Chapter 48 (Part I) — Gridiron Stars and Celestial Sparks
Barracks Ballet
The afternoon sun blazed over Loring Castle's expanded garrison—a thousand private troops now crammed into the training grounds. Bennett rode through the gates astride his prized stallion, its once-majestic tail reduced to a bristled stub.
Robert, the demoted-yet-defiant knight, intercepted him with wary eyes. "My lord, spring drills concluded weeks ago. Unless you've come to critique our idleness…?"
Bennett dismounted, patting the horse's shorn hindquarters. "Relax, Robert. I've invented a game."
From his saddlebag, he produced a lumpy leather sphere stitched from his own butchered coat and stuffed with horsehair. Soldiers gathered, snickering until Bennett outlined rules with the fervor of a prophet:
"Eleven per side! No hands—feet only! Score through those makeshift goals!" He pointed to repurposed saddles framing each end of the field. "And if I catch anyone using combat maneuvers on opponents instead of the ball…" He brandished a scrap of crimson cloth. "…you'll meet my red card."
Chaos Theory
The first match descended into glorious anarchy.
A knight infused with battle-aura kicked the ball into splinters. Bennett's seamstress scrambled to stitch replacements, harvesting tails from increasingly traumatized steeds. When a sergeant dribbled past midfield, his opponent dropkicked him into a mud pit—sparking a brawl that required three officers to disentangle.
"Foul!" Bennett blew a whistle carved from a pheasant bone. "You—yellow card! And you—" He glared at a giggling footman feigning injury in the penalty area. "Bravo. That dive deserves an Oscar… and a penalty kick."
By dusk, the men had mastered sliding tackles, offside traps, and the sacred art of cursing referees. Robert himself scored a bicycle kick that ignited roaring chants of "Loring! Loring!" across the compound.
"Tomorrow!" A mud-caked captain howled at the losing side. "We'll grind your bones into turf!"
Bennett surveyed the carnage—torn jerkins, bald horses, and a hundred soldiers now addicted to his madness. Perfect.
Nocturnal Negotiations
That night, Bennett climbed to his tower's observatory, where Selmar materialized atop a star chart.
"Explain this farce," she demanded, legs swinging like a metronome of judgment. "Sacrificing coats and stallions to… play?"
"Investing," he corrected, unpacking a spyglass. "Soon every noble from here to the capital will pay gold to license 'Loring Ball' leagues. We'll sell rulebooks, branded balls, even stadium concessions."
Selmar snorted. "You'll be lucky to recoup thread costs."
"Wait for the tournament." Bennett grinned. "I'll host teams wagering ancestral armor as entry fees. Add some gladiator flair—lion mascots, firework finales…"
"Delusional." Yet her eyes gleamed. "But entertaining."
Stellar Gambits
Midnight approached. Selmar's demeanor shifted, her jesting replaced by glacial focus. "Begin."
Bennett sat cross-legged beneath the moonless sky.
"Not the constellations," she instructed. "The void between them. Find the star that whispers loudest."
He squinted upward. "They're all blinking the same."
"Fool." She flicked his ear—a ghostly chill. "The moon's a mirror, not a source. True power lies in the silent ones—the watchers who outlived gods."
Her finger traced an arc toward a faint blue speck. "There. Cygnar's Eye. A dead star that eats light."
"Cheery." Bennett grimaced. "Why not pick a friendly one?"
"Because," Selmar's smile turned feral, "only the hungriest stars share their strength."
Chapter48 (Part II) — Celestial Gambits and Gambling Glory
Starlit Stumbles
Bennett opened his eyes to the pale blush of dawn, his mind still clawing at the void where Selmar's promised star should've burned. The spectral sorceress floated nearby, her smirk sharp enough to slice moonlight.
"Still earthbound, little astronomer?" She twirled a lock of stardust hair. "Perhaps you're more suited to peddling leather balls than communing with cosmic forces."
He ignored the jab. Last night's failure had crystallized a truth—while celestial magic demanded ethereal focus, earthly schemes thrived on chaos. And chaos, Bennett realized, was something he could manufacture.
Pitchside Profiteering
By midmorning, the training grounds thrummed with feverish energy. Forty teams—six hundred soldiers clad in makeshift jerseys—roared challenges beneath fluttering pennants. Robert watched from the sidelines, torn between disapproval and adrenaline.
"Twenty matches today!" Bennett announced, leaping onto a supply crate. "Shortened halves! Brutal brackets! And—" he paused, savoring the crowd's held breath, "—a hundred gold coins for the champions!"
The resulting cheer shook crows from nearby oaks.
As teams clashed—kicking up divots and dubious fouls—Bennett's magically enhanced mind cataloged every detail:
Team 7: Center forward faked groin injuries with Oscar-worthy dramatics.
Team 12: Left winger's uncanny ability to trip over his own shadow.
Team 23: Goalkeeper who prayed to war gods before each penalty shot.
