NOVEL WEB 32. Why am I even doing this?
‘So this is where you hide.’
Constantine’s eyes stared out from the dense cover of an overgrown bush. Shadows stretched thick and heavy across the ground, and he remained completely still, his form buried in the darkness. From his position, he watched the camp below—its orange lights flickering against the backdrop of night.
‘A simple palisade. Not much of a defense.’ He assessed the layout calmly. Even though it was a starless night, his mana-enhanced vision made the scene as clear as day. He counted the sentries, noted the gaps between patrols, and measured the distance he’d need to cover if he decided to move.
Wooden shacks, surrounded by a palisade and a bamboo watchtower, made up a tiny fortress. 'I would have to be fast to reach the cover of the palisade before my defensive spell expires.'
But the longer he looked, the more doubt pressed at him. ‘Why am I even here? I could die here—for what? Some people I barely know?’
Constantine backed away slowly, the branches around him shifting slightly as he moved. The black fur wrapped around his shoulders emitted darkness, making him blend perfectly with the night. Guiding even more mana into the black fur wrapped around him, the shadows lengthened and deepened.
‘Is this even my problem? Do I have a reason to get involved?’ The more he stared at the distant watchtower and the wooden palisade the more he doubted his course of action. He wasn’t immortal, or even arrowproof to act brazenly. Also, he wasn’t a hero.
Two lights flickered near the gate. Constantine’s breath stilled, and he narrowed his eyes. As they moved, the lights turned into two torches, carried by bandits trudging up the hill. He didn’t dare to twitch—he still lacked his weapon.
“Hey, hurry up, I need to take a piss.”
“Stupid boss making us go in pairs at night.”
“Ha, as if those peasants would try anything.”
“Yeah, we taught ’em a lesson they won’t forget.”
Constantine’s grip tightened. ‘People like this are why both this world and the one before sucked.’ Disgust flared in his eyes—he hated these kinds of leeches.
Just as his heart sped up with murderous energy, he forced himself to take a deep breath. ‘Don’t be stupid. Not like this.’ He always considered himself cautious, albeit sometimes a bit sloppy. ‘This isn’t me.’
As the bandits’ lights moved back down the hill, he let them pass, his fingers tracing the pelt’s edge as he refocused his mana into it. The shadows around him darkened again, blending him into the hillside. ‘There’s no point in risking my life now, not when I’m this vulnerable.’
He didn’t want to die—he was terrified of dying like a zero. Amidst the rush of his newly gained power, he almost forgot who he was. He was a scholar, a man who loved discovering new things, not some hero, warrior, or soldier.
He stood up slowly, keeping low to the ground as he moved away from the camp. The fires and the wooden palisade grew distant behind him, and the night swallowed him up once more.
A couple of days later:
Constantine stood straight, his fingers wrapped around the smooth shaft of the spear. His lips curled into a crooked smile as the light glinted off the spearhead, catching on the runes etched into the metal. His eyes lingered on the craftsmanship, feeling the weight of it. His hand itched to pump mana into it, to see what it could do.
“Is the customer satisfied?” The smith’s voice, rough but steady, broke Constantine’s focus. He blinked, lowering the spear slightly as he turned to the man beside him.
Constantine nodded slowly, still smiling, “Yes, I’m satisfied with the quality of your work.” He paused, he still needed to keep his act. “Although my master’s opinion will matter more. If he’s pleased, there’ll be more orders for you in the future.”
Agnus’s face flushed with relief. He clasped his palms together and bowed deeply, his voice trembling. “Thank you, young master! It’s an honor beyond words. To be given the chance to work on a spirit weapon... I never imagined a mortal smith like myself would have such an opportunity.”
He dropped to his knees, his forehead touching the stone floor at Constantine’s feet. “I am grateful beyond measure. I never thought I could learn arts reserved only for smiths working for sects.”
His eyes widening, Constantine retreated a step back from the kowtowing smith. ‘What in the damnation?’ He paused in sudden realization.
‘Ohh! So that is what it is!’ He understood, his impression of the smith rising another notch higher. ‘He is someone who isn’t content with the status quo and wants to learn more and improve.’
“Rise,” Constantine said, his tone calm “I appreciate your dedication. You’ve done well—” His voice trailed off, his tongue tangled by hesitation, ‘Should I do it? Well, it might motivate him even further. Having someone like him on my side might be worth it.’
Constantine raised the spear, “I can show you what you have forged as a reward for your hard work.”
The smith raised his head off the floor, his eyes wide.
POV Smith:
Agnus’s heart pounded like a hammer striking a hot iron. As he stood, his legs felt weak beneath him, a mixture of pride and fear swirling in his chest. ‘My work—my hands—satisfied a disciple of a powerful master!’ he thought, the realization making his head spin. ‘I’ve surpassed even my own master today. This is the peak I’ve always dreamed of reaching.’
