Kays Translations

Chapter 36: Lessons of Gratitude

In truth, the reason Inspector Bernard so readily handed over the entire responsibility of building the new residence to Marlon was because—in this world—houses could be raised with astonishing speed.

Although Marlon himself was not a mage who could casually wield spells like “Fossil to Mud” or “Mud to Stone”—the kind of spells that made one a part-time architect without pressure—he had something better. The presence of Master Claw, a druid of extraordinary power, meant that construction could hardly proceed slowly.

Less than a mile from the half-ruined orphanage, on a small hill that faced the sea—where spring warmth lingered all year round and, most rare of all, a clear spring bubbled with living water—Master Claw Druid had chosen the site. In only a single day, he had summoned and shaped hundreds of trees, weaving their trunks and branches into one vast, interlocking structure. The result was the framework of a splendid new home, containing more than ninety spacious rooms.

Of course, though the magic-bound trees formed an airtight skeleton, there was still much to do before the dwelling could become livable. For that, Marlon had his workforce: three hundred strong young men from the orphanage, now acting as a construction crew. With hammers and saws clattering, they threw themselves into the work—hanging doors, laying floors, and hammering shingles into place. Guided by Marlon’s sketches, the lads proved that sheer numbers could overcome even the most daunting of tasks.

The quality of their craftsmanship left much to be desired. The walls might have stood, the roof might have held against the rain, but elegance, refinement, and artistry were not to be found in their handiwork. Their effort was a rough shelter, no more.

Yet then came Master Claw Druid’s touch. He scattered seeds of flowers and grasses not only around the front and backyards but even across the very roof. With a few murmured incantations, he urged them into bloom. Overnight, the crude house seemed transformed into a dwelling of enchantment—a paradise of blossoms swaying in the sea breeze, their fragrance drifting down into the valley like a promise of peace.

Not stopping there, the druid carved a masterpiece with his own hands. From a timber nearly twice the height of a man, he sculpted the serene figure of the Forest Goddess and set her beside the spring, where her wooden gaze watched over the waters.

“Now,” he said at last, brushing his palms together in satisfaction, “this place can barely be considered fit for long-term living.” His voice was calm, almost casual, but in it lingered the pride of a craftsman who knew he had breathed life into stone and wood.

Then, calling to his animal companion, the wolf Lukas, Master Claw Druid strode toward the orphanage. He had finished his work—and now it was time to drag Marlon back.

Though the riots had subsided, the slums they had torn apart could not be rebuilt in a matter of days. Marlon, therefore, remained at the orphanage, exhausted yet unyielding, pouring his energy into caring for more than six hundred war orphans and battered veterans who had nowhere else to go.

Before his strange journey to this world, he had only been a volunteer worker—someone who occasionally helped distribute food or sweep the floors. Only now did he truly understand the crushing reality of responsibility. To provide for hundreds of mouths, day after day, was a task that threatened to drown him in worries.

Food alone nearly broke him. The original construction crew of three hundred, added to the six hundred newly displaced orphans and veterans, made nearly a thousand hungry mouths at every meal. Even the simplest ration—just a single loaf of bread per person—demanded a thousand loaves. And Marlon’s standards were stricter: he insisted on at least one dish, one soup, and a piece of fruit at every meal.

But White Sand City was no longer the same. After the riots, prices had risen sharply, and supplies were harder to obtain. In the end, Marlon had to swallow his pride and go directly to the mayor. Only with special approval was he able to purchase leftover military rations and avert disaster, at least for the moment.

The mayor himself was a remarkable figure—resourceful and bold. He had found ways to channel the fury of the citizens, dispersing it before it could boil into another catastrophe. Under his leadership, White Sand’s reconstruction had begun with surprising efficiency.

These people were not like those of Earth, where information flowed instantly and freely. Here, in this world, rumors were easily believed, truths easily twisted. A handful of clever minds might glimpse the truth, but without a voice or platform, their insights vanished into the air.

As for Secretary Newvently, that shrewd statesman had wasted no time. On the third day after the riot, under the guise of other duties, he fled north by ship to the port city of Brest. Before leaving, he sent the elder Delft with a gilded card—an invitation of sorts. If Marlon ever wished to travel to the capital, Phoenico, the card would open doors to Newvently himself.

It was a clear attempt to recruit Marlon. Yet, even without Inspector Bernard’s quiet warning, Marlon had no interest in stepping into the treacherous waters of politics. At most, he was a well-known figure in White Sand, someone the mayor occasionally consulted for advice. His role was that of an outsider who offered convenience, not a player in the deadly games of court.

Thanks to his famed “Three-Win Plan,” the one that had made him a household name overnight, the mayor had already recognized Marlon’s ability. It was no wonder that both he and the secretary had sought him first when the riots broke out.

And so, the city healed day by day. The citizens’ wrath cooled, replaced by reason. Hot blood could not fill empty stomachs—life demanded food, shelter, and a return to normalcy.

Compared with the days before the chaos, little had changed in daily life, except for two new phenomena: the rise of the “Marlon brand” and the wildly popular card game Duel the Nobles.

Every afternoon, in shaded streets, groups gathered in threes and fours, slamming cards on makeshift tables.
“I play Airship!”
“Ha! Double Jesters Bomb!”
Laughter and cheers echoed through the alleys, faces flushed with excitement as brightly colored cards fluttered in the air.

But while the city buzzed with play, Marlon had no time for such diversions. His afternoons were spent among the three or four hundred war orphans and the nearly equal number of crippled veterans who remained in the orphanage. To them, he told stories—tales meant to comfort, to inspire, to teach.

A Soundstone, crafted by Musa Mein, amplified his voice so that even those sitting at the far edges of the crowd could hear. Yet still, the children clustered as close to him as possible, eyes wide and faces shining with adoration.

Seats near him were precious. The little fox-girl Amy, his cousin Anvi, and the scribe Adela claimed three of them by right. The rest were fought over, sometimes literally. Fistfights had broken out until Marlon, seizing the chance, laid down rules.

Each morning he wrote simple characters on a stone slab with charcoal, teaching the children their pronunciation. Then he handed out paper. Their task was to copy and learn. Only those who completed the assignment best earned the privilege of sitting nearest to him during storytime.

Here, as in any enlightened world, the law of society held true: “Those who labor with their minds govern; those who labor with their hands are governed.” Even if it demanded extra expense for paper and ink, Marlon deemed it worth every coin. Better to teach them to fish than merely hand them bread.

In time, when the orphanage was fully established, he intended to find proper teachers, to create a school that would systematically educate these children. Ten, twenty years from now, they might return to give back to the institution that had once saved them.

For this purpose, he carefully chose his tales—most of them adapted from works like Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio or In Search of the Supernatural. Stories of gratitude repaid, of kindness returned with loyalty. Always, the lesson was clear: “Repay virtue with virtue, and answer wrongs with justice.”

Marlon wanted these children to grow with one thing above all else—a heart that knew gratitude.

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