Chapter 51: Visionary Ascent — The Balloon, the League, and the Loyal Steward
Bennett had largely entrusted his burgeoning gambling empire to Mad. Bound by house arrest, the young master could no longer roam freely to oversee his operations. Yet Mad, the former stablehand turned indispensable confidant, now wielded unprecedented influence. Once dismissed as a powerless "chief steward" accompanying a disgraced noble to the Rowling family's remote territory, Mad had transformed into the undisputed mastermind of half the gambling networks across the Rowling Plains and the Kert Province.
Wherever Mad traveled, casino owners fawned over him like courtiers, trailing his every move in hopes of catching crumbs from his table. Under Bennett's subtle guidance, Mad had "accidentally" leaked odds for a few matches, allowing peripheral bookmakers to profit modestly. But Bennett, ever the pragmatist, knew true monopolies were illusions. Even in his past life, underground betting rings thrived. To avoid being branded the "Architect of Vice" corrupting the Rowling Plains, he chose to redirect the tide rather than dam it.
Thus, with a snap of his fingers, Bennett declared a sweeping reform: "From today, all gambling operations in neighboring cities will cease. We're pivoting to civilized commerce."
Mad, now christened "Chief Director of the Football Lottery Center," endured three days of frantic tutorials. Bennett's plan? Replace crude gambling with "lottery tickets"—predicting match outcomes under the guise of selling "products." A tenth of profits would be donated to local authorities to legitimize the venture.
"Never say 'gambling' again," Bennett had intoned with mock solemnity. "We're now licensed sports entertainment providers."
Next came the overhaul of the amateur "league." Soldiers-turned-players were to return to military duties, replaced by twelve city-based teams sourced from farmers, blacksmiths, and even barbers—all thrilled to earn a gold coin or two per match. Bennett's masterstroke? Selling team "naming rights" to local merchants. The first deal, with a leather trader, coined the unwieldy "Rowling Plains' Emerald Town Old Kroner Leatherworks Football Team"—and netted 500 gold coins.
Mad, now doubling as "Chairman of the Rowling Plains Football Association," sold all twelve team names for 5,000 gold coins. Bennett, eyeing future riches, mused, "In a few years, merchants will beg us with chests of gold just to whisper their brand on a jersey."
Yet even triumph had its shadows. The alchemist Solskjaer continued burning through funds with no progress, leaving Bennett reliant on Mad's windfall. To celebrate, Bennett unveiled his latest invention: a hot-air balloon stitched from fifty cowhides.
"Behold, Mad—flight without magic!" Bennett declared as flames roared beneath the colossal sphere. The pair ascended, drifting over castle spires and forests, awing onlookers into silent reverence.
But as the balloon soared into sunset-tinted clouds, reality struck. "My Lord," Mad stammered, clutching the basket's edge, "how… do we land?"
Bennett froze. "...I may have overlooked that detail."
Mad's reply—half awe, half terror—ended with him vomiting over the basket's side. Below, servants stared skyward, whispering, "Will they return in time for supper?"
And so, the balloon sailed on, carrying a genius and his queasy steward into the golden haze—a metaphor for Bennett's ambitions: boundless, reckless, and gloriously uncharted.
Chapter 52 (Part 1): Silent Ambitions and Starlit Bonds
Mad spent two full days bedridden after the balloon ordeal, his legs trembling like jelly when he finally rose. Yet Bennett, ever the pragmatic master, rewarded his loyal steward handsomely—for amidst the panic of their aerial misadventure, it was Mad's frantic suggestion to extinguish the furnace that had saved them. Shutting off the heat source allowed the balloon's gas to cool, enabling a perilous descent. By the time they landed, Mad had emptied his stomach of even bile, carried back to the castle by a cavalry squad summoned in haste.
As rumors swirled among the castle staff about what new madness their eccentric lord might concoct next, Bennett fell uncharacteristically quiet. For weeks, he abandoned his usual whirlwind of schemes. The fireworks, the gambling empire—all had merely been stopgaps to fund his true obsession: magic. With coffers temporarily stable, Bennett retreated into rigorous study, dividing his days between Solskjaer's alchemical lab, the balloon workshop, and the solitude of the magic laboratory's third-floor terrace.
By night, he wrestled with the enigmatic "Stellar Magic." Progress stalled at the first barrier: the nebulous concept of "starlight force." Even Semel, the spectral echo of the ancient astrologer bound to him, could offer no clarity. Her fragmented memories left Bennett groping in the dark, a scholar without a textbook.
