Chapter 6: Isaiah

The carriage jolted violently along the narrow path, bouncing up whenever it hit small stones on the road.

Even though the Butler had been reminded to choose the smoothest route, wishing for convenient transportation in this backward world was no less unrealistic than hoping to go to the toilet with no paper.

So Roland could only steady the sleeping Mia, doing her best to keep the girl from knocking her head as she dozed off.

When they finally arrived home, Mia still showed no sign of waking.

Roland had no choice but to carry her off the carriage herself and walk into the castle in front of the servants. There were looks of surprise, confusion, even fear, but none of it fazed Roland.

If she weren’t worried about the hassle of explaining things, she would have announced right then that Mia was her adopted daughter.

A noble young lady with no inheritance, not even of age yet, suddenly adopting a mute little girl from the convent for no apparent reason—if word of this got out, it would surely give rise to all kinds of gossip.

Roland couldn’t be bothered to explain, nor did she want to.

She carried Mia to her own room and settled her on the bed, then instructed the Head Maid to help Mia freshen up and dress when the time came.

“Yes, Miss.”

Even though the Head Maid was already getting on in years and no longer as strong as she once was, her loyalty and efficiency were beyond question.

As for Roland herself, she planned to experiment with the Magic Talent that the System had mentioned.

According to her memories of her Father, there were two types of people in this world who wielded extraordinary power: Mages, who could use magic to accomplish the impossible, and Blessed Ones, who received their power from the gods.

That was something she’d recalled out of boredom during the journey.

As long as one could sense Mana, anyone had the potential to become a Mage, regardless of innate talent. For that reason, there were far more Mages than Blessed Ones.

But clearly, no matter how many Mages there were, none would be willing to serve a tiny Barony.

At least, Roland couldn’t recall anyone in the territory who could use magic.

She went to her Father’s Study, pulled a book called Basic Overview and Practical Application of Magic Theory from the shelf, and sat at the desk to read.

From time to time, she would pause to follow the instructions in the book, sensing and gathering Mana to make the pages flutter as if blown by an invisible wind.

Mana, in the end, seemed like a type of energy that could be touched and shaped, resonating with a person’s consciousness and becoming whatever one wished.

For some reason, Roland always felt that Mana was very close to her—almost like a clingy little pet.

Could this be the effect of her Magic Talent?

With no usable Magic Book at hand, and her mind not clever enough to invent new spells from scratch, she couldn’t even put on a show of casting Fireball. At best, she could gather Mana around her fist to boost her attacks.

“If only someone sold Magic Books.”

The castle was filled with useless Artworks anyway. She wouldn’t mind selling some for something more practical.

No one should let themselves go hungry, even if they’re broke.

Just then, the Butler entered the Study and said, “Miss Roland, there’s been a theft in the territory that needs your attention.”

“A theft?” Roland raised an eyebrow. “Alright, take me there.”

She stood, called the Knight to her side, and followed the Butler to the Village. By the time they arrived, the villagers had already gathered in a tight crowd.

The incident had happened at the Village Blacksmith Shop. It was noon, and the crowd, together with the heat radiating from the forge, made the air even hotter and stuffier.

When the villagers saw Roland arrive, they automatically made way for her.

She stepped forward and instantly recognized the parties involved.

The Blacksmith, a burly man, had grabbed a little boy by the collar, his fist raised threateningly, face twisted in anger, clearly ready to strike. The boy looked terrified—one might think he was the victim instead.

“What happened here?” Roland asked.

The Blacksmith turned, pointing furiously at the boy’s head. “This brat stole several hoes and sickles from my shop! He even took my wife’s Necklace!”

“I didn’t… I didn’t steal anything!” The boy protested desperately.

“Still denying it! If I hadn’t gotten up to use the toilet last night and caught you red-handed, I’d be too angry to forge anything today!”

Each side insisted on their version, and the surrounding villagers exchanged uncertain glances, unable to offer any useful information.

Roland asked the Blacksmith, “How can you be sure you didn’t make a mistake?”

“I’ve got a good memory. I know almost everyone in the village by sight—just by their backs, I can tell who’s who.”

“Do you have any other evidence?”

The Blacksmith fell silent, unable to produce anything else.

Roland turned to the villagers. “Any of you see this boy sneaking around last night?”

A woman carrying a basket replied, “It’s pitch black at night. If you don’t have a lantern, you can’t see a thing.”

“So none of you saw anything?”

“I suppose not. But I have seen him wandering around during the day.”

With no witnesses, Roland ordered the Knight, Grem, to search the boy’s house for physical evidence. After some time, Grem returned empty-handed.

“I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t find any hoes or sickles hidden in his house. As for the Necklace… I’m not sure.”

“I see. Alright then.”

Although a bit disappointed, Roland remained optimistic.

If she could handle this matter well, she would prove her management skills to the villagers. No matter the truth, she had to deliver a fair and reasonable verdict.

Just then, someone suggested, “If we can’t find any evidence, let the gods decide! If he’s truly innocent, the gods will know.”

Roland was surprised. “Let the gods decide? How?”

“Throw a Ring into boiling water. If he can pull it out with his bare hand, then he’s innocent!”

At that, Roland felt she’d overestimated the villagers’ sense of justice.

What did they mean by sticking a hand into boiling water?

If this was how guilt was decided, they might as well settle things with rock-paper-scissors.

It would have been easier to just go along with it, but Roland wanted to establish her authority, not close the case in haste, so she firmly rejected the proposal.

Then others started suggesting even more outrageous ideas: walking barefoot over red-hot irons, standing in front of the furnace in a prayerful pose for a whole day…

Truly, when it came to tormenting their own kind, no one beat humans. Roland felt completely out of step with the villagers’ thinking.

“Quiet! What are these ridiculous methods? I’ll handle this myself.”

Once she’d silenced them, Roland was just about to continue the investigation when a tall man stepped out from the crowd. He wore a white collar and black robe, holding a fine-looking book.

“Miss Roland, why not let me handle it?” the man said, calm and respectful.

“You’re… Isaiah?”

Isaiah, the Priest at the Village Church, a devout follower of the Goddess of Hope, and the only clergyman in the Barony.

Because of his position, the Priest often visited the Estate. Roland remembered that he’d even treated her illness when she was young. Letting him try might actually work.

So Roland agreed. “Alright, give it a try.”