Chapter 80

The next morning, Ludger woke to the clang of hammers and the rasp of saws. For a moment, he thought it was another battle—the rhythm of impact, the groaning of wood—but when he pushed himself up and peered outside the tent, the truth became clear.

Soldiers were working. Not training, not drilling, not patrolling—but repairing.

Men who still bore bandages on their arms and burns across their faces had scavenged beams from half-toppled houses, dragging them into the square. Others pried stones loose from collapsed walls and stacked them neatly. A few hammered together crude supports to keep the more intact buildings from collapsing outright.

If the town stayed broken, if it looked like it could topple under the smallest arrow or torch, no one outside these walls would ever try to rebuild it. No masons, no carpenters, no civilians with families.

So the men who had fought and bled here were patching the ruins with their own hands. The work was crude—timbers set at awkward angles, stones stacked unevenly—but it was enough to hold, enough to send a message:

we are staying.

Ludger stood in the tent’s entrance for a long moment, watching them sweat under the morning sun. They weren’t saving the town. Not yet. But they were making it harder for anyone to write this place off as dead.

And for the first time since the battle ended, Ludger felt something shift in the air—not victory, not despair, but stubbornness. The same kind that had kept them alive on the battlefield.

Ludger’s first instinct was to step out and join the soldiers. But he held back.

No. If this is going to mean something, it needs a plan. And only one man decides plans here.

He brushed the dirt from his clothes and set his feet toward the largest tent at the center of camp. The streets were still scorched, the air sharp with smoke, but the camp itself had a strange order to it—soldiers moving in groups, either hauling rubble away or sharpening weapons as if expecting another attack. It wasn’t peace. It was a pause.

When Ludger reached the wide pavilion stitched with black and silver banners, he wasn’t surprised to see the others already gathered. Arslan’s party stood in a loose formation before the entrance. Selene with her arms crossed, armguards still dented from the fight. Harold seated on an overturned crate, sharpening his axe with the patience of a butcher. Aleia leaning against a post, one eye half-closed but her bow strung and ready. Cor, as usual, straight-backed, speaking in low voice with Aronia, who looked pale but steadier after the night’s rest.

Ludger scanned their faces and saw no surprise at his arrival. If anything, Aleia’s mouth quirked in her usual sly smile. Arslan himself was nowhere in sight.

“He’s already inside,” Selene said flatly, following Ludger’s eyes to the tent flap. “Lord Torvares called for him earlier.” Ludger’s brow furrowed.

So Father’s already in the thick of it…

The rest of the party stayed silent, waiting, their expressions ranging from weary to grim. Whatever Torvares had summoned them for, it wasn’t likely to be praised. Ludger adjusted his stance, gaze fixed on the tent. If he wanted to know what came next for the army—and for this ruined town—it would be decided there.

“Lord Torvares has already decided, Ludger. You and Viola are to be sent home. The barbarians will need time to gather themselves before they can launch another offensive, and in that span, there is no sense in keeping you both here. You’ve done more than was ever expected.”

Ludger gave a single nod, his expression unreadable. He accepted the logic—there was no reason to argue. But after a pause, he raised his eyes again.

“And what about the town?” he asked. “What’s the plan to restore it?”

That drew a faint ripple of silence. Even Selene glanced sideways, gauging his nerve.

Cor’s expression remained steady, though his answer was edged with practicality. “Lord Torvares intends to negotiate with certain mages. If their services can be secured, they’ll use their craft to reinforce the ruins—bind stone, harden timber, raise what walls can still stand. But such things are neither quick nor cheap. It may take months before any true restoration begins.”

His gaze lingered on Ludger as he finished, as though testing whether the boy would be satisfied with such an answer.

Ludger’s nod this time was slower, thoughtful.

So that’s it. The soldiers can patch walls, but the spine of the town will only rise again if mages are bound to the task. And that means coin, and politics.

The boy crossed his arms, silent, while inside the tent, Lord Torvares’s eyes remained fixed on him, heavy and sharp, as if he were measuring not only Ludger’s words—but the fact that he had asked the question at all.

Ludger’s brow furrowed. “Can mages really make that much of a difference? Enough to turn this mess into something usable?”

