CH5 • Golden Egg

The bidding had been settled. 

My future was no longer in my hands.

The moment I left the hall, I was directed to the administrative sector to finalize the process. 

It was a quiet, sterile wing of the tower, its stone corridors lined with shelves full of parchment, enchanted quills scribbling away at endless contracts. 

I could hear the faint scratching of ink, the occasional murmuring of clerks discussing finances and debts. 

The scent of aged paper and candle wax lingered in the air, mixing with the faint acrid tinge of sealing magic.

The process itself would take two months—long enough for planning, transition, and whatever bureaucratic nonsense the tower deemed necessary.

I was guided to a long wooden desk where a robed official waited, spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. 

He barely glanced at me before sliding a thick scroll across the desk.

"Read through it," he instructed, voice dry, uninterested. 

"Sign when ready."

I unraveled the contract, my eyes scanning over the intricate inked lettering, each clause binding me further into servitude. 

Certain words stood out like shackles being clasped around my wrists;

'Caelum is property of the Duke, therefore cannot depart owner without consent.'

'Contracted Mage (CM) will adhere to orders of magnitude listed by the Duke.'

'CM will protect the vessels charged over them and be provided accommodations suited to their basic needs.'

'CM will conduct themselves in court manners and be held accountable accordingly to the mage laws and Kingdom laws.'

'CM will not take payment as owned dues to repayment until settled with the mage tower.'

'CM will not share mage tower knowledge nor will they be allowed to breed without authorization from the mage tower.'

'CM cannot participate in church faith basis of conversion without mage tower authority present.'

I took a slow breath, committing each restriction to memory.

So, in essence, I was a tool. 

A glorified possession.

The realization settled deep in my chest, curling in my stomach like something rotten. 

I had expected this, of course, but seeing it laid out in formal ink made it all the more suffocating.

My future had been weighed, measured, and sold for the equivalent of a lifetime's worth of service.

I pressed my thumb against a small enchanted needle at the edge of the parchment, drawing a drop of blood. 

The contract absorbed it instantly, the ink glowing a faint red before dimming. 

Across from me, my new master—the Duke—repeated the action. A sharp, burning sensation flared against my sternum, seeping into my very core.

The sealing pact bond had formed.

I was no longer a mage of the tower.

A strange numbness followed as I was escorted back to the quarters where I had first begun my training as an initiate. 

The halls remained the same—stone-carved archways, enchanted lanterns casting a soft blue glow—but the people had changed. 

Younger faces moved about, their robes pristine, eyes brimming with curiosity as they glanced at me in passing.

They looked at me the way I had once looked at the senior mages years ago—full of awe, ignorant to the harsh truths of the world.

I ignored them.

Most of my remaining time was spent in solitude, meditating and refining my mana. 

Occasionally, Harriet would visit, lingering by my door in an attempt to smooth things over between us.

I never let her.

I'd continue to do my 'abnormal' things as they had long called it. 

Nor did I care, what anyone thought about me. 

She was a Fourth Circle Mage—higher-ranked, more respected. 

Yet, she feared me. I could see it in the way she hesitated, the slight tremor in her voice whenever she addressed me.

Her fear wasn't misplaced.

I had never engaged in mage spars. 

My capabilities were largely unknown, even to myself. 

Yet, during trials and presentations, I had displayed feats that should have been impossible for someone of my mana tier circle.

Perhaps that was why they had sold me off so quickly. 

A potential threat was best removed before it could grow into something uncontrollable.

Still, I did not care for combat roles or spar requests that actively came my way. 

Never helping nor seeking help was my motto. 

I am selfish, will always be. Or so I hoped. 

I was grateful that the tower had never enforced such expectations upon me. 

They had only ever required my knowledge, my research, my mind. 

But that, too, had proven to be a double-edged sword.

Unable to gain access through my unconventional methods. 

I had been restricted from learning spells outside of my designated curriculum, yet somehow, I had cast spells unfamiliar to even the highest-ranking instructors. 

When questioned, I had simply responded with the truth; 

"It was a new spell I created, based on the knowledge and experience of spells I already knew."

That answer had done little to ease their suspicions.

A month passed in relative peace, my only responsibility being to wait for the Duke's messenger to arrive. 

