Mage.
My daughter's question lingered in the air, simple in its shape, yet stirring something long buried deep within my mind. Whether I had ever seen a mage.
The memory shifted, faint yet sharp, like a thorn that had never truly been pulled free. I chose silence for a moment.
The past, to me, was like a delicate snare waiting for carelessness. Once caught, one would keep looking back, drawn slowly until they sank into the shadows of their own memories.
And yet, the past could also be a treasured heirloom. It preserved fragments of experience, honed instinct, and guided each step taken in the present and the days yet to come.
My first life had taught me something that had never faded. To forget the wounds, and to walk forward without lingering too long behind.
Mages were troublesome beings.
To the weak, to those without the strength to resist, the existence of mages felt like injustice given form.
Within this Empire, their standing surpassed even that of knights.
The comparison was simple.
To the Empire, and to any realm, a single mage held greater worth than several knights of equal strength.
Mages carried miracles, and with them, ruin.
While knights, or those who walked the path of the Auror, brought only one certainty.
Destruction.
There was no miracle within it.
An officially recognized mage of the magic tower, even at the lowest rank, stood nearly equal to a minor noble.
How extraordinary they were.
How vast the privileges that followed such a title.
James drew a long breath.
His steps remained steady, calm and measured. At his side, Irene and their children walked with him, glancing from time to time in quiet anticipation of the answer he had yet to give.
They had covered part of the road. In the distance, the modest homes of Green Pine Village began to emerge, standing close as though leaning upon one another.
Wild grasses that grew between the stones along the roadside swayed gently, brushed by the tender wind, as if offering a quiet farewell to those who passed.
A safe journey, my lord, my lady, young masters. Return in safety.
The trees lining the main road creaked softly. Their slender branches brushed together, leaves trembling in the rhythm of the wind, as though whispering a subdued welcome for their return.
Each step was set with care. He kept the pace steady, ensuring his wife and children moved in comfort, untouched by fatigue.
"Mage."
The word finally left him, low and composed.
He turned, looking at his family.
Irene walked at the center, surrounded by them all, as though she were the heart they protected without ever needing to speak it aloud. Charlotte remained by her mother's side, while Ian walked beside him. Their youngest slept soundly within their mother's warm embrace.
He continued.
The memory of mages unfolded slowly within his mind, like an old chest long kept shut.
His voice flowed gently, yet clear enough to fill the silence between them.
"They are people born with privilege. It is not something attained through training alone, but something bound to them from the very beginning of their lives."
"Privilege, Father?" the girl asked, her voice brimming with curiosity.
"Indeed, my daughter. A mage is not something forged. They are born as such. Just as you and your brother carry strength within your blood from me. Only…"
I fell silent.
The next words lingered at the edge of my tongue.
Charlotte waited, her gaze unwavering. Irene did the same, while Ian remained quiet, listening without interruption. Especially Irene, whose curiosity had long taken root, growing ever since she had witnessed things that defied ordinary reason.
She had seen the miracles of temple priests, felt the presence of the holy knights of the Light God's order within the village.
But this was different.
Mages existed in another realm entirely.
They could create something from nothing, shaping form out of emptiness. Water appearing in the air without warning, as though the world itself bent to their will.
With such power, a land should have no fear of drought.
Yet all of it came with a price.
The cost of employing a mage was immense.
Few mages bound themselves formally to a kingdom or an empire. Most chose to belong to the magic towers. Others lived freely, teaching in academies, or wandering without ties.
The rest…
Were born of noble blood.
As for dark mages.
They were little more than a gathering of those who took pride in defiance, fleeing from the order that had been built, only to force the world to conform to their own desires.
This world might not be wholly peaceful.
Yet casting it into deeper chaos, under the pretense of creating peace, had never made it a better place.
My previous world had been the most valuable lesson of all.
A land once calm, untouched by great waves, absent of striking conflict. Yet that tranquility had proven fragile. It turned into embers, burning brighter, scattering across every corner of the realm.
