Chapter 4: The Mage

As Gao De stepped outside, a barely concealed malice rose in his gaze.

“Before absolute power, clever tricks are useless—even trying to maneuver is exhausting.”

He recalled his recent encounter with Ceda the Mage: besides an indescribable humiliation, he felt a lingering Jiaoxing of barely escaping death: “I got lucky this time, but it was pure fortune.”

Gao De did not know the exact effect of the spell Ceda had used—the one that looked like thorns sprouting from his palm—but he could guess that if he had lied, Ceda would have sensed it immediately.

Fortunately, Ceda’s question had been: “Do you truly feel no change in your body?”—in fact, since waking, he had noticed no physical abnormality whatsoever.

Almost certainly, all the potion’s effects were borne by the previous owner of this body.

It seems the old man’s potion targets the mind, Gao De deduced.

Otherwise, he, having inherited this body, should have felt at least some physical discomfort.

The petite Ceda had imposed upon Gao De a pressure greater than any he had ever felt in either his past or present life.

He nervously touched the spot on his neck where Ceda had gripped him.

There was no wound there.

Yet the unbearable pain he had felt moments before had been real.

Such is the wonder of magic.

Even if it was merely a trick.

The feeling of life and death resting in another’s whim was unbearable.

Though Ceda was merely a stranger Gao De had met once, his hatred for him now reached its peak.

Gao De knew well—he was far too weak to stand against Ceda.

The man was powerful; Gao De must endure, biding his time, searching for an opening.

But how much time did he have left?

Gao De did not know he had only one month left.

But he understood: Ceda valued that unknown potion immensely. Despite failing to brew it successfully for years, he kept trying again and again—proof of his obsession.

Now that Ceda saw Gao De survived the trial, he would surely believe the potion was nearly perfected.

Therefore, Ceda would attempt to brew it again in short order.

And the next test subject would almost certainly be Gao De.

After all, he was the only one so far who had survived the trial.

“Gao De, you’re finally back!” As Gao De returned to his room, Amy rushed up to him. “What did Ceda want with you?”

Gao De told the truth: “Ceda asked me how I felt after taking the potion.”

“I knew it! Ceda’s potion has finally succeeded—we’re in for good times!” Amy beamed.

“Maybe,” Gao De did not shatter Amy’s illusion.

“By the way, I just ran into Yilan.” He paused, as if idly mentioning it.

“Did he come to bother you again?” Amy’s expression darkened, tense.

“Something like that. But nothing serious—he just gave me verbal trouble; he can’t actually hurt me.” Gao De shrugged.

“That’s not how you should see it!” Amy cared far more than Gao De did. “Yilan has served Ceda the longest—he can whisper things into Ceda’s ear. I heard it was because of him that you were chosen to test the potion.”

“Really? I’ve never wronged him. Why would he go this far?” Gao De feigned disbelief.

“He’s petty and jealous. He’s always resented your talent, and now you ignore him—he won’t forget that.”

“Besides, you’ve picked up potion-making so quickly. Yilan must fear that if this continues, Ceda will favor you more and more—until you replace him.”

“For now, you can’t challenge him. Better to pretend to be friendly.” Amy advised gently.

Gao De’s gaze sharpened slightly. After a moment, he said: “I understand.”

Amy assumed Gao De had taken his advice and sighed in relief: “Good.”

“Does Yilan handle deliveries for Ceda?” Gao De asked casually.

“Yes—he’s got the easiest job. He only needs to deliver once every four or five days, and he gets to go into town. Unlike us, stuck in the herb garden all day, worn out.” Amy sounded bitter.

“I see.” Gao De’s eyes drifted, lost in thought.

Later, he subtly drew out more information about the herb garden from Amy, gaining a basic understanding of his surroundings.

“Oh no!” Amy slapped his forehead, suddenly remembering. “We’ve got to hurry to dinner—wait too long, there’ll be nothing left!”

