Chapter Ten: Seeking Refuge

Kevin couldn’t explain anything to the farmer; even those living near the city had rather limited understanding. Perhaps they’d eaten poisonous mushrooms before, so now they believed all mushrooms were toxic. To be fair, truly identifying poisonous mushrooms is no easy task. The common wisdom is that brightly colored mushrooms are poisonous, but many white ones are dangerous too. Kevin had traveled for ten years, yet he wouldn’t claim to be an expert—he only dared to pick mushrooms he recognized.

The farmer left, and Kevin had to start gathering firewood all over again. After having his pot kicked over just now, if he tried to cook again, the firewood might not be enough. If he ran out halfway, that would be truly troublesome and he’d have to prepare everything once more.

Failures midway are always discouraging, but there’s nothing to be done. He spent more time, dragging his weary body to rebuild the fire. Looking around, he prayed to the heavens, “Let’s hope no fool comes to kick over my pot again.”

Suddenly, the forest echoed with the clucking of a chicken. A dark shadow darted out from the undergrowth, streaking past Kevin. Without hesitation, Kevin hurled a magical missile at it.

At the same moment, an arrow flew from the forest, both striking the creature simultaneously. The shadow dropped, struggled briefly, then lay still. Clearly, it was a black-feathered chicken.

Kevin stood up at once, picking up the chicken to inspect it. Immediately, a hunter, bow slung across his back, rushed out of the woods, shouting, “What are you doing? Put down my chicken!”

“This is my chicken,” Kevin replied. “I hit it first.”

“There’s my arrow stuck in it—how can you say you hit it first?” The hunter glared. “Say that again?”

“That’s magic. You wouldn’t understand!” Kevin retorted, his hunger making him irritable.

“Damn it!” cursed the hunter, rolling his shoulders and getting ready to fight. Kevin was prepared, quietly gathering a magical missile in his palm. The missile itself was about as powerful as a farmer’s punch, but if held and released together with a punch, it would double the force. Against someone like this, it could knock him flat.

Seizing the moment, Kevin struck first, delivering his “farmer’s double punch.”

Smack! The opponent caught it with his hand and immediately countered with a punch.

Bang! Kevin was knocked flat.

“Hmph! Trash.” The hunter snatched the chicken from Kevin’s hand and kicked him twice before cursing his way off.

After a while, Kevin shook his head and struggled to his feet, tapping his nose, which still ached. He was a mage, yet he’d lost to a mere hunter—what a disgrace. Clearly, his fighting skills and experience were sorely lacking, but there was nothing he could do. Looking up, he saw it was already past midnight. Helpless, he gathered some wild berries for food, stripped off his clothes to wash them in the creek, bathed himself, then put the wet clothes back on. It was May, the temperature was mild, so bathing wasn’t uncomfortable.

By the time he’d finished, dawn was breaking. A whole night, and all he’d managed was a bath—surviving outdoors was truly miserable. Baron Stardart was a noble, and his editor; surely it would be safe to seek him out?

Kevin made up his mind and first affixed a large beard. This beard was crafted from his own hair; in some regions, big beards were fashionable, so Kevin adopted the custom, wearing it when telling stories. Now it served well to disguise him.

“Hey! Credentials.” The guard stopped him.

“Kevin.” Kevin presented his badge. The assassin’s attack didn’t seem to be a nationwide pursuit; otherwise, he’d have been apprehended right out of the slop bucket.

“You…” The guard was surprised. “Just a day, and your beard’s grown so long?”

“Don’t mind such details,” Kevin replied casually. “By the way, has anyone come looking for me?”

“No idea,” the guard shook his head. “At least not during my shift.”

“Alright, thanks.” Kevin nodded and entered the city.

Apparently, the pursuit for him was quite lax. As he walked, Kevin scanned his surroundings but found no suspicious people. He began to doubt his own judgment—perhaps Linda was just an ordinary reader? Yet he’d overheard her searching for him in the slop bucket; was she simply investigating his disappearance?

Impossible! Kevin quickly dismissed this notion; they were mere acquaintances—she wouldn’t rush about in the rain just for him. Yet the pursuit was so feeble. The only explanation was that the assassin sent after him was a rookie.

That made sense—he was just a wandering bard, unable even to best a hunter. No need to send a high-level assassin or issue a nationwide warrant. Perhaps people like him were merely training dummies for novice assassins. This, in a way, gave Kevin confidence in his escape.

For the sake of realism in his writing, Kevin had once tried to deduce the likelihood of someone like himself escaping in the empire. His conclusion: if the nation truly mobilized its full force, he’d have no chance. His scent and other details were already registered; even hiding deep in the mountains wouldn’t help, as the Dragonhawk Corps would search, and powerful search spells and familiars would leave nowhere to hide. Any so-called escape strategy depended on having real power; confronted by a top mage, a mere glance would paralyze him—where could he run?

