Clayton's face twisted with disbelief and fear. He rushed toward the small skeleton and examined it closely. But aside from the shattered bones, nothing else remained.
It made no sense. It was as if the skeleton had simply broken apart on its own, without any cause. Clayton scanned the area again, but found nothing suspicious. Even the floor beneath the skeleton was clean and flat—nothing that could have made it trip or fall.
A creeping unease settled in. Sensing something was off, Clayton raised his guard, cautiously looking around. But there was no one—no sign of spying eyes, no presence at all.
He stood frozen for a long time, panic and confusion swirling in his mind, before finally chanting a spell. A silvery-white magic circle appeared, and the small skeleton he knew so well rose once more.
The skeleton looked around, as if puzzled—sensing something strange in its surroundings.
Clayton observed closely, confirming it was the same skeleton that had just been destroyed.
Then he realized something important: he could only summon seven skeletons. And if one was destroyed and summoned again, it wasn't a new one—it was the same entity, revived.
Though it showed no signs of emotion, Clayton felt oddly reassured to know that his summons retained their memories, even after death.
He tried communicating with it, but after many failed attempts, he gave up. The skeleton offered no reaction—no voice, no response.
Reluctantly, he let it be. He was dying to know what had happened, but there was nothing more he could do.
Even so, the unease in his chest didn't fade. Maybe it was just paranoia, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.
It was like a weight pressing against his chest. Still, he didn't flee. Instead, he carefully examined the house, keeping up the appearance of calm.
He knew whoever might be observing him wouldn't dare attack directly—not within city limits. The city government enforced strict laws.
Combat within the city walls was strictly prohibited. Violators faced severe punishment—execution, or at the very least, exile.
These rules existed for a reason. Outside the city's protection lurked terrifying creatures—werewolves, vampires, and worse.
Clayton continued checking the house. At first, he did it just for show, but deep down, he hoped to find something useful. Unfortunately, the place was bare. Most likely, everything of value had already been sold—to pay for medicine, for him and for his father.
Disheartened, he left the house and began reconfiguring the defense array before heading out.
The moment he stepped outside, the comforting pressure of dense magical energy vanished, replaced by the ordinary air of the city outskirts. He felt exposed—but he adjusted quickly and made his way home with his skeletons in tow.
Once he was far enough from the city core, he finally let out a sigh of relief. The sensation of being watched was gone.
Clayton now understood that he needed to be more cautious. He couldn't afford to wander into isolated places—not when "coincidental accidents" might not be so coincidental.
Back at the farm, he could finally breathe freely. The people there knew him, and if anyone tried to cause trouble, it wouldn't be easy.
He busied himself organizing his belongings. But once he was done, an unsettling emptiness crept in.
His inventory had decreased. He had planned to sell weeds and rats today to earn a bit of money—maybe start saving. But in truth, his savings had only dwindled.
With no better options, Clayton began thinking hard. In this world of magic, maybe there were other paths. Alchemy came to mind—wizards were often associated with potion-making.
But that thought was quickly dismissed. According to the memories he inherited, becoming an Alchemist required at least the rank of a Three-Star Apprentice Mage. The profession demanded refined mana control—for igniting flames, purifying ingredients, and combining components with precision.
Among the four main secondary professions, scroll crafting had the lowest entry requirement—only a One-Star Apprentice level.
The other two—Formation Builder and Magic Tool Craftsman—were on par with Alchemy, each needing a Three-Star rank.
Clayton hadn't even reached One-Star Apprentice. Those paths were still out of reach.
There were other, rarer professions—puppet makers, ore miners, potion testers, alcohol brewers—but they were too obscure or not cost-effective.
The most affordable paths were farming and hunting. But farming took time and effort, and hunting was far too dangerous.
Clayton began to feel the pressure mounting. The threats from Tiger's brother, Manager Belly, and the mysterious presence in his home still loomed in the back of his mind.
Trying to calm himself, he glanced out the window—only to meet the scornful gaze of a neighbor, stirring his frustration anew.
He knew exactly why: he was weak. An easy target. If only he were strong, no one would dare look down on him.
That's when the desire for strength took root. But Clayton was still rational—he knew one thing: to gain strength, he needed money.
Money could buy medicine, weapons, even training.
He might be stuck in this deadlock for now. But as his eyes drifted to the farmers outside, something caught his attention.
Some pulled weeds, others dealt with pests—but those having the hardest time were the ones watering their crops.
The drought had become so severe that even mages, who could summon rainclouds, now resorted to buckets.
Clayton felt pity. Whether in his original world or this one, farmers always seemed to suffer the most.
Still, pity alone wasn't enough to make him offer help—especially not for free. They didn't even like him. Why help people who hated him?
Unless… they paid.
His eyes lit up. Of course—payment!
His first step toward making money didn't have to be some grand magical profession—it could start with farming.
Not by opening a new field, but by becoming a helper—assisting those who already had land.
His father had once been a helper too. There was no shame in following in his footsteps.
The more Clayton thought about it, the more sense it made.
With renewed determination, he stepped outside and began surveying the surrounding farmland.
It didn't take long for someone to notice—Equus.
Still bitter from being ignored and slapped by Hank earlier, Equus hadn't forgotten his grudge.
"Well, well, if it isn't young master Clayton. What're you doing wandering around here? Why not take care of your own field?"
Clayton narrowed his eyes. "Mind your own business, Equus. My field's already taken care of—unlike certain people who spend more time gossiping than farming."
Equus didn't take the bait. He gave a cold smile.
"Oh? So your field's doing well? Then why are you out here? Showing off? Looking down on us hardworking folk?"
Nearby farmers turned their heads. Their expressions grew unfriendly.
Clayton snorted. He knew Equus was trying to provoke him.
Stay calm, Clayton. The best part hasn't even started yet, Equus thought, smirking to himself.
"Clayton, you're really something else," Equus said, shaking his head like a disappointed elder. "If your field's finished, why not help your neighbors? Your father used to lend a hand all the time. You're not worthy of his name!"
"Don't you dare drag my father into this!" Clayton snapped. "And I don't owe anyone help when my own field still needs work!"
"Who said I was insulting him? I'm saying you're nothing like him. If you think you deserve his legacy, prove it—help others like he did!"
Before Clayton could reply, Equus turned to the crowd and shouted:
"Am I right, everyone?"
At first, there was silence. Then came a wave of agreement.
"Yeah!"
"That's right! Come help me out, Clayton!"
"We agree!"
Equus's smile widened.
Heh… Clayton, you're a hundred years too early to challenge me.