It was noon.
Since morning, Fungi had been immersed in meditating on the memories of the masters. He had spent hours tirelessly rereading them and, during each pause, practiced his water manipulation. Since the previous day, he had secluded himself in his room, isolating himself from the rest of the caravan.
He didn't have much work ever since he boarded two days ago. His contribution was simple, yet essential: as a pseudo-master of water, he provided fresh water for consumption and cleaning. This was no trivial matter.
The caravans were enormous cargo wagons, like trains without rails, moving thanks to a highly complex and costly spell. Some were modest, others enormous and well-equipped, but all served the same function with slight variations depending on their purpose. Some even served as homes for merchants, since journeys between islands could take weeks or months.
Even within the great kingdoms, commercial caravans typically arrived only four times a year, as their route passed through multiple islands before returning to the starting point.
Fungi recalled that a friend's father had once been a merchant on one such caravan. Every time he returned, his appearance changed so dramatically that, if not for his voice, one might have thought he was a completely different person. That was the life of those who traded from island to island.
So far, the journey had been peaceful. They hadn't suffered any severe attacks that required his intervention, which suited him well. It wasn't that he was afraid of a fight, but he preferred to avoid situations that would force him to display his rather poor combat abilities with water. He wasn't a fighter. Still, he knew that sometimes even healers had to fight.
At least for now, he preferred not to.
As for his relations with the rest of the caravan, they were practically nonexistent. Of course, he wasn't a total hermit; if someone approached him, he would reply politely, yet without any intention of prolonging the conversation. So far, no one had disrespected him, but he hadn't developed any real connection either.
Despite that, there were two mercenaries who seemed interested in getting close to him.
The first was a young swordsman with black hair and a slender build named Han-Lee. He wasn't particularly attractive, but Fungi had heard among the other mercenaries that his swordsmanship was fearsome.
What was most remarkable about Han-Lee was that he wasn't aligned with any elemental path; instead, he was a master of the sword path.
That was rare.
Fungi had never imagined he would live long enough to meet a sword master.
As for his personality… he was hard to describe. Their first interaction was unusual. Barely acquainted, Han-Lee made an unexpected request:
"—When we finish our journey to the southern seaport, allow me to travel with you to the East."
Fungi looked at him, puzzled.
"—And what do I get out of it?"
Han-Lee's response was clear and emphatic:
"—I want your services to seek out the Holy Venerable Demon of the Sword. In exchange, you'll have my company."
It was evident that he considered his offer valuable. Perhaps, for an ordinary sorcerer, having a swordsman of that caliber could be an advantage—but in Fungi's case…
No one really knew what his trump cards were.
Han-Lee was proud, but not unpleasant. His self-confidence made him unique.
The second mercenary was an older man—more mature, with red hair, tall, and strongly built. He carried a massive heavy bow and dressed in thick furs, giving him the look of a hunter. He introduced himself as Huo-Huo, the captain of the mercenaries.
Contrary to what Fungi expected, Huo-Huo wasn't the kind of leader who would charge headlong into chaotic battle without thinking. Instead, he was extremely cautious when it came to strategy and defense.
During an earlier conversation, Huo-Huo had suggested that in case of an imminent attack, Fungi should stay out of the fray and focus on his role: healing and stabilizing the wounded. Fungi remembered this well because, although the strategy made sense, it made him realize something important: if the battle grew desperate, he already knew who his priority patients would be.
Furthermore, it wasn't a secret that redheads descended from the Venerable Supreme of Force.
The Force Path…
For any sorcerer, it was an absurd option. Its level of difficulty and physical demands meant very few dared to cultivate it. However, the descendants of the Venerable not only practiced it—they mastered it with ease.
Fungi had no interest in confronting a master of Force. But, at the very least, he wouldn't doubt his own safety as long as Huo-Huo was around.
Although he had no intentions of relying on the caravan's mercenaries, he didn't rule out the possibility of needing their help at some point. And if that moment came, he already knew who to trust first.
Setting aside his thoughts, Fungi returned to his training.
The practice dummy was still in place.
He grabbed a bucket of water in front of him and began molding it with his magic. Gradually, the water took the shape of an aquatic serpent. With a mental command, he ordered it to increase its pressure and attack the dummy's armor.
The impact was strong.
Too strong.
Instead of piercing or damaging the armor, the water serpent exploded in all directions, soaking the room.
Fungi remained unfazed.
It was something he had expected.
Failing to properly measure the parameters of a spell could lead to immediate failure. This was normal. Spells worked with a specific structure, function, and one or more commands.
In essence, a sorcerer was someone who manipulated reality through the true names of the elements around him.
A master, however, refined that manipulation until it conformed to his will.
The structure of the "Marine Serpent" spell was inherently offensive, designed for attack. But Fungi was attempting to modify it—to turn it into something versatile.
A tool, a weapon, a flexible resource in battle.
Developing a new technique typically took years of experience. However, Fungi had an advantage.
First, his knowledge of the Soul Path granted him mastery in remodeling—just as he used it to manipulate souls, he now applied it to water.
Second, the Water Path was extremely volatile. With enough precision, he could turn its instability into an offensive edge.
Third, he had the memories of experienced masters in the field.
He wasn't far from modifying the technique to his advantage.
For now, his priority was to adjust the base structure of the spell to the minimum amount of water he could carry in his gourd. He couldn't depend on large quantities of water; he had to make each drop lethal.
That would be his first step toward mastering the Water Path.
The second step was to integrate that mastery with the Soul Path.
Only after that could he aspire to achieve Great Mastery.
But he was still far from it.
Fungi exhaled slowly, clearing his mind.
There was still so much to be done.