Wherever those embers fell, their heat gave birth to conflict.
And conflict… always demanded its due.
The innocent.
Those who had never asked to be involved.
Those who never even understood the reason behind the blood that was spilled.
What did they gain?
Prosperity?
Justice?
No.
What remained was nothing but chaos.
The peace they glorified never truly came. What endured was an endless sea of suffering, creeping forward without haste, swallowing anyone too fragile to withstand its pull.
My first life had shown it all with merciless clarity.
And because of that, James instilled one principle within his children.
Never force your thoughts upon others.
Those you impose upon are not puppets without will. They think. They weigh. They are capable of shaping ideas that may never once cross your own mind.
A single word, misunderstood…
Was enough to ignite disaster.
A disaster that spread far and wide, carrying the mournful cries of helpless souls beneath the same sky.
His steps remained steady, yet his thoughts had already wandered far beyond.
Then he continued.
"You, Ian, and Ryan… you have inherited the strength of my bloodline. That much is certain. There is no need to doubt it."
The words flowed evenly, as though each had been carefully measured before being spoken.
"But mages are different. It is as if fate itself chooses them. At random. And it is only known when that power awakens from within."
He paused briefly.
The next words formed with quiet deliberation.
"And…"
Charlotte gave a small nod. Ian did the same, though more reserved. Their understanding was not yet complete, yet the seed had already been planted.
"The awakening of a mage… is not so different from the power within your eyes. Emotion plays a great role. What they feel, what they believe, shapes that power… and the path they choose to walk."
A faint curve touched his lips.
His gaze shifted, settling upon the figure beside him.
Irene.
"Where that path leads… whether it follows the truth shaped by the order of this world, or turns toward the winding road called darkness, seeking to tear down what already stands."
The wind passed gently, carrying a brief silence between them.
"That depends on their choice. Fate is not an absolute end. If one chooses darkness, then it is their own decision. Even then, they still have the chance to understand what is right, even after walking that path."
His voice remained calm, yet carried an unyielding firmness.
"But if they remain there… then fate can no longer be used as an excuse. It is their will."
"I see, Father."
Charlotte absorbed it in her own way. She held on to what felt important, letting the rest settle quietly within her.
Her thoughts were not tangled.
Simple, yet enough.
Ian was much the same. He showed little reaction, merely storing the words in a quiet corner of his memory, waiting for the day he could understand them more deeply.
Irene remained silent.
She took in every sentence spoken by her husband, slowly, as though piecing together fragments that had long been scattered without form.
It was impossible for her not to feel curiosity.
She had never truly stood before someone who could be called a mage. Knights, even mercenaries, still belonged within the bounds she could grasp.
She had seen them before.
In a town under the rule of a baron, when she had visited with her aunt.
She also remembered when the village chief had hired a group of mercenaries to deal with a great bear in the mountains nearby.
All of that had been real.
Yet still, it was different.
An Auror, to her, was merely a human whose physical strength surpassed ordinary limits. Remarkable, yet still comprehensible.
Not like a mage.
James' gaze fell upon her.
Their eyes met.
For a fleeting moment, that memory passed between them.
That night.
The same gaze, yet so different in its nature.
Once, it had been wild and burning, as though ready to seize and consume without restraint.
Now…
Gentle.
Warm.
Filled with a quiet affection, like the surface of a lake untouched by wind.
She asked her question with a curiosity she could scarcely conceal.
"Dark mages… are they born from wicked emotions and choose that path?"
"Not entirely. A mage is still human. Dissatisfaction while bound within an established order can drive them to betray it and walk that road. There are also those who feel cast aside, or betrayed by a world that was meant to protect them."
"…"
"There are many paths that lead to darkness. Revenge is only one of them. Mages are no different."
"So in the end… it is humans who are dangerous, whether they are mages or not?"
"You are right. But not only humans. Elves, dwarves, and other thinking beings are no exception. Calamity comes and goes, depending on how they think… and how they choose to act afterward."
