With the matter of Tilenburg and the Dark Elves settled, Gerhart and I returned to our castle in Tharros Vale. The journey was quiet, the kind that carried the weight of change. The kind that made you wonder whether the world just shifted a little—like something great had been nudged back into place.
The council was summoned immediately upon our arrival.
Inside the stone chamber, with banners fluttering gently in the breeze from the tall windows, we laid out everything—the alliance with the Dark Elves, the arrival of Lady Deidre, the wealth they brought, and Count Merkel's forgotten heritage. As expected, Franz narrowed his eyes, his fingers already tapping on his abacus as if trying to disprove everything through sheer math. Numbers, after all, were his only true gods.
Still, the others took the news better.
Ziegler lit up like a young squire hearing tales of knights—he seemed thoroughly delighted by the idea of working with the descendant of Dalmerix, the fabled founder of Stahlmark. The man always did love history more than people.
Karl, our overseer of provisions, had a far more grounded reaction. "Seafood. Fresh. Daily?" he asked, grinning. I nodded. He nearly cried.
Mathilda leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled, eyes distant. "Darkkins, hmm? I'll send my agenst to Tilenburg. Quietly." She didn't need to elaborate. Her network would already be moving.
And Bishop Austin—well, he beamed like a sunflower in spring. He had a goblet in hand before I even finished speaking. He toasted to diplomacy, to fish, to Deidre's elven wine, and to "things finally going our way." As long as his cup remained full and the light through the stained glass stayed warm, he would support anything, really.
I suppose that's what governance looks like: a handful of strange souls, arguing over the future while trying not to trip over the present.
In the following weeks, Tharros Vale began to change.
The main roads were repaved—stone upon stone laid to the highest standard, fit for a kingdom twice our size. Schools rose in every village, small but proud, filled with laughter and ink-stained fingers. Bishop Austin coordinated with the Church to dispatch priests and healers across the county—not just for rituals and blessings, but to teach, to listen, to help.
Hospices were built. Trade expanded. With the growing influx of coin from deals with the Bovinids, the Woodkins, and several surrounding counties, I proposed the establishment of granaries in every major city.
"Food security first," I told them. "Wealth can't help us if our people starve during a bad season."
To my surprise, Gerhart approved immediately.
"Smart thinking," he said, clapping me on the back.
Even Franz gave a reluctant nod. "It's expensive," he muttered, "but necessary. You'll get your grain."
For a fleeting moment, I let myself feel proud.
And then, misfortune found me—as it often does the moment pride sets in.
It was a bright morning, the kind that promised nothing but good harvest and cheerful songs. I was inspecting a village near the southern hills. The children were playing near the roadside, laughing with a young Bovinid calf after school.
Then, without warning, my horse reared.
The poor beast was startled by the sudden shriek of joy from one of the kids. My hands slipped from the reins. The world spun. And before I knew it, I was on the ground, winded, staring up at the blue sky with the very distinct realization that I was getting too old for this.
The villagers rushed over. My guards looked horrified. Gerhart, ever blunt, leaned over me with a grin.
"You fell like a sack of potatoes, Leo."
"Shut up," I wheezed.
And that was how a chapter of prosperity, politics, and careful diplomacy ended—with me flat on my back in the dirt, trying to remember how breathing worked.
My ankle swelled to twice its size within minutes, taking on an alarming purplish hue. Sprain. No doubt. The pain radiated up to my knee with every attempt to move, until I finally gave up and just lay there, groaning like a wounded ox.
Gerhart, bless him, didn't even mock me this time. He helped me up with surprising care and half-carried me to the nearest hospice, where the scent of herbs and incense greeted us like an old friend.
Given the level of medical innovation in this world, I prepared myself for the usual medieval protocol: poultices, bandages, maybe a stitched leather boot to immobilize the joint—and a long, slow two-week recovery if I was lucky.
I was helped onto a clean, firm mattress. Not bad, honestly. Then an elderly priest shuffled over to me, his robes slightly dusted with ash, his hands wrinkled but steady, and his expression radiating the kind of warmth usually reserved for doting grandfathers or slightly drunk saints.
"Oho! What do we have here?" he chuckled as he knelt beside me. "Ah… a sprained ankle, young man?"
"Sorry to trouble you, Father," I murmured, trying to maintain some dignity.
He laughed, the sound as soothing as a warm hearth on a winter night.
"No trouble at all, my child. Let's take a look."
His fingers gently pressed around the swelling—deliberate, practiced. Then he closed his eyes, lowered his head slightly, and whispered a prayer under his breath.
I only caught the name of Solarius before the rest became a blur of holy syllables.
Then it happened.
A soft glow, white-gold like the morning sun, bloomed from beneath his hands. The warmth seeped into my skin—not hot, not searing, but deep and tender. Like a living massage. I could feel something shifting within the tissue… the pain fading, the swelling vanishing. The blood in my leg surged upward with sudden ease.
