Departure

When the morning light pierced the mist over Wushan Town, Linley's luggage was already packed.

Wharton stood at the manor gate, watching his older brother tie the small bundle to his back. It contained only a few changes of clothes, the thirty gold coins Hogg had pressed on him, and his letter of admission to the Ernst Institute. He traveled light, yet carried the hope of a clan rekindled after a century of silence.

"Are you sure you don't need me to see you into town?" Hogg asked for the third time. His voice was as steady as ever, but Wharton could hear a faint tremor in it.

Linley shook his head, his short black hair swaying gently in the morning breeze. "Father, Uncle Hillman is already waiting for me at the training grounds. We've traveled the road from here to Fenlai City before."

He was referring to their journey three months ago for the magic test. Back then, he had set out with trepidation. This time, he was leaving with confidence.

Bebe poked his head out from Linley's shoulder, his tiny black eyes darting about before settling on Wharton. He squeaked twice, sending his thoughts to Linley through their Equal Contract. Linley passed them on: "Bebe says he'll keep an eye on me, so you don't have to worry."

Wharton smiled and reached out to stroke Bebe's head, but the little fellow nimbly pulled back, leaving him with nothing but a smug look.

"He still won't let me touch him." Wharton withdrew his hand, unbothered.

"He's wary of strangers," Linley explained, but Wharton knew that wasn't it. A Shadowmouse's intelligence far surpassed that of ordinary magical beasts, and Bebe could sense something unusual about him-not hostility, but an aura somehow similar to Linley's and yet different. The fluctuations of the Dragonblood Bloodline, even before it awakened, were perceptible to sensitive creatures.

Hogg crouched down to meet Linley's eyes. It was a rare gesture for the stern patriarch of the Baruch Clan. He gripped Linley's shoulders and lowered his voice. "Remember, focus on your training at the institute. The Baruch name can't bring you glory yet, but at the very least, don't bring shame upon it."

"I will, Father."

"And one more thing." Hogg paused. "If... if you run into a problem you can't solve, write home."

Linley nodded firmly.

Butler Hiri emerged from the house holding an oilpaper package. "Young master, something to eat on the road. I baked these meat pies last night. They're still warm."

Linley took it and tucked it into a side pocket of his bundle. He looked at his father, then the butler, and finally his younger brother.

"I'm leaving."

There were no more words of farewell. The men of the Baruch Clan didn't seem very good at them.

Wharton watched Linley turn and walk down the gravel road toward the training grounds on the eastern side of town. Bebe lay on his shoulder, his little claws gripping Linley's collar, and glanced back. The morning light stretched their shadows all the way to Wharton's feet.

Hogg stayed where he was, standing there long after Linley disappeared around the bend.

"Father," Wharton said softly.

Hogg seemed to start out of a daze and looked down at him. "Hmm?"

"Big brother will become very strong."

"...I know."

"I will too."

Hogg was taken aback. Such words should have sounded ridiculous coming from a three-and-a-half-year-old, but there was a certainty in Wharton's eyes beyond his years. It wasn't a child's idle boast, but a decision he had made long ago.

"Build a solid foundation first," Hogg said at last. He turned toward the house. "It's time for your reading lesson."

But the reading lesson didn't go as planned that day.

After lunch, Doehring Cowart's phantom appeared in Wharton's room. The white-bearded old man floated in midair, the hem of his blue robe stirring without a breeze. His body was somewhat more solid than it had been three months ago—Linley's nurturing Magical Power was slowly repairing his damaged soul.

"Linley leaves tomorrow," Doehring Cowart said without preamble. "I'll be going with him to the Ernst Institute."

Wharton nodded. He had expected this.

"There isn't much I can teach you about Fire Element magic." The old magus sounded apologetic. "I'm not a Fire Element Saint Magus. If I insisted on instructing you, I'd only lead you astray. However..."

He held out a finger, and a point of milky-white light gathered at its tip and drifted toward Wharton's forehead. Wharton didn't dodge, allowing the light to sink into his skin.

A flood of information poured into his mind.

It wasn't specific magic incantations or profound meditation techniques, but a framework—the overall framework of the magic system. The nature of elemental affinity, the patterns governing the growth of spiritual power, the principles of compressing and purifying Magical Power, and the crucial milestones from the first level through the ninth and even the Saint-level realm... This was a "map of understanding" distilled from Doehring Cowart's five thousand years of experience.

