Chapter 76: Personality Cults Are Wrong

At first glance, it seemed we had been overly optimistic about the prospects of establishing a guild. When the announcement period for the guild’s formation came to an end, the bulletin board displayed not only the original twenty signatures but also seven additional unexpected names—strangers to the plan—bringing the total well beyond the minimum number required. Thus, a freshly minted adventurers' guild, humorously dubbed "a bunch of idle chatterers bickering over trivial matters," was officially founded.

Thanks to her unparalleled prestige and managerial acumen, the human sorceress, Féin, naturally assumed the role of the guild’s first president, overseeing all finances and assets. When President Féin took office with a triumphant smile, every guild member was delighted to discover that, despite our small numbers and modest scale, our guild’s resources—both material and financial—were extraordinarily abundant on paper, even surpassing the vast assets of the Falvi Continent Alliance’s largest guild, the Punishment Hammer Knights. Our guild’s public assets exceeded fifty million gold coins, and our reserves of combat equipment were sufficient to arm each member with the finest weaponry available. To join such a powerful guild, whose strength rivaled that of a small nation, was truly an honor and a blessing for all members.

However, reality diverged somewhat from this lofty picture: the vast majority of our wealth and equipment remained mere figures on the guild’s ledger—unrealized debts owed to us, with no clear indication of when, or even if, they would ever be fulfilled. Crucially, the original creditor behind all these debts was none other than our current guild president, Féin—officially the richest individual on the Falvi Continent (a very important detail)—a magnate and collector of wealth, who devoted her life to collecting debts as a high-interest lender, and was one of the key contributors to the continent’s growing wealth disparity. Over seventy percent of the guild members were debtors to the guild itself, destined to endure prolonged poverty. For the foreseeable future, they would remain poorer than the crippled scholar begging outside the refuse dump of Freshet City—at least that beggar owned his tattered clothes and cracked ceramic bowl, while these pitiful souls, squeezed dry by Féin, truly owned nothing.

Strictly speaking, every piece of equipment they wore, every item in their backpacks, and all their mental and physical labor belonged wholly to Féin and the guild. I have no doubt that if someone were willing to pay enough, Féin would not hesitate to exchange their eyeballs and kidneys for gold coins.

Yet, honestly, this was the first time in my life I felt genuine gratitude and admiration for Féin’s insatiable greed—without her, the guild’s formation would have remained a mere dream. Establishing a guild required a staggering deposit of five thousand gold coins, an astronomical sum for us wanderers with no fixed abode, who spent every spare coin on potions and gear. We barely managed to gather even a third of that amount after emptying our pockets.

Fortunately, Féin single-handedly covered the remainder, leaving nearly a hundred gold coins as seed money for the guild’s operations. This revelation enlightened me as to why daughters of noble families were called “heiresses”—I had previously assumed the term was a euphemism for a secret weight.

By virtue of this alone, Féin was the undisputed favorite in the presidential election—indeed, the only candidate—and won the position without contest, propelled by her supporters, who were mostly indebted to her.

From the very moment Féin ascended to the guild’s leadership, she “generously and selflessly” merged all her personal debts into the guild’s account, gifting the guild an enormous fortune that even the rulers of mighty empires would envy. According to our inventory list, the legendary dual blades “Wind and Fire” of the great elven bard, the magic shield “Wall of Rejection” of the end-times king Daren Dell, and even the fabled “Staff of Creation” lost by the omnipotent supreme deity, had all become guild property.

Should our debtors ever fulfill these obligations, I would firmly believe that our guild could single-handedly repel the invaders from the End Times Empire and expel them from the Falvi Continent. But until those debts are actually paid into the guild’s treasury, these formidable artifacts regrettably remain scattered and in the temporary custody of unknown others—lost to us.

The greatest problem now is that this vast yet illusory wealth, nominally belonging to the guild alone, offers us no practical benefit. Consequently, while proclaiming ourselves the wealthiest guild on the Falvi Continent, we must simultaneously confront the grim reality that we are also the poorest. Merely gathering the five thousand gold coins for registration had already plunged many into hardship, forcing them to tighten their belts and endure hunger. They could neither afford new gear nor even the few silver coins required to repair their old equipment without borrowing from President Féin.

It was for this reason that, after some symbolic discussion, our president Féin decisively made “repaying debts as soon as possible” the guild’s highest directive and ultimate goal. The guild’s motto became: “One may kill without paying with their life, but debts must be repaid,” a creed to be upheld steadfastly.

