Chương 53: Five Gold and a Useful Lie

The representatives from the nearby town finally arrived the following morning, once the battlefield had become safe enough that nobody was likely to throw a fireball at them. Sieghart watched their procession through a narrow tear in the side of the tent. Several polished carriages rolled into camp beneath colorful banners, escorted by guards whose armor had apparently never encountered dirt, blood, or actual combat.

Behind the carriages came wagons carrying food, medicine, replacement equipment, and wooden chests containing the payments promised to the surviving soldiers. A handful of healers traveled with them as well, although their delayed arrival made their usefulness somewhat questionable. Sieghart narrowed his eyes as the visitors began organizing themselves near the center of camp. Their timing was so perfect that it almost looked intentional.

They had arrived after the Firians had been defeated, after the bodies had been collected, and after the wounded had spent an entire night trying not to die. Brave reinforcements from the town have arrived. Their greatest weapon appears to be exceptional timing. Unfortunately, their presence created a new problem.

Sieghart had already attracted more attention than he wanted, and those people represented merchants, military officers, nobles, and every other category of human capable of turning useful talent into profit. Edric stood beside the entrance of the tent, adjusting the strap of his bow while watching the newcomers with an unusually severe expression. His burns had vanished, but his clothes and equipment still carried reminders of what had happened.

"Stay inside the tent." Sieghart looked up from the book resting on his lap.

"I wasn't planning to wander around."

"I mean it, Sieg. Don't leave unless I return for you." His grandfather lowered his voice before continuing, ensuring that the soldiers walking between the tents could not hear their conversation.

"Some people may try to recruit you after hearing what happened. Others may want to examine your magic or ask you to demonstrate it. You don't owe any of them an explanation." Sieghart nodded. That was completely fine with him, particularly because he still had only a vague understanding of what he had accomplished. Killing the Firian leader had been surprisingly straightforward once Sieghart realized that the man's greatest strength could be transformed into a fatal weakness.

Creating First Aid afterward had been far more difficult, even though the spell looked unimpressive on his status screen. The fact that he could cast both destructive and healing magic would probably cause complications. He had no intention of becoming some nobleman's personal weapon, battlefield healer, or endlessly rechargeable replacement for a mana stone. Edric rested his hand against the tent flap but hesitated before leaving. Concern remained visible in his eyes, despite his attempts to conceal it.

"Even if your parents sent you to live with us, you are still Lord Alaric Emberhart's eldest son. They can't simply take you away or force you into their service." What a comforting thought. I have legal protection because I belong to someone more dangerous. Sieghart managed to keep that thought to himself. His father's name had protected him from opportunists, but it had also been used to sell his services for fifty gold coins without anyone bothering to ask his opinion.

Perhaps the Emberhart family name was less like a shield and more like a collar. It protected whatever wore it because that thing was already considered someone else's property.

"I'll stay here." Edric finally nodded and left the tent, joining the line of soldiers waiting to report their service and receive payment. Sieghart attempted to read, but the camp was far too noisy for him to concentrate. Officials shouted instructions, survivors searched for missing companions, and laborers continued clearing the last remains of the battle. The pages before him discussed the development of specialized Auras, but his attention repeatedly shifted toward the voices beyond the thin canvas walls.

It wasn't long before the first wounded soldier came looking for him.

"Sieg?" The voice belonged to a young man who had arrived with their group several days earlier. His right arm was wrapped in stained bandages, and the side of his face had turned an unpleasant shade of red. Sieghart remained silent, following his grandfather's instructions even though ignoring the man made him feel worse than he expected. The soldier did not enter. He merely waited outside for several seconds before another man quietly told him that the child needed to rest.

"I only wanted him to look at my arm."

"He spent most of yesterday healing the old man. Leave him alone."

"I know. I wasn't trying to force him." Their footsteps gradually faded, but other people came afterward. Some called Sieghart's name, while others waited near the tent without speaking, apparently hoping that he would eventually emerge. Most of them were burned. A few had wounds caused by blades or blunt impacts, but the Firians had left their mark on nearly everyone who survived the front line. Sieghart clenched his fingers around the book.