Within seconds, my ankle was… fine.
No pain. No bruising. No awkward stiffness. I flexed my foot in disbelief. It felt good. Too good.
I stared at it like it had just regrown from being severed.
The priest chuckled again, eyes twinkling. "You act like this is the first time you've been healed, Sir Leonhart."
I replied with an awkward grin. Then, I bowed slightly. "Thank you, Father. Truly."
He waved it off with a smile. "Blessings of Solarius come to all who walk the path. But be careful next time, hmm? Stay on your horse."
He turned to tend another patient, leaving me blinking at my formerly-broken ankle and reassessing my understanding of… well, everything.
Apparently, I had a lot to learn about magic in this world.
And what better place to learn about magic than from our most venerable, perpetually inebriated, and undeniably badass Suffragan Bishop—Stefan "Steve" Austin?
I decided to pay a visit to his monastery-slash-brewery. There, amidst the scent of barley and the bubbling of cauldrons, the man himself was hard at work, bare-chested, muscles bulging like a barbarian from a fantasy calendar. He lifted a heavy sack of Bovinid hops over his shoulder with one hand and dumped it into a vat of steaming water like it weighed nothing.
"Yeah, son! I figured you'd come sooner or later!" he roared with a grin. "With that drinkin' prowess, you should've been here ages ago. Now help me out!"
And so I did.
Turns out, my modern-world experience with homebrewing came in handy. I moved naturally through the motions under the Bishop's loud commands. Before I knew it, I was enjoying it—maybe a little too much. I completely forgot I was here for answers about magic.
After a hard day's brewing, we finally sat down with oversized tankards of fresh Stunner Ale in our hands. We clinked glasses, took a long gulp, and sighed in tandem.
Delightful.
"So, what are you really here for, son?" the Bishop asked, eyeing me over the rim of his tankard.
"Magic, Austin. I want to know about it."
He gave me a flat look like I'd just asked if fish could fly.
"No, son. You can't do magic. You don't have the blessing, the bloodline, or the training."
"No, I don't want to do magic," I clarified. "I just want to understand it."
He stared at me.
"Magic?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Spells."
"What?"
"Witchcraft."
"What?"
"Sorcery."
"What?"
"I want to know how magic works to help people."
He paused. The humor drained from his eyes, replaced with something... sharper. More serious.
"You really wanna know? Fine. Listen closely, because I'm not repeating myself."
And so, I listened.
According to Austin, some people are simply born with the capacity to bend reality—through what this world calls mana. It's an innate energy, stored within the body. With training and effort, it can be refined, shaped, maybe even increased… but for the most part, you work with what you were born with.
In Stahlmark, magic isn't just raw talent. It's also a matter of faith and divine blessing. For instance, Bishop Austin is a magic user, just like the priest who healed my ankle. But they're... different classes, if you will.
Austin, as it turns out, isn't big on healing. He's a War Priest—a battle-hardened buffer, capable of enhancing strength, speed, resilience, and more. His kind walk alongside armies, bolstering troops with divine energy.
The healers, like the one who patched me up, are known as Clerics. Both types draw from Solarius, the sun god, which is why Stahlmark's magic tends to be light-based—radiant, warm, direct.
Other nations and races, however, have their own takes.
The Lysellians wield elemental magics tied to their pantheon of nature gods—fire, water, air, earth, and more.
The Elves, predictably, are annoyingly talented in all things magic. Their bodies store mana more efficiently, and their spells are sung—literally. They're called Spellsingers, and their songs shape reality. One tune might call rain from the heavens. Another might mend broken bones or lull an enemy to sleep. Their spells draw from different lores: Lore of Heaven, Lore of Life, Lore of Beasts...
Lady Deidre, for example, is attuned to the Lore of Beasts—hence her whole "dark forest beastmaster" aesthetic.
My head spun with the sheer amount of lore Austin dumped on me between sips of ale.
So much for logic and resource optimization. Apparently, magic in this world isn't about careful corporate scaling or knowledge trees. It's talent, belief, divine whim—and lots and lots of singing.
I sighed, staring into my ale.
"Stingy gods…" I muttered under my breath. "I get isekai'd and not even a tiny affinity for magic?"
But then, I decided to reward the good Bishop with my kind of magic: the magic of fermentation science.
I shared with him a formula—one I remember from Earth—for lager. A golden-hued, light, and crisp-tasting beer. Something completely unheard of in this world of heavy, yeasty ales.
Bishop Austin listened intently, jotting down notes with surprising focus.
"We'll see if this works, son," he muttered. "You better damn hope it does. 'Cause if it doesn't, I'm hauling your ass back here and we're gonna be brewing with your bones!"
I instantly regretted sharing the recipe with him.
A few days later, the council room was unusually loud. Bishop Austin and Karl were in a heated debate over whether they should order more food or more ale for their next tavern night.