Cor inclined his head, his tone patient but edged with certainty. “Yes. Specialists can. Earth mages, in particular. With the right training and enough mana potions, a single caster can do the work of fifty men. They can bind cracked stone together until it’s stronger than before, reshape rubble into usable bricks, and raise foundations in hours instead of weeks. Where ordinary soldiers can only patch with wood and sweat, mages make walls that can stand against sieges. That is the difference.”

The idea stuck in Ludger’s mind. One mage building what an entire company couldn’t. That kind of efficiency was hard to ignore.

If I learned something like that… I could rebuild a fortress alone. I could reshape the battlefield with a thought… given enough time.

The thought was interesting, almost exciting—but it soured quickly. His lips tugged into a wry smile.

What am I even thinking? Do I really want to end up a builder? Stacking stones with mana instead of hands? That’s not me.

He rubbed his jaw, his eyes drifting.

War’s already annoying enough. It doesn’t matter how much I’ve grown, how many levels or classes I’ve pulled out of this chaos—it still feels like a waste. Fighting, patching soldiers back together, listening to screams… I’d rather be sparring with Viola in the yard, mocking her footwork, working out new tricks, focusing on training instead of watching men bleed out.

He exhaled sharply. That image—the quiet rhythm of sparring, the satisfaction of pushing his body and skills forward—felt like a different world entirely. A world he wanted.

But then his gaze returned to the ruined town outside, the blackened walls and the soldiers hammering beams into place with their bare hands.

Wanting peace doesn’t change reality.

The truth was harsh but undeniable. Situations like this couldn’t be avoided. Towns would burn, armies would march, and whether he liked it or not, he was standing in the middle of it. His choices, his skills, his power—they all tied him to this path. And that meant, even if it was irritating, even if it was bloody and thankless, he couldn’t walk away. Not yet.

Before long, the flap of the command tent shifted. Viola stepped out first, followed by Arslan. She held herself stiffly, chin high, her steps measured like she was trying to copy the gait of the officers around her. For once, she wasn’t stomping or pouting—she looked almost… composed.

Ludger narrowed his eyes, then smirked. “What’s this? My dear sister is trying to pass as an adult so people take her seriously? Careful—you might sprain something.”

Her eyebrows twitched. A muscle in her cheek jumped, but she kept her mouth shut. Not a word, not even a glare.

That, more than anything, told Ludger his joke had landed. He almost laughed.

Arslan’s heavy voice cut through before he could press further. “Enough. Luds.” His expression was carved from stone, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You have received your orders from Lord Torvares. You are to return home.”

Ludger’s smirk faded, Viola’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“This isn’t up for debate,” Arslan continued, his eyes sharp as he swept them both. “Disobeying him here would be a thousand times more dangerous than coming to this place in the first place. Don’t mistake being sent home for weakness. It’s the cleanest order you will ever get.”

The weight of his words silenced them both. Even Viola, who looked ready to explode, clenched her fists and bit her tongue.

Arslan adjusted the sword on his back, his shoulders still broad even under the fatigue of battle. “Pack your things. You leave at dawn.”

Ludger didn’t move when Arslan finished. He stayed leaning against the post by the tent, arms crossed, eyes fixed on his father.

“I want to talk with Lord Torvares first.”

Arslan froze mid-step. His brow furrowed, the scar across his cheek tightening. For a long moment he didn’t answer, just studied his son. He knew that look—sharp, calculating, the one that meant Ludger was already stitching arguments together.

“Luds…” Arslan’s tone dropped low, half-warning, half-weary. “You’re too damn clever for your own good. You’ll try to twist him, and if you push the wrong way—”

From inside, a gravel voice cut him off. “Let him come.”

The tent flap stirred with the faint breeze, the weight of Lord Torvares’s words rolling out like smoke. The old man hadn’t raised his voice, but it carried enough steel to silence the square.

Arslan’s jaw tightened. He shot his son a look—half frustration, half pride—but stepped aside.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Go in. But mind yourself.”

Ludger straightened and walked toward the entrance. The air around the tent felt heavier with every step, as though Torvares’s presence seeped out through the canvas itself.

One thing was clear from the old man’s tone: he would hear Ludger out, but he would not budge.