With the organizational matters settled, none of the members lingered long, soon scattering to their respective pursuits: mining, herb gathering, stallkeeping, dungeon delving... Life after joining the guild seemed scarcely changed, save for lighter purses and a long string of characters hovering above their heads. Everyone continued their usual tasks.

Both Fóxiào and I had taken on a scouting mission to survey the End Times Empire’s city defenses, agreeing to set out together early in the morning. Just as we were about to leave, a face bearing a sycophantic grin suddenly blocked my path.

“Hey, bosses, got a moment? Could you help your little brother level up?”

Before us stood a downtrodden-looking, grinning middle-aged human priest. His strong physique and resolute features were framed by a thick, bristly dark brown beard. At that moment, this rugged man stared at us with wide, watery eyes brimming with hope, making me feel uneasy.

“Bosses, please help me out. I’m just three levels shy of specializing, but the missions I get either yield too little experience or are too difficult—I’m really struggling...” Seeing our hesitant expressions, the priest shrank back and pleaded, “...Come on, we’re brothers in the same guild. Just half an hour, that’s all, bosses...”

His desperate grip on our sleeves made me worry that, if we refused, he might cling to our legs and refuse to let go. Luckily, the mission’s enemy level wasn’t too high, and the two of us could easily handle it with him tagging along. I glanced at Fóxiào, who thought for a moment and nodded in agreement.

Though this poor fellow constantly called everyone “boss” as if everyone were slightly above him, he bore a ridiculously arrogant name: I Am Your Father. He was one of the seven extra members who had signed after the initial recruitment call. Currently, he was the lowest-ranked member of our guild at level thirty-one, not yet eligible for specialization.

According to him, he had just arrived in the holy city of Freshet, got lost, and stumbled upon the guild recruitment notice by chance. He eagerly signed up as if he had found family, hoping to secure a reliable patron. Seeing his joyful reaction to joining, I couldn’t help but mourn the hard times he would soon endure under Lady Féin’s merciless exploitation.

“Hey, you’re over level thirty, why are you still using gear meant for level ten?” Before leaving the city, we stopped at the smithy as usual to buy potions and repair equipment. Fóxiào casually checked and was surprised to find this brazen priest still clad in some pitiful, low-level gear utterly mismatched to his current rank.

Embarrassed, I Am Your Father confessed, “I’ve been wandering solo, can’t clear dungeons, can’t beat higher-level monsters, so I have no choice but to make do.”

Perhaps moved by his plight, Fóxiào immediately rummaged through his backpack and generously handed over a level thirty elven robe, a level twenty-five magic ring short staff, and a level fifteen breath bracelet.

“Take these for now. Swap out that junk you’re wearing. If I find any suitable gear later, I’ll save it for you.”

In my eyes, these items were hardly impressive—limited attribute bonuses and worth less than five gold coins combined. But for a destitute middle-aged priest, their value was like a hearth fire in winter, an umbrella in a thunderstorm, or a condom in a pinch—a priceless treasure beyond mere money.

“Boss!” The priest’s eyes welled with tears of gratitude. “From now on, you’re my boss. I’ll follow you anywhere—through mountains or fire!”

“Don’t mention it, we’re brothers...” Fóxiào waved away the thanks with a pretended nonchalance. “If you ever have trouble, just come to me. I’ve got your back. No worries.”

It was clear that Fóxiào, the white-clad swordsman with only average combat skills, was not accustomed to such flattery and was somewhat puffed up, exaggerating his words.

...

A flash of white light—“Holy Strike.” Again, a flash—another “Holy Strike.” Once more, white light and a third “Holy Strike.” Then a “Healing Wave” partially restored his health after the long-horned demon had nearly halved his life. He kept repeating the basic attack spell “Holy Strike” endlessly...

“Hey, that demon is of the fiend type. Using ‘Light of Judgment’ gives you a 15% bonus!” I could no longer tolerate I Am Your Father’s utterly foolish combat tactics. Watching that level thirty-one priest fight was even more exhausting than facing a frenzied gang of steel-maned demons alone. I suspected he had only ever used that single attack spell since level one.

“‘Light of Judgment’? I... don’t know how to use it...” Of course!

This reckless fellow had stubbornly climbed to near level forty using only the most basic offensive magic—a testament to his courage and perseverance worthy of admiration, a model for all Falvi continent citizens. If every citizen fought with such resilience, the End Times Empire invaders would long have been driven beyond the star seas to feed the sharks—provided, of course, that their intelligence remained intact.

“That’s a spell you could have learned back at level twenty-something. You haven’t learned it at all?” Fóxiào’s patience was wearing thin.

“I have... but it’s not on my spell interface...”