My mana had grown considerably in that time, enough that the tower finally saw fit to give me my final review and title.

At least they were willing to grant me that much before discarding me.

Or.

Perhaps they had to given the pressure from the Duke. 

The review itself was a formality. 

The mana crystal, which I had failed to activate years ago, now gleamed with a brilliant, ever-shifting spectrum—proof that I possessed all attributes.

A feat less than 2% of the top mages had. 

The council examined my studies, my techniques, their expressions unreadable. 

A few nodded begrudgingly, but none seemed particularly pleased.

"A shame," one of them muttered. 

"His like…a dream, the nightmare, and the dream within the nightmare that becomes a dream. Belligerent unstable genius. The unlike, the other two in a row. A bad omen among us." Madam Salvine spoke quietly. 

"Well, we made a fortune out of him," another sighed, as if attempting to justify it.

"He could have been an asset to the tower—if only his mentality were more compatible," a younger mage mused, her tone drained of enthusiasm. 

She was the supposed true prodigy meant to inherit leadership of the tower, yet she looked exhausted.

"Moderate mana quality, moderate quantity," an elder recited, stamping my parchment.

"But very high skill. A master of spell theory and application. Able to manipulate new laws of magic."

Another councilor grimaced.

"He specializes in counter-magic. Excels in negation and rewriting spells."

"Yet lacks brute ability in direct battle," the woman in many robes huffed. 

"Innate talent. Yet, we value intellect over power. So…still a shame, really. Could've led many innovations here. Unfortunately, he doesn't understand his own methods of thinking…"

A heavy sigh of silence followed.

Then, one of my former instructors hesitantly spoke. 

"When was it, last time… during one of his evaluations… that he reshaped a spell mid-air? Turned fireballs into ice shards? That mental will debuff syphoning spell? Or—what did he call it—snow aura-rainbows?"

I sighed, rubbing my temples. 

"Frozen Aurora. I made it on the spot. It made one feel sleeping and a cold chill mentally each time someone would cast polar opposite element to water or ice attributes spells. I wish I could had explored it a bit more thoroughly, but I was told it borderline near restricted-polices. Something about insurance, regarding of forbidden spells cast that aren't suctioned by the headmaster."

Silence again. 

Bewildered stares.

I had long stopped expecting anything else.

A week later, the Duke's messenger arrived, earlier than anticipated. 

His presence was a signal—the final nail in the coffin. 

In two weeks, I would be leaving the tower for good.

I should have felt relief. 

Freedom. 

But all I felt was a strange, hollow detachment.

The problem child had been sold.

Now, all that was left was to see where they intended to place it.

***

The day of my departure arrived without fanfare. 

No farewell, no words of encouragement—just the road stretching ahead and the weight of an uncertain future settling on my shoulders.

As I stepped forward, the carriage that had come to collect me stood in stark contrast to the grandeur one might expect from a duke. 

The wooden frame was worn, the dark paint chipped and flaking, revealing the bare grain beneath. 

The iron-rimmed wheels creaked as they shifted slightly under their own weight. Even the horses, though sturdy, bore the look of overworked creatures, their coats dulled and their eyes tired.

I had heard the rumors, of course. 

Whispers that the Duke's wealth had long since crumbled beneath the weight of desperation, that he poured every last coin into a futile effort to save his only son from a terminal illness. 

Now, seeing this carriage—this emblem of his declining fortune—I knew the stories were true. 

He was a man grasping at what little remained, clinging to a title that, sooner or later, would slip through his fingers like sand.

A gruff voice pulled me from my thoughts.

"Alright, name's Scoof. Master of the stables. Been servin' the Duke for near thirty years," the man declared, his voice rough from years of barking orders at stable hands. 

A total of twenty people had came forward, a few mercenaries and servants. 

His face was weathered, lined with deep creases around his mouth and forehead, and a thick beard peppered with gray framed his jaw. 

His hair, though tied back, was unkempt, strands escaping to brush against his temples. His eyes—sharp but not unkind—glanced over me before settling on the single bag at my feet.

"This is out here is everyone coming along to escort you, including our leading master Elton. That all you got?" he asked, brows raising slightly as he reached for it.

