The relentless string of disappointments had left Earl Raymond utterly disillusioned with his eldest son. Yet, far from despair, this only spurred him to greater efforts—though not toward the boy he now deemed a hopeless fool devoid of talent. Instead, the earl redirected his vigor to his beautiful countess.
Since this son was a lost cause, unfit to inherit the family legacy or carry the Rowling name to new heights, the solution was clear: he must sire another heir.
For a full month, the earl toiled tirelessly in his matrimonial duties, and soon enough, his efforts bore fruit. The countess was with child once more. By the following winter, Earl Raymond's wish was granted—a second son was born.
While the entire earl's manor buzzed with celebration, Du Wei remained cloistered in his room, poring over the rare tomes on herbology he had painstakingly gathered. Thank the heavens, Mage Clark's parting words had not been in vain. Guided by the resigned thought, "What worse could happen?" the earl had permitted his "idiot" son to pursue the study of magical herbology.
For months, the earl spared no thought for this disappointing child. Even the countess, once so tender toward Du Wei, was preoccupied with her pregnancy and impending delivery, her visits growing sparse.
The day after his mother gave birth to his younger brother, Du Wei was summoned by a servant to the earl's chambers to see his frail, post-partum mother and meet the newborn. The earl's satisfaction was palpable. This new son embodied the Rowling tradition—his cries were lusty and strong, his tiny frame promising future vigor.
Earl Raymond barely glanced at Du Wei. A perfunctory greeting, then a dismissive wave sent him away. The countess, though her heart ached for her firstborn, was distracted by the infant's wails, her attention torn.
Du Wei slipped out quietly, the earl's contented laughter and the baby's cries echoing behind him. Though his heart had long grown numb, a faint pang of loss stirred within. He chided himself inwardly: Don't dwell on it. You don't belong to this world. He's not your father… and she… she's not…
The memory of that stormy night, when this gentle woman had knelt all night before the goddess's statue for his sake, sparked a bitter ache. Shaking his head fiercely, Du Wei banished the thought.
To drown out the turmoil, he threw himself into his studies.
Truth be told, Du Wei harbored a burning fascination for this world's magic. Despite Mage Clark's verdict that he lacked any gift, a stubborn spark of hope persisted. The earl's manor, befitting its status, housed a wealth of books, many on the arcane arts. Devouring these, Du Wei was forced to concede Clark's judgment. No matter how long he meditated—hours, even a full day and night—he sensed no trace of magical essence. Once, he even dozed off mid-attempt.
Undeterred, Du Wei shifted his focus to what Clark had called magical herbology. After all, it was a branch of magic, and an herbologist was, technically, a mage of sorts. But inquiries among the manor's servants revealed the bitter truth about this "mage of sorts" and its standing in the world.
On paper, herbologists were recognized by the Magic Union as mages, their status codified in black and white. Yet in the hearts of the people, the sentiment was clear: This counts as a mage?
Herbology, as the name suggested, was the art of concocting magical potions. Du Wei likened it to the medical field of his former world: true mages were akin to skilled physicians, diagnosing and wielding power, while herbologists were mere assistants—nurses at best. Both worked in the same sphere, but the gulf in respect and reward was vast.
Yet, the more Du Wei delved into herbology, the more it captivated him. It was a realm both strange and exhilarating.
Imagine blending the eye of a Dolok leaping frog with purple wormwood to brew a potion that could rob a man of speech, rendering him mute for hours. Or grinding the saliva of a Stardust blade dragon with clover and the liver of a Keke triangular scale fish to create a powder that turned flesh to stone. Or drying and pulverizing fire-scale grass into a dust that, when scattered, ignited flames in an instant.
These ingredients—leaping frogs, blade dragons, triangular scale fish, fire-scale grass—nine out of ten were utterly alien to Du Wei. But their potential thrilled him.
It was, he realized, a system not unlike the chemistry of his old world.
Potions to silence, to petrify, to set ablaze… wasn't that intriguing?
In Du Wei's mind, an herbologist was less a healer and more a master of poisons, crafting harm rather than cures. Unbeknownst to him, this mirrored the world's view of herbologists: poison masters.
Days flowed into weeks, then years. Du Wei remained engrossed in herbology, though his knowledge stayed confined to the pages of books. The exotic materials described—rare plants and beast parts—were not stocked even in the grand Rowling manor. Such resources were found only in the laboratories of true mages, where herbologists typically served as assistants, fetching and mixing for their betters.
And who would dare supply a mere child, even an earl's son, with such perilous substances?
Six years passed. In that time, Du Wei's younger brother, named Gabri, grew strong and lively. Unlike the "idiot" Du Wei, Gabri was the quintessential Rowling heir—robust, spirited, and brimming with promise. At six, he began training under Alpha, the manor's swordmaster, who spoke highly of the boy's potential. The entire household hailed Gabri as the future of the Rowling family.
Earl Raymond lavished attention on his second son, planning to teach him the Rowling family's secret martial techniques—battle aura—when he turned eight. Servants adored him, Alpha praised him, and even a hired tutor deemed him gifted. Word spread that the earl, eyeing the family's future, had arranged a betrothal for the six-year-old prodigy, securing an alliance with a prominent imperial house.
Meanwhile, Du Wei, the eldest son, faded into obscurity.
The earl rarely saw him, sometimes not for months. Only the countess still sought him out, stealing moments to visit her forgotten son. At times, in the dead of night, she would slip into his room barefoot, clad in her nightgown, and cradle her pitiable child, singing lullabies to lull him to sleep.
In those moments, Du Wei's hardened heart softened. Often, he feigned sleep to escape the urge to weep, her sighs and tears mingling with his dreams as he drifted off.
At last, when Du Wei was thirteen and Gabri seven, the earl made his final decree.
Come the new year, he would personally train Gabri in the family's martial arts, passing down the Rowling legacy. He had also sealed a betrothal with the imperial finance minister, binding their houses in a political alliance. Gabri's future bride, the minister's nine-year-old granddaughter, would cement their families' power.
Whispers revealed a twist: this match had originally been intended for Du Wei. But deemed a talentless fool, he was stripped of the honor, and the alliance's weight now rested on his "genius" brother, Gabri.
As for Du Wei…
On a moonless, windswept night, he was bundled into a carriage and sent from the imperial capital. His destination: the Rowling family's holdings in Kurt Province, in the empire's south. The official word was that "Master Du Wei, nearing adulthood at thirteen, will oversee the family's estates."
But Du Wei knew the truth: he had been exiled.
Oversee estates? A hollow jest. The family's true power lay in the capital, the empire's heart. The southern lands—fields, farmers, taxes—required only stewards to manage. In truth, Du Wei was bound for a remote ancestral manor in Kurt Province, where he would live out his days, forbidden to return to the capital without the earl's summons.
The title of "Rowling heir" had slipped from Du Wei's grasp, bestowed instead upon his seven-year-old brother, the radiant Gabri.