Seems Like I Picked the Wrong Fight
“Whaaat?! You went to the magic tower and said that?!”
The next day.
Cache arrived early in the morning, and when Minho relayed what had happened at the magic tower the day before, her face drained of color in stages.
“No matter how you look at it, that’s not medicine at all. Even if I offered to teach them real medical knowledge, they weren’t even open to listening.”
“No! Even so, saying ‘The magic tower’s medicine is wrong!’ and ‘You’re not doctors—you’re undertakers!’ What were you thinking?! That’s basically picking a fight!”
Cache wasn’t wrong. Minho hadn’t planned to be that harsh originally.
But putting everything else aside, these so-called doctors—who were supposed to save lives—practicing in unsanitary conditions and spouting nonsense? That was intolerable.
“At first, I tried being nice. I told them their methods were wrong, that there were better ways, explained anesthesia, blood donations, all sorts of things.”
“And?”
“They accused me of discriminating against them for insulting magic tower medicine. Called me a barbarian from the East who knew nothing.”
Honestly, anyone could see Minho looked Eastern, so he could stomach being called an Eastern barbarian. The East in his old world and this one might differ.
But on medicine? Especially life-saving fields? Mages had no business being that ignorant. Ignorance in medicine was a fatal flaw no amount of good character could excuse.
And paired with stubbornness and arrogance? That wasn’t just a flaw—it was a crime. A major one.
“Ptoo! Ptoo! Ptoo! I hope the magic tower just crumbles. Way worse than I thought!”
Cache puffed her cheeks in her usual fiery pout, launching into full pout mode. She was great at flattery when sober, but the situation sobered her quickly. She sighed.
“Sigh… Still, I hope it doesn’t cause trouble. Director, you might not know, but the magic towers have connections everywhere. Honestly, I’m worried they’ll come after us.”
Her words sent a chill down Minho’s spine.
“Come after us? Do magic towers use force?”
“Not unless it’s war with another nation. But the real problem is bigger…”
Leader: Into the Black Moon pot.
Choir: “Prove your faith.”
“Wh-what was that?! Did you hear it?”
“Argh! Black Moon Society? Let’s head home quick!”
“They were just here a few weeks ago—why so soon?”
“Just go, you idiot! Don’t give them any excuses!”
Leader: Into the Black Moon pot.
Choir: “Prove your faith.”
The bell’s familiar chime echoed from afar, and people scattered like they’d seen Walter’s pre-surgery face—or faster—fleeing in panic.
Black Moon Society? The ones the territory office nagged about donations? They collect door-to-door?
Minho recalled Rachel’s annoying rants from the territory office and turned to Cache.
“Where are all the customers going…? Cache! Walter! What are you doing?!”
“Hurry! Director, pack up and run inside!”
“No time, Director! Move the stuff inside first—no, you escape first!”
Leader: Into the Black Moon pot.
Choir: “Prove your faith.”
The growing bell drowned out the market. Onlookers vanished, and Cache and Walter moved like pros, scooping samples, displays, and non-sellables into the first-floor entrance.
Even Walter, who feared nothing, acting scared? Minho couldn’t fathom it—until then.
Leader: Into the Black Moon pot.
Choir: “Prove your faith.”
Robes like mages’ but pitch-black, not gray. Flapping cloaks bore glowing crescent brooches.
Four in total. The frontman shook the bell for the lead chant; the three behind held iron pots, chorusing.
What the hell makes people pay up?
Eye contact with the cloaked ones, and folks gave up fleeing—like kids caught in tag. They emptied pockets into the pots magnetically. No exceptions.
As Minho puzzled, “Damn! The Black Moon Society already spotted us. Director, better prepare money.”
“Black Moon Society? What’s that mean?”
“Do as Sir Walter says, Director. I’ll explain later.”
Cache echoed Walter urgently. They looked relieved the stall goods were inside. Only Res lounging in the basement break room was absent—small mercy?
Then the black-cloaked group approached the Cash Shop stall, bells jingling.
Leader: Into the Black Moon pot.
Choir: “Prove your faith.”
The trio smoothly placed the pot on the stall. Cache and Walter tossed in 1 silver, 1 copper without hesitation.
“May the divine moon in darkness shine light.”
“May the divine moon in darkness shine light.”
Minho’s turn. But his hand in his pouch wouldn’t budge.
It hurts… Even 1 copper stings like hell.
When in Rome. Cache, the money-sniffer, and fearless Walter paid into the Salvation Army pot? There was reason.
“Here you go. Thanks for your work.”
Leader: Into the Black Moon pot.
Choir: “Prove your faith.”
What? Why aren’t they leaving?
They didn’t move post-payment. Maybe because Cache and Walter chanted their line?
“May the divine moon in darkness… shine light?”
Still no budge. Then Cache whispered, “Free citizens pay 1 silver 1 copper to the Black Moon Society!”
“…?”
“Hurry!”
Needed more explanation. But her urgency pressed; Minho swallowed rage, tossing in 1 silver.
“Thanks for your hard work. May light shine on you.”
Leader: Into the Black Moon pot.
Choir: “Prove your faith.”
Still, the cultists smirked faintly, jingling obnoxiously.
Keep this up? Minho wouldn’t stand by.
“I’m from the East Continent, so I don’t know much. Looks like donations, but what’s the exact purpose?”
Cache and Walter grabbed his sleeves desperately. Too late—the bells stopped.
“Outlander, eh? We’re priests of the Black Moon Society, a nonprofit run by the Black Moon Church, West Continent’s sole faith. We go around collecting for charity pots. Funds aid territory folk suffering famine, disasters, crises. As you see, all West Continent folk actively join relief.”
“Got it. Glad to contribute. Safe travels.”
Done. Conversation over.
What now, you bastards?
But the black-robed priest didn’t budge. The leader spoke again.
“Pardon, but are you Minor Gold, Tower Master of the Beauty Tower?”
“…?”
What? How’d they know? Full name even?
“No need for that face. Black Moon Church checks territory folk’s info. And as the territory office explained, business owners pay 1 gold 1 silver 1 copper.”
Territory office selling personal data. Hate that place more every day.
Getting annoying. ‘Donations’ my ass—extortion?
Cache and Walter tugged harder. Trembling with fury, Minho grudgingly added 1 gold.
“Haha, thank you. But 1 gold 1 silver 1 copper is base for ordinary businesses. The affluent may donate freely more. Running a grand magic tower like this? 10 gold would be effortless.”
“10 gold?”
“Yes. Not mandatory, but pittance for West Continent emergency relief.”
You decide what’s ‘pittance’? I owe the territory office how much over 30 years?
“I’ll add next time. You know from the office—I pay 149 gold 8 silver 1 copper monthly, 360 more times.”
They’d get it. Wrong.
“True donation shines in hardship.”
Minho had no intent to bleed more.
“Yes, I’ll find true meaning next time.”
“Hmm… So you can’t donate more?”
Even bandits take tolls moderately. 10 gold crossed the line.
“Yes, safe travels.”
“D-Director!”
Cache yanked harder post-deliberation. Minho’s resolve was iron: no more.
The leader nodded to the trio; they grabbed the pot.
Leader: Into the Black Moon pot.
Choir: “Prove your faith.”
“…?”
Suddenly, the leader shook the bell wildly before Minho—more vigorously.
“Director! Not too late! Black Moon Society’s dangerous because Black Moon Church priests can interrogate heretics!”
“Heretics?”
Cache’s urgent plea and deafening bells stunned Minho—then.
“Heretic! A heretic appears!”
This was maddening. Seems like I picked the wrong fight.