It was dusk. Fungi was resting on a rock along a busy road; he was tired. The journey east was neither short nor easy.
Hours earlier, ever since he had left the safety of his sect and ventured through the mountain jungle, he had encountered more than one mishap. The reason? Every island was extremely dangerous—whether due to treacherous wildlife or the beasts and predators found in uncivilized regions.
This was not the first time he had to fight just to keep advancing through the jungle. He had already lived a nomadic life before, but doing so alone was much more complicated.
Almost always, sects or kingdoms would send a retinue of sorcerers when they had to venture into another realm or sect. The mishaps were countless, and for poor towns that lacked a formidable base of sorcerers, all they had was the luxury of watching them from a distance. And let's not even mention the unfortunate commoners; those who barely made it into a sect were most certainly only crumbs compared to what they truly deserved.
And there he was—a solitary master traveling toward other islands. He could continue alone to the seaport of his continent, but he didn't have the luxury of weeks-long conservative travel. One way or another, he needed transportation. Of course, there was another problem: he was the leader of a sect, yet, ironically, he was extremely poor.
He didn't possess a single coin; his entire sect was self-sufficient and independent. From their food to their shelters, everything was handmade.
He had no ties with merchants and, in his role as a saint, he rejected all forms of wealth or benefits. This complicated his journey.
But that didn't mean he couldn't offer something in return. Perhaps he didn't have a single valuable object beyond his ever-reliable gourd, but he was a sorcerer. Maybe not as formidable in combat as Secil, but he could still manage—especially since he now possessed a new path.
Usually, where roads were at least partially paved, there was a trade route frequented by many caravans daily. That caught his interest. These caravans were always subject to robberies, whether by some sect or by beasts. They were never unarmed.
They always hired mercenaries or, if they came from a clan of a kingdom, the clan members themselves were responsible for guarding the merchandise.
He would offer his services as a mercenary free of charge—in exchange for being transported to the southern port. It wouldn't be an extremely fast trip due to possible stops, but between the security of a caravan with more mercenaries or facing the jungle alone at night, the choice was obvious.
Hours passed as Fungi relaxed, lost in his thoughts while patiently admiring the view.
Suddenly, he began to hear the sound of stones being crushed under a tremendous weight and loud complaints. In a few moments, the angry voice of a man with a huge beard and an incredible bald head rang out as he beat a poor, chained, honey-covered old man to death.
"—You miserable, stupid slave! Look at what you've done to my precious product!" the man roared.
Around them, more chained people watched silently. Their expressions were grim, but no one acted.
Fungi observed the scene from a distance with indifference and made his way toward the caravan.
The furious man continued beating the dying old man, who could barely breathe. Fungi intervened and, in his characteristically calm tone, lightly touched the balding man's shoulder.
"Excuse me, sir, but I believe this man is already dead. Could you spare me a moment?"
The man, momentarily confused, glared at the figure of the albino monk and, quickly, with a severe look, replied aggressively:
"GET OUT OF HERE! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU STANDING THERE FOR? EITHER BUY OR SCRAM!"
Unfazed by the aggressive comments, Fungi turned to assess the situation. It seemed the caravan had suffered a minor landslide on the mountain, causing some fragile goods—such as perfumes and condiments—to be scattered.
Fungi then looked at the enraged merchant and replied calmly:
"Hey, friend, take it easy. That's not how one treats a valued customer. How about we cool things down and have a brief conversation?"
Saying that, Fungi began to quietly recite a few words and started manipulating the liquids spilled on the ground. Even the honey from the old man's body flowed out, and with a swift gesture, he shook the dirt from each liquid.
The furious merchant and his men, who were watching from a distance, looked at Fungi in astonishment. The slaves, watching in confusion, showed signs of relief.
After finishing, Fungi turned once again to the grumbling merchant.
"Now, can we negotiate?"
The balding, bearded man straightened his posture and, in a much calmer tone, said:
"Of course, sir. I apologize for my short temper. What is it that you offer?"
Fungi remained silent for a moment, considering his words carefully so as not to sound desperate. He knew he needed to put on a grand performance—his experience as a priest was more than a help in this situation.
"My name is Master Fungi, a wandering sorcerer from far-off lands. I have spent days traversing the mountains to reach the southern ports and to reunite with the rest of my retinue. Together, we shall head to our home in the east."
The merchant scrutinized Fungi and cautiously asked:
"Are you a member of a sect or a clan?"
Fungi merely shrugged, feigning a slight embarrassment in his tone.
"I'm a member of an eastern sect, but I lost my retinue at the hands of other sects who detected our presence. I was left alone. I hid and escaped for days until I reached a trade route, hoping to secure a mutually beneficial agreement to transport me south."
The merchant, raising a heavy eyebrow, looked at him disdainfully and said sharply:
"You don't seem like someone who has been battling in the jungle for days. You're too pristine for what you should be, and you don't have a single damn wound. Since when are sect members such cowards?"
