Chương 16: Chapter 011 I Call Upon The Frozen Wastes Of Tartarus

As Jack consumed the bitter soup, his thoughts shifted to selling spell scrolls. In his first life, he'd created spell scrolls for a small group of elven mages he'd met in a tavern. It was a simple agreement. For each [Fireball] or [Frost Breath] spell scroll he produced, he'd be paid 2 silver. The Apprentice Mages would then imbue the inactive scrolls with a [Fireball] or [Frost Breath] spell and sell them for 6 silver each.

Combat spell scrolls were popular emergency consumables, delivering rapid bursts of magic in those moments when Thanatos, the God of Death, fixed his gaze upon an adventurer. Each spell scroll was strong enough to kill a goblin, maybe two if the caster was lucky. Still, their high cost made them impractical for everyday use. Spending 6 silver on a consumable to dispatch a goblin, for which the Guild would pay only 3, wasn't cost-effective. Goblins were a relentless plague on the Kingdom.

They bred like vermin, and if not regularly culled, they'd form hordes which would raid farms and caravans. The Adventurers Guild had a standing quest offering 3 silver for the right ear of each goblin. Many new adventuring parties honed their skills with these low-level tasks before progressing to more lucrative challenges like dungeon runs. Jack had everything he needed in his room to create dozens of unimbued scrolls. Who can I sell them to?

In his spare time, he could produce several a day, but he lacked a trustworthy buyer. I can't be seen selling scrolls that can only be made by Apprentice Scribes. The [Inscribe Spell] skill became available at level 25 when the class upgraded from novice to Apprentice Scribe. There was no way for a sixteen-year-old to have the [Inscribe Spell] skill. The materials to create an unimbued spell scroll cost around 10 coppers each.

If he put a couple of hours into creating a couple each night, he'd earn almost 13 silver profit a week. As he finished his soup, he worked out how long it would take to buy a basic bow. I should be able to get a starter bow and arrows for around 50 silver. I only need to sell a little over a dozen scrolls. For around twenty-five hours of work, he'd earn enough to buy the weapon he needed.

"Thanks for the soup, Mom." He gave his mother a hug.

"I'm feeling much better already." His mother hugged him back and grunted. Jack headed towards his room.

"I'm going to practise my new scribe skills." His mom waved him off and went back to cooking. Jack sat straight-backed at his desk, intent on crafting an ice-magic spell scroll. Rolling up his sleeves, he picked up his scribe pen and appreciated its balanced weight and fine craftsmanship.

"I'm so glad I was resurrected with my scribe skills," he murmured, taking a deep breath of the ink's familiar aroma. A satisfied smile crossed his face as he added, "I'd have been so miserable with only the archer class." Placing his pen to the scroll, Jack activated his [Inscribe Spell] skill. The pen glided over the parchment, crafting elegant calligraphy with every stroke. Each letter seemed to spring to life as he arranged the words on the scroll to form the basis of the [Frost Breath] spell it would hold.

I call upon the frozen wastes of Tartarus, in the land where a dragon's breath freezes all, unleash thy frozen fury. Frost Breath. As he was close to completing the first spell scroll, he took a moment to admire the beautiful penmanship, paying particular attention to the intricate runes surrounding the spell text. When empowered, those runes would hold the mage's magic. They had to be inscribed perfectly, or the spell would fail.

"This feels so good." Like before, when using the [Draughtsmanship] skill, his right hand felt amazing. Tears of joy formed; he wiped them away so they wouldn't drip onto the ink and ruin his incomplete work. Then a realisation hit him, and a deep sorrow welled within as he acknowledged that this perfect moment could've been his everyday experience if it weren't for the Baron. If Greaves hadn't murdered his family, he might have been happy and content with a fulfilling life.

"Keep it together," he told himself, "I've got work to do, and the sooner the work is finished, the sooner he pays for what he did." With a deep, steadying breath, he resumed inscribing the [Frost Breath] spell onto the scroll. Once complete and imbued with the magic of an Apprentice Mage skilled in [Frost Breath], the scroll would be ready to use. A spell scroll was activated by touching the scroll with the intent for it to activate and saying the spell's name; in this case, [Frost Breath].

