Chapter 4: Chapter 04

Adventurers, merchants, mercenaries—they all passed through those doors. Some loud and proud, others quiet and mysterious. He watched how they carried themselves, what weapons they brought, what stories they told when the ale loosened their tongues.

Days passed. Weeks passed. Then one night, he found his target.

An old man sat alone in the corner, a hood drawn over his head, a long pipe clutched between his fingers. Ludger’s sharp eyes watched as the man packed the bowl with dried herbs, struck no flint, and yet—the tobacco lit anyway. A faint shimmer of magic brushed the air as the embers glowed, and the old man leaned back, exhaling a lazy curl of smoke.

The entire tavern seemed to fade into background noise around him. He didn’t laugh with the others, didn’t join in their chatter. He simply puffed his pipe, calm and detached, as though the noisy world around him wasn’t even worth noticing.

And Ludger smirked.

“Finally,” he thought, eyes glinting with the thrill of it. “This is it. A real magician. The start of my power-fantasy adventure in this world.”

The kitchen knives and silver coins had been fine, but this? This was the real prize. All he had to do was figure out how to make that hooded old man his next Master.

Ludger didn’t waste time overthinking. He had been watching the old man for nights now, studying every curl of smoke, every flicker of magic. Tonight, he decided to act.

With his small pouch of coins clutched in both hands, he hopped down from his stool and marched across the tavern. The crowd barely noticed him—he was small, quick, and carried himself like he belonged there. Only when he stopped at the shadowed corner did a few patrons raise their brows.

The hooded old man looked down as the boy planted himself firmly at his table. Smoke drifted lazily between them, carrying the bitter scent of herbs.

Ludger set the bag of coins on the table with both hands, the clink of silver sharp against the wood. His green eyes locked on the old man with the determination of someone far older than three.

“Teach me magic,” Ludger said, voice steady.

The old man’s brow furrowed. His hand stilled on the pipe, the ember glowing faintly as he studied the child before him. He had heard of the tavern’s odd helper—the boy who cleaned tables, carried dishes, and worked without fuss. A sharp child, they said, precocious for his age. But this…

This he hadn’t expected.

“You…” the old man muttered, his voice gravelly, tinged with amusement. “You’re the brat who runs around this place like it’s your own. And now you come here, waving coins, asking me to teach you magic?”

Ludger didn’t flinch. His little hands remained firm on the pouch of coins. “I’ll pay. I don’t want it for free.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint crackle of the pipe’s ember. Then the old man chuckled, low and dry.

“Precocious, aren’t you?” His eyes narrowed beneath the hood, studying Ludger not like a child—but like a puzzle.

He tapped the ash from his pipe, then leaned closer, his voice a whisper that only Ludger could hear.

“Magic is not a toy, boy. And it’s not for everyone. But you…” His gaze swept over the stubborn set of Ludger’s jaw, the spark in his eyes. “You might be interesting.”

The old man weighed the pouch of coins in his hand, the clinking of silver soft beneath the tavern’s noise. After a moment, he set it down with a snort.

“This much?” he muttered, tone dry. “Enough for one lesson. Nothing more. If you don’t learn a thing, that’s your problem, not mine.”

Ludger’s lips curled into a smirk. Exactly as planned.

The old man leaned back, tapping the edge of his pipe against the table before gesturing toward the boy. “Then listen well. The basics of magic don’t begin with fireballs or lightning, no matter what fools dream of. They begin with survival. Water. Food. Fire. Shelter. Without those, you die before you ever learn power.”

He raised his hand, fingers curling with deliberate slowness. “Magic begins here.”

His eyes narrowed as he spoke, voice low but sharp, as though chiseling each word into Ludger’s skull. “First, you must feel it. Your mana—it’s yours, but it’s also part of the world. Reach for it. Draw it into your hand. Then, give it shape. To mimic an element, you don’t force it—you become it. Water is life. Flowing, clear, sustaining. Think of it, and let your mana follow.”

A faint shimmer gathered at the man’s fingertips, soft and pale-blue. Slowly, steadily, a thin stream of water trickled forth, arcing gently into a cup that sat on the table. The liquid rippled faintly, filling it halfway before the stream cut off.

The old man withdrew his hand, the demonstration complete. “That,” he said firmly, “is what your coin buys. A lesson in survival. If you want more, you’ll need more coin—and more determination.”

But Ludger wasn’t even listening anymore.

His gaze had snapped inward, locked onto the glowing text now flashing in the corner of his vision.

(Class Master Registered: Maurien — Mage)

(New Skill Acquired: Create Water Lv 01)

The boy’s smirk widened, the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite his effort to stay composed. He’d done it. Not only had he found his first Class Master, but the system had rewarded him instantly, recognizing the bond.

