Chapter 2: The Saintly Water Scam

Kael strutted down the dirt road toward the village gates, still clutching his lone blade of grass like a priceless stock certificate. His grin hadn’t left his face since immortality kicked in.

The town was nothing special — squat wooden houses, fields of barley, a marketplace that looked about as lively as a graveyard. But to Kael, it shimmered like solid gold.

“Ahh, my future customers,” he whispered, stroking his chin like an emperor surveying his empire. “So gullible. So… coin-filled.”

I could already tell where this was going. Mortals usually enter a new world asking, “Where’s the guild? How do I level up? Where’s the princess?”

Kael entered asking, “Where’s my profit margin?”

Inside the gates, he immediately found a scene that made his greedy little heart skip a beat. A crowd of villagers surrounded the town well. Some were coughing, others arguing. A woman clutched her child, who looked pale as a ghost. The well itself sat half-empty, its bucket dangling pitifully on a frayed rope.

“Drought’s killin’ us,” one man muttered.

“Water’s foul, it makes folk sick!” another snapped.

“If this keeps up, we’ll—”

“—go bankrupt,” Kael finished under his breath, eyes sparkling.

He watched the villagers despair, then cracked the kind of smile that could curdle butter. “Aha. A problem,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “And problems, my dear villagers, are just… opportunities with bad marketing.”

“Really?” I drawled, leaning in from the divine void. “They’re starving, diseased, and dehydrated, and your first thought is—”

“—to monetize it? Of course!” Kael cut me off without even looking up. “Supply and demand, baby. Time to introduce these yokels to… premium hydration.”

I sighed. Mortals prayed for a savior, and I gave them… this.

Kael swaggered to the well, grabbed the rope, and hauled up a bucket of murky, lukewarm water. He sniffed it, gagged, then forced a charming smile. “Perfect. The worse it tastes, the holier it’ll sound.”

He fished around in his pocket, pulled out a few empty glass bottles (don’t ask me how he had them, I think he pickpocketed reality itself on the way here), and began filling them carefully, like they were rare vintage wine.

Then he turned to the desperate villagers, spread his arms wide, and announced in his smoothest, fakest voice:

“People of this humble town… salvation is at hand!”

Kael’s voice rang across the well square like a peddler announcing a circus.

The villagers turned, squinting at him. They saw a stranger with messy black hair, a smug grin, and a bucket of their own disgusting well water. Not exactly inspiring.

“Who’s this idiot?” someone muttered.

“Looks like a con man,” another said.

“Looks like my brother-in-law,” a third coughed.

Kael ignored them all, holding up a bottle like it was crafted from divine crystal. “Behold—Holy Hero Water! Drawn from the sacred depths, purified by destiny, blessed by powers beyond your mortal comprehension!”

I nearly choked on my ambrosia. Sacred depths? It was a cow-tainted well. Destiny? He’d face-planted here by accident. Beyond comprehension? Yeah, I’ll give him that — even I didn’t comprehend how he thought this was working.

The villagers stared. Then one woman barked a laugh. “You want us to buy that? It’s the same filth makin’ my boy sick!”

Kael, unbothered, flashed a dazzling smile. “Madam, madam, please. What you see as filth… I see as divine mystery. For the modest price of one silver coin per bottle, I offer not just water—no, friends—miracles!”

Gasps rippled. One silver coin? For a bottle of water? That was a week’s wages for some of them.

“You’re mad!”

“A thief!”

“A charlatan!”

Kael pressed a hand to his chest, feigning deep offense. “Such harsh words. I assure you, good people, I am but a humble servant of fate. My only wish is to—”

And that’s when it happened.

The pale little boy in the woman’s arms groaned, reaching toward Kael’s bottle. Kael, never missing a mark, bent down smoothly. “Ah, a true believer. Go on, lad, drink.” He popped the cork, tilted the bottle, and let the boy sip.

The crowd held its breath.

The child coughed once, twice… then color flooded back into his cheeks. His eyes brightened. He sat up, clapping his hands. “Mama! I feel better!”

The square exploded.

“It healed him!”

“A miracle!”

“Holy water!”

Kael blinked. Then his grin spread so wide I thought his jaw might snap. He had no idea how it happened, but he didn’t need to.