Spell scrolls had a built-in rune-encoded safety feature to prevent accidental activation. For three uninterrupted hours, Jack worked with a joyful intensity as he crafted unimbued spell scrolls.

"I can't believe I'm so fast using [Inscribe Spell] now." The thrill of his newfound speed compelled him to rush off to tell his mother the good news. In his previous life, he'd never inscribed a spell this fast, and the prospect of sharing his success with his family filled him with pride. I wish I could tell them. During those few hours, he produced four unimbued spell scrolls. Two with the essence of ice magic and two with the fiery spark of fire magic.

"That should be plenty to test the waters," he concluded, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He took a moment to examine the [Fireball] spell scroll he'd completed. He ran his finger across the beautiful calligraphy and read the words.

"By the heart of the ever-roaring forge, I summon blazing wrath, ignite thy soul's fury! Fireball!" Jack had always loved how poetic the spell scrolls were. It had taken him only forty-five minutes to craft each scroll. Glancing at his wall clock, he calculated. I f I push through the night and I can find a buyer, I'd have enough for a bow and arrows by tomorrow. He didn't plan to work through the night, but the thought made him smile. I'll check if any merch… This story has been stolen from Royal Road.

If you read it on Amazon, please report it His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the front door open and the unmistakable sounds of his father returning from the Royal Library. Jack's heart skipped a beat when he heard his father return home from the Royal Library. The last time he saw his dad was when he'd impotently watched Baron Greaves drive a dagger through his father's heart because he knew of the existence of a blood magic grimoire.

At the thought of the Baron killing his father, he clenched his fists in anger, snapping the scribe pen he held.

"Damn it. That was a nice pen." He pulled his hands away from the scroll he was working on so as not to drip ink all over it. He discarded the broken pen in the bin and wiped the ink from his hand.

"That's 3 silver in the bin." Scribe pens weren't cheap, but fortunately, it wasn't his only pen. The scratch from the blood-red rose thorn had reopened and itched. Roses were becoming one of his least favourite flowers. After cleaning up the mess, he headed downstairs to the kitchen, where he'd find his father. His dad's first stop was always the kitchen to greet his wife. As he entered the kitchen, he saw his father sitting at the table with a smile on his face. His dad looked a bit younger than he remembered.

The neat beard was shorter, and there was less grey hair and fewer laughter lines. Jack smiled back, trying to keep his emotions in check. Dad's alive. He held back his tears. He's alive and here.

"I hear we have a new scribe in the family," his dad said.

"Congratulations, Son. Oh, and happy birthday." Jack's mother was beaming.

"We are both proud of you." She stood behind her husband. Hearing his father's proud voice was too much for Jack. Tears started to flow as he ran to his dad for a hug.

"I-I've missed you so much." He wrapped his arms around his still-sitting and now-shocked father.

"Calm down, Son," Jack's father replied.

"No need to be so… emotional." Like many men, he rarely showed his true feelings. His mother gave Jack a hug from behind.

"I think it's all the stress of choosing day. He was upset this morning." She patted him.

"Though he was a little hot earlier," she muttered while checking his temperature. Jack didn't care what they believed; his parents were alive and hugging him. Well, his mother was checking his temperature, while his father sat awkwardly, being hugged; his dad wasn't much of a hugger.

"I'm. I'm a scribe… like-like you," he managed to say between sobs of happiness. His mother pulled him away.

"Come on, sit yourself down, and I'll get you a warm drink with honey." Jack nodded and released the death grip he had on his father. After calming down, he and his parents sat around the kitchen table drinking honey tea while discussing the future.

"…it's already arranged," his father explained.

"Jack will start working at the library eleven days from now. A week from Monday, you'll be the Royal Library's newest scribe." Jack had just blown out the sixteen candles on his birthday cake. His mom had given him a fantasy novel about a scribe who saved a Kingdom while his sister had gifted him a barrage of insults. Jack nodded. I'll be working with my dad again, as a scribe. He smiled for a moment, forgetting about the problem that was Baron Greaves.