By dusk's amber light, twenty teams lay vanquished. Bennett climbed his improvised podium, cheeks flushed with more than sunset.
"Gentlemen!" He raised a goblet of stolen wine. "Tomorrow's quarterfinals demand higher stakes! Let's spice things up!"
From his sleeve, he produced a chalkboard scrawled with odds:
Team 12: 15-to-1 (Recommended for masochists)
Team 7: 3-to-1 (Bring tissues for the ref)
Team 23: 2-to-1 (Divine intervention not included)
Robert choked on his ale. "My lord, gambling? This isn't some dockside tavern!"
"Nonsense!" Bennett's grin turned lupine. "We're cultivating statistical literacy. Think of it as… mathematics with shin kicks."
Cosmic Capitalism
That night, Selmar materialized amidst Bennett's betting slips. "From stargazing to bookmaking? How pedestrian."
"Watch." He flicked a coin engraved with his sigil. "By tournament's end, every soldier here will owe me favors—or wages. Debt makes men innovative."
"And when your father discovers you've turned his garrison into a casino?"
"He'll either hang me or hire me as finance minister." Bennett sprawled across star charts, the ink smudged under gambling ledgers. "Besides, this funds Mother's gift. Filial piety, remember?"
Selmar's laughter chimed like broken crystal. "How virtuous. Tell me, boy—when you finally grasp celestial magic, will you monetize constellations too?"
"Naturally." He gestured to the moonlit betting board. "I'll sell naming rights. 'The Robert Cup' has a ring, don't you think?"
Chapter 49 — Odds, Ends, and Oligopolies
The Gambit Gambol
Bennett's proclamation ignited the barracks like wildfire. Soldiers—starved for entertainment beyond ale-stained dice and brothel coins—roared approval. Even officers abandoned stoicism, eyes glittering brighter than parade armor.
Robert watched the frenzy, fingers twitching toward his sword hilt (a nervous tic since the boy arrived). "My lord, this… exuberance—"
"Boosts morale!" Bennett clapped the knight's pauldron. "Think of it as combat training. They're strategizing formations… financially."
Bookie's Calculus
By noon, the gambling menu bloomed:
Basic Win/Loss (For simpletons)
Over/Under Goals (3.5? 4.5? Soldiers debated like philosophers)
Red Card Roulette (Who'd crack first? Brutes placed bids on themselves)
Divine Timing (Goal at 15th minute? Pay 50:1)
Bennett's chalkboard odds danced like battlefield smoke. Soldiers squinted at fractions—a demographic more familiar with sword gauges than probability.
"See this?" He tapped a 7:2 ratio. "It means if you bet two coppers on Team Viper…"
"We get seven back!" A sergeant grinned toothlessly.
"Exactly." Bennett's smile didn't reach his eyes. (Truth: The real math guaranteed 18% house edge. These men would've better odds storming a dragon's vault.)
David's Slingshot
The quarterfinals birthed legend.
Team Ironclad vs. Team Stormcrow—a mud-slinging stalemate until minute 44.
"Free kick!" Bennett hissed, watching his predicted victors flounder. (Estimated losses: 200 gold. Reputation damage: incalculable.)
Enter David—a golden-haired cavalryman with a kick that bent physics. The ball arced like a comet, net rippling as the whistle blew.
"Name?" Bennett asked post-match, hiding relieved tremors.
"David Beckham, my lord." The youth blushed beneath grime.
"Ever considered… professional sports?"
Monopoly's Midnight
That night, Selmar materialized amidst coin-stacked ledgers. "Clever parasite. Feed on hope, regurgitate despair."
"Redistribution with extra steps." Bennett juggled three gold staters. "They'll get 30% back tomorrow as 'bonuses.' Happiness is percentage points."
Her spectral finger traced betting slips. "Yet you expand beyond barracks. Why?"
"Scaling economies." He nodded toward town square posters—BENNETT'S FOOTBALL FIESTA! "Next phase: franchising."
Regulatory Raid
Urbanization brought complications:
Copycats: Taverns hosted "Kickball Carnage" with badger-skin balls.
Match Fixing: A brewer tried bribing David with lifetime ale supply.
Tax Evasion: Rival bookies operated from donkey carts.
Solution? Bennett drafted the Football Monopoly Edict:
Article 1: All football-related gambling rights belong solely to "Inventor Bennett."
Article 2: Violators face confiscatory fines (90% of profits + public shaming).
Article 3: Yes, this includes your uncle's solstice kickabout.
Local magistrates (whose salaries came from Bennett's coffers) enforced it zealously.
Trickle-Down Thaumaturgy
By week's end:
Soldiers: Received 3 gold each ("Training stipends!")
Town: Embraced football mania (Children kicked rat carcasses down alleys)
Magic Lab: Ingested 5,000 gold (Result: Three charred tables, zero breakthroughs)
"Progress?" Bennett eyed Sorcerer Saul's latest contraption—a smoke-belching "elemental diffuser."
