Chapter 111: A Small Step

If he hadn’t experienced it firsthand, seen it with his own eyes—even with Gawain Cecil’s memories—Gawain would have found it hard to grasp why this world was mired so deeply in the quagmire of civilizational decline, why after so many years, civilization hadn’t even begun to recover but instead showed signs of stagnation and regression.

A single research manuscript, passed down through four successive owners, the product of decades of accumulation, study, and reflection—its findings powerful enough to shift the world’s balance—almost got destroyed by the outdated, entrenched powers of this era. Jennie and her predecessors might be rare talents, but their fates were far from unique in this world.

Take this typical example: on a noble’s estate, a serf suddenly comes up with a better way to manage the land or spots a problem with the tax collector. He decides to report his discovery to his lord. What happens next?

Many would assume the serf would be punished for meddling in the lord’s property or slandering the tax official. But that’s rarely the case—because the serf never even gets the chance to stand before the lord, never gets to voice his thoughts.

The punishment they face is something else entirely: “How dare you, with your bare feet that have stepped in horse manure, tread upon a noble’s courtyard!”

What if he’s wearing shoes?

Then the guards drag him away just the same—“You have shoes?! Where did you steal them from?!”

Clearly, no one cares what the serf discovered or what he truly wanted to say. As a serf, he isn’t punished for his words—he’s punished simply for breathing.

Serfs don’t even have the “privilege” of being punished for speech.

This is a social ecology utterly baffling to anyone from a modern civilized society: absurd, foolish, bizarre, tragic—but real.

Did Jennie and Ravencrest’s research bear fruit? Of course. Though their rudimentary theories were still unrefined, and some phenomena remained unexplained, even causing significant practical errors, their formulas worked most of the time. Otherwise, Jennie wouldn’t have become a Level 4 Runemaster. As a runemaster with only apprentice-level casting ability, she could rely only on formulas and logic passed down from three generations before her.

Was Jennie’s mentor truly foolish? Absolutely not. At least intellectually, a great mage cannot be stupid—no fool could master complex spell models and rune calculations. So that great mage must have been highly intelligent.

What led to the tragedy wasn’t a flaw in the notebook, nor was Jennie’s “mentor” so foolish as to fail to see its value. The truth was, he never even paid attention to the notebook. He didn’t even pay attention to Jennie. All he cared about was that his slave was stepping out of line—just like the noble who whipped the serf for stepping barefoot into the courtyard.

Walking along the road, Gawain’s mind churned. He realized the situation was exactly as he had suspected: this world had reached a moment ripe for change. Both technological and ideological breakthroughs had accumulated significantly. Among a small number of lower-class groups, change was happening—had even already happened—quietly emerging and quietly fading away. The powerlessness of these reformers meant that what should have been epoch-making innovations never spread upward. The idea of changing the era was simply out of reach—and this was the root of the world’s malaise.

But knowing this didn’t bring him any joy.

God only knew how many geniuses like Jennie were still buried in this stagnant mire, wasted, sacrificed—just like Ravencrest.

And before his plans came to fruition, before this situation was truly overturned, how many would never live to see the dawn?

He returned to his tent, his heart heavy. Inside, he found little maid Betty crouched by his desk. The girl had probably just finished cleaning; her clothes were dust-covered, but she seemed oblivious, quietly practicing writing by tracing letters in the dirt with a small twig.

Only when Gawain approached did Betty look up, startled. “Master!”

Looking at the innocent face of the little girl, Gawain felt some of his heaviness ease. He gently ruffled her hair. “Didn’t I give you a set of writing tools? Why are you still using a stick to write?”

Betty blinked shyly. “I… I can’t write well yet. I keep making mistakes and worry about wasting ink and paper. So I want to practice on the ground first. Once I can write the letters properly, then I’ll use ink and paper…”

Gawain opened his mouth, about to tell her that although the estate couldn’t yet produce paper or ink, money wasn’t an issue anymore—since the dock on the Whitewater River was finished, purchasing supplies from Tansan Town was much easier. But then he smiled and shook his head, finding a small stick himself and squatting beside Betty.

