Chapter 46: The Magician’s Current Situation

The workers in the camp quickly realized that this “ancestor” from seven hundred years ago was quite an odd fellow.

As for the sudden change of lordship in Cecil—from Miss Rebecca to Lord Gawain—the commoners and serfs didn’t really care. In this era, the lower classes were grateful enough if they could fill their stomachs to about seventy or eighty percent each day. Who the lord actually was mattered little to them. The only thing worth discussing after the lord changed to Lord Gawain was the strange new rules this “ancient” had immediately put in place.

The promises that serfs could be promoted to free men, and that free men would be paid for their labor, were met with cautious belief by most. They saw these as gestures of generosity from the new lord. By usual standards, they expected these promises to be fulfilled in harsh or cunning ways: maybe one or two serfs would become free men, maybe some payment for work would be given, but likely with all sorts of deductions and excuses. In the end, only a handful of lucky ones would receive a symbolic copper coin, just enough to show the lord had kept his word.

But no one complained. After all, a lord who showed generosity was far better than one who whipped slaves to assert authority from the start.

Besides, some benefits were bound to trickle down, weren’t they?

Compared to those generous rules, it was the various so-called “regulations and codes” that truly baffled everyone.

Dividing people into work groups, making them compete, recording workloads, and conducting “assessments” — these were unheard-of methods.

Some whispered, speculating which part of these new rules would eventually become a form of taxation—though no one in the utterly destitute Cecil territory could pay taxes yet. Others wondered if Lord Gawain’s complicated labor system was just an eccentricity of an ancient noble from a bygone era.

But whatever the case, they understood the parts that affected their daily lives: the group that ranked first in daily work got meat to eat; second and third place groups could dip bread in meat broth and eat their fill.

Those who performed averagely only got bland vegetable soup and black bread. Though filling, it was no comfort to those who had missed out on meat during the first day’s “tent pitching competition.” Watching others enjoy stew while sipping thin soup was a feeling they didn’t want to experience again.

Whether the lofty promises of promotion and wages were real or not, at least the lord had proven he would give them meat.

So on the second day in camp, Hetty witnessed a labor scene she had never seen before—both commoners and serfs worked as if possessed, finishing tasks quickly even without overseers. Because work was divided into groups rather than done individually, they unconsciously coordinated, further boosting efficiency.

Most group leaders soon realized that if they wanted to eat meat themselves, the only way was to raise the entire group’s efficiency so everyone could share the reward. Those few who became leaders through brute force or cunning without understanding this were quickly replaced.

No whips were used to drive them to work—only competition and rewards. It was incredible.

The tents were already up. Rebecca led some people to scout the nearby wasteland. The logging team set out early for the upstream felling site on the Whitewater River. By noon, a batch of timber would float down to the gentler, open stretch downstream. To prevent the logs from drifting away, Hetty had assigned Knight Byron to patrol before the scheduled time, while she herself waited by the riverbank to receive them.

At the appointed time, the first batch of timber appeared, lashed together into rafts with thick ropes—large logs on the bottom, smaller ones piled haphazardly on top. From a distance, it looked like a huge, ugly clump of dead branches floating on the water. Two nervous serfs stood on the raft, using long poles to steer its course. The Whitewater River’s current was slow here, and today was calm and windless, but the makeshift raft was hard to control and could easily fall apart, so they were understandably tense.

Soon, the raft began drifting steadily toward a shallow bank. The serfs saw a translucent giant hand appear beside the raft—an air-formed hand gently but firmly pushing it ashore. One serf instinctively gasped, but the other quickly smacked him on the head with his pole and pointed toward Lady Hetty standing on the riverbank.

They hurriedly cooperated with their mistress, pushing the raft onto the gravel and bringing it to a smooth stop.

Then the people waiting onshore swarmed forward, untying the ropes and dragging the timber to prepare for building the camp’s next set of wooden huts.

Normally, the timber would need to be dried and treated for pests before becoming durable planks, but since many camp structures were temporary and urgently needed, they couldn’t fuss over such details.