By day, he honed orthodox spells under Solskjaer's grudging guidance. Fireballs flickered at his fingertips, wind blades sliced the air, and his mastery of "Dizziness Hex" and "Acceleration Charm" soon surpassed his tutor. "You could earn a first-tier mage's crest tomorrow," Solskjaer admitted, awed yet irritated. Bennett's raw power—amplified by the mysterious antenna gifted by Chris—now rivaled mid-tier mages, though he carefully concealed this.
Yet beneath the discipline simmered restlessness. The confinement chafed. When Mad recovered, Bennett entrusted him with a mission both tender and strategic: deliver an extraordinary birthday gift to the Countess in the capital.
The gift: Dawn's Mercy, a crystalline flask housing Bennett's most dazzling fireworks formula. When ignited, it would paint the night sky with cascading auroras—a tribute to the woman who'd once knelt in prayer for his childhood survival. Memories of her lullabies, her unwavering warmth even as the family shunned him, fueled Bennett's meticulous preparations. He wrote the accompanying letter thrice, ink blotted where tears fell.
Mad departed at dawn, carriage laden with treasures. Seven days' travel might see him arrive just in time—if bandits or bureaucracy spared him. Bennett watched the convoy vanish, clinging to fragile hope: perhaps this gesture would soften his father's wrath, lift the confinement, and grant him… freedom.
That evening, under a diamond-studded sky, Bennett indulged in rare whimsy. On the laboratory terrace, he grilled thick beef ribs and lamb chops over an open flame, basting them with a rosemary-garlic glaze of his own invention. The scent of sizzling fat mingled with the tang of aged wine. As smoke curled toward the stars, he hummed an old lullaby—the very one the Countess had sung to him long ago.
Servants whispered at the sight: their brooding lord, bathed in firelight, momentarily unshackled from ambition. Yet none noticed the flicker of melancholy beneath his smile. For all his power, Bennett dined alone, the weight of stolen identity and borrowed love his sole companions.
Chapter 52 (Part 2): Starlit Soliloquies and Uninvited Shadows
Bennett sprawled lazily on the terrace chair, grease glistening on his fingers as he flipped a sizzling steak. Above him, the moon hung like a silver coin, its light mingling with the smoky haze of the dying grill. Semel hovered nearby, her translucent form flickering as she eyed him with a mix of exasperation and curiosity.
"What is that noise you're making?" she demanded, crossing her arms. "It sounds like a drunken bard's ditty, but I don't recognize a single word."
"Sweet Caroline," Bennett mumbled through a mouthful of beef, waving his fork dismissively. "Red wine with red meat—perfection. Shame you can't taste it." He smirked, gesturing at her spectral form. "Though I guess you're spared the heartburn."
Semel's glare could've frozen the wine in his glass. "Aren't you supposed to be practicing starlight resonance tonight?"
"Give me a break." Bennett leaned back, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. "I've drilled that cursed 'starlight force' mantra for weeks. My brain's fried. Even geniuses need downtime." He tossed a charred sausage into the air, catching it with a theatrical flourish. "Besides, you're one to talk. When's the last time you took a vacation? Oh wait—you're immortal. Must be nice."
"I'm not immortal," Semel snapped, her voice fraying. "I'm… tied to you. Your lifespan is mine. When you die—"
"—we both go poof. Cheery thought." Bennett's grin faltered as he studied her. Moonlight softened her sharp features, revealing a vulnerability he'd never noticed. "Hey… you ever wonder why? Why we're here? What's the point of it all?"
Semel turned away, her silhouette blending with the night. "I'm a shadow with borrowed memories. Purpose isn't a luxury I can afford."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of embers. Then Bennett launched into the tale of Pinocchio—the wooden puppet who yearned to be real. Semel listened raptly, her laughter ringing like wind chimes at the nose-growing antics. But when he reached the ending, her smile shattered.
"I envy him," she whispered, voice trembling. "To feel sunlight… to taste wine… to matter."
Bennett's throat tightened. Before he could respond, she dissolved into mist, retreating into the safety of his signet ring.
"Coward," he muttered, though without heat. Pouring another drink, he slumped deeper into the chair, staring at the stars. What's my excuse? Chasing magic, building empires—all just distractions from the void?
A breeze stirred. Bennett froze—his enhanced senses prickling at an unnatural shift in the air.