He grabbed Gao De and pulled him toward the dining hall, adding: “I waited for you—I missed mealtime on purpose.”

It was dinnertime.

In Ceda’s herb garden, meals were served three times daily: morning, noon, and evening.

Excluding the potion trials, for most apprentices—mostly beggars by origin—this place was almost paradise. Most common folk ate only two meals a day: morning and evening.

Under Amy’s guidance, Gao De reached the apprentices’ dining hall.

Calling it a dining hall was generous—it was only slightly larger than their bedrooms, with three square wooden tables, each holding a candlestick with three candles, plus a fireplace.

They arrived late; only two or three apprentices remained.

Amy nervously glanced at the large platter beside the fireplace. Seeing two long black loaves still left, he exhaled in relief.

Beside the platter stood a clay pot of stew.

Gao De, who had eaten nothing since waking except water, now felt hungry. He followed Amy over.

A stack of utensils lay beside the platter. Gao De took a small plate, placed one loaf on it, then picked up a small bowl and turned to the stew pot.

The stew was pea soup made from a local variety of pea.

After ladling himself a full bowl of pea soup, Gao De and Amy sat at an empty table.

Black rye bread + pea soup.

This was the daily fare of the apprentices.

Meat? Forget it.

And even calling it “bread” was misleading—it was nothing like the bread Gao De knew.

These black rye loaves contained no yeast, so they were baked rock-hard, tasted awful, and were nearly impossible to chew.

Of course, it had one advantage.

Cheap.

A four-pound (about 1.8 kg) loaf cost only six round copper coins.

Gao De calculated mentally: roughly 3.5 round copper coins per kilogram.

The cheapest meat cost seven round copper coins per pound (about 450 grams).

The value of black rye bread was obvious.

Amy sliced the long loaf with a knife, laid the pieces on his plate, then spooned pea soup over them, and shoved the softened bread into his mouth.

This was the correct way to eat black rye bread: soaking it in soup softened it slightly; otherwise, dry, it would choke you. Many simply soaked the slices directly in the soup.

Gao De copied Amy: he sliced the loaf, soaked the pieces in pea soup, then ate them.

The next moment, he frowned.

Even prepared, the food’s unpalatability surpassed his expectations.

The pea soup had no seasoning whatsoever. The soaked bread was only slightly softer—its taste, if described, was barely better than wood shavings.

To Gao De, this food was horrifying. But to the other apprentices, having even this was already a luxury.

Yet Gao De had no choice. Hunger forced him to frown and swallow the bread.

Now he had another reason to defy Ceda.

—If he had to eat this every day, what difference was there from death? After dinner came the apprentices’ cultivation time.

The apprentices in the herb garden followed a strict daily routine.

By day, they worked; by night, they trained for three to four fixed hours.

Back in his room, Amy quickly entered his cultivation state.

Gao De, meanwhile, reviewed the Mage’s cultivation methods in his mind.

A Mage’s two most vital foundational metrics: mana and mental strength.

Mana was the energy consumed when casting spells—the so-called “mana bar”—the foundation of all a Mage’s power.

Mental strength governed spell control and spell learning, determining one’s casting precision, stability in consecutive casting, spell variation, and even the speed of learning new spells. Both mana and mental strength grew only through daily, tedious, repetitive practice—no shortcuts, no laziness allowed.

“Begin guidance: first, enter a calm state…”

The method for cultivating mana was called Guidance; the method for mental strength was called Meditation.

They were separate, could not be practiced simultaneously, and one generally trained Guidance first, then Meditation.

Because practicing Guidance consumed mental strength.

Once mental strength dropped below sixty percent, continuing Guidance became inefficient.

To Gao De, this made sense: like studying—the first few hours yield the best results; later, when mentally exhausted, efficiency drops.

Practicing Meditation after Guidance not only restored depleted mental strength quickly but also enhanced its growth.

In Gao De’s view, it was like exercise: repeatedly “consuming stamina—restoring stamina” better stimulated stamina growth.

(End of Chapter)