"I… I hide my wages from others," he said quietly. His voice trembled. "Including from Edric."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

Geralt swallowed. His fingers clenched tighter.

"My wife and I are saving," he answered honestly. "For Anya's academy expenses in the future."

Lucas frowned slightly.

…Interesting.

He crossed his arms, and his tone relaxed—too relaxed.

"For Anya, then?" he said. "Even if your friend lives in suffering?"

Geralt didn't hesitate. He nodded. "Yes."

Lucas pressed on, sharp. "Even if your friend goes hungry?"

Geralt nodded again, stiffer this time. "Yes, Young Master."

Lucas leaned forward slightly. "Even if something bad happens to Edric's baby?"

Geralt fell silent for a moment. His face went pale.

"…Yes," he answered at last. "I… will still save for Anya's future."

Lucas fell silent.

Then—

He broke into a wide smile.

"Wow," he said sarcastically. "You're cruel."

His tone was light, but pressing. "Is your heart made of stone?"

Geralt swallowed with difficulty.

"It's not that I don't have a heart," he said quickly, almost choking on the words. "I know I'll feel guilty. Very guilty."

He lowered his head even further.

"But I will bear all of that guilt," he continued.

Silence.

A few seconds passed.

Then Lucas let out a small laugh.

"GOOD!"

Geralt flinched and looked up.

Lucas stared at him, eyes gleaming—sharp, satisfied.

"That's the perfect answer," he said. "I'm glad you're not a naive old man."

He stepped one pace closer.

Lucas reached into his pocket.

Three gold coins dropped into his palm—glinting under the afternoon light.

He stepped closer and, without hesitation, draped an arm around Geralt's shoulders.

"This is your wage for the week," Lucas said flatly. "Three gold. Don't let Edric know tomorrow. Keep it."

Geralt froze.

His hands trembled as he accepted the coins. His expression was a mix of shock, relief, and near disbelief.

Lucas then lifted his chin slightly and pointed toward the area beneath the tree.

"Look at your daughter."

Geralt turned. Anya stood there, holding a small blackboard and a piece of white chalk-like stone, her eyes calm.

Lucas shifted his finger, pointing toward the tomato field.

"And look at that field," he continued. "If that field succeeds, your daughter's future will be better. Its success will erase your doubts."

He looked Geralt straight in the eyes.

"Anya will enter the academy."

Geralt swallowed.

Lucas wasn't finished.

"And you," he said, his voice lowering, firm. "You will teach Edric how to manage the field. Your wage will increase."

Geralt nodded quickly. "Yes… Young Master."

Then his expression turned uneasy. His hands clenched at his sides.

"B-but… that duel?" he asked softly, trembling.

Lucas gave a thin smile, full of confidence.

"I will win."

Geralt's eyes widened—then smiled.

Not long after, they returned to the others. Soon, it was time to part ways.

Geralt held Anya's hand and led her home. Anya carried the blackboard and chalk carefully, as if they were treasures.

Inside his trouser pocket, Geralt clenched the three gold coins tightly.

In the past, he had often been laughed at for speaking of his dream.

I will never forget the mocking faces of those damn neighbors!

—The dream of sending Anya to the academy.

Young Master, he thought, you believed in me. You even pointed to that field with such certainty.

Thank you.

Geralt smiled faintly.

Then I will believe in you as well.

You will win, O Evil Lad. He smiled.

At the same time that trust took root in the heart of that old man,

Lucas was stretching his body in the training area.

His shoulders rolled back. His neck turned slowly. His muscles let out faint sounds.

"Hm…"

Silvara, standing not far from him, glanced over—then stopped.

"…Why do you look so happy?" she asked flatly.

Lucas glanced back briefly. "Ah, nothing."

[Ding!]

[+10 Reputation Point]

A small panel appeared—compact, translucent, resembling the *horsemanship* timer.

No sound.

No loud notification.

No drama.

Lucas frowned.

…Huh?

The panel faded away on its own.

Silvara watched him. "What is it?"

Lucas shook his head lightly. "Nothing."

He picked up his weapon and stepped into the center of the field.

"Come on," he said shortly. "Training."

Silvara let out a short sigh—then raised her weapon as well.

"Alright," she replied.

They trained until late afternoon.

The clash of weapons repeated, sweat flowed, breaths grew heavy—until the sun began to tilt toward the west.

At last, the training came to an end.

Not long after, Liona arrived to pick them up in a horse-drawn carriage. They returned to the Voss residence.

—

In his room, Lucas dropped himself into a chair.

"Oi, system," he said casually.

A panel appeared.

[System Online]

Wazzup, king ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)✧

---

Lucas frowned. "Earlier today. +10 Reputation Point. Why did it appear immediately?"

The system replied quickly.

