Full-Time Wizard: Starting with Harvesting Wheat

Luca is dead.

His head was cut off, and blood splattered all over the ground.

Roy sighed inwardly, regretting that he hadn't witnessed the power of the spark.

However, that wasn't what he was most curious about next.

Lucaón had been pursued all the way, and the blood he left behind had long since seeped into the ground, some of it congealing into dark red marks.

By the next morning, the dark red stain would be clearly distinguishable from the color of the dirt road, and passersby could easily recognize it as blood.

Subsequently, Sheriff Larry will surely come to investigate and discover that the deceased is Lucaón.

In the end, Delock will definitely be unable to extricate himself from the situation.

So, how was he going to deal with the bloodstains and Lucaón's body?

Through a gap in the bushes, Roy watched Delock's actions. He saw Delock take a small, crystal-clear glass bottle from his bag.

The glass bottle was clearly of excellent quality, the kind of item only wealthy families could afford.

As he uncorked the oak bottle and pointed the opening at Lucaón's corpse, he murmured a strange phrase.

"Xizi rice, pocket wow."

That seemed to be a language Roy had never heard before.

Something amazing happened.

Lucaon's body visibly shriveled up, and blood was gushing out from the various orifices of his corpse. Then, drawn by some inexplicable force, it rose into the air and poured into the glass bottle.

The blood that had been submerged in the soil around the body was also stirred up by the glass bottle and slowly floated up.

Under the moonlight, the streak of blood was so pure it was almost without impurities, as if it had never come into contact with the dirty ground.

What's astonishing is that Lucaón had at least 4 liters of blood in his body, yet when it was poured into that palm-sized glass bottle, it was like pouring into a bottomless pit that could never be filled.

Finally, when Lucaon had become a dried-up corpse and the glass bottle could no longer absorb any more blood, Delock stopped, picked up Lucaon's body with one hand, and walked back the way he came, continuing to absorb the blood that had seeped along the way with the glass bottle.

The distance was too great; Roy could only barely make out the outline of the glass bottle, thus failing to trigger the feedback from the Eye of True Sight.

Even so, he was certain that the glass bottle was definitely a witchcraft artifact.

Only magical artifacts can possess such extraordinary abilities.

The strange language that Delock just spoke is very likely the language of wizards!

Combining this with the simple magic array skill he had seen on the Delock panel, Roy could almost conclude that this guy had inherited the legacy of a certain bloodline faction wizard.

Perhaps it is the one revealed by the Eye of True Sight, the first-ring wizard Anderson.

Roy didn't know whether this inheritance was a wizard's relic or something else, but he was certain that at least Delock and that wizard were not master and disciple.

If that were the case, he wouldn't be vying for a mere knight's squire position.

"Maybe the legacy he received was left by the wizard who killed my parents and took my bloodline..." Roy's eyes were filled with suppressed anger. "After all, wizards are not common."

"Besides the Lion's Roar, this guy has some more hidden, sinister tricks up his sleeve." In Roy's mind, Delock's level of danger rose once again.

He speculated that after disposing of the body, Delock would go home and use Lucaon's blood to draw a simple witchcraft circle in an attempt to merge the bloodlines.

Perhaps, his attributes will be greatly improved as a result, or even... he might gain the spark ability of the Dragonfire Lizard.

"He'll come looking for me sooner or later, maybe before the conscription, maybe..." Roy looked up at the moon, his expression grave, "...tomorrow!"

With life and death looming, the desire to improve oneself had never been stronger. Roy and Delock split up and ran quickly toward the church.

The night was as dark as ink.

……

[You have punched the Excellent-grade training statue 1000 times, gaining 0.1 Strength attribute.]

[You have learned the skill - Free Fighting Lv.3]

The Excellent-grade training statue has reached its training limit.

By the time I finished training, it was already broad daylight.

The church's simple and dignified wooden doors were slowly pushed open.

Roy had barely caught his breath when he slipped out through the small door. The slight creak of the wooden door closing was just masked by the sound of the main door opening.

Father Carl, dressed in a solemn black priest's robe, entered with a sprightly air. He remained kneeling, his hands folded over his chest, and began his morning prayers.

After the prayer ended, he seemed to sense something, and he approached the icon with a puzzled look, made a gesture of repentance, and carefully touched it with his fingers.

The fingertips touched the thigh of the statue.

There were several shallow dents there.

Karl withdrew his hand, his fingertips sticky with a layer of viscous liquid.

He frowned slightly, brought his finger to his nose, and took a sniff.

A faint, fishy, ​​salty smell entered my nasal cavity.

……

The blacksmith's lunch consisted of barley porridge, smoked sausages, and cream of mushroom soup.

The barley porridge is rich and flavorful with a slightly grainy texture. The smoked sausage has a slightly crispy outer layer; once you bite into it, the meaty aroma blends with the smoky flavor, creating a savory and rich taste, with the oil spreading throughout your mouth. Paired with a spoonful of creamy mushroom soup, the silky cream envelops the savory mushroom flavor—a truly perfect combination.

Roy dared to say that this was the best lunch he had ever had at the blacksmith's shop, even better than the third set meal at the Soram Tavern.

Although Set Meal Number 3 is one of the cheapest set meals, specifically for manual laborers, it is said that the expensive Set Meal Number 1 is the tavern's signature dish.

Gerald didn't waste any free time after noon, picking up his wooden sword to practice. Roy had never seen the routine he was practicing before, so it seemed to be the sword technique he had mentioned. However, Gerald's movements were clumsy, and it was hard to tell how accurate they were. Roy didn't dare to imitate him rashly, but he could see that Gerald's body was spinning rapidly, and the sword in his hand was being swung accordingly.

"Could this be... a spinning slash?" Roy recalled a scene from a Soulslike game from his previous life, where the protagonist transformed into a rapidly spinning storm of blades that swept over the enemy.

When Gerald had finished his training and started to catch his breath, Roy asked, "Gerald, do you know how long Delock and Perland mercenary have known each other?"

"Hmm? Why are you suddenly asking this?" Gerald was a little surprised, but he still stroked his chin and thought for a moment. "It's only been three or four months, right? Mercenary Perland mentioned that he saw Drock practicing swordsmanship by chance, thought he was a good prospect, and took him on as his apprentice because he was interested in him."

"Are they close?" Roy pressed.

"As far as I know, we're not that close."

"I understand." Roy relaxed a little.

At least within Lanxi Town, he could no longer find anything to improve his attributes, which meant that his attributes would lag far behind Delock's.

There are only two ways to deal with Delock.

First, find someone to join forces with; second, learn Perand's swordsmanship.

With Drogon's prestige at its zenith, it would be difficult to find someone to help him. Therefore, the only hope he could place in Perland's swordsmanship was...

The premise is that he and Delock are not on the same side.

Come to think of it, he's an old mercenary; he wouldn't stoop to the same level as Delock.

As dusk settled, Roy collected his wages from the blacksmith's shop for the day, a full 25 copper coins, and prepared to head to the Thoram's Tavern.

Just as he reached the door, a hurried figure rushed into the blacksmith's shop.

He was a middle-aged man in a hurry, with stubble on his face and dark skin.

"Usopp?" Old John recognized him; he was the town's butcher.

Usopp looked flustered, glancing around anxiously, like an insect caught in a spider's web.

"Have you seen my son?" his voice trembled. "He hasn't come home since last night!"

Roy instinctively looked away.

He seemed to realize who this person was.