After breakfast, Conrad and Theo appeared to clear the table in the gazebo. They moved with the silent efficiency of ghosts, the only sound being the delicate, rhythmic clinking of fine porcelain as they gathered the remains of the lavish meal.

  Lord Ainsworth, however, raised a hand, stopping Conrad. "Not you, Conrad," he commanded curtly. "You will take the boy to Sir Crownfield."

  Conrad bowed slightly. Lady Ainsworth offered me a small, encouraging smile. "Good luck, Grim. And convey my greetings to Sir Crownfield."

  I quickly bowed my head as well. "Lady Ainsworth, Lord Ainsworth, thank you again for breakfast. And… Lord Ainsworth? I have one request, if I may."

  The Baron looked momentarily startled, clearly not expecting me to speak again. He visibly bristled, looking like he was about to launch into another tirade, but then seemed to remember his wife's presence. He took a slow breath and ordered flatly, "Speak."

  I lifted my head and looked directly at Lord Ainsworth. "I would like someone, at some point, to teach me the necessary etiquette for dealing with the nobility," I stated calmly. "So that I do not insult you further with my ignorance, nor bring shame upon you or your house when I speak with other members of the nobility."

  To my surprise, Lord Ainsworth actually looked astonished. He stammered for a second, "W-well… that's… I hadn't expected that from you. Ehm. Yes, yes, of course. Consider it arranged. Now go! Don't keep Sir Crownfield waiting."

  He waved me away dismissively, though his expression held slightly less… annoyance and disgust than before. Maybe.

  With a final bow of my head, I turned to Conrad. He had already set off without a word, his brisk pace forcing me to hurry to follow him.

  Interestingly, Conrad didn't lead me back into the manor as I expected. Instead, he walked around the side of the building. As we rounded the corner, Pip, who had been following us, suddenly darted off, disappearing silently into a thick hedge along the garden wall.

  Just like that, gone. Okay? Guess she knows her way around now? Or has her own business to attend to.

  We continued walking along a neat gravel path that circled the main house. Ahead, set within a large, grassy expanse, I saw a high stone wall with a sturdy set of double doors built into it. Conrad walked steadily across the grass, his steps even and purposeful, until he reached the doors and pushed one open.

  Ah! Now it all made sense. It was some kind of walled training ground.

  Inside, I saw men, and even a few women, dressed in light armor or training gear, practicing diligently on a large, sandy clearing within the walls. Some sparred with wooden swords, others practiced archery against targets, a few drilled with spears.

  And sitting calmly in the shade beneath a covered wooden pavilion built against the far wall, seemingly oblivious to the activity around him, was him.

  The man from the audience hall yesterday, the one cloaked in black.

  Today, he wore dark, practical clothing of pants and a tunic. He had short brown hair and what looked like a three-week-old stubble that hadn't quite committed to being a beard. He held a thick book in one hand, reading intently, looking the very picture of scholarly calm.

  Conrad walked purposefully around the edge of the sandy training pitch and stepped into the shade of the pavilion. Following closely on his heels, I stopped just behind him as he came to a halt about two meters before the seated man and bowed respectfully. Nervous, I quickly mimicked the gesture.

  "Sir Crownfield," Conrad announced formally. "Lord Ainsworth sends the boy."

  The man, Sir Crownfield, didn't even look up from his book. He just gave a lazy, dismissive wave with his free hand. "Yeah, yeah, just leave the kid here."

  And just like that, Conrad did. He gave a curt nod, turned, and walked briskly away, leaving me standing there alone with the reading man.

  Sir Crownfield calmly finished his paragraph, then slowly closed the book with a soft snap and tossed it unceremoniously onto the wooden table beside his chair. He looked up at me then, his gaze sharp and intense. With a look that sent a shiver of apprehension down my spine, he stood up slowly and walked towards me deliberately.

  "You little bastard…" he growled, his voice low and rough.

  I swallowed nervously, bracing myself. Shit, what now?

  Then, suddenly, he clapped a heavy hand firmly onto my shoulder—not painfully, but startlingly—and let out a loud, barking laugh. "You really showed that disgusting piece of shit yesterday, didn't you?! HAHAHAHA!"

  I just blinked, completely bewildered by the sudden shift. "S-Sir Crownfield, I—" came out as a confused stammer, my mind utterly lost.

  He cut me off abruptly. "Corbin," he stated flatly.

