Chapter 3: The Path of Magic

The recent upset in the Ford family—specifically, the "idiotic" young master driving away a learned tutor—had become the talk of the imperial court. For days, tongues wagged with glee, fueled by the Earl of Ford's current prominence. Here was a powerful figure, the deputy commander of the military and a pillar of the empire, humbled by the antics of his own child. Such irony delighted the idle and ill-meaning alike.

But the Earl had made a tactical error. His lavish offer to find someone capable of teaching his son to speak had inadvertently turned the young Bennett into a sensation—albeit an unfortunate one. By now, the boy's reputation as a "simpleton" had spread far and wide. Even in the nurseries of the capital, parents jesting over their own children's births would quip, "Boy or girl, so long as they're healthy! Just don't give us a.dropdown pearl like the Ford family's misfortune."

Now, as Bennett stood in the dim parlor, he had no use for titles or grand entrances. His father had arrived with a man who filled the room with discomfort—old, gray-robed, with a crooked cap atop his head, and eyes that held the faint glaze of madness. His gnarled hands clawed at the air, and his demeanor reeked of decay, as if he had not bathed in years. The very air around him was cold, wintry, and unnerving.

"Clark, this is my son," said the Earl, his tone overly polite as he introduced the man. "Please, determine for us if he has any talent—or even a glimmer of aptitude—for the sacred path of magic."

The Earl's desperation was palpable. He had exhausted every option, every conceivable method to mold his son into something useful. Now, he had turned to the one profession he avoided at all costs: wizardry.

Magic was a strange and revered force in the world of Gideon. A wizard, if he could be called such, was more than a profession—it was an-other life. Respect for wizards came with a side of fear, a pall of mystery surrounding them like a shroud. They were the ultimate arbiters of power, immune to the trappings of mortal authority, and thus, spared the unpredictability of politics.

A truly powerful wizard could command the battlefield like a king, bending the rules of physics and logic with but a word. They were sought by kings, courted by empires, and feared by armies. Their magic rendered wealth obsolete, as even a competent alchemist could transmute refuse into treasures. Gems and gold were mere tools to them, devoid of the covetous allure they held for mortals.

Yet, wizards were a misunderstood breed. They were reclusive, cold, and alien—even to their peers. They cared not for titles or trappings of nobility. A noblewoman would sooner marry a monster than spend her life with a wizard; a royal court would sooner exclude a wizard from its festivities than endure his icy silence. Even the highest titles and offices went unclaimed by wizards; their only ambition was mastery of the arcane.

But this was precisely why the Earl dreaded the thought. His son was no common boy—he was the heir to the Ford estate, destined for a life of diplomacy, intrigue, and breeding. He must court, marry, and perpetuate the family line. He must navigate the social labyrinth of the nobility with charm and guile.

Yet, here he stood, a boy with no aptitude for combat, no interest in books, no inclination toward anything but the occasional cryptic remark. He was the ultimate curse, the black sheep of the noble house.

Still, the Earl held out hope. Perhaps, by some miracle, his son might find a place in the arcane sciences. Perhaps, despite all odds, Bennett might find purpose as a wizard.

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With that, the Earl watched as Clark led his son into aprivate chamber, the door closing with a ponderous click.

"Well, boy," Clark barked, producing a small vial from his robes. A pinch of golden dust flew from his gnarled fingers, tracing a circle in the air. "I've cast a silencing charm. Whatever you say in here—no one outside will hear a word."

He turned his withered gaze on the boy. "Now, tell me. What is magic, in your understanding?"

The question hung in the air like a challenge. For a moment, Bennett hesitated. It was not a simple matter. Magic, in his eyes, was more than spells and incantations. It was a force, a mystery. It was the thread that wove the world together, the unseen hand that stirred the winds and shaped the stars.

But that was not what wizards preached. Or rather, it was, but in ways that baffled him.

From what he had gathered, wizards spoke in strange tongues, muttering incantations and drawing arcane symbols in the air. They invoked names of power, called upon spirits of fire and storm, and wielded forces beyond human ken.

At least, that was the image he had formed in his mind: the wizard as a sorcerer, a seer, a manipulator of cosmic forces. But the reality was vastly different.

Magic, to him, was simpler. It was the thing that made the world turn. It was the reason the stars shone, the moon waxed and waned, the seasons turned. It was not a means to an end, but an end in itself. But how could he articulate that to this strange, wrinkled man before him?

And so, when the question pressed upon him, Bennett found himself at a loss.

