A string of relentless setbacks had left Earl Raymond thoroughly disillusioned with his eldest son. Yet from that disappointment sprang a renewed vigor—though not in the way one might expect.
Make no mistake: the earl had no patience left to waste on a talentless fool. Instead, he redirected his "efforts" toward his beautiful Countess.
Since this son was a lost cause—incapable of inheriting or elevating the family name—the solution was clear: he'd work hard to produce another.
A month of tireless "tilling" bore fruit. Soon, the Countess was pregnant again, and by the following winter, Raymond welcomed his second son as hoped.
While the earl's mansion buzzed with celebration over this joyous event, Duwei remained holed up in his room, poring over hard-won books on "magical pharmacology."
Thank the gods Clark's parting words had some effect. With a resigned "What's the worst that could happen?" the earl let his "idiot" son pursue potion-making.
For months, Raymond spared not a glance for the boy who'd dashed his hopes. Even the once-doting Countess, weakened by pregnancy and childbirth, visited less often.
The day after his mother gave birth to his brother, Duwei was ushered by a servant to the earl's chambers to see her, frail from labor, and meet the newborn.
The earl's satisfaction was evident. This new son fit the Rowling mold—his cries were loud and robust. Though just an infant, he already promised the sturdy frame of a future warrior.
Raymond barely mustered the interest to glance at his "waste" of a firstborn. After a perfunctory greeting, he waved Duwei off. The bedridden Countess felt a pang of pity, but the baby's wails swiftly stole her focus.
Duwei withdrew quietly. Behind him echoed his father's contented laughter and the infant's cries. Though his heart had long numbed, a thread of loss still tugged at him.
He chided himself inwardly: Stop overthinking. You're not of this world. He's not your father… and she… she isn't…
But recalling that stormy night—how this beautiful woman had knelt before the goddess's statue for him through the dark hours—soured his chest. He shook his head fiercely.
To banish such thoughts, Duwei threw himself into study.
Undeniably, he harbored a fascination for this world's magic. Clark had deemed him talentless, yet a stubborn spark of defiance drove him to hope. The earl's mansion, befitting its status, housed a wealth of books—many on magic.
After devouring them, Duwei had to concede: Clark was right. He lacked a mage's gift. He'd sat for a full day and night once, feeling no flicker of magical elements—only dozing off in the attempt.
Undeterred, he turned to Clark's fallback: magical pharmacology.
After all, it was a branch of magic. Potion-makers were, technically, mages too. Though, after quizzing the mansion's servants, Duwei learned what "technically a mage" meant in this world's eyes.
On paper, people acknowledged potion-makers as mages—even the Magic Guild's charters affirmed it. But in truth, the sentiment was more: This counts as a mage?
Magical pharmacology was, as the name implied, the study of crafting arcane concoctions.
Duwei, after much listening, drew a fitting analogy from his past life's medical world: true mages were like specialized doctors, while potion-makers were mere nurses—assistants at best. Both worked in the "hospital," but nurses lagged far behind in status and reward.
Yet as he delved deeper, Duwei found himself captivated by this field.
It felt utterly novel.
Take, for instance, blending the eyeballs of a Dorog leaping frog with purple wormwood to brew a potion that silenced speech for a short time. Or grinding the saliva of a Stardust sword-tailed dragon with clover and the liver of a Keke triangular scale fish into a powder that petrified flesh!
Or drying and crushing fire-scale grass extract into a dust that ignited anything it touched!
The catch? Of the plants and creatures named—leaping frogs, sword-tailed dragons, triangular scale fish, fire-scale grass—nine out of ten were alien to Duwei.
What is this?
It struck him as a twisted echo of his old world's chemistry!
He'd never imagined magic could be framed this way—drugs to mute, to petrify, to burn. Fascinating, wasn't it?
To Duwei, potion-makers resembled physicians—not healers, but experts in crafting poisons to harm.
Unbeknownst to him, this view aligned perfectly with the world's unspoken label for them: poison masters.
Days bled into weeks, then years. Duwei remained engrossed in magical pharmacology, though his knowledge stayed theoretical, confined to pages. The exotic ingredients it demanded—rare even for a noble house like the Rowlings—were absent from the mansion.
Only true mages' laboratories stocked such materials. In magical circles, potion-makers typically served as lackeys to those greater talents.
And a child, even an earl's son, wouldn't be trusted with such perilous substances!
Six years slipped by. In that time, Duwei's younger brother thrived. Named Gabri, he was everything Duwei wasn't—a quintessential Rowling heir.
Healthy and spirited from birth, six-year-old Gabri had begun training under Alpha, the guard captain. Word was, Alpha rated the earl's second son highly. Nearly everyone in the mansion pegged him as the family's future. The earl lavished attention on Gabri, planning to teach him the Rowling clan's signature combat aura at eight.
Servants adored him, Alpha praised him, his tutor saw promise—even the earl had begun arranging a grand betrothal with another noble house for the six-year-old's future!
Meanwhile, Duwei, the eldest, faded into the shadows.
The earl rarely saw him, perhaps once a month. Only the Countess still slipped away to visit, sometimes at night, barefoot in her nightgown. She'd cradle her pitiable son, singing lullabies until he slept.
In those moments, Duwei's heart softened. Often, he feigned sleep to dodge the tears they stirred, drifting off to her sighs and quiet weeping.
At last, when Duwei turned thirteen and Gabri seven, news broke—the earl's final verdict.
Starting next year, Raymond would personally train Gabri in the family's martial secrets. He'd also sealed a betrothal with the empire's Finance Minister, binding their political alliance. Gabri's future bride? The minister's nine-year-old granddaughter.
Whispers hinted this match was long-set—arranged before Gabri's birth. Originally, it was meant for Duwei! But branded a hopeless fool, he'd been supplanted by his "genius" brother, Gabri, to bear the alliance's weight.
As for Duwei…
On a moonless, windy night, he boarded a carriage and left the capital. His destination: the Rowling estate in the southern Cote Province. The official word? "At thirteen, nearing adulthood, Young Master Duwei will oversee the family's holdings."
He knew the truth: he'd been banished.
Oversee the holdings? A farce. Everyone knew the family's real power lay in the capital, the empire's political core. The provincial lands—farms, peasants, taxes—needed only stewards, not an heir.
In fact, Duwei learned his fate precisely: he'd reside indefinitely in a rural ancestral home in Cote Province. Without the earl's summons, he'd never return to the capital.
All understood: the title "Rowling heir" had shifted from Duwei to his seven-year-old prodigy brother.