CH7 • A Cult Following

Leaving the trade hub city, it was clear that Elton had gotten what he wanted—though not without consequences. 

However, it was nothing compared to me, everyone had issues, yet my situation had grown to overshadow them all. 

Despite his hope for a quiet departure, I had unintentionally created a situation that wasn't exactly trouble, but rather… troublesome.

The church and nobles had reached out. Specifically, to me.

In just three days, my actions had stirred something dangerous. 

I had healed the sick, outperformed the clergy, and now? 

Now, people were whispering my name like I was some kind of saint.

Soon enough, even the Duke of these lands would hear of me. Which by the time he'd listened, I'd be out his lands. Phew. 

Only a day ahead of our planned departure, we found ourselves forced to flee before the situation escalated beyond our control.

And yet, as we rode away, I could see them—wagons, people on foot, stragglers desperate to catch up.

"They're still following," Mitca muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. "I told you this would happen. You've made quite an impression."

I sighed, adjusting my grip on the reins. "I didn't ask for this."

Elton scoffed. "Oh, but you sure didn't stop it, did you? I told you to keep a low profile! This isn't low profile, Caelum! This is the opposite of low profile!"

Scoof grinned. "He's right, you know. You've got an entire flock chasing after you. Tell me, do saints usually run away from their followers?"

I shot him a look. "I am not a saint."

Luka, riding ahead, glanced back. "Try telling them that."

She wasn't wrong. Behind us, figures stumbled over the dirt road, calling out. Some in desperation, others in anger.

Samy groaned. "This isn't just about the church anymore. You've drawn the attention of nobles, and if the Duke gets involved…" He exhaled sharply. "Well, we'll be lucky if it stays at just that."

Mitca shot me a pointed look. "We should use magic and hide, Master Caelum."

"No need for that. I don't plan on getting caught," I said flatly.

Duritoura, silent until now, finally spoke. "And what if they force you into a contract?"

I smirked. "They can try."

Mitca didn't look convinced. "Master, you're underestimating the weight of what you've done. Saints don't just switch sides."

I shrugged. "Then I'll go be a dark mage. Let's see how quickly they change their minds."

Lexatiea laughed. "At least you're famous now."

I gave her a deadpan look. "That's exactly the problem."

Over these small days, I had grown accustomed to knowing each of the people now I travelled with that, they were akin to a family.

Well, only eight or so, the many others I couldn't remember much of them as I didn't interact with them as often. 

Still, we kept moving. No one knew what would happen if they caught up to us, but none of us wanted to find out.

Zyira, usually reserved, finally spoke. "Caelum… how do you keep outperforming everyone? Were you holding back in the tower?"

I glanced at her, smirking. "If they hadn't held me back, I'd be headmaster by now."

The days went on, with some times we relaxing for a brief moment, and sending out scouts to see how far the masses were from us. 

Other time, we'd make it difficult for them by created barriers on the road as we left, yet still we didn't take the chances of directly confronting them. 

They were relentless and moved at different speeds, even a few who managed to catch us on the road, from the masses as we'd taken a longer pause break, we'd try to discuss with them.

"I'm not a saint!" I'd say to the two kids who had managed to travel endlessly, while they drunk water and ate our supplies we'd given them. 

"Please, just listen to us. You just heal us and now you're saying you're not a saint, does that make sense to you!" One of them would quickly question me. 

I'd motion a spell of restraint, as the soil around them would become sticky and muddy, "Nope. So, now that we have cleared this up, Elton please let's go!"

That was the last interaction as they pled and I shook my head in rejection as we traveled onwards. 

The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the landscape.

And then—

"There!" Luka pointed ahead.

The border gates loomed ahead, flanked by twin watchtowers standing like silent sentinels against the deepening twilight. 

A narrow bridge stretched between them, its stone arches casting elongated shadows over the river below, where the water moved in steady currents, reflecting the last amber streaks of sunlight. 

The sight should have been a relief—a promise of safety just within reach—but my chest tightened at the sight of the guards stationed at the entrance, their polished armor catching the fading light in sharp glints of silver and bronze.

