Henry sighed. "Even if I make ten thousand gold coins from this job," he muttered, "I still won't be able to buy much. Magic's a bottomless pit for gold."
It was the same across nearly every world touched by the Weave—magic wasn't just power, it was luxury. To be a spellcaster was to burn gold as fuel for your will. The dwarves mined, the elves composed poetry and sang to stars, but mages… mages bled their purses dry in pursuit of knowledge.
With nothing else to do, Henry sat by the window, sipping water and watching the fields stretch toward the horizon. His mind was still buzzing with calculations—spells, reagents, and the next step toward greater power.
Not long after, the rhythmic clatter of hooves pulled him from his thoughts. Four carriages rolled up outside, the sunlight glinting off polished wood. Brown's voice echoed from below.
"Henry! Come on out, lad! We'll lose the light if we wait much longer!"
Henry jumped up, set his cup down, and hurried outside. "Coming!"
He leapt into the nearest carriage as Brown cracked the reins. The horses neighed and the wagons jolted forward, bumping down the dusty road in a column. The smell of leather, hay, and oil filled the air as the men laughed and chatted on the way.
"Never thought I'd be haulin' bug carcasses instead o' wheat this season!" one villager said with a grin.
"Better pay than farmin'," another replied. "If the worms come back next year, I hope they're just as stupid."
The trip was quick. Between chatter, jokes, and the rhythmic creak of wheels, the convoy reached the cave before noon.
Kegan was the first to spot them, sitting cross-legged beside a pile of corpses, puffing from his pipe with the air of a king guarding his treasure. When he saw Henry standing in the first cart, he sprang up and waved enthusiastically.
"Oi! Over here, over here!"
The villagers slowed to a stop—and when they saw the towering pile of burrowing worm corpses sprawled across the clearing, their jaws collectively dropped.
"By the gods," one gasped. "How in the Nine Hells did you two kill this many?"
Even Brown whistled low, scratching his head. "I'll be damned… you weren't exaggeratin', boy."
Henry laughed lightly but didn't bother to explain. Instead, he let Kegan have his moment—because the dwarf, beard half-burned but pride fully intact, was already launching into one of his grand tales.
"You lot wouldn't believe the fight we had!" Kegan declared, puffing out his chest. "Aye, I was runnin' like a thunderbeast with the whole brood on me tail. When I reached the cave mouth, I leapt clean into the air—by Moradin's hammer, I must've jumped five meters high!"
A burst of laughter erupted from the men.
Brown folded his arms, smirking. "Five meters, huh? I've seen you try to climb a stool, Kegan. I'll believe that when dragons stop hoardin' gold."
"Bah!" Kegan waved dismissively, smoke curling from his pipe. "You just don't appreciate Dwarven athleticism! Henry, tell 'em. You saw it, didn't you?"
Henry paused, trying not to laugh. "Ah… well, it was dark, and there was a lot of fire. I was, uh, focused on what was chasing you."
Brown barked a laugh. "That's what I thought."
"Bah, humans. No respect for good stories anymore," Kegan grumbled, but his grin gave him away.
With that, everyone got to work. Villagers took out knives, hatchets, and even woodcutting tools to help strip the worms. The sound of blades cutting through chitin echoed through the clearing.
The dwarves' methods were practical—only the heads and back shells were needed. Those were the densest and could be reforged into shields or arcane plates. The leg shells, lighter but still durable, were payment for the laborers.
By late evening, the air was thick with the smell of smoke, oil, and damp earth. The villagers had finished the grisly work. The spoils were neatly divided—the heads and back shells loaded onto the first two carts for Henry and Kegan, the rest into the other wagons as agreed.
When all was done, they turned toward home.
The sun hung low, painting the horizon in hues of amber and violet as the wagons creaked back down the hill. It was one of those rare peaceful evenings—wind cool, the sound of hooves steady, the satisfaction of honest labor hanging in the air.
At the Brown farm, everyone gathered to wash the shells in well water, scrubbing away the grime and blood until the chitin gleamed faintly under the fading light. When they were finished, Brown divided the profits.
One portion went to him as a commission; the rest were split among the others. The villagers thanked Henry and Kegan profusely before departing, their carts heavy with spoils that would fetch a fine price at the next market.
As the last wagon rolled away, Brown clapped his hands together. "That's a fine day's work, lads. Now, let's eat like kings."
The old man wasn't kidding. His dinner that night was a feast—fresh-baked white bread, rich chicken stew fragrant with herbs, and even a whole roast suckling pig glistening with honey glaze. The scent filled the entire farmhouse.
Kegan's eyes lit up the moment he saw it. "By the Forge Father, this is more beautiful than a chest of mithril."
Brown laughed heartily. "Eat up, you earned it! And if you help me sell the extra shells tomorrow, I'll see to it you both get a cut from my share too."
Henry smiled faintly, his hunger finally catching up. He looked out the window as night fell—the stars glittering like diamonds across the dark velvet sky.
For now, the worms were gone, the village safe, and their purses full. But deep down, Henry knew this peace was temporary. Somewhere beyond the forest, stronger monsters and greater mysteries waited—along with the spells he still longed to learn.
He raised his cup toward Kegan. "To fortune," he said.
"This is divine! By Moradin's beard, this is the best meal I've had in weeks! If only there were a mug of proper dwarven ale to go with it, I might just weep with joy," Kegan grumbled happily, his voice echoing with the thick rumble unique to mountain dwarves. He tore into the roast pork with the enthusiasm of a warrior returning from battle, grease glistening in his beard.
Brown chuckled as he chewed on a chicken leg, his weathered hands moving with the ease of an old farmer who had seen too many winters to care about manners. "You've come at the wrong time, my stout friend. All the last batch o' wine was sold in town last tenday. What we brewed last autumn still needs to settle in the barrels till fall. Patience, as they say, is the brewer's truest virtue."
Kegan grunted, clearly unconvinced. "Bah, patience is for elves. You humans always find a reason not to drink. I swear, one day I'll teach this village how to make proper mountain mead."
Henry smiled faintly at the banter, savoring the momentary peace. The farmhouse was warm and fragrant, filled with the scent of roasted meats, bread, and the faint earthy musk of freshly split firewood. Outside, the wind carried the distant chirp of night insects, whispering through the open window like the breath of the forest itself.
Still, even amidst comfort, Henry's mind couldn't rest. "Kegan, we'll need to return to the dark cave tomorrow," he said quietly between bites. "The deeper tunnels haven't been cleared. The five big ones at the back are still alive — and they're not the kind of beasts two people can handle alone."
The dwarf's mouth was half full of pork when he looked up, unconcerned. "Aye, we can just set another trap. Drive the ugly bastards out and torch 'em again, easy as tapping a keg."
Henry sighed, massaging his temples. "Kegan, those things are the size of horses. They're buried deep. You'll burn your beard before you make it to the entrance." He gave a half-smile. "And I doubt those worms would mind feasting on a freshly roasted dwarf."
Kegan slammed his mug down in mock offense. "Ha! They'd choke on me bones first, lad!" He leaned back, scratching his chin. "Well then, what's your grand idea?"
Henry's tone grew serious. "We'll need help. We should call on Lady Jedi Druid — she knows the wilds better than any of us. Her connection to the Green Father's circles runs deep. Maybe she can aid us with spells that shape the land or bind beasts."
Brown, who had been quietly listening, nodded. "That'd be the wise thing to do. If you want, you can borrow my carriage come mornin'. The old mare knows the forest trails better than most men."
"Thank you, Mr. Brown. That'll save us time," Henry said gratefully, passing a few crumbs of bread and chicken to Louise, the tiny Pixie perched beside his cup.
Louise's delicate wings shimmered in the candlelight, catching hues of pink and green as she nibbled politely. "Mortals always overthink things," she chimed in Sylvan, her voice like the sound of a flute. "You could have simply asked the forest spirits for guidance."
Henry smiled softly. "Not all of us speak with spirits, little one."
The Pixie huffed proudly. "Then perhaps I shall teach you — when you're less loud in your thoughts."
After dinner, everyone retired. The night wrapped the farm in silence, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire and the soft hoot of an owl. Brown snored almost immediately; Kegan followed soon after, his snores thunderous enough to rattle the windows.
Henry, however, lay awake on his straw bed. He opened his interface — the faint bluish runes shimmered before his eyes like starlight etched into air. He reviewed the arcane matrix of his prepared spells.
1st-level spells prepared: Grease, Burning Hands, Silent Image.
1st-level divine spells prepared: Entangle, Stone Strength, Cure Light Wounds, Faerie Fire, Faith Armor.
2nd-level divine spells prepared: Barkskin x2, Flame Blade, Cure Moderate Wounds.
He took a deep breath and prayed to the nature. "Tomorrow will be bloodier than today…"
As he folded his arms behind his head, his thoughts wandered. Since coming to this world, I've changed. The old him — calm, reserved, a man of quiet intellect — would never have descended into a monster's den, much less set it ablaze. Perhaps the world itself had reshaped him — or perhaps, as he feared, he was finally adapting.
He chuckled softly. "Maybe I should find a god to cling to, just in case. If I die here, Kelemvor Lord of the Dead might just use my soul as mortar for the Wall of the Faithless."
He rolled his eyes at the thought. But faith isn't something you just pick up. Not after years of disbelief. Not after everything I know.
Then again, with so many secrets on him, and having received so many years of atheistic education, it was hard for him to develop faith in a god.
Moonlight spilled through the small window, silvering the wooden floorboards. Louise had curled herself into a little cocoon of rags at the head of his bed, her wings faintly glowing with residual magic. Henry smiled at the sight, his heart unexpectedly warm.
"Goodnight, little one," he murmured.
The Pixie mumbled something in her sleep — a single word in Sylvan that Henry couldn't understand — and then the room was quiet once more.
The last thing Henry saw before drifting into sleep was the pale light of the moon, soft and pure, cutting across the floor like a blade. Tomorrow, the battle would begin anew.