"This is the last gift I can give you," the old magus said. "You must walk the road yourself, but at least you'll know where the signposts are."

Wharton closed his eyes and spent a moment absorbing it. When he opened them again, a light flashed in his eyes.

"Thank you, Grandpa Doehring."

"Don't thank me too soon." Doehring Cowart stroked his beard. "I left a 'backdoor.' Most of this knowledge is sealed and will gradually be unlocked as your strength improves. Encountering advanced theory too early does more harm than good."

That makes sense, Wharton thought. It was like a programmer's access levels: he could only access code his current level permitted him to view.

"Any other questions? While I'm still here," the old magus asked.

Wharton thought for a moment. "Will the Dragonblood Bloodline conflict with magic training?"

"Good question." Doehring Cowart gave him an appreciative look. "You'll need to balance the time you devote to each. Warrior training tempers the body and requires a great deal of physical exercise; magic training requires meditation and accumulation, which demand absolute quiet and concentration. There are only twenty-four hours in a day, and you're only"-he paused-"three and a half."

Wharton fell silent.

"So my advice is this: until you're six, focus on basic warrior training, with magic as a supplement. After your bloodline concentration is tested, adjust the balance according to the results." As the old magus finished speaking, his figure began to fade. "Linley is calling me. Remember, Wharton, the greatest power isn't talent. It's knowing what you want and being willing to pay the price for it."

With those words, the phantom vanished.

Wharton was alone in the room.

The next day, Wharton began to exercise.

At the first hint of morning light, he was already doing his third set of squats in a corner of the small courtyard. The panel hovered at the edge of his vision, its pale blue data flickering in real time:

[Physical training: squats]

Sets: 3/5

Repetitions: 15/20

Heart rate: 142

Muscle load: 67% (safe range)

Recommendation: rest for 90 seconds after this set and drink water

Sweat dripped from his forehead and splashed in little spots on the dirt. A three-and-a-half-year-old's body really was frail; twenty squats were enough to make his thighs tremble. But the panel's data didn't lie-his muscle fibers rebuilt themselves after tearing, growing stronger each time.

At seven sharp, he finished training. Wharton leaned against the wall, panting, and pulled up the day's summary:

[Age: 3 years, 5 months, 22 days]

[Basic physical fitness index: 1.17 (average for age: 1.00)]

[Note: trained for 14 consecutive days, average daily increase of 1.2%, positive trend]

"Young Master Wharton, it's time for breakfast," Butler Hiri called from the corridor.

"Coming."

Breakfast was wheat porridge, a fried egg, and milk. Hogg was already seated at the head of the table, a yellowed account book open before him-the Baruch Clan's meager assets required careful budgeting.

"Good morning, Father." Wharton climbed onto his chair.

Hogg looked up at him. "There's sweat on your face. Have you been exercising again?"

"Mm."

"Don't overdo it. Don't hurt yourself."

Simple conversations like this took place day after day. Hogg wasn't a father who was good at expressing concern, but Wharton could read the worry in his gaze when it occasionally lingered. This man, who had lost his wife, couldn't bear to lose anything else.

Halfway through his morning reading lesson, Wharton made a new request.

"Grandpa Hiri, I want to read every book in the family library about magical beasts, medicinal herbs, and minerals."

The old butler was taken aback. "Those books are quite difficult, young master. At your age, you might..."

"I can take my time," Wharton insisted. "I'll write down any characters I don't know and ask you."

Hiri looked at Hogg. The patriarch was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Take him."

The Baruch Clan's library was a rarely opened room on the western side of the manor. When they pushed the door open, dust danced in the sunlight. Bookshelves lined the walls, most of them empty-after the clan's decline, its valuable books had long since been sold, leaving only miscellaneous volumes deemed "useless."

But it was precisely these "useless" books that contained what Wharton needed.

Illustrated Guide to the Continent's Magical Beasts (Incomplete), A Record of Common Herbs of the Yulan Continent, Basic Mineral Identification... There weren't many books, fewer than thirty in all, and most were incomplete. But for Wharton, they were enough.

