Chapter 42  : White Robes and Water Blades

He didn’t blame them. He had approached them as a stranger, and they had done what most would—closed their gates. He harbored no resentment.

“But I assume, now, the fire is open to me?”

“Of course! The camp is yours!”
“My tent, if you wish it!”

“No need. Just don’t make me take a night watch.”

“I’ll take it in your place!” one merchant blurted.

And so, in the end, Curtis gained more than warmth—he gained respect, safety, and silence. The weight of suspicion had lifted. His solitude was no longer a burden.

He raised a hand—and all the water he’d spilled began to draw inward, pooling gently into the earth, vanishing. To the others, it was simply the mage tidying up his craft.

In truth, it returned to the spirit’s reserve—stored for future battles.

While the camp began its slow return to order, the mercenaries did their work.

They dragged bodies. Stripped weapons. Questioned the living.

Later that night, the mercenary captain approached again, his boots quieter now, his posture deferential.

“Sir Mage,” he said, voice hushed. “We didn’t get much. Most of them died too quickly. But we did learn something…”

“Go on.”

“They weren’t always bandits. They used to be mercenaries.”

“I figured.” Curtis nodded. “They were too organized. Their gear too clean.”

It wasn’t uncommon. Bronze-rank mercs sometimes turned when the coin ran dry. A low-tier sellsword with no work and no honor was a blade waiting to be misused.

“Their leader was silver,” the captain added. “Could’ve led a real company. So why resort to banditry?”

“Likely marked by the Guild. Committed some crime. Once you’re blacklisted, no one hires you legitimately.”

From nearby, a merchant—one of those who had bowed so deeply—spoke up, cautiously.

“If I may, sir… trade has increased this year. The eastern frontier’s expansion has created a flood of goods—ripe for theft.”

“I’d heard hiring had picked up,” the captain muttered. “So that’s why.”

“Are you headed east, sir Mage?” the merchant asked, more boldly now.

“Yes,” Curtis replied. “To Abaca.”

The merchant lit up.

“Then allow me to repay you! I’m with the Doris Trading Company—Abaca-based. Let us offer our service in return!”

Curtis raised a brow, the corner of his lips tilting in amusement.

“Very well. Let’s talk.”

The bandit leader. His eyes were wild, bloodshot with rage and madness. Spittle flew from his cracked lips. His sword gleamed with desperate fury.

He was beyond reason now—driven by pride, perhaps, or a refusal to die forgotten.

He hurled himself forward, leaping over a coiled water whip that hissed at his feet. For a moment, it almost seemed heroic.

Curtis turned his head, watching the man approach. His lips curled ever so slightly—not in fear, but in curiosity.

“Oh? So there’s a spine under all that shouting.”

There was skill in the man’s movement—clean footwork, a sharpened edge to the way he moved. Curtis didn’t know exact rankings, but he had enough battlefield experience to hazard a guess.

“He’s silver-tier, perhaps. Barely.”

He thought of Terity—his mentor, his benchmark. A silver-tier in name only was not the same as one nearing gold. There were levels within levels. This man? Likely just crossed the threshold.

“If my friend bet money on this one, I’d smack him.”

And compared to what Curtis had seen—the war between House Gaud and House Naroc, with dozens of silvers locked in lethal dance—this was a child’s tantrum.

The man thought that if he could just close the distance, he might stand a chance.

“Then I’ll make sure you never get close.”

Curtis drew more water to his hand—not into a single heavy blast, but dozens of compact spheres. Each orb shimmered like a drop of mercury, hovering around his palm. Then—he released them.

SHHH-SHHH-SHHH!

A barrage erupted, fist-sized projectiles of pressurized water shooting like a volley of magical bullets.

“W-what the hell?!”

The bandit leader’s bravado cracked. He tried to dodge, but it was too late. The distance between them was too short, the magic too fast.

THWACK! THUMP! CRACK!

Some he blocked, others he dodged—but most found flesh.

His armor—the finest among the bandits—tore like paper. His limbs bent the wrong way. Blood spilled in arcs. He collapsed, a mangled heap of metal and bone, his sword clattering to the dirt with a final, pitiful ring.

He’ll never fight again, Curtis thought coldly. Probably won’t live till morning.

He turned back to the mercenaries, who still stood in wide-eyed awe.

“You plan on watching all night?” he asked, voice steady as a mountain wind.

The mercenary captain snapped upright, startled out of his daze.

“N-No, sir!”

His tone was suddenly stiff with reverence. One did not watch a force like that and forget their place.

“One unit holds the camp. The rest—sweep the field. Clean up what’s left.”

“Yes, sir!”

The mercenaries scrambled to obey. Not that much remained to fight. The bandits had begun fleeing the moment their leader fell—scattering like rats from fire. Only the slowest, the wounded, or the stubborn remained.

The mercenaries’ job now was simple: mop-up.

The aftermath came quickly.

From within the central tent—where the merchant handlers had cowered in fear—emerged a flurry of figures, robes flapping, feet stumbling. They ran toward Curtis and dropped to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the dirt.

“O great Mage! Please forgive us!”
“We didn’t know! We didn’t recognize your greatness!”

“Calm yourselves,” Curtis replied, brushing the apology away like an old cobweb. “Your caution wasn’t misplaced. The threat was real.”

He didn’t blame them. He had approached them as a stranger, and they had done what most would—closed their gates. He harbored no resentment.

“But I assume, now, the fire is open to me?”

“Of course! The camp is yours!”
“My tent, if you wish it!”

“No need. Just don’t make me take a night watch.”

“I’ll take it in your place!” one merchant blurted.

And so, in the end, Curtis gained more than warmth—he gained respect, safety, and silence. The weight of suspicion had lifted. His solitude was no longer a burden.