Morning had broken over the camp once again; no one had rested, and everything was a mess.
The camp wall was being rebuilt and reinforced by the Wall Elder, while those following the Earth Path helped repair the cracks created by the noble the previous night.
The wounded were being tended to by the camp's common medical staff; the most severely injured were treated only by a healing master—just enough so that the common staff could care for them.
Only the camp's own members had access to the healing master, and those who wanted a more complete recovery had to pay the high price that his services demanded. And that's not counting that even the basic medical kit was expensive. None spared expense when it came to treating their wounds—either they paid or used their own supplies, and if they did neither, they would die within hours.
On the other hand, the Sword Caravan enjoyed its own dedicated medical personnel and personalized healing master—a true privilege of nobility. Even so, despite that difference, things inside were not well.
The noble master was agonizing, still weakened and in pain.
The bear's attack had done something quite serious. All the staff gathered to examine the Grandmaster, yet they found nothing; they had tried every kind of medicine and remedy to ease his pain, but no method proved effective. The noble continued to suffer from acute pain—indeed, his condition even seemed to be worsening.
The caravan's seer suspected that he might be under the influence of a spell, though he could not decipher how—there was no trace of magic or any sign of distortion. Still, the matter struck him as odd because there wasn't even the slightest indication of any recent spellcasting, and although the grandmaster of the caravan was occupied dealing with the great bear, his reflexes were remarkably sharp. At the very least, the seer had seen something, yet the master denied it.
As the seer and the caravan members began theorizing and searching for another suspicious clue, one detail stood out: the attitude of the bear. It was the only one among the beasts that did not behave like the others at the final moment—it seemed as if it had gained awareness. This led them to wonder if it were not truly a bear at all, but rather a master of the Transformation Path.
However, even if that were the case, how would it be capable of controlling an entire horde? Such beings did not possess that ability—and especially, if it were capable of delivering another surprise attack in its human form, it did not revert its corpse.
They eventually ruled out various theories between the seer and the caravan members, but the situation would only worsen if nothing were done. They came to the conclusion that the best course of action, for now, was to offer a reward to anyone who could provide a clue or method to heal their lord. Moreover, they would then investigate whether the one offering the cure was directly linked to the noble's malady—thus killing two birds with one stone.
In the distance, Fungi was calmly eating breakfast while watching the caravan; he knew what was coming. The first phase of his plan had been a success. Now came the difficult part.
He would be under the constant scrutiny of a seer. If he approached with a solution for the noble's pain, there was no doubt they would hold him accountable as the sole cause. But if he were the only one who brought about even a single positive recovery, he would be scrutinized and deemed the prime culprit. Therefore, he needed several people to produce results—with varying degrees of recovery—so that, should suspicion fall upon the group, it would take a long time to pinpoint the real culprit. By that time, he would probably be on another continent.
However, all this would be time-consuming and exhausting. Repeatedly projecting his soul would wear him out, and retrieving his soul from afar was equally difficult; he would almost have to create an entire veil to recover it completely—a process that would add to his mental fatigue, but one that would be worth it.
Minutes passed, and then the members of the caravan went out to announce the reward through any means available to restore their lord. All the merchants and sorcerers raised their eyebrows in surprise at the generous reward: a favor returned in exchange for any request.
Even though many were injured and some had lost their goods in yesterday's assault, everyone gathered their strength to start offering traditional remedies or products. No one passed up the opportunity.
Many offered homemade medicines and their products persistently throughout the day in search of results, though the process was slow. They had to verify that none of the ingredients were toxic or fatal to the noble, then wait for about five minutes to see if the effects would manifest, and finally use sorcery to detoxify the medication in order to avoid interference or damage from an overdose.
Hours passed until the first wave of the day ended—everyone was exhausted and had no results. They then gathered more evidence the next day in a 24‑hour cycle. The previous night, the noble had even vomited blood and pointed out new pain points that he hadn't experienced before, leaving him even more debilitated.
