The Problematic Child of the Magic Tower
Chapter 14: Guardian of the Herb Field (2)
"Oscar, what do you think is going on here?"
"Not sure,"
Oscar replied nonchalantly to Fran's question as he watched the situation unfold.
The man in the white suit smirked slyly.
"Isn't it about time you let go of that stubbornness? We'll pay you ten times more than any other plot."
"...Even if you built a fortress with mithril, I still wouldn't sell this land to you."
"Tsk, Master. I can only take your resistance as a joke for so long."
The eyes behind his sunglasses turned cold, but the herbalist didn't back down and met his gaze.
After a brief staring contest, it was the man in the white suit who surrendered first, laughing.
"Haha! Just kidding. But you’d better be careful—living here alone by the hillside, no one would know if you suddenly met an unfortunate end."
He made a pointed remark, then pulled a cigar from his pocket and placed it in his mouth.
When one of his men lit it for him, he blew out a cloud of thick smoke.
"Once the factories spring up on the surrounding lands, the value of this land will plummet to the ground. Why not sell it now while the price is still high and save yourself the trouble?"
"Ridiculous. If I don’t sell, they won’t authorize any factory construction on the nearby land."
"...Pfft, you're always ready with a comeback."
Shaking his head, the man in the white suit climbed into the back seat of his car.
He rolled down the window and tossed a white envelope onto the ground.
"Oh, and here’s payment for the herbs. I may have stepped on a few on the way here."
He flashed a smug grin, gave a dismissive wave, and closed the window.
Vroooom!
The convoy disappeared in a cloud of thick exhaust, leaving only the lingering smoke in its wake.
"Sigh."
The old man let out a weary sigh, showing his fatigue, and asked,
"So, where are you folks from?"
"Oh, pardon the late introduction."
Oscar gave a slight nod.
"We’re from the White Tower."
The kettle let out a gentle whistle as steaming hot tea poured out.
The old man, who introduced himself as Ivan, apologized briefly.
"Sorry I can’t offer something more suited to the tastes of the younger generation."
"It's fine. I actually enjoy tea,"
Oscar said with a smile and took a sip.
"This is good. It's been a while since I've had such rich, aromatic Ribo tea of this quality."
"...Oh, do you appreciate tea that much?"
"I know a fair bit about herbs and tea,"
Oscar replied.
"Yes, he really knows his stuff,"
Fran chimed in.
Seeming pleased with the answer, Ivan's eyes softened.
"Thank you. I just picked this batch from the back mountain at dawn today. It’s a top-grade variety."
"Seems we got lucky. I've heard the herbs of Sirin are the best on the continent."
"The best on the continent..."
Ivan's lips curved into a bitter smile.
"That's all in the past now. It's no longer true."
"Why is that?"
"There are two main reasons,"
Ivan said after a moment of reflection, carefully explaining the current situation.
"The first is the depleted fertility of the soil."
"The soil's fertility?"
"Yes. For ages, this land was known as blessed—anything planted here would yield above-average crops."
That was common knowledge.
The premium on Sirin’s herbs was because of that reputation.
"But in the past eight years, Sirin's soil fertility has rapidly declined."
"Why?"
"Opinions differ, but in my view, it’s due to the indiscriminate construction of factories."
There was a firm conviction in Ivan’s voice.
"The industrial zone in the west produces magical engineering goods, and the waste and pollutants from those factories flow down the river, degrading Sirin's soil fertility. There's no other explanation."
"Factories..."
It probably wasn't unrelated, Oscar mused.
After all, those on the ground often notice these changes first.
Fran, who had been listening quietly, jumped in.
"So, what’s the second reason?"
"...The second is that I’ve lost the motivation to keep nurturing herbs."
A bitter smile appeared on Ivan's face.
"Do you know why this blessed land holds a herb field instead of wheat or fruit?"
"Because of a promise with the previous Tower Master."
Ivan looked slightly surprised at the answer.
"Interesting. I haven’t met anyone who knows that nowadays."
"Haha."
As Ivan gazed at Oscar’s sheepish grin, he continued.
"A long time ago, herbalists were looked down upon—practically outcasts, almost like the 'witches' people feared. Ordinary people couldn’t comprehend the benefits of the plants they boiled in their cauldrons and sold.
"So herbalists led a nomadic life, facing scorn and contempt everywhere they went."
"Then Leonard Ayres, the fourth Tower Master of the White Tower, called herbalists from all over the continent to gather here."
A visionary with exceptional insight, he addressed the assembled herbalists: "Come to Sirin, and this place will forever be your home. Here, you shall suffer no contempt from anyone."
Ivan gave Oscar a perplexed look.
"Wait, I didn’t know he actually said that."
"...I think I read it in a fairy tale book."
Oscar made an excuse, though he had actually read it in an ancient book passed down to Tower Masters.
"In any case, because of this promise, herbalists from across the continent flocked to Sirin, and countless herb fields sprang up. With the rugged mountains around, this area was ideal for people like us to settle."
"So, when you say you lost the motivation to grow herbs...?"
"The White Tower gave our ancestors a homeland and a sense of pride. How could we do anything to contribute to its downfall?"
Selling herbs to other Towers would allow them to erode the White Tower’s share of the potion market.
Surprised by this unexpected reasoning, Oscar could only remain silent.
"We've always made a living from the herbs we gather in the mountains. There’s no reason for us to stab the White Tower in the back."
"That’s... incredibly generous of you."
At the same time, it was an unsettlingly frightening thought.
If they had chosen to pursue profit, the White Tower’s decline might have been hastened by at least a decade.