I handed him the bag, nodding. "I don't have anything else."

Scoof stared at me for a long moment, his lips parting as if to say something, but he only nodded in the end. 

The look in his eyes changed—less scrutiny, more something resembling pity. 

I smiled faintly, unwilling to acknowledge it.

Most mages traveled with trunks full of supplies, enchanted relics, personal artifacts imbued with magic. 

But me? 

I had nothing but a few essentials and the clothes on my back. 

The extra wagons they'd brought, once expected to carry my belongings, would now return empty.

A second voice spoke up then, softer but carrying a certain authority.

"Caelum, yes?"

I turned to face the speaker—a man dressed in the formal attire of a butler, his graying hair neatly combed back. 

His posture was impeccable, his hands folded behind his back, and his expression carried the quiet composure of a lifelong servant. 

Elton, the Duke's personal butler messenger.

I had seen him once before, when he had arrived with the Duke's initial invitation, though he had not been present for the actual ceremony that had bound me to my new fate. 

He knew of me, knew the stories, but I could see the flicker of curiosity in his gaze now that we stood face to face. 

Perhaps he had expected me to look more… deranged. 

The other mages had certainly painted me as such.

"Yes," I confirmed.

 "Caelum. No last name yet. I'll take one from the Duke when the time comes, so don't trouble yourself over it."

Elton inclined his head slightly, but his expression remained unreadable.

I took a step toward the carriage, making it clear that I wished to depart sooner rather than later. 

The road ahead was long, and the sooner we left, the better.

Inside, the carriage smelled of old wood and damp fabric. 

The cushions were worn, their stuffing uneven beneath the faded upholstery. 

Across from me, Elton took his seat with the ease of someone accustomed to travel.

The carriage lurched forward, the horses' hooves clattering against the dirt road, and within moments, we were on our way.

Elton, ever the dutiful servant, wasted no time in explaining my future residence.

"You will be staying at the Duke's estate, of course. It is a modest place, considering his former wealth, but well-kept. Your main responsibility, however, is not to the estate itself, but to the young prince."

I frowned slightly. "And what exactly am I meant to do for him?"

The butler hesitated, as if weighing his words. 

"His Grace has exhausted every possible avenue to cure his son's illness. Clergy, healers, mages, even shamans… none have succeeded. The boy, however, has taken an interest in magic and other… eccentric displays."

After a small moment, he spoke embarrassed, "He enjoys watching illusions, rituals, anything out of the ordinary. Since you are not a medically trained mage, but rather a utility-type, you fit the criteria for his latest request."

I stared at him, barely able to conceal my disbelief. "You're saying I'm to be a jester for a dying boy?"

Elton winced but did not refute the statement. "In a manner of speaking, yes. The prince wished for someone who could entertain him with magic or aura arts. His father agreed, though there is… an additional incentive. Whomever remains in the prince's service until his passing will inherit an estate promised by the Duke."

I let out a slow sigh breath, staring at the passing trees through the carriage window. So that was my role. A performer. A distraction for a child who was waiting to die.

"If you fail," Elton continued, his voice quieter, "you will find yourself worse off than those who came before you."

The words lingered in the air, and for the first time, I wondered just how many had tried and failed before me.

***

A few days passed in a monotonous rhythm—traveling from dawn to dusk, stopping only for food and rest.

The further we traveled, the more distinct the landscape became from what I had grown accustomed to in the world at large.

The Mage Tower had been positioned between neutral noble lords, near the border of another kingdom. 

Mage Towers were akin to noble lands, though on a smaller scale, functioning as sealed cities. 

The surrounding areas thrived with merchants and traders who relied on the presence of mages.

According to the records I had read, the lands near a Mage Tower were always prosperous. 

Mages frequently performed small tasks for the local populace, creating a symbiotic relationship where villages provided resources in exchange for magical aid. 

Farmers, craftsmen, and traders flourished under the protection and employment of the Tower.

In this world, three distinct types of power shaped common sense. 

Aura users, also known as knights and warriors, performed superhuman feats and aided in construction and defense. 

Mages wielded spells capable of reshaping reality—though only temporarily—making them agents of both destruction and innovation. 

