Chapter 111 (Part 1): The Return of the Prodigal Son
The Weight of a Name
Clarke's doubts had dissolved like morning mist. After dispatching a mage to relay news of Bennett's ascension as Gandolph's heir to the capital, he treated the boy with newfound deference. A fool turned prodigy overnight? The irony stung, but the Mage Guild's approval was worth swallowing pride.
By dawn, Bennett's entourage swelled. Among them stood George, the former garrison officer, now reborn as George Bush—a name Bennett insisted on with unsettling glee. The man's orphan past and crude jokes about flatulence had birthed the moniker, but Bennett's eyes sparkled with a private joke. "Your son shall be Little Bush!" he declared, clapping George's shoulder as if anointing a court jester.
George, baffled but buoyed by his sudden rise, bowed deeply. "Your will is mine, young master."
The garrison commander, eager to curry favor, gifted Bennett a lavish carriage. Yet Bennett shared it not with sycophants, but with his enigmatic companions: Hussein, the brooding swordsman, and Medusa, whose serpentine hair coiled beneath a hood. To onlookers, she was merely "Nicole," a delicate rose clinging to the young lord. Let them whisper.
The Road South
The journey unfolded like a tapestry of contrasts. Where once Bennett had trudged north with Gandolph—begging for scraps, dodging frostbite—now he rode in opulence. Mage Guild envoys flanked his carriage, their frosty politeness thawing into wary respect. Even Clarke, ever the skeptic, offered insights on spellcraft during evening firesides.
"Master Gandolph favored chaos over rote incantations," Bennett mused one night, swirling mulled wine. "He'd set my boots on fire just to teach me heat dispersion."
Clarke's lips twitched. "A reckless method."
"Effective, though." Bennett snapped his fingers. A flame danced above his palm, morphing into a tiny Gandolph-shaped figure mid-sneer. The mages stiffened; Clarke's teacup cracked.
Instantaneous casting. No diagrams. No chants.
The display silenced doubts. By week's end, even the proudest guild mage addressed Bennett as "Honored Disciple."
Homecoming
Five days south, the plains thawed. Snow surrendered to emerald fields, and the air hummed with cicadas. At the翡翠 River's edge, Sir Robert awaited with three hundred Roland cavalry—their banners snapping like war drums.
"Welcome home, young master." The knight's voice carried decades of loyalty. No questions about rogue mages, disguised fugitives, or the Temple's wrath. Just steel-clad certainty.
Bennett stepped from the carriage, Medusa's hand briefly brushing his. Behind him, George Bush puffed his chest, newly polished armor gleaming.
As they crossed the翡翠 Bridge, the Roland riders erupted into cheers. Farmers doffed hats; children raced alongside, tossing wildflowers. Bennett's throat tightened. Last time, they spat at my exile.
Clarke lingered at the riverbank, his parting words crisp. "The guild will call. Gandolph's old disciples… they'll test you."
"Let them." Bennett grinned, but his eyes were flint. "I've had worse teachers."
The Lion's Den
The Roland Castle loomed, its turrets clawing the sky. In the courtyard, retainers bowed like wheat before a storm. Bennett paused at the gates, memories flooding: his father's cold stare, the stench of failure, the midnight ride north with nothing but Gandolph's cryptic riddles.
Now, stewards scrambled to unload chests of spell tomes. George Bush barked orders, relishing his sudden authority. Even Hussein cracked a smirk, sheathing his blade with finality.
Sir Robert leaned close. "Your father awaits in the solar."
Bennett nodded. The real battle began now—not with spells or swords, but with the weight of a name: Roland.
Chapter 111 (Part 2): The Prodigal's Triumph
Homecoming and Hidden Dangers
The Roland family castle loomed like a weathered titan, its stone walls steeped in centuries of pride and secrets. Old Steward Hill, once dismissive of the "foolish young master," now bowed so low his nose nearly scraped the floor. "Welcome home, Lord Bennett," he murmured, voice trembling with forced deference. Bennett smirked inwardly. How swiftly power bends spines.
After a hot bath scented with rare southern herbs—luxury he'd sorely missed in the frozen north—Bennett emerged transformed. Silk doublets replaced travel-stained tunics; his unruly hair was trimmed into rakish order. The mirror reflected a sharp-eyed noble, the lingering softness of boyhood replaced by the cunning angles of a wolf who'd tasted survival.
