The next day stretched long and flat, the road a ribbon of dust under a pale sky. The rhythm of wheels creaking and hooves clopping had dulled into a steady monotone, broken only by the occasional birdcall or Harold’s off-key whistling.
Viola leaned out of the carriage window again, chin resting on her arms. Her eyes darted between Ludger on his gelding and the horizon ahead. She’d already counted the clouds, annoyed both maids with endless questions, and even tried coaxing one of the guards into sparring from horseback—he’d politely declined with the desperation of a man who valued his career.
“I’m so bored,” she groaned. “This carriage is suffocating. I could be out there on a horse, riding with the wind. Instead, I’m stuck in this box like a—like a package!”
Ludger glanced over from his saddle, deadpan. “Packages don’t complain this much.”
“Exactly,” she fired back. “I’m worse off than a package.”
The younger maid stifled a laugh. Viola scowled at her, then flopped dramatically back inside the carriage.
That was when Arslan, riding at the head, turned in his saddle with that infuriating grin of his. “Well, if we’re all dying of boredom, maybe our little prodigy can lighten the mood.” His eyes landed squarely on Ludger. “What do you say, son? Show us a bit of those Bard technique of yours?”
Ludger froze, reins tightening just slightly in his hands. “What Bard technique?”
“Oh, don’t play coy. I’ve heard you humming,” Arslan said, wagging a finger like he’d caught him red-handed. “Not just random tunes either—there’s something to them. Got rhythm, got weight. You’ve been practicing.”
All eyes suddenly seemed to tilt toward him—Selene raising an eyebrow, Harold grinning wide, Aleia smirking with curiosity. Even Viola leaned back out of the carriage, eyes shining with fresh interest.
“Bard skills?” she asked, far too loudly. “Ludger’s a bard? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“Because it’s not worth talking about,” Ludger said quickly. “Just humming. Nothing special.”
Arslan’s grin widened, teeth flashing. “If it’s nothing special, then no harm in sharing, eh? Let’s hear a verse, maybe a song for the road.”
Ludger stared at him flatly. Fantastic. One week on the road, two weeks of noble circus, and now a concert tour courtesy of my loudmouthed father.
Still, he could feel the faint tickle in his chest, that quiet pull of [Song of Ease], waiting to be called. It wasn’t much—just a whisper of music, a thread of comfort—but maybe, just maybe, it would smooth the edges of travel and shut them up.
He exhaled slowly, already regretting what he was about to do.
The road hummed beneath the wheels, the air thick with waiting eyes. Ludger exhaled through his nose, gave his reins a tug, and let his voice slip into the rhythm that had been tugging at him for weeks.
It started soft—half hum, half murmur—threading into the quiet with an easy cadence. But as he let the mana flow, [Song of Ease] unfurled, seeping into the air like warm tea. Shoulders loosened. Breathing evened. Even the horses’ ears flicked forward, calmer under the weight of the melody.
Then Ludger laced it with words.
“Careful, careful, on the road,
Some folks trip with half their load.
Charge ahead and miss the ground—
End up flat, no glory found.”
His voice was light, teasing, carrying just enough tune to make the rhyme dance without tipping into mockery.
A snort broke from Harold first, his big shoulders shaking. Aleia covered her mouth with her hand, eyes glinting like she’d been waiting for this all trip. Selene tried to glare, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. Even Cor, stoic as he liked to be, chuckled low into his collar.
Viola, of course, flushed scarlet. “You—!” She leaned half out of the carriage, fists clenched. “You made a song about me?”
Ludger didn’t stop. He shifted smoothly into the next verse, his smirk audible.
“Swing too wide, the blade won’t land,
Dreams outrun what feet can stand.
Still she grins, still she flies—
Stars reflected in her eyes.”
By the time he trailed off, the grove of trees ahead seemed less imposing, the long road behind them a little shorter. The fire in Viola’s cheeks lingered, but her lips twitched, betraying the hint of a smile she tried to bury.
“You’re insufferable,” she muttered.
“Maybe,” Ludger said, adjusting the reins with a satisfied hum, “but apparently, I’m also entertaining.”
Arslan whooped, slapping his thigh. “Knew it! That’s my boy. A fighter, a healer, and now a bard! Who needs a tavern when we’ve got him along?”
Selene’s sigh was audible. “Just don’t let him get cocky. We’ve already got one reckless child to wrangle. Two counting Arslan.”
The group laughed, the tension gone. The road carried them forward under the evening sun, Ludger’s voice still hanging faintly in the air—half song, half spell, and entirely his.
(Skill: [Song of Ease] + 10 Experience.)
He blinked. ten?
His eyes flicked across the camp: Arslan, Selene, Harold, Aleia, Cor, two guards, two maids, and of course Viola still pouting from the carriage window. He’d only hummed for himself before, little fragments late at night, and the skill had crawled forward at a snail’s pace. But now… now the number lined up exactly with the heads around him.
