Chapter 68: A Druid?

A few days after Amber left, she returned to find the camp had grown noticeably larger. Between the tents, many wooden structures had sprung up—drying racks, workshops, warehouses scattered throughout the area. A new sawmill was already under construction by the Whitewater River, right next to a makeshift dock. Solid roads connected the camp to these new facilities. It was no longer just a temporary encampment; it was beginning to take shape as a permanent settlement, evolving from a mere camp into a true domain.

That guy’s labor system really did work.

The little, somewhat clueless maid had already run off to inform her master, while Amber idly sat in Gawain’s large tent, lost in thought. Standing beside her was an old man, draped in a grimy gray robe, wearing a soft, worn-out hat, his beard and hair in wild disarray.

This old man, who looked like he’d been dug up from a slum, was the specialist Amber had brought in. He stood carefully in the middle of the tent, keeping a cautious distance from everything around him, but his eyes darted about like a sly merchant visiting a lord’s castle. Amber, meanwhile, looked up at the tent that had stood here for over half a month and muttered, “The stonemasons and carpenters have already moved into wooden houses, and he’s still pitching a tent? I really don’t get what’s going on in his head…”

“Hey, hey,” the old man suddenly spoke up, “Is what you said true? That really is Gawain Cecil from seven hundred years ago? The one everyone’s been talking about down south?”

“Of course it’s true,” Amber rolled her eyes at him. “I dug him up myself—how could it be fake? Let me tell you, don’t be fooled by how poor the Cecil family is now. Their ancestor was incredible—a walking treasure trove of secrets…”

The old man stroked his tangled beard. “As long as it’s true, little miss, I’ll tell you, I’m quite skilled in antique appraisal…”

Amber froze halfway through his sentence. “Wait, hold on! Aren’t you a druid?!”

The old man’s hand paused mid-stroke on his beard, his mouth agape as he stared at Amber. “I…”

Before he could finish, the heavy tent flap was suddenly thrown open. Bright light flooded in, only to be immediately blocked by Gawain’s nearly two-meter-tall, broad-shouldered frame. Both Amber and the old man jumped in surprise.

Gawain stepped inside and immediately took note of the stranger: a shabby gray robe somewhere between a short and long cloak, edges frayed; a dingy soft hat riddled with holes; unkempt hair and beard, clearly unwashed for who knows how long; an old, gaunt figure—but with sharp, bright eyes.

Yes, this was the quintessential hermit look.

In his mind, Gawain silently judged the man before him as the perfect image of a reclusive druid—one who shuns society, lives among the forest, and holds ancient knowledge. Though in any other setting, this man might be mistaken for a beggar from the slums, Amber had said she was looking for a druid, and this was exactly the druid vibe.

The so-called “elf shame” had actually managed to find a druid (or at least someone who looked the part). Maybe he had underestimated Amber a little.

Feeling a twinge of apology toward her, Gawain strode forward and said, “Welcome. In the name of the Cecil family, this land has long awaited a true scholar. I am Gawain Cecil—you must have heard my name.”

The old man snapped out of his daze and broke into a surprisingly radiant smile—one that hardly fit the image of a hermit. “Ah, your reputation is known across the continent. I’m honored to serve you and your domain. Now, about those antiques you need appraised…”

Gawain began, “The arrival of a druid will surely benefit this land—”

“Antiques?” “Druid?”

Both men spoke at once, their faces blank with confusion.

“Did I hear that wrong?” Gawain asked, stunned. “You just said antiques? I sent Amber to find a druid…”

“A druid? Not an antique appraiser?!” The old man was equally shocked. “I thought you wanted me to appraise antiques!”

Gawain’s mouth twitched involuntarily as his gaze flicked to the half-elf lady beside him, who was trying to shrink her head into her torso. “How exactly did this half-elf ‘lady’ explain things to you?”

The old man shrugged. “She said she dug up a seven-hundred-year-old antique. I didn’t ask for details—I just rushed over…”

Gawain reached out and grabbed Amber’s pointed ear. She let out a sharp cry and slipped out from under his grasp in a flash, disappearing into the ever-present shadows.

But someone was faster: before the thief could fully vanish into the shadow realm, Gawain shifted his footing to block her escape path and activated his knightly protective aura. The invisible halo spread out, forcing Amber out of her shadow form. She collided headfirst into Gawain’s chest and stomach, crying out in pain.