Now, with much greater urgency, the Sword Caravan accelerated the process. Although it was exhausting, no significant results were achieved until the third day, when several participants finally managed to improve the noble's condition. It was a small group—individuals who had taken part days earlier, offering three or four different remedies.
This was an excellent sign for the caravan, and they began cataloging the medical recipes submitted by the vendors. By the fifth day, they closed the competition.
With only a handful of medicines that produced varying effects, they simply had to determine which was the best option to restore their lord's vitality. The reward was clearly evident in the eyes of the participants—all were then invited into the caravan.
Before the seer's watchful gaze, they had to recreate the homemade remedy they had offered to ensure that the immediate effects were genuine.
Fungi, along with several vendors, was gathered in a luxurious room within the caravan; everyone's eyes shone with anticipation and wide smiles as they envisioned the rewards they would receive. Only Fungi, however, was fast asleep.
Within minutes, the sound of several footsteps grew louder until the seer arrived in the room accompanied by the noble's two handmaidens. The seer—a man of advanced years with short brown hair and subdued coffee-colored eyes, speaking in a firm voice while crossing his arms over his long purple robe—demanded everyone's attention. All present complied and bowed.
He began a formal speech about the matter and the customary procedures, but then he paused when he noticed someone who was not in tune with the situation. He glanced to the back and noticed someone.
Fungi was still asleep and was soon awakened by a call for attention.
"Sir, excuse me—are you still in this room?"Fungi, barely awake, stirred his hand slightly in response."Pardon me, sir. I'm not at my best right now, but yes, I am here."
Fungi slowly sat up, adopting a posture of reverence with a touch of informality, and then resettled, half-closing his eyes. Several disapproving glances and disparaging remarks arose because of his behavior. Normally, this wouldn't matter much—but in a competition, none of the participants missed the chance to tarnish his image and discredit his achievements.
"Young bastard, you dare come here to sleep during an important matter? Do you take this as a joke?""Gentlemen, why did you allow a child to assist the Lord of Swords? Can't you see how this young one behaves?""I agree—look at that wretch; I'm sure he'll only waste our time."
For a moment, the room filled with negative comments and the beginnings of an argument against Fungi, but the seer, impassive, silenced everyone with a single command, then turned his gaze to the back.
"This is a competition where the result is what matters. What the master does is not our concern right now. If the master wishes to waste his time resting, so be it—but he must answer the call."
Everyone fell silent, yet the noble continued:
"Setting aside formalities and this small lapse, I remind you that, by way of compensation, you must recreate the remedy for the master."
"The rules are simple: you must formulate the medicine and deliver it to us before sunset. If an ingredient is missing from your recipe, check to see if it is in our caravan—we have every type of material for its preparation. If it is exclusive to your caravan, we will first verify the material with our experts. Do not skimp on concerns about rarity; we have vast reserves of materials in our caravans from all the central islands."
"We will accept them in the order of delivery. If two or more finish at the same time, please wait a few minutes."
"Understood?"
Everyone agreed. The seer continued:
"Very well, now accompany the Handmaidens of Swords to the Resource Chamber, and quickly write down your recipes. Do not try to withhold any resources for yourselves, or you will be executed."
Everyone stood, and Fungi waited until all the others left so that he could follow last—he wanted to personally observe the caravan from the back with his soul sense. He had already confirmed over the last few days that his movements were undetected. He was searching for a place of interest that could serve as a remedy.
Fungi was not a doctor at all; his knowledge was almost nil. He wanted to ensure that, before today ended, the caravan had the materials he remembered from his childhood.
Ironically, when he took his first steps into magic, it was thanks to botany—with a friend he loved collecting and using plants for everything.
What he presented to the noble was nothing more than one of those tea recipes from his youth—a simple tea. Although it might sound ridiculous, the ingredients Fungi used were extremely insignificant.
But because these were materials with no commercial value, they appeared unusual. He had spent the past few days searching for a set of different plants that fit his memories.