So that’s how it works.
He schooled his face, fighting the smirk itching at the corner of his mouth. Not just humming in private. Not just me hearing it. The system rewards based on the number of the audience. I can also customize the notes.
It was so disgustingly convenient he almost laughed. So if I’ve got twenty people in earshot, I get twenty chunks of experience. Thirty people, thirty. Well, that’s a neat little pyramid scheme. Finally, the system and I agree on efficiency.
Arslan’s laughter still echoed, Harold was already asking for another verse, and even Viola had gone quiet, chewing over the song she pretended to hate. None of them noticed Ludger’s fingers tapping absently against his saddle, counting numbers only he could see.
One week to the capital. Crowds of nobles, servants, spectators. All of them with ears.
His smirk slipped free at last, subtle but sharp. Maybe this trip won’t be such a waste after all.
The second night on the road found them in another grove, the firelight pushing back the dark as sparks climbed into the night sky. Horses were tethered, dinner simmered in a pot over the flames, and the guards rotated quietly along the perimeter. The rhythm of travel was settling in.
Viola, however, had no intention of settling.
“Selene,” she piped up after supper, “teach me how to make another sword. A better one. If Ludger thinks snapping my practice blade is funny, I’ll just carve one he can’t break.”
Selene arched a brow, steel glinting faintly as she wiped her blade clean. “You’re not going to whittle your way to invincibility, girl. But—” She let the pause stretch before tossing her a short, sturdy branch from the firewood pile. “—I suppose learning how to handle your own weapon isn’t a bad place to start.”
Viola grinned, seized the branch, and sat down beside her teacher like an eager pup. Selene produced a small carving knife, demonstrated the grip, and began shaving thin curls of wood from her own piece with crisp precision. Viola followed, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth in concentration, her strokes uneven but determined.
Ludger watched the scene unfold from across the fire, arms folded. Perfect. This is my chance to sit back and enjoy a quiet night without being dragged into whatever mess she invents next.
He leaned back, almost relaxing—until Viola’s eyes flicked up, locking onto him with that familiar spark.
“Ludger!” she called. “When I finish this, you’re sparring me again.”
He groaned. So much for peace.
Arslan, of course, chuckled from where he lounged against a log. “That’s the spirit, Viola. Keep at it. Nothing like sibling rivalry to sharpen steel and hearts.”
“Sibling homicide, more like,” Ludger muttered under his breath.
By the time Selene was guiding Viola’s hand into cleaner cuts, Ludger had already made his decision. He slipped away to the edge of the grove, dragging a few branches with him. Out there, under the pale starlight, he settled into his own rhythm—pugilist drills, stretches, bursts of Overdrive practice until his lungs burned. Mana bolts flickered between his palms, fading before they reached their mark. Every repetition left him a little more tired, a little less available for whatever antics Viola wanted to rope him into.
Sweat cooled along his back, muscles humming with exhaustion, but the quiet was worth it. He’d rather collapse on his blanket later than spend another hour being Viola’s unwilling training dummy.
Better to beat myself up than let her do it for me, he thought grimly, launching one last mana bolt into the dark. I won’t gain much by sparring with her.
The glow winked out, leaving him in silence save for the distant sound of Viola’s laughter at the fire.
Ludger wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, breathing hard as he sat down on a fallen log at the edge of the grove. His arms still trembled faintly from the last set of drills, the ache crawling pleasantly into his shoulders. He stretched his fingers out, watching faint traces of mana flicker across his palms before fading away.
And then the thought came.
What if I could copy something?
Not just the system-given skills—the neat, labeled abilities with tidy numbers attached. But techniques . Moves he remembered from games, from anime, from stories that used to fill the dead hours of his other life.
He pictured a constant stream of power, pouring from his hands like a cannon that never ended. A beam that carved through everything in its path, unstoppable until the caster decided otherwise. His lips tugged into a smirk.
“Now that would be fun.”
But almost as quickly, he sighed. He already had [Mana Bolt]—a compressed, unstable shot of power that he could barely keep straight half the time. Firing a continuous blast sounded glorious in theory… but what good was it if he couldn’t even refine the basics yet?
He leaned back, looking up at the stars peeking through the canopy. Still, the principle is there. If I can push mana in bursts, then maybe I can stretch it. Sustain it. Not just fire and forget, but fire and control. A line instead of a spark.
His fingers twitched, as if tracing the shape of something invisible. The thought was half-ridiculous, half-irresistible.
What if the system doesn’t care whether it’s a “real” skill or not? What if it’s just waiting for me to mimic something well enough to make it stick? Copy a move, call it my own, and maybe it slides neatly into a new slot.
A breeze rustled through the grove, carrying the faint sound of Viola’s laughter from camp. Ludger closed his eyes and exhaled, letting the ache of fatigue settle deeper.