The camp’s defenses were weak, so Gawain never went without armor.

Rebecca, who was tougher, had gotten a bump on her head just from running into Gawain. Amber, not so much. Dazed and clutching her head, she spun around twice before stopping, only to be grabbed again by her ear. She immediately screamed, “Ouch! Ouch! Let go, let go, let go!”

“What’s this about a seven-hundred-year-old antique?!” Gawain glared at the “shame of all things,” “I told you to find a druid!”

“He is a druid! I didn’t know anything about antiques!” Amber protested, struggling to free herself. “I just casually mentioned digging up a seven-hundred-year-old relic, but I didn’t expect him to misunderstand!”

The old man stared dumbfounded at the chaotic scene. Slowly, he began to piece things together. “Wait, the seven-hundred-year-old antique you mentioned… is that Duke Gawain Cecil?”

“Don’t call me an ‘antique’!” Gawain growled, “She’s about to strangle me! I already told you—Gawain Cecil was resurrected, and I was the one who woke him up! But I never asked you to appraise him—I thought you understood!”

The old man’s eyes widened. “I thought you’d stolen the tomb of this ancient hero after waking him up! I was wondering how you could convince someone to let you appraise antiques after grave robbing…”

Gawain was speechless.

After running through all the historical greats he knew from his past life, Gawain finally suppressed the urge to throw Amber out of the tent and looked at the old man with a wry smile. “So… you’re not really a druid?”

Unexpectedly, the old man stroked his beard, straightened his tattered gray robe, and said in a mysterious tone, “That depends on the circumstances and your needs. If conditions here are right, I can be a druid…”

Gawain blinked. Druids could be “conditional”?

“Then are you a druid or not?” Gawain frowned. “I need a druid to help with agricultural development in the domain, and I don’t want any problems. So please be careful with your answer.”

After the farce, Gawain was deeply distrustful of this hermit-looking old man.

The old man smiled faintly, pulled a small, unremarkable seed from his pocket, tossed it onto the ground, grabbed a cup of water from the nearby table, and poured some over the seed while muttering an incantation. Moments later, a faint green glow spread from where the seed had landed.

The seed sprouted visibly—just a tiny shoot, but enough to astonish Gawain.

“See? See? He is a druid!” Amber shouted excitedly. “Now let go of me! That really hurts!”

Gawain, still baffled, released Amber’s ear and gave the old man a strange look. “So you really are a druid… but what’s this about being an antique appraiser?”

“I was indeed a druid in my younger years, a true member of the Heart of the Woods tradition,” the old man said proudly, puffing out his chest. “But antique appraisal is also my profession. Honestly, there aren’t many antique experts in the southern lands better than me.”

Gawain was puzzled. “How do you combine studying plants and animals as a druid with being an antique appraiser? Those don’t seem related.”

“Mainly because I’m broke,” the old man shrugged. “Being a druid doesn’t pay well, so I picked up a side job. And let me tell you, my skills don’t stop there. If you need a cook, I can do barbecue and make stews…”

This time, Gawain’s mouth twitched uncontrollably, even his temple muscles spasmed. “And you can do fortune-telling too, right? As long as the price is right?”

The old man stroked his beard. “Depends on how much you pay. If the price is right, I can learn on the spot.”

Gawain sighed to the heavens. This was exactly the kind of person Amber would bring back—an utterly unreliable character who, somehow, really was a druid.

“Well… I guess he’ll do?” Amber cautiously looked at Gawain, finally daring to speak. “At least he’s a real druid.”

“Better than nothing,” Gawain sighed, looking down at the old man. “From today on, you are the druid of the Cecil domain. I will pay you accordingly… What level are you?”

“Level three in the Heart of the Woods tradition, and also a level three herbalist,” the old man said with a grin. “And a pretty good barbecue chef, too. You really don’t want to reconsider?”

Gawain twitched his mouth again. “No thanks, I have a maid who cooks well. I’ll pay you the standard rate for a level three professional spellcaster, but first, you need to brew a batch of growth-enhancing potions to prove your skills. We’ll provide the materials and tools.”

The old man nodded enthusiastically. “Of course, of course.”

(End of chapter)