Only in small, weaker countries might escape be possible. Otherwise, only by lucking upon a chamber pot—whose magical help was legendary—could one get away. Kevin had no chamber pot, nor did he expect to find one; so his best option was to seek protection, find a legitimate way to survive, and integrate into society.

For this reason, heading to the teleportation station was risky, but Kevin considered it worthwhile.

At present, nearly every human city had one or more teleportation points, greatly facilitating travel but also causing some issues. Since teleporters directly connected major cities, they acted as inner city gates. Because fugitives could instantly teleport nationwide, tracking them was difficult. Thus, security here was as strict as at the outer gates—if not stricter.

Entry required proper credentials; weapons or equipment above one’s rank were forbidden, as were fire oil, magic crystals, spatial rings, or any spatial magic items. Some were dangerous, others could cause spatial disturbances at the teleporters, leading to serious accidents.

Teleporters required magic crystals for operation, which were expensive. While not explicitly limited to nobles, in practice, only nobles used them; common folk couldn't afford the fare. With so many nobles, customs developed—such as barring dirty or unkempt individuals. If Kevin had come yesterday, covered in soup, he’d have been thrown out; today, though still damp, he was presentable.

Fortunately, bards enjoyed discounts. The Bard Guild encouraged travel and offered half-price tickets, which had been a great help to Kevin. Otherwise, he couldn’t even afford bread, let alone teleportation.

Soon, the inner city wall appeared, with the teleportation gate glowing with magical light. The wall was shaped like a C, lined with guards wielding shining spears, and three mages stationed at the center.

The guards here were even more severe and arrogant, used to dealing with nobles; common folk rarely interacted with them. Unlike the outer gate guards, who would chat with any old farmer.

All fugitives had a certain unnatural look, and Kevin was no exception. Though he’d read and written many thrilling stories of pursuit and escape, living it himself was entirely different. Fortunately, there was no sharp-eyed sage here; no one noticed Kevin’s demeanor.

He couldn’t help but glance around, rubbing his hands nervously. Only when he stepped into the teleportation gate did he truly breathe a sigh of relief—even felt like laughing at the rookie assassin. Ha!

Suddenly, the scenery changed, the scent of sea breeze filling his nose. Teleportation was fast—just a blink. He was now in Shires City, one of the most prosperous coastal cities of the Bauler Kingdom, and a military stronghold. The city had three million inhabitants, including over fifty thousand nobles of varying ranks.

The Stardart Library was in the city center, and today was a calm day. Since the last midnight visit from the black-clad assassin, nothing major had happened. That man had promised to return the “Chronicles of Assassins,” but hadn’t yet. But this was a minor issue; in Baron Stardart’s mind, nothing mattered more than a noble ball.

Knock, knock, knock! Three taps at the door. Baron Stardart put down his manuscript: “Come in.”

The door opened and three bards entered. Stardart glanced up, recognizing their faces but not their names. They bowed slightly in greeting, then each laid out a manuscript. “We are barons from Layton, well-read in novels, and interested in writing our own. But our editors seem unimpressed; we all feel it necessary for Baron Stardart to review them personally.”

Stardart nodded and casually picked up one to read. Among bards, nobles were common; their small-time editors couldn’t handle them, so Stardart had to deal with them himself.

“I believe my novel is excellent. I’ve established an entirely new leveling system, upgrading from Fierce Rising, Beast Tragedy, Shada, Chaos Dark, all the way to Labor Endure, Hedgehog Nest, Infinite Link, and finally, Great Deity. I believe this work will soon surpass ‘The Rex Chronicle’ and become a masterpiece beloved by countless bards.” The bard on the left smiled confidently.

Stardart nodded as he read. “How is this leveling system different from 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9?”

“Of course it’s different!” the other replied. “It’s like how our noble ranks are Duke, Marquis, Count, Viscount, Baron—not just numbers 1 through 5.”

Stardart nodded, set aside the manuscript, and picked up the next. The second bard stepped forward. “This is a transmigration novel, about a sword saint who suddenly finds himself in the body of a fallen noble. This noble suffers all sorts of abuse, but once the sword saint inhabits him, everything changes. He begins…”

The bard spoke passionately, explaining at length. Stardart had already finished reading, but the bard kept going, seemingly intent on narrating the entire plot. It was, at heart, another story about trouncing gods and demigods.

“What do you think?” The bard finally asked.

“Not bad.” Stardart nodded, then moved to the third manuscript. This bard remained silent, with an air of pride, clearly regarding his companions as beneath him.