  I just stared at him, still confused.

  He sighed dramatically. "Call me Corbin," he clarified, sounding slightly exasperated. "I can't be bothered with 'Sir Crownfield this, Sir Crownfield that' all damn day. My name is Corbin Crownfield. You," he pointed a finger at my chest, "will just call me Corbin. Got it?"

  I was getting more confused by the second. "Y-yes, understood, Sir Corb—"

  He held up a warning finger again, his expression turning momentarily fierce, almost menacing.

  "—Yes, understood… Corbin?" I finished cautiously.

  Suddenly, he burst out laughing again, loud and hearty this time. "See? That wasn't so hard! As long as we're alone," he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "and that miserable bastard isn't around to piss us off, we're friends. And you call me Corbin. Simple as that."

  My head was spinning. What the hell is going on here?!

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  "So… S-…" I caught myself. "Corbin," I started again carefully, "I'm not quite following. 'Disgusting piece of shit'? 'Miserable bastard'? …Friends? Could you maybe just… explain?"

  Corbin looked at me like I was a bit slow. "Who the hell else would I mean by 'disgusting piece of shit' and 'miserable bastard'? Lord Shitpile von Ainsworth, of course!" he declared cheerfully. "Which brings us to you. After how you almost ground his face into the marble floor yesterday… well, the old saying applies: 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' And you, my boy," he clapped my shoulder again, "definitely made an enemy of him. So, you're my friend. Any more questions?"

  He finished, looking perfectly pleased with his flawless logic.

  Panicked, I glanced around the training ground, lowering my voice. "Are you completely insane?!" I hissed. "You can't just say shit like that about Lord Ainsworth! He'll have us both executed if he finds out!"

  Corbin just shook his head, grinning broadly now, clearly amused. "As the official House Mage of House Ainsworth," he explained casually, puffing his chest out slightly, "and, more importantly, as the right hand of Patriarch Ainsworth—Genevieve's father, the real power in the family—little Victor can do absolute squat against me."

  He stood there grinning, looking entirely too smug, while cold sweat started prickling my forehead. Okay, this guy is either crazy powerful or just plain crazy.

  "Right," Corbin said, clapping his hands together. "Enough about me. Let's get started with you. Your name's Grim, correct?"

  I nodded mutely.

  "Good. First, explain to me exactly what you did to us yesterday, and what kind of magic that was. Furthermore, I naturally need to know what other kinds of magic you can currently wield," Corbin asked, his expression turning genuinely curious now.

  I nodded again, feeling a bit overwhelmed but deciding to play it cautiously. Stick to the basics, play the dumb, confused 12-year-old. Don't reveal everything at once.

  "Yes, my name is Grim," I confirmed. "And… about what happened yesterday… honestly, I can't really explain it. I was just… so incredibly angry. And then… it just happened."

  Corbin nodded thoughtfully, murmuring quietly to himself, "Unconscious magic outburst… interesting… and under the influence of the bracelet…" Then he looked back at me expectantly.

  I quickly continued, "I can use Fire and Water magic. Water feels a bit easier to control than Fire. But," I admitted honestly, "I'm not really proficient with either yet."

  Corbin looked slightly surprised again. "Interesting. You can wield three types of magic already? Hm." He paused, scratching his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "Speaking of which… did Victor tell you the specifics about the tournament?"

  "He just said I have to compete against the youth of the other houses," I replied.

  Corbin nodded in understanding. "Right. Well, it's like this: In the tournament, you will fight against the scions of other noble houses. But don't misunderstand—it's not purely a mage duel competition. Combat involves weapons—sometimes enchanted ones—and magic. It really depends a bit on the individual combatant and their house's specialty. But you have to be prepared for anything."

  He paused, his expression turning serious.

  "There's always a healer present, of course—wouldn't want to permanently damage the valuable heirs of the nobility, after all. But accidents happen. And sometimes… people die. Now, here's the question for you, Grim… these kids, your opponents? They've been preparing for this day for years. They're tutored by masters of magic and weapons since they could walk. What the hell do you have to counter that? Especially," he added pointedly, "when you are starting years—maybe an entire decade—behind them?"

  Hearing that laid out so bluntly, I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. It was naive of me to think I had any realistic chance in this tournament just because I had some raw magic. These were trained nobles, probably arrogant little shits, but skilled ones.

