Kent found the fabled sickle—a rusty iron blade lashed to a wooden handle—and set to work.
At the foot of the peak stood a crude but roomy wooden shed.
His job was simple: cut the grass, let it cure in the sun, then haul the dried hay into that shed, which would serve as the horses’ winter shelter.
From then on, Kent rose early every morning.
He would first take a stroll along the stream, gather the mushrooms that had grown overnight, tear them into strips, and lay them out to dry.
Then he’d breakfast on mushroom-and-little-fish soup, gnaw a baked cornmeal bun, and start the day’s real work: collecting hay.
As for qigong, Kent simply arranged his body into the proper posture before bed, pulled the blanket over his head, and went to sleep—calling it “the Way follows nature.” Even so, he could plainly feel his strength growing, and his frame was gradually filling out.
Most importantly, he noticed that no matter how exhausted he was during the day, he’d wake up the next morning bursting with energy.
He couldn’t explain it, and he didn’t bother trying.
After all, the last time his backside had been beaten swollen, it had healed almost completely within a day.
Back on Earth, the hospital would have charged him several hundred dollars and kept him for a week before letting him go home.
Kent had already made peace with the idea that in another world, nothing strange was truly strange.
“Never thought a horse-ranch job would come with a day off.
I’ve got to go down to town and take a look today.
The hay’s all put away, the horses are fat, the winter supplies are stocked…
all I’m missing is a girl.” As it turned out, the job had a standing rule: every three months, the keeper could return to town for a day and was given a silver coin as spending money.
With only one person on the mountain, loneliness alone could drive a man mad—which was exactly why the post was considered such a miserable assignment.
But for Kent, everything felt new and exciting.
Besides, his soul was that of a shut-in, and since when was a shut-in afraid of being alone?
He went through everything carefully.
He took one of the seven gold coins with him and hid the rest, along with the book he couldn’t read.
That was all he needed to do.
This was where Kent’s cleverness came in: in the past, winter fodder for the horses had always been cut from outside the fence.
Kent did the opposite—he let the horses out to graze and gathered the grass growing inside the enclosure.
It was much faster.
Best of all, he kept the lead horse penned inside, so none of the others would wander far.
Dressed in his tattered clothes and the straw sandals he had woven through countless painstaking experiments, with his hair hacked short by the grass sickle—giving him a rather rough look—Kent hurried down the mountain.
He’d have to be back by nightfall, so there was no time to waste.
Fortunately, thanks to better food and constant hiking, he had grown stronger and moved even faster than when he’d first climbed up.
“Steward Hallman!
I’ve come to collect my pay.” Kent reached the bottom and went straight to Hallman’s office, a small room inside the big wooden hall, doing his best to look timid and cowed.
“Kent, is it?
You’re in luck.
A circus came to town today, and merchants came with it.
A silver coin will go a long way.
But no drinking—and you have to be back at the ranch by tonight.” Hallman’s face was expressionless, his tone that of a man lecturing an inferior.
“Yes, yes.
It’s all thanks to your wise management, sir.
The ranch has two new foals now, both males.” Kent said as he reached out for the silver coin, flattering the steward.
What choice did he have?
When you’re under someone else’s roof, you bow your head.
“Oh, that’s wonderful news!
Come, take another silver coin.” Hallman was visibly delighted.
After all, as steward, he had produced no notable achievements that year—the estate’s income had stayed stubbornly the same.
But now the herd had grown.
Wasn’t that an achievement?
Two horses were worth far more than the estate’s entire yearly income.
So Hallman was overjoyed.
A single silver coin was nothing to a man like him—barely a drop in the bucket.
“Thank you, Steward.
When the master comes home for the new year, I’ll know exactly what to say.
But…” Kent snatched the coin eagerly.
Money was money, after all.
He knew how to play the game now, but he wasn’t about to settle for just a coin.
“But what?” Hallman asked, puzzled.
This concerned his precious achievement, so an involuntary note of urgency crept into his voice.