He could heal them if he stepped outside, but there were far too many wounded people and only one of him. His mana might be infinite, yet his concentration certainly was not. Healing Edric had left his mind throbbing so badly that remaining conscious had become a battle of its own. If Sieghart attempted to heal everyone in the camp, he might collapse before treating a tenth of them. Once the officers saw what he could accomplish, they might not allow him to stop voluntarily either. Congratulations.

You unlocked healing magic. Your first reward is discovering that there will always be more injured people than you can save. That was probably why healers were so valuable in stories. Their power placed them in the pleasant position of being desperately needed by everyone and capable of helping only a limited number. Sieghart shifted closer to the tear in the tent and looked outside again.

Several officials had established tables near the supply wagons, where they recorded names and distributed payments to the survivors. The process moved slowly because far fewer soldiers had returned than the records expected. Every missing name required questions, witnesses, and confirmation that the individual had actually died instead of deserting. The camp had lost nearly three times as many people as the Firians during the first exchange.

More had fallen during the final battle, particularly after the enemy leader broke through the defensive line. Even after the fighting ended, some wounded soldiers had died because proper treatment had not arrived quickly enough. Their deaths became another set of numbers that clerks recorded with clean hands. Sieghart wondered whether those people had families waiting for them. Perhaps they had children, spouses, parents, or grandparents who had been told that five gold coins were worth risking a human life.

He soon spotted Edric standing before one of the payment tables. His grandfather spoke with a clerk, signed a sheet, and received a small leather pouch. The clerk counted five gold coins into Edric's palm. Five pieces of polished metal. Edric had endured two days of travel, fought enemies who could punch fire through the air, and nearly been burned alive while shielding Sieghart. The official value of that effort was five gold coins.

He almost died because people decided that those little metal circles are valuable. Sieghart knew the coins represented food, shelter, tools, and labor rather than merely being attractive pieces of metal. Understanding economics did not make the situation seem any less insane. People on Earth had also traded years of their lives for numbers stored inside computers. They endured dangerous jobs, destroyed their health, and occasionally killed one another to make those numbers increase.

Apparently, any world inhabited by humans would eventually develop increasingly complicated ways to prove that the entire species was insane. The fifty gold coins paid to his father made matters even worse. Alaric had received ten times Edric's weekly payment simply for allowing Sieghart to charge weapons. Sieghart himself had received absolutely nothing. Grandpa nearly died for five gold. Father earned fifty by renting out someone he didn't even want. Wonderful system. Very reasonable.

He doubted any official would see a problem with that arrangement. Lord Emberhart possessed authority over his territory and legal responsibility for his young son, which apparently included the right to profit from Sieghart's labor. The only fortunate part was that several officials seemed hesitant to approach the tent. They glanced toward it, whispered among themselves, and occasionally spoke with Edric, but none attempted to enter. Sieghart could guess what restrained them.

He might have been an abandoned child, but he was still the son of the Crimson Sword King. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. Recruiting him politely was one thing. Dragging him from the tent and forcing him to heal soldiers was something else entirely, particularly when doing so might anger a man capable of cutting boulders apart. It was strange that his absent father continued influencing his life so strongly.

Alaric had barely acknowledged his existence, yet everyone else treated his name like an invisible sword hanging over Sieghart's head. Sieghart continued watching until two town healers began moving among the wounded. Their techniques were slow, and they required expensive potions or enchanted tools, but their presence finally drew people away from his tent. By noon, the camp had become somewhat organized.

Supplies had been distributed, payments recorded, and the surviving soldiers divided into groups according to their hometowns. Sieghart expected that they would remain until the rest of their original group departed. Instead, Edric returned carrying their packed supplies over one shoulder.

"We're leaving." Sieghart closed his book and looked toward the sunlight coming through the tent entrance.

"Already?"

