The tale of the Rowling family's idiot young master driving off a learned tutor had become the capital's most notorious joke in recent days.
Many idle tongues relished the gossip with a gleeful malice. After all, Earl Raymond of the Rowling family was basking in boundless glory—who wouldn't savor the chance to see such a towering figure stumble? It scratched a dark itch in the hearts of the bored and petty.
Moreover, the earl had made a misstep. His lavish bounty to find someone—anyone—to coax words from his son's lips had turned into a spectacle, a minor sensation rippling through the city. That very blunder thrust the Rowling family's "idiot" into the spotlight, a delicious topic for wagging tongues.
In the capital these past two years, new parents had taken to muttering a half-joking prayer: "Oh, boy or girl, it doesn't matter—just let them be healthy… and please, not a little fool like the poor Rowlings got stuck with."
This day, young Master Duwei faced his father once more. But the man accompanying the earl set Duwei's nerves on edge. He wore a gray robe and a pointed hat to match, his fingers bony and withered, his gaze murky and unsettling.
The stranger reeked of decay—a stale, musty whiff that made Duwei's nose wrinkle. Worse, an eerie chill clung to him, enough to make Duwei sneeze hard.
"Master Clark, this is my son," said Earl Raymond, Deputy Commander of the Imperial General Staff and the empire's second-highest military figure. His tone was deferential toward the gray-clad figure. "Please, see if he has even the slightest promise on the sacred path of magic."
The earl's desperation was palpable. This time, he'd enlisted Clark, a renowned mage of the capital, to instruct his son.
If "mage" could be called a profession, it was undoubtedly among the most revered—though that reverence often carried a tinge of fear.
Across the land, mages were emblems of nobility, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with any aristocrat, showered with the finest privileges. A skilled mage in war could rival a small army. Every ruler vied to recruit them—not just for their superhuman talents, but because they posed no threat to power.
A mage's life was consumed by the study of magic or meditative trances to hoard mana. Most lacked worldly cravings. Greed for gold? Pointless—an adept alchemist could transmute stubborn stone into gems or coins. Precious jewels were mere tools for their craft.
Nor did they hunger for power. Their lives revolved around unraveling magic's mysteries; the petty ambitions of the mundane held no allure. This made them darlings of the powerful.
In the world of Roland, mages were the pinnacle of prestige—courted by every authority, granted the grandest luxuries.
But Earl Raymond didn't want his son to become a mage—not if there was any other choice.
Because mages, for all their esteem, were… freaks. Cold, solitary, eccentric, they shunned human connection, sealing themselves away in pursuit of arcane secrets. No noble maiden would swoon for a monster holed up in a laboratory. No banquet host would invite a dour mage to sour the mood. No emperor would bestow a title or high office on one.
And Duwei was his son—the heir to the Rowling legacy! He'd need to court lovers, marry, sire children, uphold the family name, and navigate the glittering web of noble society…
Yet what options remained for a boy who couldn't master arms or letters—an "idiot"? If he was to amount to anything, magic might be his last shot.
A great mage in the storied annals of the Rowling family? Unorthodox, perhaps, but it'd do.
With a flicker of hope, the earl watched as Clark led his son into a small, sealed room prepared for the occasion.
"Alright, boy," Clark said once inside. He produced a vial, tipping a pinch of golden powder onto his fingertips. With a swift motion, he traced a wide circle around the room. Turning to Duwei, he added, "I've cast a silencing spell. No one outside can hear us now."
The mage, his presence icy and foreboding, stepped closer to the small boy. "Now, tell me, lad—what is magic to you?"
What was magic?
The question gave Duwei pause. Truth be told, he harbored a spark of curiosity about this world's "magic." He'd heard the dazzling legends—who hadn't? But what it truly was… In his mind, mages wielded it with lofty chants—"O God of Wind, heed my call!"—that sort of thing.
Then came the theatrics: swirling sand, howling winds, the shrieks of spirits.
Seeing the boy's silence, Clark likely assumed the question was too profound for a child so young. He chuckled softly, then spoke in a low, deliberate tone. "Magic is the almighty gods' gift to humanity—a key to unlock divine revelations! It's the path to the ultimate power in this world! It's how we know ourselves, know the world, and tap into the greatest boon the gods have bestowed!"
The gray-robed mage's voice carried a sanctimonious weight. But to Duwei, it sounded like pompous drivel—pretentious nonsense that failed to stir him.
The boy's face betrayed nothing, and his quietness fed the mage's arrogance, mistaking it for awe. Pleased with the heir's reaction, Clark drew a fist-sized crystal orb from the folds of his robe.
"Mental strength is one measure of magical aptitude—not the only one, but the most critical. Let's test your potential…"
Duwei finally spoke, voicing a doubt nagging at him. "Mental strength? Mana? But isn't mana something only mages possess?"
Clark's eyes widened. "Who fed you such absurd nonsense? By the gods, does the Rowling household harbor someone so ignorant of the basics?"
The mage's temper flared at the blunder. "Mental strength is the layman's term—for mages, it is mana! Through meditation, we hone and expand it, using it to sense the world beyond ordinary limits—to feel nature's mysteries, its myriad forces. Only those with potent mental strength can do this! As it grows, we perceive the world's magical elements more keenly. And magic? It's the art of using tricks to wield that strength, to command or borrow nature's power. That is magic."
Duwei sighed. "I see… Mental strength is mana. And mana's just a lever mages use to tap into nature's forces."
A glint of surprise flashed in Clark's cloudy eyes. "Remarkable… A child barely past five, and so sharp. Why do they call you an idiot?"
Duwei didn't answer, merely gazing at the mage in silence. Clark, too haughty to dwell on trifles, brushed the question aside with a shrug.
"This world—this natural realm—brims with magical elements. Every drop, every mote, is a wellspring of power. Rain and lightning, blizzards and gales, the cycles of sun, moon, and stars, the blooming and withering of flowers and trees—all are fonts of nature's might. A gifted mage senses these subtle shifts with clarity. Your 'lever' analogy is clever. Simply put, the stronger your lever, the greater the natural forces you can wield. A weak lever moves little."
Duwei exhaled. "So that's it. I thought a mage's power came from their own 'mana.'"
Clark's brow furrowed again. "Who's been filling your head with such drivel? What I've said is common knowledge even to the lowliest apprentice! 'Power from their own mana'? Heavens… Let me correct you, and mark this well: human strength is finite, even for the mightiest! Mages do what others can't—flatten a hill with a gesture, summon a tempest—but that's not their power. Magic channels nature's forces, the forces of the world the gods gave us. At its root, mages wield the power of the divine! Remember: humans are creations of the gods—we can never possess their might. That's a forbidden line!"
He lowered his voice, scowling. "I'm baffled the Rowling family produced a child so riddled with misconceptions. If you grew up and spouted nonsense like 'mages' power comes from themselves' outside these walls, I can't promise you'd escape the pyre at the temple gates! That claim questions the gods themselves!"
Duwei clamped his mouth shut. His gaze dulled, and he dipped his small head, neatly masking his expression.