Finally, the common folk relied on medieval-era technology, with a blend of wood, steel, and rudimentary steam-powered machinery.

Magic, however, was never permanent. 

Even if one could summon a castle from nothing, it would eventually crumble back to its original state. 

This was the nature of magic—momentary and transient. 

The universal laws that governed our world forbade permanence.

Given that mages made up only ten percent of the population, while aura users comprised sixty percent, it was clear which group held the most power in society.

Being born a mage was not as simple as a genetic inheritance or a rare mutation. 

It was a combination of luck and environmental factors. 

That was why most mages were born in Mage Towers, where magical ley lines ran strong. Even then, only a few ever truly awakened their potential.

Not everyone born with mana could become a mage. 

To be considered one—at least in any meaningful way—one had to reach the Third Circle.

On average, most mages never surpassed the Second Circle, even with ample resources and effort. 

Intelligence alone was not enough. Advancing in magic required something akin to a spiritual awakening—not necessarily religious, but an internal transformation.

Fourth to Sixth Circle was the ceiling for most. 

Only the outliers of the very few individuals reached beyond that threshold.

One could start counting on their hands the total of seventh circle mages and above the high they went. 

I was a Third Circle mage at a young age, though I had stagnated. I understood why.

Had I been more disciplined, I might have already advanced. 

Even so, progress was inevitable. 

As long as I practiced the fundamentals and honed my craft, I would eventually reach the Fourth Circle.

Even now, I felt close. 

For now, I just had to play the jester while I bided my time.

One day, the Mage Tower would come crawling back, begging for my return. I smiled at the thought.

As we traveled east, leaving those lands behind, the scenery changed. 

The villages grew sparse, roads became less maintained, and the people we passed cast wary glances at our carriage.

"Whose lands are these, Elton?" I asked.

"They belong to Baron Vox," he replied. 

"He is the primary liaison between the Mage Towers and the royal family, ensuring that mages honor their agreements and do not defect to other kingdoms." He'd speak before taking his small notebook to read. 

"He is neither kind nor ruthless—just a weasel in politics. His land is filled with eyes and ears, some his own, others not. We will need to stop a few times, but we won't linger." As he trailed on saying as he glanced at me to see my reaction. 

"His lands are free of bandits, though only because he bends them to his will. The guards we encounter will likely be little more than reformed highwaymen. Do your best to avoid unnecessary trouble—especially with Aura Pride and Mage Pride." Concluding his speech to me, as I appeared amused. 

I even chuckled at that.

It was common knowledge that warriors and mages never got along. 

The energies we wielded—mana and aura—were like opposing polar forces. 

A mage's magic could not enhance or heal a warrior, just as aura users could not empower mages.

In most cases, the two energies simply negated each other. 

Only when wielded with hostile intent did their true repellent nature manifest, a contesting force of each other until either or, won out entirely.

This was a truth embedded in our very cores—an unspoken enmity written into our existence. 

Mages had no interest in brute strength, and warriors had no patience for knowledge without application. 

Our cultures had evolved to clash.

One evening, as we set up camp beside a quiet stretch of forest, I finally broke the silence. "How much longer until we arrive?"

Elton, seated across from me near the fire, glanced up from his travel notes, his face partially illuminated by the flickering flames. 

His features were sharp yet softened by fatigue, the creases around his eyes deepening as he exhaled. "A month or so, if all goes well. Two at most."

A month. Possibly two.

A long journey to a crumbling estate, to serve as court magician for a dying boy.

I stared into the fire, watching the embers shift and pulse like distant stars in the dark. The flames licked hungrily at the wood, crackling as if whispering secrets I was too tired to decipher.

This was going to be my life now.

And for better or worse, I would see it through. I had no choice. 

By the time morning arrived, I had already anticipated trouble.

The guards had inspected us four times now, despite the official documents proving we had already been cleared. 

Each time, they found some excuse to stop us again, as if searching for a reason to exert their dwindling authority.

I had tolerated it thus far. 

Causing a scene was pointless, and I had no desire to create discord over something as trivial as a delay. 

If anything, my patience had irritated them—perhaps they had expected a mage to be proud, aloof, or easily provoked. 

Instead, I had remained composed, answering their inquiries with the same diligence I applied to spellcraft.

