A month later, I was finally able to use four types of spells. They weren't combat spells, but rather simple, everyday magic—zero-tier spells meant to make life easier. The first was Blue Thread, a thin stream of water that I could control for cleaning and drinking. The second was a fire spell called Candle Breath, which produced a small, steady flame perfect for lighting fireplaces or candles. The third was Earth Sculpture, another zero-tier spell that allowed me to manipulate small amounts of earth, shaping dirt and stone with limited precision. Lastly, I managed to learn a tier-one spell—Fireball. Unlike the others, it had offensive potential, allowing me to launch a small ball of fire forward, though my control and power were still lacking.
During my lessons, I also learned about bloodline magic. It is a unique and rare form of magic that is tightly controlled by noble families. Unlike regular magic, bloodline abilities must be inherited—you have to be born with both the talent and the capacity to use them. However, not every child in those families inherits such power. Sometimes, even within the same household, only one child will awaken it.
"If the second child inherits the ability but the first does not," my master explained, "then the second child becomes the heir."
"Man… I can't quite understand it, but that's kind of cruel for the first child," I said.
"In this world, magic comes before everything," my master replied calmly. "A family may be wealthy, but without powerful mages in their bloodline, they are reduced to second-class nobles."
He paused for a moment before continuing. "If no strong mages are born into a family, they look outside through marriage. For example, if a noble daughter lacks magical talent, she is often married off. Her husband may then become the heir, inheriting everything—even over her, despite her being the legitimate successor. In some cases, she is treated as nothing more than a mistress in her own home."
I was stunned by how harsh and unfair that sounded. "Why do nobles care so much about having mages in their family?" I asked.
He looked at me with a faint, almost tired sadness in his eyes. "In this country, most mages are nobles or extremely wealthy merchants. To common people, they are akin to gods—powerful and untouchable. Nobles care deeply about their family name and legacy. To preserve it, they will do anything… even sell their own children."
"I see…" I muttered, trying to process that. "Wait, you said most mages are nobles. What about commoners? Can they become mages too?"
"Most commoners cannot," he said. "They lack mana cores. A small number do awaken them, but even then, they rarely get the chance to learn. It's difficult to enter academies or find someone willing to teach them. Some are captured by nobles and forced to produce magical heirs. Others turn to crime or become corrupted mages. There are very few good outcomes for a magically gifted commoner."
Man… I really got lucky finding my master and becoming connected to the marquis's family.
Wait a second… is the marquis planning to use me for his daughter?
The thought lingered in my mind longer than I liked. In this world, people didn't do things out of kindness alone—especially nobles. Everything had a purpose, a calculation behind it. If I truly had potential, then I wasn't just a student… I was an asset.
Thinking it through, I realized it didn't have to be one-sided. If the marquis wanted to use me, then I could use him as well. His name, his protection, his influence—those could all serve as a shield while I searched for a way back home. It wasn't ideal, but it was better than being powerless.
"Alright, that's it for today's lesson," my master said. "I'll be upstairs for dinner tonight."
"Okay. We're running low on salt, flour, and eggs," I replied.
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a handful of coins. "This should be more than enough. If you find anything you like, don't hesitate to buy it."
After thanking him, I left the house and began walking toward the market street. As I walked, my thoughts returned to my mana veins.
They're not helping me channel magic as smoothly as they should…
There was a subtle resistance whenever I cast a spell. It wasn't enough to stop me, but it was noticeable—like something was blocking the natural flow. When I first used mana, it felt smoother, more instinctive. Now, it felt constrained.
Maybe I'm doing something wrong… or maybe my body hasn't fully adapted yet.
The market was as lively as ever. Vendors shouted over one another, advertising their goods, while people moved in crowded waves through the narrow streets. I kept a firm grip on my wallet. Pickpockets were common here—I would know, since I used to be one.
After gathering what I needed, I managed to haggle the price down from eight copper coins to six. Not a huge victory, but still satisfying. Every coin mattered. In the end, I saved enough to keep one silver and four copper coins tucked away.
As I continued walking, something caught my eye—a run-down shop tucked between two busier stalls.
That looks like a blacksmith shop…
Curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped inside. The moment I did, a strong stench of alcohol hit me. I immediately covered my nose.
"Ugh… is this really a blacksmith shop? I barely see anything on display."
The place was a mess. Tools were scattered around, some rusting, others broken. The forge in the corner looked cold, as if it hadn't been used in days—maybe longer. Dust had settled over most surfaces, giving the shop a neglected, almost abandoned feeling.
A large man suddenly stirred from the floor and pushed himself up unsteadily. "What did you say, brat?" he slurred, his voice thick with alcohol.
He was clearly drunk.
"There's barely anything here, old man," I said bluntly. "Aren't you supposed to display weapons to advertise your work? Or are you just… washed up?"
He leaned heavily against the wall, struggling to keep his balance. His clothes were stained, and his beard was unkempt, but there was something about him that didn't quite match the image of a useless drunk. His hands—large, scarred, and calloused—spoke of years of hard work.
I looked around again. There wasn't much left. Just a worn dagger and a chipped axe sat on a dusty table.
Still, something felt off.
Despite the state of the shop, there was a faint trace of heat lingering in the air, as if the forge had once burned with intensity. The walls bore marks of heavy use—scorch marks, dents, and scratches that told a story of skill and effort long abandoned.
This place hadn't always been like this.
And that man… he hadn't always been like this either.
For a moment, I hesitated. Then I stepped closer to the dagger, picking it up and examining its balance.
Maybe there was more here than met the eye.