"In the meantime, the greedy bastard, Dvor Powell, made his entrance."
Three years ago, this young entrepreneur appeared in Sirin, urging the herbalists to sell their land.
Initially, the herbalists refused, honoring their loyalty to the White Tower.
But he was persistent.
"He’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t hesitate to resort to kidnapping, threats, and even murder. A classic thug."
"...But why go to such extremes just to buy up land?"
"He plans to turn this place into the continent's largest industrial zone."
Sure, Sirin might be remote now, but it’s been a key northern transportation hub since ancient times.
The White Tower might have fallen, but Sirin's geographical advantage hasn't disappeared.
"There are two things I’m curious about."
"And what might those be?"
"Why hasn’t he tried to kill you yet?"
"It’s simple."
Ivan pointed to a plaque hanging on one of the walls in the cabin.
"I'm a national treasure in the art of herbal cultivation."
"Ohhh."
Oscar immediately understood, nodding in recognition.
A "national treasure" is a title bestowed upon a master who has reached the pinnacle of their craft and can replicate their skills anytime.
And, of course, it's the Imperial Court that grants this designation, affording those individuals special protections.
"No matter how ruthless he may be, he can’t touch me."
"I understand. Then, why haven’t you sold the herb fields so far? Surely, you could make a fortune if you wanted."
"You're asking the obvious."
Ivan chuckled, gazing out the window at the herb fields bathed in the glow of the setting sun.
"I love this land. It’s my homeland, where I was born."
That’s why he couldn't bring himself to sell the land.
"Our family’s herb fields and mountains are the largest in Sirin, and they are in prime locations. If I were to sell this land... a massive industrial complex would be constructed."
Even the operation of just three or four small factories in the western region had depleted the land's fertility within a few years.
What would happen if they leveled entire mountains to build a vast industrial complex?
The outcome was as clear as day.
"If that happens, Sirin might never recover its fertility."
This was an old man’s battle to uphold his beliefs, memories, and loyalty.
A lonely, solitary fight that likely no one else would ever recognize.
Oscar bowed his head involuntarily.
"Thank you for all your hard work."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean you don’t have to fight this lonely battle any longer."
From now on, we—the White Tower—will stand with you.
Dvor Powell, a businessman who favored white suits, took off his watch the moment he entered the temporary building he had set up on his newly acquired land.
"That useless idiot!"
Slap!
The assistant who was slapped fell back but quickly returned to his place, standing upright.
After striking his assistant for a while, Dvor finally managed to calm himself down, putting his watch back on.
"How hard can it be to make that stubborn old man sell me his land?"
"...I’m sorry."
"Do you have any idea how much money I have tied up in this worthless land?"
In front of Ivan, he always acted calm and composed, but the truth was that things weren’t going well.
He had accumulated an enormous debt over the last three years buying up herbal fields.
And a considerable amount of money had been spent on bribery to cover up the illegal activities involved in the process.
As time passed, the interest on his debt ballooned, and Dvor was growing increasingly anxious.
"How does that senile fool still hold the prime piece of land, blocking the start of my great enterprise?"
He was planning to build the largest automobile factory, not only in the North but on the entire continent.
Once completed, becoming one of the world's wealthiest men would be a matter of time.
So, naturally, he was infuriated that a single herbalist was standing in the way of his grand vision.
"Damn it. How much will I have to offer him to get him to sell and leave?"
He bit down on a cigar, and his assistant quickly approached to light it.
Exhaling a puff of smoke, he asked,
"And who were those guys earlier?"
"From what I’ve gathered, they’re mages from the White Tower."
"What? The White Tower?"
Dvor frowned, not expecting this answer.
"Why would the White Tower show up there?"
"They recently made some money."
"How much could those beggars have possibly made?"
"Actually, it's quite a large sum."
His assistant carefully handed him today’s newspaper.
Dvor’s expression quickly darkened as he scanned the articles.
"...You fool."
"Y-Yes? Agh!"
The assistant screamed in pain as Dvor kicked him in the shins.
He then continued to vent his anger, stomping on the assistant mercilessly.
"Why are you only telling me this now, you idiot!"
It was obvious the White Tower would make an astronomical sum from developing the only cure for the Cadena Flu.
"Wait, could it be...?"
After some thought, a low groan escaped Dvor’s mouth.
It was common knowledge that building factories would deplete the land’s fertility.
The White Tower wouldn’t want industrial facilities in their territory.
"...So, these vermin are conspiring to sabotage my project."
Dvor’s eyes glinted as he glared at his assistant.
"Didn’t those mercenaries I hired for dirty work contact you? Get in touch with them."
"Uh, what should I request?"
"What do you think? Tell them to kill that damn old man."
"But he’s a national treasure..."
"You useless idiot."
Dvor gave him an exasperated look.
"Just make it look like an accidental death or disappearance. Then the herb fields will be auctioned off, and we can buy them. Sure, it might be a bit suspicious, but we can bribe the officials to cover it up."
"And if the White Tower mages are still on the herb fields?"
"...Are they high-level mages?"
"Judging by their young faces, they’re definitely not. At most, they’re level three."
"A level three mage, huh. Even so, the White Tower’s mages are a bit of a hassle..."
Dvor hesitated briefly but quickly made up his mind.
Rather than acting cautiously and letting fear hold him back, he decided it was better to take risks, end things swiftly, and lobby the authorities to cover up the incident.
After all, he had powerful backers behind him.
Exhaling a thick cloud of smoke, Dvor issued his order.
"Tell the mercenaries they’ll be well-rewarded. If anyone gets in the way, kill them too."

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