If Richard had wanted to, it would have been absurdly easy to live as a prophet in this world. With a few demonstrations of knowledge—perhaps showing them antiseptics, or a simple compass—he could have built a cult overnight. People would have called him a miracle-worker, a vessel of divine will, a man who bent the laws of the world.
But that wasn't what he wanted.
Being worshipped by fools was nothing compared to understanding the truth.
There were greater questions to chase—why this world worked the way it did, what laws governed magic, and perhaps most importantly, how the impossible act of transmigration had taken place in the first place.
So after saving Hughes and confirming his recovery, Richard dismissed Turku and the others without ceremony and returned to his work. His life sank back into rhythm—monotony, perhaps, but a productive kind. Meditation, experimentation, analysis. Days blurred into one another; dawns became indistinguishable from dusks.
And in that stillness, Richard achieved results.
The most significant was his success in mastering another spell recorded in Loren's Skin-bound Codex: Burstfire Orb.
Unlike the phosphorescent "Will-o'-Wisp" cantrip he'd used before, this was no mere parlor trick. It was real sorcery—raw, dangerous, and powerful.
According to the Codex, the ranks of mages were strictly divided:
Great Wizards at the pinnacle, beneath them Common Wizards—split into High, Middle, and Low tiers—and finally the Apprentices, who themselves were divided into the same three levels.
It was a meticulous hierarchy, one that mirrored the structure of feudal society itself.
Each tier came with corresponding spells. Apprentice-level sorcery was fragile, limited, and often unstable. Yet even that was a vast gulf above the minor tricks of novices. Attempting a higher-level spell without the capacity to sustain it was a death sentence; the Codex contained enough burned, blackened fingerprints on its margins to prove it.
Burstfire Orb—though only an apprentice's spell—was genuine magic. A proper combat technique, not a mere illusion or light source.
Where "Will-o'-Wisp" was a candle in the dark, Burstfire was a weapon.
The spell produced a sphere of roiling flame roughly the size of a clenched fist. Its flight was almost harmless—but upon contact, it detonated violently, releasing concentrated kinetic and thermal energy. In modern terms, it was less like a "fireball" and more akin to a hand grenade.
Through careful observation and measurement, Richard had calculated that each detonation released energy equivalent to roughly 20 grams of TNT.
A modest figure, yet devastating when unleashed at close range. Within a five-meter radius, the explosion could shred unarmored men; at the center, it could kill outright.
Even a trained knight like Turku, clad in full plate, would be gravely injured by one direct hit—and incapacitated after two. Three would guarantee a corpse.
Fully charged with purified elemental essence, Richard's focus core could release twelve such orbs in sequence—enough destructive power to annihilate half of the castle's First Guard Company.
But reality was rarely so simple. Casting required chant, focus, and precise control of energy flow. In a real fight, that meant reduced speed and accuracy.
Thus, Richard's next research project: delayed detonation.
He wanted to stagger multiple orbs, each launched with a fractional delay, so they would converge and detonate simultaneously.
A single explosion could wound; a synchronized barrage could reshape a battlefield.
Achieving that would mean mastering layered energy synchronization—controlling multiple unstable mana matrices in parallel without collapse. Even for a true wizard, it would be complex. For an apprentice, suicidal.
Richard, of course, decided to try anyway.
Days passed. The laboratory filled with discarded scrolls of parchment covered in diagrams—spiral patterns, energy equations, scribbled timing notations. At last count, he had filled more than a dozen full rolls. Still, the final piece eluded him. He was close—close enough to taste the solution—but not yet there.
When he finally lifted his head from the cluttered desk, the faint gold of morning was already spilling through the high windows.
He had worked through the night again.
A dry laugh escaped him. "Another dawn wasted on madness."
He stretched, rolling his shoulders, preparing to leave the lab when the door creaked open behind him.
"Master Richard!"
Lucy, the young maid, stepped inside, eyes wide with urgency. "The Baron wishes to see you immediately."
Richard blinked once, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Oh? And what for? Don't tell me he's come begging for alloy swords again."
"I… I don't know," she admitted, wringing her hands. "He only told me to fetch you at once. He's waiting in the main courtyard."
Richard sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Let's see what our benevolent lord wants this time."
He descended the stone stairs of the side tower, boots echoing softly against the flagstones. The morning air outside was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and horse sweat. Across the courtyard, Baron Leo stood waiting—tall, lean, impeccably dressed despite the early hour.
"What matter requires my attention, my dear father?" Richard called out evenly.
The Baron turned, his expression unusually grave. "I've just received word," he began, "that the merchant caravan carrying your requested materials has crossed into the Prudent Empire. They're now within Lord Ranster's domain, about four days from our northern border—five at most."
Richard's eyes sharpened slightly. He waited. The Baron continued.
"That region is… poorly governed," Leo admitted, exhaling heavily. "I've neglected it for years. Banditry is rampant. Now, the caravan has its own guards, of course, but if they encounter large raiding groups, they won't stand long.
"If they're killed, the loss of life is regrettable—but if your cargo is taken…" He trailed off meaningfully. "Collecting those materials again would take months. And I've already paid the merchants a heavy deposit. Should they be lost, recovering the funds would cripple my finances until the winter tax revenues arrive."
Richard nodded slowly. He understood perfectly. His father was asking him to do what soldiers couldn't—protect the shipment. And, incidentally, ensure his own experiments could continue uninterrupted.
"Very well," he said simply. "I'll take the First Guard north into Lord Ranster's lands. We'll rendezvous with the caravan and escort them here."
Relief softened the Baron's face. "Excellent. I knew I could rely on you." He hesitated. "When will you depart?"
Richard looked up at the morning sun, calculating. "Now. The sooner, the better."
He turned sharply toward the barracks. "Turku! Muster the First Guard!"
A voice answered immediately from across the courtyard: "Yes, sir!"
Within moments, the air filled with the sound of boots pounding on stone, armor clattering, horses snorting as they were led from the stables.
Turku barked orders, his deep voice echoing: "Monkey! Red-Eye! Scarhound! Move your asses! Gear up—we ride with Master Richard!"
The men moved with practiced efficiency. Helmets buckled, swords sheathed, shields strapped across backs. The rhythmic clank of metal filled the courtyard like a war drum.
Richard watched them, arms folded, silent but approving. These were no regular soldiers—they were disciplined, loyal, and, most importantly, trained to obey him above the Baron.
Within minutes, two dozen mounted guards stood ready. The morning sun caught their armor, scattering glints of gold across the gray courtyard. The air thrummed with restrained anticipation.
Richard mounted his horse, tightening the reins. "We head north," he said calmly. "Double pace. Our objective is the caravan. Anyone who stands in our way—bandits, beasts, or worse—deal with them accordingly."
Turku grinned, baring his teeth. "Understood, Master. Sounds like we'll be having some fun."
As the castle gates creaked open, Richard glanced back once toward the keep. The Baron was still standing there, one hand raised in half-hearted farewell. His face was unreadable—a blend of pride, relief, and perhaps envy.
Richard turned away. The sunlight caught the edge of his cloak as he spurred his horse forward.
The company thundered out of the castle, hooves hammering the earth, a plume of dust rising behind them. Ahead lay miles of untamed countryside—and a caravan carrying not just materials, but the promise of his next step toward understanding the fabric of this strange world.
He felt the faint pulse of mana in his veins, resonating with the rhythm of the gallop. Twelve bursts of stored fire slumbered within his focus core, waiting for the moment they'd be unleashed.
"Four days' ride," he murmured to himself. "Let's see what the North has waiting for us."
The wind tore the words away, scattering them into the horizon.
The hunt—and the experiment—had begun.