Aigoo! The Heavens Sent a Mage!
The villagers hiding behind the fence came rushing out one after another, shouting, "Aigoo! Heavens! Oh my god!"
Up until the moment the beast-skin-clad barbarians had swarmed in, they'd thought they were done for, utterly doomed. But then, out of nowhere, a mage appeared and whipped up a blazing whirlwind that swept the savages away! Well, hardly any actually burned to death... but just forcing them to abandon the raid and flee was enough to make the mage's arrival a tear-jerking miracle.
The village chief, in particular, fell head over heels for Ian the instant he laid eyes on him. Not gay or anything, but still—smitten. That's how grateful he was for Ian's help.
"Sob... Thank you so much!"
Ian recoiled in horror at the sight of the chief lunging in for a bear hug. Shit. Why does he have to cry like that?
Truth be told, Ian cared more about chasing off the barbarians than helping the village. Aiding them was just a convenient side effect. So the chief bawling his eyes out didn't move him much. What worried him was whether the barbarian stragglers might circle back for revenge.
"Eh, just passing through."
At Ian's words, the chief wept even harder. Judging by all that sentimental waterworks, he was clearly in the throes of male menopause—estrogen overload. Not that it explained falling in love at first sight... nah.
Winning over a middle-aged man's affection didn't thrill Ian one bit. So he subtly tossed the credit elsewhere. Luckily, there was a reliable fallback that worked on folks from this era.
"The heavens whispered to me. Said there were people in danger and to go help."
Wait, I never said anything like that...
"No way!!!"
"The heavens for sure!"
"(In prayer) I knew it, damn it!"
As believers in the Heavenly God, the villagers bought Ian's explanation hook, line, and sinker. Man, they were pissed during weekend prayers! But sending a mage for us? Awesome! This is why we pray!
"We're poor, so we can't offer much, but at least have a meal..."
"Bring out the cows!"
"Let's hold a blood festival!"
Having repelled the barbarians without spilling a drop of blood, the villagers went collectively high on mage euphoria, like they'd all dropped acid. It was the standard reaction when commoners witnessed magic firsthand—events beyond human comprehension, performed by the very mage standing before them. Staying calm would be the weird part.
Ian let the villagers run wild on their own. They were just excited; leave 'em be, and they'd settle down.
"We're in a bit of a rush. If you really wanna celebrate, slaughter a cow or a pig or whatever."
"Even so! We can't send a mage away empty-handed! Come on in, no need to be shy...!"
"I said we're busy."
"..."
The chief shut his mouth, mirroring Ian's calm tone. A mage's voice carried intent effortlessly. In other words, others instinctively picked up on Ian's mood. People get annoyed seeing someone grin in front of an angry face or sigh heavily around the happy. So they naturally read the room. A mage's voice just amplified that instinct. Like, you could game in front of the crying neighbor uncle, but not your crying mom. (If you can do both, congrats—you're mage-immune!)
"S-sorry."
The chief apologized on reflex, feeling inexplicably guilty. With the groveling neutralized, Ian got to the point.
"Pick your fastest rider and send word to the lord. We need to root out those barbarians."
"Y-yes, sir! Of course!"
Villages operated under feudal contracts with their lords. Pay taxes from village produce, get protection in return. Like ancient mob rackets. When a village called for help, the lord had to answer. Ignore it? They could void the contract. Breach was the lord's fault first, so termination was the villagers' right. Plenty of barons to go around—medieval barons were like neighborhood heads, one per hood. Run to the neighbor: "Protect us, pretty please!" Boom, their army invades. Lord panics: "Why're you in my turf?" "Your peeps begged me~ This village is mine now~" Result: lost territory. Even imperial grants could flex on village level. So lords always answered village calls. Knights and poor sods on horses would ride in against the barbarians soon enough!
Problem solved. Ian grinned, pleased.
Whoever the local baron was, he wouldn't lose to ten barbarians like some chump. Takarion's assassination plot? Foiled.
That's when it hit.
"Ian. Problem."
Belenca ran up, face stern. She'd just finished interrogating a fresh captive. Proof: her gauntlets dripped dark red blood.
"What?"
But things didn't resolve as neatly as Ian hoped.
"Those barbarians? Not the ones chasing us."
"...What?"
Ian raised his voice. He'd assumed they were Takarion's assassins roaming the empire. But no—these were just random imperial barbarians!
"Did I... fuck up?"
"Fuck up? What's that mean?"
