Ice Partner and Peaceful Days: A Banished Summoner's Life with a Lone Knight
Glenn, a 30-year-old summoner, is expelled from his B-rank party 'Crimson Fang' for only being able to summon a single Living Armor. Their leader, Zex, dismisses him coldly: 'Your summon can't hold the front line.' Glenn simply says, 'I see,' and leaves without a fight.
However, the Living Armor he poured all his magic into for fifteen years has secretly evolved into a higher being with its own will—a 'Living Knight.' Glenn himself, through relentless training, possesses three times the magic c
Ice Partner and Peaceful Days: A Banished Summoner's Life with a Lone Knight - The Weight of Sin and the First Guest
The sky was high, and the blue stretched clear and boundless. Early summer sunlight poured down over the cobblestone streets, and each time a dry wind slipped through the alleys, a faint dustiness tickled the nose from somewhere unseen.
In front of Glen's staff workshop, *Iron Hammer and Engraving*, the new sign swayed gently again this morning. Over the past week or so, its lettering had come to feel like a natural part of the scenery. He sat before his workbench, running an engraving needle over Dolg's ebony staff—the one he'd been working on since the day before. Through the crystal plate at his fingertips, he could see the flow of magical energy, and he adjusted the delicate mana circuits—fine pathways meant to enhance the directional precision of wind magic—to match it.
The workshop smelled of wood, metal, and the faintly scorched scent of alchemical reagents. Against the wall, the Living Knight stood motionless as always, the mana-light deep within its dark blue armor shimmering quietly.
(*…Alright. How's this?*)
Glen had just finished carving the final engraving into the staff's surface and let out a small breath when—
*Knock, knock.*
A sound came at the door. A hesitant knock—restrained, yet carrying a certain resolve.
"It's open."
Without looking up, Glen answered as he wiped the staff in his hands with a soft cloth.
*Creeeak…*
The old hinges groaned, and a woman stepped into the workshop. Her long, richly amber, wavy hair caught the sunlight streaming through the open door and gleamed like spun gold. Her eyes, the deep green of a forest, were downcast, holding a light tinged with shadow.
Mireille, the earth mage—the woman who had once served as their strategist in the Crimson Fang.
In her right hand, she gripped a well-worn oaken staff. It was a piece Glen had tuned long ago; the mana engravings on its surface were unmistakably his work. The glove on her right hand, set with amber, was her trademark as well. Her cheeks looked slightly thinner, telling the story of her state of mind over these past few weeks.
"…It's been a while, Glen."
Mireille lifted her face and tried to smile, just a little. But the corners of her mouth pulled awkwardly tight, never quite forming one. Her voice, unlike the lively tone he remembered, was somehow muffled and subdued.
Glen stopped his hands and rose from his chair.
"Hey, Mireille. It's been a while."
His voice was perfectly calm. There was no surprise in it, no accusation. Just a quiet acceptance of her visit—that was its temperature.
Standing before the workbench, Mireille held out her staff with both hands, her eyes still downcast, as if begging for forgiveness. Her fingertips trembled faintly.
"My staff has been… acting up lately. I feel like its transmission efficiency has dropped."
She spoke slowly, as if choosing her words carefully, her deep green eyes wavering as they searched Glen's face for something. But what she truly wanted to say had nothing to do with the staff. That much was painfully clear.
Glen took the offered staff and held it up to the light. The oak's grain had deepened to a rich amber, proof of its long years spent alongside her mana. Wordlessly, he took out his crystal plate and channeled a faint stream of mana from the staff's tip. A pale blue light traced geometric patterns across the plate, and numbers indicating mana flow and resistance values floated into view.
(*…It's not just engraving wear. The core material inside is accumulating stress, too.*)
Glen assembled his diagnosis in his head but didn't voice it. He simply examined the staff with the detached expression of a craftsman.
"A few of the engravings are worn down. Transmission efficiency is dropping, and the core material doesn't look great either."
He placed the staff on the soft cloth atop his workbench and picked up his ledger. Dipping a quill into the inkpot, he wrote down the adjustments needed and an estimate.
"Repairs will take about three days. The cost would be eighteen silver coins. How does that sound?"
Mireille gave a small nod and began taking silver coins from the leather pouch at her waist. One coin, two… The dry clink of each coin hitting the wooden counter echoed strangely loud. After counting out eighteen, she stayed in that position, staring at the coins.
"Glen… I…"
Mireille's voice trembled. She lifted her face and looked straight at him. In the depths of her eyes, he could clearly see guilt swirling, an unspoken apology, and above all, a profound regret. She bit her lip, but the next words wouldn't come.
Silence fell.
Glen didn't touch the silver coins on the counter; he just let them lie there. He narrowed his eyes slightly and turned his calm gray gaze toward Mireille. What she wanted to say, what she couldn't say—he understood it as clearly as if she'd spoken. He remembered her face on the day he was banished from the Crimson Fang. That face, silent, biting her lip.
Even so.
"I'll take the staff. I'll do good work on it."
That was all he said.
Gently, yet with a note of finality—or perhaps to tell her she didn't need to suffer any longer—it was brief and calm.
Mireille bit her lip once more and hung her head. Her amber hair spilled forward, hiding her expression. She was desperately holding back something that threatened to spill over.
"…Yes. …Please."
It was a voice squeezed out of her. She turned on her heel and headed for the door as if fleeing. Her back looked so terribly small and painful.
*Creeeak… Thud.*
The door closed.
Glen watched her go and let out a quiet sigh.