Maurien, still watching him closely, misread the smirk as arrogance. “Don’t grin yet, boy. One lesson won’t make you a mage. It takes years—decades—to master even the simplest spell.”

But Ludger only nodded faintly, his mind already racing. Years, decades? No. With the system’s help, it wouldn’t take him nearly that long.

His power-fantasy adventure had officially begun.

Maurien was still watching him, pipe in hand, when Ludger turned toward the half-filled cup. He raised his tiny hand, narrowing his eyes with the seriousness of someone far older than three.

“Don’t tell me…” the old man began.

But Ludger was already reaching inward, toward the faint current of energy he’d only barely sensed until now. His system-guided instincts took over—the lines of the lesson Maurien had given him, reinforced by the notification still glowing in his vision.

Mana surged. His fingers tingled. Then, with a quiet shhhhhh, a stream of water burst from his hand.

It arced cleanly into the cup.

Then it kept going.

The water spilled over the rim, splashing across the table in a small cascade. Ludger stopped only when his arm began to tremble and the stream cut off, leaving the cup soaked and Maurien staring wide-eyed.

“…Hah.” Ludger panted, cheeks flushed, sweat prickling his forehead. His body felt strangely heavy, his chest tight with the echo of the mana drain.

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The system window blinked alive again:

(Create Water Lv 01 — Mana Cost: 20 per second. Power scales with Intelligence.)

Ludger’s eyes widened as he read. “So that’s why…” he thought. He had poured far too much mana into the spell without realizing it. The stronger his Intelligence, the more water he could create—but the longer he held it, the faster it drained him.

He slumped back in his chair, exhausted but grinning ear to ear. For once, he didn’t care if he looked like a soggy toddler. He had done it.

Maurien leaned back, pipe slipping slightly from his lips as he regarded the boy with a long, measuring stare. “…Precocious doesn’t begin to cover it.”

The old man exhaled a long plume of smoke, watching as the child wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, smiling like he’d just conquered the world.

“Interesting indeed,” Maurien murmured.

Ludger was still riding the high of his first spell, already plotting in his mind how he could grind Create Water in secret. If the spell gained experience with every use, then he’d just need a quiet place and enough mana to drain himself dry each night. It was inefficient, yes, but the thought of leveling his first magical skill lit a fire in him that no kitchen knife ever had.

But then he noticed something.

The tavern was silent.

Too silent.

He blinked, his grin faltering as he looked up. Every single client in the room—drunkards, merchants, travelers—had their eyes locked on him. The half-filled mugs, the dice on the tables, the laughter from moments ago—all frozen in place. The only sound was the faint drip of water sliding off the soaked table where his cup still overflowed.

They had all seen.

A child, no older than three, casually creating water with raw magic.

Ludger swallowed hard. He’d forgotten one of the most basic rules of power-fantasy stories: the moment you show your hand, the trouble begins.

Forcing a polite smile, he turned back to Maurien and gave a small nod. “Thank you for the lesson, Master Maurien.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He hopped down from the chair, turned on his heel, and walked briskly toward the back of the tavern, leaving behind whispers and wide eyes.

Maurien, however, sat frozen, pipe halfway to his lips. His eyes narrowed beneath the hood, not at the display of magic—though that had been impressive—but at something else.

“…Maurien,” he muttered to himself.

The boy had called him by name.

He hadn’t told anyone in this city his real name. He hadn’t even bothered with introductions, preferring anonymity. And yet this stubborn, sharp-eyed child knew it as if it had been written above his head.

Maurien puffed his pipe once, smoke curling around him, and a faint, crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

The silence in the tavern didn’t last long. As soon as Ludger disappeared into the back, the whispers began.

“A child… casting water?”

“No, no, I saw it with my own eyes. The brat held out his hand and poured it like a jug!”

“That’s not normal. Not at that age.”

“Monster child… or prodigy?”

The murmurs grew louder, swelling into a low buzz that spread from table to table. By the time Elaine returned from the kitchen with a tray in hand, she noticed the stares. Dozens of eyes turned toward her, and then toward the back of the tavern, where her son had scurried away.

Her stomach twisted. She set the tray down quickly, handed the plates off to another server, and marched straight into the back.

Ludger was there, pretending to busy himself with stacking dishes. His small shoulders stiffened when he heard her footsteps.

“Ludger.” Elaine’s voice was firm, sharper than usual. “Is it true? What they’re saying… did you really—?”

He turned, lips pressing into a thin line. For a second, he considered playing dumb. He could deny it, act confused, make the whole thing vanish into rumor. That had been the plan.