A surge of voices rose behind us, distant yet unmistakable. The crowd had nearly caught up.

I exhaled sharply, my fingers flexing at my sides as I glanced at Elton. "It looks like we'll have to explain ourselves."

He barely spared me a look, waving a dismissive hand as though brushing away an inconvenient thought. 

"Not with me," he said, his voice smooth, assured. 

"I'll simply tell them to keep the gates shut. Let the local guards deal with the flood of migrants trying to leave their own duchy."

His tone carried no hint of concern—only the cool detachment of someone who had already decided this was not his problem. 

I studied his face, the sharp lines of his jaw set firm beneath the glow of the torches burning along the watchtowers. 

His hair, always neatly combed, was slightly tousled from the ride, yet not a trace of sweat marred his brow. 

He was utterly at ease, as though the desperate cries from behind us were little more than the evening wind rustling through the trees.

I, however, felt the weight of every approaching footstep.

***

The flood of people had finally caught up.

The guards had let us through the gate, but they weren't willing to let the situation end there. They insisted I stay, that I be part of their resolution. I had refused outright. They had been just as adamant.

Now, I sat atop a horse outside the watchtower, my presence alone earning stares and whispers from both the refugees and the soldiers. A mage on horseback? That alone was enough to shock them.

Mages weren't supposed to know how to ride. It wasn't forbidden, just… unexpected. My youth only added to their confusion. I could see it in their eyes—how?

I offered the simplest answer. "I picked it up during my travels by watching others."

My traveling crew didn't believe a word of it. They rolled their eyes, exchanging knowing looks, but the guards, in contrast, murmured their admiration.

"Well, of course! Mages are brilliant, after all." One of them nodded sagely, and the others echoed in agreement.

I held back a sigh. Right. Because magic equated to intelligence, and intelligence apparently meant I could master anything I set my mind to.

Before me, a sea of ragged figures pressed against the outer gate, their forms shifting uneasily in the torchlight. From this height, I could see just how many there were—stretching in every direction, their faces a mixture of desperation and awe. Their voices overlapped in a dissonant chorus, some pleading, some whispering prayers.

Their eyes weighed on me, heavy with hunger—not just for food, but for salvation.

The guards held firm between us, their halberds forming an unwavering line, but I could see the tension in their grips, the uncertainty in their posture. This wasn't just a swarm of beggars or displaced peasants.

Priests stood among them, their robes worn thin, clutching relics to their chests as though they might grant them strength. Holy men. Their eyes gleamed with conviction, lips murmuring blessings—no, prayers—directed at me.

Then, from the crowd:

"Holiness Maginus! Please, hear us!"

The title hit me like a jolt of lightning. A murmur at first, then a ripple, spreading through them like wildfire.

"Maginus!"

"The blessed one!"

"You can save us, can't you?"

I turned sharply to Elton.

He met my gaze with a lazy tilt of his head, his sharp green eyes glittering with amusement. His hair, usually neatly kept, was tousled from the journey, stray strands falling over his forehead. The smugness in his expression was almost unbearable.

"Oh, Maginus." His lips curled. "Aren't you going to answer their pleas?"

He didn't even try to mask the glee in his voice.

"The Duke will be very pleased to hear this."

Before I could snap at him, a woman, barely more than skin and bone beneath a tattered cloak, stretched her trembling hand beyond the barricade.

"Please!" Her voice cracked. "They say you are blessed! You can save us, can't you?"

I schooled my face into neutrality, but something in my chest tightened. Save them? What exactly did they expect me to do?

I wasn't a saint. I couldn't magically fix a duchy that was already collapsing under its own weight. I wasn't a healer who could mend hundreds with a wave of my hand. Even my healing magic—complex, intricate—was situational, tailored to each individual's affliction. One spell alone had splintered into thirty versions. In all my practice, I had only cast the same variant on people six times.

And now?

Now there were hundreds.

Mitca, ever silent, sat beside me, his expression carved from stone. He alone didn't gawk at the unfolding chaos. His dark eyes flickered with something else—understanding. He saw it for what it was.

