One Night

After grinding his teeth in frustration for a long while, he began to reflect on the battle. As far as tactics went, he didn't think he'd made any major mistakes; he'd used every advantage available to him. As for brilliant strategies or artful command, he wasn't a military expert or a battlefield commander, so there was no need to hold himself to such standards.

What had really left him so badly injured were those two who'd gone around behind them for a sneak attack. He'd managed to face them both at once with his still-unpolished swordsmanship only thanks to his excellent physique. Otherwise, his adventuring career would already have come to an end.

The real problem was that he just wasn't strong enough. His teammates had already done so much for him—surely they couldn't keep treating him like a rookie forever? At least, after all that training, he'd managed to integrate what he'd learned and wield it as naturally as his own arm. If he faced an attack like that again, he wouldn't have to take such a desperate gamble. A steady, methodical approach was the safest bet.

After tossing and turning in bed for a while, Zhang Yuan thought of the spell he'd failed to cast. When the Gnolls had charged at him, he'd had no choice but to abandon the Sleep spell he'd been preparing. He simply wasn't confident he could finish casting it before they reached him.

It had been a necessary choice. If he'd managed to cast the spell, the whole situation could have turned around. But there was no use in wishing, and he was still only a novice mage who hadn't even gotten his foot in the door.

Though he relied on his summons and pretended to be someone who'd awakened his powers naturally, he knew perfectly well that he might get away with throwing his weight around against a few weak opponents. But if he ran into a tough one, or his pawns were tied up and he had to fight, the only thing he could rely on was the sword in his hand.

He hadn't truly set foot in the arcane arts yet, and he knew it. He had no metamagic abilities, such as casting spells instantly, casting without gestures, or casting in combat. His use of magic was quite limited; he couldn't even shorten a spell by a single syllable.

In the end, he was a mage and a warrior, not merely a summoner of pawns.

He'd joined the Flaming Fist, trained so hard, and searched so urgently for a magic tutor who could teach him because he wanted to grow stronger—strong enough to survive in this dangerous world.

But he also didn't want to become too dependent on his golden finger.

It wasn't that his golden finger was bad or unreliable. It was just a support, a branch of a tree rather than its trunk. Neglecting the root to chase after the branches was a mistake.

Besides, he didn't want to become the sort of person he'd always despised: someone who was nothing without his golden finger.

A person had to do something with their life, had to prove something.

You could say he had too much time on his hands, but according to Maslow's hierarchy of needs, there was nothing wrong with striving for self-fulfillment once your basic needs were met. People weren't pigs; they didn't just eat their fill and go to sleep.

I'm still better than a pig, right? he thought.

Filled with lofty ambitions and boundless anticipation, Zhang Yuan fell asleep face-down on the bed.

Early the next morning, Skar came looking for him. He didn't look too happy, and the first thing he did was apologize:

"Sorry. I was too optimistic. Grand Duke Iltan doesn't think much of our plan, and he doesn't trust the prophet."

Though Skar put it gently, saying the Grand Duke didn't think much of it and all, his expression suggested it hadn't been quite so mild. In fact, Skar had been given a thorough dressing-down.

"It's only natural that the Grand Duke has doubts. Sending troops into a place like the Sharp Teeth Forest on a whim would be truly irresponsible." Zhang Yuan had expected this and wasn't discouraged. "But what if we could prove it? Find evidence that the Grand Duke couldn't deny or refute."

Skar was a little surprised at first, but after thinking it over, he agreed. "The problem is, can we trust that prophet you mentioned? And what kind of evidence would count as credible? Something too private or important wouldn't be appropriate."

"Don't worry about the prophet. You've served Grand Duke Iltan for so many years—why are you asking me what would be appropriate?"

Skar lowered his head and clasped his hands together, lost in thought. Zhang Yuan didn't rush him. After a long while, Skar finally looked up.

"I have an idea. Grand Duke Iltan once had a child who disappeared when they were young because of a political conspiracy. Over the years, the Grand Duke must have spent an incalculable amount of money and manpower searching, but he's found nothing."

"He doesn't even know if the child is alive or dead. The Grand Duke has already given up hope." Skar sounded a little wistful as he spoke. He hadn't witnessed any of it himself, but as a close confidant who'd followed the Grand Duke for years, he knew where the man's bouts of melancholy and regret came from.

There was something like that? The unscrupulous mage glanced at Skar. Had Iltan, who had no children, started treating Skar like an adopted son because of this? He couldn't help speculating maliciously.

"Don't worry. I'm not stupid enough to joke about such important information. Wait for good news." Zhang Yuan's voice was firm.

As for why he trusted that prophet so much, it went back to a story from long ago.

A little over a month earlier, on the eighth day after a certain transmigrator had arrived in Faerûn, the renowned collector Sir Kist of Ferenno held an exhibition of his personal collection.

At the time, Zhang Yuan was still undergoing hellish training at the Flaming Fist's barracks. Despite being utterly exhausted, so weak that a gust of wind might knock him over and one fall might leave him in pieces, he clutched his Euro coin and dragged Wiles, a down-on-his-luck painter, straight to the exhibition.

The exhibition was being held at Sir Kist's estate. Fortunately, Wiles knew the way, and Zhang Yuan managed to sneak in despite not having an invitation.

But a penniless painter could only get them so far. When they tried to approach Sir Kist and launch into a sales pitch for the coin, the guards stopped them three meters away. Two fellows in bizarre clothes—Zhang Yuan—and tattered rags—Wiles—clearly weren't people of any standing. Get lost!

With no other choice, Zhang Yuan tried to sell his coin to the other guests at the exhibition. Aside from a few mocking remarks and some people trying their luck with a rock-bottom offer, he got nowhere.

Dejected, Zhang Yuan decided to leave, while Wiles, dazzled by everything around him, chose to stay and continue his art-appreciation tour.

Once outside, Zhang Yuan looked around. The streets in downtown Baldur's Gate were crowded with pedestrians and carriages. He looked at himself—he had only a few gold coins to his name—then at the beggars by the road. It was a case of the tearful consoling the tearful, of the brokenhearted comforting the brokenhearted.

The beggar seemed to feel something too and held out both hands in a friendly gesture.

"Get outta here." He turned and walked away.

He wandered aimlessly through the bustling marketplace. The people and carriages weaving past, the hawkers' cries, the street performers putting on a clown show—all of it felt like another world that had nothing to do with him.

With his grand scheme to make a fortune in tatters, Zhang Yuan wanted to throw his head back and howl, but was afraid his own people would beat him up. He held it in and quickened his pace.

He walked around a circus troupe performing a lion jumping through a ring of fire, and came upon a rather ornate tent. Zhang Yuan had meant to walk straight past it, but he happened to notice a sign: "Fortune-Teller."

He was just about to scoff and leave when he suddenly thought of the uncannily accurate prophet from the game. Could this be the same person?

With a trace of hope, Zhang Yuan went inside. The moment he entered, he was impressed. This fortune-teller was the real deal: tarot cards, crystal balls, magic wands, all kinds of little creatures like frogs and mice, skulls, and more. Everything you could ask for.

Now that was a professional setup! He asked the master's name.

"Just call me Klein."

That settled it. He didn't know how this person had ended up in Faerûn looking for a way to make a living, but that didn't matter, did it?

Phew~ My new book made it onto the fantasy section's recommendation list, and my collection count got a nice boost! ヽ(°▽°)ノ

Thank you all for your support, and thank you to the readers who've been with me all this way.

Thanks as well to 笨球卡比, fy11766, and 无奈之余 for the tips.

P.S. Kabi, get some rest and recover soon. I'm still waiting for "I Am the Creator" to resume updates!