The man's gaze drifted forward, as though piercing through the distant horizon, before he continued, his tone deepening.
"In the end, power depends on who holds it. No matter how great the force one possesses, or how strong the body that bears it may be, the mind and the soul can collapse beneath the storm of emotions within."
"…"
"How ironic. That noble strength, in truth, can become a walking disaster. Like a king of hell shaped by the world itself… to pass judgment upon the frail and helpless who dwell within it."
Irene let out a soft laugh. A faint smile blossomed upon her lips, delicate yet alluring, like a flower opening beneath the glow of dusk.
"You know so many things, my husband. Even the way you see the world is so gentle… and deep. I begin to doubt your tale of being nothing more than a simple farmer fleeing a natural disaster."
James cleared his throat, a hint of awkwardness surfacing. That old lie stirred once more, slipping between words he had not managed to restrain. He did not deny it, instead adding lightly,
"Besides… what kind of farmer possesses the wealth that I do? I imagine you have long held your suspicions, and never truly believed it."
"You are right. But I do not mind. After all, you are wealthy, my husband. Would it not be foolish of me not to consider my own future as well?"
James' steps faltered for the briefest moment. He turned, studying his wife's face as though to confirm those words had truly left her lips.
"I rather like your honesty…"
His gaze then fell upon their children, who had been listening with quiet attention.
"Remember this, my children. Take after your mother. She chose your father for his wealth… and that was a wise decision."
A soft laugh escaped him, light and unburdened, as though he deliberately ignored the sharp look Irene cast his way, her green eyes gleaming. Her hair swayed gently in the wind, enhancing a charm that was difficult to ignore.
Irene huffed quietly before responding, this time directing her words clearly toward their children.
"Do not listen to your father. I have said this before, a person's character comes first. Wealth is only second. You understand, do you not?"
Ian looked up, meeting his mother's gaze with warmth and obedience.
"Yes, Mother."
On the other side, the elder sister ran ahead, overtaking them. She stopped several steps before them, then turned to face her parents and siblings. Her arms crossed over her chest, her posture feigning pride, though her eyes flickered toward her mother with a trace of mischief.
"I understand, Mother. But I agree with Father. If Father were poor, we would all suffer. You as well… and us. So is wealth not still the first? And…"
Irene's expression shifted, yet the girl had not finished. Instead, she pressed on, adding a small spark to the fire she had deliberately lit, a habit she repeated often, much like that very morning when she had cheerfully teased her mother.
"I, Charlotte, of course also agree with Mother. Character is number one. But wealth is important too. So, Mother…"
She lowered her gaze, looking at the neatly laid gray stones beneath her feet. Her fingers intertwined, moving with a restless yet earnest courage.
"Unless Father is willing to give me a portion of his wealth, I will fully agree with you. Character comes first. But without that… I will live in hardship, Mother. Would you bear to see your beautiful daughter live in poverty?"
Irene fell silent. Her expression darkened, caught between irritation and laughter she could barely contain. She wondered inwardly whether the girl had grown bolder because of her recent gentleness, or if she had always harbored such thoughts from the very beginning.
The dramatic tone at the end softened her heart just a little… though her annoyance remained.
"You are merely dreaming. Your father is my husband. Everything he owns is mine. So, little girl… grow up, and then marry."
The young girl pursed her lips, a clear pout revealing her dissatisfaction.
"I refuse."
She quickly ran to her father's side, hiding behind the figure she had always considered the safest place, her rejection delivered without hesitation.
"You see that, James. The more you indulge her, the bigger her head grows… and her thoughts grow ever more mischievous."
That remark was not wrong. In truth, if his wife knew what had happened that morning, her surprise might be far greater. The little girl had not merely intended to strike her father during training…
She had truly done so, even if only against a clone.
A gentle smile formed on his face, offered to ease his wife's irritation. His daughter was indeed troublesome at times. Not enough to provoke true anger, yet if left unchecked, such mischief might one day grow beyond control.
