Bate Ivo
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Chapter 50: The Weight of Inequality
🕑 Added 2025-11-02 17:12:44 +0000 UTCChapter 50: The Weight of Inequality
Emilia tried to follow Master Fjorn’s instructions, but he lost consciousness several times, forcing them to start over. Two formation bases were lost this way, and Emilia didn't know what to do.
Finally, she broke down and wept. Fjorn regained consciousness and watched the small, crying child. Why did we bring her with us? he asked himself, though he knew the answer. Little children should be playing outside, not torn away from their parents. I needed a mobile battery... Because we're from a poor village and I don't have access to expensive magical crystals. And how will these children ever grow up normal?
He recalled his own childhood. Out of seven brothers and two sisters, three died of dysentery before they even turned two. Three became hunters; two of them died at thirty, and the eldest brother fell at forty—killed in an ambush by poisonous forest jellyfish. The average lifespan in this world was around forty-two years, and for hunters, it was thirty-five.
He was the last living brother. His two sisters had married far away, but one died in a plague epidemic ten years ago—the same one that took the lives of Emilia's father's parents.
And that wasn't all. Fjorn, despite having somehow managed to unlock his mana, was forced to enter into difficult contracts with various factions in this world.
First, with a formation master who treated him like cheap labor. For years, the master shared none of his knowledge, trying to preserve the small monopoly he had built over a specific kind of defensive formation against scrying.
For years, Fjorn did the preliminary calculations for material preparation and laid the exact same foundations. If he made even the slightest mistake, he was mercilessly whipped by his master.
He might still be an apprentice, albeit a slightly advanced one, if his prideful master hadn't received a contract to work on a secret project for the construction of a series of mysterious laboratories.
The contract had no room for apprentices because every extra person was a risk, and apprentices reduced the quality of the work. As a result, he was heartlessly thrown out like a dog onto the street with a few dozen silver coins and a brief letter of recommendation stating he was "a good worker who keeps his head down and doesn't meddle in matters that aren't his business."
Lacking the knowledge needed for true formations, and only knowing how to prepare their foundations, Fjorn was often forced to starve and sleep on the street. There, he first witnessed the horrors of the big city. He saw the perpetually starving homeless and beggars beaten to death. He saw children condemned to long years in prison for desperately trying to steal someone's purse or a piece of fruit from a fat merchant’s stall.
He saw gangs of the poorest people’s sons who exploited their own relatives and neighbors. Clashes between them were ruthless, and human cruelty knew no bounds. He saw the guard, corrupt and incompetent, turning a blind eye to these crimes.
He saw all of this, and his heart broke. He had no money to return to his village to his parents, and no one wanted him as an apprentice because they didn't want to risk taking on a grown child who might be an agent of his former master. But most of all—because he was no longer small, and it would be difficult to "build trust" between them.
This continued for a whole year. Fjorn started learning some glyphs here and there. He began to earn a little silver and even found a new master—an elderly man with a bad back. There, he was both apprentice and laborer.
His master burdened him with many tasks but also taught him well to execute them. Fjorn was still young and had seen life's difficulties. He didn't complain about the cold, the heat, or the hard work. Together, they traveled throughout the kingdom, serving one nobleman or another. But they always received the most grueling tasks.
They had no patrons in the Guild, no ties to any of the numerous factions, and the nobles who hired them typically had their own masters and gave Fjorn and his new master the most arduous and heavy labor.
Often, instead of paying the agreed-upon silver, they were tossed an old book containing "ancient knowledge, preserved for a thousand years in the family library..." which invariably turned out to be a mix of well-known practices, a great deal of mystical-sounding nonsense, and slivers of genuine knowledge hidden in one or two places. But they had to be grateful even for that.
Sometimes, Fjorn cursed the Great System. He held it responsible for the longevity and incredible power of the rulers. He blamed it for their impunity. He blamed external forces, unaware of Earth's history—where, even without the Great System, things had been analogous for three thousand years. And perhaps even worse. Countless scholars were declared heretics and handed over to the Holy Inquisition. Women were branded as witches, and after the fall of the ancient empires, the knowledge of the ancients was lost for a thousand years.
How many aqueducts, how many ancient roads, how many Colosseums, preserved even today, were built during a few centuries of the Roman Empire's flourishing, and how many afterward? Did the conquerors, after the fall of ancient Constantinople, not drink from the fountains like animals, failing to appreciate the incredible engineering thought and ancient sewage systems? They conquered the city but failed to assimilate the knowledge.
Was the Great System truly to blame for this? No, it wasn't the gods; it was the people who were ignorant.
But Fjorn did not know any of this. He had only experienced the hardship of this world. He was not a philosopher, historian, or even a local idler contemplating the essence of things and providing empty frameworks and endless explanations.
He simply felt the weight of inequality in his bones. The division between the endlessly wealthy and the endlessly poor. The gulf between mighty mages flying their ships in the skies and poor peasants crawling in the dirt for a handful of rice.
Fjorn looked at Emilia again—this small, innocent victim in this pitiful scene. She is so young... and I have no other choice, he thought, and his heart clenched. I have to teach her how to kill.
"Emilia, we are almost out of formation cores. Let's stop for now. I will be fine."
Then, he slowly moved closer and hugged the child. "Don't worry. Everything will be alright. The others will find us soon, and we will return to the village. Grandma Zlatka makes amazing baked pumpkins, drizzled with cranberries and white cheese. You will love them."
Fjorn continued to comfort her, and Emilia's tears gradually stopped.
"But how will they find us? We don't know how big this space is. You are injured, and I am... I am... I can't even cast spells on my own. I have to spend hours drawing talismans, and my paper will run out soon."
"Things will work out somehow. Don't underestimate the Mayor, or Douglas. The Echidrids are especially strong and resilient. And your magic is nowhere near as weak as you think. Come, let's rest."
Emilia then helped Fjorn settle down more comfortably and curled up next to him. The day had been long and filled with tension. Their lives were hanging by a thread, and they had no choice but to simply keep going.
When the future is shrouded in fog, the gaze must always be forward. Emilia reflected on the strange writings of the heroine Allegoria, who often suffered from depression.
