All Jobs and Classes! I Just Wanted One Skill, Not Them All!

Chapter 657

Ludger paid upfront for those shipments, and the guild’s ledgers started to groan. But he didn’t blink.

Coin sitting in a chest was dead. Coin turned into labor was growth. And growth was the only thing that stopped the refugee wave from turning Lionfang into a starving pit.

Still, it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t smooth. It was constant.

He spent mornings walking the new rows, eyes tracking faces, memorizing patterns. He spent afternoons in the guildhall with Yvar’s lists and his own brutal logic, moving names like pieces on a board. He spent nights with his hands in the dirt again, shaping foundations, widening roads, reinforcing drainage, because two hundred houses became a thousand needs the moment people moved in.

There were days he didn’t sit down at all. There were nights he fell asleep fully clothed with ink on his fingers and grit under his nails. By the end of the month, Ludger had started to measure time by ledger pages and how often someone tried to steal a loaf of bread.

He was in the guildhall office when the air shifted. Not mana. Not danger. Just… that familiar pressure that came with northerners entering a room like walls were optional.

Ludger didn’t look up right away. He finished the line he was writing, because if you didn’t finish the line, it haunted you later, and then set the quill down with deliberate calm.

He’d known this moment was coming. He hadn’t forgotten about Sigrid’s team for a second, not really. You didn’t “forget” the mission that involved a labyrinth full of runic golems and a guardian that could turn a warband into paste. But the refugee crisis had been a flood, and floods didn’t care what else you were holding.

Still… he’d been waiting for the other part.

For Kharnek and Freyra to kick down his door, eyes blazing, and demand what had happened to them. He’d even rehearsed the answers. Not speeches. Just blunt facts. Numbers, risks, profits, and the unromantic truth that somebody had to keep Lionfang from starving.

The door opened. Hard. The first thing Ludger saw was height. Then fur-lined cloaks. Frost-cold breath. Mud on boots. A smell of stone dust and old iron that didn’t belong in a town office.

The northerners filed in with the same energy they brought everywhere, loud in body even when they tried to be quiet. And… They looked fine. Tired, yes. Dirty, yes. But fine in the way that mattered: no limps, no bandaged stumps, no thousand-yard stares that meant someone had died screaming in a corridor.

Ludger’s eyes flicked over them with a healer’s quick assessment he pretended he didn’t have. Alive. All of them. The second thing he saw was what they were carrying.

A thick, sealed container, metal-banded, and heavy enough that twenty men held it like a sacred relic. Inside, the liquid sloshed in slow, dense waves. Magic water. The real prize. The office felt smaller. Before long, the two others arrived once they heard that Sigrid was back, Kharnek and Freyra.

Kharnek’s gaze met Ludger’s, and for a heartbeat Ludger braced for the explosion. Instead, the chieftain grunted once,.half greeting, half accusation stored for later, and stepped aside.

Freyra’s eyes stayed on Ludger a second longer, like she was weighing whether to punch him now or after she ate. Then Sigrid stepped forward.

She wasn’t as broad as Kharnek, but she had the same northern steadiness: a woman shaped by cold weather and harder decisions. Her hair was pulled back, her face scraped in a few places, and her eyes were calm in a way that made Ludger immediately more interested than relieved. Calm meant planning. Planning meant survival. She set a hand on the container like it belonged to her.

“We brought it,” she said, voice rough from travel. “Full.”

Ludger nodded once. No smile. No celebration. His body was too tired for theater.

“Report.”

Sigrid didn’t flinch at the tone. Northerners respected direct. She glanced at the others, then back to Ludger.

“I used the first weeks to make time get used to the runic golems,” she said.

Ludger’s eyebrow moved a fraction. Barely. That wasn’t what most people did. They had trained for speed, not for endurance. Sigrid… had treated the labyrinth like a living creature you learned before you tried to kill. She continued, matter-of-fact.

“We watched them. Fought small groups. Learned how their joints move. Learned what patterns trigger their runes. Learned which ones react to mana spikes and which ones react to sound.”

Freyra huffed quietly, as if remembering how much patience that had required. Sigrid ignored it.

“Only after that did we face the guardian.”

Kharnek’s eyes narrowed slightly, like the word tasted old. The guardian. The thing that made the labyrinth a labyrinth, not just a cave full of expensive scrap. Sigrid’s hand tightened on the container strap.

“And I counted the time,” she said.

Ludger’s pen hand stilled.

“Time?” he repeated.

Sigrid nodded once.

“Until the guardian was back,” she said. “After we destroyed it.”

A subtle shift went through the northerners. The kind of quiet pride you didn’t announce because announcing invited bad luck.

Ludger’s mind clicked. A respawn cycle. A patrol loop. A reset. If you knew the timing, you could farm the place. You could plan rotations. You could run crews in and out like clockwork instead of gambling lives on guesswork. Sigrid met his eyes.

“It was a week,” she said. “Seven days. It repairs if destroyed. It is built from a scratch if it is totally destroyed. It returns. Every time.”

The room went silent. Even Freyra stopped breathing loud. Ludger leaned back slightly, exhaustion still there, but a different kind of sharpness cutting through it now. Information like that was worth more than the water. He exhaled once.