[Because reputation is important.]

[Unlike EXP and PP—their effects on the Host's social aspect are minor.]

Lucas nodded. "Oh. Okay."

He raised his hand slightly.

"Open system exchange."

Lucas exchanged PP for high-quality tomato seeds as usual—one sack containing sixty seeds.

---

The next day, early in the morning, Lucas arrived at the field with new seedlings in hand.

Without any preamble, Lucas summoned Loticentra and handed it over to Silvara. Edric, who was there, stared in awe as Loticentra watered the field.

After the watering was finished—

"Geralt. Edric. Dig," Lucas ordered curtly.

Both of them moved at once.

Lucas glanced at Geralt. "Teach him. Hole spacing, depth, and the rows. Don't do it carelessly."

Geralt nodded firmly. "Yes, Young Master."

He began giving instructions—neat spacing between rows, uniform holes, the soil leveled properly afterward. Edric followed seriously, sweating, but obedient.

Under the tree, Anya and Silvara had already returned to their routine. A blackboard, chalk. Writing and reading.

Anya looked quieter than usual.

Lucas glanced over. "Anya."

Anya jolted. "Y-yes, Young Master?"

"Where's your spirit as an Iron Knight?"

Anya's eyes immediately lit up. Her back straightened.

"It's here!" she said loudly. "I'll be spirited!"

Silvara smiled faintly. "She's starting to read and write fluently," she said, turning toward Lucas.

Lucas returned the smile with a thin one.

For a moment, Silvara fell silent. Her thoughts drifted—an image of her mother and father in the past, sitting side by side, teaching her how to weave.

"…"

"Tsk."

Lucas swallowed. "A habit," he muttered shortly.

He raised his hand.

The Great Hoe appeared in his grasp.

Lucas stepped down into the field and joined them in digging.

Edric froze for a moment.

…Young Master is joining in?

He chose to stay silent, lowered his head—doing his best not to question anything.

Everything proceeded calmly.

The morning passed without incident, the fieldwork neat and steady, its rhythm unbroken as the sun climbed toward the middle of the sky.

Near noon, Liona arrived at the field.

She approached Anya, who still looked a little upset—her shoulders stiff, her gaze turned away.

"Anya," Liona said softly. "About yesterday… I'm sorry."

Anya glanced at her. Silent. Then, at last, she gave a small nod.

"…U-Un!"

Liona smiled in relief.

On the other side, Edric watched the scene in confusion.

Strange.

There were no curses. No shouting from the Young Master. Just a relaxed break. Eating. Drinking. A quiet calm.

And after the break—they went back to work.

Edric and Geralt continued in the field. Meanwhile, Lucas and Silvara returned to the training area, the rhythmic clash of weapons echoing in the distance.

While digging, Edric lowered his head and whispered to Geralt.

"Geralt… it seems my debt to the Young Master doesn't need to be repaid."

Geralt turned sharply. "What do you mean?"

Edric gave a slight shrug. "You know… that duel. If he ends up dying—"

CLANG.

Geralt's hoe stopped striking the soil.

He turned, his expression hard.

"Shut your mouth," he barked. "Work properly."

Edric flinched. Fell silent at once.

Geralt resumed digging, his jaw set tight.

In the distance, the sound of clashing weapons rang out once more.

The following days passed in the same pattern.

Mornings in the field. Afternoons working. Evenings training.

The tomatoes grew at a pace that left Edric in awe. Their stems were sturdy, their leaves broad, young fruits appearing all at once. Far too healthy for a village field.

Yet Edric's confusion came from Geralt instead.

Every time Edric—whether intentionally or by reflex—spoke lightly of the Young Master, Geralt reacted sharply. A cold stare. A tightening jaw. Sometimes a heavy, pressing silence; sometimes a short, harsh rebuke.

Edric didn't understand.

Why was he so angry?

—

One Evening.

The field had grown quiet.

Only Lucas and Silvara remained, having just finished their training. Their weapons were still warm, their breathing not yet fully steady.

Lucas let out a long breath.

His hand slipped into his coat pocket—brushing against the small glass vial given by Healer Mae. "It has to be after Hoemanship is active," he muttered, withdrawing his arm again.

Silvara glanced at him.

"I'm starting to believe it a little," she said flatly. "That you can win."

Lucas turned toward her.

"Your body is indeed talented," Silvara continued. "In just a few days, its growth has been very fast."

Lucas gave a light nod. "Sure."

He lifted the Great Hoe and rested it against his shoulder.

"The mother of this body almost became a Crownblade anyway."

Lucas's gaze shifted to the tomato field, now orderly and full of life.

He drew in a deep breath.

His grip on the Great Hoe tightened.

"…Tomorrow," he murmured softly, "I can't afford to lose."

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