"Tax on that is seven, and three for the church," piped Konrad, aged three, and the merchant dropped his ledger—and jaw. "Take the fur to Rens, you'll earn double."
"Sorry, Ser," Father Alastair said, smacking his head. "He'd been a talker before he'd even walk."
"No—" the peddler counted on his fingers. "He's right—but to think Haiten's Prodigy was real—"
While names and faces of his past blurred together, his logistics skills made him the hero of traders. The memories gave him a head start in this life, as Lu promised.
He had a good ear for rumors and tracked market trends with ease.
And since the Halaima Pass was the lifeblood of Kasserlane, he was in the perfect spot for that.
"What would you like, Konrad?" Peddlers courted him with coins, toys, or a wooden sword.
By his sixth winter, Haiten no longer smelled of piss and despair, but of spices and ale.
"Don't spoil my boy," Alastair pocketed much of his earnings, though, "it'll get to his head."
That sure did.
And tallying silver he earned for others on an empty stomach bolstered no loyalty, either.
Weak as he was, he accepted the priest's mercy—but with gritted teeth.
He plotted for a future escape, training in secret to ensure his survival.
This world was a dangerous place.
"Travel with Saint Marco's blessings," Father Alastair sent peddlers on their way. "Don't stray from the highway, or mountain tribes'll get you. Nobody keeps them at bay since Halberg—"
While banditry was rampant, monsters were avoiding the area.
This only increased Haiten's strategic importance.
Protected by vast mountain ranges, the king's men also fortified it against invaders.
But in peaceful times, this attracted even more merchants.
Soon, he challenged caravan guards to spar with him, eating a lot of dirt at first.
But by the time he saw his ninth winter, he could land some solid hits on them, too.
"That's Haiten's Prodigy," a bruised mercenary hollered. "You'll be as famous as Maou Midori."
Whoever that was.
Nomads brought odd and embellished tales from the far east. They didn't always mesh: in some reports, this Maou was a warlord, an exotic dancer, or even a sorcerer.
He'd focus on the key rumors, like where bandits or monsters appeared, but his curiosity won.
"Father, do you think this sorcerer on the east exists?" he asked on his twelfth summer.
"You're getting old for children's stories," the priest waved him off. "But I've seen a cardinal move mountains with a prayer. Well, in peacetime, they all fatten themselves in the capital—"
Konrad's eyes went wide.
"Can I become a cardinal?!" The farthest he's gone was Halaima, three miles west.
The capital was much farther away. But with power on that scale, he'd finally—
"Hah, ambitious much?" Alastair hollered. "You've no blessing, so it's impossible. The spirits don't like your kind, either. So your best bet'd be to find that grumpy mage in Aset, but—"
"A mage?" Aset was only a week's travel south. Bandit-infested roads, but, "would he teach me?!"
"For five hundred gold, sure, haha. But if he'd got bored, you'd be out before you knew it."
Five hundred! That was a soul-crushing sum.
It could buy him a minor title or a castle.
Even villagers would call themselves lucky if they saw a single coin in their entire lives.
And that insane fortune wouldn't be a guarantee?
On that note, the priest grabbed his arm.
"I know where that ambition's coming from," he pointed at three moles on his hand in a perfect triangle. "This triad is a sign of the Halberg bloodline, which used to run Halaima."
For a breath, the boy imagined castles and soldiers at his command—then reality crashed.
"The last war wiped them all out, so I took you in, but—"
A dead house meant no power, only curious birthmarks. Both true nobility and learning magic were out of his reach, and without them, his desire for control, too.
But that year, adventurers arrived at Haiten.
"Goblins encroached on the nearby village." They were a fascinating bunch, different from other mercenaries. "We'll lead a party to exterminate, who wants in for split bounties?"
That was the closest he had ever been to the monsters of this world. Not that he saw them.
He was eager, but—
"Don't even think about it," Alastair yanked him back. "You've no idea what lurks out there."
"But I need to earn gold for my tuition."
"Fine, I know you'll bolt once you're old enough," Alastair sighed. "So here's the deal. You'll get five percent of what the peddlers pay, and teach an orphan to count as you do."
Konrad wouldn't refuse an offer like that, even if it weren't about the numbers.
"Ten, and I'll teach them all," He countered, and they shook hands.
It was no easy task, though. Things he remembered from his old life were unheard of in Kasserlane. In three years, he only filled five heads with the basics, hoping that was enough.
He also never stopped training with the mercenaries, either.
The easy victories made him confident that he'd hold his own against any bandit.
So when he turned fifteen, he was as ready as he could be. He earned three gold coins, bought a real sword, and—
On his sixth day on the highway, the drawhorse became restless.
The road smelled of pine and iron and—burnt sugar?
A peddler who gave him a free lift prayed for every god in existence. But as the guards figured out what was wrong, Konrad realized that bandits were the least of his problems.
Monsters appeared.
Real ones, that he saw. Not in a picture book, or heard about them in embellished tales of faraway lands. They swarmed their caravan in broad daylight, squeaks deafening.
Like wild boars—in shape and size.
But they had tiny wings, beaks, and talons. Ozone smell. They were unnatural—and too fast.
The hail of arrows the mercenaries released did nothing. "Griphlets!" they shouted, retreating.
By the time Konrad drew his sword, he was alone. Surrounded. The drawhorse was gone in one strike. He stabbed—the painful scream ear-shattering. But no time to celebrate.
A beak caught his blade, and CRACK—
His sword, worth a whole gold, was no more. Snapped in half. The stub sank deep into an eye socket. But it didn't matter. Four more Griphlets were already onto him. It was too late to run.
They couldn't take off, but they didn't have to. All distractions gone.
He fell over, stuck on a root. Then talons. They raked across him, blinding pain exploding in his chest. All five of his senses went haywire. He even smelled the white-hot flames.
A fireball knocked the monster off him. Poof—it went up in smoke.
But there were more. Pinned, his vision swam red. No weapons, no hope. His lungs collapsed. At least it happened fast—he didn't want another long, drawn-out agony.
Not that he had a chance for that. A nimble shape appeared, smelling like sweets.
A dagger sank into the beast's neck. Shrieking laughter. As if it never existed, the Griphlet turned into dust. A crystal fell onto his lap — glistening purple — and something else—
Messy hair like fire and freckles for days—
A girl landed flat on his groin. And grinned.
Long, crooked teeth flashed as she let out a maniacal scream.
"Finally, I found you!"