Thank you, sir."
Ian handed a small tip to the old man who'd given him a ride to the village in his cart. Imperial coppers, the common currency. Or coins, as some called them.
"What's this?"
"...It's money."
But the old man didn't recognize the coins. He'd spent his life farming in this backwater village.
"Payment for the ride. It's all I have..."
The old man examined the coins, then tsk-tsked.
"Keep it. I don't know what it is, but an old fart like me ain't takin' stuff from a young'un."
If he'd known their value, he'd have pocketed them in a flash. But currency was for merchants; to grain-handlers like him, it was alien. To trade those coins, he'd have to trek to a distant city with a merchant guild. Too old for that.
Useless. Ian felt oddly sour about accidentally saving money.
'How many days on the road, and I'm already in the sticks?'
Eredis had stuffed him with travel funds—nearly all the leftovers from her mage stipend. Yet here he was, in some primitive backwater where money was just metal scraps.
Actually, it was a misconception. The empire was vast; some areas used currency, others didn't. This village—Heyhill by name—was just one that didn't. Ian wandered the streets, assuming (wrongly) a streak of rural hamlets ahead.
"Huh?"
As if to prove his fantasies wrong, a cloud of people swarmed ahead.
"Come on! Cheap! Super cheap!"
"Ain't every day ya see a deal~ Pick~ Choose~"
"Kitchen knives, sickles, nails, hammers! We got it all!"
A massive peddler's market sprawled in the village center. Locals scrambled, eyes bloodshot, grabbing goods.
'Whoa.'
Ian knew their type: "jack-of-all-trades" peddlers. They traded hardware and sundries for villagers' "treasures"—real valuables like honey, herbs, beast horns and hides, mixed with junk like yanked turnips or hobbyist carvings.
"Hey, young fella! Lookin' for somethin'?"
"Nah, just browsing."
"Holler if ya need anythin'!"
With the crowd, Ian asked around about the next village north.
"North? What's north?"
"Oh, River Bill's up north~"
"River Bill? That's north?"
"What're ya on about? North! North, ya know?"
Truth was, even locals barely knew. Travel wasn't common in this era. Roads teemed with bandits and monsters. Stray far from home, and your life hung by a thread. Who'd wander the world sane?
Still, neighbor villages? Decent haul.
"Hey! Tom! Get this—this guy's headin' north!"
"North? How far north?"
"Way north, he says?"
A nosy villager dropped unexpected intel.
"Reck's goin' north too. Follow 'im!"
"Who's that?"
"Reck! At the Horse Piss Tavern!"
What the hell kind of tavern name...? Ian gagged inwardly but held his tongue. Owner's call—Dogshit Inn or Cowpat Pub, whatever.
He found the village's lone tavern easily. "Horse Piss Tavern" screamed for attention amid the sights.
A decent crowd chattered inside.
"Customer?"
Ian chuckled at the setup. Crudely nailed wooden fence for walls, slapdash platforms. Patrons guzzled booze and gnawed meat atop them; lodgers sprawled snoring inside.
This was no tavern. 'Inn,' straight out of Joseon-era sketches. Fantasy novels' fancy two-story pubs? High-end city fare.
"Got any gukbap?"
"Pardon?"
"I mean. Stew."
"Yup. Sit."
Unbelievable. Ian ordered stew (gukbap) at an inn (tavern) and plopped down anywhere. Clearly not set up for outdoor crowds; the sudden boom showed in the hasty expansion.
The barkeep—er, innkeeper—slopped a bowl of red glop before him.
Ian poked it with a spoon. What'd she dump in to make it that red? Safe to eat?
Peeking at the kitchen yielded no clues. It was "Eternal Stew," a famously infamous recipe.
Eternal Stew lived up to the name: eternal boiling. Fire up the pot, chuck in scraps, simmer. Eat some, refill with more scraps. Repeat forever.
Surprisingly edible—no spices, after all. Potatoes, oats, carrots, mystery meat, salt. How could it taste bad?
Ian took a bite and marveled. Ah. Wholesomely shitty. Richer than Mom's homebrew, thanks to variety. But zero spices meant that medieval "healthy" blandness flooded his mouth every time. Salt only. Pure salt.
'Master's a damn good cook...'
Eredis, that mad wanderer sampling empire cuisines, had killer skills. She used onions, peppers—actual spices. None of this salt-on-salt saltfest. Obvious why.
"Bread here."
"Thanks."
Medieval hospitality: she plunked bread and butter, gone. Butter? Their kimchi. Oil-spice supreme. No joke—these fantasy folk ate to butter's tune.
Butter was cheat-code anyway. Plain potato? Bland brick. Buttered? Oooh yeah! But butter's oil + salt. Escaping salt's curse? Nah.
Dip buttered bread in stew—Latin prayers auto-fired in his mouth. Insanely rich. Where was kimchi? Table manners? Roasted garlic in perilla-kimchi wraps? This animal-fat sludge was torture for a Korean.
No wonder medievals flipped for pepper. Savages.
"New face. Where ya from?"
Looking up, the barkeep—innykeeper?—had casually joined him. Ian was awed. Westerners and their distance sense! This seamless seat-snag?
"Traveler. Heard about a Mr. Reck."
"Ah! Northbound, eh!"
She knew already? No hints dropped.
"Reck! Customer!"
"...?"
Sudden holler for Reck. INFP Ian panicked at the curveball. New meets? Social minefield.
"Oh. Traveler, huh?"
No time to freak—a new face slid in beside him. Choking on awkwardness.
"Pleased. Reck of the Rabbitfoot Caravan."
"Caravan...?"
"Ya didn't see my boys tradin' in the village?"
Recalling the peddlers, Ian nodded. Boss man, huh.