Magical Idiot

Clark was pleased with the boy's initial response. He glanced at the crystal orb in his hand. "Come now, let's see your talent. I promised your father I'd teach you—but only if you possess the gift for magic. Otherwise…"

Duwei looked up. "What should I do?"

"Place your hands on the crystal ball and grip it tightly. Then, stir your mind—think of something, anything. Joyful memories, angry ones, whatever rouses your emotions." Clark's tone reverted to its usual chill. "Show me your potential."

Duwei stepped forward in silence, his hands brushing the orb. He clenched it hard. The surface was cool, smooth under his touch.

"Focus your mind," Clark intoned gravely by his ear. "Begin now… Think deeply of what's etched in your memory—rage, delight, anything potent…"

Duwei shut his eyes, diving into his thoughts…

Clark watched as the crystal began to glow, faintly at first, then steadily brighter, bit by bit.

A flicker of surprise tugged at the proud mage's lips. He studied the orb, then the small boy before him, letting out a soft "Hmm?"

But Duwei felt no triumph. A restless stir churned within him, dragging up echoes of a past life… He'd been flung into this world without reason, all his former ideals, dreams, and pursuits dissolving into nothingness. The longer he lingered here, adapting to this strange place, the hazier those old memories grew. Fading recollection was natural, yet it draped him in sorrow—deep, piercing sorrow…

Zhuangzi dreamt of a butterfly—was I living in its dream, or did I dream it?

His breathing quickened. The orb's strange power seemed to amplify his inner turmoil. His heart pounded, a stifling weight pressing his chest…

Then a cold hand settled on his head. A chill surged from his brow, forcibly cooling his fevered mind.

"Enough, my child," Clark said, his voice detached. The shift from "lad" to "my child" betrayed his approval of Duwei's gift.

"Impressive… Quite impressive, I must say. You're not yet six, yet your magical aptitude rivals an apprentice's. Your mental strength is nearly double that of an ordinary person. For your age… I'm satisfied." A rare smile creased the haughty mage's face.

Mental strength? Duwei mused bitterly. Likely because I've lived twice, carrying memories of another life—two souls' worth in one.

Clark stowed the orb and gestured for Duwei to sit. "Now for the second test… I'll teach you a basic spell. Meditate with focus, feel nature's forces, then tell me what you sense."

Duwei committed the mage's chant to memory—a simple, ancient string of sounds laced with mystique.

"Meditate with intent—it's crucial," Clark warned. "This step decides if you can become a mage. Many with greater gifts than yours have faltered here."

"How do I do it?" Duwei frowned.

"Do nothing but this: silently repeat the chant. Let your mind wander, feel your surroundings—cold, heat, sound, anything. It's not hard."

Duwei obeyed. He sat, naturally crossing his legs—a pose that piqued Clark's curiosity. The mage drew an hourglass from his gray robe, setting it beside them to mark time…

Sand trickled slowly. Little Duwei sat still for ages, until at last he opened his eyes, hesitating. "Master Mage…"

"Oh? What did you feel?"

"I…" Duwei's tone was sheepish. "I felt hungry."

"…"

Clark's spirits sank at the reply. Clearly, though this boy boasted fine magical talent, he lacked the delicate heart to perceive the world.

Mana's strength mattered, but it wasn't everything. Mental power could grow through diligent meditation. A high starting point was just that—a head start.

But sensing nature's magical elements? That was the true crux!

Clark had trained several apprentices—some with less raw talent than Duwei—yet among them were standouts. One, in this very test, stood after half an hourglass and sparked a flame from his fingertips, later mastering fire magic.

Another heard the wind's whisper in the sky during his trial, destined for wind magic.

Clark's finest pupil, in his first attempt, made water rise from a vase, shaping it into a fist-sized orb that held firm—a prodigy of water magic.

True magical talent revealed itself in this test through uncanny signs. Yet Duwei, despite his innate mana, seemed utterly blind to it.

He simply wasn't suited to be a mage.

"A pity," Clark thought. "The gods blessed him with strong mental force. Had he passed, he'd have begun leagues ahead." But the proud mage swiftly quashed his regret.

Hmph. What use is mental strength alone? In a fight, raw power doesn't guarantee victory—a bull's might falls to a leopard's skill.

Still… a shame.

When Clark emerged from the room, his dour expression told the waiting earl all he needed to know.

As expected…

"My lord, I'm sorry," Clark said. "Your son lacks the gift to become a mage. The gods haven't chosen him. I suggest you seek a field he might excel in instead." He paused, then added, "Forgive my boldness… In my thirty-six years of magical study, I've never encountered one quite like your son…"

Clark sighed, forgoing farewells. He turned to leave, then paused as if struck by a thought. "Oh, if you're set on him pursuing magic… perhaps try magical pharmacology. Potion-makers are, loosely speaking, mages too."

With that, he tossed a handful of golden powder, vanishing in a burst of flame.

The earl sank into thought, his face a storm. Duwei stepped out, gazing quietly at his father.

Raymond met his son's eyes for a moment, then sighed wordlessly. His disappointment was plain as day.

"…In my thirty-six years, I've never encountered one quite like your son…"

Like what? A dullard? An idiot? A hopeless case? A talentless wretch?

Despair gnawed at the earl's heart.

But Clark's pride had left his words unfinished, misleading the earl.

What the mage meant was: One with such exceptional mana yet no sensitivity to natural magic—a walking contradiction.

Yet the outcome cemented Raymond's verdict: He truly is an idiot.

This misunderstanding owed much to vague words—Rossiart's from caution, Clark's from arrogance.

For Duwei wasn't an idiot. Far from it. His heightened mental strength made him sharper than most—more alert, with a keener memory.

Yet here he was, branded with that damning label!

He'd convinced a skilled warrior he couldn't fight, driven off a learned scholar, and now disappointed a famed mage.

The result? The capital's noble circles grew ever more fascinated by the Rowling family's little fool. Some even chided their own wayward children with, "No matter how dim you are, you can't be worse than that Rowling idiot!"—a spur to betterment.

Thus, Duwei became a cautionary tale.

And his future path? It plagued every soul in the Rowling household… save Duwei himself.