Chapter 110: The Arrival of a Great Enemy

Drawing from his own life experience, Joan had distilled a principle: when one is hungry, the efficiency of learning soars. The gnawing hunger within stokes his heart to beat faster, like an incessantly ringing alarm urging him to seize every moment to complete his studies. In such a state, eating transcends mere sustenance; it becomes a ritualistic reward for having finished his work, a precious comfort amid his humble and ordinary daily existence. Conversely, if he were to interrupt his studies halfway to eat, filling his stomach before returning to his desk, Joan found it difficult to concentrate. It was as if all his energy was siphoned off by his swollen stomach to digest the food, leaving his brain starved of fuel and slipping into a sluggish stupor, drowsy and unwilling to focus. Under such conditions, even forcing himself to continue studying would yield minimal results.

Joan once shared this insight with Conti, hoping for her approval, only to be met with criticism. She warned him against delving into magic on an empty stomach, cautioning that enduring hunger and irregular meals would eventually ruin his health. Joan acknowledged the wisdom in her words, but harsh realities often render even the soundest advice hollow. At this very moment, with the drums of war drawing nearer and every second precious, he had no choice but to sacrifice his health for the sake of learning efficiency.

Having persisted through the last line of the incantation, Joan’s vision blurred with hunger. Struggling to his feet, he steadied himself against the wall and shuffled toward the kitchen. Each step felt as though he were treading on sponge beneath his feet, forcing him to move cautiously to avoid collapsing.

From experience, he knew that a misstep in such a state of starvation and exhaustion could plunge him into a prolonged coma—a waste of precious time he could ill afford.

He downed a large cup of tea, long since gone cold, and felt somewhat revived. With trembling hands, he picked up a bread knife and sliced half a loaf into uniform two-inch squares. The bread was utterly dry, rough as sandpaper—swallowing it whole would abrade the inside of his mouth and take ages to chew. Fortunately, Joan was well versed in coping with such conditions. He soaked a small piece in the cup, letting it absorb the liquid before immediately shoving it into his mouth. This semi-liquid form required no chewing and slid down easily. Using this method, he consumed a full two pounds of dry bread in under forty seconds, feeling a newfound calm settle within. This meal would surely sustain him until the evening.

More ritualistic than eating in Joan’s life was the act of sleeping. Life was so short, and yet a third of it was spent asleep—a thought that filled him with inexplicable dread. He resented wasting so much time in slumber, yet ironically, he had chosen to be a mage, a profession that demanded sufficient rest for optimal spellcasting. Severe insomnia could even cause the loss of spell slots.

To keep his magic sharp, Joan now found himself forced to do the one thing he hated most: go to bed.

Sleep was a strange thing. The more urgent and desperate the need to fall asleep, the greater the pressure, and the harder it became to do so. At this moment, Joan was caught in the grip of insomnia, tossing and turning with a restless mind. Resigned, he rose and opened his desk drawer to retrieve a small bottle of gray potion, pinching his nose as he gulped it down.

This intensely pungent concoction was brewed under the guidance of Doctor Kelandir, extracted from a swamp plant alkaloid. It calmed the nerves and induced sleep effectively, but like most sedatives, it bore severe side effects: long-term use led to addiction, brain damage, and hallucinations.

Of all his organs, Joan cherished his brain the most. Unless utterly desperate, he would rather endure a sleepless night than risk consuming a substance that might impair his intellect.

The potion’s effect was swift and powerful. Within two minutes of lying down, Joan fell into a deep, undisturbed slumber, waking only when the morning light filtered through the window.

Stretching as he sat on the bed, Joan began his morning routine: spell preparation. His hard work from the previous day had not been in vain. He had successfully assigned a first-level spell slot to the “Grease” spell he was beginning to master, while the remaining three slots were routinely devoted to “Mage Hand,” “Magic Missile,” and “Burning Hands.” For other spells he might need on short notice, he could channel the energies of “Mythic Power” or “Divine Tear” to cast them.

After completing his preparations, Joan dressed and went to wash. Midway through, the sound of an alarm bell echoed outside. His heart tightened briefly before he exhaled deeply.

Before the bell sounded, the ever-present threat had kept his nerves taut, but now that the crisis had arrived, the tension paradoxically eased. Perhaps it was because the imagination of danger often surpasses the fear of the danger itself.

Since the enemy was here, he had to abandon all hope of luck and face them head-on. This thought steadied him more than the ringing bell ever could. After washing, he checked his gear: fastening his “Athletic Belt,” strapping the “Lightning Blade” to his waist, securely binding the “Flash Shield” to his left elbow, and stuffing spell scrolls and magical potions into his backpack. Just before leaving, he remembered something, slipped back into the kitchen, peeled off a large slice of ham rind with his knife, cut it into thumb-sized pieces, and packed them into his spell components pouch.

Fully prepared, Joan took a deep breath, opened the door, and strode toward the source of the alarm.

The streets were thronged with people. Armored townsfolk bearing spears hurried to the barracks at the first toll of the bell. Even more numerous than the regular militia were volunteers like Joan, many equipped with their own armor, weapons, and horses. Those without proper arms grabbed whatever they could—pickaxes, pitchforks, or farm tools—to use as makeshift weapons.

Following the crowd to the town’s outskirts, Joan spotted Mayor Dindall and the grizzled dwarf Flint standing side by side before the barracks, reviewing the arriving militia. The town maintained 240 active militia members, from whom Flint Ironanvil, the militia commander, selected sixty outstanding individuals to serve as sergeants. These sergeants were responsible for recruiting townsfolk to form teams of around ten members each.

From Joan’s observations, most teams were anchored by four or five well-equipped active militia, with the remainder composed of able-bodied townsfolk from various trades who had received some military training.