The Theoretical Teacher, Sanderson

Dean seemed to have learned a great deal, but this was Ice Shaping Magic. It was too different from Magic Hand for him to draw much from it.

This was Dean's first time attending the white-haired old man's class. Before today, he had known very little about him.

Dean now understood Ice Shaping Magic fairly well, but it could only help him so much with Magic Hand.

Dean found himself looking toward the old man as he walked away.

Sanderson... I think that's his name. Dean made a momentous decision: he would ask this second-level mage to become his mentor!

A mentor held the highest place in people's hearts, whether they were mages, priests, warriors, or members of any other profession.

Generally, a mentor had no more than five or six disciples. Some had only one or two.

As for a disciple, until he surpassed his mentor, he generally had only one. A mentor guided him through life and taught him how to survive.

While the other apprentices were still lost in thought, Dean slipped out of the classroom without disturbing anyone.

As far as Dean knew, Teacher Sanderson had no disciples—not even one in name only.

That was not because Sanderson demanded a once-in-a-century genius. It was because he belonged to the theoretical school and was weak in practice.

Dean had long known that. Theoretical knowledge was exactly what he wanted.

Despite his cane, Teacher Sanderson walked quickly. By the time Dean stepped out of the classroom, he was already out of sight.

But Dean knew where Sanderson lived. It was no secret. In a town this tiny, it was easy enough to find the home of a teacher at its only academy, Bru Academy, just by asking around.

Sanderson lived alone in a small courtyard, with a magical servant to look after him in his old age.

That was all Dean knew. Stories about the teacher were remarkably scarce. Sanderson seemed very old—at least in his nineties.

Dean did not stop for a moment. He headed straight for Sanderson's courtyard.

He knew Sanderson had arrived home ahead of him. Sanderson, however, had no idea that a little kid named Dean had been following him.

At last, Dean reached the courtyard gate. It stood open, and he could see a tall, slender figure sweeping inside.

This was Sanderson's magical servant, a rather unusual one. No one else at Bru Magic Academy had one like it.

It was not that magical servants were precious, or that creating one required especially demanding conditions. Sanderson's servant was simply distinctive.

Dean looked at it curiously, but from where he stood, he could only see its back.

It was a solitary figure sweeping with a broom. A coat covered its body, so Dean could make out nothing else.

Creating a magical servant was among the harder forms of beginner magic to master. The difficulty increased with the servant's intended purpose; Dean had heard that the most difficult kind rivaled advanced magic.

Those were only scraps Dean had picked up. He had read about magical servants after hearing that Teacher Sanderson owned one.

Of course, Dean did not dare dream of learning magic as valuable as that yet.

"Ahem. Is Teacher Sanderson here?" Dean asked from the gate, clutching his shoddy magic wand in both hands.

The servant froze, set down its broom, and slowly turned around.

"May I ask what brings you here, honored guest?" It had a rough male voice, but its body was skin and bones—no, it was literally made of wood.

The magical servant was a humanoid assembled from pieces of wood of various sizes.

"Uh... hello, sir. I'm an apprentice at Bru Magic Academy, and I'd like to see Teacher Sanderson," Dean said, straightening his back. Though he had never been taught formal etiquette, he did his best to appear polite.

The servant did not answer. After a pause, it picked up its broom and resumed sweeping. Almost at the same moment, the door of the little house at the center of the courtyard opened.

His cane tapping against the paving stones, Sanderson stepped into the courtyard and looked at Dean in surprise.

"You're..." Sanderson scratched at the little white hair he had left, then remembered. "Ah, you little fellow. Were you satisfied with today's lesson?"

Sanderson spoke with a warm smile. Visitors to his quiet courtyard were rare; sometimes a whole month passed without one.

So Sanderson was pleased to see Little Dean come calling—provided the boy had not brought him trouble.

"I was satisfied, but there's still something I'm missing." Dean imitated Sanderson, scratching his own prickly short hair.

"I'm Dean, one of your students. I learned a lot from your lesson, but I still need..." Dean paused there.

He knew he was no prodigy, nor did he have any special aptitude. After a year as a magic apprentice, he still had no mentor, because anyone he asked would most likely turn him down.

Even now, after giving it a great deal of thought and deciding Teacher Sanderson was the mentor best suited to him, Dean worried that he would be refused.

"I bought a spellbook from the library, and I need a teacher's guidance with the magic inside..." Dean rushed on. "Also, I heard you don't have any disciples yet..."

Dean tensed at once, like a man awaiting a verdict that might condemn him to death.

"Mm. I understand." Sanderson nodded, but said nothing more. He stood there thinking quietly.

He vaguely remembered Dean. The apprentice had never stood out, and his apparent aptitude for magic was ordinary at best. Among several hundred apprentices, he was somewhere in the lower half, easily overlooked.

A student like this would suit me well, Sanderson thought. No wonder the little fellow came to me.

"Little fellow, are you certain you want me—Sanderson, a teacher of the theoretical school—as your mentor?" Sanderson was still smiling, but Dean heard the gravity in his voice.

"Your student Dean greets you, Mentor Sanderson." Dean accepted without a moment's hesitation and bowed to him.

Dean's face remained calm, but his heart was pounding. He had held himself steady for so long that it felt as though his heart had nearly stopped beating.