Reroll: I Brought Sarcasm To A Sword Fight

"I honestly have no idea how you ended up thinking a three year old could gamble. And you don't need an AI to know just how ridiculous that sounds."

"Don't worry... I've got an idea for that. I'll explain later."

"But right now, there's something more important. I think someone's poisoning the fields. We need to tell your father."

The brittle hush of the field pressed in around us. Even the usual hum of insects had vanished. I crouched again, fingers brushing dry soil, cold and unnatural. The noonday sun burned high above, casting hard shadows under every withered stem. It felt too bright for such lifelessness.

I stared at the dying crops around me, the weight of what I'd just learned settling in my chest. The air didn't just feel wrong, it was wrong. Mnex's voice still echoed faintly in my mind, but even he sounded distant now.

"I suppose you're right," I muttered. "There's no time to waste."

I turned to the children still lingering nearby.

"You five, follow me." I pointed at them with more certainty than I felt.

I turned to Doyle and Gareth. "Someone is poisoning the soil. We need to tell the Lord."

They looked at each other, and even I could tell something shifted in their faces, something heavy.

A faint breeze stirred Gareth's tunic, but he stood frozen. Doyle, on the other hand, didn't even blink. His shadow stretched long across the dirt, falling over the children like a curtain.

"Young master, please don't joke about things like this," Gareth finally said. "Your father wouldn't take it lightly."

"And saying something like that in front of the farmers?" Doyle's voice was low but edged like a blade. "It could damage your father's reputation."

He turned to the small children, his tone snapping sharp. "You didn't hear anything. Understood?"

The children shrank back as if struck. One boy hiccupped quietly, another wiped his nose with the back of a dusty sleeve. Robin, who had spoken so bravely before, now looked at his feet, trembling.

I clenched my fists.

"Doyle," I said quietly but firmly, "I may be a child now, but I won't stay that way forever. Don't ever try to intimidate defenseless kids in front of me again."

There was a pause. Even the air felt still.

Then Mnex chimed in, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"That was straight out of an anime. Be honest, you've definitely heard that line before."

"But young master, if word gets out about what you just said..." Gareth began.

"It doesn't matter," I cut him off.

"But..."

"I said it doesn't matter." My voice was sharper this time. Even I flinched a little at the sound of it.

I turned to the others. "All of you, follow me. I need to speak with my father."

My heart was pounding, but my voice held. The children looked to one another, unsure, then slowly stepped forward. Even Doyle didn't argue.

I had just turned to leave when a thought struck me. I glanced back.

"Gareth," I said, "take as much soil from these dead crops as you can carry. Fill your pockets if you need to, just make sure you bring plenty."

He hesitated, his eyes flicking to Doyle for backup, but found none.

Instead, Doyle gave him a short nod. Silent.

Gareth dropped to one knee. His hand dug into the brittle dirt, which crumbled like ash between his fingers. He filled one pocket, then another, grimacing as soil stuck to the sweat on his palms.

Nobody spoke.

On the way to where my father stood among the farmers, the eight of us walked in uneven silence, boots crunching over sun baked dirt and scattered wheat husks.

The midday heat pressed against our backs. A pair of crows wheeled overhead, their shadows flitting across the dusty road.

I glanced at the children walking beside me. That's when I finally learned their names, Robin, John, Tuck, Will, and Marian.

They were all a couple of years older than me, and Marian was the only girl in the bunch. Each of them came from the surrounding farms, their clothes patched and sun bleached.

Robin walked slightly ahead of the others, clearly the one they deferred to. His back was straight despite the heat, eyes always forward.

John stuck close behind him, shoulders slouched, eyes darting nervously toward every noise.

Will kept glancing at everyone, as if trying to read the mood like it was some unwritten code.

Marian was quiet, avoiding eye contact, her hands clasped in front of her, but when she looked at you, it was direct, like a nail through wood.

And Tuck, he barely spoke at all, but his wide brown eyes missed nothing. I could feel him watching even when I wasn't looking his way.

There was a strange comfort in their presence, familiar, yet foreign. I didn't know if they trusted me, but they followed anyway. That was enough for now.

We soon arrived at the village square, where my father stood surrounded by a restless crowd of farmers.

The square was little more than a flattened patch of sun bleached stone, ringed with wooden stalls and thatched huts. A cart stood overturned in one corner, spilling grain across the dust. The air buzzed with arguments, thick and heated.

As we got closer, I could make out fragments of their shouting.

One man pleaded that paying taxes with dying crops would doom them come winter.

Another shouted that handing over what little they had left would leave their children to starve.