He pulled out a book on magical beasts and opened it to find a familiar illustration on the first page: a Velocidragon, the Seventh-Level Magical Beast that had destroyed the town three months ago.

"Grandpa Hiri," Wharton said, pointing to the text beneath the illustration, "it says here that a Velocidragon's scales can be made into high-grade armor. Who takes the scales after it dies?"

Hiri was dusting the bookshelves. At the question, he looked back. "Usually the expert who killed it takes them, or a nearby power collects them. Why?"

"I was wondering," Wharton said softly, "if I meet a powerful magical beast and kill it someday, what should I do with the materials?"

The old butler laughed. "You're thinking far ahead, young master. But it's true that warriors need to know how to make use of their spoils. We'll teach you that later."

Wharton said no more and lowered his head to continue reading. But his thoughts had already drifted far away.

In the original story, Linley's gains in the Mountain Range of Magical Beasts were an important source of resources for him early on. Magicite cores, hides, rare herbs... They represented more than just gold coins; they also aided his training.

And he knew where those valuable things were.

So he needed to establish a "source of knowledge." These family books would serve as cover: someday, when he "accidentally" discovered a treasure, he could point to a page in a book and say, "I saw a similar account here."

He needed to lay the groundwork early.

During his afternoon meditation, Wharton encountered his first bottleneck.

He sat cross-legged on his bed and tried to sense the fire elements around him, using the basic meditation method Doehring Cowart had taught him. He had succeeded once three months ago, refining his first wisp of Fire Element Magical Power. But progress had been slow since then.

Today was particularly difficult.

His consciousness sank into his spiritual world, but instead of lively red motes of light, he saw a sluggish haze. The fire elements seemed to be there, yet also seemed separated from him by something, making them difficult to catch and even harder to guide.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty.

A fine sweat beaded on his forehead. It wasn't physical exertion, but mental fatigue.

The panel didn't respond-it could only record the results, not intervene in the process.

Wharton opened his eyes and took a deep breath. Something was wrong with his method.

Doehring Cowart had taught him a general meditation method suited to people with any elemental affinity. But everyone's soul had different characteristics, and the same method could vary enormously in effectiveness. The old magus had said that at higher levels, every magus developed a meditation method of their own.

Then why should I wait until I reach a higher level?

Wharton closed his eyes again. This time, instead of forcibly "grabbing" the fire elements, he tried to "feel" their presence.

Heat.

That was the first sensation. There were subtle fluctuations of heat in the air, from the embers in the fireplace, the sunlight outside the window, and even the body heat produced by his own flowing blood.

Restlessness.

The second sensation. Fire elements weren't steady like earth elements. They were lively, leaping about, unruly. Forcing them to settle down and line up neatly was like making wild horses march in formation-it could be done, but it was inefficient.

What if... I went along with them instead?

Wharton adjusted his breathing. Instead of trying to control them, he "invited" them. He adjusted the fluctuations of his spiritual power to a frequency close to that of the fire elements, imitating their leaping rhythm.

At first, it felt awkward. Human thought instinctively sought order, while this imitation required him to deliberately break that order.

But gradually, a kind of resonance arose.

In his spiritual world, the red motes began to approach of their own accord. Rather than being pulled, they gathered as if they had found companions. One wisp, then two... Faint streams of warmth flowed into his body through invisible channels, gathering and compressing in his chest and abdomen.

[Fire Element Magical Power: accumulating]

Current reserves: 11.7 (standard benchmark for a first-level magus: 100)

Accumulation rate: 0.8/hour (previous rate: 0.3/hour)

Note: meditation efficiency detected to have increased by 267%. Maintaining current state recommended

The instant the panel's data appeared, Wharton nearly slipped out of his meditative state.

He steadied his mind and continued.

When the three o'clock bells rang out from town, Wharton ended his meditation. The warmth in his chest and abdomen had grown strong enough for him to feel it clearly, like a small, gentle flame rising and falling slightly with his breathing.

[Fire Element Magical Power reserves: 14.9]

Two hours of meditation had increased his reserves by 3.2. At this rate, with two hours a day, reaching the standard reserves of a first-level magus would take... about 53 days.

But this wasn't the limit. As his spiritual power grew and his technique improved, the rate would increase further.

