In the next decade, Haiten village gained fame for its child prodigy.
Before he could even walk, Konrad spoke full sentences.
At the age of three, he corrected peddlers' calculations and learned to write soon after.
He had kept his lifetime of experience in logistics — as Lu promised — making him a hero among merchants.
"Three hundred coins worth of fur from the east," he counted out loud. "That is seven silver to the crown and three for the church. They'll sell for double if you take them to Rens."
"Aye, pleasure doing business."
He didn't remember everything, though — thinking about his old name, he ran into a wall.
In a few years, Haiten no longer smelled of piss and despair, but of spices and ale. All he had to do was listen to rumors and keep track of the prices.
After all, the Halaima Pass was the lifeblood of Kasserlane. Protected by vast mountain ranges, all east-western trade flowed through there.
The kingdom also defeated its foes in countless wars by fortifying the same road.
"Travel north, and Saint Marco's blessings will be with you," Father Alastair boomed. "Stay on the highway. Without the Halbergs, nobody keeps those mountain tribes in line."
"Blessed be the Saints," the nomadic merchant bowed, paying extra for the tips.
Crime skyrocketed in nearby towns, but their village has thrived.
As more peddlers traveled through Haiten, they made huge profits, taking Konrad's advice.
Better yet, he knew all the tax rates and was fast with the numbers. The church charged a hefty price for his services, though, and he never saw a coin from it.
Same as in his old life.
He'd plan his escape when the priest grabbed his arm one day. Alastair pointed at three moles on his hand forming a perfect triangle. "This triad is a sign of the Halberg bloodline."
Konrad's heart beat fast, but it didn't last.
"They ran Halaima and the surrounding area, but got wiped out way before you were born."
Noble heritage mattered little if the house no longer existed. It had no title attached. The king ruled these lands now, but the capital was so far — his words didn't reach.
Well, Konrad must have inherited some prime genes, though.
His scratches healed fast, and boy, did he get plenty of 'em.
At the age of six, he haggled for a wooden sword with a merchant, swinging it around every day. If mercenaries passed through Haiten, he'd ask for a sparring match.
"You're not half bad, kid. No eight-year-old ever landed a hit on me."
He still didn't get his wish, though — he wasn't in control. Yet.
He was no more than a glorified slave. His name — Ostberg — meant 'eastern mountains', a name they gave to every bastard with no real family in the area.
Sure, they treated him well. Might as well, since he filled the village's coffers — but he wouldn't waste his second life as a tax collector.
There was so much he wanted to see.
"Goblins encroached on the nearby village." Adventurers were a different folk from mercenaries. "We'll lead a party to exterminate, who wants in for split bounties?"
"Don't even think about it, Konrad." Alastair yanked him back. "You're ten, for the Saints!"
Often, strange creatures traveled through Haiten. Long ears — or animal features — the villagers wouldn't even bat an eye. And yet he still hadn't seen one thing, after all his years.
Magic.
"Father," he asked on a stormy night, "do miracles even exist?"
"Hah, you can bet, boy. I saw a cardinal move mountains with a prayer," the priest claimed. "But you won't see such things in peacetime, unless you're in the capital."
The farthest he got was Halaima — three miles west, riddled with crime.
"Is it possible to learn that power?!"
"If the Saints blessed you." Father Alastair said, but Konrad doubted he was that lucky. "The spirits often patronize the tribe's shamans, too. But your best bet would be to seek out a mage."
"A mage? Where?!" The twelve-year-old jumped, earning a chuckle.
"I met one in Aset, but he was a picky bastard."
It was the seat of the southern duchy, a week's travel south. The roads were monster and bandit-infested — but still within reach.
"With your birthmarks, he might find you interesting enough to teach you." He pondered, and Konrad's eyes lit up. Except— "It would only cost you five hundred gold."
Five hundred!
All his life, he counted coppers — or silver, if a wealthy merchant passed by.
An average villager saw less than a single gold coin in his whole life. Five hundred would've bought a minor title or a castle.
And — it could grant him magic.
It wasn't like the priest would let him go. He was the hen that laid his golden eggs, the reason why their village prospered. But he offered a deal.
"Give me ten percent of the bribes you take, and I'll teach an orphan to count like I do."
"Five, and you teach them all," Alastair countered.
Grinding his teeth, they shook hands.
It wasn't about the calculations, but the logistics expertise. Teaching those was harder than he expected. In three years, he filled only five heads with numbers.
But at the age of fifteen, he was ready to leave.
He saved up three gold, which was a small fortune — emphasis on the 'small' — and bought a real sword. A peddler gave him a lift, too, for free.
He was confident to hold his own against bandits, though they weren't the only threat.
Monsters he hadn't even heard about attacked in broad daylight.
They looked like wild boars — in shape and size — but had tiny wings, beaks, and talons. They smelled like ozone, their movements too fast and unnatural.
That hail of arrows the caravan guards fired at them did nothing.
"Griphlets!" they shouted as Konrad drew his prized weapon. "Half a dozen."
"Are they tough?" he asked nobody.
He was alone before he realized — the merchant and the guards, all bolting.
The squeaking monsters surrounded him and even clawed the drawhorse in half. Konrad stabbed at the closest one, its scream deafening.
But it only gave him short-lived confidence.
A beak caught his blade, and CRACK — the sword that cost him a whole gold snapped in half.
He sank the stub into the culprit's eyesocket, but four more Griphlets were already onto him.
It was his time to run. Though the beasts couldn't take to the air, they ran much faster than he could; their other targets long gone.
He fended them off for as long as he could, but fell over on a root.
Talons raked across his chest, and blinding pain burned his senses — all five at once.
He saw, felt — even smelled the flames.
Something knocked a squeaking monster off him, but another took its place.
Pinned to the ground, his vision swam red.
A nimble shape appeared, sinking a dagger in the beast's neck with shrieking laughter. As if it never existed, the Griphlet turned into smoke.
A crystal fell onto his lap — glistening purple — and something else—
This girl, with messy hair like fire and freckles for days, landed flat on his groin. She grinned, long, crooked teeth showing as she let out a maniacal scream.
"Finally, I found you!"