Mage? Magic Engineer!-Chapter 84 - 81: Almost a Serf-Owner Reservist

"Sorry for sleeping in. I have a few important things I wanted to ask you."

Old Mercer shot him a look, and Franz, taking the hint, walked off to check on the cowshed.

"Go on, son."

His large, rough hands raised an axe, ready to chop firewood. But with a single cast of Rorschach’s Decomposition Skill, the branch split into neat strips of kindling.

"I took a job, and... well, the deal I made with my employer was to have twelve Gold Coins sent here to you every month. Have you been getting them? There should have been at least two payments by now."

With another cast of the Decomposition Skill, a new pile of kindling appeared.

"Yes, we’ve been getting it. During the last ten days of the month, a silent fellow comes knocking with your letter and the money. Otherwise, where would we have gotten the money to buy everyone rounds of light beer?

"But it’s too much. Way too much. So much that your mother and I are afraid to even touch it. It feels... strange, Rorschach. You don’t need to send so much money back. We eat what we grow and use what we make. What is there to even spend it on around here?"

Rorschach studied Old Mercer. The man was still built like a brick house—a farmer as sturdy as an old ox. Madam Mercer was also in good health, a rarity in the countryside in this day and age.

Still, he suggested, "You could move into town. There will be more money coming, and I can give you a lump sum right now to purchase a property."

"But we’re just farmhands. We’re good at tilling the soil, but what would we do in a town? We can’t just sit around doing nothing."

"You could open a small shop? I’m pretty sure I can cover the startup costs for a small business." Rorschach then simply used his Mage’s Hand to gather all the remaining branches and Decomposed them in one go.

Old Mercer shook his head. "I feel more at ease with things that grow from the soil."

With nothing left for him to do, he rested the axe handle on the ground, a look of reminiscence on his face. "Your dream used to be joining the army. You told us that once you earned merit, you’d receive a land grant, get a huge field, and own a whole mountainside. Now... well, this is good too."

’The Empire’s current system is still a patchwork of Lords’ domains; you can’t just buy up land wantonly, even if you have the money. To use wealth for expansion, you need a title, or you have to be the scion of a noble family and gain the Empire Council’s approval for it to be legal. For a commoner, military service is the easiest path to a land grant.’

’That’s why the old Rorschach, the Fireball Skill specialist, had that dream. Even if he couldn’t become an Official Mage, a human cannon would always be highly valued in the Empire Army. Land—sun-drenched land—is an obsession for farmers, the Nobility, and the entire Empire. To Old Mercer, it’s more reassuring than Gold Coins.’

"At the very least, Franz and Angela should get to study in town."

Mercer waved a dismissive hand. "You think I need you to tell me that? We scrimped and saved to send you to school when we were dirt poor! Now that the family has money, of course we’ll provide for them. It’s just... I don’t see the same cleverness in Franz that you had as a kid. It might be better for him to learn a trade."

"Okay. By the way, where’s the village chief? I haven’t seen him." Rorschach recalled that before he’d left for school, the village chief had been about Old Mercer’s current age—a man in his forties. That would make him a "venerable" fifty or sixty years old now.

"Melson..." Mercer’s tone made Rorschach’s heart jump. ’He’s not... gone, is he?’ The original Rorschach had only been able to go to the Imperial Capital thanks to the village chief’s staunch support and fundraising. He absolutely had to see him this time.

Thankfully, what followed the dramatic pause was a minor problem—at least for Rorschach. "The old man just had to go hunting in the mountains. Little Melson couldn’t stop him. He fell and broke his leg and the bones... here. He’s still laid up!" Mercer couldn’t name the ribs, so he just gestured to his own torso.

"Okay, I’ll go pay the village chief’s family a visit."

"Head to your left. It’s the one with a few rabbit pelts hanging by the door."

Mercer watched Rorschach’s retreating back and chuckled. "’Pay a visit.’ The airs on that kid..." He picked up the firewood produced by the Decomposition Skill. Many of the pieces were too thick. They’d never dry out in the weak winter sun and would just hiss and smoke in the fire.

The man shook his head, grabbed a kindling axe, and started splitting the logs.

"Excuse me, is this the village chief’s home? I’m Rorschach."

