Wizard Starts Farming With Mini Skeletons

As the group of people approached, Clayton immediately felt uneasy. He was caught in a dilemma—should he run or stay? If anything happened, it would be hard to act freely.

But his hesitation—and the speed at which the group moved—left him no chance to escape.

One of them stepped forward and asked, "Who are you?"

Clayton answered cautiously and truthfully. Seeing that he was cooperative, their suspicion faded, and they quickly ordered him to join the line forming in the crowd.

Clayton nodded and followed their instructions with a calm, obedient expression—though inwardly, he was confused.

As he waited, he watched one person after another attempt to pull a sword from the stone—but none had succeeded. At first, he didn't think much of it, but the closer his turn came, the more anxious he became.

Countless thoughts raced through his mind.

Could I really pull out the sword? Or will I fail and embarrass myself? And if I succeed… then what? Hand it over to the great families? Or run away with it?

The disturbing questions flooded his thoughts. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself—but peace remained elusive.

He desperately wanted a cup of tea, a purification scroll, or even some incense to steady his nerves. But using any of those in the middle of the line would only draw more attention.

In the end, unable to resist, Clayton made do with what he had—brewing tea with room-temperature water and the most basic tools. He sipped slowly.

Glup.

The sweet, slightly bitter taste helped clear his mind.

He finally began to feel calmer—so much so that he didn't even realize it was already his turn.

Standing before the sword embedded in stone, the calm he had just regained vanished. His body tensed and began to tremble.

He reached for his cup again, but it was empty. This time, the nerves were overwhelming.

Still, he refused to make a scene after coming this far. He forced himself to stay steady, not wanting to delay the process.

Slowly, his hand reached for the sword's hilt. He gripped it firmly, his eyes burning with determination.

No matter what happens, I have to pull this sword out, he told himself.

For a moment, his mind went blank. He no longer cared about the consequences.

He pulled with all his strength—jaw clenched, muscles taut, veins bulging.

"Arrghhh!"

The crowd held its breath, watching intently.

Slowly, the sword began to move—its blade rising from the stone.

Gasps erupted. Shock rippled through the onlookers.

But Clayton remained fully focused. The noise around him faded. All that mattered was the sword.

Time stretched painfully. He was almost there. The tension in the air was unbearable.

Some of the more cunning observers began to wonder how they could use the situation to their advantage.

But just when only the tip of the blade remained embedded, Clayton felt a powerful resistance radiating from the sword itself.

He didn't stop. He pulled harder.

"Arghhh!"

He screamed, his skin flushing red from the strain. But it was no use. His strength gave out, and he collapsed, exhausted.

The atmosphere shifted instantly—suspicion settled over the crowd like a storm cloud.

People began eyeing him with narrowed gazes. The sword had almost come free... and yet he failed?

Was he holding back on purpose? Planning to return later and claim it in secret?

Whispers spread among the representatives of the great families.

Several people approached him, their eyes sharp and probing.

"Hey, why didn't you finish pulling the sword?" asked a fat man from the Bramble family.

Still lying on the ground, Clayton felt his anger spike. It wasn't his fault—he had given everything he had. It was just that, at the final moment, the sword had rejected him.

Strangely enough, despite the failure, he felt a strange sense of relief. Judging by the reactions of the great families, if he had succeeded, he might have ended up imprisoned—or worse, dead.

"Cough… It's not that I didn't want to pull it out," he said bitterly. "But the sword… it felt like it rejected me. Like I wasn't qualified."

Most people dismissed it as a weak excuse. But the fat man paused, thoughtful.

There was some truth in Clayton's words. Others had also nearly pulled the sword free, only to feel an invisible force pushing back at the last second.

The idea of "qualifications" sparked something in the man's mind. He'd experienced the same thing.

As the crowd continued murmuring, he fell silent in contemplation.

Finally, he gave an order.

"Check his body. See if anything's off."

A few people approached and examined Clayton closely. He felt humiliated—exposed in front of everyone. But he had no choice.

After several minutes, they reported back.

"Sir, he appears completely drained. His energy is almost gone. If left alone, he might collapse."

The fat man nodded.

"Very well. Let him go. Next person."

Clayton staggered to his feet, his legs barely holding him upright. But the man hadn't spared him out of kindness—he simply no longer saw any value in him.

Still, something about Clayton lingered in his mind—an odd feeling he couldn't quite explain.

He tried to think deeper, but eventually brushed it off.

Meanwhile, Clayton walked away under the weight of countless curious stares.

He felt uncomfortable, but didn't stop. The crowd parted to let him pass.

Elsewhere, Harpy and Rodent watched with mixed expressions. The scene had drawn enough attention for them to spot Clayton easily—though he had no idea they were there.

At first, they'd been impressed—maybe even envious—when he nearly pulled out the sword. They'd wanted to be in his place.

But the moment he failed, their admiration twisted into ridicule. They mocked him in hushed voices, calling him arrogant and pathetic.

Unaware of their presence, Clayton continued moving away from the crowd. Now that he'd "proven his innocence," the great families had lost interest in him.

He searched for a quiet place to rest and recover.

But just as he began to relax, a group of unfamiliar people suddenly blocked his path.

Clayton's brow furrowed immediately.

"Who are you?! What do you want?!" he barked, shifting into a defensive stance.