One month later, the change was impossible to miss.

On the side of Lionfang, where scrubland and trampled paths had once stretched uselessly, a field now thrived. Neat rows of herbs grew there, dense, healthy, and unmistakably special. The air carried a faint, clean scent of vitality, and even people with no magical sensitivity could tell the plants weren’t ordinary.

Ludger had made sure of that.

When the time came to graduate a new batch of trainees into full Lionsguard recruits, he chose ten of them personally. Not the strongest fighters. Not the loudest. The reliable ones. Those who followed instructions well, paid attention to details, and didn’t panic when something went wrong.

He spoke to them directly.

“This work matters,” he told them plainly. “It won’t look impressive from the outside. But it will keep people alive.”

Then he made an offer. Good pay. Immediately. No conditions attached. They would be paid from day one, even before the field produced anything of value.

The reaction was immediate, and honest.

They liked the idea of earning well without risking their necks in a labyrinth. No frostbite. No monster ambushes. No healing bills after the fact. Just steady work, real responsibility, and visible results.

None of them refused.

When the first harvest came in, Ludger oversaw it personally. Half of the herbs went straight back into the ground, replanted, expanded, secured for future cycles. The other half he set aside for processing.

That was the next step.

He’d learned the basics from an alchemist in a nearby village. Nothing advanced. No secret formulas. Just proper preparation, correct ratios, and patience. Enough to turn raw materials into something useful instead of wasted.

Still, this was the first time he applied that knowledge at scale. And the first time he taught it.

The recruits gathered around as he worked, hands stained with crushed leaves and reagent residue, listening carefully as he explained each step. Not just how to do it, but why. What could go wrong. What signs meant the batch was failing. When to stop instead of pushing harder.

Simple potions. Basic recovery. Nothing flashy. But when the first successful batch cooled and settled, Ludger looked at the results and felt something click into place.

This wasn’t just training. It was foundation. And for the first time, Lionsguard was producing something that didn’t come from killing monsters or breaking into labyrinths.

Something sustainable. Something that would be very hard for the Empire to ignore.

The system responded quietly as usual.

Alchemist

Bonus per Level:

• +3 Intelligence

• +3 Wisdom

• +3 Dexterity

The skill list followed immediately—basic, practical, and exactly what he expected.

Basic Toxicology Lv.1 – Allows identification of harmful interactions and impurities. Reduces chance of producing dangerous side effects

Ludger reviewed the interface briefly, then dismissed it.

Simple. That was good.

He had intentionally started with the easiest products, low-tier recovery tonics, stamina restoratives, diluted vitality mixtures. Things with forgiving margins and clear feedback. They didn’t sell for much, but they produced experience quickly and reliably.

Exactly what he needed. The plan wasn’t immediate profit. It was acceleration.

Fast experience gains meant better control, higher efficiency, and fewer failures later when he moved on to more valuable recipes. The early batches paid almost nothing compared to froststeel, but they trained hands, sharpened instincts, and built habits that would scale.

Even then, Ludger was realistic. This wouldn’t make him rich overnight.

Fields took time to expand. Recruits needed repetition. Supply chains had to stabilize. Trust from buyers had to be earned. Income would come later.

For now, the important thing was that Lionsguard had taken another step away from dependency, and another step toward becoming something self-sustaining.

Ludger looked at the recruits working beside him, hands moving more confidently with each batch.

This is fine, he thought.

Slow money. Fast experience. That balance suited him just fine. 

Aronia watched without interfering.

For an entire month, she observed Ludger’s new routine from a distance, how he split his time between training, the herb fields, and the small alchemy workspace he’d set up near Lionfang. She didn’t correct him. Didn’t comment. Didn’t even offer advice unless he asked directly. She was a bit hurt when he looked for another alchemist to learn the basics, even though she could tell that he just didn’t want to increase her workload.

And the longer it went on, the more unsettled she became. Not because he was failing. Because he wasn’t.

Teaching Healing Touch had already been unusual enough. Watching non-druids grasp it, slowly, imperfectly, but correctly, had forced her to reevaluate more than a few assumptions. But this was different.

Plant Growth. Nature’s Breath. Life Bloom.

Those weren’t surface-level techniques. They were druidic skills tied to perception, intent, and respect for living systems. Things that weren’t supposed to translate cleanly outside a druid’s worldview. And yet, Ludger had done it again.

He didn’t just use them. He taught them.

Carefully. Stripped of mysticism, grounded in cause and effect. He didn’t call it communion. He called it feedback. He didn’t speak of spirits. He spoke of balance and thresholds. It worked.

When he finally returned to the guild with the first finished products, small batches of potions designed to reduce scarring, soothe chronic skin conditions, and accelerate surface recovery—Aronia stopped him.

She took one vial, uncorked it, and inhaled lightly. Clean. Stable. No hidden backlash.

“…Why alchemy?” she asked.

Ludger shrugged, unbothered by the scrutiny.

“Just an idea,” he said. “Seemed useful.”

Aronia looked at him over the rim of the vial. “That’s all?”

