Claude leaned over the metal railing, looking down at the dimly lit scene below—muffled screams of young mages undergoing the enhancement treatment filled the underground area.

He was in the Spider's main mage enhancement facility, located within the depths of East Genise. The facility had soundproofing measures to prevent attracting attention, but it was a mere precaution and, overall, unnecessary. This deep into East Genise screams were an everyday occurrence.

Claude had similar mage enhancement facilities around the continent, but this one was the largest one, producing nearly 70% of all mages. East Genise was the best when it came to conducting questionable work.

There's no place quite like home.

"Master Claude, your drink." A glass cup of murky green juice was handed to him by a servant boy. "It's comprised of fresh dandelion leaves, verdant moss, and other greens," the boy explained.

"Thank you." Claude downed the green and bitter drink like some men downed hard liquor.

"How can you stand that stuff?" Belestris crumpled up her nose. "I tried it once and nearly threw up."

"It's not the taste that matters, but the benefits," Claude said, handing the empty glass back to the servant boy.

His great-grandmother and grandfather both had led long and healthy lives. His mother, unfortunately, had succumbed to illness. He had every intention of following in her footsteps, except for her inattention to her health and wellbeing.

And I need to be in peak shape if I'm ever going to grow the syndicate to something even greater than what my ancestors have been able to.

"What's the efficiency rate?" Claude inquired of the handful of men and women standing behind him, all highly intelligent and deeply serious.

"17%," came a resounding reply from his left.

Claude turned toward the man, a robust figure with a thick, salt-and-pepper beard and well-worn, round spectacles perched on his nose. His hands, calloused from years of intricate spellwork, bore the tattoos of protective runes.

"Professor Magnus, are you telling me that for every hundred mages I supply you with, only seventeen survive the treatment?" Claude asked.

"The first treatment," one of the women beside him replied. "The second treatment has an 83% success rate."

Claude raised a brow. "So, only fourteen survive? That's even more disappointing."

A silence fell over the group, with the screams of mages continuing in the background. Claude noted that there were fewer of them than when he first arrived at the facility.

They are likely all dead. What a complete and utter waste.

"Professor Magnus," Claude turned his attention to the man again. "Must I remind you, I brought you in for your expertise to help improve our mage creation, not hinder it. 17 or 14 for every hundred is less than the performance of three months back. I am supplying you with a sufficient amount of mana for the procedures, am I not?"

"Yes, you are, but I apologize; the mages provided to me are of lower quality than before; they are unfit to undergo the enhancement treatment." Professor Magnus adjusted his glasses. "Their core is too small and fragile for the procedure."

"They're all like that nowadays. I brought you here to find a way to work around the lowered grades," Claude retorted. "You knew quite well that the quality was poor."

"Yes, there are low-grade mages with small cores. I can stretch them out and fill them with mana. That I can do. What I cannot work with are rigid and fractured cores," Professor Magnus replied. His expression did not betray any fear, unlike his colleagues.

Claude frowned. "Explain," he ordered.

"Very well." Professor Magnus moved toward one of the stone walls and motioned with his finger, conjuring a golden light from his fingertip, which he then proceeded to draw on the wall with.

"Imagine that each person's mana core is a rubber balloon. During the enhancement treatment, we are essentially filling the balloon with additional mana, loading it to its potential. Some balloons are thicker and can hold more mana. While others are thin and, if we're not careful, will rupture, killing the mage."

Claude crossed his arms but remained silent, his eyes watching the golden images appear on the wall.

"And, like with a rubber balloon, with enough time, the stability of the outer walls can be compromised; this is why young mages are preferable over utilizing older ones." Professor Magnus paused and turned toward Claude. "However, the mages of today, even young ones, have compromised mana cores. They are rigid and fractured."

"Why?" Claude inquired. "Why are they fractured?"

"Master Claude." Professor Magnus adjusted his round glasses. "Do you understand how mages appear in the natural world?"

"Yes, but humor me," Claude replied. He knew the topic better than most, but it appeared that Professor Magnus had something he wished to share with him.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

"They are a product of their environment. Mana is all around us. It is found in the earth, plants, and animals," Professor Magnus explained.

Claude frowned, not liking where this was going.

"Thus, if their environment is subpar, so are the mages that appear," Professor Magnus said. "And unfortunately, there is less and less viable mana with every passing year. Worse, the land's infection has spread so far that minuscule spores that generally pose no risk are being digested, causing cracks in people's mana cores."

Claude clenched his fists.

"What are you suggesting as a solution then?" he asked.

"Cure the land," Professor Magnus replied. "The only way to improve the quality of mages is by improving the land's condition. Just as you digest those health juice concoctions, an environment that is ideal for raising new mages from birth must be created."

"A mage farm?" Claude muttered.

He recalled one of the tattoos mentioning something to the effect.

Professor Magnus looked toward his colleagues. "I–I suppose that's one way—"

"Fine. I was considering something to the effect anyhow," Claude said. "That will be all. Return to overseeing the operations at hand. Belestris, walk with me."

Claude motioned toward her and walked toward the exit. His footsteps blared against the metal grid under his feet. Her footsteps quickly followed.

"What do you think? Is a mage farm doable soon?" he inquired of her.