Even Elton had been surprised at my ability to converse with them without conflict.

But this time was different.

"I heard from my buddies that this mage is obedient," one of the guards sneered, his tone dripping with amusement. 

His comrades chuckled in agreement, the sound grating against my ears. 

"As expected, we'd like a few favors from you before you pass. It's important."

Elton stiffened beside me, already attempting to mediate. "Gentlemen, we have been through this process multiple times. Surely—"

One of the guards held up a hand, silencing him with nothing but a smirk.

They knew the Duke's insignia. 

They knew, just as we did, that his power was waning. 

The Duke, once a force of influence, would be demoted to Baron by next year if his land continued to fail. 

His factories were struggling. 

His crops were yielding less. 

His noble standing depended on the survival of his only son—a son who was dying.

With the kingdom's strict inheritance laws, his daughters could not inherit. 

If his son perished, his lands would be absorbed by another house, and the balance of power would shift.

These guards—former bandits turned enforcers—understood this better than most.

"Well, mage," one of them said, stepping forward. 

He was taller than the rest, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy beard that barely hid a deep scar along his jaw. 

His uniform was well-worn, but the way he carried himself spoke of someone who had lived outside the law for far too long. "Warm this tea for us, clean our houses, and enchant our fields. We know you've done it for the others. Don't be shy. Come on out."

I remained seated for a moment, studying him. Sighing as I moved out. 

I had done small favors for guards before, yes, but never under coercion. 

Those had been fair exchanges—discussions where I had gauged their needs and chosen, of my own will, to assist them.

This was different. 

This was an attempt to exploit me, disguised as familiarity.

I stepped out of the carriage, my blue robes rustling against my boots. 

The morning light was harsh, casting long shadows that stretched unnaturally across the dirt road.

"I'm out of mana," I said flatly.

A lie.

The guard's expression didn't waver. 

He folded his arms, his smirk widening. "Oh? That's a shame. We'll just have to make sure everything's in order then." 

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a mockingly conspiratorial tone. "You'll need to come with us for a looooonger period. If you catch my drift?"

Elton shifted beside me, barely masking his unease. 

In a low voice, he whispered, "Just do as they ask. It will make things easier."

Easier.

That was one way to put it.

Another was that he didn't want trouble when he returned.

I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders as I weighed my options. Then, an idea.

"How about this?" I said, my voice carrying just enough to draw attention. 

"It's well known that a mage cannot defeat a swordsman in close combat. If I win, you let us pass. If I lose, I'll stay and do your bidding for as long as the law permits. Fair?"

Silence.

Blank stares.

Then, laughter.

The guards exchanged glances, as if confirming whether or not I had truly lost my mind. 

A duel? 

At less than ten feet? 

Impossible.

It was a predetermined fate. 

Even my old—no, my former—colleague, Edric, the fastest mage caster I had ever known, had mentioned that he'd never be able to overcome a swordsman in close quarters.

It was common knowledge. 

Mages needed distance.

At least thirty feet in distance. 

On average, it took a mage ten to fifteen seconds to cast a simple standard offensive spell. 

Edric even as the fastest mage spell caster, it took him at least four to six seconds to cast a simple standard offensive spell. 

A feat known only by those at ninth circle mages could perform. 

Yet, these guards were not warriors of great renown. 

They were aura users, yes, but from what I had observed, their combat prowess was less than subpar. 

And compared to my previous life's martial arts?

They were nothing.

One of the guards—stockier, with cropped hair and a nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once—grinned as he stepped forward. "You're either a fool or desperate, mage. But fine. We'll humor you."

I tilted my head, meeting his gaze evenly. "Then let's begin."

The others formed a loose circle, murmuring amongst themselves, their initial amusement laced with something else now—curiosity, perhaps.

They didn't think I would win.

They didn't think I could.

And that was precisely why I would.

Yet here I was, proposing a deal.

Of course, they took it, laughing. Elton, however, immediately tried to intervene.

"No, that cannot happen! I'll not—"

"Trust me." I cut him off before he could protest further. 

"I know what you're thinking, but as much of a stranger as I am to you, you are to me. If I fail you this once, I promise to make a formal contract and confession in a better life for you when we arrive at the Duke's estate. So, trust me." I'd say shrugging off his worries. 