The System had, of course, quietly added a note only he could see:

[Passive Buff: Any product sold by user is imbued with healing properties.]

He glanced at the glowing words, then at the frantic villagers now rushing toward him with desperate, pleading eyes.

“Oh-ho-ho,” Kael purred, straightening his shirt. “Line up, friends. One bottle at a time. And please—no pushing. Miracles aren’t free.

The moment the boy jumped to his feet, the square transformed into chaos.

“Give me one!”

“My daughter’s coughing blood!”

“My husband’s got the runs!”

“My goat has the runs!”

Villagers surged forward, waving coins, trinkets, anything that could pass as payment. Kael found himself at the center of a mob that looked ready to riot, except instead of torches and pitchforks, they were brandishing empty mugs and desperate hope.

He raised his hands dramatically. “Please, please! One at a time! Miracles require order, not chaos!”

The crowd actually froze, hanging on his every word. I swear, mortals are unbelievable. Show them a glowing sword, they question it. Show them slightly less disgusting water, they form a cult.

Kael lowered his voice, deep and solemn. “I hear your cries, I see your suffering… and I weep with you.” (He didn’t. His eyes were on their coin purses.) “But alas, the divine asks for balance. A modest donation is required to maintain this sacred flow.”

“Donation?” a man repeated.

“Yes,” Kael said smoothly. “One silver coin.”

The villagers looked at each other nervously. Then one man stepped forward, trembling, and dropped a silver into Kael’s waiting hand. Kael passed him a bottle. The man drank, then gasped as his skin rash faded before everyone’s eyes.

The mob erupted. Coins flew. People shoved. Kael’s hands blurred as he filled bottles, pocketed money, and flashed his most generous, saintly smile.

But here’s the best part:

Every time someone called him “blessed” or “holy,” Kael nodded like he was reluctantly accepting the burden of sainthood. The performance was Oscar-worthy.

“Oh, please, don’t call me a saint,” he said while raking in coin. “I am but a humble merchant, guided by fate.”

Another coin landed in his palm.

“Your gratitude embarrasses me.”

Another.

“Stop, stop, you’ll make me blush.”

Ching, ching, ching.

And of course, he didn’t keep the price at one silver for long.

“Ah, I see demand is high,” he announced gravely. “To preserve the sanctity of this miracle, I must… regulate it.” His eyes gleamed. “New price: three silver.”

Did they complain? No. They fought each other to pay more. One man even tried to sell his boots on the spot.

I laughed so hard I nearly fell into the void. “Unbelievable. They think this clown is a prophet because he can sell mud water in a bottle!”

Kael, overhearing me (don’t ask how, mortals aren’t supposed to), whispered back under his breath: “Don’t be jealous, old man. This is called business.

By the time the sun dipped low over the rooftops, the village square looked less like a place of misery and more like a festival — if the festival were hosted by one very smug conman.

Kael stood proudly atop the well, hands clasped behind his back, as villagers bowed and cheered. His pockets bulged with silver, bottles clinked at his belt, and he had the audacity to look solemn, like he was bearing some holy burden.

“My friends,” he said gravely, “I thank you for your faith. Today was but a glimpse of the miracles to come. May your homes be warm, your fields bountiful, and your… stomachs stable.”

The villagers roared in gratitude.

Someone thrust a loaf of bread at him. Another shoved a basket of eggs. A baker begged him to stay in their finest guesthouse, “free of charge, of course, Saint Kael!”

Kael waved them off with mock humility. “Please, please. I am no saint. Merely a humble—” he paused, savoring it, “—merchant.”

That night, he lounged on a feather-stuffed bed in the biggest house in town, counting his coins by candlelight, grinning like a wolf fattened on sheep.

“Easy,” he chuckled to himself. “Too easy. If selling well water makes me this rich, imagine what I can do with rocks.”

I watched from the divine void, chin in hand, and couldn’t help but smirk.

And so, dear reader, the greatest miracle of Eryndor was not the healing of the sick… but that an entire village managed to mistake a greedy, shameless huckster for a holy man.

I stretched, yawned, and said aloud, “Saint Kael… ah, yes. Truly, I have blessed this world with comedy gold.

⸻

End of Chapter 2.

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