He did not want to risk using known materials for his preparation in hopes of achieving an effect that should not occur with those ingredients, and he did not have much knowledge about rare materials or how they might combine. So he opted to use mundane materials that no one would ever think possessed any property beyond what he intended them to seem.
That was a challenge for him, and he feared that the caravan might not have the materials he needed—but fortunately, they had many of the items required. Another aspect of his search was to find materials or even a mobilization ritual.
He was on his way to another continent, in the Eastern Islands, and had a few weeks before his decoy would be destroyed. The journey was not exactly short; he needed a single-use teleportation ritual to establish an instant connection with the Central Continent, or materials he could use to cast a spell capable of transferring his soul to the decoy's body.
It was a necessity; otherwise, he would have to face Secil upon arrival—which worried him greatly. She was an assassin by nature, and he knew he would never be able to best her in a one-on-one fight, nor could he hope to resist with a supreme's retaliatory spell.
He already felt, before departing, the threat of Secil's dagger over his head—and even from afar, he still sensed her sharp gaze. So the best he could do, if everything went awry, was to teleport away from the continent and escape to become stronger.
Of course, at least strong enough to hide from a supreme's wrath. He doubted for a moment that his master wouldn't still assimilate souls and recover much of his vitality, nor did he doubt that vengeance would come sooner or later.
The very idea of a supreme seeking vengeance—even for someone who had lived with a demon—made him uncomfortable.
But, for his misfortune, he had not yet found anything; all that remained was to ask the noble at the end of the competition. In any case, his future was secured; he cared little.
After everyone was led to the Resource Chamber, it resembled a modest room with drawers, each neatly organized with a variety of products. And because all the items were crafted as magical objects, they offered far more storage than they appeared.
All the participants submitted their lists of materials, and after a few moments, each received their allotted share. Some began a laborious process using clay ovens; others directly emptied bottles of liquids and essences.
Fungi, for his part, pretended to work and put on a modest show before the judge. He was simply preparing a tea he had learned as a child, using quick methods of withering, rolling, and drying with the caravan's tools. He waited for everything to dry, and due to the lack of a small pouch for the tea, he simply placed the leaves in a gourd and filled it with hot water.
The tea had a bitter, herbal, and smoky taste—an intense flavor, much like that of a medicine. Satisfied, Fungi kept the leftover material in his storage cube. He was neither the first nor the last to submit—an advantageous detail for him.
He waited his turn, and then until the deadline at sunset, when the last two remedies were submitted. Although he appeared to be resting in his chair, he was secretly healing and, in small increments, damaging the noble with each moment—providing bursts of improvement while keeping him weak.
He had created quite a performance with the medicines and their effects, nearly matching each other. Some using his tea even risked being the most effective of all—but all of it was calculated.
All he had to do was wait for his call alongside the other participants. After a few minutes, everyone gathered outside the noble's resting chamber, which now appeared to be in much better physical condition—though still exhausted, he did not look pitiable; it seemed he had regained part of his presence.
The assembled participants knelt in respect before the noble, and the seer stepped forward, positioning himself beside his master, and spoke in a firm voice:
—"The results speak for themselves, and we, the Kingdom of Swords, thank you for dedicating your time to saving our master. Thanks to your efforts, we have rescued our lord."
—"But there can only be one winner."
Everyone fell silent; some were even sweating from nervousness, while others appeared confident after seeing the noble's reaction—unaware of how the others truly felt.
—"I would like to give an honorable mention to one of our participants, Gazkull, who was one of the first to submit a remedy and who provided the most potent healing effect for our leader."
All turned their gaze toward Gazkull, whose appearance was quite distinctive—he had an unkempt black beard and signs of baldness. He sat with a haughty smile, looking at everyone without uttering a word.
—"However, according to orders from the Noble of Swords, your recipe, compared to other remedies with even very positive effects, is far too expensive to be chosen."
Gazkull's smile vanished, and he appeared to pale slightly at what he heard; the others showed similar dismay.
—"Who among you is Varmellon?"