He issued swift orders: Hussein was exiled to the secluded manor where Bennett's "hot-air balloon experiments" once amused the locals—now a fortress guarded by sworn loyalists. Medusa, veiled and silent, claimed an entire castle wing. "Breathe a word of her," Bennett warned the staff, "and your eyes will rot before your corpse cools."
Gifts and Growing Influence
Stepping into the sunlit courtyard, Bennett nearly tripped over Mad, his rotund childhood servant. The man flung himself at Bennett's boots, wailing like a widowed gull. "My lord! My heart's been pickled in worry! Every night, I prayed to the gods—"
"To spare your wine cellar from drought?" Bennett laughed, nudging him aside. Yet warmth softened the jest. Mad's loyalty, though comical, was genuine.
The report that followed stunned even Bennett. His "silly games"—the gladiator tournaments and fireworks—had swelled the family coffers by tens of thousands of gold crowns. "And your mother," Mad added, voice cracking, "wept for hours after your sky-fire lit her birthday. She keeps the charred launch tubes as relics."
Bennett's throat tightened. Before guilt could take root, Steward Hill scurried in, face pale. "My lord! A caravan from Marchioness Liszt!"
The Marchioness's Bounty
The courtyard transformed into a merchant's fever dream. Twenty prime northern warhorses, coats gleaming like liquid midnight. Carts overflowing with frost-wolf pelts, each worth a knight's ransom. But the true marvels lay crated in sandalwood:
A six-foot blood coral, its branches twisted into a dragon's snarl.
Seedlings of the Blackmoon Orchid—a flower said to bloom only under dying stars.
A suit of armor etched with Elvish runes, its breastplate humming with dormant lightning.
The pièce de résistance made Bennett's pulse race—a dagger forged from mithril alloy. The blade shimmered like trapped moonlight, hungry for enchantments. Even a thimble of this metal could buy a duchy, he realized. Yet the Liszt envoy bowed as if delivering turnips. "The Marchioness vows further gratitude once her health permits."
Steward Hill's composure crumbled. "This… this rivals the Crown's treasury!"
Magic's Open Palm
Before the last crate was stored, the local Mage Guild arrived. Their gifts—sparkling with raw power—drew gasps:
Ten sapphires humming with storm magic.
A staff carved from a lightning-struck oak, its tip cradling a pulsating star ruby.
A chest of blackened Void Crystals—tools for bending shadows.
The guild's envoy, a frosty-faced sorcerer, pressed palms together in salute. "Archmage Gandolphus's heir merits every resource." The unspoken threat hung like mist: Prove unworthy, and these become your pyre's kindling.
Secrets and Sovereignty
Alone in his study, Bennett spread maps across oak. Mad hovered, scribbling calculations. "With these funds, my lord, we could dam rivers! Build a palace to shame the emperor!"
"Palaces crumble." Bennett circled a forested valley. "I want a sanctum. Walls thick enough to mute dragon roars. Libraries for forbidden lore. Laboratories where..." His finger paused above Medusa's veiled tower on the sketch. "...unique guests might thrive unseen."
Mad's quill froze. "The family will question such expenses."
Bennett's smile chilled the room. "Let them. By summer's end, Roland blood will flow through my channels—or dry in their veins."
Epilogue: The Chessboard Ignites
As dusk painted the battlements crimson, Bennett stood at his mother's vacant balcony. Somewhere south, a widow plotted, mages schemed, and a serpent-haired queen stirred. He raised the mithril dagger, its edge catching the last light.
"Checkmate," he whispered—to the wind, the shadows, and the ghosts of mentors past.
Chapter 112 (Part 1): The Unseen Currents
A Soldier's Fortune
George Bush, the former garrison captain of the frigid northern outpost, marveled at his newfound fate. The Roland family's ancestral estate sprawled before him, a fortress of iron-clad tradition and whispered secrets. Once a minor officer in a forgotten corner of the empire, he now stood clad in obsidian-black cavalry armor, the lion crest of House Roland gleaming like a promise on his breastplate. Sir Robert, the battle-hardened marshal of the family's private forces, had assigned him to lead a hundred horsemen—a promotion that still left George pinching himself at dawn.
"You'll guard the young master's delicate endeavors," Robert had growled, his scarred face inches from George's. "Screw this up, and I'll feed your guts to the river eels."
