Chapter 6: Enlightenment

There may only be a difference between never crossing the line and crossing it countless times.

When Bowen coaxed his grandfather—the count—into giving him a magical pouch, he couldn’t help but admit: it was wonderful!

“Grandfather, what’s this?” Bowen asked, his voice sweet and childlike.

“Oh, this is a magic satchel. Watch,” his grandfather replied kindly. He took a sword from a nearby guard, slipped it into the pouch, and weighed it in his hand.

“Wow! That’s amazing!” Bowen’s eyes sparkled as he took the pouch. It wasn’t heavy at all, surprisingly light. His small hand reached inside and rummaged around, discovering the interior was quite spacious.

“This little bag is something I made a long time ago, back when I was just learning enchantment. It holds about a cubic meter—enough for some toys.”

“So this is Grandfather’s first creation. It must have great sentimental value. Maybe I shouldn’t take it,” Bowen said, pushing the pouch back.

The count laughed merrily. “Don’t worry, it’s not of much use to me now. Consider it a gift for my little Bowen,” he said, giving Bowen a kiss on the cheek.

Viscount Gordon, watching from the side, couldn’t help but curl his lip. He knew exactly what kind of rascal this child was. He remembered his own childhood—always at odds with the count, never getting any benefits, just plenty of beatings.

Bowen glanced at Viscount Gordon but paid him no mind, continuing to examine the magic satchel. Though called a satchel, it was only the size of two palms, made of some unknown leather, likely enchanted with a permanent stretching spell. When Bowen’s small hand reached in, it felt even smaller inside.

Fascinating!

He started putting books in and then taking them out to play.

The count watched him with fondness as he packed and unpacked his things. Suddenly, Bowen looked up at him hopefully. “Grandfather, would you teach me how to make this? It’s so magical!”

Bowen had been building up to this question for a long time.

The count hesitated, then lifted Bowen into his arms. “Making magical items is very difficult. First, you have to become an arcanist.”

“I want to be an arcanist too!”

The count laughed. “Becoming an arcanist is a lot of hard work. You must have a thirst for knowledge, endure loneliness to study, and learn many things. You won’t have much time to play.”

He spoke to Bowen seriously.

Bowen seemed moved by his words and fell silent for a moment.

Viscount Gordon watched nervously. He’d been through a similar moment as a child. Without thinking, he blurted out, “You should become a powerful knight—be a hero! Marry the most beautiful woman!”

Such soul-searching questions were often accompanied by mind magic, compelling the subject to speak their deepest desires truthfully.

The count was exasperated.

But it worked. Even though the count later forced Gordon to practice magic and meditation, it never amounted to anything. Instead, it created tension between father and son!

Gordon eventually became a knight—though only a mediocre one…

Under the influence of mind magic, Bowen, though cautious, found the defensive breathing techniques he’d learned were ineffective against this targeted spell.

“I want to be an arcanist—the greatest archmage in history!” Bowen’s voice, childish yet determined, rang out in the room.

Gordon smiled.

The count took a deep breath, then produced a white crystal, pressing it to Bowen’s forehead. “Close your eyes, child. Focus. Place your attention on your forehead.”

Hearing the tremor in his grandfather’s voice, Bowen guessed something important was about to happen. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

Time seemed to pass both quickly and slowly in the silence. Bowen could hear the breathing of both his grandfather and father.

Suddenly, he heard Gordon exclaim in surprise. Bowen opened his eyes immediately, just catching a fleeting red light at the edge of his vision.

The count looked both regretful and delighted; his descendant had the talent for spellcasting. The talent was modest—perhaps only enough for a beginner or intermediate rank.

No matter. As long as the talent was there, entry into the art was possible. Arcanists didn’t require extraordinary talent; magic itself was the greatest miracle, and there were many ways to improve elemental affinity!

Bowen felt a heaviness in his head, like the exhaustion after an all-nighter. He realized the test had drained his mental energy.

The count advised him to rest early that night.

As Bowen left the room, he heard his grandfather’s joyful laughter. Bowen’s lips curled into a smile—he was thrilled.