Gawain stood behind Hetty, thoughtful. “Magic really is convenient…”

Hetty had just caught her breath when a voice behind her startled her so much she nearly fell off the rock—luckily, Gawain caught her in time.

“Sorry… I didn’t realize you were standing right behind me,” the lady apologized nervously.

“I’m the one who scared you,” Gawain waved it off. “By the way, that last trick of yours was pretty good.”

Hetty blushed slightly. “The Telekinetic Hand is a basic spell. I’ve practiced its advanced techniques to extend its duration, so as long as I keep pushing, even a heavy raft can be guided ashore. But if the current were any faster, it wouldn’t work…”

Though Gawain was a knight, everyone in this pioneering age had become amateur naturalists. He knew a bit about magic theory. Though Hetty’s explanation was simple, he understood that strengthening a basic Telekinetic Hand spell to that level, and training it specifically as an advanced technique, was no easy feat—and quite rare.

“I… don’t have much magical talent,” Hetty said, cheeks reddening further at his look of surprise. “Though I awakened my affinity for magic when I was very young, my mental focus is slow, so I can’t build complex spell models. I’m only a level three mage, and probably will stay that way for life. So I just keep strengthening those basic spells over and over.”

“Rebecca doesn’t seem very gifted either…” Gawain frowned, thinking of that stubborn great-great-great… great-granddaughter who could only manage four types of fireball spells.

“She has a large mana pool and strong mental power, but faces similar or worse problems when building spell models,” Hetty lowered her head. “She can only master one fireball spell, or a big fireball spell with a similar model. She’s a hardworking child, though. She knows she’s not talented—neither a good lord nor a good mage. Though she acts carefree, she’s aware and works hard in secret. But talent limits are walls that are hard to climb.”

She sighed softly. “So when I saw that wild mage’s notes, I was moved… He wasn’t an exception. This is common among down-and-out mages: their ability to build spell models can’t keep up with their theoretical knowledge, so they remain low-level casters for life. For pragmatic mages, if you can’t turn all those calculations in your head into usable spells, then it’s all zero…”

“No,” Gawain interrupted suddenly.

Hetty blinked, confused. “What?”

“If ‘practical’ means only being able to cast a fireball or ice arrow yourself, then a mage waving a staff isn’t much different from a monkey waving a stick,” Gawain shook his head. “Formulas aren’t zero—they’re the one before countless zeros. You just haven’t found the decimal point yet.”

Hetty frowned. “I… don’t quite understand. If you can’t use spell models to realize the formulas in your mind, then what’s the use of knowing all that theory? Can you beat anyone with it?”

“One day you’ll understand that ‘beating people’ isn’t the whole measure of a mage, nor should it be the main one,” Gawain smiled. “I’ve sent riders to Tansan Town to notify Knight Philip to procure some extra supplies. When the main force arrives, your magic lab can be set up.”

“Magic lab?” Hetty was momentarily stunned, then frowned. “Those things are expensive. At first…”

“I took a few ingots of mythril from the mountain treasury. They’re not coins, so they don’t need to be re-minted, and can be used as hard currency to buy magical items. It’s enough to get you a basic setup. I know your old lab in the castle was destroyed, but we need a new one as soon as possible.”

Hetty recalled the tasks Gawain had assigned her earlier.

“Understood. Once the crystal resonator arrives, I’ll start copying the rune diagrams you requested!” She couldn’t help but smile. Though she regretted spending the mythril ingots, as a mage, having her own magic lab again was a joy. And as the saying goes, a child selling the family land doesn’t feel guilty…

Was it wrong for the ancestor to give the stubborn great-great-great… great-granddaughter some pocket money to buy lab equipment? Not at all!

Well, that phrase didn’t quite suit the steady, mature Hetty, but it definitely fit Rebecca.

When there’s time, maybe set up a magic lab for that stubborn little girl too? Though she’d probably just study fireball spells in it…

With his thoughts wandering, Gawain returned to his tent to study those strange crystals.

(End of chapter)