Belestris paused before speaking. "Many of our partners already have invested interests in viable farmlands. We should, too, especially since it'll help increase mage growth."

Claude nodded in agreement. They needed to adapt to the changing climate.

"But what of our mana extraction operations?" he asked.

He entered a metal pull-rope elevator and turned to face out. Belestris joined him, and Claude motioned one of the men to raise the elevator to the surface. The metal box groaned as it lifted slowly up.

"They are growing more difficult," she replied. "Not just from a quality and quantity perspective, but there's been newly ascending concerns about the land's infection. For example, our extraction operations in three states of the United Republic of Nalas are currently suffering due to protests from the region's populations. They've been vocal and have gained support from the local nobles, who were previously friendly to our operations in their regions. It's impacting our quotas."

Claude clenched his jaw. Environmental concerns were an increasing obstacle. The Spiders Syndicate kept a tight lid on their mana extraction operations. Very few knew about it, as it related to their confidential method of producing mages. The few that were in the know were hushed into silence with spider promise tattoos. However, an even more classified secret existed.

"The protesters? Do they know?" he asked in a low voice.

The hum of the elevator nearly drowned out his question.

"No, it's all just wild speculation without any substance to back it up," Belestris replied.

Claude nodded.

The unfortunate truth was that extracting mana from the land eventually led to the land mutating and forming dead mana. Without knowing about the former part of the syndicate's operations, it was unlikely for anyone to connect the dots. However, occasionally, someone would appear and suggest a groundless accusation that those in charge were purposefully polluting and helping the spread of dead mana. There were even ridiculous conspiracies suggesting the use of demonic rituals.

The reality was a bit more complicated. Mage production had always been the backbone of the Spider Sydicate's overwhelming influence on the continent. However, after Queen Yadana Daylan slowed down her warmongering, the demand for mages dropped, and with it, the Spiders Syndicate's profits dwindled. However, just then, a new sort of demand arose thanks to the land's infection having spread far and wide. There was less viable land to farm, and the remaining farmlands produced less and less food every year. Yet, with the use of mages, land could be prompted to be more bountiful. Demand for mages rose yet again.

Today, demand for mages was at an all-time high. The trouble was with supply. The Spider Syndicate needed mana to produce mages, which could only be procured from viable, living land. With the land's infection having spread far and wide, what was a blessing in the past now hindered their own operation and business.

A vicious cycle. But knowing the future, dead mana extraction will be quite lucrative in itself. However, to capitalize on that, I need Sarka Jarbez.

"Additionally," Belestris' voice sounded an octave lower. "We should explore new territories for mana extraction; perhaps it is time to expand into the second continent."

"Perhaps." Claude frowned. He wasn't as keen on extending operations into the second continent, mainly because doing so would require him to travel there. Few knew this about him, but he had a severe phobia against any body of water larger than a bathtub. He had nearly drowned as a child, which left a lasting impression. The idea of crossing a giant body of dangerous water on a flimsy wooden ship made him uneasy.

Nevertheless, it will have to be done if we don't improve the profit margins soon.

The elevator stopped at the top, and Claude exited.

"What is the news of Sarka Jarbez?" he asked, looking up at the blue sky. He took a deep inhale of the cool air outside, relishing the contrast compared to the warmth of the facility.

"No news yet on her specifically, but I did get a notice from one of the gate guards that her son was seen traveling out of the capital in a Frey carriage," Belestris replied. "I had several people dispatched to capture the boy."

Claude frowned at this.

The name "Frey" was coming up more and more in reports. Yet it was nonexistent in any of the tattoos on Claude's body.

Micah Frey, the original heir to the Frey Merchant Guild, an ancestor of the Arkangul House, fiancé to Princess Evelyn, and head of the fastest-growing syndicates on the continent, wasn't mentioned even once in Claude's tattoos. It appeared that Micah Frey had been erased from this world before then. As was his fiancée. The main hint of this was that there was no mention of Queen Evelyn. There was only Queen Naomi.

But that doesn't mean that he is of no concern.

"Hopefully, the people you dispatched can capture Sarka's son," Claude said, tossing his golden coin up.

The coin flipped through the air and landed in his palm.

"I'm confident we'll secure the boy," Belestris assured him. "Given the importance you've placed on recruiting Sarka Jarbez, I've sent some of our most skilled operatives to pursue her son. They last reported that they entered the Desolate Expanse Desert."

However, Claude lacked Belestris's confidence.

Tails. Tsk.

Claude turned his gaze to the unflinching Belestris. "How many did you dispatch?"

"Twelve," Belestris replied.

Claude formed the question in his mind and tossed the coin twelve times. However, the coin landed tails every time.

He frowned.

"And these were the best you could dispatch?" he inquired.

"For a moment's notice, yes," she replied.

That makes matters far more peculiar.

This coin was a semi-fortune teller with the added benefit of manipulating luck. It was a gamble to use it, and trying to force an outcome didn't always pan out. However, sometimes, the potential rewards were too great to ignore.

But thirteen tails in a row is beyond simply bad luck.

"Have more people dispatched," Claude ordered. "Have them watch the comings and goings from the Frey Manor from now on."

There's something peculiar going on with that family.