"Ah." Duwei nodded, snapping back to the moment. "Then find her a room—let her strip it off herself." He smirked at the long-legged girl. "No funny business. I'm just curious about your armor."
"You damned brat! Touch me, and I'll make you—" she spat.
Duwei stepped up, face blank, and jabbed a finger hard into her cheek. "Oh, I touched you. What now?"
The others were roped up—the brute warrior secured with livestock chains scrounged by two knights.
The fiery girl, though, got special treatment. Knocked out by the Rowling guards, she was dumped straight into Duwei's room. If the young master fancied her, why not seize the chance to curry favor?
Ignoring his men's sleazy assumptions, Duwei turned his focus to the mage, eager for a private interrogation.
Stripped of his gray robe, the mage stood in underclothes, wrists and ankles bound. At first, he tried bluster. "Mistreating a mage like this—you're not afraid of the Magic Guild's wrath?"
A sharp slap answered him, silencing his bravado.
Duwei rubbed his stinging hand. This body's still too weak.
"If you answer a few questions nicely, I might let you go," he said, settling into a chair before the trussed-up mage. "Those fireballs you threw—I didn't hear a chant. Have you mastered 'instant casting'?"
That piqued Duwei's curiosity most.
Every book he'd read insisted mages needed chants to cast spells—a bedrock rule.
True, a rare few—elite, legendary mages—could trigger spells with thought alone, silently reciting in their minds. This fabled "instant casting" demanded vast mental strength and pinpoint mastery of magic. Only the continent's most renowned archmages pulled it off. A lowly first-rank mage shouldn't even dream of it.
Beyond raw skill, there were shortcuts—like magic scrolls.
Scrolls, pre-inscribed with spells, let a mage unleash stored magic instantly by tossing them out. But they were costly consumables. Higher-tier spells grew exponentially harder to craft into scrolls. Low-level ones were common enough, mid-tier ones rare treasures, and high-tier scrolls? Barely a whisper of their existence.
So this puny first-rank mage fascinated Duwei. In that brawl, he'd cast without a word—seemingly instant!
Granted, it was just basic fireballs.
In this world, a mage's rank hinged on clear metrics: mana strength and technical prowess.
Chant mastery was a key yardstick. Spells required incantations—fact. Yet the same chant varied by mage. Skilled ones tweaked delivery, speeding up complex phrases or shaving off syllables to outpace foes in a duel—a critical edge.
Such innovations were a mage's guarded secrets, hoarded jealously. Sharing meant losing your advantage.
Instant casting, though? That was the holy grail—worth any price, any sacrifice.
Duwei wasn't naive. He doubted this bottom-tier mage, barely above an apprentice, truly wielded instant casting. His hunch: some trick mimicked it—a substitute technique.
If this guy were a genuine instant-caster, he wouldn't be a bound-up mess. Duwei's side would've been the ones crushed.
There was a secret here—and Duwei craved it.
Facing the question, the mage's face twisted, eyes darting, lips sealed tight.
Duwei smirked. He hadn't expected instant cooperation.
They were in the tavern's back kitchen—empty save for them. He had time to wear the man down.
He started with the loot stripped from the mage.
The gray robe? Duwei tossed it into the nearby stove. It flared up, reduced to kindling. The silver leaf badge, though—he toyed with it briefly before pitching it in too. That badge, an official Magic Guild credential, ached the mage's expression as it melted.
Duwei knew its quirks from his otherworldly lens: anti-theft, anti-loss. Enchanted, it bonded to its owner, melting if separated too far and emitting a unique mana signature to thwart fakes. Useless to him.
"See? I'm not hostile," Duwei said, his pale, youthful face curling into a devilish grin. "Just a kid fascinated by magic. Answer me, and I'll set you free."
The mage stayed mute.
Duwei shrugged, resuming his inventory.
A small pouch from under the robe spilled out: several mottled gems—treasures to common folk, mere mana batteries to mages. Duwei pocketed them without hesitation.
Next, two parchment sheets bore low-level spell chants. His eyes gleamed.
Despite devouring magic tomes, he'd never seen real incantations. Guild rules forbade it—books offered theory, never a single working spell, not even a basic fireball.
Anyone could study magic's concepts, but becoming a mage required a master's direct tutelage—an ancient tradition of exclusivity.
Like gun control back there, Duwei mused. Anyone could read up on firearms—specs, mechanics—but good luck crafting one from scratch.
"Oh, what's this?"
The last haul: several sealed vials of colored powders.
Duwei didn't dare crack them open. A mage's kit could be lethal—maybe a petrifying dust lurked inside.
"My hunch was right," he said, straightening with a smile at his captive. "You're weak—a true first-rank mage, no doubt there. That instant-casting flair in the fight? Some clever cheat, I bet. So, two options: spill it and satisfy my curiosity, and you walk. Or… you'll suffer a bit."
The mage tried deflection. "You're a noble! Doesn't this disgrace your status, abusing a mage?"
Duwei didn't reply.
Noble? So what?
Truth be told, he'd never fully embraced this world since arriving so inexplicably. It felt aimless. Losing everything from his old life—dreams, friends, family, love—severed by a brutal cosmic yank left him adrift. For years, he'd muddled through, purposeless.
Now, in this alien realm, only magic sparked his interest.
Everything else? He couldn't care less.
Was it moral to sic his men on strangers in a tavern for that curiosity? He didn't give a damn.
Duwei Rowling—or whoever he'd been before—was never a saint.