Mage Clark surveyed the boy's reaction with a flicker of approval, his gaze settling on the crystal orb cradled in his hands. "Come, let's see your talent. I promised your father I'd guide you, but only if you possess the spark of magic. Otherwise…"
Du Wei raised his head, his voice steady. "What must I do?"
"Place your hands on the crystal orb. Grip it tightly." Clark's tone reverted to its habitual chill. "Then stir your heart—think of something, anything. Joy, rage, it matters not. Unleash your emotions, whatever they may be. Show me your potential."
Du Wei stepped forward in silence, his hands brushing the orb's surface. It was cool to the touch, smooth as polished jade, yet it seemed to hum faintly beneath his fingers. He gripped it firmly.
"Focus your mind," Clark's stern voice echoed beside him. "Now… think. Dwell on whatever burns brightest in your memory—anger, bliss, anything."
Du Wei closed his eyes, his thoughts diving into the depths of recollection…
Clark watched as the crystal orb began to shimmer, faint glimmers coalescing within its core. At first, the light was dim, like a candle flickering in a storm, but it grew steadily, brightening with each passing heartbeat. A spark of surprise tugged at the mage's lips. He glanced at the orb, then at the boy before him, letting out a soft, "Hmph."
Yet Du Wei felt no triumph. A tide of emotion surged within him, memories of a life left behind flooding his mind. He had been torn from one world to another without warning, his ideals, dreams, and pursuits reduced to ash. The longer he lingered in this strange land, the more its ways seeped into him, and the sharper memories of his past grew hazy. It was natural, he knew—memory faded with time—but the realization gnawed at him, a quiet sorrow that clawed at his heart.
Am I living in the dream of a butterfly, or did I merely dream of being one?
His breath quickened, the orb's strange power amplifying the storm within him. His heart pounded, each beat like a hammer against his ribs, his chest tightening as if squeezed by an unseen force. Just as the pressure threatened to overwhelm him, a cold hand pressed against his brow. A wave of icy clarity surged through him, dousing the fever in his mind.
"Enough, my child." Clark's voice was as frigid as ever, but there was a shift in his words—no longer "boy," but "my child." It was a subtle sign of approval, a rare crack in the mage's lofty demeanor. "Most impressive… truly remarkable. You're scarcely six years old, yet your magical aptitude rivals that of a novice apprentice. Your spirit force is nearly double that of an ordinary man. For one so young… I am pleased."
Spirit force? Du Wei's lips curved into a wry, inward smile. That must be the remnant of my past life, carrying the weight of two existences in one soul.
Clark tucked the crystal orb away, gesturing for Du Wei to sit. "Now for the second test of your talent. I'll teach you the simplest of magics—a basic incantation. You must meditate, feel the pulse of the world's vital energy, and tell me what you sense."
Du Wei committed the mage's words to memory, the ancient, cryptic syllables of the incantation resonating with a mysterious cadence.
"Focus your heart and mind," Clark said gravely. "This is the crucible. Many with greater gifts than yours have faltered here, their paths to magic severed."
"How should I proceed?" Du Wei's brow furrowed.
"Do nothing but this: recite the incantation silently and let your heart wander. Feel the world around you—its warmth, its chill, its whispers. Anything at all. It's not difficult."
Du Wei obeyed. He settled onto the floor, instinctively crossing his legs in a meditative pose that piqued Clark's curiosity. The mage drew an hourglass from his gray robes, setting it beside them to mark the time. Sand began to trickle, a soft hiss in the quiet room.
Du Wei sat motionless, the minutes stretching on. At last, he opened his eyes, hesitation flickering in his gaze. "Mage Clark…"
"Well?" Clark leaned forward. "What did you sense?"
"I…" Du Wei's voice faltered, tinged with sheepish honesty. "I felt my stomach rumbling."
Silence fell, heavy as a stone.
Clark's composure wavered, a shadow of disappointment crossing his face. Clearly, while this boy possessed remarkable magical aptitude, he lacked the subtle heart needed to commune with the world's essence.
Raw magical power mattered, true, but it was not everything. Spirit force could be honed through diligent meditation over time; a strong innate foundation merely granted a head start. But the true mark of a mage—the ability to sense the natural flow of magical elements—was the gate that barred the unworthy.
Clark had trained apprentices before, some with less raw talent than Du Wei, yet among them were those who shone. One, during this very test, had stood after mere moments, a spark dancing at his fingertips—a fire mage in the making. Another had heard the wind's song in the sky, destined for wind magic. His finest student, in this same trial, had caused water in a nearby vase to rise and form a fist-sized orb, suspended in defiance of nature.
Those destined for magic always revealed some sign—a flicker, a whisper, a tremor in the air. But this Du Wei, despite his potent spirit force, seemed utterly blind to the world's hidden currents. He was, in the end, unsuited to wield true magic.
"A pity," Clark mused, a trace of regret stirring within him. "Such a waste of the spirit force the heavens bestowed upon him. With that foundation, he could have begun strides ahead of others."
Yet the mage's pride quickly smothered his fleeting sympathy. What use is raw strength without finesse? A brute may have power, but he'll never outmatch a leopard's grace.
When Clark emerged from the chamber, his face shadowed with gloom, Earl Raymond, waiting anxiously outside, knew the verdict before a word was spoken.
"As I feared…" the earl murmured.
"I'm sorry, Earl Raymond," Clark said, his tone clipped. "Your son lacks the gift to become a mage. The heavens have not chosen him. I suggest you find another path for him, one better suited to his talents." He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "Forgive my candor… but in my thirty-six years of magical study, I've never encountered a case quite like your son's…"
The mage trailed off, sighing. Without so much as a farewell, he turned to leave, but after a few steps, he paused, as if struck by a stray thought. "If you're truly set on him pursuing magic… perhaps consider the path of magical alchemy. A potion master, at least, is still a mage of sorts."
With that, Clark scattered a pinch of golden powder, and his form vanished in a flare of crimson flame.
Earl Raymond stood in silence, his face darkening like a storm cloud. Du Wei stepped out from the chamber, his gaze meeting his father's. For a moment, they held each other's eyes, the air thick with unspoken weight. The earl let out a heavy sigh, his disappointment plain as day.
"In my thirty-six years, I've never encountered a case quite like your son's…"
Like what? A fool? A dullard? A talentless wretch?
Despair settled into the earl's heart.
Yet Clark's unfinished words had sown a misunderstanding. The mage had meant to say: a boy with such potent magical aptitude yet utterly deaf to the natural elements—a paradox of gifts and flaws. But his pride had left the thought incomplete, and the earl drew his own grim conclusion: My son is truly an idiot.
This misconception wasn't Clark's alone to bear. The vague words of Scholar Rosia before him, cloaked in tact or restraint, had also played their part. Together, they had cast a shadow over Du Wei, branding him something he was not.
For Du Wei was no fool. Far from it. His spirit force, stronger than most, lent him a sharpness of mind—vitality, memory, and wit beyond his peers. Yet now, a cruel irony had draped him in the mantle of "idiot."
First, a master swordsman had deemed him unfit for martial arts. Then, a learned scholar had stormed off in frustration. And now, a renowned mage had left in disappointment. Together, these verdicts fueled whispers across the empire's noble circles. The Rowling House's "little idiot" became a curiosity, a cautionary tale. Even parents scolding their own wayward children would say, "No matter how foolish you are, you can't be worse than that Rowling boy, can you?"
Thus, Du Wei was etched into legend—not as a prodigy, but as a foil, a shadow against which others measured their worth.
And what lay ahead for this young lord? That question haunted every soul in the Rowling House… save one.
Du Wei himself.