When Arslan finally returned from his trip to the Torvares state, the sound of wagon wheels crunching against the dirt road drew attention long before anyone saw him.

He had left Lionfang with nothing but his horse and a travel pack.

Now he was coming back with a wagon. A large one.

Ludger was in the middle of supervising the recruits’ spell practice when he caught sight of it rolling through the main gate. His father sat at the front, reins loose in his hands, wearing that faint, tired smirk that always meant something complicated was coming.

Ludger gave a quiet sigh, handed the training to Rhea for the moment, and walked toward him.

“Welcome back,” he said. “Judging by that face, you didn’t just come home to rest.”

Arslan chuckled under his breath. “Sharp as always.”

Ludger nodded toward the wagon. “What’s the cargo?”

His father glanced back at it, the smirk faltering into something more measured. “The first shipment since we left the southern bridge,” he said. “Torvares sent the formal cut of our agreement returns. half the gold, and…” He tapped the side of the wagon. “All of the mana cores.”

Ludger blinked. “All of them?”

Arslan nodded. “Yeah. That was his idea of being generous. He took his share in coin instead.”

Ludger frowned slightly. “That’s… unusual.”

“It is,” Arslan agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it wasn’t worth arguing over. He  got plenty of use for gold, and apparently he s not interested in storing volatile cores in the manor vaults.”

His tone sounded light, but Ludger caught the strain behind it.

“Problem?”

Arslan forced a smile. “Define problem.”

Ludger stared at him for a second, then walked to the back of the wagon. When Arslan pulled the tarp aside, his son finally understood.

The wagon bed was packed, layer after layer of wooden crates stacked neatly, each one stamped with the Torvares crest and faintly humming with mana. The faint blue glow seeping from the gaps between the boards was unmistakable.

Ludger stepped closer. “How many?”

“Enough to power a dozen fortifications,” Arslan said grimly. “Or blow them up, if someone’s careless.”

Ludger whistled low. “That’s not a gift. That’s responsibility wrapped in wood.”

Arslan chuckled dryly. “Exactly what I thought.”

He crossed his arms, studying the haul with the look of a man already anticipating the sleepless nights ahead.

“Welcome home, then,” Ludger said. “Looks like the easy days are over.”

Arslan shot him a sidelong look. “They were easy?”

Ludger’s mouth twitched. “Comparatively.”

“Fair point,” Arslan muttered, then climbed down from the wagon seat and clapped his son on the shoulder. “Come on, help me unload. We’ll take inventory before the sun’s down.”

Ludger looked at the glowing crates again—hundreds of them, humming softly like restrained storms, and sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “But next time, warn me before you bring home a small armory.”

Arslan grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

They worked in steady rhythm, father and son hauling crate after crate from the wagon to the guild’s underground storage. Each box gave off a faint pulse, a quiet hum that resonated through the stone floor, a reminder that they were moving condensed power, not just cargo.

Between trips, Arslan spoke, his tone lighter than usual. “Viola sends her thanks, by the way. Said the manuals were… how did she put it? ‘Dangerously efficient.’”

Ludger snorted. “Sounds like her.”

“She didn’t waste time, either,” Arslan continued. “Started practicing the techniques the same day I arrived. Apparently, she wants to master all four elemental versions before I return.”

“That’s ambitious,” Ludger said, setting a crate down with a thud. “Fire suits her, but she’s stubborn enough to learn the rest.”

Arslan chuckled. “Guess you two share that particular trait.”

Ludger ignored the jab, heading back for the wagon, but as he grabbed the next crate, his eyes caught something different.

It wasn’t glowing. It was heavier, duller, metal instead of condensed mana.

When he pried it open, his eyebrows rose. Inside, instead of mana cores, rows of gold coins gleamed under the torchlight. Dozens of stacked pouches, all stamped with the Lion’s crest and Imperial mint markings.

“…You didn’t mention this part,” Ludger said flatly.

Arslan sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, about that. Lucius decided to sell half of the mana cores before sending the shipment. Said it’d make things simpler to manage, and less risk in transport. So he sent us the money instead.”

Ludger stared at the box. “That’s a lot of ‘simpler.’”

“Tell me about it,” Arslan muttered, kneeling to check the ledgers. “Between this, the froststeel profits, and our southern cut, our coffers are already overflowing. I honestly don’t know what to do with all of it.”

Ludger leaned against the crate, crossing his arms. “Are we… suffering from success?”

That earned him a short laugh. “Seems that way,” Arslan admitted. “Never thought I’d live long enough to call too much money a problem.”

Ludger shrugged. “Don’t worry. Sooner or later, that ‘problem’ will solve itself.”

Arslan raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Ludger said, lifting another crate, “someone will eventually show up trying to take it.”

Arslan paused, then laughed again, loud this time, the sound echoing through the stone chamber. “That’s my boy. Always thinking three steps ahead.”

“Someone has to,” Ludger replied dryly, setting the next crate beside the others.

The two of them kept unloading in silence after that, the rhythmic thuds of heavy boxes filling the air. Beneath the golden gleam of the coins and the muted glow of mana cores, both of them understood the same truth, wealth was power, but power always attracted danger. And Lionfang had just become very interesting to the wrong kind of people.

After the recruits finished their afternoon drills and the last of the Mana Bolts had fizzled out, Ludger stayed behind for a moment, watching the sun dip past Lionfang’s rooftops.

The gold still weighed on his mind. Not physically, Arslan had locked it safely away, but the sheer amount of it lingered in his thoughts. That kind of wealth could shift the balance of power in their entire region.

He’d been raised to think practically, not greedily. So, naturally, the question that came next wasn’t how to spend it, but how to invest it. And for that, one name came to mind. Aronia.

