The Encounter with an Avid Fan

"Since you don't have an issue, let's talk turkey," Arwin said, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

After some careful calculations, the leasehold's length and breadth were set at about fifty miles. As for the extra bit, Arwin generously waved it off. Following some back-and-forth, the prosaic land was leased to the Viscounty of Reed for an annual fee of one hundred and twenty gold coins, with a minimum term of three years, payable yearly.

The price was a square deal. The leasehold was roughly the size of a baronetcy, and the average annual income for a baronet in the kingdom was just over a hundred gold coins. Essentially, Arwin was letting the land go at cost price in a bid to curry favor with the lower nobility.

The contract was quickly drafted on parchment, but the holy testimonial at the top mentioned only the human hero who overcame the demon lord and the omnipresent source of magic; the absence of the Goddess of Victory was because what they were engaged in wasn't exactly wholesome.

The agreement signed, it disappeared into thin air. Murphy breezily returned to his tent and brought out the gold coins prepared in advance to cover the first year's rent. Meanwhile, Arwin's writ for the castellan of Clark City sped there with urgent dispatch, directing unreserved cooperation with the Viscountess Reed in handing over the city's defenses.

With this, Murphy had all but wrapped up his mission, bar the sale of firearms. Parting with one hundred and fifty gold coins annually might pinch for a viscount, but not for Murphy, who'd ransacked the coffers of every major household in his domain. Not to mention his stash from the demon treasure trove—enough to trigger inflation in this world...

When Arwin met his defeat, Murphy's real work would begin, pushing his armaments. That one hundred fifty would prove the carrot drawing a steady stream of gold coins to Murphy, showcasing to old man Arwin the art of a leased enterprise.

Having attended to business, Murphy returned to his tent where Pepe, beaten by the wind all day, was now out like a light.

"Tiny things, really. Young 'uns sleep soundly," Murphy muttered to himself as he began prepping for the return trip tomorrow.

Just then, "Mr. Murphy, are you there?" a girl's tentative voice floated from outside the tent.

Murphy cracked open the canvas, "Even Archmages need to catch some Z's, you know. It's nearly midnight, Miss Eschell. What's up?"

Outside, the vampiric damsel stood under the clear night sky, vibrant and energetic, followed by a maid who looked entirely resigned.

Spotting Murphy's head poking out, Eschell asked, all abuzz, "You never did answer my question, Mr. Murphy. Since you’re from the Viscounty of Reed, do you know Mr. Humble Hero, the author from the City of Gath?”

Murphy’s brow quirked. Sidestepping, he offered, “Before that, do you want to remain out here for the answer, or step inside for a spell?”

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Despite the potential implications of entering his tent, being seen chatting outside might stir worse gossip. Mulling it over, Eschell decided, "Let's go in."

No big deal, Eschell reassured herself internally. Four mages in one tent. What else could they be doing but discussing magic, right?

They took their seats at the opposite end of the tent from the deeply slumbering Pepe. Eschell, bursting with eagerness, said, "Can you tell me now, Mr. Murphy?"

"Before that, I'm curious. How'd you come to hear that Humble Hero resides in the City of Gath?" Murphy inquired after sipping his drink.

"A book vendor told me," Eschell replied with earnest innocence. "He said it was a real gem from down south in the City of Gath—last copy he had and wanted to know if I was buying."

"And the book?" Murphy asked with apparent interest. "May I see it?"

"It got ruined in the fight...” Eschell murmured, “It was a hardcover of 'The Earl's Second Son,' my favorite leisure read."

Though he'd steeled himself, Murphy couldn't help the faint blush of chagrin at hearing his own work mentioned by another. Clearing his throat to feign nonchalance, he confessed, "Glad you like it. I am Humble Hero. Just something I wrote to kill time."

"What?" Eschell's eyes bulged with excitement. "Impossible! The hero in the book is the epitome of nobility..."

"Miss Eschell," Murphy feigned offense. "Are you implying I'm not noble?"

A flush spread across Eschell’s face, and after a pause, she said, "I don’t believe you. I'll need to ask you some questions."

Following a round of Q&A, Eschell leaned defeatedly on Anne, whispering, "Anne, it's true."

Murphy frowned. "You seem dissatisfied with me?"

"I just can't fathom how someone who pens such uplifting literature could be so... scheming," Eschell said, the sparkle in her eyes dimming.

"Don’t conflate the work with its author," Murphy sighed. “Tell you what, I'll give you a special signed hardcover when I get a chance."

"Really?!" Eschell perked up instantly.

---

The following morning, as the Northwestern Alliance broke camp, Murphy made his polite farewells to the two dukes and others he'd met over the past few days. With Pepe in tow, he set off for the City of Gath.

Joking, of course. For a demon lord adept at teleportation, journeys to known places didn't apply. Once out of sight of the alliance forces, Murphy laid a hand on Pepe’s shoulder and invoked his magic. Moments later, they were back in the familiar basement.

After releasing his hold on Pepe, Murphy exhaled with relief, "Home at last."

Ready for some well-deserved downtime after days of busyness, he pushed the door to his room, only to find it barricaded with piles of parchment, like a paper mountain range.

"What in the world? I've been gone less than a week!" A wail of despair rose from the demon lord who intended nothing but a lazy day. "Lambert! Fetch Byron!"

"Byron," Murphy called wearily from the high-backed chair, eyes closed. "Fill me in. I don’t want to read a thing."

"Your Majesty, aside from the routine dispatches, we've got three pressing matters for your direction."

"Go on."

"First up, the fledgling fields on the Barren Hills have borne fruit. Bacon and Bart are hoping you'll come take a look."

"Noted."

"Secondly, a craftsman has come up with some newfangled gadgets that have us stumped."

"Alright, schedule it in."

"Lastly, a letter mysteriously appeared on the doorstep of House Number 2, Clyster Street."

"Hmm?"

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A bit of open intelligence (dead serious):

Within the Church of the Goddess of Victory, unconditional peace isn't part of the doctrine—for "victory" implies triumph in warfare. Hence, war isn't taboo in the church; on the contrary, they maintain their own war command, independent of the kingdom. A war, after all, always needs its generals.

Many priests, while not the most physically imposing, are quick-witted and possess a warrior's heart. To rescue humanity from the quagmire of never-ending war, generations of the church's hierarchy studied and conceived the War Cleric (a secondary profession).

Masters of divine magic, War Clerics also possess combat skills beyond ordinary fighting, excelling in large-scale warfare. With unique pre-battle sermons and wide-ranging abilities, War Clerics played a non-negligible role in achieving human victories in the last great war against the demons.