Stardart quickly skimmed through, puzzled. “The protagonist doesn’t have anything like a chamber pot?”

“No,” the other answered, almost disdainful. “My protagonist wins through wisdom. I spent a year producing this chapter, researching extensively and interviewing notable scholars. I’m confident my novel is the most rational, enlightening, and excellent.”

Stardart sighed. “But it won’t make money.”

The three exchanged glances, falling silent.

Stardart addressed the first two: “You two can go back now; your manuscripts can be published. Send the next chapters each month, and I’ll pay you in gold coins based on borrowings. The contracts will be ready soon; wait downstairs.”

“Alright.” The two nodded, glancing at the third with a hint of smugness, while he looked bewildered and slightly indignant.

“Your work is good,” Stardart assured the third bard. “Clearly, you’ve put more effort in, and it’s higher quality than your companions’. But it’s niche—perhaps it’ll achieve something, but unlikely to reach great heights.”

The bard was silent, his face incredulous.

“Last year, our library’s borrowings—‘The Rex Chronicle’ alone accounted for 8% of the total. Almost everyone who came to borrow or buy books would leaf through it. Similar novels are popular; many nobles read one and want more, so they seek out similar works. Thirty percent of our library’s income comes from this. Another fifty percent comes from noble balls and trading events, and about eighteen percent from noble advertisements. Niche books only account for one to two percent.”

“We speak in numbers. I’m a businessman first, editor second,” Stardart explained. “You may think nobles are foolish, only reading mainstream trash. The truth is, we make more money. Why do you think mainstream becomes mainstream?”

The bard protested, “Maybe I can lead the mainstream.”

Stardart laughed. To him, it was like asking a child what he wants to be when he grows up, and the child answers, ‘King.’ Ridiculous, though strictly speaking, not impossible. So Stardart only smiled and said, “That’s a fine dream.”

“I have a friend who, like you, writes with unusual thinking,” Stardart reminisced. “His work is excellent. I’ve recommended him to many nobles. Yet, he’s now reduced to telling bawdy jokes for a living, twenty-five and still single. I’m not saying niche works can’t become famous, but it’s very hard.”

The bard was silent.

Knock, knock, knock! The door sounded again. Stardart called, “Come in.”

The door opened, and in walked Kevin. The walk from the teleportation point had dried his clothes, but two days on the run left him haggard.

“What a coincidence!” Stardart greeted him warmly. “Let me introduce you. This is Kevin Inquethought, the twenty-five-year-old bachelor I mentioned.”

“Using me as a cautionary tale for newcomers again?” Kevin nodded casually to the new bard. “That Jill at the market—his writing was good. Why’s he selling salted fish now?”

“I suggested it,” Stardart replied. “Selling salted fish is obviously more promising than writing. It’s a fact. So, how have you been lately?”

“Terribly,” Kevin sighed. “But it’s just bad luck, not because I write niche stories.”

The new bard couldn’t help but ask, “Mr. Kevin, is it true only mainstream works can become popular?”

Kevin looked him over, smiled. “Of course not.”

“That’s wonderful! I’ll finish this book then!” The new bard was clearly excited.

“But first, let me ask you: are you writing for profit or just for interest?” Kevin inquired.

“Profit, of course.”

“If it’s profit, volume wins,” Kevin answered unexpectedly. “A finely crafted masterpiece is easily defeated by the mass-market goods.”

The newcomer was disappointed, at a loss.

“Sadly, that’s the reality. Successes exist, but are rare. Encouraging people to strive for that is actually wrong,” Kevin sighed. “Many artists’ works are only recognized after their death, sometimes generations later. In their own time, many lived at the bottom of society. If your wisdom exceeds your era, it’s hard to be accepted; if you surpass the mainstream, the mainstream won’t embrace you. That’s how it is.”

The new bard was silent for a moment, then left quietly with his manuscript.

“How unexpected!” Stardart was amazed. “I thought you’d urge him to follow his dreams and go on and on.”

Kevin shook his head. “A few years ago, I would’ve. But after so much, you have to accept certain things.”

“Oh? So your next novel will be mainstream?” Stardart asked.

Kevin chuckled. “I plan to write a story about a bard—my own trade, so I know it well. I’ll include the editor, too. What do you think?”

“Another niche work!” Stardart sighed, knowing Kevin was stubborn and not about to be persuaded.

Kevin understood the editor’s feelings, but paid them little mind, joking, “Compared to mainstream or niche, I worry more: if I beat up the editor in my book, will real editors take offense?”

“Haha!” Stardart laughed. “You’re overthinking it.”

“That’s good,” Kevin laughed too.