"Impressive awareness, young lord."
The voice floated from nowhere, velvet-smooth yet edged with steel. A figure materialized at the terrace's edge: an elderly man in immaculate white robes, his beard silvered but eyes blazing with unnatural vigor.
Bennett's hand slid toward a concealed fire-rune scroll. "Gatecrashing's rude, old-timer. You lost?"
The intruder chuckled, plucking the wine bottle from Bennett's table. "Merely reclaiming what's mine." He took a leisurely sip. "My apprentice—sweet, gullible Vivian—seems to have donated quite the trove to your coffers. A mentor's duty, you understand."
Ice flooded Bennett's veins. Vivian's master. The archmage even Solskjaer feared.
"Relax, boy." The mage's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I've no interest in squashing ants. But do return her toys. And consider this… a warning."
He vanished as suddenly as he'd appeared, leaving Bennett clutching his half-drawn spell—and the chilling certainty that his carefully built world was about to unravel.
Chapter 53: Puppet Strings and the Frostbound Revelation
The old mage's smile curled like a serpent in moonlight. "Correct, I am." His finger flicked imperceptibly. Bennett's breath hitched as the fire-rune scroll hidden in his sleeve vanished—reappearing in the mage's gnarled hand.
"My creation, I believe." The mage tucked it into his robe, patting the fabric as if storing a trinket. "Reclaimed property."
Bennett's jaw tightened. "So you've come for Vivian's things."
"Initially, yes." The mage's eyes gleamed. "But you… you've made this far more intriguing."
Before Bennett could leap from his chair, an invisible force clamped around him. His body stiffened mid-air, limbs splayed like a marionette's. Only his eyes retained movement, darting wildly as the mage approached.
"Now, child," the mage murmured, brushing Bennett's hair aside. Cold fingertips grazed the metallic antenna fused to his skull. "Ah. This explains your sudden… aptitude."
Bennett's blood froze. How does he know about Chris's implant?
"My foolish apprentice returns half-drowned, her dragon slain, memories pruned like dead branches." The mage's voice turned venomous. "And here you stand—a magicless brat turned spell-slinger after visiting that island. Coincidence?"
"You think I harmed Vivian?" Bennett strained against the paralysis.
"Unlikely. Until now." The mage leaned closer, breath reeking of burnt herbs. "But let's discuss your friend… Chris. How is the demon's errand boy?"
Bennett's mask of defiance cracked.
The Aftermath: Silence and Shadows
By dawn, panic gripped the castle. Bennett's terrace lay abandoned save for a hastily scrawled note:
Taken by a mage.
No ransom demand. No struggle. Just a cryptic sigil beneath his signature—a twisted helix engulfed by flames. Solskjaer paled upon examining it. "This mark… it belongs to someone even the Magic Guild fears to name."
The reaction was unnervingly subdued. When the news reached Count Raymond, his initial fury dissolved into grim silence. No search parties. No diplomatic outcry. The Guild itself became a tomb, its officials avoiding eye contact.
"The sigil's owner could kidnap the crown prince without consequence," a Guild lackey eventually confessed to Solskjaer. "Your lord's son is beyond saving."
Northbound: A Puppet's Pilgrimage
Bennett's existence narrowed to a nightmare of involuntary obedience.
Collect firewood. His hands moved unbidden, skin blistering as he fed flames.
Season the lamb. His fingers rubbed rosemary into meat he'd never taste.
Slap yourself. The command came sweetly. Five stinging blows later, Bennett learned silence.
Each dawn, the mage guided them northward—a relentless march through thickening frost. Bennett's frail body faltered; thighs chafed raw from horseback, lips cracked by icy winds. Yet the mage's "mercy" proved crueler still:
"Perform the Kaltesh Postures."
Bennett's spine arched unnaturally, joints screaming as he contorted into poses resembling a gutted stag. Agony burned through him… yet afterward, warmth bloomed in his veins, sustaining him through blizzards that swallowed roads whole.
On the twentieth day, winter's fangs sank deep. Snowdrifts buried horses to their withers. In a smoke-choked tavern, the mage tossed Bennett a bundle:
"Dress. We enter the Icefang Wilds tomorrow."
Thick furs. A bone-handled dagger. Boots lined with direwolf pelts.
"Why?" Bennett rasped, fingers numb as he fastened the coat.
The mage paused at the threshold, blizzard winds howling behind him.
"To meet your benefactor."