Voices clashed like swords, frustration and fear cutting through the air. Someone slammed a barrel in protest, a dog barked from under a wagon. Flies buzzed over spilled apples.

I stepped forward and knelt before my father. The stone was warm under my knees, rough against my palms.

At first, no one noticed me, too small to stand out in the crowd.

But then, a few turned silent. Heads followed their gaze, and the noise around us slowly faded like a wave pulling back from shore.

"Henry, what is the meaning of this?" my father demanded, his tone sharp. But his eyes weren't on me, they were drilling into Gareth.

For a second, I thought he might shoot plasma from them like Superman.

Gareth fidgeted under the glare, looking around desperately for Doyle, who, naturally, had already disappeared.

"My Lord, I have something I need to discuss with you, in private," I said, trying my best to sound noble, the way I imagined a real lord might.

He sighed, shoulders slumping slightly beneath his heavy cloak. Sweat clung to the collar of his tunic. "Not now. We're in the middle of something important."

"Exactly. That's why you'll want to hear this, it's about the same thing."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes closing briefly in thought. Behind him, a farmer muttered something, but fell quiet at a glance.

"Very well," he said at last. "This had better be important." Without another word, he turned and headed toward the nearest barn, one of the larger ones near the edge of the square, with cracked beams and faded red paint.

I let out a quiet breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Then I turned, lifting one hand, a quick gesture that was half instinct, half command. Gareth and the kids hesitated, then fell in line like soldiers.

The square noise resumed behind us, but for now, it was someone else's problem.

We entered the barn, the door creaking on its rusted hinges. The scent of hay and old wood filled the air, but it didn't mask the underlying smell of dampness that had taken hold of the barn over the years. The large beams above creaked under the weight of time, and sunlight poured through slats in the roof, striping the ground in narrow gold.

My father paced to the far side, his boots tapping against the cracked stone floor. He turned to face me, arms crossed over his chest.

"You've got a lot of nerve, Henry," he said. "If this is just a child's wild imagination, you're going to regret it."

I swallowed, feeling a weight settle in my stomach.

"Gareth, show him," I said, my voice steady despite the flutter of unease in my chest.

Gareth stepped forward and pulled the soil from his pockets. He let it fall into a small pile on the ground. The dirt looked sickly against the pale stone, dry, brittle, lifeless.

My father crouched and examined it briefly. "Looks like ordinary dirt."

"Because you're not a mage," I replied. "But there's magic in that soil. Poisonous magic. Subtle enough that only trained eyes could detect it. If you summon a mage, I'm certain they'll confirm it."

He stood up again, dusting off his hands, face unreadable. "And what makes you think this is sabotage?"

I turned slightly, motioning toward the children behind me.

"They saw someone. An old beggar, sneaking into the fields at night. He came before the crops started dying and disappeared once they did. Doesn't that sound calculated?"

My father's brows furrowed. "A beggar? Are you certain?"

I nodded. "It wasn't random. He didn't sleep in alleyways or by the road, he chose our fields. And left right when things turned bad."

I took a step forward, locking eyes with him.

"This wasn't chance. Someone wanted this to happen."

A pause. My words hovered in the dusty air like smoke.

"A rival noble house, most likely."

The barn fell silent.

Wind pressed faintly against the planks outside. A beam creaked above. Gareth didn't move, and the children were statues behind me.

Then finally, my father exhaled, slow and measured and gave a single, sharp nod.

"Go on," he said. "Let's hear what they have to say."

I quickly stepped aside, gesturing toward the children.

"They saw it happen," I said. "Let them speak."

The barn felt impossibly quiet, thick with the kind of stillness that made even a breath sound like thunder.

My father turned to the group, eyes narrowing just slightly.

"Is that true?"

Robin took a hesitant step forward. Dust clung to his knees and the edge of his sleeves. He didn't look up right away.

"We didn't mean no harm, honest," he began, voice trembling but clear. "He said if we told anyone, they'd beat him bloody. We… we just didn't know what to do."

He finally looked up, eyes wide but steady.

"I'm sorry, m'lord."

The others remained silent behind him, heads bowed. Even Marian, who had seemed the most composed before, clutched the hem of her tunic with both hands.

For a long moment, my father didn't move.

Then he reached out slowly, without a word and placed a hand on Robin's head.

"You did the right thing, little one."

Robin blinked, stunned, as if no one had ever told him that before.

Then my father straightened, stepping back, his face hardening again.

His voice dropped low, but the word cut through the barn like a drawn blade.

"Theo."