Kira Stays On – Enter the Golden Finger
“You're leaving? By yourself?”
“Yeah...”
Kira's face flushed hot, so she nervously twisted strands of her hair around her fingers.
“You've taught me the principles of magic... I think I can manage on my own now...”
For the first time in ages, Ian felt a twitch from that inner old-fart voice of his.
Gal! (Rebuke!) You got lucky with some enlightenment and hit a new realm, and now you're all cocky, Kira Laventa! A realm without pure inner cultivation backing it up is like a sandcastle! You got it handed to you on a platter, and now you're dreaming of becoming a prodigy mage already?
Ian's thoughts were a bit off-base, but the core point stood: Kira's skills were still seriously lacking.
Sure, she had the presence to connect with the mystery of flame and survive it. But if she tried wielding pyrokinesis with her shallow skills, she'd end up torching everything around her.
She was clueless about the Maronius Language and other tongues of flame. You could befriend something even without words, like humans and animals. But to build a real friendship? Conversation was essential.
“What about Maronius Language, then? How do you plan to learn the mage tongue?”
“Well... I'll scrape together the tuition...”
“How? By scamming again?”
“...Why do you have to say it like that?”
“You said you'd quit the fake mage act.”
Kira bowed her head, avoiding Ian's gaze. In a tiny voice, she mumbled,
“...I don't want to owe you any more debts.”
“Debts?”
Ian echoed in disbelief. If anything, he owed her, didn't he? Kira had been a huge help against Larabel. Gerard had even said it: without her, Ian would've been dead.
But Kira didn't see it that way. To her, it was just repaying the favors from Damon Baron and the vampire threats—Ian helping her out. And since he'd awakened her magic, she figured her debt had only grown.
“Ian. Personally, I respect you. This is the truth.”
“...”
“You're definitely a great mage. And you'll become even greater. No need to waste time on a fake like me. It's pointless.”
Emotions hit her late; Kira's eyes welled up.
Ian slowly shook his head. Kira was dead wrong about something.
She thought she was worthless.
This medieval fantasy world was biased in every way. Information skewed, resources hoarded, inequality the norm.
Kira had lived as the lowest of commoners—a wandering clown, despised and pointed at even among the lowborn. She couldn't see her own talents straight.
“So, you think you're a burden?”
“...Sorry.”
Kira was born in the wrong era. In the modern world, she'd be a superstar actress, soaking up all the attention.
With no one affirming her gifts, she'd long decided she was trash.
Time to show her her worth.
To Ian, Kira overflowed with talent. Just drawing the mystery of flame's interest was insane. Beyond magic, her acting and guts were jaw-dropping.
But she didn't realize it.
Cash therapy is the best fix.
East or West, ancient or modern, money cured depression best. Doesn't feel better with cash? Maybe not enough of it.
Ian wanted to show her value in numbers. Nothing beat money for that.
“Fine. I'm not your master. If you wanna go, I can't stop you.”
Ian replied breezily, and Kira gave a small smile.
“Yeah. Thanks for everything so far, Ian.”
“But what if I hire you as my traveling companion?”
“...?”
Kira blinked in confusion.
“Companion? Me? Hire me?”
“Yeah. I'll pay you, so stick with me.”
“What... does that...”
“Why not? You were gonna work for money anyway. I hire you—no problem, right?”
Kira's mouth fell open.
Of course there was a problem. As a kid, she'd been a clown. Grown up, a con artist. She didn't know legit work!
What could Ian possibly want with a useless girl like her? Her only value was being a young woman...
“!!!”
If not a scammer, she'd have been a dancer. And many dancers moonlighted as whores. Beauty paid bills, so why not grind while young?
So, Ian paying her meant...?
Her thoughts hit that point, and Kira's face burned crimson as she stammered,
“I-I-I...! I c-can't do th-that...!”
“??? I haven't said anything yet?”
“B-Belenca’s here too! How could I...!”
“Belenca?”
Ian tilted his head. Belenca was frontline, Kira backup. Totally different roles—no issue.
“Three's better than two, no?”
Screech! Kira clapped a hand over her mouth. Not enough with one Belenca?! What a stud(!)!
No, wait—were she and Belenca already...?
“D-Dirty deeds send you to hell, Ian!”
“???”
Ian puzzled over her words for a good while. Then he got it—what filthy fantasy she'd cooked up—and lost it.
“Everything's sex for money with you?! Crazy woman!”
“No! That's just common sense!”
Common sense my ass!
...He thought, but reconsidering, this truly was a medieval fantasy world where common sense froze solid. His fault for reincarnating here.
Sure.
Later, Ian sweated bullets correcting Kira's warped sense of normalcy multiple times.
Ian's goal of pepping Kira up? Nailed perfectly.
“Then... till I save up tuition, take care of me!”
Cash-treated, Kira bounced back to her room beaming.
Ian set it up to share a cut of travel earnings with her. Half-baked mage Kira got a solid mage backer—win. Ian got free rein over her pyrokinesis, acting, sleight-of-hand—win.