A storm.

The crowd surged forward, hands reaching, voices rising to a fever pitch. The guards braced, bodies tensing as they shoved back the most desperate among them.

I clenched the reins in my hands. This isn't sustainable. Their duchy is barely holding together, and now they've pinned their hopes on me.

Enough.

I straightened, inhaled sharply, and let my voice cut through the madness.

"All of you, head back! I am not of your duchy! I was merely traveling and decided to commit a single act of kindness." I set my jaw, my glare cutting through the crowd. "I am not a saint!"

A beat of silence. Then—anger.

We pushed backward, guiding our horses toward the towers. Behind us, the shouts changed. Some were still pleading, but others—others were filled with venom.

"Why won't you help?"

"Maginus! Please don't leave!"

"Holiness, don't abandon us!"

"Curse you, false prophet!"

"Oh!! You need to be saved!"

"Have mercy!"

And then—

A single cry, shrill and raw, tore through the rest.

A child's wail.

The gates slammed shut behind us.

***

After resting at a nearby borderland fort, the guards had, unsurprisingly, insisted on witnessing the rumored feats for themselves.

To no avail.

I repeated—again and again—that I was out of mana, a convenient excuse that kept them at bay. When that wasn't enough, Elton stepped in, ever the silver-tongued snake, and reminded them that I was the proposed servant of the prince. That shut them up quickly enough.

And yet, their skepticism lingered. A third-circle mage? Performing miracles at the outer barricades? The contradictions gnawed at them. I could see it in their eyes—how does someone at my level do the impossible?

I let them wonder.

The road ahead was lifeless.

I had thought the last duchy was in poor condition, but this—this was something else entirely.

Barren land stretched endlessly, a sea of cracked earth and skeletal trees. The wind carried the scent of decay, thick and cloying, as if death itself had seeped into the soil.

Villages—what remained of them—were nothing but husks. Houses sagged inward, roofs collapsed like broken ribs. Farmland was no better, a graveyard of shriveled crops, the land long since bled dry.

Elton rode ahead, utterly at ease, no doubt scheming how best to frame my so-called feats in his next report.

"You told me the duchy was struggling," I said, watching the desolation pass through the carriage window. "You failed to mention it was on the verge of collapse."

He laughed, rich and unbothered. "Would you have come if I had?"

I met his gaze, unamused.

He was right. If I had known, I would've cast a spell in the dead of night and vanished, leaving nothing but a rumor behind.

He only smiled. "The Duke is not a sentimental man. He will take whatever advantage he can get."

"So I've been reduced to a commodity," I muttered, slapping Mitca's hand away as he tried—again—to weave magic under my nose.

He flinched but said nothing, though I could feel his sulking radiate off him. He knew I wouldn't teach him. He was wrong. I had plans for him. Better plans. But time was necessary.

Elton merely shrugged, as if my existence being bartered like some rare gem was nothing out of the ordinary. "Our golden egg, Maginas."

I shot him a glare. "Stop calling me that cursed name."

He smirked. "One laid directly in his lap at less than half the price."

His gaze glinted with calculation.

"You do realize how valuable you are now, don't you?"

I exhaled sharply. I did now.

I had always thought myself strange, but ever since mana became second nature to me—like breathing—I had stopped questioning it.

I wasn't just abnormal. I was beyond.

I didn't answer.

Beside me, Mitca finally broke his silence. "This land is dying."

I glanced at him. "Dying?" My voice was flat. "It's already dead."

Elton waved a hand lazily. "Oh, don't be so dramatic. It's not all bad."

I narrowed my eyes. "How many cities are left?"

"Four," he replied, unbothered. "Including the capital."

A pit formed in my stomach. "Villages?"

"Six."

My hands tightened around the carriage's sidebars. "Towns?"

"Three."

Silence stretched between us.

This was the better part of the duchy, he had said.

If this was the best, I dreaded to imagine the worst.

Sensing my thoughts, Elton smirked. "Oh, but wait until you see the Duke's city. It's quite the spectacle."

That's what I was afraid of.

—

During our late-night stops in what few settlements remained, I found myself sinking into a particular thought.

