Ice Partner and Peaceful Days: A Banished Summoner's Life with a Lone Knight - Staff and Choice

Morning light streamed quietly through the workshop window. It was that boundary between late summer and early autumn. The air was clear, yet still carried the faintest trace of daytime heat against the skin. That kind of morning. Glen faced his workbench, mallet in hand, carefully driving the core material into a staff. Tap, tap, tap. The steady rhythm echoed through the workshop. The unfinished staves propped against the wall listened silently to the sound. In his hands was a staff nearing completion. A branch of magic-conducting wood, carefully carved and etched with fine engravings across its surface. The client was a middle-aged fire mage who worked as a carriage escort southeast of Heldain. Not a famous adventurer by any means. But he came back every time for adjustments like this. Regulars like him were steadily, if slowly, increasing in number. "……Hah." He let out a small breath and straightened his back. In the corner of the workshop, in the dim space by the wall, the Living General stood motionless. Its dark blue-black heavy armor gleamed dully in the morning light, and deep within the helmet, two points of blue light pulsed quietly. They looked like lamps swaying at the bottom of a deep lake. Glen glanced at the figure from the corner of his eye, then dropped his gaze to the stack of order forms on the workbench. Over the past month, the number of visitors had risen to an average of six per day. When he'd first opened, it had been two or three. Now, there were days when people came without pause from morning until evening. Staff adjustments, new orders, equipment consultations for adventurers. It was no exaggeration to say that Glen's name came up daily at the tavern "Ragna's Horn" or in the wagons returning from the dungeon. It was all word of mouth. He hadn't placed any advertisements. He hadn't solicited the mutual aid association. It was simply that, ever since the incident at the Kragen Mines, his reputation had known no bounds, and now rumors of his "skilled adjustments" spread among adventurers like a quiet wave. He looked toward the shelves. Branches of magic-conducting wood were arranged neatly by length and type. White oak, ebony, silver linden. Beside each type of wood sat small bottles of powdered magic stone. Hematite powder, blue ice stone powder, wind spirit crystal grains. Compared to when he'd first opened, his material stock had swelled to nearly three times its original size. (Well, I'm making it work.) He murmured inwardly. That was what mattered most. Banished, left with nothing, and still he'd come this far on his skill alone. This workshop was a place he'd built with his own strength. (Not bad.) He murmured again, inwardly. It was a feeling akin to his habitual phrase, "Well, whatever." No impatience. No gloom. Just a quiet sense of fulfillment, slowly spreading through his chest. Maybe this was the kind of time he'd always wanted. No one rushing him, no one whose mood he had to read—just continuing to make what he thought was good, in the way he thought was good. It was a quiet time he'd never once obtained during his days with the Crimson Fang. Without realizing it, Glen found himself looking toward the Living General. He couldn't hear a voice. But their gazes met. He felt it. The blue light deep within the helmet pulsed slowly in the silence, just as it always did. "……With a partner like you here, this place is a castle." A small murmur, meant for no one. The morning breeze drifted faintly through the workshop. —. About an hour passed. There was a modest knock at the workshop door. Tap, tap, tap. Three times. Regular, but somehow hesitant. Glen stopped his hands and looked up. "Come in, it's open." The door opened slowly. Standing there was a man in his prime, his short, gray-flecked hair swept back. Deep, withered-grass-colored eyes. His mustache and beard were neatly trimmed, and his features carried the weighty composure that came from years of experience. Two small scars beneath his right eye—remnants of his active days. Dolg Heinen, branch chief of the Trevark Adventurers' Mutual Aid Association, Heldain branch. "Sorry to bother you while you're busy." He spoke with a gentle manner. In his hands, he carried a long object wrapped in dark brown cloth. A staff. His own beloved old staff, made of oak. "No, I just finished up a task." Glen offered him the chair in front of the workbench and stood behind the counter himself. Dolg thanked him and settled into the leather chair. The old wood creaked faintly. "I'd like you to take a look at my staff today. It's been acting up lately. The transmission efficiency feels off—the magic doesn't flow through it as smoothly as it used to." He carefully unwrapped the cloth and produced a single staff. Well-worn oak. Small scratches here and there, and the grip had been worn smooth to match the shape of his hand. A companion that had run across battlefields with him for many long years. Glen received the staff with both hands. "Let me take a look." He held the staff level and slowly rotated it, checking the surface with his fingertips. The uneven grain of the wood pressed against the pads of his fingers. He focused his awareness down to his very joints. "……The core material is showing some fatigue. And the engravings near the tip have worn down. At this rate, the magic conversion efficiency might drop below seventy percent." Glen's fingertips gently traced the area around the magic stone embedded in the staff's tip. "With adjustment and re-engraving, I can bring it back to the upper eighties. If I take my time, I could push it close to ninety." "Oh, that's reassuring. Then, would it be all right if I left it with you for a while?" "Yes, about five days should do it." "Five days. Good. Then I'll come by the evening after next to pick it up." Dolg nodded with satisfaction. But Glen understood. The man's true reason for visiting today wasn't just the staff adjustment. A month ago, a letter had arrived from the