Fungi stood silently. The noble regarded him with a calm gaze and then spoke in a steady voice:
—"But you achieved the best result using unconventional materials that we never knew could produce a positive effect. Initially, it seemed strange, but after testing with others, it appears that the leaves you used have unusual properties we were unaware of. Many of my soldiers even feel more alive."
Fungi merely smiled slightly and replied naturally:
—"I am a trader from very distant lands. In the past, an incredible teacher, an old man, taught me that nothing is as it seems—the simplest things can be the most effective, sir."
The noble bowed his head and looked at the rest.
—"As for the rest of you, my role as a noble would be undermined if I did not appreciate your efforts, so you will all receive a modest reward for your endeavors. My handmaidens will deliver a list of items for you to choose from."
Although the others felt dejected for not winning, their spirits were lifted as they looked on with bright eyes, grateful for the noble's consideration, and they left the room with the noble's ladies—leaving only Fungi and the master.
The seer then produced a sphere which created an air bubble in the room, muting any external noise.
Then, after the assembly, the noble raised his hand toward Fungi, who responded accordingly.
—"Liquid-Spear, second son of Duke Liquid-Edge of the Iron Hand Clan, Master Varmellon, I must thank you for providing that remedy in the face of the unbearable pain I suffered."
Fungi simply smiled modestly.
—"You are welcome, sir. I understand very well what it is like to lie in pain without any alternative for relief."
Liquid-Spear released Fungi's hand and assumed a firm posture.
—"Let's put aside all formalities and discuss your reward, for that is why we are here, is it not? Tell me what you desire, and I will provide it."
Fungi lowered his hand, looked at him intently, and pretended to ponder briefly before speaking.
—"I have one request and one favor, sir. I must reach the southern seaport to continue my journey east, but my caravan has been nearly completely destroyed, and what I desire is a means of transport to get to my destination."
The noble raised an eyebrow.
—"Continue."
Fungi sighed.
"I need your favor: transport me with your caravan to the seaport, and also let me know if you have a single-use teleportation ritual you could spare."
After a moment, the noble also sighed.
—"So that's the deal, then? Well, I have bad news regarding your demands."
Fungi raised both eyebrows in surprise and allowed the noble to continue.
—"My caravan cannot take you directly to the port; we have an important fixed route, and we have already lost much time at the camp. We only came to sell products and exchange them with the owner, but days have passed."
—"Regarding your second request, I do not have a teleportation ritual to offer you either. That sort of thing is reserved for military use or for matters of the highest importance in royalty."
At this, Fungi felt a touch of despondency—he had not expected to be rejected on both counts. Nevertheless, he still had to resolve his two problems. Noticing Fungi's change in mood, the noble raised his voice once more.
—"However, that does not mean I won't reward and help you."
The noble approached Fungi and produced a small medallion bearing the sword symbol, bathed in gold and tied with a purple ribbon; it drew a small drop of blood from Fungi's hand.
—"Display this anywhere in the domain of Swords and you will be granted access to exclusive areas of my clan, as well as those of my political allies."
—"You are a trader, aren't you? With this, you can participate in important auctions."
Fungi looked at him, surprised, with joy lighting up his face.
It wasn't exactly what he needed at this moment, but having an insignia from a kingdom was, in itself, extremely valuable. It meant free refuge; furthermore, in the future, when he is free, he could engage in large-scale legacy exchange.
It could open many possibilities for him and provide a much better excuse for future gains—simply by claiming that he is part of a clan or an important member of the Swords nobility, without having to explain anything further; just possessing the insignia would be more than enough.
But the noble wasn't finished yet. Seeing Fungi's expression, he felt satisfied and continued:
—"Although I cannot leave you at the seaport with your caravan, you will be transported with us until you must turn toward the port. You will be escorted in complete comfort. Does that sound acceptable?"
Fungi's voice and face broke into pure joy, and he silently nodded, leaving the Sword Caravan in favor of his own.
Han-Lee and Huo-Huo were playing in the decrepit caravan until Fungi finally arrived, at which point he merely remarked that they were about to leave.