Meanwhile, Rist's gaze never strayed far from the young apprentice. Last night's intelligence report had revealed no record of the surname "Graham" within the kingdom's nobility—likely a fallen house in exile. For two years, this family had lived in seclusion, until recently, when they had somehow clashed with the Cryomancer Claude.
What puzzled Rist even more was how, after unleashing forbidden spells upon one another, the two parties had reconciled so completely. Just yesterday, Jeff had witnessed Claude landing beside the boy, lip-reading the words: "Your father has agreed to take you as his apprentice." Any youth deemed worthy of a master mage's personal attention was surely no ordinary child.
"Your apprentice is quite young to wield such a heavy tool with such ease," Rist remarked casually, breaking the silence.
Francis shot a glance at his gleefully laboring disciple and snorted. "This? This is nothing."
Just then, Hize set down his hammer and trotted over, his soot-smudged face tilted upward. "Master, three hundred strikes—mission accomplished."
The smith surveyed the cluttered workspace, barely containing his irritation as he muttered under his breath, "If it's so easy for you, tomorrow you'll use a bigger hammer."
"A moment, if I may," Rist interjected smoothly. "Given the boy's age, perhaps my son Moses might offer a demonstration?"
But when Francis returned from the storeroom dragging an enormous, two-handed sledgehammer, the heavy thud of its impact gave even Rist pause. "Is that size… appropriate?"
"Hize can handle it," the smith cut in, turning to his apprentice. "Right?"
"A true warrior knows no fear," the boy declared, thumping his chest.
At his father's nod, Moses stepped forward to attempt the feat. He planted his feet, strained every muscle in his arms, yet failed to even lift the hammer's head from the ground.
Hize couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy. That hammer had to weigh at least a hundred pounds—he himself could barely manage more than a few swings. For a pampered young lord like Moses, it was clearly impossible. Still, not one to back down from a challenge, Hize strode forward and took over from the fuming noble youth.
Under the watchful eyes of all present, the young blacksmith's apprentice hoisted the massive hammer with surprising ease, swinging it in a clean, powerful arc before bringing it crashing down.
Though this impromptu contest hadn't gone as Rist had intended, it had revealed something far more intriguing. He resolved then to extend his stay in Spur—and to make investigating Hize his highest priority.
Once the outsiders had departed, Hize was unceremoniously kicked out of the smithy. Rubbing his sore arms, his thoughts drifted to Bivis, the knight undergoing special training. He wondered if his first-ever squire was currently enduring a form of practice just shy of pure torture.
A hollow sense of disappointment settled over Xize as he searched the manor in vain for Bivis and Mylen. It was only after inquiring with the guards that he learned they had accompanied Hugh to the mountain foothills for the morning hunt.
Drifting aimlessly through the corridors, Xize found himself knocking on Fantacy's door. The shadow guard lay propped against the pillows, his complexion still pale as frost though healthy color now bloomed in his cheeks. Xize raised a hand to stop him from rising, dragging an ornate wooden chair to the bedside with a playful smirk. "Having grown accustomed to your shadowy presence, seeing you confined to bed feels strangely unsettling."
Since resolving their differences days prior, Fantacy had returned to his usual frosty demeanor. Not even an eyelash flickered at the teasing remark.
"Care to discuss something?" Xize was well-accustomed to such cold receptions. Were the shadow guard to suddenly turn sentimental, he'd suspect the very laws of nature had gone awry.
Fantacy's scrutinizing gaze fell upon him. The mischievous glint in the youth's eyes set off alarms—whenever Xize wore that expression, it invariably heralded some absurd, half-baked scheme.
Sure enough, Xize cast a wary glance toward the door before lowering his voice. "After you take that old man's medicinal brew later, pretend the poison has flared up. I'll seize the chance to expel him from the manor and avenge you."
"..."
"Don't give me that look." Xize's playful tone vanished, replaced by seriousness. "What I can't understand is why our household consists solely of warriors, without a single mage among them."
This question had lingered in his mind for ages. Given the family's heritage, the complete absence of spellcasters defied all logic. He'd previously brushed it off due to his youth, but Claude's appearance had shattered any illusions of a carefree childhood. Facing a magister of such power demanded that he uncover the secrets of magic.
According to continental records, this land brimmed with magical elements. While mages weren't commonplace, they certainly shouldn't be this scarce.
"Young master should know we aren't native to the Kingdom of Carlos." Fantacy's voice pulled him from his thoughts. When it came to Xize's questions, he never held back.
Xize nodded slightly. He'd long sensed his family's dissonance with the rustic simplicity of Spruce Village, like a polished gem hidden beneath dust.
"Your father hailed from a magical lineage, while your mother was the sole princess of a vast empire."
"Are you saying I'm of imperial blood?" Xize's eyes sparkled with newfound excitement.
Fantacy continued calmly, "During one of the Empress's home visits, rebellion erupted in the capital. The insurgents struck with meticulous planning, targeting the imperial palace directly. Your father rallied our clan for reinforcements but faced opposition from certain factions. Ultimately, he departed with only three magisters, seventy mid-to-high level mages, and a hundred elite warriors."
"When they breached the palace defenses, they found only ruins. They barely managed to rescue your mother. To protect the clan from repercussions, your father led the survivors across the Arctic Icefields using an ancestral map, eventually settling here."
Though summarized in mere sentences, Xize could envision the battle's brutality—what kind of desperate struggle could annihilate an entire mage corps?
"Rest well." Xize rose thoughtfully. He'd initially assumed his parents tolerated the magister out of fear, but given Barlow and Debbie's history, a mere magister wouldn't have bowed them. The key likely lay with him.