Wharton got out of bed and stretched his stiff limbs. Outside the window came the sound of Hiri trimming the plants. Everything was as peaceful as ever.

No one knew that this three-and-a-half-year-old had just independently improved his training method for the first time.

The training grounds were deserted in the evening-the guards had finished their drills and gone home for dinner. Wharton stood at the edge of the grounds and began the Energy Gathering Stance.

This was the most basic stance exercise for warriors. Linley had practiced it for two years, while he had been practicing it properly for less than a month. But the panel's [Observation Learning] function had allowed him to skip much of the trial and error-the system had recorded and analyzed the details of Linley's movements, the key points of exerting force, and his breathing rhythm.

Wharton assumed the stance and adjusted his breathing.

As he inhaled, he imagined power rising from the soles of his feet, traveling up his calves, thighs, and spine.

As he exhaled, the power sank into his dantian, repeating the cycle.

His movements were very precise. At least, that was the panel's assessment:

[Energy Gathering Stance: 72% mastery]

Movement precision: 89%

Breathing coordination: 78%

Energy circulation efficiency: 61%

Recommendation: extend the duration of each session, raising the target from 15 minutes to 20 minutes

Wharton closed his eyes and started timing himself.

The first five minutes were easy. His muscles were adjusting to the stance, and his heartbeat was steady.

At ten minutes, his thighs began to ache. Beads of sweat slid down his temples.

At fifteen minutes, he reached his original target. But he didn't stop.

At seventeen minutes, his calves began to tremble. His breathing grew uneven, and he forced himself to steady it.

Nineteen minutes and thirty seconds. His vision began to darken, a sign of oxygen deprivation.

Twenty minutes exactly.

Wharton exhaled sharply and relaxed his body. A wave of soreness and numbness swept over him, and he stumbled, catching himself on a nearby wooden post before he fell.

But the panel's data looked beautiful:

[Energy Gathering Stance: duration 20 minutes, personal record broken]

Peak muscle load: 81% (near limit but safe)

Energy circulation efficiency increased to: 64%

[Physical fitness index] increased by 0.03

Worth it.

Wharton wiped the sweat from his face and prepared to return to the house. As he turned, however, he saw Hogg standing at the entrance to the training grounds. He didn't know how long his father had been watching.

Father and son looked at each other.

"You push yourself even harder than Linley did back then." Hogg walked over, his voice low in the fading light.

Wharton didn't know what to say, so he just stood there.

Hogg crouched down and examined his legs. He pressed his fingers against a calf muscle with moderate force. "Does this hurt?"

"It's a little sore."

"What about your knees?"

"They don't hurt."

Hogg nodded and stood up. "Moderate training is good, but you need to know your limits. The men of the Baruch Clan aren't afraid of hardship, but they shouldn't get hurt for no reason, either."

"I understand, Father."

"Do you really?" Hogg looked at him. "You're only three and a half, Wharton. When Linley was your age, he was still chasing butterflies around the courtyard."

Wharton was silent for a moment. "Brother went to the Ernst Institute when he was eight."

The words caught Hogg off guard.

After a long while, he reached out and gently patted Wharton on the shoulder. "Go back. It's time for dinner."

As he turned to leave, Hogg spoke again, his voice so soft that he seemed to be talking to himself as much as to Wharton:

"You brothers will both go further than I ever did."

At dinner, Hiri brought up some news the town had received.

"A merchant caravan from Fenlai City said the Ernst Institute has finished enrolling its new students. There are several geniuses this year. The most impressive is a kid with super-level talent in both the Earth Element and Wind Element, and he's only eight."

Wharton lowered his head and drank his soup without a word.

Hogg cut the meat on his plate. "And?"

"And? The whole royal capital is buzzing, of course. I heard the dean of the Ernst Institute personally received him, and the Radiant Church sent people too. The caravan people made it sound incredible. They said the kid was bound to become a Saint-level Magus someday."

"Eat." Hogg cut him off.

Hiri fell silent, looking awkward.

Wharton knew his father didn't want these rumors to affect him-whether by putting pressure on him or prompting comparisons that shouldn't be made.

But Wharton felt perfectly calm. His brother's glory was the Baruch family's glory, and that was a good thing. His own path had only just begun.

After dinner, Wharton returned to his room.