He’d done it!

That night, Bowen slept deeply and dreamed. In his dream, he became a great mage, with dragons and monsters bowing at his feet. In the end, he opened a portal and returned to Earth.

He ordered a feast at the finest restaurant: shredded pork in garlic sauce, braised ribs, braised tofu, Dongpo pork knuckle, layered pork belly…

Staring at the table full of dishes, Bowen swallowed hungrily, picking up his chopsticks…

When he awoke, he found himself still in bed, drool soaking his pillow.

He sighed, noticing dawn was near, and sat up to practice his breathing techniques—a habit he’d cultivated, believing that persistence brings transformation.

After breakfast, a guard escorted Bowen to a spacious chamber.

The count was drawing intricate patterns on the floor. Bowen didn’t interrupt; he watched quietly.

Even Bowen, inexperienced as he was, could tell this was a massive magic circle—clearly some ritual magic.

The count held a strange pen, its soft tip etching runes into the hard stone with ease. Magical ingredients were placed at key points.

Bowen knew his grandfather possessed profound magical craftsmanship.

In the world of Toril, alchemists only emerged during the late Netheril period. For now, magical items were exceedingly rare and precious—each one a treasure.

Before the Nether Scrolls, humans obtained magical items solely from the elves. Only in the past twenty years had humans begun crafting their own, such as Netheril’s earliest magical item—the Ian Stone—the very stone that floated above the count’s head.

Before the advent of permanent magic, creating a magical item required the enchanter to pour their own power into it, resulting in a permanent enchantment. But the magic spent was gone forever, and that loss meant a sacrifice of life force.

Life force was lifespan.

Yes—enchantment exacted a price. Each magical item contained a portion of its maker’s life. That’s why every artifact was so precious. Even the ancient Iolum family possessed few magical items.

That was why Viscount Gordon, watching the count gift two such treasures to a child, was slightly envious.

Every skilled enchanter aged faster than their peers. Enchanting was a high art—without generations of accumulated knowledge, who could afford to waste their life experimenting? Not even long-lived elves would do so.

Only high-level spellcasters or legends would dabble in this field, though magical items did possess unique power.

The entire room was covered in dense arcane symbols. Clearly, the count had begun preparing the moment Bowen left yesterday, working through the night.

After the final stroke, the count exhaled in relief, a smile on his face.

Bowen was deeply moved. He hurried over to express his gratitude, again charming his grandfather into a good mood.

The count handed him a red orb and pointed to a circular spot at the center of the magic circle.

“Sit there with the Elemental Heart against your chest. I will cast [Comprehension] on you. Today, you will receive your ‘initiation’ and begin your journey as an arcanist.”

“Initiation?” Bowen asked, puzzled.

Aren’t spellcasters supposed to meditate and attune to the Weave? When did ‘initiation’ become a thing? Wasn’t that a druidic ritual?

“This is the unique inheritance of the Iolum family. My grandfather—your great-grandfather—was once a powerful druid. This initiation circle is adapted from the druidic [Enlightenment] ritual. It can grant the recipient the power of an intermediate or even advanced magic apprentice!”

“All right, get inside. Gordon, guard the door—let no one interrupt the ceremony.”

Only then did Bowen notice his father and the captain of the knights were present, with many knights and guards stationed at the entrance.

“Yes, sir!” Gordon replied, moving to stand with the captain at the door.

Clearly, this was a solemn ritual. Bowen, clutching the Elemental Heart, settled cross-legged in the circle, pressing the orb to his chest.

The count began to chant quietly.

Bowen felt a wondrous power descend upon his mind—as if awakened, his thoughts became clearer and faster, like a mind in overdrive.

Comprehension!

He immediately recognized the spell—a magic that heightened the subject’s intellect.

“Concentrate. Don’t get distracted,” came the count’s voice.

Bowen shut his eyes, picturing himself atop a mountain, surrounded by white clouds—a visualization technique from his past life, useful for clearing the mind.

The count began a new incantation, this time aloud. Bowen could make it out clearly—the language was melodious and crisp, like birdsong in the forest.

Elvish.

…