All Jobs and Classes! I Just Wanted One Skill, Not Them All!

Chapter 570

By the time Ludger finished the paperwork, it was dark outside.

Not “late evening” dark, proper night. The kind where the guild quieted down and only the night watch and a few stubborn workers still moved through the halls.

His eyes felt dry. His fingers smelled like ink. But the stacks were sorted.

Urgent handled. Non-urgent filed. Anything suspicious flagged. Anything that required Yvar’s judgment set aside with a note that basically said you caused this by leaving.

Only then did Ludger finally slide his blank sheets closer and start writing the manual.

He didn’t start with Weapon Enhancement. Not yet.

Because he’d been thinking about the same problem all month: people could fight, yes, but most people lost money, lost allies, and lost opportunities long before they ever drew a weapon.

So for now, he wrote down something else. Merchant skills.

The things he’d learned recently while selling runic gear across the Empire. The habits that kept him from being cheated, cornered, or manipulated by someone with a smile and a ledger.

Because there was no need to teach everyone only how to break and smash things. A guild that couldn’t navigate people was just a pile of strong hands waiting to be used.

He titled the first page in simple, blunt words:

LIONSGUARD FIELD MANUAL — TRADE & DEALING WITH PEOPLE (BASIC)

Then he began.

He wrote about Trade Insight, how to read a deal by the way someone spoke, the way they hesitated, the way they tried to rush you when the goods were “urgent.” How desperation was a smell, and how merchants tried to make you feel it so you’d pay more.

He wrote about Appraisal Sense, not magical appraisal, just practical: check straps, check rivets, check stress points. If someone sold you “fine gear,” you looked where it would fail first. If someone sold you “fresh supplies,” you checked the bottom of the sack.

He wrote about Haggler’s Edge, the simplest rule: don’t argue their price, change the frame. Ask what else comes with it. Ask for delivery. Ask for repairs. Ask for guarantees. Make them feel the cost of doing business with you.

He wrote about Market Thread, how price wasn’t a number, it was a mood. A rumor. A flood. A drought. If iron was suddenly cheap, it meant someone was dumping stock or a mine reopened. If healing salves were expensive, it meant people were bleeding somewhere.

Then he stopped for a moment and added the part that mattered most for Lionsguard members:

This wasn’t just for shop stalls. It was for daily life.

For negotiations at gates.

For dealing with territorial lords and their “tolls.”

For reading whether a village elder was truly grateful or quietly terrified.

For spotting when a “friendly” merchant was actually gathering information.

For understanding when someone was trying to bait you into a public incident.

A guild member didn’t need to become a merchant. They needed to stop being easy. Ludger wrote that too, in plain words:

If you can’t read people, you will fight more than you need to. If you can read people, you pick better fights, and you get paid for them.

He set the pencil down and stared at the page for a moment. This was the kind of knowledge that didn’t look heroic.

But it kept you alive just as reliably as a sharp blade. And if his members learned it, they wouldn’t just become stronger. They’d become harder to manipulate. Harder to corner. Harder to waste.

Ludger had originally planned to write one manual per week for the hidden library.

A steady pace. Controlled growth. No rushed garbage.

But life didn’t respect schedules. The Empire didn’t respect schedules. Labyrinths definitely didn’t. If something happened and he was forced to stay away for weeks, the library wouldn’t fill itself.

So he adjusted, quietly, the way he always did when reality tried to corner him. He started carrying ink, a pen, and paper everywhere. Like Yvar.

The thought irritated him, but the logic was perfect: if he had ten minutes, he could write. If he had an hour, he could finish a section. If he died, unlikely, but not impossible, the knowledge wouldn’t die with him.

So he wrote when he could.

One afternoon, between drills and meetings, he took a rare break outside the walls and sat under a tree on a small rise where the wind was clean and the noise of Lionfang softened into background hum.

He pulled out his kit. And this time, he didn’t write about runes or trade. He wrote about food.

COOKING — EMERGENCY RECIPES (ANYONE CAN MAKE THESE)

Not fancy meals. Not “comfort.”

Survival cooking. The kind you could do with a knife, a pot, and stubbornness.

He wrote simple broth methods, how to turn bones and scraps into calories and warmth, how long to boil to kill sickness, how to stretch salt when you had little.

He wrote flatbread from basic flour and water, and the variations when flour wasn’t available, crushed grain, mashed roots, anything that could be pressed and cooked into something you could carry.

He wrote dried meat strips and the fastest safe ways to smoke or salt them without ruining a whole batch. He wrote about hardtack-like substitutes that didn’t taste good but didn’t rot either.

He wrote about “dirt stew” the unglamorous frontier trick of using whatever edible greens you could identify, and how to avoid poisoning yourself when desperation made you stupid.

He even wrote the warnings in blunt lines, because people listened better when the stakes were clear:

If it smells sweet and wrong, don’t eat it.

If you can’t identify it, boil it twice or don’t touch it.

