The tale of the Rowling family's dim-witted young master driving away his learned tutor had become the talk of the capital, a jest that spread like wildfire. Many idle tongues wagged with glee at the misfortune. After all, who didn't relish seeing a towering figure like Earl Raymond stumble? It fed the darker whims of those with too much time on their hands.
Earl Raymond had made a misstep years ago, offering a hefty reward to anyone who could coax words from his mute son. That spectacle had turned into a curious affair, a minor sensation in the empire. And with it, the Rowling family's "idiot heir" became infamous—a topic ripe for gossip. In the capital these days, when a child was born, some would quip, "Boy or girl, it doesn't matter, so long as it's healthy… and not like that poor fool from the Rowling clan."
On this day, young Du Wei faced his father once more. But the man accompanying the earl filled Du Wei with unease. Clad in a gray robe and pointed hat, the stranger had skeletal fingers and cloudy eyes that seemed to pierce the air. A faint, musty scent clung to him, like old parchment left too long in a damp crypt. Worse still, his presence carried a chill that made Du Wei sneeze sharply.
"Mage Clark, this is my son," said Earl Raymond, deputy commander of the Imperial Forces and the empire's second-ranking military figure. His tone was deferential, almost cautious. "Please, assess whether he has even the slightest potential to tread the sacred path of magic."
The earl's voice betrayed his resignation. This time, he'd enlisted none other than the renowned Mage Clark of the capital to guide his son. If "magician" could be called a profession, it was among the most revered—though that reverence was often laced with fear.
Across the land, magicians were symbols of prestige, treated as equals to the highest nobles and showered with privileges. A skilled mage could rival a small army in battle, their power a force of awe and dread. Every ruler vied to court them, not only for their unmatched abilities but because they posed no threat to authority. Magicians had little interest in worldly desires. Wealth? A competent alchemist could transmute stones into gems or gold. Power? Their lives were consumed by the pursuit of magic's mysteries, leaving thrones and titles beneath their notice.
In the world of Roland, magicians stood at the pinnacle, courted by the mighty, their every whim indulged.
Yet Earl Raymond had no wish for his son to join their ranks—not if there was any other path. Magicians, for all their grandeur, were often seen as… peculiar. Aloof, eccentric, and solitary, they shunned society to dwell in their studies. No noble maiden dreamed of wooing a recluse who haunted a laboratory. No banquet welcomed a cold, enigmatic mage to dampen the mood. And no emperor would bestow a title or high office upon one.
Du Wei, after all, was his heir—the future of the Rowling legacy. He was meant to court, to wed, to sire children, and to navigate the glittering circles of noble society. But what choice remained when the boy proved hopeless in both martial and scholarly pursuits? If he was to achieve anything, perhaps magic was his last hope.
If the storied Rowling family could produce a master magician… well, it might be unconventional, but it would suffice.
With a flicker of hope, the earl watched as Mage Clark led his son into a sealed chamber prepared for the occasion.
"Very well, boy," Clark said once they were inside. He drew a small vial from his robe, pouring a pinch of golden powder onto his fingertip. With swift, practiced motions, he traced a wide circle around the room. "I've cast a silence ward. No one outside will hear our words."
Turning to face Du Wei, the mage's gaunt features loomed close, his voice low and deliberate. "Now, tell me, boy—what is magic to you?"
The question caught Du Wei off guard. Truth be told, he harbored a quiet curiosity about this world's "magic." He'd heard tales of its wonders—grand, fantastical stories. But what was it, truly? In his mind's eye, he pictured mages chanting lofty invocations like, "O God of Wind, heed my call!"—followed by tempests of sand and stone, or wails that shook the heavens.
When the boy hesitated, Clark's lips curled faintly, perhaps assuming the question too profound for a child. "Magic," he began, his voice slow and resonant, "is the divine gift bestowed upon humanity to unravel the mysteries of the gods. It is the path to ultimate power, the key to understanding oneself, the world, and the sacred truths granted by the divine!"
His words carried a sanctimonious weight, but to Du Wei, they rang hollow—grandiloquent posturing, little more. The boy's face remained impassive, his silence mistaken by the mage for awe or fear. Satisfied, Clark reached into his robe and produced a fist-sized crystal orb, its surface gleaming faintly.
"Spiritual strength is one measure of magical aptitude," he said. "Not the only one, but the most vital. Let us test your potential for mana."
Du Wei frowned, a question stirring. "Spiritual strength? Mana? But… isn't mana something only mages possess?"
Clark's eyes widened, incredulous. "Who fed you such nonsense? By the gods, does the Rowling household lack even basic knowledge?"
The mage's irritation flared. "Spiritual strength, in common terms, is what we mages call mana. Through meditation, we hone and expand it, using it to sense the world—to touch the subtle forces of nature. Only those with potent spiritual strength can perceive the world's mysteries clearly. Mana is the foundation that lets us feel the magical elements around us. And magic? Magic is the art of wielding that strength to command or borrow the forces of nature. That is its essence."
Du Wei exhaled softly. "I see. So spiritual strength is mana—a lever, then. Mages use it to tap into nature's power."
Clark's murky gaze flickered with surprise. "Remarkable. A boy of five and a half, grasping such a concept? And yet they call you an idiot?"
Du Wei offered no reply, his eyes steady on the mage. Clark, too proud to linger on the matter, pressed on. "The natural world teems with magical elements—every drop of rain, every gust of wind, every star's shift, every bloom and wilt. All are sources of power. A skilled mage senses these currents with clarity. Your 'lever' analogy is apt. The stronger your lever, the greater the forces you can wield. A weak lever moves little."
Du Wei sighed. "I thought a mage's power came from their own mana."
Clark's brow furrowed again, his patience thinning. "Who fills your head with such drivel? These are truths even the lowliest apprentice knows! Power from one's own mana? Absurd. Human strength is finite, boy, no matter how mighty. A great mage might level a hill or summon a storm, but that power isn't theirs—it's borrowed from nature, from the world the gods created. In truth, every spell is a humble plea to wield divine might."
His voice dropped, edged with warning. "I'm astonished the Rowling family harbors such ignorance. If you were to spout nonsense like 'mages draw power from themselves' as an adult, you'd risk a pyre in the Temple of Light's plaza. Such words question the gods themselves."
Du Wei fell silent, his gaze dropping. His small face grew wooden, masking the thoughts flickering behind his eyes.