Infinite Mana - Chapter 189: The Price of a Campaign (Thank you for your support, Zed S!) (Patreon)

Sieghart continued walking beside Aldren while the soldiers ahead checked another junction. The captain’s announcement remained on his mind, competing with the steady tremors beneath his boots and the grinding sounds coming from deeper inside the dungeon.

He had read enough human history to know that invading foreign territory was rarely popular among the people expected to support it. Border victories received celebrations; preparing another campaign usually received complaints, especially once somebody explained how much it would cost.

That made sense. People already endured raids, damaged harvests, disrupted roads, and relatives returning from defensive battles with pieces missing. During the rare periods when nothing attacked them, most preferred enjoying the silence rather than financing another war. Nobles could announce an invasion from a comfortable hall, but ordinary households still paid for it. Soldiers needed grain, horses needed fodder, wagons needed repairs, and somebody always decided those expenses justified collecting more from people who had barely recovered.

Merchants raised prices when caravans needed escorts. Farmers lost workers when levies arrived. Craftsmen received urgent military orders while their ordinary customers waited, assuming they could still afford anything after supplies became scarce.

Aldren probably understood those problems better than most. He would be responsible for men and equipment once the campaign began, but understanding the cost did not necessarily mean having any say in whether somebody incurred it. Sieghart glanced toward the captain’s polished armor. From the accounts he had read, enthusiasm for recovering lost territory often appeared shortly after someone discovered a valuable mine, an unusual dungeon, or something else worth claiming beneath it.

The speeches mentioned history, safety, and humanity’s future. The arguments over ownership usually happened afterward, when influential families somehow discovered that the recovered resources belonged under their very generous protection. He had no reason to assume this campaign was different simply because Aldren spoke politely. The captain could be decent, competent, and completely sincere while serving people whose priorities looked considerably less respectable.

“Is there something in that territory somebody wants?”

“That’s a fairly direct question.”

“You said they’re sending an army. Armies don’t usually go sightseeing.”

The captain’s mouth shifted slightly, although it never developed into a smile. Ahead, one soldier raised a hand, and the others paused while he checked a bend with his hammer held ready.

“They have a new dungeon.”

“I am shocked.”

“Not the kind you’re thinking of.”

“Ore isn’t the only thing worth money.”

“No. It isn’t.”

Aldren waited until the leading soldier signaled that the passage was clear. The formation resumed moving, boots crunching over scattered chips of stone while the captain lowered his voice enough to avoid distracting them.

“This one produces plants. Roots, fungi, other materials their alchemists can use. They’ve been making potions and preparing for something larger than their usual border attacks.”

Sieghart’s first thought was that a dungeon producing useful plants sounded exceptionally valuable. His second was that admitting this aloud would make his criticism of other people’s motives considerably harder to defend. He had recently purchased books about medicinal plants and acquired Potion Refinement without understanding most of the ingredients an alchemist might use. A renewable supply of unusual materials would interest researchers, merchants, healers, and military commanders alike.

“What do the potions do?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Then how do you know they’re for a war?”

“We know they’re preparing for a larger conflict. We know they’re making potions. What we haven’t confirmed is what they intend to put into their warriors.”

That distinction mattered, although it left a considerable amount unknown. Healing mixtures would already make a force harder to wear down, while anything that improved strength or endurance could change the danger of even familiar enemies. Sieghart also remembered the drugs used by Chimerians to make incompatible organs survive inside the same body. That did not mean the Fallen practiced identical methods, but it made dismissing alchemy as harmless preparations considerably more difficult.

The captain had described a threat rather than denying that something valuable existed. Sieghart noticed that too. Removing an enemy’s new advantage and taking possession of it afterward were not mutually exclusive objectives.

“And after you eliminate the tribe?”

“I’m responsible for getting my men through the fighting. I don’t decide who receives the land afterward.”

Which was not an answer, but at least it was an honest refusal to provide one. Sieghart preferred that over a speech insisting nobody involved had ever considered the value of the dungeon itself.

“We can’t tell you exactly what those potions will do,” Aldren continued. “But I doubt they’re preparing that much medicine because they expect the next few years to be peaceful.”

The words had barely left his mouth when something slammed into the passage ahead. Stone cracked, a hammer struck the floor, and one soldier folded around a blow that drove him sideways into the wall. Sieghart turned immediately. A golem stood half emerged from a recessed section beside the bend, its thick arm extended where the soldier’s ribs had been. The man stayed upright for one stumbling step before dropping to a knee.

His mouth opened, but the breath he tried drawing barely made a sound. One hand clamped against his side while the other scraped over the floor, searching for the hammer he had dropped.

The second frontliner struck the golem’s wrist and forced its arm aside before another blow landed. A companion stepped forward to cover him, their hammers finally moving together instead of leaving one man exposed.

“Pull him back,” Aldren ordered. “Keep that thing facing away from us.”

Two soldiers caught the injured man beneath his arms and dragged him behind the formation. His boots scraped furrows through loose dust while the golem’s next punch struck a raised hammer and drove its wielder backward.

“Sieg. His ribs are probably broken.”

Sieghart was already approaching. He set his flask beside the wall and crouched as the soldiers lowered their companion onto a clearer patch of stone, careful not to leave him directly beneath the fighting.

“Open the side straps.”

One soldier fumbled with the buckles before Aldren reached down and released them himself. The breastplate shifted away from the injured side, revealing a darkening patch beneath the man’s shirt. The armor had prevented the stone fist from crushing directly into him, but enough force had passed through to make that distinction feel rather academic. Every attempt to straighten sent a visible shudder across his shoulders.

