[Meditation] — Lvl 2 -> Lvl 3!

Dismissing the window, Ethan calmed himself and resumed his meditation, refilling this mana reserve. Soon, he opened his eyes and stood up. Then he changed his approach. Instead of making major improvements, he decided to shape the fire into something closest to a sphere—which was obviously an egg shape.

Almost instinctively, the rune changed. The rune became slightly denser as the flames coalesced together. They swirled around one another, melding together as one. Slowly, they took the form of an egg.

An egg.

Barely large enough to cup with one of his hands.

It floated on his palm, orange flames crackling like weird lava on the surface.

Still, no levels. Undeterred, Ethan continued shaping fire into slightly different shapes until the sun had almost dipped past his head, a whole hour spent. He then tried manipulating the temperature of fire instead of its shape, like raising it to a temperature high or low, but failed.

Rubbing his chin, he decided to picture the fire on a microscopic level. He imagined the frantic dance of the oxygen molecules as they collided with the fuel, each encounter sparking a tiny explosion of light and heat. He focused his will, trying to slow that dance, picturing the oxygen molecules moving with sluggish reluctance. But the flames stubbornly refused to change.

Frustrated, he rubbed his temples. What is temperature, anyway? He vaguely remembered a childhood science lesson about how hot or cold something felt depended on how fast its atoms were vibrating. It’s a measure of the average kinetic energy of the particles in a substance. Particles that are constantly moving have higher kinetic energy, resulting in a higher temperature. Conversely, slower-moving particles have less kinetic energy and result in a lower temperature. So, fire, with its intense heat and flickering light, must be a frenzy of hyperactive particles. But how could he possibly influence that unseen?

Ethan opened his eyes, staring at the flames. They burned with an angry orange glow. He realized his approach was wrong. He wasn’t strong enough to directly slow the frenetic motion of the fire’s molecules.

He needed a different strategy. Perhaps, he thought, he could coax the fire, not control it. What he could do, was utilize what he had.

[Elemental Spells] wasn’t just fire and water, after all, it consisted of air and earth as well. It might even have more than he realized. Thus, he focused on the air surrounding the flames, picturing it as a dense, cool blanket. I don’t have an air rune, but I do have water. But, even without that, I have [Basic Rune Creation] along with [Basic Magic Script], [Magic Perception], and [Magic Sensitivity], they should theoretically help me.

He imagined willing the air molecules to pack in tighter, absorbing some of the fire’s heat. it didn’t work at first, but then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the flames began to change. The vibrant orange hues dimmed slightly, giving way to a subtler orange-red. It was a minuscule shift, but a shift nonetheless.

[Magic Sensitivity] — Lvl 2 -> Lvl 3!

[Magic Perception] — Lvl 2 -> Lvl 3!

“Yes!”

A small victory.

Emboldened, Ethan reversed his focus. He pictured the air around the fire as thin and wispy, encouraging the oxygen molecules to flow more freely. The flames responded with a renewed vigor. The orange-red deepened back to a vibrant orange, tinged with flickers of yellow, a telltale sign of even higher temperatures.

A small smile played on Ethan’s lips. Is mana acting as the fuel here? Because I feel it burning more than usual. He cringed at the pun he’d just thought of.

***

A crisp morning breeze ruffled Ethan’s hair as he and Roland strode purposefully through the bustling marketplace. Roland was carrying a few bars of soap with him. The open stalls on both sides of the winding cobblestoned pathways sold foodstuffs, ranging from apples to bread and from fresh carrots to hogsheads full of ale. This was Ethan’s first time to Market Square, the first official one, at least—and he was going as Lord Theodore today. The markets opened early, but the vendors would remain there long into the evening, until the gates were locked at dusk, when all honest folk were indoors. The odors of so much food in one area, some of it still cooking and some of it spoiled, mixed with the scents of hundreds of people moving throughout the many lanes.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

“Hurry, my lord,” Roland said, looking back over his shoulder. He was leading them through the packed space quickly, his heavy form knocking people aside when they were slow getting out of his way. Some shouted curses at Roland’s broad back, but those shouts turned to cries of fear when they saw who accompanied the big man. They scurried off like chickens in a farmyard, pushing at anyone in their path.

Holy. Ethan wondered why the sight of Theodore should cause such panic, but then recalled some memories of Theodore. Yep, let’s not get there.

Walking to a stop at their first stop: the butcher’s guild, Ethan hummed.

The Butcher’s Guild was as large as the neighboring properties, all combined.

Selling everything from cheese wheels as big as Ethan to the giant hams and even whole slaughtered beasts and cut meat. Everything had its price and category, and even prices and categories within each product.

Ethan walked closer, the miasma of fresh blood and organs hit him and he frowned.