“It’s just that the horses’ winter shelter at the ranch needs repairs.
I’ll need some iron nails and tools like that.
Otherwise, it’ll be too cold in the winter, and the foals won’t survive.” Kent wore his most honest, simple expression, then switched to a woebegone, worried face.
Hallman nodded along as he listened.
“Hmm.
Very well—I’ll send someone up with the supplies tomorrow.
But if those foals die this winter, mark my words, it’ll be your problem.” Hallman pondered for a moment, then nodded to Kent.
“Mmm.” Kent couldn’t think of a proper reply, so he just grunted.
In his heart, he was already beating the old man half to death.
“Damn it all.
If the horses die, it’s my fault.
If they live, it’s your credit.
What kind of nonsense is that?” Kent grumbled as he walked through town, muttering without pause.
Everyone knew foals had the hardest time surviving winter—and in this other world, with no veterinarians anywhere, even a small illness could finish one off.
But grumbling aside, Kent still wanted to finish his errands quickly and get back to the mountain.
The town was just one street.
At one end stood the big wooden hall; at the other, the road leading to Harri, the nearest small city.
The entire street stretched only about two hundred meters.
The most eye-catching spot was a tavern—the liveliest place around, with a constant buzz of voices and a drunk being thrown out every so often.
There was also a blacksmith’s shop filled with axes and farm tools, a tailor’s shop where clothes were made, and a general store selling salt and similar goods.
From what Kent knew, Terry Town governed seven or eight villages, mostly farmers with a handful of hunters—perhaps two thousand people in all.
Kent walked from one end of the street to the other.
Everyone wore shabby clothes, though most kept themselves decently clean.
But when he saw the burly men striding along, flashing their hairy thighs with every step, he nearly threw up.
It was like wearing a cheongsam with slits cut all the way up.
The women, meanwhile, wore something like a skirt—really just a piece of cloth wrapped around the waist.
As for what was underneath, Kent had no desire to see it.
The women here were all stout and brawny—the sort he wouldn’t glance at even if someone paid him.
Since Kent had rarely left the castle, few people recognized him.
And with his improved health and freshly cleaned face, even those who had occasionally seen him before wouldn’t have known him now.
At the far end of town, stalls filled the open ground—dozens of them, large and small.
Vendors sold swords and knives; performers did acrobatics; others hawked boots, hats, shaves, and all manner of goods.
These were the small merchants who followed the circus, coming through about twice a year.
Now, though, the crowds were thin, since the circus didn’t start until nightfall.
That suited Kent perfectly.
Fewer people meant fewer prying eyes.
And besides, what business would a slave have buying books?
Kent cast a longing glance at the great tent—the circus itself.
Word was the girls inside were soft as water; if you had coin, you could go in for a good time.
But Kent had other things to do.
He circled the area and, to his dismay, found only one stall selling books.
It was cold and deserted, without a single customer.
He knew exactly what he needed: books—primers, beginner reading material, the basic kind.
“Old sir, may I take a look at your books?” Kent asked.
Although he was a slave, he had no mark or brand on his forehead—only adult slaves, or those sold, were branded.
So to any onlooker, he looked like an ordinary commoner.
“What kind of book do you want?” The old man gave Kent a dismissive glance.
Books had always been luxuries—belonging to the upper classes.
What business did a commoner have with them?
A commoner considered himself lucky just to fill his belly.
Still, seeing that Kent was only a lad, the old man didn’t lecture him further and simply asked.
“Old sir, I want to learn to read.
You see…” Kent wasn’t sure how to explain himself.
He trailed off mid-sentence, unable to find the right words.
“Hmm, learn to read?” The old man answered flatly.
“The simplest way is to spend a hundred gold coins on an enlightenment magic scroll.
With that, you’d learn to read in the blink of an eye.
The cheaper way is this sheepskin primer for ten silver coins—but it’ll need someone to teach you.” His expression was all too easy to read, and it rankled Kent.
Yet what truly floored him were the old man’s words: magic scroll.