Ian as boss, Kira and Belenca as employees. Or a high-end merc party—nobles would kill to hire them. Toss in some lowbies for numbers, and it'd be Ian's private army.
Found a kingdom like this?
Ian chuckled to himself. Power-hungry mages were dime-a-dozen. They ditched cultivation for land-grabs and politics, turning into boring lords.
Ian could claim land easy if he tried. No hassle—just head to Talian, marry Lucy, boom: baron.
But he didn't reincarnate for some hick title.
He needed to glimpse the heavens' face to feel satisfied.
First, explore north.
To amp Anorilsil, he needed mysteries—world-trotting time. North had tons, chronomancer meet or not. Like that ice phoenix Longtail mentioned.
Ian set his sights north, colder climes.
“Time to roll out.”
He notified Drbosi Baron of departure. Lingering made leaving harder—better now.
But right on cue, a weird guest showed.
“Ian Gong! Heard the news?”
“What news.”
“Takarion's arrived!”
So what. The retort nearly escaped.
Mage life had thinned Ian's patience; out it came.
“So what.”
“The Golden Finger Takarion!”
Ian flashed on some 'shi'-starting, '-miken'-ending uncle face, then erased it. Golden Finger? What kinda nickname was that?
Holy Empire, Golden Empire remnants everywhere, slapped 'golden' on anything for flair. 'Golden whatevs' sounded cool to hero-worshippers.
Takarion was probably that type.
“Who's that?”
“Mercy! You don't know Golden Finger?! Where'd you practice faith—gonna get us in trouble!”
“...”
For the record, Ian was a mage. Not clergy.
Yet priests treated him half-holy. Religious gaslighting to recruit him, probably.
Ian didn't flinch.
“Golden Finger my ass. Wanna bet it's real gold—with me?”
“N-No, that irreverent tone...”
“Merciful heavens don't punish priests for snark.”
The monk sweated bullets.
“Golden Finger is... the monk who penned the Marcus Gospel.”
“Gospel?”
Ian recalled hearing of gospels—codices of the 13 saints—from Santiago Knights days.
He figured: history-buff monk.
But the priests' reactions said otherwise.
“Golden Finger? That blabbermouth?”
“Pfft. Why hype that conman's nonsense?!”
Opinions on Takarion split wildly. Fans hailed him for 'opening new faith horizons.' Haters wouldn't utter his name.
“What's the big deal with Marcus Gospel...”
A monk dashed up with a copy.
“Read it now!”
Hey! Gimme! Aggressive sales pitch—must be fun.
Ian bit, read. Realized:
“Whoa... fucking...”
This shit's hilarious!!!
Marcus Gospel chronicled Saint Marcus's life. Chapter 1: epic birth. Growth, trials, enlightenment—biography style.
Ian ignored that. It hammered hero Marcus.
Marcus was alpha as fuck, banging every chick. Kings trembled before him; emperors envied his fame. Late-game? Death beam from his finger!
Whoa! Heavenly Demon Supreme!
“This a real gospel?”
Ian rushed the priests. The monk nodded, otaku-grin post-conversion.
“Ahh, you've seen it... the glory of Marcus Gospel...”
Not wrong. It was glorious—in pure fun.
No Netflix, no Nobelpia: Ian's dopamine exploded, modern soul thrilled. Medieval folk? Mind blown.
Hence extreme 'Golden Finger stans.' God exists—and serializing! Golden Finger Takarion! Sequel plz! 13 saints, one gospel? No way!
But to Ian, it wasn't proper scripture. Straight-up webnovel.
Marcus death-beaming demon dukes? Come on.
Beats demons with death beam? Fun as hell. Entertaining, sure. Realistic? Nah.
“Marcus Gospel's bullshit kindling! Slapdash rumors, no research—trash!”
“Doubting Saint Marcus's deeds? Disappointing!”
“No one's calling Marcus fake! The gospel...”
The sneaky bit: exaggerated feats, but stuck close to canon plot.
Simple: scriptures = history logs, like Annals of Joseon. Saints = kings.
Marcus Gospel = Sejong biography... with beam-saber Mongols.
Historical wins justify? (No.) Zero value. Why purists burn it.
But... fun!
Monks secretly hoped it was true. Ancient history unverifiable. Beam-sabers? Fine, whatever.
Stans canonized it.
“Takarion! Takarion's here!”
This era's top light novel author—no, gospel scribe Takarion—visited Drbosi Castle.
Ian eyed him, impressed. Whoa. What's with that overflowing creativity pouch?
Takarion was a hefty dude. Major paunch.
Monks shunned gluttony, stayed lean. This guy fueled writer's block with food.
“Shalla! Brothers!”
“...?”
“Oops. Sorry. Slipped into ancient tongue. Forget normies don't know it. Haha! That was 'hello'!”
“Shalla! Takarion! My brother!”
Stans greeted in ancient imperial. Takarion beamed back.
...While Drbosi Baron and wives shot side-eyes.
This guy's no joke.
Ian's past-life memories stirred. Seen this type before? Middle school? High? Army...?
Anyway. First impression of Monk Takarion: stay the fuck away.