“Take a step back. It might be dangerous.” The young master’s voice was calm and precise, almost indifferent. Agnus nodded quickly, obeying without hesitation. He backed away all the way to the corner, pressing himself against the wall. His eyes never left the spear, afraid he might miss even the smallest detail of what was about to happen.
The young master raised the spear higher, its polished tip—engraved with runes Agnus had painstakingly etched for hours on end—now pointed toward the opposite side of the workshop. Agnus’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Please work.’ He wasn’t sure what the spear was supposed to do, but he wouldn’t be able to live with the knowledge he screwed up his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work on a spirit artifact.
A sudden crackle, then a low buzz—sounds he had never heard before—filled the air. Agnus’s eyes widened as bright, pale blue light burst from the spear’s tip, illuminating the workshop. The runes glowed, pulsing with life, the light so vivid it seemed brighter than even the light of his forge.
‘It works,’ he marveled, his chest tightening with awe. The tendrils of energy crawled out like branches, twisting and flickering as they reached into the air.
This... this is what I created!’ Agnus’s hands trembled, and he stared at them as if seeing them for the first time. ‘A real spiritual weapon. I’ve done it—I’ve truly done it.’ It was as if he had captured a piece of the lightning from the sky and bound it into steel.
The light flashed bright, then vanished just as quickly, plunging the room back into the yellowy glow of the forge’s warm flames.
“I-it works.” The young master whispered.
For a moment, Agnus would swear he heard surprise and shock in the young master’s voice, but he quickly dismissed it. Instead, pride swelled within him like a wave of warmth, ‘He must be shocked that a mere mortal has managed to make it. I wonder how I could make it work even better.’
POV Constantine:
Constantine watched the smith tremble in the corner, the man’s hands clenched tight and his eyes glued to the spear.
The sight was uncomfortable, but not unfamiliar. Constantine’s eyelids twitched, a flicker of irritation he forced himself to suppress. It was as if he saw his own reflection crawling underneath the cultivator's feet, kneeling in the mud and dirt of the streets.
To a mortal like Agnus, cultivators were unsurpassable mountains one could only look up to with reverence and fear.
After a moment’s hesitation, Constantine spoke, keeping his voice even. “Calm down. There’s no need to act like this. It’s just a small thing.” He knew his words went against the usual way cultivators treated mortals. But he didn’t care. ‘I don’t need to treat someone I plan to work with again like a worm. That’s a waste of potential.’
The smith remained frozen. Constantine’s patience thinned. With a flick of his wrist, he twisted the spear, feeling the smooth balance of it as he swung it in a quick arc. It sliced through the air effortlessly, like an extension of his arm. His lips curled into a grin, and a gleam of satisfaction lit up his eyes. ‘Perfect. I’ve got a weapon I can use.’
He paused, feeling a familiar sense of anticipation rise. ‘There’s still one more move I can make to secure the smith’s loyalty,’ he thought, his mind calculating the best approach. ‘If my guess about his personality is right, it’ll work.’
Clearing his throat, he spoke again, this time with a hint of authority and consideration. “You have aptitude—your attention to detail is impressive, and that precision is crucial for forging enchanted weapons. If you work hard, it may be worthwhile for my master to teach you more—secrets behind the workings of spirit weapons to allow you to create stronger weapons.” He paused, letting the words hang for a moment before adding, “But talent needs to be forged and tempered. Of course, whether that happens depends entirely on my master’s will.”
Agnus’s head snapped up, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and hope.
Later the same day:
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields as Constantine climbed the winding road on his way from the town. The path twisted through the patchy crops and fields, leading up to his small cottage perched on the hill.
He glanced back over his shoulder. The villagers were still there, hunched over their work in the fields, their eyes fixed on him. He could feel their burning gazes.
Constantine’s skin prickled. He recognized that look—it was anger. He turned away, quickening his pace. ‘Better not provoke them.
As he neared his cottage, the sharp, rancid stench hit him. He wrinkled his nose, pausing mid-step as the foul odor washed over him.
‘What in the—?’ he thought, quickening his pace. ‘Did they fertilize the fields in this month?’
His eyes landed on the cottage wall. His stomach twisted. Manure, smeared thick over the rough wood, staining it with its dark streaks. His steps faltered, and for a moment, his breath caught in his throat. He stood there, anger mixing with disgust.
‘Who did this? Who—’
He recalled the angry gazes directed at him earlier. He knew how people were. His home remained untouched while others suffered, losing their property and even loved ones. ‘They hate me just for not suffering with them.’ He chuckled, ‘And being an outsider doesn’t help.’
He could feel the tension bubbling and the slow, simmering anger as he walked past the villagers. ‘It is only a matter of time before someone tries to do something worse. This is just a beginning.’ He had already become the ostracized pariah.
Sighing, he glanced up at the sky, the clouds painted red by the setting sun. He was lost in deep contemplation. ‘That cultivator from the forest, that scarred man, villagers, bandits… Maybe I should move on again.’ The heat was rising. He could already smell disaster approaching. A single wrong move could ignite a catastrophe.