“Good work, take a few days off,” he said, and his voice was flat, but there was something satisfied underneath, like a blade sliding into a sheath. Then his eyes shifted to Kharnek and Freyra. He gave them the opening he’d been waiting for.

“And now,” Ludger said, tone almost polite, “I assume you’re here for the answers you came to demand.”

Freyra’s grin showed teeth. Kharnek cracked his neck once. And Ludger, for the first time in weeks, felt like he was dealing with a problem that made sense. Almost relaxing.

Once he was done with the northerners, and their habit of speaking like every sentence deserved to be carved into a mountain in FULL CAPS, Ludger finally got a breath that didn’t taste like logistics.

Not a long one. Just enough to stop his eye from twitching. The warehouse, that was where the magic water went. A full container of it, sealed, carried like a relic and guarded like a crime.

Aronia was there already, watching the transfer with the calm focus of someone who’d spent half her life turning disasters into ingredients. She stood with her hands behind her back, green-tinged hair catching the light, her expression somewhere between “mild curiosity” and “if anyone spills a drop, I will personally poison their next three meals.”

Ludger stepped up beside her, eyes tracking the container as it disappeared through the warehouse doors.

“Thoughts?” he asked. “Sell it or use it?”

Aronia didn’t even glance at him at first. She watched the handlers set it down gently like it might bite.

“Use some,” she said finally. “Sell most.”

Ludger’s brow lifted a fraction.

She turned her head then, studying him with that half-dryad look that made you feel like you were an unruly plant she was deciding whether to prune or save.

“I’ve never seen the guild members run out of mana,” she said. “Not the way you do.”

Ludger didn’t deny it. There was no point. Aronia’s mouth twitched, the closest she came to teasing.

“They fight. They build. They train. Even the mages are careful.”

Her eyes drifted to the newest row of refugee housing visible in the distance, stone rectangles that had appeared like an insult to reality.

“You,” she continued, voice utterly calm, “expand cities.”

Ludger exhaled through his nose.

“So selling,” he said.

Aronia nodded once.

“Unless you’re planning to enter a magic-water diet.”

Ludger stared at her for a moment, deadpan.

“I’ll pass.”

“Wise,” she said, as if he’d just avoided a tragic romantic decision instead of a ridiculous one. Then she held up a finger. “But selling them raw like that would be a waste.”

That made Ludger’s attention sharpen.

“Explain.”

Aronia’s gaze returned to the warehouse doors, thoughtful now, not dreamy, not mystical. Practical. Merchant-practical, which was always more dangerous.

“They’re worth as much as my own potions,” she said. “Maybe more, depending on concentration and stability. But the value isn’t just what they are. It’s what you make people believe they mean.”

Ludger’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Meaning sells.”

“Meaning prints coin,” Aronia corrected softly. “Raw magic water is a commodity. A refined product is a status symbol.”

Ludger tilted his head.

“How do we refine it without wasting it?”

Aronia finally smiled, small, satisfied, like she’d been waiting for him to ask.

“Make wine with it.”

Ludger blinked once. That was… absurd. Also, annoyingly, brilliant. Aronia continued before he could dismiss it.

“Wine already sells to nobles because they’re bored and rich,” she said. “They buy names. Estates. Years. Stories. Put magic water into it, and the story becomes irresistible.”

She spoke like she could already see the labels.

“‘Springwater of the Labyrinth.’ ‘Blessed Vintage.’ ‘Mana-Fed Reserve.’ Whatever nonsense they like this decade.”

Ludger’s lips pressed together.

“Nobles will pay stupid money,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Aronia said simply. “They’ll go crazy for it. And you won’t have to explain the real reason you’re selling. You’ll just be… supplying a luxury.”

Ludger’s gaze tracked the movement of workers along the road. Refugees. New hands. New mouths. New potential.

“And you said glass,” he noted.

Aronia nodded.

“Use some of the new people to make glass bottles,” she said. “For the potions. For the wine. Standardized sizes. Sealed necks. Wax stamps. It’s work for them, it keeps value inside Lionfang, and it makes the product look like it belongs on an imperial banquet table instead of in a delver’s canteen.”

She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought:

“Also, glass is easy to inventory. Easy to brand. Easy to spot if stolen.”

Ludger looked at her now, properly. Not as the calm healer. Not as the half-dryad with an herbalist’s intuition. As a strategist. He nodded once, slow.

“That’s… thorough.”

Aronia’s expression stayed composed, but her eyes carried a quiet satisfaction.

“I’ve been thinking about it since the day I got the first sample,” she said. “You just took a while to bring me enough to make it worth speaking about it.”

Ludger’s mouth twitched, half a smile that didn’t quite form.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll do it. Wine. Bottles. Branding.”

He glanced toward the refugee district again, already seeing the work crews in his head: sand gathering, kiln construction, bottle molds, wax stamping, cart routes. Then he looked back at Aronia.

“And we keep some for emergencies.”

Aronia nodded once.

“Of course,” she said. “Even you can’t build a city on an empty mana pool.”

Ludger didn’t argue.

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