"As soon as we prepare the horse." That sounded suspiciously convenient, but Sieghart had no reason to complain. He wanted to return to the farm before some official decided that saving the entire wounded population should become his responsibility. They dismantled the tent quickly and secured their belongings to the horse. Several soldiers watched from a distance, wearing expressions that ranged from gratitude to fear. One man raised his uninjured hand toward Sieghart in farewell.

Another bowed his head, possibly because he had witnessed Sieghart defeat the enemy leader. Sieghart responded with a small nod before climbing onto the horse behind Edric. He had wanted to remain unnoticed, but pretending that nothing had happened would only make him look stranger. They departed the camp while the other reinforcements continued preparing for their own journeys. Nobody stopped them at the gate, although the guards checked Edric's documents twice before allowing them through.

The camp slowly disappeared behind the hills as their horse followed the western road. Sieghart waited until they had traveled far enough that nobody could overhear them.

"Why were we allowed to leave before everyone else?" Edric remained quiet for several seconds. His shoulders became slightly tense, confirming that the answer was probably going to be interesting.

"I used your father's name." Sieghart stared at the back of his grandfather's head.

"What did you tell them?"

"I said that Lord Emberhart had ordered me to bring you home immediately. Your assigned duty was to charge weapons, not remain here treating the wounded after the battle."

"That wasn't actually his order, was it?"

"No." Sieghart nearly laughed. His honorable grandfather, the man who usually became uncomfortable whenever Sieghart concealed his training, had apparently decided that lying to military officials was acceptable under sufficiently annoying circumstances.

"Could that get us in trouble?"

"It might." Edric did not sound particularly worried about that possibility. He guided the horse around a damaged section of road before continuing in a lower voice.

"By the time anyone confirms whether the order exists, we should already be home. Most officials won't challenge a direct command from the Crimson Sword King without an important reason."

"That still sounds dangerous."

"It's less dangerous than leaving you in that camp." Sieghart could not argue with that. Several people had already begun looking for him before the town representatives arrived, and the number would only increase once reports about the battle spread. Edric glanced back at him with a tired smile.

"Besides, once your father hears what happened, he may decide that bringing you home was the correct choice. The lie could become true before anyone finds the courage to question it." That possibility did not make Sieghart feel better. Alaric had discarded him because he lacked a powerful combat Aura. Now Sieghart had demonstrated offensive magic capable of killing a Firian leader, defensive magic capable of surviving the same man's attacks, and healing magic that had restored someone from severe burns.

His father would probably discover some value in him. Sieghart had spent years wishing that his parents would recognize that he was not useless. Now that recognition had become possible, he wanted nothing to do with it. Maybe I really am a moron. First, I dislike being considered worthless. Now I dislike the possibility of being considered valuable. The difference was simple enough, even if his feelings remained contradictory.

He wanted to prove his worth for himself, not become a convenient resource after his father reconsidered the calculations. Alaric had accepted fifty gold coins in exchange for Sieghart's labor before knowing that his son could fight or heal. What would he demand once he understood the full extent of Sieghart's abilities? More money? A position in the military? Permanent service beside the border armies?

Perhaps Alaric would send Sieghart from battlefield to battlefield, charging weapons and healing soldiers while remaining safely behind the front lines. That last part sounded reasonable until Sieghart remembered the wagon being obliterated beneath him. He had already paid for the year spent in his father's house. The fifty gold coins should have covered the food, shelter, and milk he consumed as an infant several times over.

Sieghart might have been a moron with questionable intelligence, but he still possessed a scintilla of pride. His father would not rent him out a second time without resistance. They continued along the road while Sieghart considered what he should do before the inevitable confrontation. Becoming stronger remained the most reliable answer to nearly every problem in this world. The battle had revealed weaknesses that years of controlled training on the farm had concealed.

His individual spells were useful, but he lacked specialized techniques for dealing with powerful opponents. The compressed sand bullets possessed speed, yet his accuracy remained terrible. The orbiting stones could defend him or threaten enemies at close range, but a sufficiently powerful fire attack destroyed them. His water spheres weakened Firians effectively, although they moved too slowly to hit a skilled target without creating a distraction.

