Chapter 106: The Support Team

Three days after reaching an agreement with Nicholas the Orb, the so-called “magical device from the ancient ruins of Gondor, housing an ancient soul and bound in friendship with the ancestors of Cecil” finally made its official debut before the people of New Cecil’s territory.

From that moment on, it was no longer appropriate to refer to the Orb as “it.” Instead, everyone had to call him “he.”

His appearance naturally drew quite a bit of attention—even the most indifferent serfs and laborers couldn’t help but be curious about this metallic sphere. When a gleaming, one-and-a-half-meter-wide metal ball floated toward them in midair, people instinctively stopped to watch and whispered among themselves about this strange thing.

At first, many were frightened. Nicholas the Orb’s form was utterly bizarre, and under the sun, he shone so brightly it was almost blinding—like a magical orb about to explode at any moment. The superstitious and narrow-minded common folk would sometimes cry out and run away in alarm. But Gawain had sent soldiers to give talks, explaining the origins of this “magical device,” emphasizing that inside the Orb was actually a respected ancient scholar, trapped there by a magical accident. Aside from his unusual appearance, he was no different from anyone else in the camp.

After many such explanations, people gradually came to accept the metal sphere—though a bit of fear and unease lingered. They did realize this round fellow was harmless and could even speak and interact with them. Coupled with Gawain’s assurances, they managed to calm down.

As for Nicholas the Orb himself… well, he was quite pleased with his current situation.

From the day he was stranded in this strange new world, his circumstances had been difficult and awkward. First, he faced the bizarre environment; then hostile locals captured him for experiments; he narrowly escaped being shredded into metal shavings by Gondor’s mages from a thousand years ago; and finally, he was sealed away by those same mages for a millennium. When he opened his eyes, civilization had regressed and technology collapsed. He thought his bad luck would never end—until he met Gawain, an unconventional man who could communicate with him, understand his words, and whose open mind accepted his explanations. Unlike the ignorant locals or the ancient mages who only saw him as a research specimen, Gawain treated him as a person.

Looking back, that failed escape attempt—caught red-handed—turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Otherwise, he might still be pretending to be a stone ball, unable to roam freely like he did now.

Nicholas was happily drifting around the camp when someone ran to Gawain to complain. Hetty stood before him, frowning: “That orb keeps floating around the camp. Aren’t you going to do something about it?”

Gawain was bent over, studying the personnel roster—a list of about a hundred technicians who had arrived from the capital just days ago. Hearing Hetty, he looked up and smiled. “Is the orb causing trouble?”

“Not exactly,” Hetty shook her head, “but his curiosity is boundless. Whenever he sees someone working, he floats over and watches for a long time. His appearance is so eye-catching that the workers can’t help but be distracted.”

“They’ll get used to it eventually. It’s just a floating metal ball, not a dragon,” Gawain chuckled. “Still, I’ll remind him to try not to disturb others while they work. By the way, what do you think of Nicholas the Orb?”

Hetty’s expression turned strange. “You really decided to give him that odd name?”

Gawain shrugged helplessly. “No choice. That’s the name he recognizes.”

Hetty sighed. “As for thoughts… I’ve been wanting to study how he manages to float. The energy he emits is peculiar—not like any magic I know. If this is some innate spell…”

“Stop right there,” Gawain quickly interrupted Hetty’s wandering thoughts. “If you want to study him, keep it low-key. That guy was captured and studied by Gondor’s mages a thousand years ago. He’s got serious psychological scars. You pushing too hard could shatter the trust he’s just starting to build with us.”

“Of course, I’m just thinking out loud,” Hetty smiled apologetically. “More than that, I’m concerned about what you mentioned—the samples left behind in the mountain ruins a thousand years ago. I heard you had Sir Philip organize an exploration team? Are you planning to go into the ruins to retrieve those dangerous things now?”

“Not at all,” Gawain shook his head. “You said it yourself—they’re dangerous, not something we can handle yet. I had Sir Philip form the team mainly to scout the shallow layers of the ruins and check out the side passages we missed before. Remember, it’s a massive, sturdy fortress… just sitting unused in the mountains. Don’t you think that’s a waste?”