Elton hesitated, his lips pressed into a thin line. Then, after a long pause, he exhaled sharply. "…Fine. But on one condition." 

He folded his arms. "You'll invest your cleared debt into me when it's paid. That way, you'll have no income for ten years—I'll be taking it."

I chuckled. "I see. I'll take that risk, then."

The match was set. Ten feet apart. A single punch would determine victory.

The rules were simple: evade him for a full minute or land a single hit to his face.

The problem? 

I was a mage.

Physically, mages were weaker than even common peasants. 

Against an aura user? 

The odds weren't just against me—they were insurmountable.

Yet, as the fight was announced, the air crackled with unexpected excitement.

Bets were whispered among the gathered guards and mercenaries. 

Some outright refused to wager, considering the match pointless. 

Others laughed, predicting an immediate knockout.

Then, with the sharp chime of a horse bell, the match began.

The aura user lunged.

His right fist shot toward my stomach with brutal efficiency, his speed amplified by a surge of green energy coating his whole body. 

Aura. 

The color revealed his specialization—agility. 

Something I had read about, Red aura was defensive. 

Yellow aura was unpredictable. 

Green aura was speed. 

A skilled fighter was able to blend all the types in an array color fusion, and a highly skilled one was known to have a translucent color range. 

His eyes glowed the same eerie green hue, similar to how a mage's eyes flickered blue when casting a spell.

I had no time to react with strength or speed.

So I didn't.

Instead, I surged my mana—not to attack, but to heal.

Anticipating his movement, I adjusted my stance, shifting my body with the rhythm of his strike. 

Martial arts had taught me long ago that force was not always meant to be met head-on. 

Positioning, redirection—that was the key to overcoming superior strength.

Back at the Mage Tower, I had often trained without magic, running without enchanted runic boots that allowed mages to glide effortlessly when moving akin to roller skating. 

It had earned me a reputation as strange—even among mages—but it had also made me lean, quick on my feet. 

While others relied on floating sigils and arcane devices, I had trained my body alongside my mind.

And now, it was going paying off.

Normally, in situations like these, a mage would stream their mana into their cloths that had been enchanted with runic sigil seals, that allowed them to reposition or react to close quarter combat. 

However, a key factor was speed. It would take three to five seconds for that sigil to react. 

In that time, a mage would be defeated by an aura user instantly. 

I didn't have the sigils on my cloths because, I hadn't been taught how imprint them.

Nor, was a fifth circle mage, as it required at least that minimum to initiate the course.

Even if I had them, my ineffectiveness would appear. 

Runic imprinted sigils required the strength sync of one's mana which be at least fifth circle to handle the strain. 

It was why the guards weren't worried since I was a third circle mage. 

Yet, now I had evaded him something strange had impacted his aura shroud around his body. 

"The unstable genius," Elton muttered as I twisted around the attack, evading without so much as a spell—just movement.

But I didn't stop there.

The moment his fist barely grazed my side, my mana pulsed, seeping into his aura-coated body. His power wavered, flickering erratically.

It was fighting against, a contest of two energies conflicting against each other. 

Then—just like that—it fizzled out, completely fading away. 

Akin to log on fire splashed with a bucket of water. 

No longer enhanced, he staggered mid-strike, forced to rely only on his natural strength.

His expression twisted in shock. 

He hadn't expected this. 

No one had.

A mage neutralizing aura with nothing but mana control? 

Impossible.

Yet, before he could recover, I had already moved.

A mage needed ten to thirty seconds to cast a spell. 

Most ninth-circle mages could do it in a fraction of that time.

Meanwhile, I had leaped over him, I had already begun constructing a spell—layering my mana into form, shaping it even as I moved. 

I had gained some seconds in the heat of the moment as he regained focus in the heat of it, my spell sigil disk had already formed yet not quite there yet.

My advantage wasn't just speed. 

It was efficiency. 

Nothing I did was wasted.

A nearby older guard, one who had been watching with suspicion, suddenly stiffened in realization. 

His gaze sharpened. 

He had read the reports on me before. 

He had assumed I was just another mage—a third-circle talent at best.

But now, watching me move? 