Inside the tent, Lord Torvares stood over a rough map spread across a scarred wooden table. He didn’t even glance up as Ludger entered, his thick hand braced against the parchment, the other resting on the pommel of his sword.

“If you’ve come to beg for a place here,” the old man rumbled, “save your breath. You’ll be sent home. That is final.”

“I’m not here to stay,” Ludger said flatly.

That earned him a faint flicker of an eye. Just enough to show Torvares was listening.

“I wanted to ask for something else. An introduction letter. For one of those earth mages you’re planning to negotiate with.”

Torvares’s brow creased, his frown deepening. “And what would you want with them?”

Ludger’s gaze didn’t waver. “You said they can rebuild this place faster than soldiers ever could. If they can manipulate the earth the way I imagine, then I want to see it for myself. I want to learn what they can do.”

For the first time, the old man straightened, his eyes narrowing, measuring the boy. His scarred face was unreadable, but his silence carried weight.

Finally, he said, “Manipulate the earth, hm?” His frown sharpened. “I wouldn’t phrase it that way. They don’t shape mountains like clay in a child’s hands. But they can bend stone, shift ground, reinforce walls and foundations in ways no ordinary laborer ever could. They can make the earth obey—but always within limits. Always at cost.”

He leaned forward slightly, his voice gravel over steel. “Don’t think of it as play, boy. Think of it as bending nature’s spine until it breaks in your favor. That is what an earth mage does.”

Ludger listened in silence, but the spark in his eyes betrayed him.

Bending the earth to your will… even if not limitless, even if not perfect, that’s still power worth understanding.

Torvares exhaled through his nose, the faintest ghost of irritation flickering across his features. He knew the boy wouldn’t let go once curiosity had bitten him.

Lord Torvares studied Ludger for a long, heavy moment, his eyes sharp as blades. Then he gave a short grunt, almost like a growl.

“Fine. I’ll give you the letter. When the time comes, you’ll carry it to one of the earth mages we call on. They’ll humor you, if only out of obligation to me.”

Ludger nodded once, satisfied. But before he could say more, the old man’s voice cut him down.

“But hear me well, boy.” Torvares leaned closer, the weight of his gaze pressing like a mountain. “You’re spreading yourself too thin. A man who chases every field, every trick, ends up mastering nothing. You’ve already dabbled in healing, brawling, swordplay, and now tactics. If you reach for more before you’ve mastered what you have, you’ll only weaken yourself.”

His tone sharpened, carrying the kind of authority that came not just from rank, but from years steeped in blood and war. “Better to take one skill, one path, and grind it into perfection. Then move to the next. That is how power that lasts is forged.”

Ludger held Viola’s grandfather’s stare, his arms crossed, mind turning over the words. The System had already pushed him into so many roles—pugilist, mage, sage, healer, even tactician. And yet, he couldn’t deny there was truth in Torvares’s warning.

Still, the thought of bending the earth to his will… It was too interesting to ignore.

“Understood,” Ludger said, his tone even. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Torvares’s frown didn’t ease, but he gave a curt nod. “See that you do. The battlefield has no patience for dilettantes.”

“Dilettante?” Ludger tilted his head, frowning. “What’s that?”

For a moment, silence hung in the tent. Then Lord Torvares’s jaw tightened, his scarred brow creasing deeper. He’d spoken with the weight he reserved for hardened soldiers, for men who had seen ten winters of blood. And here was Ludger—sharp-eyed, steady-voiced, but still a boy.

Despite his size, despite the way he carried himself, Torvares sometimes forgot he was only eight years old.

“A dilettante,” the old man said slowly, as though weighing every word, “is someone who plays at many trades but masters none. A man who spreads himself too thin. Who pretends to be strong, but crumbles when the world leans too hard on him.”

He straightened, his presence filling the tent, his voice low and hard. “You don’t want to be that man, boy.”

Ludger blinked once, then nodded, filing the word away. His face stayed calm, but a corner of his mouth twitched. “So basically… a jack of all trades, master of none.”

Torvares grunted. “If you must put it simply, yes.”

The old man’s frown didn’t ease, but there was something else behind his eyes now—an echo of irritation, yes, but also the reminder of just how young Ludger really was, no matter how sharp he looked when standing in a line of soldiers.

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