Fungi's face flushed with embarrassment, but he raised his voice with pride and a hint of anger.
"Sir, I ask that you show respect to my entire sect. They all died with honor in the end, yet they made me promise I would return with the rest. My life was not meant to perish there—I am important to the sect!"
The merchant scoffed, as if he were witnessing a bad joke at such stupidity.
"My heavens, boy, I don't know what kind of crap you think I'm going to believe. If you are an important sect member, why on earth did you end up in such a pitiful state? And why aren't your comrades here to fetch you? HAHAHA!"
Fungi, with intense anger and pride, a tear glistening in his eye, retorted:
"I AM A HEALER, YOU FOOL!"
Everyone present was left in shock, their faces paling at that moment.
Healers were truly valuable in this world. A kingdom might sacrifice hundreds or even thousands of lives, but they could never afford to lose a healer. They were living engines of vitality in a world where magic depended solely on knowing the right words—nothing more than knowledge was required.
A healer could restore anyone's vigor indefinitely; they were equivalent to a national treasure. Very few sorcerers could even afford to hire a healer, and even fewer had an optimal recovery spell.
Thus, they were extremely rare. Those with access to effective healing methods belonged to the nobility of great clans or to very powerful sects.
Not even many magical legacies included a method of healing, as developing one was beyond the reach of entire generations of great sorcerers.
That explained the reaction of those present. Engaging with a healer was like playing Russian roulette: you never knew when you might need their services. Having a bad relationship with them was practically a death sentence. Worse yet, abandoning a healer could turn you into an enemy of an entire clan or set off the wrath of a sect—because you'd be harming their most prized asset.
The merchant, pale at the situation and trying to maintain his composure, attempted to speak, but Fungi interrupted. Voluntarily, he "cut" a large part of his arm (figuratively speaking), conjured a veil of water for dramatic effect, and, using the Soul Path, restored the damage instantly, appearing as good as new within seconds.
This spectacle sent a chill down everyone's spine—especially the merchant, who seemed on the verge of tears as he realized his folly. He held back as best he could and then, with extreme nervousness, pleaded:
"WAIT, WAIT! We've started off terribly—I was a complete idiot. PLEASE, LISTEN TO MY OFFER! I don't want to leave you with a worse impression than you already have."
Fungi looked at him with a mix of wounded pride and anger but allowed him to speak.
"Listen… Do you need to go to the southern seaport? Rest assured, my crew would be delighted to have you on board. As for the economic terms, we can negotiate them with the rest of your sect. I only ask that you provide your medical services."
Indignant, Fungi shook his head and retorted even more fiercely:
"You dared insult the lives of my comrades, and yet you still have the gall to expect compensation not only with my services but also with the wealth of my sect! Forget it! I can wait for another caravan—a much more respectful and comfortable one to negotiate with."
The merchant shuddered at those words. Clearly, he deeply regretted having disrespected a healer. He was lucky that no other members of his sect were present; otherwise, he might have faced a far graver problem. Nevertheless, having a healer on his journey was invaluable, and maintaining a good relationship with one was something many only dreamed of. He couldn't give up.
"—Oh, sect member, I am truly sorry! You're right—I am a brash fool. Please, reconsider what happened. To show my honesty, I offer you a unique deal on this caravan: you may choose any product you desire—the first one will be completely free. Moreover, I'll grant you a private room for your rest. I only beg that you lend your healing services for the journey east and tend to my mercenaries, as it will be a long trip."
Inside, Fungi was quite satisfied with the result. Healing wounds with the Soul Path was simple when the soul was at the mercy of its master. All he had to do was remodel the damage reflected in the body by channeling the soul.
Additionally, he would enjoy the security and time of a private room, which would allow him to continue rereading the legacy of the consumed masters and progress toward the Kingdom of the Sea Ancestor.
Continuing his act, Fungi accepted the conditions—but with one extra clause: every time he used his services, he would charge for an item from the shop. Since the first item was free, he offered the same service of healing those present, serving a dual purpose:
To demonstrate his abilities.
To ensure the merchant had no excuse or desire to refuse paying for additional items in the future.
He set about healing the slaves, ensuring he left a very positive impression on them—improving their vitality so they could work faster. In contrast, for the mercenaries, he merely boosted their endurance, as few had severe injuries; and for those who did, he healed and strengthened them.
Once his work was completed, he boarded the caravan and made his way to the room assigned to the mercenaries. It was modest and simple, but more than enough: a bed and a table sufficed. He retrieved a mannequin dressed in armor from the merchant's stall—it would be ample for his practice.
The entire spectacle paid off.
He had hoped for a peaceful journey… but "peaceful" was the last thing that would happen to him. After all, it's better to crash in a carriage than to be run over by a motorcycle.