Oliver turned at the sound of the voice. Standing at the edge of the field was a middle-aged man accompanied by a servant, both dressed in fine wool coats and leather gloves. Definitely not local farmers or fishermen.

Who was this man? Oliver's memories were fragmented, remnants from the body’s previous owner. Had things gotten so dire that the former owner had considered selling himself into servitude?

Now, with a potent magical core awakened, the thought of becoming a slave seemed absurd.

Luckily, he hadn’t signed anything yet. He needed to decline, and quickly.

"Come now, lad, just sign here! Lord Avery’s recruiting for his personal guard, and if you're accepted, you'll live well—think endless bread and mutton, a far better life than starving on a farm!" Walter, the man, smiled, holding out a parchment.

Endless bread and mutton? What a story! If slavery was so grand, why wasn’t he joining?

It seemed improbable that such "fortune" would come to someone like Oliver.

He’d heard of Lord Avery. The noble controlled several nearby villages, wielding significant power. Rumor had it he even kept a mage on his payroll.

Lately, Oliver had heard whispers: Lord Avery was snatching up lands and hiring unemployed farmers as slaves. But why train guards? Was he preparing for war, or maybe hunting magical creatures?

Either way, this “guard” would surely be cannon fodder. Once in, there’d be no escape.

"Sign it already, don’t waste my time," Walter insisted, gesturing for his servant to hand over the contract.

"Stark, what’s the holdup? Sign, and you’ll have buttered bread and honeyed mead! Bet you’ve never even tasted honey mead!" the servant added with a grin.

Oliver recognized the servant—he was a lackey for Grik, a local thug who often caused trouble. Walter himself was a minor agent of Lord Avery's—a man who wouldn’t waste his time on someone as insignificant as Oliver without good reason.

It was clear Grik and his cronies had targeted him. Even his recent land loss probably connected to their scheme. Everything clicked into place for Oliver.

"Respectfully, sir, I’m content being a farmer. I have no desire for slavery. Please, forgive me," Oliver replied politely, though inside, he seethed. Defiance would get him nowhere with this low-ranking nobleman.

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A brief silence followed. Walter and his servant exchanged a surprised glance.

Not hungry enough yet?

Stubbornness wouldn't feed him.

To Oliver’s surprise, Walter didn’t react with anger. Instead, he smiled coldly. “It seems you need more time to think. Hunger hasn’t yet taught you wisdom, but we’ll wait. Just know, the longer you delay, the less you’ll be worth as a slave.”

Walter was confident. The colder it got, the harder it would be for a landless farmer to survive. Eventually, Oliver would come begging.

With that, Walter and his servant departed.

Oliver let out a deep breath, relieved. He checked the sack he’d hidden—small animals lay inside, unconscious. Had Walter seen them, his intentions might have shifted.

“This is only the beginning. Grik, Walter, Lord Avery… they won’t give up that easily. I need to grow stronger, to protect myself.”

He clenched his fist. Becoming a real mage was his only option. His magical core was awakened; now he needed spells and practice. But where could he find such rare knowledge?

After a long sleep, Oliver set off for Eccleston with his sack in hand.

He sold the small animals at a tavern, earning five silver coins and a hundred copper pieces.

The coins felt weighty in his pocket—a hard-won fortune.

He then visited a roadside shop, buying two meat pies, a bottle of ale, and two chunks of rye bread.

The pie was worth every coin—a golden crust that, when bitten, filled his mouth with a rich, savory taste! After subsisting on sawdust bread for weeks, he felt ravenous.

The meal cost him an entire silver coin. Tavern food was pricey, but Oliver didn’t mind; this was only the beginning. He planned to eat even better in the future.

But word of his success soon spread among the farmers of Eccleston.

“Lucky catch, finding a sharp-toothed weasel like that!” exclaimed James, a wiry, freckled boy with brown hair and green eyes.

James, from Oliver’s village, came from a family with enough hands to ensure they were never hungry.

“Will you be catching more? Take me along next time!”

“Just luck, really. Thinking of becoming a hunter? What about your fields?” Oliver replied, considering how to establish himself as a hunter quickly. He needed a convincing cover story for his future catches.

“Just joking! You’d need to be a knight or mage to face those woods!” James laughed.

“Indeed, but to become a mage, you'd have to study at Oakridge Academy. Do you know how much that costs?”

Oakridge had a fine name, but it was just a small-town school with a handful of teachers and students, offering basic training in magic and knightly skills.

“Hah, others might not know, but I’ve checked—it’s a hundred and twenty silver coins a year.”

A hundred and twenty? It was an impossible amount for a farmer. But now, for Oliver, it was almost within reach.

“Do you… actually want to be a mage?” James asked. His tone wasn’t mocking, but it was clear he doubted Oliver’s potential. Just days ago, he’d been begging for scraps.

Oliver becoming a mage? It was laughable.

James's family, on the other hand, had scrimped and saved for generations, and now they finally had enough to send him to Oakridge Academy next month.

For his family, James’s training could mean everything. As for Oliver? If James succeeded, it would be a story for Oliver to proudly share with others in the future, having known someone who had achieved such greatness.

Oliver, lost in thought, barely noticed the undertone of pride in James's words but absorbed every piece of information about becoming a mage.

He had guessed right. Awakening the magical core was only the beginning. But that alone didn’t make him a mage.

The core was like a spark of energy—he still needed to learn spells. He had a few basic, innate abilities, but until he could cast spells like Fireball or Water Arrow, he could hardly call himself a mage.