He found her where she usually was, outside her small house on the northern edge of town. The place was simple but sturdy, surrounded by a wide garden that smelled faintly of herbs and mana-rich soil. Rows of green shimmered under the fading light: basilisk root, frostmint, feverleaf, and other plants Ludger couldn’t even name.

Aronia herself was crouched near one of the planters, her hair tied back, her hands coated in dirt and mana residue.

“Evening,” Ludger said.

“Ludger,” she replied without looking up. “If you’re here to ask about supplies, the potions for tomorrow are cooling.”

“Not that,” Ludger said, stepping closer. “I came to talk business.”

That got her attention. She straightened up and dusted off her hands. “Business?”

Ludger nodded. “The guild’s coffers are full. Between the froststeel profits and the Hakuen shipment, we’ve reached the point where money is just sitting idle. I was considering investing some of it locally.”

Aronia folded her arms, already suspicious. “And you came to me because…?”

“Because your garden is underdeveloped for someone of your skill,” he said bluntly. “You could be doubling your potion production. Maybe even setting up a small alchemy lab next to it. If we helped you expand, new equipment, assistants, a larger greenhouse, you could supply the entire Lionsguard with high-grade potions.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like work.”

“It’s an investment,” Ludger corrected.

She smirked faintly. “For you, maybe.”

Ludger didn’t bite. “I’m serious. It’d stabilize our potion reserves and give you resources to experiment properly. You could refine long-term brews, develop field kits, maybe even teach new alchemists.”

Aronia looked past him toward the garden, then sighed. “You know, that’s not the first time you suggested that. The answer is still no.”

“Why?”

“Because I already have too much work,” she said simply, wiping her hands on her apron. “Between supplying the guild, checking every potion batch, and working for the guild” she shot him a sharp look “I’m already working more hours than I want to.”

Ludger frowned. “So you’re telling me you’re not interested in expanding?”

“I’m telling you,” she said patiently, “that I didn’t become a healer or alchemist for the coin. I like this.” She gestured around her, garden, tools, modest home. “I like seeing things grow, fixing what’s broken. That’s enough.”

Her tone was firm, but not unkind. Ludger crossed his arms. “You realize you could make the guild more self-sufficient with the right production line.”

“And you realize you’re starting to sound like a merchant,” she replied with a faint smirk. “Always chasing after work, or money..”

That made Ludger pause. “…I’ll take that as both a compliment and a warning.”

“Good,” Aronia said, returning to her plants. “You’ve got plenty of projects already. Let me keep my peace. The guild’s fine on potions. If things get dire, I’ll expand, but not before.”

Ludger exhaled quietly. “Understood.”

He turned to leave, but before he reached the gate, she added, “Ludger.”

He looked back.

“I appreciate the thought,” she said softly. “But don’t spend all that gold trying to fix things that aren’t broken. Save some for when they actually break.”

He nodded once. “Noted.”

As he walked back toward the guild, the smell of herbs still lingered in the air. He’d meant to find an investment. Instead, he’d found a reminder, some things didn’t need scaling or optimization. Some things just needed time to grow.

When Ludger returned to the guild, night had already settled over Lionfang. The torches along the main hall flickered softly, throwing long shadows over the stone floor. He paused near the door, exhaling a tired sigh that carried more thought than exhaustion.

Aronia’s answer still echoed in his mind, her quiet refusal, her insistence on keeping things simple. It made sense, but it left him right back where he started. Too much coin, too few directions to put it.

He crossed the hall and sat at his usual desk, the one buried under half-sorted ledgers, mana-core inventories, and half-finished research notes. His eyes drifted toward the corner, where a small stack of his handwritten manuals sat, the Mana Bolt primer, the Overdrive guide, a rough draft of Tinder, Create Water, and Cold Wind.

He tapped the top one with his finger.

“If I can’t invest in production,” he muttered, “then maybe I should invest in knowledge.”

Hiring scribes was the obvious choice. Copying these manuals by hand would be tedious, but doable. Yet even as the thought formed, another followed, the idea he’d been turning over since teaching the recruits how to read.

A machine. Something to press and copy pages faster. A framework of carved plates, maybe enchanted rollers. He’d seen something similar in his past life, a printing press, though primitive compared to what he remembered. With mana circuits and geomantic shaping, he could probably make a simplified version here.

The idea of building it stirred a spark in him. Not for profit, but for efficiency. For progress and XP.

If he could produce books fast enough, he could do more than train mages. He could write manuals for every profession, blacksmithing, potion-making, scouting, rune-carving. Condense knowledge into structured learning, the same way he’d condensed Overdrive into diagrams and practical applications.

He leaned back in his chair, half-smiling at the thought. “Imagine,” he murmured, “if people could learn professions the way I obtain classes and jobs. A world where knowledge spreads faster than talent.”

But even as he said it, the smile faded a little. Reality struck. Most artisans and mages would never agree to such an idea. Too much knowledge shared meant too much competition. Guilds and noble houses protected their secrets for a reason. Publishing accessible manuals could make him more enemies than allies. He sighed again, running a hand through his hair.

“Of course it won’t be easy,” he muttered. “It never is.”

Still, he couldn’t let the thought go. He needed to test it, see if skill acquisition really could accelerate through structured written instruction. If it worked, it could redefine training across the Lionsguard… maybe even beyond Lionfang. He looked down at the stack of papers again, his mind already outlining prototypes and mana-flow mechanisms.

“Printing press first,” he decided quietly. “Theory later.”

Outside, the wind rattled faintly against the windows, soft, rhythmic, like the world whispering keep building. And Ludger intended to do exactly that.

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