“Persecuting and mistreating exiles was rampant even in the Joseon era.
Some yangbans, even when exiled, took their whole families along, enjoyed watching their grandchildren’s antics, or used the time to cultivate new political ties with local gentry—but that was only the rich, well-connected few.
Exiles like Patrick—alone, penniless, with no backing—often ended up begging to survive in their assigned villages.
So when the grandmother suddenly told him to plow the field, Patrick couldn’t help imagining his future as a hungry, shamed supplicant.
“Spring brings up all kinds of edible greens nearby. The Mage Tower might never have glanced at them, but what choice do you have? You’ll get used to it.”
“No, I love it!”
Realizing she wasn’t just treating him like cheap labor, Patrick bowed respectfully.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ve learned so much.”
“As you see, young man, our village isn’t very wealthy. This is all we have to help you.”
“Grandma! I’m hungry!”
At Ben’s outburst, the women laughed and handed him a bowl.
“I’ll eat well!”
He devoured the golden-brown fish and warm broth so fast he couldn’t help a groan of delight—
It had been ages since he’d eaten a proper meal!
“So, you plowed the whole field?”
The grandmother asked casually as he tore into his fish.
“Oh— not yet. I cleared the weeds, though. I’ll finish after lunch.”
“Huh? That little patch took you all morning and that’s all you did? Slacking off?”
“No, ma’am! I worked hard without rest. I just can’t do it well yet.”
“Oh? Really?”
The grandmother who had impressed him moments ago now eyed him skeptically.
“You think you can farm with that?”
“I don’t see how, ma’am.”
“If you leave him be, he’ll starve to death,” one child remarked with surprising harshness.
Patrick puckered his lips.
‘That was pretty good for a first try, wasn’t it?’
‘I’d do fine once I learn.’
“I was going to share some seeds once you tilled the field, but I worry you’ll kill every one of them.”
“Seeds?”
“You said you’d farm. You need something to plant, don’t you?”
“Please— give them to me! I won’t kill them! I promise to learn and keep them alive!”
“You’ve got spirit. Heh heh. I’ll decide how many to give once I see how you do. Get to work.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Energized by the promise of a reward, Patrick thought, ‘It really is like a game—complete the quest, earn the reward.’
He polished off his lunch and headed back to the field.
“Is this how you do it?”
Smack!
Full of enthusiasm, he drove the hoe into the ground. He’d seen plenty of tutorials on YouTube, but watching and doing were different matters.
“Ouch!”
A sharp pain shot through his fingertips. No surprise—he’d been pounding at the soil with no technique.
Frozen all winter, the ground was more than enough to KO a muscleless wizard in under ten minutes.
“Already tired, Mister?”
Ben, his unofficial overseer, teased him, but Patrick was out of breath and couldn’t reply.
‘Is this right? Is this really how it’s done?’
He regretted overdoing it pulling weeds yesterday—things would’ve been better if he’d paced himself. But regrets didn’t loosen the hard-packed earth.
“Maybe if I water it first and then hoe…”
He wondered whether to use Water Ball to soften the soil, and Ben doubled over laughing.
“Kya-haha! You must be a real idiot!”
“If you’re not going to help, why tease me?”
“If the soil’s wet and muddy, it’s even harder to work! Don’t you know that? And after rain, the ground hardens even more.”
“Really?”
“Of course! That’s why grown-ups get up early to work the field before it rains.”
“So that’s why they say rain-hardens the soil…”
What use was magic if it couldn’t dig soil?
Resigned, Patrick moved his protesting limbs and resumed hoeing. Sweat poured off him. He’d have thrown the hoe away and given up if he could, but he had some pride.
‘If I can’t even do this, what am I good for?’
With trembling arms he labored on in a near-trance when suddenly—
“Hey! Hey! Look at that, Mister!”
Ben, who’d been lying in the shade playing a grass whistle, leapt up in alarm.
“What? Did a bug come out?”
“No, look over there! You have to see it! What do we do? What do we do?”
Wiping sweat from his brow, Patrick straightened and then flung the hoe aside, breaking into a run.
“Hurry, Mister!”
Though his sprint was pitifully slow—Ben could’ve overtaken him in seconds.
“Bring water, quick!”
“Fire! Fire!”
He ran until he saw people flailing about—you could almost see the smoke.
The workshop where they’d eaten lunch was ablaze.
“We have to put it out! All the nets and fish traps are inside!”
Fortunately, the salty sea breeze had kept the fire confined to the outer wall. Still, it threatened the gear stored within.
Most of the able-bodied men were either in the fields or out fishing, so only a few were hauling buckets of water.
“Get the adults!”
“Okay, ma’am!”
Children dashed off to fetch help, but the flames grew larger by the moment.
“If all that gear burns, this year’s fishing will be ruined!”
“If we can just save one side, maybe we can salvage something—oh dear!”
As villagers scooped seawater, their faces were filled with worry for their tools.
“Stand back! Water Ball!”
Without hesitation, Patrick cast the spell and hurled a Water Ball at the workshop door.
Whoosh!
The flames on the door hissed and collapsed in smoke. With a trembling voice, he repeated the words.
“Water Ball! Water Ball! Water Ball!”
A first-circle spell couldn’t grow larger than a soccer ball, but he summoned over ten spheres in quick succession—each enough to fill a bucket.
“Now! Get the traps out!”
A few big men, arriving just in time, covered their faces and dashed inside as the fire died down.
“Water Ball—”
He sprayed them with water for cover, but a sudden headache struck him. He reeled and staggered.
“Water Ball… wa—ter… Ball…”
Thud!
He collapsed after three more spells.
“Mister! Mister! Mister’s dead!”
But at Ben’s frantic shout, Patrick couldn’t help but chuckle before passing out.
Blink… blink.
“Can you hear me?”
“Ugh! Where am I…?”
“I brought you to my house for now.”
He opened his eyes to the village chief’s concerned face.
‘Is this island cursed? I’ve fainted twice in three days.’
The frantic fire scene still flickered behind his eyelids.
“Did the fire go out?”
The chief shook his head slowly, though his expression wasn’t grim.
“The workshop burned down. It was just a rickety wooden building, so nothing could be done.”
“…That’s unfortunate.”
“But thanks to you, we saved nearly all the gear. It’s the village’s asset—your help was invaluable.”
Finally, a reward worth the fainting.
“I’ve packed some food for you. Would you like to eat now?”
“No, my head still aches…”
“In that case, take this bundle home and eat there.”
The chief handed him a cloth bundle brimming with food. A peek inside revealed seasonings, bread, and even a jar of jam.
“I’d have taken you home properly, but we’re short-handed cleaning up the fire. Fires happen so often these days… Please, take care, sir!”
“Oh, no—you’ve already done so much for me!”
Still dazed and nursing a pounding temple, Patrick headed home—but then stopped in his tracks.
‘Come to think of it, the chief’s attitude toward me changed, didn’t it?’
He’d always been kind before, but they addressed him as “Wizard” in a half-formal tone. Now the chief called him “Sir” and showed full respect.
‘Is it because of the magic?’
It made sense—none of these islanders had ever seen a mage in person. Even if they’d heard of exiled wizards, they’d expect only a low-circle novice. Instead, they’d witnessed nearly twenty spells unleashed.
‘This might turn out well for me.’
Though the workshop burned, the gear survived and nobody was hurt—what a blessing in disguise.
‘Maybe I’ll get extra fish now. Or even a new fish trap!’
Patrick felt a small, contented breeze of optimism.