CREAK... Little Melson opened the door. Rorschach remembered him from the night before—he’d taken some candy and then gone home.

"Dad, Rorschach the Mage is here to see you."

The old man’s beloved hunting rifle hung on the wall by the bed. The village chief himself was in bed, one leg propped up, bound in linen cloth and splinted with wooden planks. He seemed to be in pain and wheezed when he spoke, but he was still smiling. "Good lad. I knew you’d become a Mage."

Old Melson was a clever man. In his youth, he had served in a Knight’s Servant Army, where he’d learned to read, write, and do sums. He had even been a minor supply clerk for a time. That, combined with his good character, meant he quickly became the trusted village chief upon returning home. The very bandages Rorschach was looking at were a technique Melson had learned in the army and had directed his son to apply.

The title "village chief" wasn’t a formal position within the Empire’s administrative machine. It was merely a role that arose in the western countryside, spontaneously elected by villagers and acknowledged by the local Lord.

Village chiefs generally held prestige and trust among the peasants, and they were also capable of receiving and relaying orders to each household. They typically organized villagers for mandatory labor, collected taxes, and, when the peasants felt the Lord’s levies and rents were too high, they would negotiate with the Lord on their behalf.

In the Eastern Empire, however, there were more petty lords who had earned their titles through military service. They managed their own manors and estates directly, often dabbling in business on the side.

These men—ambitious younger sons of the Nobility with military backgrounds, or merchants who had climbed the social ladder—ruled with a firmer hand than the old, hereditary aristocrats and had no need for a village chief to manage their people. During the Marlin Kingdom’s period of expansion, annexation, and enfeoffment, large numbers of freemen and tenant farmers were reduced to serfdom under the new military-made nobles.

Mages who graduated from the Empire Royal Magic Academy were the most exceptional of all. If not for that accident, Rorschach might have become one of them, holding power of life and death over the dozens, even hundreds, of serfs on his manor.

His thoughts wandered for a moment, but Rorschach quickly pulled himself back to the present. He retrieved two bottles of wine from the Holy Kingdom out of his Storage Ring. He planned to give another two to Mercer before he left.

"Wine?" Melson’s spirits visibly lifted. He sat up straighter, admiring the dark glass bottle and the deep red liquid within as it caught the sunlight.

"That’s right. From Valuva."

"Good, good! Young Rorschach gets it. This old man needs wine to heal up fast."

"Thank you for all your help back then."

"Go on, go on. Get to your chores, boy. Me and Rorschach the Mage are going to have a chat."

’Do all you patriarchs enjoy shooing your own sons away? Still, this works out for me.’ Rorschach got straight to the point. "This is for you. A token of my gratitude for your selfless support all those years ago."

He handed the old man a small wooden box containing fifty Empire Golden Eagles. Before taking the Airship here, Rorschach had exchanged half of his Gold Coins from the Holy Kingdom. This was just a small fraction of it.

"Lad, you..." The old man opened the box, and the glint of gold made him freeze before he snapped it shut again.

"Please, let me finish. This money is for you and Little Mel to improve your lives, but I also hope you might set up a small classroom and teach the village children once a week. After all, you’re the most learned person here. If there are any particularly bright children, I can sponsor them further, but that will have to wait until my next visit."

Rorschach remembered how difficult the lessons at the Duchy’s town school had been for him. He’d been forced to grind relentlessly from a young age, and it was only through a combination of talent and sheer hard work that he’d managed to outperform the children of merchants and minor Nobility, who had the benefit of early education and private tutors.

Old Melson grinned. "If this old man survives the winter, I’ll do just as you say. I’m getting on in years, anyway. Even after I’ve healed up, I won’t be able to do heavy work anymore."

"Speaking of your injury, would you let me take a look?"

Melson’s injury wasn’t just a broken bone; he had a laceration as well. The wound was a ghastly gray-white, with black residue stuck in the flesh. "Was afraid it would get infected," he explained, "so I packed it with gunpowder. It’s a trick I learned in the army."

’The fact that it’s not infected is the best I could hope for.’ "I can try to help you heal faster. But you have to promise me—you must wait until after I’m gone to get out of bed and tell everyone you’re all better."