The Watchman of the Herb Fields (1)

Every headline in every paper, without exception, was about the White Tower. Which was only natural. A story of the underdog's triumph was, in any era, the perfect material for the presses.

"Hey, Oscar!"

Just then, a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠voice he'd grown fairly used to rang out beside his ear. Oscar glanced up and muttered under his breath.

"...How on earth does that guy always know exactly where to find me?"

At the edge of his vision, Franc came sprinting toward him, waving a stack of papers, looking absolutely thrilled.

"This is huge! The rumors have barely spread and vaccine pre-orders are already flooding in!"

"Well, I'd expect nothing less," Oscar replied with practiced indifference. The Cadena flu was, after all, a disaster-grade Class B hazard. "It's a disease that can strike anyone, anywhere, at any time. Unless you're tired of living, you get ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the vaccine."

"Take a look at this list! The northern territories, the Church — even the Imperial Household has reserved them, every last one!"

Franc, mentally running the numbers, slapped his forehead with a resounding smack. "God, this is insane. I ran the figures — just selling through the cures and vaccines already on order would rake in tens of millions of Bel, easily."

"Tens of millions of Bel, huh... Well, we've put out the immediate fire, at least."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Oscar's mouth. Just days ago, this corner of the tower had looked hopeless. It was a relief, finally, to breathe a little easier.

"But you know," Franc went on, "this craze is going to die down soon, right? And then there won't be another flu outbreak for decades."

Oscar raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "You're sharper than you look. You realize current sales can't be sustained?"

"Who do you take me for, an idiot? Once the vaccinations are done, who's going to keep buying this stuff? The vaccine and cure were developed before the flu even got a chance to spread properly, so outside the northern region nobody actually needs to buy it. In fact, most of the other regional territories haven't even placed orders — they're just watching and waiting."

Franc was right. The Cadena flu cure and vaccine were, in the end, a single-season business. Worse, they could only be sold once every few decades, which meant they could never become the magic tower's primary source of income.

That's why none of the other towers ever staked their fortunes on developing Cadena flu remedies.

Even if development succeeded, the math simply didn't work. At best, you'd sell the product once in a few decades — and the White Tower would always be waiting at the front of the line as the incumbent. And in a case like this flu, where the outbreak was crushed early, the profits weren't even all that impressive.

Even for us, once we fill the orders currently on the books, there won't be any follow-up purchases.

At most, a handful of territories bordering the northern region. Oscar had accounted for all of this, which was precisely why he'd already prepared a contingency.

"Don't worry about the money. I've got other potions lined up that will bring the tower steady revenue."

"Other potions... don't tell me—"

Oscar looked at Franc's widening eyes and smirked. "That's right. Starting this week, we'll be manufacturing and selling restorative potions too."

"You — you! You didn't just restore the formula for the Cadena flu medicine, did you?" Franc, practically vibrating with excitement, leaned in. "Could it be... is it the legendary Tears of the Stars?"

"Of course not. That would be premature."

Oscar drew a firm line. The most famous of all the White Tower's restorative potions was, without question, the Tears of the Stars. An elixir said to bring a man knocking on death's door back to full vigor — its efficacy was beyond dispute, but for the White Tower as it stood today, it was far more likely to prove poison than medicine.

First things first. I need to build up enough strength to protect whatever we make before we start making things worth protecting.

After all, with this very cure, there was no telling how things might have turned out if Archbishop Baldwin and the Church hadn't served as their shield.

"What we'll be selling are the low-grade and mid-grade potions."

Truthfully, that end of the market was far larger anyway — household use all the way up to mercenaries, soldiers, and knights.

"Well, shame we won't get to see the Tears of the Stars, but nothing to be done about it. At least we won't have to worry about the revenue drying up."

Franc smacked his lips in disappointment, then asked, "So we'll need to source new ingredients for the potion production, then?"