If water is questionable, boil first, always.

He paused, looked up at the branches moving gently above him, and exhaled slowly.

It was ridiculous, in a way. A vice guildmaster writing cooking recipes.

But he’d decided something a long time ago, quietly, without ceremony. He would cover all bases. Because survivability wasn’t just “hit harder.”

Survivability was knowing what to do when you were surrounded, cut off from supplies, and the only choices left were improvisation or death.

If war came, real war, not skirmishes, people would starve before they bled out.

So he wrote anyway, ink scratching over paper like a promise that didn’t care whether anyone appreciated it.

Ludger was halfway through a section on “salt substitutes and why you don’t waste clean fat” when a shadow slid across the page.

Not the gentle kind from the tree above.

A deliberate one.

Someone stepped into his space without asking.

Then leaned in like they owned the right to read his notes.

A voice followed—light, amused, and entirely too comfortable.

“I was going to tease you for writing a diary,” she said, eyes flicking over the page. “But… cooking?”

She straightened a little, head tilting as if the paper had insulted her personally.

“Now I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say.”

Ludger didn’t look up right away. He finished his sentence, capped the thought cleanly, and only then lifted his gaze.

Kaela.

Wind witch. Guild member. Self-proclaimed beautiful adventurer.

Mostly called homewrecker by Ludger, largely because her “adventurer attire” seemed designed to start wars in married men’s heads.

“What do you want, Kaela?” Ludger asked.

Kaela put a hand to her chest in exaggerated offense. “Wow. Straight to business.”

Her grin widened anyway. “Did you miss me?”

“Not particularly,” Ludger said.

Kaela blinked, then laughed like he’d said something hilarious instead of honest.

“You’re no fun,” she declared.

Ludger went back to writing without ceremony, pen scratching across paper like the conversation was background noise.

Kaela leaned in again, trying to angle her head so she could read the next line, as if curiosity was a lawful right.

Ludger ignored that too. After a moment, he spoke without looking up.

“What have you been doing,” he asked, “since I haven’t seen you in a while?”

Kaela’s smile turned sharper. “Aw. You noticed.”

“I didn’t give you any special missions,” Ludger continued, still writing. “So why are you gone.”

Kaela grinned like she’d been waiting for that opening.

“Because you’re the Vice Guildmaster,” she said, voice sing-song. “I still receive orders from the real boss around the guild.”

Ludger’s pen didn’t pause. “Dad.”

Kaela nodded, pleased. “Yes, Da… Arslan… What you almost made me say? Do you want your mother to kill me?” 

Ludger finally glanced up, expression flat, and went right back to the page.

“That so,” he said, uninterested.

Kaela clicked her tongue. “You really should work on your charm. It’s tragic.”

Ludger wrote another line and didn’t bother looking at her as he replied.

“Charm doesn’t increase survivability,” he said.

Kaela’s grin widened. “Depends who you ask.”

Ludger kept writing. Kept his posture relaxed. Kept his tone dry.

Kaela, meanwhile, stood in his shadow like a breeze that refused to go away, smiling, nosy, and clearly entertained that even now, with all the Empire’s nonsense and labyrinth planning, Ludger was still the easiest person in the guild to annoy.

Kaela lingered long enough that even the wind seemed to get bored.

Then she finally offered something real.

“I’ve been escorting goods for the Torvares family,” she said casually, like she was discussing the weather.

Ludger’s pen stopped.

Not dramatic. Just… stopped.

Kaela smiled, watching for the reaction.

“And I’ve been hanging out with Viola a lot lately because of it,” she added. “You know how it is, same routes, same schedules, same headaches.”

She paused, then tossed the last part in like it was nothing.

“And Luna too.”

Ludger raised his head. His eyes narrowed into a squint so sharp it could’ve cut paper.

“Torvares,” he repeated, flat.

Kaela’s grin softened into something more cautious, like she’d finally realized she’d stepped onto a line that was more serious than teasing. Ludger’s mind moved fast.

Torvares was still their supporter. Political shield. Money. Influence. A factor you didn’t ignore.

But Ludger didn’t like the idea of Torvares asking for things, moving goods under Lionsguard escort, without Ludger being aware of it.

Even if the work was paid. Even if it was normal. Even if it was technically “good business.” He didn’t like surprises tied to powerful families. Surprises were how you got dragged into a mess you didn’t choose.

His pen resumed, slower now. He didn’t snap. He didn’t accuse. He just spoke with controlled irritation.

“Dad approved those escorts,” Ludger said.

Kaela lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “He did.”

Ludger stared at the page, then at the space beyond it, as if he could see the chain of decisions. He could.

Arslan would have taken the job because it made sense. Because Torvares was a long-term ally. Because money and goodwill mattered. Because turning down paid work from their patron could be interpreted as disrespect or weakness.

And Ludger… Ludger couldn’t simply force his decisions onto others.

Not even on his father.

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