"Eh. You wouldn't get it." Ian hung his head in disappointment but shook it off in three seconds. Wasted effort, sure, but still a good deed. Good karma couldn't hurt. Who knew? It might land him in heaven instead of hell after some freak accident. Waking up in hell after untimely death? That'd suck.
"Fine. Call it a good deed and move on."
Neither Belenca nor Kira minded. Belenca was ever the knight craving good works; Kira naturally loved helping folks. She even teared up a bit.
"Knowing I helped those people... it makes me so happy, Ian."
"Yeah? Good for you."
"I only watched from afar before... sniff. Now I really feel like a mage..."
She'd cosplayed as one, but Kira's roots were street-level. A commoner girl at heart. Helping the downtrodden satisfied her fully.
Ian nodded lightly at her. Fair enough. Recalling his seven years of hellish Maronius Language grind still gave him chills—panties wrestling with frustration. But wielding real magic after all that agony? Indescribable thrill. Studying sucked balls, but the fruit was sweet...
"?"
Ian tilted his head. Wait, Kira cast magic without studying Maronius Language? Talent gap much?
Of course, misconception. Kira was talented, but without Ian, she'd never solo it. Fire mage sans incantations? Perfect barbecue. Even tame pets like tigers could chomp you dead in one bite. Familiarity ≠ communication. Same with mysteries and humans. Why Eredis hammered Maronius Language basics. And Kira only handled pyrokinesis—trash mage otherwise.
"Gotta head back."
"Yeah. The monks are waiting."
Ian chalked it up as charity, took no reward, and bailed. "Rewards" like scrawny hens or mead? No way to lug that on the road.
But returning to the monks' camp, Ian gaped at the wreckage. Total devastation.
"What the fuck..."
Half a day tops, and already nuked?! A ragged monk spotted him and burst into sobs.
"Ian, sir... wahhh!"
"The bastards, right? Already hit and run?"
Fucking barbarians. A woman in flashy nun robes approached—Mioni the nun.
"While you were away... they attacked."
"...And Takarion?"
Mioni said grimly, "Kidnapped."
Shortly after Ian left, barbarians struck. Lucky they'd camped on open hilltop; monks hid in time. All but one.
'Brother! Run!'
'Huff... pant! Can't!'
'Damn it! I'll help!'
They'd tried dragging Takarion, but his run was pathetic... out-of-shape writer's doom.
"Son of a bitch."
Ian was dumbfounded. Barbarians hitting that quick? Wild. But only snagging Takarion? Absurd. Unlucky bastard? Or targeted, since they came for him? Headache either way.
"Sob sob..."
Ian soothed the monks. "Calm down. Takarion's not dead yet, right? They took him alive?"
"Y-yes... sob..."
"No worries then. The empire's brave youths will rescue him for sure!"
Ian never volunteered personally.
"But..."
Mood was dour, but monks couldn't fight. Prayer folk, not warriors. Surviving barbarians was miracle enough—thank the heavens.
"Belenca. If we chased Takarion..."
"Doom. Supplies first. Ambush? Nightmare."
Belenca was lukewarm too.
"Don't sweat it. Word's out on barbarians—knights'll mobilize."
Slay savages, save monks? Prime glory for any knight. Rescue parties would form organically.
"We've got our own mission anyway."
"True."
Deliver the relic-hatched bird to the monastery. Not bodyguard duty. Medieval life: people dropped like flies. Takarion's "death" (not yet) sucked, but the living had tomorrows.
"Yeah. Hand off the bird, then plan."
Urging weary feet onward, Ian's group pressed on.
A few days later, Ian arrived safely at Takarion's monastery.
"This is the Blue Key Monastery."
"Oh."
Tucked in the suburbs away from the city, it still gleamed with unexpected polish. Blue Key hadn't always been flush. Then Takarion hit big with his Gospel of Saint Marcus mega-bestseller—donations exploded! Pity he was gone now. Takarion-less Blue Key Monastery.
"What nonsense is that?!"
A booming roar rattled Ian's ears. He spotted a timid-looking guy and a sleazy one strolling the garden. The monk led Ian to them.
"Say it again! What happened to Takarion?!"
"C-calm down, Abbot! We have a guest!"
"Shut it! Do I look calm?!"
The abbot raged without even glancing at Ian. Aaah. Got the vibe. This place is a shitshow.
Takarion's cash must've padded some bellies. The abbot treated guests like they had shit for noses.