"Ah, right. Since we're on the subject, there's something I need you to get. First, we'll need Rantus leaves and Physon stems..."

Oscar listed off the herbs needed for the restorative potions, and as Franc jotted them down, the color slowly drained from his face.

"Hmm. Every single one of these is hard to get."

"...I'm sorry, what? Every ingredient that goes into our potions is a specialty product of Shilin, and you're telling me they're hard to find?"

"Shilin's specialty products? What century are you living in, man?" Franc heaved a deep sigh and went on. "Shilin being called the greatest herb-producing region on the continent is ancient history. The whole thing has completely collapsed."

I'm sorry — the herb fields collapsed?

In that instant, an article flashed through Oscar's mind.

He distinctly remembered reading an article to that effect. At the time, he'd dismissed it as baseless slander. Apparently, it was nothing of the sort.

"Wait, why would perfectly healthy herb fields suddenly collapse?"

"Hmm, let's see? Was there really ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠any particular reason? The tower fell, the potion formulas were lost, so nobody was buying like they used to — and naturally, the herb farms went under with us. Wasn't it just that simple?"

"...That doesn't add up."

Oscar shook his head firmly. Herbs grown in Shilin were famously exceptional in potency. In the old days, every faction on the continent would draw numbers and stand in line just for the chance to buy them.

There was even a running joke back then: the White Tower might fall, but Shilin's herb fields never would. And now I'm supposed to believe they all collapsed just because we stopped buying?

Impossible. He could say this with certainty precisely because he knew, from twenty years ago, just how towering the reputation of Shilin-grown herbs had once been.

No matter how I look at it, something is off. This whole thing...

It stank.

The moment Oscar's eyes began to narrow, a familiar voice sounded behind him.

"Young Master Oscar. So this is where you were."

Walter, dressed in his patched work clothes, approached the two of them. "Master Franc, it has been a while."

"It really has. You're looking hale and hearty these days, I must say."

"Heh heh..."

Walter scratched the back of his head sheepishly at the compliment, then turned to Oscar. "I heard the news, Young Master. They say you achieved something remarkable. My sincerest congratulations."

"I merely earned a bit of money, that's all."

At that humble reply, Walter smiled faintly. "I've just come from seeing the Tower Master, who called for me."

"Ah, could it be—"

"Haha, yes. My resignation was declined. He asked that I continue serving the tower for the time being."

"I truly am glad to hear it."

The moment Oscar broke into a bright smile, Walter suddenly seized his hand.

"...Thank you. Truly, truly, thank you. If it hadn't been for you, Young Master Oscar, I would have..."

"Please, there's no need for—"

Oscar started to wave it off, then faltered. Walter's hands, clasped around his own, were trembling.

He looked down in silence. The old man's hands were not pretty, to put it kindly — small scars scattered here and there, and wrinkles carved deep by long, long years of labor.

Ugly hands. Undeniably ugly hands. And yet, looking at them, something in the corner of his chest grew heavy and tight.

With these wrinkled hands, he had maintained every corner of the magic tower — even the places no one ever thought to look at. He only had to recall that the long-abandoned Potion Workshop, untouched by human footsteps for years, hadn't held a single speck of dust.

From his youth, when these hands were free of a single wrinkle, all the way until now.

Because Oscar understood the weight of that devotion, he genuinely felt it was a blessing — that the old man would not have to flee, like a man running from his own home, from this place that had become his second home.

Oscar clasped Walter's hands tightly in return. "It's I who should be thanking you. Thank you for everything you've done — and I look forward to working with you for a long time to come."

At that heartfelt gratitude, Walter bowed his head deeply.

It wasn't even time for watering yet, but small droplets fell, one after another, onto the soil of the garden.

After a moment, Walter raised his head, his face brighter than it had been in years. "If it would not trouble you, Young Master — might I ask you to keep an old man company and talk with him from time to time?"

"The favor would be entirely mine."