Wind propulsion improved his mobility, but controlling it with one hand significantly reduced its power. Giant Fireball offered overwhelming destruction, but using it around allies would be dangerous. It also seemed somewhat irresponsible to solve every future problem by creating increasingly large explosions. Effective, certainly. Subtle, absolutely not. Developing another fire spell would be tempting, especially after Black Magic reached Level Five.

However, expanding one of his other elemental branches might give him more options. Water could become a cutting lance, a defensive wall, or perhaps even a rain-producing spell if he learned to control vapor properly. Earth could provide armor, barriers, or faster projectiles. Wind remained his best option for mobility. If he developed something resembling Wind Step, he might avoid attacks instead of trusting Protection to save him whenever someone attempted to incinerate him. Then there was healing magic.

First Aid had reached Level Four after treating Edric, but White Magic itself remained stubbornly at Level One. The parent skill had not gained a single point of experience despite the spell leveling three times. Sieghart opened his status screen while holding Edric's coat with his other hand. The translucent panel appeared without disturbing the horse.

White Magic — Level 1 Support Magic Protection — Level 2 Healing Magic First Aid — Level 4 He stared at the numbers as if glaring might force them to explain themselves. Unsurprisingly, the system remained silent. Black Magic gained experience whenever his offensive spells contributed to a kill. Individual spells increased through improvement and meaningful achievements, but their progress did not necessarily raise the broader magic category.

If White Magic followed similar rules, then perhaps healing someone was not enough. He might need to defeat an enemy through support magic, prevent a death at a specific moment, or perform some other action that satisfied an invisible requirement. Alternatively, White Magic might gain experience from confronting enemies aligned with something considered dark or corrupted. That would be painfully predictable, but the system had never shown much concern for providing useful instructions.

System, would it kill you to include a manual? A poorly translated one would still be an improvement. No answer appeared. Sieghart closed the status screen and leaned against his grandfather's back. The movement of the horse was steady, and exhaustion still lingered inside his small body despite the long sleep. Before leaving the farm, he had believed that infinite mana was the only unfair advantage he needed.

The battlefield taught him that endless fuel meant little if his mind could not withstand the strain of using it effectively. His rising Mentality helped, but he needed more spells, faster control, better accuracy, and methods for surviving attacks that did not rely on desperate improvisation. Most importantly, he needed time. Unfortunately, the story of what happened at the camp was probably traveling faster than their horse.

Hundreds of soldiers had witnessed his magic, and dozens had seen him kill the enemy leader. The officials would send reports to their superiors. The survivors would tell their families. Merchants would transform the account into rumors, and those rumors would grow more ridiculous with every repetition. By the time Sieghart returned to the farm, people might claim that the Crimson Sword King's five-year-old son had summoned a black sun and erased an entire army.

That version sounded absurd, but Sieghart had actually created a crater and removed every trace of the enemy commander's body. Reality was already doing an unfortunately good job of competing with exaggeration.

"Grandpa?"

"Yes?"

"What are we going to tell Grandma?" Edric remained silent for an uncomfortably long time.

"That everything went well." Sieghart looked at the scorched remains of his grandfather's clothing, which they had folded and tied behind the saddle because Edric refused to leave them behind.

"She's going to see your clothes."

"We'll tell her everything went well eventually." That was more honest, although Sieghart doubted Elara would appreciate the distinction. She would probably hug them both, inspect Edric for injuries, and then spend several minutes explaining how unbelievably stupid they had been. Sieghart found himself looking forward to it. The farm represented safety, family, and the closest thing to a peaceful home he had experienced across either of his lives.

He wanted to return there, continue helping with the crops, and experiment with new spells beside the missing boulder. Yet the life awaiting him could no longer be exactly the same. He had left the farm as a discarded child traveling to charge enchanted weapons. He was returning as someone who had killed a battlefield commander, created a healing spell, and become valuable enough that powerful adults might begin making plans for him.

Sieghart tightened his arms around Edric as the horse continued westward beneath the afternoon sun. He had spent five years trying to prove that he was not useless. Now he needed to prove that being useful did not give anyone the right to own him.