What? Impossible.

Every adventurer has a mental skill interface displaying all learned abilities—magic, martial arts, battle songs, and other skills—in a certain order. While novices might take time to find the skill they want, seasoned adventurers like me can summon any known skill at will with just a thought.

If you have ever learned a spell, it must appear on this interface. A skill simply disappearing, as the bearded priest claimed, could never happen.

“Check again. It should be on the second page.” Fóxiào shouted as he fought three magical servitors.

“Second page? There’s a second page? I didn’t know that!” The priest exclaimed in surprise.

“I... cough cough...” I felt an intense surge of frustration in my chest, all the curses I had ever learned clamoring to escape my lips. The effort to suppress my anger was far greater than fighting the monsters before me.

After a moment, I Am Your Father suddenly shouted with joy, “Ah, there’s really a second page! And a third! And a fourth! So many spells—how do I use them all?” He kept shouting incoherently while repeatedly casting “Holy Strike,” inflicting barely noticeable damage on the demon.

“Just try them and see...” Fóxiào’s voice sounded as if he were seriously injured.

Thus began the priest’s chaotic display of magic: a golden light flashed, and green numbers like “+30” floated above his head, gradually restoring his health. If I recalled correctly, this was a level sixteen healing spell called “Blessing of Life.”

“Blessing of Life” lasts fifteen seconds, continuously restoring health during that time. But on I Am Your Father, it barely lasted five seconds...

After mumbling some incantations, a clear, gentle breeze spread out from the priest, clearing the air. At the same time, the healing effect of “Blessing of Life” abruptly ceased.

This “Silent Wind” was apparently an eighteenth-level spell that dispels all magic effects around the caster—including one’s own healing magic.

Taking advantage of the priest’s clumsy self-sabotage, the demon struck twice more with its claws, wiping out the brief healing effect. Both sides’ health returned to the same starting point.

A bright pillar of light shot skyward, enveloping I Am Your Father at its center. Just as he marveled at the grand spectacle, the demon lunged into the light and slapped him hard across the face.

“What kind of spell is this? Why does it have no effect?” The priest wailed, clutching a large life potion as he fled.

“That spell is ‘Activate,’ used only to remove petrification or freeze states... He wasn’t petrified. What effect did you expect?” I tried to calm myself, but watching him waste mana so recklessly made me want to roll my eyes.

A sharp beam shot from the priest’s hands, forming a shiny spiral in the air before descending to encircle the demon.

“Got him!” I Am Your Father cheered.

Before he finished, the demon strode forward and effortlessly slipped through the binding light—as if it wasn’t even there.

“That spell is ‘Binding the Undead,’ only effective against undead...” Fóxiào groaned in frustration. “Could you please read the spell descriptions before casting?”

After all this, finally, like the first rain after a drought, the first spring water from a frozen mountain, or a long-lost wanderer glimpsing his home’s smoke, we witnessed a familiar electric flash strike the demon, dealing eighty-four damage.

The Light of Judgment—he’d finally found it.

I never knew I could be moved to tears just by watching someone else fight.

We had waited so long to see this spell in action.

Ah, these bastards dared to sneak attack me while I was so moved...

...

“I did it! I won! I defeated him! I’m not dead... ahahaha!” Standing atop the demon’s corpse, I Am Your Father shouted to the sky, overwhelmed with joy and unsure how to express it.

“I finally beat a monster my level!” A truly unambitious victory cry.

I looked around cautiously—fortunately, no one else was near—otherwise, I would have to pretend to be a stranger.

“Boss Fóxiào, thanks to your guidance, I’ve made such great progress...” The priest shouted after Fóxiào as he fought.

Wait, it wasn’t just Fóxiào who had guided him, was it?

“How can someone be this stupid? Not even basic common sense...” Watching the priest’s exuberance, Fóxiào dispatched the last magical servitor and frowned as he whispered to me.

I wholeheartedly agreed with Fóxiào’s private assessment. On this continent, I’ve encountered thousands of adventurers, but never one as foolish as this.

“Boss, you took on three level thirty-four monsters by yourself. You’re so strong!” The priest’s eyes shone with admiration, as if Fóxiào were surrounded by a halo of the supreme deity. Hearing this, a faint blush appeared on Fóxiào’s face.

This inept priest failed to notice that the supposedly impressive swordsman had killed only three magical servitors and was badly wounded, with less than a quarter of his health remaining. Beside him stood a mighty warrior who had defeated four foes alone without even needing to waste mana on healing.

Indeed, hero worship can cloud one’s rational judgment... I thought bitterly.