Numbers.

Mages among the common folk were like the police in my old life. They existed, but they weren't everywhere. Those with magic were usually first or second circle, maybe on the cusp of third. Third-circle was the threshold—the mark of a true mage.

And yet, something within me had begun to shift.

It was strange.

I kept the sensation to myself, but I knew—I knew—that I was close to advancing. My circle had matured, eager to grow, restless in its constraints.

Fourth circle? More?

I had a habit of breaking the limits of common sense.

I could feel Mitca watching me. He wasn't stupid.

—

That night, in the dim glow of the inn's lantern, he finally spoke.

"…Master." His voice was quiet, hesitant. "Are you advancing?"

I stilled, glancing at him.

Fake confusion. A simple trick, but Mitca only sighed.

"I know you don't trust me," he murmured, gaze steady. "But I can sense it."

I said nothing.

He exhaled. "Your circle… it flickers sometimes. Before, I couldn't sense anything—you were too advanced for me to read. But now…" He trailed off, eyes sharp. "I've felt something like this before, in the mage towers among my peers."

He met my gaze, searching.

"…I may be wrong."

I kept my expression blank. "Yeah, you're wrong."

I stood, stretching as if bored, and turned toward my bed.

Mitca sighed again, frustration barely contained.

I smirked to myself.

He wasn't wrong.

***

A few days stretched into a week as we traversed the duchy's lands, the journey a constant reminder of the stark contrast between the barren outskirts and the place we were heading toward.

At one point, I casually mentioned to Elton that I wanted to eat specific meals and drink certain brews.

He raised an eyebrow, puzzled.

Mitca, on the other hand, stiffened, his wide eyes filled with disbelief.

He understood.

I merely smiled at him, tilting my head in silent warning. Keep quiet.

He nodded hesitantly. He had no choice. He was my servant—if he spoke out, he would bear the brunt of my retaliation.

By the time we reached the capital, dusk was settling, bleeding the sky in hues of crimson and gold.

And the first thing that struck me was the contrast.

The outer lands were dead, crumbling under the weight of poverty and decay. But the Duke's city?

It stood.

Not untouched, not thriving—but resilient.

Towering stone walls loomed over the entrance, adorned with the faded banners of his house. Soldiers manned their posts with practiced efficiency, and unlike the desperate emptiness outside, the city pulsed with a different kind of energy.

Not survival.

Something darker.

Greed. Ambition. Opportunism.

The streets bustled, merchants calling out wares with forced enthusiasm, their voices eager but hollow. Armored guards moved in controlled formations, their presence a reminder of who truly ruled here.

Yet, even amidst this illusion of prosperity, something was wrong.

The people were thin.

Not starving, but worn down—clothes still finer than those outside the walls, but bearing signs of wear and patchwork mending.

The scent of roasted meat lingered in the air, but it was faint, diluted, stretched too thin.

The surface of wealth remained. But beneath it, the same rot festered.

As we moved deeper, the castle came into view.

Massive.

Dark stone absorbed the last of the fading light, making it seem like the structure itself drank in the sun. Towers jutted toward the heavens, some seemingly unfinished, others bearing scars of modifications or repairs.

Beyond the thick iron gates, a sprawling keep lay shrouded in shadow.

Mitca exhaled. "So this is where we will stay?"

Elton grinned. "Welcome to the Duke's castle."

I said nothing.

But the weight of our arrival settled in my chest.

Whatever awaited beyond those gates…

This was only the beginning.

—

As we neared our destination, I activated a silent spell—a minor modification I had been refining in the carriage.

Mitca's brows furrowed in confusion as he realized he could no longer hear what I was saying.

Elton, however, could.

I spoke directly to him.

"Make sure Mitca stays with me."

Elton's gaze flicked toward me, sharp with understanding.

"I want him to keep up with his scheduled physical training and performance. I'll speak with the Duke about it through you."

Elton's smirk was almost amused, but he gave a slow nod.

I wouldn't allow Mitca to stagnate just because I was tasked with duties here.

He was my project.

And I had plans for him.