Hetty’s eyes widened slightly. “You mean…”

“To put it to some use—at least to make use of the rooms between the entrance hall and the shallow corridors. This is the Dark Mountains, after all. Danger is always lurking. If an emergency arises, people can take refuge in that fortress—doesn’t that make sense?”

With that, he lowered his head and returned his attention to the roster of a hundred people.

“Fifteen skilled craftsmen, including stonemasons, carpenters, blacksmiths, and leatherworkers; ten more specialized in building houses. Only two fully qualified spellcasters—one is a level two arcanist, the other a level four runesmith,” Gawain read, chuckling. “Jenny Perrot, level four runesmith, the highest-ranking professional in the team. That’s the king’s generosity for you—there’s even a mid-level spellcaster.”

Hetty frowned as she listened. She wasn’t pleased with that “mid-level spellcaster.” The level four runesmith was the highest rank among the hundred, and by the “three-tier, one-rank” system, that counted as mid-level. A mid-level spellcaster was indeed a valuable talent—after all, aside from Gawain, the strongest in the territory were only level three professionals. But runesmiths weren’t quite the same.

Though called “mages,” runesmiths were essentially the craftsmen of the magical world. Their expertise lay in inscribing runes and magical arrays on artifacts and wards. Compared to conventional mages, their greatest skill was steady hands.

How do runesmiths advance? By gathering in groups to inscribe more and better runes and arrays within a set time. As for spellcasting ability…

Runesmiths only possessed the most basic magical skills—enough to sense mana and identify elemental types. Usually, their mage level hovered around two, and even a freshly graduated apprentice at level one could become a runesmith.

To ordinary people who couldn’t wield magic, runesmiths appeared as mysterious and powerful “mages.” But to true mages, runesmiths were considered inferior—sometimes several ranks below—and their status barely above non-magical “rune craftsmen.” Runesmiths mostly assisted full mages, acting as subordinates, helping produce magical items or inscribe arrays. Because their own magical skills were limited, they couldn’t even activate the arrays or artifacts they created—their weak mana and poor control made that impossible.

In short, it was a profession of making clothes for others.

Hetty didn’t share the usual haughty attitude of many mages, nor did she look down on runesmiths as “magical servants.” But she could tell at a glance that Jenny Perrot was just a token presence sent by the capital—nominally a mid-level spellcaster, but really just there to fill a quota. Having such a person on the team was the king’s way of showing courtesy. It was even a good story to tell.

That was what bothered Hetty most. And with only two spellcasters in the entire team, the rest being apprentices or craftsmen, she felt the capital’s support was seriously lacking sincerity.

Hetty wasn’t good at hiding her feelings, especially in front of Gawain, so he immediately noticed her displeasure. “What? You think a level four runesmith is an insult to our intelligence?”

“The king isn’t sincere,” Hetty said bluntly. “A runesmith—if Rebecca practiced hard, she might even be better. This is just tokenism.”

“That probably isn’t Francis II’s intention,” Gawain waved his hand. “That king has to consider my attitude, so his support for Cecil’s new lands won’t be hollow. But he also faces pressure from other nobles in the capital, many of whom don’t want the Cecil family to rise quickly. In fact, half of them probably wish our old southern ruling family would quietly die out in the Dark Mountains. Under those circumstances, do you think they’d allow a skilled, valuable technical team to come here?”

Hetty’s face darkened. “Those narrow-minded, greedy nobles… The Cecils don’t even compete with them for any interests, yet they go to such lengths to sabotage us.”

Gawain shook his head. “That’s just how nobles operate. If you can’t accept it, it means you’re not really a qualified noble by their standards. Of course, I’m not qualified either.”

“So what do you think of this roster…”

“Of course I accept it. Why not?” Gawain laughed. “It’s still a hundred technical talents. Even if they’re thrown together haphazardly, it’s better than nothing. Those blacksmiths and carpenters surely know how to use hammers and saws, right? And I want to meet this Jenny Perrot runesmith. There’s one line in her file that caught my interest.”

“What line?”

“Jenny Perrot, mage level—apprentice.”

(End of chapter)