But then he saw her face.

The worry in her green eyes, the fear trembling just beneath her frustration. She wasn’t angry—she was scared for him.

Ludger sighed. Slowly, he raised his hand.

Mana flowed, shaky but obedient, and a small stream of water arced out from his palm, splashing into a nearby bucket with a soft hiss. It lasted only a moment before the spell fizzled out, leaving him a little breathless.

Elaine gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. Her knees nearly gave out as she stumbled forward, eyes wide as she watched the water dripping from the bucket’s rim.

“It’s… true,” she whispered.

Ludger lowered his hand, looking up at her with a sheepish smirk far too old for his young face. “Yeah. Guess I picked up a new trick.”

The tavern outside still buzzed with rumors, the air thick with unease. But in that small room at the back, only two figures remained—one mother, clutching her apron tight, and one boy whose path had just shifted into dangerous territory.

Elaine’s hands trembled as she reached for Ludger, pulling him close against her chest. Her heart raced so fast it felt like it might burst. “Do you have any idea what this means, Ludger?” she whispered harshly, her voice shaking. “Everyone saw you! A child this young using magic—they’ll talk. They’ll come. Nobles, soldiers, mercenaries, anyone who thinks they can use you or take you away from me. You—” Her breath hitched, and tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. “You’re in danger.”

Before her fears could spiral further, a low voice cut through the air.

“You’re right. He is in danger.”

Elaine whipped around, holding Ludger tighter, as Maurien stepped into the back room. His hood shadowed most of his face, but his pipe glowed faintly, smoke curling lazily in the air. He leaned on his staff like he had all the time in the world.

“But,” Maurien continued, his tone steady, “danger has another name in this world: opportunity.”

Elaine’s lips parted in protest, but Maurien raised a hand to stop her. His eyes glinted beneath the hood, sharp and unreadable. “I’ve lived many years, girl, and I’ve never met a child who could grasp magic this quickly—certainly not at his age. Most children don’t even sense their mana until they’re ten, yet your son wields it as easily as breathing.”

Elaine’s arms tightened around Ludger. “He’s just a boy.”

“And boys grow,” Maurien replied calmly. He tapped the ashes from his pipe, his tone firm but not unkind. “When the time is right, when he’s older and ready, I can teach him more. Much more. But whether that happens is not my choice—it’s yours.”

Elaine hesitated, torn between instinct and reason.

Maurien’s gaze softened slightly as he added, “If anyone comes asking questions about your son, tell them this: he is my disciple. My name carries enough weight to make any low-life or small fry scatter like rats. You’ll have fewer eyes on him that way.”

The tension in the air hung thick. Elaine clutched Ludger protectively, her heart still pounding, while the boy himself smirked faintly, his clever eyes shining even as he pretended to nestle against her shoulder.

His adventure had only just begun—and now, it had a shield.

By morning, the tavern buzzed with more than the usual clatter of mugs and the smell of roasting meat. Rumors spread like wildfire, whispered at every table, passed between merchants, mercenaries, and drunks alike.

“A boy that young casting magic…”

“I heard he flooded a table without even trying!”

“Maybe he’s some noble’s bastard. That would explain it.”

“No, no—Maurien himself called him a disciple. I saw it with my own eyes. Anyone who touches that kid is asking for death.”

Each retelling twisted the truth further, but the core was the same: a child mage had been born in their city.

And where was Ludger?

In the back of the tavern, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, happily using Create Water to rinse a mountain of dirty dishes. Streams of water poured from his hands into the basin, bubbling and splashing as he hummed off-key to himself.

His mana drained quickly, but with his Wisdom bolstered from the Cook job and his stubborn will, he was managing fine. He’d pause to recover, then go again, each cast smoother than the last. Every so often, the system would chime softly in his vision:

(Create Water Lv 02 — 34/200 EXP)

Elaine peeked in from the doorway, her heart still heavy with last night’s fears. To see her son treating magic like a casual tool—like just another skill for chores—made her both proud and terrified.

Out front, Maurien puffed on his pipe, listening to the whispers spreading through the tavern like sparks in dry grass. His hood shadowed the amused curve of his lips.

“Trouble’s coming, boy,” he thought, glancing toward the back where Ludger worked without a care in the world. “But so is greatness.”

Ludger wasn’t content with just splashing water around. Between chores, he kept careful track of the blue, green, and red bars hovering at the edge of his vision. If the system gave him numbers, then it was only fair that he tested them.

It didn’t take long for him to figure out his mana regeneration. After draining himself dry with Create Water, he timed how long it took for the bar to creep upward again. The result was… disappointing.

One point. Per minute.