Then Mathilda walked in, sharp-eyed and stone-faced.
"My spies have uncovered an urgent matter," she announced, tone tight and brisk. "We need to act. Immediately."
The room fell quiet.
"What is it, Mathilda?" I asked cautiously.
She didn't blink.
"A pack of direwolves is approaching a northern settlement. No bovinids in the area, so the people are completely defenseless. There are around fifty of them. They'll arrive within a few days."
I swallowed hard.
Direwolves. I've heard stories. Giant, vicious, wolf-like beasts the size of horses. All fangs and claws. In packs, they're a walking apocalypse.
"Ahhh," Count Gerhart rumbled, adjusting his gauntlets. "Then I'll deal with them personally. No time to move an army."
And just like that, our merry band of misfit councilmembers turned into impromptu wolf hunters.
Count Gerhart the War Veteran.Bishop Austin the War Priest.Commander Ziegler.Karl the Tavern Enthusiast.Mathilda the Spy Mistress.And… me.
The scribe.
I begged them to take Franz instead. Please, take Franz. But apparently, someone needs to document the legend of "The Great Wolf Hunt" for future generations.
We arrived at the plains just outside the northern village, hoping to intercept the beasts before they reached the settlement.
The wind was sharp. Cold. And from the edge of the woods, I heard it.
Howling.
Long, low, and blood-chilling. A symphony of primal hunger.
Then they emerged—fifty of them. Grey-furred monsters the size of small horses, red eyes gleaming in the twilight, fangs bared, claws tearing into the ground as they ran.
My heart skipped a beat.
I wanted to run. I wanted to cry. I wanted to spontaneously awaken some hidden magical power that let me teleport far, far away from this madness.
Instead, I stood there, clutching my quill.
Why?
Because apparently someone thinks this makes a good story.
And then, they clashed.
Ziegler charged forward, greataxe in hand, cleaving through the skulls of wolves like firewood. Karl swung his weapon—a massive iron ball-on-chain (which, I later learned, is called a morningstar)—smashing it straight into the ribcage of a leaping direwolf mid-air.
Mathilda? Oh, she was riding on top of a wolf, plunging her twin daggers into the back of its neck like some death-dealing circus act.
And Bishop Austin? Somehow—somehow—he performed what is known as a DDT in pro wrestling ring on a full-grown direwolf, driving its head straight into the dirt before unleashing a flurry of holy insults on the poor creature.
"You flea-bitten mongrel! That's for making me come down here!"
But the most ridiculous—no, absurd—of them all was Count Gerhart.
Our liege jumped straight into the fray with a wide grin, cracking his knuckles as if warming up for a bar fight. He didn't swing a weapon. He didn't cast a spell.
He just started punching.
Each blow sent a direwolf flying through the air like a sack of flour. At one point, he grabbed a wolf by the tail, spun it over his head like a flail, and slammed it back into the ground.
The wolves weren't the threat here.
They were the victims.
Then, the alpha stepped forward. A monstrous, scarred beast with glowing red eyes and a snarl that promised death.
It charged.
So did Count Gerhart.
"Come on, you slobbering mutt! COUNT!!! TAKE 'EM DOWN!" Bishop Austin yelled, and a blinding aura of power flared around the Count.
...Wait. Is that how he uses his magic? By yelling insults?
I always thought holy magic involved prayer and light. Not verbal abuse.
The alpha and the Count clashed like titans. The beast clawed, bit, snarled—but nothing pierced Gerhart's stone-like skin. With a roar, he gripped the alpha's massive jaws…
Crack.
He snapped them apart. Just like that.
The alpha lay still. The rest of the pack whimpered and tried to flee—only to be caught under a massive net that fell from above.
We froze.
From a ridge above, a figure appeared—inhuman, fierce, and draped in furs. He sat atop a direwolf even larger than the rest, its coat pitch black, its eyes like burning coal.
A greenskin.
He studied us with cold, cunning eyes.
"These are my prey," he growled in a voice like gravel. "You've thinned their numbers, sure. What you killed is yours. But the rest? They're mine. And I ain't sharing."
I blinked. Then remembered.
Right. I can understand him. Universal translator blessing. Sometimes I forget.
The rest of the party stared at me blankly. So I turned to them.
"He says… uh… those wolves are his. He doesn't want trouble, just what's left."
Count Gerhart nodded. "Then tell him this: he can take his prey. We only came to protect our people."
I turned back to the greenskin.
"We are the entourage of Count Gerhart of Tharros Vale," I told him. "I am Leonhart Aldric, their scribe. We meant no offense. Please, take your prey and be on your way."
The greenskin chuckled.
"Humie nobles protecting their subjects... ain't that a first."
With that, he turned his direwolf around, dragging the surviving beasts behind in a web of vines and ropes.
We watched him ride into the dying sunlight, silhouette sharp against the orange sky.
Because of course he rode into the sunset. Like a proper badass.