But George thrived. By day, he drilled with Roland's elite cavalry, mastering combat techniques that made his old garrison drills seem like child's play. By night, he dominated the barracks' football matches, his uncanny footwork weaving through defenders like a tavern dancer. The men's initial suspicion melted into grudging admiration, then outright cheers. "Bush! Bush! Bush!" they chanted as he scored his third goal of the evening, mud-splattered and grinning.
Bennett watched from the shadows of the armory, arms crossed. Loyalty bought with sweat and spectacle. Crude, but effective.
The Forge of Ambition
North of the castle, beyond the whispering oaks that had witnessed centuries of Roland bloodshed, lay Bennett's clandestine compound. What had once been a modest workshop for his "hot-air balloon whimsy" now sprawled like a fortified village: timber walls patrolled by George's handpicked riders, docks jutting into the Roland River for swift escapes, and warehouses groaning under the weight of Liszt gold and Mage Guild "gifts."
Here, the true work festered.
In a smoke-chambered laboratory, Sorscheria—the flame-haired prodigy with singed eyebrows—and Grinnygurgle, the ratty exile from the imperial court, bickered over alchemical formulae. "Add frostbloom to stabilize the reaction!" the rodent squeaked, tail lashing like an irate cat's.
"And smother the combustion? You're as mad as a drunk alchemist!" Sorscheria retorted, hurling a vial that erupted into harmless violet sparks.
Bennett leaned against the charred doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips. "Save the theatrics for the merchants."
The "theatrics" were tomorrow's demonstration: a hot-air balloon redesigned with Grinnygurgle's spell-stitched silk and Sorscheria's volatile alchemical fuel. What had begun as a nobleman's folly now loomed as tall as a siege tower, its envelope shimmering with embedded wind crystals.
Mad, ever the pragmatist, hovered nearby with ledgers thicker than grimoires. "The guild's storm sapphires alone could buy a warship, young master! And you're burning them for floating fluff?"
"Not fluff," Bennett corrected, eyes glinting. "Sky dominion."
The Merchant's Revelation
Dawn painted the Roland market square in molten gold. Dozens of merchants—fur-clad magnates, spice barons reeking of cardamom, even a pearl-draped Liszt envoy—crowded around the anchored balloon. Its shadow draped over them like a dragon's wing.
Bennett climbed into the wicker gondola, his voice slicing through the murmur. "How long does it take your caravans to reach the capital? Ten days? Fifteen?"
"Twenty, with bandits and piss-poor roads!" shouted the leather merchant who'd funded Bennett's first football league.
A snap of Bennett's fingers. George's men yanked ropes, releasing the balloon. It ascended with a serpent's hiss, lifting Bennett and a cargo crate stamped Fragile—Imperial Ceramics.
"Two days," Bennett called down, now eye-level with the cathedral's gilded spire. "Two days to soar over mountains, bypass tolls, and deliver goods untouched."
The crate opened. A servant poured wine into crystal goblets lining the gondola's edge—not a drop spilled despite the altitude.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The Liszt envoy scribbled feverishly; the leather merchant crossed himself.
"But—storms! Crosswinds!" protested a saffron trader.
Bennett grinned. "Grinnygurgle! If you'd oblige?"
The rat mage waddled forward, claws twitching. With a flick, the balloon's burner flared emerald. The craft banked sharply, evading an imaginary tempest, then steadied.
"Magic-guided navigation," Bennett declared. "Safer than a sober mule."
Shadows Gather
As merchants clamored for contracts, Bennett slipped away to the river docks. Beneath a tarpaulin lay his true masterpiece: a gondola reinforced with arrow slits and ironwood plating—a design suited for alternative cargo.
Sir Robert materialized beside him, voice a graveled whisper. "Your father's spies report temple knights scouring the borderlands. They hunt someone."
Bennett traced the gondola's reinforced frame. "Medusa's trail?"
"Or ours." The knight hesitated. "George's men are loyal, but green. If blades clash…"
"They'll learn," Bennett said, gaze drifting north where his pirate allies—long overdue—should have anchored weeks ago. Where in the Nine Hells are you, Rinley?
A shout shattered his thoughts. Mad barreled down the hill, face flushed. "Young master! The guild's envoy returns! And he's brought—"
"Archmage Kaelar," Robert finished, jaw tight. "Gandolph's fiercest rival."
Bennett's grin turned feral. "Perfect. Let's see if he enjoys the view from the clouds."