  But then… I thought about why I was doing this. About what was really at stake. Something distinguished me fundamentally from those other competitors. I looked Corbin straight in the eye, letting my resolve show.

  "I have something that gives me strength," I said, my voice low but firm. "Something all those spoiled noble kids lack. Since I can remember, I've been a homeless orphan with nothing but my cat, who means everything to me. If those kids get hurt in the tournament, unless it's a fatal 'accident', nothing really happens to them. They go home, get healed up. But me? If my performance isn't good enough for Lord Ainsworth? What happens then?"

  I met Corbin's gaze steadily. "I'm fighting in this tournament for my life, and Pip's life. Not for fucking recognition."

  Corbin was silent for a long time, just looking at me, his expression unreadable, probing. Then, eventually, a slow grin spread across his face. "Alright, kid," he said, the grin widening. "Let's not waste any more time then. Unless," he added, "you have any more questions before we begin?"

  I nodded. "Actually, yes, I do have a few questions," I admitted. "But I'll try to keep it brief. You said it was interesting that I can use three types of magic? How many types can someone normally learn? And are there requirements or obstacles? Also… what magic can you use?" I asked, genuinely curious now.

  Corbin nodded thoughtfully again. "Being able to wield three types of magic at your apparent age is unusual, yes," he confirmed. "But what makes it truly bizarre is which types you seem to have access to. Fire and Water? No problem. Anyone with the necessary basic affinity for magic can theoretically learn all the fundamental elements with enough time and effort. But you," he leaned forward slightly, "you unconsciously used Gravity magic yesterday. That's a higher form of magic."

  He saw my confused look and elaborated. "The fundamental elements are Water, Fire, Earth, and Air. The higher forms are… trickier. Water's higher form is typically Ice. Air's higher form can manifest as Sound manipulation, or sometimes pure compressed force, depending on interpretation and talent. With Earth, for example, it gets more complex. The higher forms include Ore or Metal manipulation, Golemancy – animating earth and stone – and in its highest, rarest form… Gravity manipulation. The kind of magic you used to almost pancake little Victor yesterday."

  He explained it all matter-of-factly. I listened intently, fascinated, but also had to scratch the back of my head in embarrassment at the "pancake" comment. He continued.

  "Which brings us to the last element, Fire. Except Fire isn't really an element in the same sense," Corbin explained, looking almost professorial for a moment. "It's pure Energy. And the higher form of Fire—or rather, Energy—is its focused application. Lightning Magic."

  He grinned proudly. "Personally, I am capable of wielding Water, Fire, and the higher form, Lightning Magic. And from those," his grin widened, "I developed my own specialty: Storm Magic. I make it rain, get my enemies nice and wet, and then call down the lightning on them. Does considerably more damage that way."

  He finished his explanation with obvious pride, then cleared his throat, shaking his head slightly as if catching himself.

  "Right, but I've gotten sidetracked into theory again," he said briskly. "Let's start over. How many magic types can one learn? Theoretically, as long as a person has the general aptitude to wield mana, they could learn all of them. But," he stressed, "it also depends heavily on specific affinity, intellect, patience, and ultimately, time. What good are ten magic types if you can only use all ten like absolute shit? That's why most mages concentrate on mastering one or two, three at the absolute maximum, and train those diligently."

  He paused for a moment, his gaze turning distant.

  "There are also more obscure magic types, of course—ones that are too complex, forbidden, or simply lost to the sands of time, making them effectively unlearnable. These include arts like Spirit Magic, which Lady Ainsworth possesses, and the vile Blood Magic used to bind you. Then there are Illusion and Conjuration. These are rarely learned through study alone. They are often innate talents—traits of the soul you are born with—or well-guarded secrets. They are just as rare as your Gravity magic, and… almost as dangerous," he explained with a small, knowing grin.

  He let the comment hang in the air for a beat, watching me closely, before his expression shifted back to impatient enthusiasm.

  "Are all questions answered for now? And if so, which magic type do you want to start with? And before you ask," he added quickly, holding up a hand, "no, I can't help you with Gravity Magic. I can't wield it myself." He grinned again, looking eager to begin.

  I scratched my chin thoughtfully, considering his explanation. Three types already… Water, Fire, and apparently Gravity. Water felt the most controllable right now.

  "No more questions for now," I said finally. "And I think I have an idea… Let's start with… Water Magic!"