Watching me fight?

His expression darkened.

This wasn't the behavior of a court utility-type magician.

This was a battle mage.

One too experienced at that! 

The aura user, having recovered from his stunned state, turned—only to see my hand already inches from his face.

The spell sigil disk had formed. 

The match was over before he even realized it.

I didn't need to hit him.

I had already won.

With a flick of my fingers, the spell I had prepared activated.

"Ovilia."

It was a sight-based spell, commonly used for minor illusions. 

But what I had cast wasn't just a simple illusion—it was a modified version, designed specifically for this moment.

It was what I was good at. 

The aura user froze, his pupils dilating as he stared blankly ahead. 

His breath hitched.

He wasn't seeing reality anymore.

He was seeing whatever his mind deemed most beautiful. 

A dreamscape of his own desires, his own subconscious ideal.

It would last precisely thirty seconds.

I crossed my arms and turned to Elton. "Oh, well. It's over, it will take some time. So I won, right? Oh shoot! I forgot—"

Before I finished, I jogged toward the dazed man and slapped him across the face.

He jolted violently, gasping. "Wh—what?! Where was I?! Y-you casted a mental spell on me? That's impossible!"

"Well," I shrugged, "…everyone saw it. I won. So, we'll be on our way now."

The murmurs around us grew louder.

A different guard stepped forward, disbelief written all over his face. "That… that was a mental influence spell. Those don't work on aura users unless the caster is at least a fifth-circle mage!"

I smirked. "Oh? Then I guess we'll have to check."

The moment we entered town, I allowed them to test me—placing my hand on a mana crystal ball, letting it glow as it assessed my rank.

Third-circle.

The result left them flabbergasted.

I wasn't just strong.

I was simply abnormal by their standards.

After a few interactions with the locals, I gathered more insight into what had transpired. 

They explained how aura and mana were fundamentally incompatible, making it nearly impossible to influence an aura user with a mental spell.

A senior chief guardsman, intrigued by the events, stepped forward. "He doused your initial aura," he explained to my opponent. 

Whose name was introduced to me only for me to not shake his hand nor acknowledge him. 

Which seemed to leave him glaring at me.

"The smart thing would've been to reignite it immediately before continuing the fight. Furthermore, from what I know of mages, the potency of a spell varies based on their knowledge and experience." He'd place his hands on his hips shaking his head to the guard in disappointment. 

"The fact that he was able to bypass your innate aura means his mana density far exceeds yours. That alone is no small feat. You underestimated him." He'd smile at me as I tried to ease my body away from the attention of everyone on me.

To illustrate his point, the chief guardsman proposed a test. "Try it on me," he said, offering additional rations and a chief guardsman's parchment in exchange for the demonstration.

The parchment allowed us to continue without worry on our travels and also allowed us additional benefits in the area, which included even to the next chief guardsman we'd meet. 

It was a rare opportunity. 

Elton was beyond doubt more pleased over it. 

While I appeared indifferent, but of course. 

I accepted. 

Yet, when I attempted to suppress his aura, I failed. 

He smirked knowingly before dropping his aura shroud shield over his body and requesting that I cast the same spell from earlier. 

This time, it worked.

The spectators were stunned. 

A tier-two spell had successfully affected an experienced aura user—a feat they had believed impossible. 

The few mages present in the tavern exchanged glances of shock.

Curiosity exploded around me. 

Even the chief was surprised, asking me how I came to have such a dense mana condensed?

Questions flooded in. 

Who was my instructor? 

Which tower had trained me?

I evaded their inquiries, feigning exhaustion. 

The next morning, before they could corner me with more questions, I made my escape.

However, as we rode onward, one detail from the previous night lingered in my mind. 

The locals had identified my tower by name, speaking of it with reverence. 

More troubling was the revelation that Madam Salvine was its headmaster.

My mood soured instantly. "We need to leave," I muttered.

Elton noticed my sudden shift but, said nothing. 

Still, his gaze toward me had changed. 

Over the next few days, I could feel it—his growing curiosity, the silent questions forming in his mind.

Yet I was still clouded with the revelation of knowing the secret headmaster, who I had heard limiting me was my very own mentor. 

But for now, he kept them to himself.