The caravan continued moving without interruption. They had gone a long time without stopping, and the moving spell still worked flawlessly.
Inside the main wagon, the caravan's owner—nicknamed "Shell of Rage"—reclined in his worn leather chair, his gaze fixed on the large map spread out on the table. His thick, weathered fingers, scarred by years of work and trade, drummed impatiently on the wood.
He was making a crucial decision.
The map before him showed several routes to his destination: the commercial camp near the southern seaports. There, he planned to resupply and negotiate with other merchants before continuing his journey.
But reaching the destination intact was the real problem.
There was no safe path.
Every experienced merchant knew that the world was rife with dangers, and while one could never avoid risk entirely, choosing which danger to face was better than being caught off guard.
He had two options.
The first route would take them through mountainous terrain where, according to the latest reports, wild beasts had multiplied in recent moons. Traversing that land meant a campaign of constant attacks until they could emerge from its domain.
The second route passed through lands controlled by a minor sect. This meant the risk of being ambushed by mercenaries hired by the sect or, at worst, becoming a direct target of the sorcerers guarding the area. Confronting them would result in a prolonged harassment campaign—if they couldn't inflict enough damage to force the enemy to retreat, they would pursue them until annihilation or until all the merchandise was abandoned.
Shell of Rage clicked his tongue in irritation.
"Damn it… neither option is good."
His caravan wasn't large. It wasn't like those majestic cargo trains that roamed the kingdoms with hundreds of workers and an army of mercenaries escorting them. He couldn't afford to hire reinforcements or pay for expert war tactics.
He had to handle almost everything himself: —He was the guide. —He was the driver. —He was the merchant. —He was the one who negotiated, ordered, and decided the future of the caravan.
The slaves he owned were used for cleaning and basic maintenance of the wagons, but when it came to combat strategy, they were completely useless.
Moreover, he only had eight mercenaries.
Even though they had a healer on board, his presence didn't solve the dilemma. Sure, the healer could keep the mercenaries alive during battle, but that service cost one item of the caravan's stock for each use of his abilities.
It was a deal that, at first, seemed like a steal in his favor.
But now, with the prospect of a war of attrition ahead, the cost of keeping even a single mercenary alive could become unacceptable.
"If I slip up, this doctor will bankrupt me before we even reach the south."
Yet, he couldn't afford to lose too many men.
If one mercenary fell, the pressure on the rest would increase and the probability of the caravan's destruction would rise exponentially.
It was a dilemma with no easy solution.
"What's worse? Spending my resources on keeping my mercenaries alive or losing them and risking a massacre?"
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
Huo-Huo entered the room.
The mercenary captain walked over to the table and studied the map in silence. He didn't need to ask what the discussion was about—he knew exactly what the merchant was evaluating.
Shell of Rage, still frowning, broke the silence.
"What do you think? Which option do you believe we can handle?"
Huo-Huo narrowed his eyes, deep in thought.
"Honestly, the situation is terrible in both cases."
The merchant nodded gravely.
"On one hand, if we confront the sect's sorcerers, we will enter a war of attrition. They won't stop chasing us unless we destroy enough of their forces to make them lose interest. – Huo-Huo's voice grew even more serious, almost somber – On the other hand, if we choose the beastly route, it will be a test of endurance. We'll have to withstand their attacks non-stop until we escape their territory."
Shell of Rage clicked his tongue. Both options were hellish.
The two men exchanged looks, still weighing the possibilities in their minds.
Finally, Huo-Huo spoke first.
"However… we have an advantage."
The merchant raised an eyebrow.
"We have a healer on board. That amplifies our resilience. If we take the beast route, we can keep the mercenaries standing throughout the journey."
Shell of Rage squinted.
"Yes… but that means relying on the doctor. And that bastard is not cheap."
The mercenary captain smiled slightly.
"Not necessarily. It doesn't mean we can't leverage the situation."
The merchant looked at him in disbelief.
"How do you plan to take advantage of an ambush by beasts?"
Huo-Huo folded his arms.
"We could collect the carcasses and sell their parts: skin, bones, organs." He raised a finger, emphasizing the obviousness of the idea. "We'd sacrifice some of the goods from the caravan's stock, yes… but in exchange for merchandise that is far more valuable."
Shell of Rage blinked in surprise.
It was an absurd idea.
It was a dangerous idea.
And, damn it, it was a brilliant one.
Beast parts were valuable commodities in the world of sorcery. They were used in rituals, spells, and potions. The more carcasses they collected, the greater their profit.
Risking an encounter with the sect would guarantee a relatively safe journey…but at the cost of losing mercenaries and valuable merchandise.
Risking the beasts meant losing mercenaries, but in return, they'd gain a fortune in magical materials.
It was a gamble.
But one that the merchant was willing to take.
He inhaled deeply and exhaled in resignation.
"Alright…" he murmured, rubbing his bald head. "I like the sound of that."
Then, his expression darkened.
"However, there is still one problem."
Huo-Huo tilted his head, curious.
"How exactly are we going to convince the doctor?" the merchant said, pursing his lips. "This is going to be a marathon of healings. We have an agreement, but he might very well extort me to hand over extra goods for his fatigue. In the end, it might not be as profitable as you say."
The captain smiled confidently.
"That won't be an issue."
"Oh, really? And why are you so sure?"
Huo-Huo rested both hands on the table, leaning toward the merchant.
"Because I know exactly what to offer him."
He paused briefly to build tension before continuing.
"I've noticed that in his room, you can hear constant splashes of water. He's been practicing his water manipulation nonstop. It's not hard to deduce that he's trying to improve his defense."
The merchant stared at him.
Huo-Huo smiled.
"And there's no better gift… than the one you truly need."