Could it be related to that curse?
During his afternoon respite, a servant summoned him to Claude. Grinding his teeth, Xize rose—the old man truly treated him like some servant at his beck and call.
Circumstances left him no choice. Defying the order would likely bring the dishonorable magister personally dragging him away. Entering the third-floor chambers, he found Claude standing on the balcony, his gaunt frame silhouetted against the Benedict Mountains.
Xize studied the elder secretly: snow-white hair and beard made his robes appear emptily floating, his stooped form seeming moments from being swept away by mountain winds. Suddenly, Xize understood—the old man stood one foot in the grave, hence his bullying of children, likely from envy of their youth.
As these malicious thoughts swirled, raspy laughter cut through the silence. "Have you forgotten basic courtesy?"
Clenching his fists, Xize bowed his head. "Honored Magister, how may I serve you?"
"Memorize the pharmacopoeia within three days." Claude swept past him with a cold snort. "Fail the assessment, and don't blame me for harsh punishment."
Before the words faded, the elder had transformed into a streak of light shooting toward the mountains. Xize stood stunned, unable to believe he'd been summoned just for this petty harassment.
Returning to his room, he snatched the "Illustrated Herbarium" in frustration, attempting to tear it apart. Yet the pages, tanned from magical beast hide, remained utterly unscathed despite his efforts. Fingertips tracing the yellowish pages, he felt the weight of ages emanating from the faded text.
When his eyes fell upon the compiler's name, his breath caught—Elvis Atwood.
The fog of memory suddenly cleared. One day in his father's study, he'd glimpsed this name in some ancient tome. He'd dismissed it as legend back then, even idly wondering about royalties in other worlds.
The Elf Prince.
This was no coincidence. Xize's fingers trembled slightly. Continental histories never recorded races beyond humans, but if elves truly existed, did that mean other legends held truth? The reclusive forest-dwelling elves, the masterfully crafty dwarves, even the dragons soaring through heavens—the world's truths were slowly unveiling themselves.
As he leafed through the tome—likely a surviving relic of the Elves—Xize finally found solid ground for his long-held suspicions. Those legendary races that had vanished from official histories might not be mere fabrications of bards' tales. The Elves and dragon slayers so frequently depicted in epic fantasies could very well carry buried truths obscured by time.
He had never accepted the mainstream belief that the continent's civilization spanned only a thousand years. Historical records grew foggy beyond that mark, as if cleanly severed at a certain point—almost as though some force had deliberately erased traces of a glorious past. What intrigued him more was the origin of magic: if civilization was truly so young, why did this power, so deeply intertwined with humanity, show no signs of evolution?
His fingers traced the intricate patterns on the pages—a compendium of magical flora. When his gaze fell upon an illustration of a yellowish-green flower, a knowing smile touched his lips. Kassala grass, described as growing in mixed coniferous forests of southern highlands, its roots resembling human veins—but since when did the southern plains have mountains?
Such contradictions riddled the book. Clearly, whoever altered history had overlooked revising geographical records. By cross-referencing plant habitats with terrain descriptions, he deduced the tome's origin dated back two millennia.
Trembling with excitement, he clutched the ancient volume close. Only when twilight soaked through the window lattice did he realize he'd finished barely a third. The dense descriptions of plant properties glowed vividly in his mind—more surprisingly, they'd already etched themselves into his memory. An unintended success, considering he'd accidentally completed Claude's assigned reading.
Before dawn, the youth wrapped his cloak tight and rushed from his lodgings. The northern wind cut like blades, heralding a harsh winter. Pausing beneath a tavern's signboard, he called up toward a second-floor window: "Moses!"
The window creaked open, revealing a drowsy traveler.
"Want to learn smithing?" Xize leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
Moses frowned, turning to leave, but froze at the next words: "You have connections?"
"Naturally." The youth tilted his chin up. "But first, prove your background."
"Moses Carlos," he replied after a hesitant pause. "The current king is my grandfather."
"Ah." A glint flashed in Xize's eyes. "Then you must be familiar with... the concept of apprenticeship by proxy?"
Moses trailed closely behind Xize, his noble gait belying the unease beneath. When he spoke for the twelfth time, his voice carried aristocratic restraint: "Are you certain this plan will work?"
Xize kept walking, flipping a gold coin in his palm as sunlight danced across its surface. "Asking twelve times won't change the answer. The real question is—can you pay on time?"
"A trifling sum." Moses' lips curved with superiority. "Shall we make it a thousand gold coins? Barely pocket change for me."
"Hope you won't regret it." Xize flicked the coin, sending it arcing through the air. "Even a single coin can stir up storms."
Moses chuckled. "Even doubling daily, what could thirty days possibly amount to? Surely not more than a thousand gold?" His emerald eyes sparkled with amusement as if hearing the world's most absurd joke.
"How about a contract?" Xize pocketed the coin, his expression turning serious.
"By my family's honor!" Moses' fair face flushed crimson, as if deeply insulted.
Xize leaned in, lowering his voice. "Aren't you afraid I might break our agreement?"
Moses stiffened, his gilded hair trembling in the morning light. "Then we'll make it a Soulbound Pact!"
Watching the boy's unclouded smile, a sly glint flashed in Xize's eyes. Youth truly was wonderful—one could be sold off and still shine so brightly.
The coin soared again, casting prismatic shimmers in the dawn. Xize caught it neatly, feeling the metal's coolness. Wealth accumulation was so simple—just find the right fool, and riches would follow in the blink of an eye.
"This isn't the way to the blacksmith's." Moses halted, surveying the unfamiliar streets.