“Can you breathe?”

“A little.”

“Don’t force a deep one yet.”

Sieghart rested his hand near the injury and activated First Aid. The spell’s familiar guidance revealed damage beneath the bruising, while Magic Vision let him follow the disturbed mana as his healing reached the affected area.

Several ribs had fractured, with one section damaged badly enough that the surrounding muscles kept tightening whenever the man moved. Sieghart concentrated the first cast there instead of wasting power across parts that did not need immediate attention. The soldier’s fingers closed around Sieghart’s sleeve when the healing began. His grip was strong enough to wrinkle the fabric, but Sieghart ignored it and continued until the worst instability beneath his palm had settled.

Behind them, a heavy crash announced that the golem had lost its balance. Someone shouted a correction, followed by another hammer strike that made loose grit jump beside Sieghart’s knee. He let the first cast end and checked what remained. The man’s breathing had improved, but the smaller fractures still interrupted the pattern First Aid returned to him. Treating everything as finished now would only hide the problem until the next impact.

“Again.”

The second cast spread more evenly along the injured side. Sieghart followed each remaining fracture, holding the healing steady until the bones had joined and the soldier could finally draw a longer breath without immediately folding forward.

Warmth faded beneath Sieghart’s hand as he withdrew the spell. The soldier remained sitting, one palm hovering over his ribs as though he expected the pain to return the moment he trusted the improvement.

“Better?”

“Yeah. I can—”

“Then don’t immediately test how much.”

Sieghart checked the area once more before standing. The bones had mended, but bruised tissue remained around them, and the whole side was still tender. Another concentrated hit there would undo his work much more easily than the soldier probably wanted to hear.

“Two casts,” he told Aldren. “The ribs are joined. That side still needs time, though. Put him back in front right away and you might be paying me again.”

“He stays behind the second pair.”

Sieghart nodded and collected his flask. Ten silver for repairing a preventable mistake was profitable enough, but he would rather study proper Aura techniques than discover how often the same man could break the same ribs. The golem finally collapsed as a hammer shattered one of its leg nodes. Another soldier finished disabling its arm, and the passage became quiet except for settling fragments and the injured man’s deliberately careful breathing.

Aldren waited until every weapon had lowered before addressing the group. He did not raise his voice, which somehow made the men look more uncomfortable than shouting probably would have.

“What changed?”

Nobody answered immediately. The injured soldier looked down at his loosened armor, while his partner kept both hands around his hammer despite the fight being over. His shoulders remained rigid.

“We have a healer,” Aldren said. “Is that why you stopped watching the recesses?”

“I thought it was still turning.”

“So you stayed inside its reach.”

The soldier’s jaw tightened, but he did not argue. Sieghart could see why. The golem had not performed some hidden technique; the man had simply allowed a heavy arm enough room to reach him. Aldren turned toward the other frontliner, preventing the reprimand from ending with the man who had taken the blow. His companion straightened, clearly realizing that staying uninjured had not excused him.

“And you watched him go.”

“I was setting up the knee strike.”

“Then tell him. Don’t assume he knows why you’ve stopped covering that side.”

Sieghart leaned against the opposite wall and listened. That was a more useful correction than simply calling them careless, because the mistake had involved both men believing the other understood an intention neither had actually communicated.

“You won’t have a healer standing this close on the battlefield,” Aldren continued. “He could be treating somebody else. He could be out of reach. The line could break between you.”

The captain let his gaze move across the entire group rather than leaving the reprimand with the two men involved. Several soldiers adjusted their grips or straightened slightly beneath the attention.

“Unless you intend to die against the first enemy you meet, learn to dodge or block properly. Having someone mend you afterward does not make getting hit a technique.”

Sieghart considered several of his own fights and wisely kept his expression neutral. There had been occasions when the difference between his methods and what Aldren criticized depended mostly upon how many spells he could cast afterward.

Still, he understood the point. His reserves might be endless, but other people’s bodies were not. Healing after an injury remained a response to failure, not permission to stop preventing it. The injured soldier secured his armor again with a companion’s help. He moved more cautiously now, making no attempt to hide the fact that his side still ached when the straps tightened.

“Can you continue?” Aldren asked.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Behind the second pair. You tell me if the pain changes.”

The formation shifted before they resumed walking. A fresh man took the exposed position, and this time his partner quietly indicated the recess ahead before either stepped into the wider passage.

Sieghart fell back beside Aldren and watched the difference. Nothing dramatic had changed about their strength, weapons, or Aura, yet the space between them looked considerably less inviting for another stone fist.

“You were right about them getting comfortable,” the captain said.

“It didn’t take long.”

“No. It never does.”

Sieghart opened his small notebook while they walked through a clear section and recorded two healing casts beside Aldren’s name. He had promised to keep count, and getting distracted by military plans was no reason to become careless about payment.

The silver was straightforward. The conversation was not. Somewhere beyond the borders, a newly exploited dungeon was producing materials nobody here fully understood, and people farther away had already decided an invasion was the answer. Maybe they were right about the danger. Maybe they wanted the resources. Both could be true, while the men walking ahead would still be the ones standing close enough to discover what the potions actually did.

Another tremor traveled through the floor, and the formation slowed together this time. Sieghart put his notebook away and readied First Aid without casting, hoping their captain’s lesson lasted longer than the walk to the next golem.