I’m just about ready to scream in this shit-smelling air. He’d been a city boy in the 21st century; even now, he hadn’t grown used to the smell of death and gore that was always pervasive in a land such as this.

He sighed and wiped the sweat off his head. This damned summer sun and these fancy-ass noble clothes did no favors to his health.

Regardless, he needed to secure a hefty supply of rendered fat at a fair price. Looking at a big guy Roland’s size swinging down at a piece of meat with a thwack, Ethan smiled.

The butcher was a stout, round man with bloodstained sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and when he saw two men approach, he glanced at them and squeaked in surprise. Then, his eyes darted to Ethan, taking in the fine clothes and the air of forced arrogance that Ethan was putting out. Recognition flickered across his face, quickly morphing into something close to terror.

“L-Lord Theodore,” the butcher stammered, his voice high-pitched. “Wh-what brings you to my humble stall this fine morning?”

Channeling his inner Theodore, Ethan puffed out his chest slightly. “Good morning, butcher. I require a significant quantity of rendered fat. Enough to fill several barrels, perhaps.”

The butcher’s eyes darted around, searching for an escape route even though they were firmly hemmed in by the crowd. “R-rendered fat, my lord? W-we have some, of course, but the best quality generally goes to...” his voice trailed off.

Ethan leaned in, a smile playing on his lips. “Now, butcher,” he said, his voice low and dangerous (or at least he hoped it sounded dangerous), “Wouldn’t you prefer selling it to your own lord?”

The butcher’s face blanched.

“My lord,” he sputtered, “I assure you; I have nothing but the finest, freshest rendered fat available. And for a, uh, loyal customer such as yourself, I’d be willing to offer a very generous discount.”

Ethan feigned contemplation. “A discount, you say? How generous are we talking?”

“Well, my lord,” the butcher stammered, “considering the... volume... you require, perhaps a reduction of... 20%?”

“Excellent. We have a deal. Now, about the delivery...” Delivery reminded him that he needed to create wheelbarrows. Perhaps he should give the idea to the blacksmith he was going to visit today. “Are you able to deliver them by afternoon?”

The butcher swallowed visibly and nodded. He wiped sweaty hands on his apron.

“Wonderful,” Ethan replied. “A man by the name of Lero will be our middleman from now on.”

“Yes, my lord,” the butcher nodded frantically.

It was rather comical seeing such a large man so terrified of someone so much smaller, but Ethan ignored it. It would be beneficial for the butcher anyway.

“What’s your name?” Ethan asked suddenly.

“Almam,” the man responded.

“Okay Almam, here’s a reward,” said Ethan, and gestured for Roland to give the man a batch of soaps. “You can have a few, and you need to distribute some to others, as well.”

Roland dropped the box full of soap on the butcher’s counter.

Ethan had made sure to create a seal—a symbol—for his soap, and now he wanted to get it in the public’s hands. Because what was better than word-of-mouth?

“SOAP?!” Almam’s eyes bulged, and then he paled furthered, bowing low. “I—I apologize, my lord! B-But I cannot have something so expensive!”

Ethan smiled, “Do not worry, the soap is something I’m creating myself for the common folk. It can kill the Blight from anyone, and it is sanita—”

“CAN KILL THE BLIGHT?!” Almam’s whole face looked as if all blood had left it and the man seemed like a pale specter as he stared. “M-My lord!” Then he bowed, his and eyes fidgeting. “May I have two bars? My wife and daughter, they—!”

Ethan held a hand up, “Go ahead. Just remember that you need to give it to others as well, and spread the word of the good Lord Theodore—he’s got soap! Cheap soap that’s of excellent quality, and one that kills the Blight. That’s all you need to do. I’ll give you more batches.”

Ethan would definitely feel the pinch, but it would be worth it.

***

Next, they ventured to the blacksmith’s guild. The burly guild leader scratched his beard as Ethan unveiled his sketches. “A waterwheel, you say? And cogs to stir a giant vat of… soap?” The smith raised a thick eyebrow. “That’s not something I’ve ever heard of before, my lord.”

“This is an innovation in the works,” Ethan assured. He pointed to another sketch, a model for a cog assembly. He described the waterwheel harnessing the river’s current, the central shaft spinning, and a series of gears translating that power into the churning motion of a massive paddle within a vat. The [Blacksmith] named Artos sat across a worn wooden table from Ethan, his chair groaning under his weight as he adjusted position.

Artos rubbed his jawline, fingers rasping against dark stubble. “Could be possible to build, I suppose, and it’d certainly set my apprentices up for more delicate work.” The burly blacksmith’s dark eyes considered the sketches laid out in front of him.

Next, Ethan grabbed another parchment and leaned forward. “That would be good for your apprentices. Regardless, I have another proposition for you, Artos. A smaller project.”

“Oh? Well, let’s hear it,” said Artos.