“You’re holding the pen wrong. Writing with a stick on the ground isn’t the same as using a pen on paper, but if you want to write well, you have to start by learning how to hold it properly.”

He guided her hand, showing her the correct grip, and helped her trace letters in the dirt.

“Don’t press too hard. Writing isn’t like working; strength won’t make it better. Too much pressure just makes your hand shake.”

“It’s okay to write slowly. You’re just learning—take your time.”

Betty focused intently, her eyes shining. The clumsy, scatterbrained little maid everyone knew was suddenly transformed—so absorbed that she didn’t even notice the tiny beads of sweat forming on her nose.

Gawain let go and watched as she slowly spelled out letters, then wrote a few slightly crooked words on the ground: “Betty… likes… here.”

When she finished the sentence, the girl beamed, looking up at Gawain with sparkling eyes. “I’m done!”

Gawain smiled back. “You really like it here?”

“Mm-hmm,” Betty nodded vigorously, then thought a moment longer and nodded again, “I do.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone’s kind. Miss Rebecca is, Lady Hetty is, and you, Master, and Miss Amber, and Sir Philip and Sir Byron, and everyone working outside, Old Master Gordon, Old Master Hammer, Norris…” She counted on her fingers as if trying to name every person she could remember, then stopped when she lost count. “Everyone’s good, and everyone likes this place.”

“Everyone likes it too?”

“Yes! When we finish work and chat, they say you’re a… how do they say it? A strong and just noble lord. When you make a promise, you keep it. You go to battle to protect us. And most importantly, you make sure we have enough to eat.”

Gawain said nothing.

The estate’s food wasn’t yet self-sufficient. Grain, meat, and other supplies still came from Tansan Town, paid for with the estate’s dwindling treasury. But for common folk who only hoped to eat their fill, the source didn’t matter.

According to Norris, by Frostmoon, the first batch of fast-growing crops would be ready for harvest, accelerated by druidic magic. Then food wouldn’t be a problem.

In this era, simply feeding people well was enough to earn their loyalty.

Betty didn’t hear Gawain’s reply, but she didn’t mind. She bent her head and resumed practicing writing. Watching her so absorbed, Gawain suddenly asked seriously, “Betty, do you want to go to school?”

The little maid was caught off guard. “School? Learn what?”

“Reading, writing, arithmetic, history, maybe even… runes and magic circles,” Gawain said slowly. “Runes and magic that ordinary people can learn. Trust me, it will happen.”

Betty thought carefully, then lowered her head. “I can’t learn. They say I’m stupid.”

“Do you want to learn?”

“…Yes. But who will cook the meals?”

“You can learn when you have free time. Like the two hours before bed,” Gawain smiled. “If you want to learn, you’ll find the time.”

This time, Betty could only nod.

They didn’t continue the conversation, as it was soon time to prepare dinner. As the cook, Betty heard the bell outside and quickly put away her twig, bowed to Gawain, and hurried out.

Only after her figure disappeared beyond the tent flap did Gawain turn his head slightly and speak to the seemingly empty tent pole. “Come out. How long do you plan to stay there?”

The air shimmered slightly, and Amber’s figure appeared, leaning against the pole with a look of surprise. “How did you find me? How long have you known?”

“Since you leaned on the pole and made a face at me,” Gawain rolled his eyes at the half-elf. “I know you’re confident in your stealth skills, but standing openly less than three meters away in broad daylight without shadow concealment? That’s just insulting my intelligence. Do you think a knight’s senses are that poor?”

“Hmph. I thought you were so focused teaching that little girl to write you wouldn’t notice me.” Amber pouted, muttering, then flickered over to sit on the desk beside Gawain. She said nothing, just stared at him intently, soon making him feel uneasy all over.

“What are you looking at?” Gawain asked. “Is there something on my face?”

“You’re a strange… noble,” Amber blurted out suddenly.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” the half-elf waved her hand. “I’m just curious. You really meant it when you said you want everyone to learn to read and write… you weren’t joking?”

“Why would I joke?” Gawain laughed. “Not only am I serious, but I want you to call Hetty and Rebecca here right now. I need to talk to them about this.”

(End of chapter)