His dad continued, "As a new Novice Scribe, you'll have to start at the bottom, of course." He smiled.

"It won't take long for you to prove your worth and move up."

"I'll do my best, Dad." Jack smiled as his father pulled something from his pocket. I remember this moment. He almost started crying again from the happiness he felt.

"A small gift for a talented young scribe." His father slid the small, intricately carved wooden box over to his son.

"It was created by the same artisan who made mine." He patted his chest where he always stored a similar box in a customised pocket within his suit jacket.

"Happy birthday, Jack." To the clink of plates from his mother delving out birthday cake, Jack touched the small wooden box. This small rectangle of wood was the only thing that survived the fire that consumed his family and home. He ran his fingers across the carved quote that decorated the outside of the varnished case. He knew the quote by heart; he'd read it thousands of times. It was all he had left to remember his loving family.

Knowing I loved the written word, he furnished me from his own library with scrolls that I prize above my very breath. It was a well-known quote amongst scribes, from a famous playwright, where a destitute scribe had saved a Duke's only child from a runaway horse. When offered a reward, the scribe asked for scrolls rather than gold. He was gifted the Duke's most precious scrolls from the lord's library.

"Thanks, Dad." Jack opened the wooden case to reveal a high-quality scribe's pen. He picked up the silver pen and felt its weight. He'd used this very pen for twenty-five years. It was the only pen he'd used after the fire had taken everything from him.

"I love it, Dad." He held back a tear so as not to ruin the moment.

"I'll treasure it always." His dad smiled, and his mother clapped. Polly bit into a large helping of chocolate cake.

"Hmm. We should have more birthdays," she muttered. Jack laughed more that evening than he had over the past two decades. His father entertained them with stories from the Royal Library, grumbling about a young noble scholar who had accused him of shelving three history scrolls amongst botanical records before the noble admitted he'd been the one to misfile them in the first place. For a few precious hours, Baron Greaves, blood magic, and vengeance simply ceased to exist.

Jack found himself teasing Polly about the gravy on her chin, complaining that his mother had given him enough vegetables for three people, and listening as his parents debated whether he'd spend his first wages on books or better clothes. It was wonderfully ordinary.

Jack lay on the hard wooden boards of his bed while trying to get to sleep. It didn't help that there was a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that if he went to sleep, he would wake up in Tartarus.

"This is so annoying," he moaned while rolling over, seeking comfort. Mom should have given me Polly's mattress. His mattress was leaning against a wall, lethargically drying.

"Stupid sister," he complained as he willed the mattress to dry faster. While he lay there unable to sleep, he planned out the following day. Officially, he'd tell his mom he was going into the city to buy scribe supplies. Unofficially, he'd be visiting various spell scroll shops to see if he could sell the four spell scrolls he'd created. I need a disguise, or better yet, a cloak and mask.

Although the city was the largest in the Kingdom, he didn't want to take the risk of a merchant recognising him or assuming he'd stolen the spell scrolls. A disguise would partially solve the issue. Could I convince a merchant I was an elf? Elves aged so slowly that it wasn't unusual for a fifty-plus-year-old elf to look like a human teenager. Hmm. I don't think I'm pretty enough to be an elf. Perhaps I could pass as a half-elf. That'd be easier to pull off.

I'd just need some fake pointy ears, he chuckled at the thought, and perhaps a silver wig. If I had my cloak, the disguise would be so much easier. It wasn't unusual to see adventurers in masks and hooded cloaks wandering the city. It made for quite a contrast when the streets were filled with a mixture of adventurers wearing armour and robes, and the white and blue-collar workers wearing suits or conservative dresses. No one in his family wore a cloak, and he had no coin to buy one. He considered making one.

His sister, Polly, had tailoring supplies. I could borrow some material and create a basic hooded cloak. Not having a better idea, he focused on sleep. After another hour of tossing and turning while trying not to think about Tartarus, he fell asleep.