Chapter Fifteen: Honoring the Teacher

Grant stood before the man who had fallen to the ground, coldly watching him.
Everyone nearby broke out in a cold sweat and took two steps back.
Status and power were symbols of authority, and even in this remote frontier, it was no exception. These desperados roaming the wilderness feared no bandit, but what they truly dreaded was a nobleman with standing.
Even a servant of a noble household was best left unprovoked, let alone an old retainer who could flatten a murderous brute with a single punch, demonstrating his formidable strength.
Carlos, flanked by two night watchmen, approached Grant.
“What happened here?”
Grant pinned the man’s ankle with his foot, giving him no chance to escape or lash out again.
“This man got drunk and committed murder in the street.”
“I’m not drunk, ah—!”
The scrawny man, pinned by Grant’s foot, flushed with pain as he tried to protest loudly, but the increased pressure made him cry out, begging for mercy.
Carlos narrowed his clear, phoenix-like eyes, gazing with undisguised contempt at the man who was now sobering up, then glanced at the corpse of a middle-aged man lying in a pool of blood.
“Why did you kill him?”
“I was drunk, I can’t remember, ah—ah—it hurts!”
A chilling light flashed in Grant’s cloudy eyes. He stared at the man and said, “If you dare spout more nonsense…”
The man shrank his neck and inhaled sharply, clearly in real pain from where Grant held him.
“Ah—! I was confused for a moment. Just now, this man was spreading rumors in the tavern, saying the appearance of mutated beasts in the Rodney Mountains was a trap set by someone, and he tried to stop me from recruiting a team of hunters. We argued, and he struck first.”
The scrawny man opted for honesty, loudly defending himself.
Carlos paused, puzzled. “Someone set a trap with mutated beasts? Who could possibly have the power to drive those creatures out from the depths of the mountains?”
The man nodded eagerly, like a pecking chick.
“Yes, young master, that’s exactly what I asked him. But he couldn’t give a coherent answer—everyone thought he was mad, just trying to stir up trouble.”
“And so you followed him out, waited until he was drunk, and murdered him?”
Carlos pressed further.
“Oh, young noble, you wrong me! Hunters argue all the time—it’s common. Unless there’s a fight over prey in the wild, it rarely comes to blows.”
Grant shot him a fierce glare. “Enough with the nonsense. Get to the point.”
“Ah—! The truth is, he was a witch. He had a witch’s mark under his collar—I only discovered it accidentally when we scuffled.”
Carlos’s face darkened, and he exchanged a glance with Grant.

Grant understood, bent down, and pulled the dead man’s collar aside, revealing a black, inverted seven-shaped mark.
It was indeed a witch’s mark.
Carlos recognized the symbol from the “Seventh Chapter of the Holy Light Tribunal: Crimes of the Witch.”
Those bearing such marks were often witches with basic magical abilities. After mastering spells like charm or mind invasion, they branded themselves at the junction of shoulder and neck to express reverence and longing for the power of witchcraft.
When the onlookers realized the dead man was a witch, they began murmuring among themselves.
Carlos frowned, asking, “Since you knew he was a witch, you still dared to confront him?”
“Young master, perhaps you haven’t heard—there’s no good sort among witches. In many places, even local officials offer rewards for killing them…”
“So, you were afraid he’d cause you trouble later and took your chance to finish him off first?”
The man’s face stiffened, and he forced a laugh, no longer defending himself.
Carlos said nothing more and returned to the carriage.
Since there was a passable explanation, he saw no reason to press further. Things were certainly not as simple as the man claimed—he was clearly hiding something—but that wasn’t Carlos’s concern.
Now that he knew witches were after him, it was no surprise there were others in town as well.
Grant dragged the corpse aside, tied the scrawny man to a hitching post, and set men to guard him.
When the bystanders saw the excitement was over, they dispersed. As for a young noble detaining an insignificant bounty hunter—perhaps sending him to jail or the mines to pay for his crime—that was hardly worth mentioning.
Grant climbed back onto the carriage and, under the awed gaze of those around, drove on.
At some point—no one saw exactly when—he had pocketed a button from the scrawny man. Not long after they’d left the scene, he handed it to Carlos.
“Young master, that fellow is no simple bounty hunter.”
Carlos examined the copper button, which bore a lion’s head motif, though it was so corroded and filthy it was hard to make out.
Carlos squinted, closed his eyes as if to rest, then curled his lip. “What does that have to do with me? From now on, I’ll keep my ears closed to the world and devote myself to my studies in alchemy.”
Grant opened his mouth, unsure what to say, and drove on in silence.
Soon, the carriage left the crowded main street and turned onto a quiet, winding lane.
Carlos opened his eyes a sliver.
He rolled the copper button between his slender fingers before tossing it back to Grant. “Very well, Uncle, keep an eye out for me. Whether it’s witches or those other nobles from the city, if they try to meddle in Saltwell Town, break their claws and let them feel pain.”
Grant chuckled.
“Young master is right—this land will one day be yours, and we can’t let such riffraff interfere.”
Carlos shook his head. He wasn’t really thinking about the future, but about the present.

Those witches who threatened his father in their letters would surely send people to harass him now. Whatever their motives, he needed to prepare.
He wondered what reward his father had offered Dubuy to send him to the alchemy house at such a critical time.
Alchemy—surely, it would be fascinating!
The grove where the alchemy cottage stood was small, but the road leading to it was winding and circuitous. Though a straight dirt path would have sufficed, Dubuy insisted on making it twist like a mountain pass.
Still, it gave the place a certain secluded charm.
Soon the carriage stopped before the alchemist’s house.
Carlos stepped down, recalling with amusement the first time he’d come here and was chased off by a flock of black crows.
Grant knocked on the door, and Dubuy—white-haired and bearded—appeared, looking Carlos up and down before asking expressionlessly, “Did you bring a gift?”
Carlos whistled, and soon one of the night watchmen produced a crate of malt beer from the carriage.
“The finest malt beer—taken from our cellar without permission, a token for you, Master.”
Dubuy’s wrinkled, stern face broke into a grin. He pointed at the crate of beer, bottled in special glass, and asked, “Is this the one that goes for three or four silver coins a bottle—the malt beer?”
“Indeed, the price in town has risen to eight silver coins a bottle, and even then it’s hard to find.”
Grant, silent and straight-faced beside them, allowed himself a slight smile.
This malt beer was young master’s own brew, costing little more than some broken malt and ferment. A whole crate wasn’t worth even a single silver coin.
He himself drank it like water when grooming the horses.
Dubuy licked his chapped lips, hesitating.
“I’ve heard this, ah, beer isn’t easy to come by. Is there really so much in your cellar?”
Carlos narrowed his phoenix eyes, grinning without explanation.
“There’s plenty.”
Carlos was delighted—who would have thought the old alchemist was such a lover of drink? Gifting him would be much easier in the future.
The malt beer he’d brewed as a child, out of boredom, had sold well in town and made the perfect present for a new teacher—neither extravagant nor discourteous.
Carlos felt that this was the very definition of putting things to good use.