Having exchanged warm farewells, Walter then asked, "By the way — the two of you looked rather troubled just now. Is there anything this humble servant might help with?"

"Ah, well..."

Oscar recounted the conversation he'd had with Franc, and added, "But for the life of me, I can't wrap my head around the idea that Shilin's herb fields just collapsed on their own."

"Hmm. Then perhaps you should go and see for yourselves?"

See for ourselves, huh... Sometimes, the simplest answer really is the best one. Accepting Walter's advice, Oscar nodded.

"That's not a bad idea at all."

Rattle, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rattle.

The carriage carrying the two of them had traveled for a full half-day before it began gradually to slow.

Privately, Oscar had been hoping to try riding one of those automobiles, but they turned out to be far pricier than expected, so he resolved to save that for another opportunity.

"We've arrived!"

"Haaahm!"

At the driver's call, Franc climbed down from the carriage, yawning and stretching long and hard. "Ugh, I was bored half to death."

"You fell asleep the moment you got in the carriage. Spare me the complaints about boredom."

At Oscar's exasperated scolding, Franc changed the subject with almost supernatural speed. "Hey, driver, would it kill you to let us off a little deeper in?"

"This is as far as the carriage can go, young sir. Beyond here, you'll have to proceed on foot."

"On foot...?"

Franc turned to look — and saw it. Fields of planted herbs stretched all the way to the horizon, with no sign anywhere of the farm owner's house.

Instinctively grasping just how far they'd have to walk, Franc said, "Oscar. I'm thinking one of us should probably stay behind and guard the entrance, right?"

"Do as you like. Either way, the field report will record exactly what happened."

"Oh, come on... Fine, I'll go, I'll go!"

After roughly three hours of walking, a small cabin finally came into view in the distance, standing at the foot of an enormous mountain. Oscar, gauging the distance they'd covered, muttered to himself.

"Ten miles or so from the gate to the cabin, give or take."

"...Miles?"

Franc, utterly worn out as he was, still managed a look of odd fascination. "You sure throw around a unit that vanished eighteen years ago with ease."

"I'm sorry — what did you just say?"

Miles had been abolished?

Oscar's eyes went wide at this entirely new piece of information. "What on earth are you talking about? How does the mile just... disappear?"

"The great administrative overhaul after the war standardized everything to the metric system. Pounds became grams around the same time."

"Good heavens above — they abolished pounds too...?"

Oscar wore an expression of sheer disbelief. Truthfully, this had been a contentious issue for decades. He'd heard the rumors that units would be unified once the war ended...

But I never imagined the mile and the pound would actually be retired.

Granted, those units were absurdly imprecise, difficult to measure, and endlessly annoying. But there was a certain charm, a certain satisfaction, in working through the calculations step by careful step.

He had only a moment to mourn the death of old friends — units he'd grown up alongside — before the two of them arrived before a rather well-appointed cabin.

"Is anyone inside!"

At Franc's resounding shout came the creak of hinges. The tightly shut cabin door swung open, and a gray-haired old man appeared. He was built so solidly that Oscar would have believed a claim he'd been a soldier in his youth. The man glanced briefly back along the path the two had traveled, then asked:

"You walked here all the way from the gate?"

"Yes, sir. We were told the carriage could only reach the entrance, and from there we'd have to proceed on foot."

"...Then I take it you're not with those people."

As the old man muttered under his breath and moved to say something more—

ROOOAR!

A deafening engine noise erupted from behind them, drawing steadily closer.

"What in the world are those?"

No fewer than three vehicles came barreling through the herb fields, trampling the crops underfoot, before screeching to a halt in front of them. From the gleaming white car — escorted fore and aft by two black ones — a figure emerged.

Thunk!

"Man, every time I come out here I'm reminded — the air out here really is something else. Shame about everything else, though. Utter garbage, apart from that."

A man in an immaculate white suit adjusted his sunglasses and flashed a crooked grin.

"So? Have you changed your mind about selling the land yet?"