"Define progress." Saul adjusted goggles leaking green mist. "The fire-powder yield increased 0.3%!"
Bennett sighed. At least the explosions were on-brand.
Ephemeral Ethics
Selmar observed from moonlit rafters. "You've mastered mortal vices—greed, deceit, exploitation."
"Foundations of civilization." He tossed her a gold coin. Catch it, and she'd owe a favor. (She let it clatter through her palm.)
"And your vaunted 'modern ethics'?"
"Ethics are luxury goods." Bennett nodded toward soldiers drunkenly singing his praises. "They can't afford them. I can't either."
As dawn bled through ledgers, Bennett finally grasped why star-magic eluded him—you can't touch heaven while knee-deep in mortal muck.
But oh, the muck glittered so.
Chapter 50 — Alchemy, Ambition, and Aerial Ambuscades
The Democratization of Divinity
Bennett stared at Saul's latest formula—a viscous purple elixir bubbling with stolen starlight. The alchemist's hands trembled as he adjusted the alembic. Three weeks. Eighteen failed batches. Twenty-two singed eyebrows.
"Progress?" Bennett asked, though the scorch marks on the ceiling answered first.
Saul's laugh bordered on hysterical. "We've confirmed three things:
Synthetic mana causes temporary hair loss.
Rats injected with it can levitate spoons... briefly.
My assistant now speaks fluent Ancient Elvish... backwards."
Bennett tossed him a fresh ledger. "Double the budget. Halve the explosions."
Pharmaceutical Feudalism
The revelation was terrifyingly simple:
Magic = Privilege
By Saul's calculations:
Natural Mages: 0.07% of population
Latent Mana Carriers (Bennett's type): 3.2%
Sensory Adepts (No mana): 5.1%
"Democratize this," Bennett drew circles around the 91.63% normies, "and we're not just rich. We're gods."
Saul's quill pierced the parchment. "Or executed. The Arcane Syndicate burns heretics brighter than phoenixes."
"Hence," Bennett produced two vials—azure for mana, crimson for sensory enhancement, "we sell salvation in parts. Full power requires both subscriptions."
Pyrotechnic Paganism
The fireworks workshop smelled of sulfur and sacrilege.
"Behold!" Bennett unveiled "Aurora's Absolution"—a three-meter oak cannon carved with entwined serpents. "Load the chromatic charges!"
Artisans recoiled. Old Tomas crossed himself. "My lord, the Bishop already calls this 'artisan apostasy'. Last batch made the chapel bells ring by themselves!"
"Coincidence!" Bennett struck a heroic pose... as green smoke billowed from misaligned fuses. "Science always looks like magic until—"
KA-THOOOOOM
The workshop door embedded itself in a sheep pasture. Twelve wigs caught fire simultaneously.
"...until it works," Bennett coughed through soot-stained teeth.
Gravity's Gambit
The epiphany came at 3 AM, fueled by stolen monastery wine:
Why fight physics when you can bribe it?
Dawn found Bennett dangling a bag of gold before the kingdom's most disreputable hot-air balloonist. "Monsieur Gaston! Imagine: fireworks descending from heavens like divine wrath!"
The smuggler eyed coins like a hawk eying crippled rabbits. "And if Church arquebusiers shoot us down?"
Bennett unveiled prototype parachutes stitched from silk undergarments. "We'll call it 'The Lace Ascension'. Totally pious."
Stellar Setbacks
Selmar materialized atop the half-melted cannon. "Your 'starlight meditation' progresses?"
Bennett gestured at a star chart defaced with profit calculations. "Turns out cosmic awareness conflicts with compound interest. Who knew?"
Her spectral finger traced his latest ledger entry:
Magic Democratization Project: 8,400 gold spent
Fireworks Development: 2,300 gold
Balloon Bribes: 750 gold
Hush Money to Angry Shepherds: 47 gold
"Priorities," she deadpanned.
"Exactly!" Bennett uncorked Saul's latest failure—a "Mana Tonic" that made rats recite love sonnets. "I'm investing in human potential."
Selmar's sigh stirred paperwork into miniature tornadoes. "You're turning mysticism into merchandise."
"Wrong." He caught a floating contract. "I'm making sure every peasant can buy their own miracles."
Ephemeral Equilibrium
That night, Bennett climbed Gaston's patched balloon with two barrels of "Aurora's Absolution".
The first firework burst silver—a false comet blessing the Bishop's new brothel.
The second bloomed crimson above Robert's barracks, showering soldiers with harmless sparks.
From this height, the world made sense:
Magic: Just another commodity
Faith: A flicker between profit margins
Progress: Measured in charred equipment
As Gaston muttered prayers to seventeen different deities, Bennett realized true power wasn't in spells or gunpowder—it was in convincing others to believe your explosions were benevolent.