mutual aid association headquarters in the capital, Kroifelt. Dolg had certainly heard about its contents. That was precisely why he'd made the trip here himself today. Glen gently set the staff down on the workbench. "……So, what's the real matter?" He broached it abruptly—quietly, but clearly. Dolg's eyebrows rose just slightly. "……I can't get anything past you." He gave a wry smile and folded his hands on his knees. "The truth is, Glen—a formal recruitment offer for you has arrived from the capital." He produced a sheet of parchment from his breast pocket. High-quality paper, bearing the pressed remains of a wax seal. The crest belonged to the mutual aid association headquarters in the capital, Kroifelt. Glen glanced at the parchment once, then looked away. "That's the same one that was sent before. I've already reviewed it." "I see. Then this will be quick." Dolg began to speak slowly. "I'll be frank. The headquarters holds your performance at the Kragen Mines in high regard. The fact that you broke through the ancient guardian alone in that unexplored region is on record at headquarters. And so, they want to bring you into the survey team for the ancient fortress ruins discovered near the capital." Glen listened in silence. "The survey team consists of two A-rank and five B-rank members. Seven elite personnel in total. The objective is the excavation and documentation of ancient magical technology said to lie in the ruins' depths. Additionally, dealing with the high-rank magical beasts that have begun appearing in the surrounding area. The expected duration is roughly three months." Dolg paused for a breath. "The compensation, combining success bonus and daily wages, amounts to fifty gold coins. The capital headquarters wants to purchase your abilities." Fifty gold coins. Converted to silver, that was over five thousand. An astronomical sum—one he couldn't imagine earning no matter how many staves he made in this workshop. "And regarding your Living General," Dolg's gaze turned toward the dark blue-black knight standing in the corner of the workshop. "That is equivalent to A-rank combat strength. No—depending on how it's used, even more. The survey team leader also said it would be reassuring if you came." His voice, though calm, carried a note of seriousness. "Glen. To be honest, I think it would be a waste to let you stay buried in this town." That was his true feeling. "Your skill, and your partner's power. I believe I understand better than anyone that they're genuine. If you join the capital's survey team, you could demonstrate that strength on a much larger stage." He paused, then looked Glen straight in the eye. "I don't think it's a bad offer." Silence. A quiet moment flowed through the workshop. Glen stared at Dolg's staff resting on the workbench. That old oak had absorbed the man's long adventurer's life. "……It's not a bad offer." He slowly opened his mouth. "But I'll have to decline." At that reply, Dolg's expression froze for just an instant. "I'm content here—making staves, occasionally taking on requests. I make my living that way. Grand propositions aren't something I need right now." His tone was matter-of-fact. No hesitation, no wavering. But neither was there any coldness that pushed the other away. Dolg stared into Glen's eyes for several seconds in silence. "……I see." At last, a gentle voice escaped him. "If that's your decision, it's not my place to interfere." He smiled—a little lonely, but with acceptance. "Thank you for hearing me out. I'll convey your refusal to headquarters myself." "Sorry for the trouble." Glen bowed deeply. "No, I'm the one who pushed." Dolg stood. "Well then, I'll leave this staff with you for five days. I'll come by again once the adjustment is done. If you've changed your mind by then, feel free to say so." With those parting words, he handed the staff to Glen once more. "Yes, thank you. I'll make it a fine piece." Glen received the staff with both hands. Dolg raised a hand lightly and reached for the door handle. "Then, in five days." Leaving behind a gentle smile, he departed the workshop. The door clicked shut, and the outside air quietly seeped in. Glen stared at the closed door for a while. (Grand propositions aren't something I need.) He repeated it inwardly, as if telling himself. No—it wasn't that he'd lied. Fifty gold coins. Two A-rank members. Ancient fortress ruins. Honor, and a challenge toward greater heights. He understood that all of it was real. But to his current self, those things belonged to a place far too distant. (That day, I made my decision.) A summer day when he was fifteen. The day his aptitude test results determined he had "no" talent as a swordsman. His boyhood, spent wishing for nothing but to become a swordsman like his grandfather. Swinging tree branches, chasing his grandfather's back, believing that someday he would surely become as strong as that man. His grandfather's name was Alfred Grayson. A legendary swordsman who had once made his name resound as an A-rank adventurer. A large man who always laughed heartily, and though he'd already retired by the time Glen was old enough to remember, his swordsmanship still seemed divine in his grandson's eyes. (I want to be like Grandpa.) That was Glen's only dream. He had no interest in anything else. Swordsmanship training was his entire world. But the results of the magic aptitude test were cruel. Physical ability for a swordsman, magic quality, reaction speed, concentration. In every category, he was judged to have "no" suitability for the sword. Instead, he'd barely registered "yes" for the aptitude of a "summoner"—a class said to appear with near-impossible rarity. Glen still remembered that day. Clutching the paper with his test results, he'd cried all night in the empty backyard. He couldn't become a swordsman. He couldn't become li

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Episode 8

Name: Ice Partner and Peaceful Days: A Banished Summoner's Life with a Lone Knight
Author: Novelia

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