Alright. First I master what I have. Then I test the theory. If the system’s going to hand out skills for effort, then I’ll take more than just what it offers. I’ll steal from imagination itself.
He smirked faintly, eyes half-lidded. Mana Bolt today. Energy beam tomorrow. If nothing else, it’ll look impressive when I finally get to show off.
With that, he let his body relax into the grass, exhaustion finally outweighing ambition. Sleep crept in fast, carrying his plans into the quiet dark.
The grove was quiet when Ludger picked himself up again, breath steadying, determination outweighing fatigue. He brushed dirt from his knees and held out his hand. A pale glow gathered in his palm—the familiar unstable spark of [Mana Bolt]. It pulsed like a heartbeat, erratic, eager to fly the moment he let it slip.
He thought back to Cor’s demonstrations. The old sage hadn’t just fired mana; he’d guided it, coaxed it along invisible lines as if it were silk pulled by steady hands. Cor had made his bolts curve, rise, even stop mid-air. Ludger, by comparison, was a child lighting firecrackers.
Alright, he told himself. Not strength. Not speed. Control.
He steadied his breath, the way Cor had taught him during meditation. The glow condensed, humming faintly, until his palm tingled with pressure. Then, with a sharp flick, he released.
The bolt shot forward—wild, as always—and fizzled against a tree trunk.
“Figures,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Again.
This time he forced his will upward, picturing the bolt flying toward the stars. For a split second, the shot twitched off its normal path, veering a fraction higher… then spun out, snapping into the dirt with a hiss.
“Closer,” he said under his breath. “Still garbage, but closer.”
He repeated the process, over and over, sweat slicking his brow, arms aching as mana drained in steady trickles. Most bolts sputtered off into trees, gouged the ground, or simply dispersed mid-flight. But slowly—painfully slowly—something changed.
On the twelfth attempt, the bolt climbed. Not far, not fast, but upward—a jagged streak of light that wobbled into the sky before vanishing.
Ludger froze, breath caught, then smirked despite himself. “Finally.”
The progress was small, barely worth mention to anyone else. But to him, it was proof. Control wasn’t a gift—it was repetition. Precision hammered out of failure.
He sank down onto the log again, muscles humming with exhaustion, mana reserves scraping bottom. Staring at the dark canopy overhead, he allowed himself the smallest grin.
One day, I’ll make this bolt dance. Not just up, not just forward. Anywhere I want. And when that day comes, I’ll be more than a healer, more than a bard. I’ll be a damn artillery piece.
For now, though, he slumped back against the bark, eyelids heavy. The night swallowed the last fading traces of mana light, leaving him alone with the crickets and the quiet satisfaction of progress—slow, stubborn, and entirely his.
Morning broke with pale light spilling through the trees, dew clinging to every blade of grass. The camp stirred in fits—guards stamping warmth into their feet, Harold stretching with a groan that could’ve been mistaken for a bear, Selene already sharp-eyed and inspecting weapons.
Ludger rolled off his blanket last. His body felt like someone had replaced his bones with wet rope. Mana sat low in his chest, heavy and sluggish, the price of pushing [Mana Bolt] until his reserves scraped bottom the night before. Every muscle ached from drills, every joint complained as he stood.
Of course, Viola noticed first.
“You look terrible,” she announced from where she was braiding her hair. Her grin was bright, merciless. “Rough night? Bad dreams?”
“Something like that,” Ludger muttered, pulling on his boots.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion, but before she could press, Aleia chimed in with a sly tone. “More likely he was up pouting after breaking your sword.”
That earned her a glare from Viola, but the moment passed. Still, Ludger caught Selene watching him a beat longer than usual. Her gaze swept over his posture, the faint tremor in his arms, the sluggishness of his movements. She didn’t say anything—just returned to sharpening her blade—but the message was clear: she knew.
Arslan, on the other hand, was oblivious as always. He clapped Ludger on the shoulder with enough force to nearly topple him. “Chin up, son! A few days on the road will toughen you right up. Nothing builds character like sore muscles.”
“Pretty sure I’ve got enough character already,” Ludger said flatly.
“Then you’ll have extra.” Arslan grinned, entirely unhelpful, before heading off to help Harold break down the firepit.
As the camp bustled with the business of packing, Ludger adjusted his small bag and exhaled slowly. His secret progress—tiny as it was—remained his alone. Let Viola call him weak, let Arslan brag, let Selene suspect. When the time came, he’d show them more than a tired morning face.
For now, he climbed back onto his gelding, shoulders still aching, and fell into place beside the carriage. Viola leaned half out the window again, smirk ready, but Ludger just gave her a tired glance.
“One week to the capital,” he thought, tightening his grip on the reins. “Plenty of time to turn exhaustion into progress. Plenty of time before anyone realizes what I’m really working on.”
And with that, the caravan rolled on, sunlight chasing their shadows down the road.