He still remembered it vividly.
How his wife had never once left the bedside when their daughter lay unconscious. That worry had been so real, so profound, as though the entire world had ceased to turn, waiting only for a single, fragile breath from their child.
Every glance from his wife had been fixed upon the girl.
It was as though I had vanished from her notice entirely, replaced by that small figure they loved so dearly.
A mother's love… vast enough to drown all else beneath its tide.
James drew a slow breath, then lowered his gaze to his daughter. This time, his voice carried firmness, a boundary that could not be crossed.
"Charlotte, apologize to your mother."
"Yes, Father."
She lowered her head. His gaze left no room for defiance. Her steps felt heavy as she walked toward her mother.
When she stood before her, she looked up. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, yet within them lingered a small, honest courage.
"I'm sorry, Mother… Charlotte did not mean it that way."
Her mother's expression softened, the earlier irritation fading without a trace, replaced by a warmth that gently embraced once more.
"It is alright, my dear. I am not angry. What I said earlier was only in jest."
That gentle hand reached out, brushing through her hair with tender care. The touch soothed her, easing the unrest that had stirred within her small chest.
She returned to her father's side. Yet before settling into silence, she cast a glance back at her mother, a trace of mischief still flickering in her eyes.
"But, Mother… Father's wealth, a portion of it is mine as well, is it not?"
Irene's brow arched, then narrowed slightly, a faint smile forming, no less cunning.
"That belongs to me."
"Hah… how stingy."
A light laugh escaped James once more. Mother and daughter truly never yielded to one another, as though their small disputes were part of the rhythm of daily life.
"Very well, let us continue."
"Yes, Father."
The reply came swiftly from the son. He had grown accustomed to the exchange between his mother and elder sister.
His wife simply gave a small nod. His daughter offered no further retort, her gaze fixed ahead, drifting into thoughts no one else could guess.
The family resumed their walk.
Light conversation flowed now and then, like gentle ripples upon still water, softening the air around them. Their daughter would occasionally chime in, while the eldest son listened more often than he spoke.
As they neared their destination, James' gaze caught sight of a middle-aged man in the distance. He sat beneath the shade of a broad tree, his body at ease, savoring the quiet day as though time itself moved more slowly around him.
A gentle breeze stirred, setting the leaves above him dancing, casting a peaceful shade.
James lifted his hand, pointing toward the tree by the roadside.
"Look there. The man who once shared his hunt with you."
"Uncle Peter!"
The cry burst forth with bright excitement. She even pointed in the same direction, her eyes shining as though she had found something long awaited.
A smile bloomed upon Irene's lips at the sight. For so long, she had carried a quiet worry that their daughter might struggle to mingle with the villagers, or choose to keep her distance like a lone bird soaring across a vast sky.
But that concern slowly faded.
Her daughter's expression now was alive, filled with the urge to run ahead and greet him.
Only the eldest son remained composed. A faint smile rested upon his lips, understanding how swiftly his sister's mood could shift, like the passing wind.
Her shy nature meant she needed time to open herself.
And both her parents understood that well.
They had never forced her.
They simply offered space… watched over her… and guided her with patient hands.
As for their youngest, the small child slept soundly within their mother's embrace, nestled in warmth, undisturbed by the quiet bustle around them.
The Wieser family drew closer. The warmth they carried was unmistakable, though rarely shown before many eyes. Their family name had long been etched into every corner of the village, whispered through countless tales.
Some spoke of them as mysterious.
Others added stories not entirely to be believed.
Lord Wieser's wealth was well known. Yet strangely, no true misfortune had ever befallen them, even as rumors continued to pass from one mouth to another.
As though something unseen…
Protected.
Watched.
Shielded the family's honor from the ill intentions of the outside world that sought to disturb it.
Until one day…
Those whispers and rumors would no longer remain mere stories.
But would take shape as truth.