"...And all the strange noises of wind and sand," the boy replied, his voice tinged with and indication that the topic was anything but trivial.

Clark let out a dry chuckle, his voice low and gravelly. "Magic, boy, is the divine gift granted by the gods to unlock the mysteries of creation. It is humanity's quest for ultimate power, the means to understand ourselves, the world, and the greatest gift bestowed upon us by the divine." His words carried an air of reverence, but to Bennett, they felt more like the grandiose boasts of a man who had spent too long in solitude.

Clark's eyes narrowed, as though he had expected a more profound response. Instead, the boy remained silent, his expression unreadable. The wizard misinterpreted the silence as fear, a common reaction to his imposing demeanor, and nodded approvingly. This was the response of a child who had been raised in a family of privilege, after all. かり

From the folds of his gray robes, Clark produced a small crystal orb, its surface smooth and slightly cloudy. "Spirit power is one of the key indicators of magical aptitude," he began, his voice dripping with condescension. "Not the only one, but certainly the most important. Now, let us see what you have."

Bennett finally spoke, his curiosity evident. "Spirit power… magic power? Isn't magic power something only wizards possess?"

Clark's eyes widened in shock. "Who in the name of the gods told you such nonsense? Magic power isn't confined to wizards. Spirit power is the term used by the uninitiated. For us, it is the same thing. Wizards cultivate their spirit power through meditation and focus. It allows us to perceive the hidden forces of the world—the subtle, intricate patterns that bind everything together. Without it, you cannot even begin to understand magic."

The boy frowned, his young mind grappling with the concept. "So magic is like a lever," he said at last. "Wizards use it to borrow strength from the world around them."

Clark's expression shifted. "Fascinating. A lever, you say? A crude metaphor, but oddly apt. The stronger your spiritual 'lever,' the more of the world's power you can command. A weak lever… well, it's like trying to lift a mountain with a twig."

Bennett nodded, the weight of the explanation settling on him. "So magic isn't just a matter of raw strength. It's about channeling something greater."

"Greater than you? Greater than everything, you simpleton!" Clark's patience was beginning to wear thin. "Magic is the language of the universe. It is the breath of creation, the will of the gods. To wield it is to become a conduit for divine power—"

"Wait," interrupted Bennett, his voice tinged with confusion. "If magic is the gods' power, how can humans use it without being punished? How can we even touch it?"

Clark's eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. "While magic is tied to the divine, it is not the divine itself. It is an echo of the gods' work, the leftover threads of creation. To harness it is not to steal from the gods, but to understand their will. And--" he paused, his tone sharp "--no, you did not misunderstand. No sane man would claim to own magic, let alone the power of the gods. Such claims are blasphemy."

The boy lowered his head, his expression distant. The words carried weight, but he hadn't truly grasped them. The idea of magic as something greater than humanity—that it was a force beyond mortal control—was beginning to take root in his mind.

Clark returned to his explanation, his voice rising slightly. "Magic is not a matter of raw power. It is finesse, precision. It is the ability to see the world as it truly is—to feel the threads that bind every living thing and to weave them into something new."

Bennett's gaze remained fixed on the floor, but his mind was racing. The more his father's tutor spoke, the more he realized he didn't truly understand the world around him. Magic, he had always assumed, was a trinket, a toy of the powerful.

Now, he saw it as something greater—a reflection of the divine order itself.

"My mind is growing tired," he said at last. "Perhaps I should return to…"

"No," snapped Clark. "You will not. This is the most critical test. So—" His voice dropped, almost imperceptibly. "What is the source of magic?"

"The gods."

"Close," said the wizard. "No, that's not the true answer."

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Bennett hesitated. "The world?"

Clark's eyes narrowed. "Try again."

"A flower… a bird… the wind…"

"Any of those—or none of them. Magic is all of them and none at the same time."

The words hung in the air, as much a question as an answer. Bennett could not help but feel a creeping sense of awe. This—what Clark was describing—wasn't just a craft. It was a philosophy, a way of seeing the world.

The wizard crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. " sufficiently that Bennett didn't know how to respond. sitting silently, he shut his eyes, letting the words of wizard monks Wash over him. But their legacy, ot his time, felt like aマジックへの初uled. Though he could see the light, it was far morente he hadn't fully grasped.

Bennett had no answers. He didn't even know how to frame the question.

"You will have to try harder than that," said Clark, his voice mercifully soft. "You see, magic is a paradox. It requires precision, yet it demands chaos. It is both the storm and the calm. It is… life."

The tutor stood abruptly. "You are dismissed."