"Hey, Sir Knight!"
Gaul grinned as he gave Simon a hearty slap on the shoulder. "Once you get your own fief, don't forget us old friends, alright?"
"N-no, of course not!" Simon stammered, flustered. "Brother Gaul, don't tease me like that…"
But Gaul's tone had just a hint of bitterness.
"Oh? You call this teasing? With that full suit of plate armor, who'd believe you're not a knight?"
Simon scratched his cheek in embarrassment, only for the gap in his gauntlet to snag a strand of hair—he winced. "Ow—!"
"Haha, don't move, you idiot." Gaul stepped forward to help free his hair, his earlier resentment melting away in laughter.
Still… he couldn't help but feel envious.
He'd been serving at the fortress longer than Simon, yet it was Simon who got to wear full plate armor first.
The mirror-like surface gleamed in the sunlight. Shoulder plates, gauntlets, groin guard, greaves, boots—everything was complete. Once the visor came down, not a single weak point remained, save for the narrow slit to see through.
On the battlefield, this kind of armor tripled a man's odds of survival.
But Gaul wasn't bitter—not truly.
Because Simon had earned it.
He'd come from nothing—a serf who didn't even know his letters. But when it came to learning, adapting, and absorbing new knowledge, he surpassed even Gaul and Link. In the recent battle, his performance had been outstanding.
Feet rooted in place, he didn't retreat even when enemies charged inches from his face. If not for him holding the front like a nail in the ground, the formation might've collapsed entirely.
Still, Lord Rus was a generous man. Today it was Simon's turn to don plate.
One day, Gaul believed, his turn would come too.
"What are you two standing around for? I'm drowning in work over here!"
Link strode up in chainmail, carrying a large crate in his arms. "Quit chatting and give me a hand!"
Simon hurried over and hefted the box. "Whoa—that's heavy. What's in here?"
Link popped open the lid without answering.
Sunlight struck silver—a chest full of coins.
"Whoa—!" Gaul's eyes went wide. He reached in to scoop up a handful. "Did you rob the lord's vault and plan to bribe us into running away with you?"
"Don't talk nonsense!" Link smacked his hand away, half amused, half annoyed.
"This is our battle bonus. And compensation for the families of the fallen."
"Five silvers each for the survivors. Twenty for the wounded. Fifty for the dead."
"Then this must be mine." Gaul grinned, pocketing five silver coins. "Lord Rus really is generous. I've been a soldier for years—first time I've seen anyone get paid after a victory. Right, Simon?"
But when he turned to Simon, he was stunned.
The young man had tears rolling down his face, lips trembling as he tried to hold them in.
Simon was crying.
He thought of his grandfather—now long gone.
If Lord Rus had inherited the fief just a few years earlier—if these five silver coins had come a little sooner—maybe his grandfather wouldn't have had to starve himself just to save food for the family.
Simon had feared the bandits, feared for his life, feared for the three women waiting for him at home. But now, all he felt was a deep, gut-wrenching guilt—and overwhelming gratitude.
Fifty silver coins.
That's what every fallen soldier's family would receive.
Fifty.
With that much, a family could buy livestock—chickens, sheep.
A ewe cost fifteen silver. A hen, one.
Raise a few, sell milk and eggs—six copper per kilo of milk, two per egg.
Enough to buy black bread, coarse flour. Enough to survive.
How dare I doubt Lord Rus… I'm such a fool!
"Lord Rus… he's an angel! He's so kind… so merciful!"
Simon sniffled. "I'll go deliver the compensation now. I know where the families of the dead live."
"We all do." Link clapped his shoulder with a smile.
"But wipe your face first. You're carrying Lord Rus's goodwill—don't show up looking like a mess."
A few hours later.
Knock knock.
Gordon tapped on Rus's study door.
Rus, seated at his desk and staring blankly at a set of magic cores, looked up.
"Come in."
The door opened.
Rus turned—and burst out laughing.
"Mr. Gordon? What brings you here—bringing me lunch today?"
"It's not food, my lord," Gordon replied, mopping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.
"This is a gift from the townsfolk."
"A gift?" Rus raised an eyebrow, accepting the basket.
He set it on the desk, lifted the cloth cover—and blinked in surprise.
Four-leaf clovers.
Dozens of them. Fresh, glistening green.
A rare mutation of the common three-leaf variety, a four-leaf clover typically appeared once every few hundred. To gather so many—it must've taken hours of painstaking effort.
A silent, heartfelt gesture of gratitude.
"One leaf for honor.
One for wealth.
One for love.
One for health."
Gordon recited the saying with a rare elegance in his voice.
"My lord, I once believed you were wasteful… pouring coin into unworthy peasants. But now I see your vision and wisdom far outstrip this old man's."
"For mere hundreds of silver coins, you've achieved what none of the previous barons ever did—true loyalty from the people."
Rus smiled.
He had expected some goodwill—but this? This was beyond expectations.
A lord's command could drive men to their deaths.
But gratitude could make them offer their lives willingly.
The outcome might be the same—death—but the impact was entirely different.
One was reluctant sacrifice.
The other… was the fury of a man biting back with his dying breath.
Gordon, full of admiration, quietly left the room.
Rus turned back to the objects on his desk.
Three red-date-sized magic cores—dark, crystalline, and faintly glowing—gleamed in the firelight.
Extracted from the Blood-Eyed Warhorses, they were the source of their supernatural power.
Activating the Eye of Truth, Rus peered inside.
In that altered vision, a red glow pulsed at each core's center like a living flame.
He picked one up.
A tingling sensation buzzed across his palm like an electric current. No matter how he turned it, the red light always shifted to stay aligned with his palm—as if drawn to him.
"So this… is supernatural power…" he whispered.
"If I ate it… would I become a Tier-1 Transcendent?"
He laughed to himself.
It was a joke, of course.
A Tier-1 magic core might sell for one gold coin.
But a single vial of Tier-1 divine elixir cost three hundred.
If eating a couple of magic cores could grant power, who would buy the potions?
He tossed the core back onto the desk.
Then, slowly, he picked up a belt.
His eyes lit up.
This was the most valuable loot from the bandit raid.
The crown jewel of his plunder.