(*Mireille… you worry too much.*)
But he wouldn't say it aloud. That was his kindness, and also his cruelty. He silently picked up Mireille's staff and began wrapping it carefully in cloth. The eighteen silver coins still lay on the counter.
Silence returned to the workshop. The Living Knight, utterly still, had watched it all from its place against the wall.
A little while later, just as Glen began tidying up his tools—
*BANG!!*
This time, the workshop door flew open with a violent crash.
"Glen-saaan!! I'm here!!"
Bursting in was a young fire mage girl—Alisa. Her fiery red hair was tied up in a ponytail, and her dark brown eyes sparkled brightly. In her hand, she clutched a staff that was utterly ruined, split hideously from the base and charred inside.
She was the workshop's first regular customer, the one he'd promised to fix a broken staff for last time.
Alisa stood before the workbench, out of breath. Her thin linen robe was dirty in several places, and the cuffs were black with soot. The air around her alone was faintly warm, likely due to her strong fire mana unconsciously leaking out.
"I came, just like I promised! Can you look at this?! It really couldn't be fixed after all…!"
"Hey, Alisa. Just a moment—I'll make some tea."
Glen gave a small laugh and offered her a chair. Alisa sat down obediently, though she still held out the staff with undiminished excitement.
He took the staff from her and first examined it overall. He'd seen it before, but looking again, the severity of the damage was clear. The crack at the base was deep, and the fire magic stone powder used in the core material had overreacted, burning the wood of the staff itself from the inside. Countless fine cracks ran across the surface, and just gripping it lightly caused flakes of charcoal to crumble off.
"Aww… it really is hopeless, isn't it…?"
Alisa's voice suddenly grew faint. She clasped her hands tightly on her lap and looked up at Glen anxiously.
"Hmm… your mana really is quite strong, it seems. This staff is made of cheap paulownia wood. Paulownia is good for amplifying mana, but it's weak to heat. When a mage with high output like you channels fire magic through it, the inside burns up right away."
He placed the broken staff on the workbench and stood, heading toward the material shelves. From among the neatly arranged branches of magical trees, he carefully pulled out one with a pale cherry-blossom-colored grain. It was cherry wood harvested from the upper reaches of the Nierre River; its surface was smooth, and holding it seemed to convey a faint warmth.
"This is a cherry magical tree. It has excellent compatibility with fire-attribute mana. And unlike paulownia, it excels at control and stability rather than amplification. For a mage with high output like you, I think a staff like this would actually last much longer."
He placed the cherry wood before Alisa. She reached out hesitantly and touched its surface with timid fingers.
"Ah… it's warm…"
Alisa's eyes regained their sparkle in an instant. She held the cherry wood cradled in both hands, stroking it over and over as if to confirm its feel.
"This… can you make a staff from this wood? My staff?"
"Of course. Though, it will be a bit pricey."
Glen gave a wry smile, took out his ledger, and ran his quill across the page.
"As I mentioned before, the material cost is forty-five silver coins. The crafting fee is thirty-five silver. That comes to a total of eighty silver coins. …Do you remember?"
"E-eighty… Yes."
Alisa's face visibly paled. She clutched the leather pouch at her waist tightly, her shoulders slumping in obvious dejection. For a novice mage, eighty silver coins was an impossibly large sum. The average reward for a D-rank request was two to five silver coins. That meant she'd have to complete nearly twenty requests.
But Glen, as if anticipating her reaction, continued in a calm tone.
"Well, there's no need to panic. Installments are fine. First, I'll take half the material cost—twenty-three silver coins—and the rest can wait until delivery. The thirty-five silver crafting fee can also wait until delivery. You don't have to pay it all at once; a little at a time is fine."
Alisa looked up, her eyes wide as saucers, staring at Glen.
"Is it really okay to pay in installments…? I mean, I'm still just a beginner… and I don't have any credit yet…"
Her voice trembled. Not from joy, but from disbelief. What merchant would extend eighty silver coins' worth of credit to a novice—a mere girl in a tattered robe like this?
With shaking hands, she opened her leather pouch and dumped its entire contents onto the counter. Fifteen silver coins. Eight copper coins. That was all the money she had in the world right now.
"This… this is all I have right now… but I'll definitely pay! I absolutely, absolutely will work hard and pay it all back!"
Alisa pleaded desperately, her voice close to tears. In the depths of her eyes swirled the fear of being refused and the earnest wish to cling to this chance anyway.
Glen gently gathered the scattered silver and copper coins on the counter with his palm. His scarred craftsman's fingers slid over the cold coins.
"Then, I'll hold onto just this much. The rest can wait until the staff is finished. Besides… seeing you become able to use magic properly—that's the best reward I could ask for."
It was a truly heartfelt statement, free of any calculation.
He certainly possessed a merchant's shrewdness. But at his core lay a technician's pure desire. Seeing mages shine with the staves he made—that was his true joy.
Alisa stared blankly at Glen's face for a moment, and then, in the next instant, large tears began spilling from her big, dark brown eyes.
"Hic… uuu… thank you so much…!"
She burst into tears, crying aloud like a child. Ever since coming to this city, no one had acknowledged her. They laughed at her cheap staff, mocked her as a beginner, and she couldn't even get proper requests. Amidst all that, here was the first adult who believed in her.
That joy overflowed as unstoppable tears.
Glen said nothing, just gently placed a hand on her head. Against the wall, the Living Knight watched the scene in silence.
The early summer sunlight wrapped softly around the two of them—the sobbing girl and the gentle craftsman.
—
Around that same time.
Roughly forty kilometers south of Heldain,
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