“It also reduces your workload,” Ludger added calmly. “At least for minor cases.”

That made her pause. She lowered the vial slowly, studying him, not as a healer this time, but as something closer to a peer.

“You’re planning something weird again,” she said.

Ludger didn’t deny it. “Someone has to.”

For a moment, Aronia considered pressing further. Then she let it go.

She set the potion down carefully and nodded once. “They’re good,” she said. “Better than I expected.”

That was high praise, coming from her. As Ludger moved on to distribute the rest, Aronia watched him go, a faint crease forming between her brows.

Teaching druids’ work without being one, she thought. Alchemy layered on top of it.

She still didn’t fully understand how he did it. But she was starting to realize that Ludger didn’t learn secrets.

He translated them.

And that, she suspected, was going to change far more than just her workload.

Teaching alchemy to recruits who were only one or two years younger than him was, objectively speaking, dangerous.

Ludger was aware of that.

Alchemy wasn’t sword practice. A mistake didn’t mean bruises or broken bones, it meant toxins, instability, reactions that didn’t care how confident someone felt when they made them. Still, it wasn’t like the kids were going to attempt human transmutation the moment he looked away. He kept the scope narrow, the materials controlled, and the procedures deliberately unambitious.

Even so, the results were… unsettling.

They learned fast. Too fast.

Hands steady. Measurements precise. Timing almost perfect. Failures were rare, and when they happened, they were mild—recoverable. That wasn’t normal for beginners, especially young ones.

Ludger knew exactly why. His Guild Master skills were doing their work. The Dexterity bonuses made fine manipulation easier than it should have been. The Intelligence bonuses sharpened comprehension, shortened the gap between explanation and execution. What should have taken weeks to internalize clicked in days.

Efficiency was good. But unchecked efficiency was dangerous.

He could see it in their posture. The confidence creeping in a little too quickly. The way success started to feel expected instead of earned. That kind of momentum didn’t just inflate skill, it inflated ego.

And nothing good ever came from letting kids believe they were untouchable.

So Ludger intervened, not by scolding, but by changing the conditions.

He rotated jobs.

Alchemy practice paused. Different disciplines took its place. Tasks where failure was inevitable. Where bonuses helped, but didn’t guarantee results. Where frustration forced them to slow down and reassess instead of coasting forward on momentum.

They failed. A lot. And that was the point.

Ludger watched carefully as confidence recalibrated into patience, as excitement settled into respect for the work. Success became something to aim for again, not something assumed.

Power was easy to give. Perspective was not.

As long as he was responsible for their growth, Ludger would make sure they earned both, especially before either got out of hand.

Ludger decided not to sell anything yet.

Producing first, distributing later, that was the safer path. A buffer mattered more than early profit. He wanted a stock large enough that a bad batch, a sudden shortage, or an unexpected spike in demand wouldn’t cripple the entire operation.

As usual, his focus narrowed to the obvious choices. Mana potions. Health potions.

They were always in demand. Always moving. The kind of goods that sold themselves the moment word got out.

They were also the hardest to make properly.

Stable regeneration. Clean absorption. No backlash. No lingering residue. Getting those wrong didn’t just hurt reputation, it hurt people. And that meant time. Care. Repetition.

Months, he thought. At least.

He accepted that without irritation. This wasn’t a rush job.

Lost in planning cycles and failure margins, Ludger headed home as the sun dipped toward the horizon, Lionfang’s streets glowing in that familiar amber light. His pace was unhurried, mind still occupied with production ratios and storage requirements.

Then he heard laughter.

He stopped.

Not abruptly, but enough to break his stride.

It came from ahead, faint but unmistakable. Young voices. Relaxed. Unguarded.

Ludger shifted smoothly into shadow, letting his presence fold inward as he listened. After a moment, he moved closer and angled his view down the street.

That’s when he saw them. Eclaire and the other two.

They were pulling carts loaded with froststeel, the metal’s pale sheen catching the last light of day. One of them said something Ludger couldn’t hear, and Eclaire laughed—light, unforced, the sound of someone who hadn’t realized how tense they’d been until it was gone.

They didn’t look over their shoulders. Didn’t scan rooftops. Didn’t tighten their formation.

They looked… comfortable.

So that’s how it is now, Ludger thought.

Over the past few months, they’d relaxed. Settled into routine. Still careful, but selectively so. Their wariness had narrowed, not vanished. And it was centered on him.

They planned around his presence. Avoided his routes. Timed their returns so they wouldn’t cross paths. Not fear, strategy. The kind that came from knowing someone was paying attention.

Ludger stayed where he was until they passed, the sound of their laughter fading with the cart wheels.

Only then did he step back into the open and continue home.

The city felt quieter after that.

And for the first time in a while, Ludger wondered, not with suspicion, but with measured curiosity, how long that balance would last before something forced it to change.

Thank you for reading!

Don’t forget to follow, favorite, and rate. If you want to read 400 chapters ahead, you can check my patreon: /Comedian0

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep