The next day, the sun rose over the eastern coast outside Fushi City, casting a warm golden glow over the rolling meadows. The grass, lush and fragrant, swayed in the breeze like a green sea.
"Baa—baa!"
A herd of goats waddled lazily across the field, their plump rumps jiggling as they nibbled at the grass. From above, they looked like dirty clumps of marshmallow scattered across the landscape.
"Oi, stop licking me. Go chew something else, yeah?"
Aemon swatted at a few overly curious goats, his face scrunched up with irritation. Dressed in fresh clothes and trying to look serious, he planted his feet wide in a horse stance, then bent down to yank at a patch of stubborn, dark green grass.
He'd gotten up early—figuring the sooner he gathered the urala grass, the sooner he could grow stronger. And taller. Hopefully.
"Why the hell are we picking weeds again?" came a groan from somewhere deeper in the herd.
William's head popped out from between two goats, looking entirely unenthusiastic. He shoved one goat aside and dangled a dirty clump of urala grass, roots and all.
"You wouldn't get it!" Aemon said, voice trembling with effort as he yanked hard.
Pop!
The clump of grass came free with a sudden jolt, sending Aemon tumbling backwards. He rolled twice, then sprang up red-faced and panting.
"Hahh… that's one more done."
He shook the soil from the roots, smoothed out the leaves, and gently laid the grass into a wicker basket nearby.
Today's goal was simple: collect as much urala grass as possible. Each patch earned magic essence, and Aemon wasn't about to let the opportunity slip by.
He leaned on his travel pack, almost as tall as he was, a layer of soft grass cushioning a black dragon egg nestled safely inside. The pack itself was made of durable green fabric, with a white tower of flames embroidered on the flap—a gift from a dear friend.
He took a long sip from his waterskin, wiped his mouth, then slapped the backpack affectionately.
"Time to get back at it."
William trudged over, dark circles under his eyes. "You're a bloody prince. Shouldn't you leave this sort of thing to your servants?"
Aemon rolled his eyes and pointed toward the guards scattered around the hillside, all of them foraging diligently.
"They're doing it too. The more hands we have, the faster we finish," he said matter-of-factly. "Besides, this grass is worth its weight in gold. You think I'm just gonna stand there watching?"
Hands on hips, he beamed proudly.
And it paid off. By mid-morning, he'd found five good patches of urala grass.
+5 Magic Essence Acquired.
The panel flickered to life in his mind's eye, revealing the updated Magic Essence Exchange Menu:
[+5 Essence] – Get 5 points of magic essence. (Grey card – 10 Essence)
[Physique +1] – Safe, incremental body enhancement. (White card – 10 Essence)
[Swift Straw Sandals] – Run faster than a horse. (Green card – 50 Essence)
Aemon stared at the first card in disdain. Five points for ten? That's daylight robbery.
But the system was dynamic—it shuffled its deck each morning, offering random upgrades, boons, or trinkets. The trick was waiting for the right one.
Ignoring William's muttering, Aemon poked at the [Physique +1] card.
Poof—
The card dissolved into foam and light, sinking into his chest. His body buzzed as a fresh warmth spread through his muscles. The ache in his arms faded, replaced by a pleasant sense of power.
He jumped—and to his amazement, his stubby legs carried him a full foot and a half off the ground.
"Yes!" he whispered, grinning. "That's more like it."
If he could get one of these physical upgrades every day, he'd be a miniature juggernaut before long. In a world where strength defined status, that wasn't just helpful—it was essential.
"Give it ten years," he mused, eyes glinting, "and I'll be unstoppable."
"I don't eat beef!" he suddenly declared aloud.
William blinked. "What, you're demanding beef for lunch now?"
"I said I don't eat it!" Aemon huffed, crossing his arms. "Are your ears broken?"
He knew exactly what was going on. William clearly wanted some and was trying to rope him into asking. But Aemon wasn't falling for it.
After a short break, they returned to their weeding efforts. Aemon, energised, tore through the grass like a fury. William, however, was flagging—his back ached, his hands were filthy, and his patience wore thin.
"Why don't we just ask him to help?" William muttered, subtly pointing toward a slope nearby.
Aemon followed his gaze.
Sitting atop the rise was a mountain of a man. Over two metres tall, clad in bronze armour and broad as a barn door, Gunthor lounged against a boulder, gazing out across the fields.
His hair was a dark tangle, and a massive two-handed sword rested beside him—the kind most men couldn't lift with both arms.
Gunthor didn't move. He simply took out a lemon, bit into it, and winced from the sourness. Then, calm as anything, he dipped the half-eaten fruit into a pouch of white salt and began wiping his blade with it.
Aemon's eyes widened. Salted lemon? To clean a blade? That's pricey…
Most soldiers used cheap grease, but salt—especially white rock salt—was a luxury.
"Is he… really that strong?" Aemon whispered.
"Strong?" William scoffed quietly. "He's the captain of the guard back at Runestone. He once punched a wild boar unconscious."
Aemon raised an eyebrow. "Then why don't you go ask him to help?"
William blanched. "I… never mind."
Neither of them dared disturb the brute.
They went back to work—though William spent more time sighing than digging.
Then, to their shock, the mountain moved.
Gunthor stood, strapped his sword to his back, and began walking downhill—straight toward them.
William nearly dropped his basket. "H-he's coming this way—!"
Aemon stepped forward boldly, arms on his hips, shielding his cousin.
Even if he was a mountain, Aemon wasn't going to flinch. Not now. Not ever.
Gunthor stopped in front of them, looking down like a stone statue come to life.
"I'm not here to scold you," he said, voice gravel-deep. "Lady Laena sent me. She says stop rolling around in the grass and start practising your royal manners."
Aemon blinked. "…What for?"
"The King has called for a hunt," Gunthor replied. "Next week. In the royal forest."
And with that, he turned and walked away.