Chapter 15: The Monster

At this point, Old Tyrell could not help but tremble, unable to forget even after fourteen years the terror of that night.

“Child, I cannot describe in words what I witnessed. Seeing that monster, like a demon god, and watching the blood-soaked, frenzied cult ritual, no sane person could remain calm afterward. Neither I nor my companions were exceptions. What followed was a series of escapes, pursuits, and deaths. My companions fell one after another; in the end, even your father gave his life. I lost a leg but survived by sheer luck. Your mother also managed to flee that den of evil. At the time, none of us realized she was already pregnant, and that poor little life within her had been tainted by the cathedral’s evil magic, born with an extra eye…”

Joan couldn’t resist reaching for the back of his neck. The round, warm eye was fused to his flesh and blood; whenever he wished, he could open it to see what lay behind him. More strangely, its vision was sharper than his two front eyes, able even to pierce the darkest night. If this was the mark of a monstrous bloodline, then what manner of creature had bestowed it upon him? Was it the cult leader—the “Mother”—whom his grandfather refused to speak of?

Joan had seen images of the “Mother” in various theological texts, always depicted as beautiful, dignified, and kind. The word “Mother” had once held a pure and gentle meaning for him, but after today, that notion was utterly shattered.

“Child, the eye on your neck is a curse from fourteen years ago. If you choose the path of the sorcerer and keep digging into the magic in your blood, sooner or later you’ll meet the monster that granted this bloodline. You’ll either be forced to serve her, or be devoured by her.” Guillaume Tyrell gripped his grandson’s hand, warning him with heartfelt, deliberate words: “You have talent, my child, but you must not choose that path—you must not let yourself become a monster, estranged from humanity, losing even your own human nature!”

“I won’t, Grandpa. I swear I’ll never become a monster!” Joan held his grandfather’s withered hand and made a solemn promise.

In truth, even without his grandfather’s warning, he had never intended to walk the sorcerer’s path. He was already a wizard’s apprentice, accustomed to—and deeply enamored with—the process of learning arcane knowledge to enhance his spellcasting. The sorcerer’s way was entirely different.

For example, if a wizard obtained a scroll with an unknown spell, he could try to translate and study its contents, copy it into his spellbook, and after dedicated research, master the spell.

But what about a sorcerer?

If a sorcerer found the same scroll, he could only use it as a one-time spell item, rarely ever mastering the spell itself. Sorcerers lacked the wizard’s depth of arcane theory and broad knowledge, relying instead on the magic within their blood—pure talent, in other words. The number and type of spells a sorcerer could learn were largely determined at birth.

Bloodline granted extraordinary power, yet it also restricted the sorcerer’s path. For instance, if you had the “fire elemental” bloodline, then you could never hope to comprehend ice spells in this lifetime.

For Joan, choosing the sorcerer’s profession would mean giving up the freedom to learn spells, unable to satisfy his lifelong passion for learning, seeking new magic and endless possibilities. So he rejected that path—no matter how well suited it was to his gifts, he simply did not like it.

After obtaining the “Tear of God,” Joan’s intelligence attribute had increased to 15, only one point below his charisma. If someday he could complete the “Mythic Trial” and unlock the artifact’s seal, he would gain even more intelligence; choosing wizardry as his lifelong profession promised a bright future.

Weighing all these factors, Joan was determined to stick with his choice, never to regret it.

Old Tyrell saw the resolve in his grandson’s eyes and nodded with relief, no longer dwelling on past sorrows. Instead, he turned to the pressing issue at hand.

“The tuition at Layton Academy isn’t cheap, is it?”

“Three thousand gold ducas a year, not including board and books. Luckily, I’ve applied for a commissioned training loan, covering half the tuition, so I still need fifteen hundred gold ducas…” Joan added nervously, “I’ll try to graduate early, and work odd jobs when I’m not in class. I think I’ll manage to scrape together the tuition.”

The old man snorted, contemptuous. “You’ve seen so little of the world—do you really think money is easy to earn? You’ve never even had thirty gold ducas in your life; how could you imagine what three thousand really means? Just working odd jobs, you’d never earn a year’s tuition in a lifetime.” He tapped his pipe, his expression softening slightly. “Tomorrow, go find the two boys from the Tyndall family. Have them cut down the black oak tree I planted on the hill. Jason Tyndall is willing to pay a thousand gold ducas for it.”

“That’s the best tree in the whole grove—it’s a shame to cut it down,” Joan protested softly.

“I planted that tree the day you were born. Now you’re leaving, and I’m just a crippled old man who can’t look after the grove anymore. Better to sell the tree and save the trouble,” Old Tyrell replied matter-of-factly.

Joan was deeply moved and sorrowful by his grandfather’s words, biting his lip to keep from tears. But even after selling the black oak, he would have at most a thousand gold ducas—still five hundred short for tuition. And that was just for one year; next year, there would be no second black oak to sell.

Joan bid his grandfather farewell and left the cottage, burdened with worry. He glanced up at the crimson sunset and resolved to go into town after dinner to see what ways there were to earn money.

The evening breeze carried the scent of roast meat, and Joan rubbed his nose and quickened his pace. Conti’s cooking was excellent—the three wild rabbits were roasted to a glossy, golden crisp, tender inside. Joan tore off a leg and took a bite; rich juices burst forth, filling his mouth with savory flavor.

Conti was just as unreserved, grabbing a rabbit leg and devouring it, grease glistening on her cheeks and nose, making her look a bit comical. The two of them polished off a fat rabbit, and Conti burped contentedly, bracing herself on the table to stand up with effort.

“I’m stuffed—I need to walk it off. I’ll take a roast rabbit to Mr. Tyrell, let him try it. Want to come with me?”

“I just got back from Grandpa’s, so I’ll pass,” Joan replied, following Conti out of the kitchen, whistling for Jamie, harnessing the sled, and saying, “I’m heading to town to sell the dire badger’s pelt and meat. I’ll be back soon.”

“Don’t be late,” Conti waved him off.

Joan walked his dog far from the cottage, and when he glanced back, he saw Conti still standing at the door, watching him. Her small figure seemed especially fragile against the twilight.

P.S.: This book is now officially signed—feel free to add it to your collection.

Thanks to the readers: “This watermelon is a bit sweet,” for this week’s reward of 500 coins; “Xi Yi,” for this week’s reward of 500 coins.