“Mage! Did You Enjoy Your Meal?”
After revealing himself as a mage, Ian became an outcast. It felt like an invisible barrier blocked everyone from approaching him. No one dared come near.
That's weird. The stares treating him like a monster stung a little. If Ian had been an easy mark, someone might've yelled, "Eek! Monster! Get out of our caravan!" But no one here had the guts to outright reject him. Not even anyone to verify if he was really a mage. The moment he said, "I'm a mage," he was one.
There was one simple reason for this. When someone claims to be a noble, there's a set way to check if it's true—scholars among commoners, other nobles or priests among the aristocracy. But questioning someone's status is seen as incredibly rude and dishonorable.
For example, if someone says, "I'm a knight," replying, "Are you really?" is like asking, "You don't seem like one. What makes you think you're a knight? I don't feel the knightly soul in you!"—a massive insult that could lead to an immediate duel. That's why nobles memorize every noble family member they can. At least if they've heard the name, they won't rudely question a claim like "I'm a noble."
Of course, there are too many obscure families to remember them all... But in this ragtag group of peddlers and thugs, there was no noble detector around. So the instant Ian declared himself a mage, he was one. No one could object!
"Here, give me those empty bowls. I'll wash them clean for you."
A woman sidled up to Ian with a sultry nasal whine. Emily, was it? True to form for a whore, she said "lick" instead of "wash." Who licks bowls? Ian didn't hate whores, but Emily was overwhelming. Her intentions were blatant: bed the innocent mage and turn her life around! A whore's endgame was marriage—upward mobility, naturally—so of course she was after his body.
"No thanks. I'll do it myself."
"Aww~ How could a mage do lowly dishwashing? That's women's work~"
Emily winked, sending chills down Ian's spine. He had zero interest in sleeping with her. First, psychological reasons—sex without affection creeped him out. Second, hygiene. What if he caught something? He didn't know if there was a spell for STDs, and he sure hadn't learned it. After all that struggle to become a mage, he didn't want to die from the clap.
"I said forget it. Hand it over."
Ian always handled his own dishes. He couldn't trust these people's hygiene. He'd seen the "clean" standing water nearby. Grabbing his bowl, he stood.
Giggles erupted behind him.
"The mage is so nice. Washing his own dishes so Emily doesn't have to."
"Heh. Leave him be. He likes dishwashing."
Ian glanced back. Who were these ballsy bastards mocking a mage? But they were ballsy—mercenaries. Guys who lived sword-to-mouth, only flinching when a blade was at their throat. Even if Ian was a mage, they'd shrug, "So what?" And they were the party's core muscle, so he couldn't just blast them.
"..."
Ian pondered seriously. Should he make Emily do the dishes to save face? But flip-flopping would look weak. He shrugged. What do I care what mercenaries think? Decision made: ignore them. Bowl in hand, he strolled off toward water.
Solo action was technically forbidden, but it didn't apply to a mage like Ian. He found standing water in a rock crevice and whistled.
"[Rise.]"
As Ian spoke in the Maronius Language, the puddle slowly rose. He held the bowl to it, and water slipped inside.
"[Move.]"
The water swirled on its own, scrubbing the bowl automatically. Manipulating a handful was child's play. Some might say, "You learned magic just for dishes?" Ian would reply: Hell yeah. This is why you learn magic. Pour water and it washes itself? Water scrubbing solo? How do you not love this? If this isn't the dream, what is?
Ian grinned contentedly—until a voice came from behind.
"You really are a mage, huh?"
"Ah, shit! You scared me!"
Ian spun and froze. Cathy, right? One of the three travelers. Unlike cheap-feeling Emily, she exuded refinement. But why was she here?
"Mages get startled too?"
"First time seeing one?"
"Yeah. Guess I wouldn't know."
Cathy pulled off her hood. Beautiful dark blue-black hair cascaded like a waterfall. She was elf-level gorgeous. But her tone? Rude as hell.
"You're not what I expected."
"Expected what?"
Ian was baffled by her bluntness. He wasn't here to fulfill her fantasies. So what if he didn't match?
"Sneaking after you, and that's all you say? 'Not what I expected'?"
"I thought you were fake until just now."
"...Why?"
Ian was genuinely curious. What did these fantasy folks think defined a mage?
"Too ordinary."
That was fair enough.
"And too nice."
That was the problem.
"Nice is a problem? What kinda bullshit is that?"
Ian raised his voice in disbelief. Cathy's reaction? Priceless.
"Oh."
Oh, my ass.
"That was kinda mage-like."
"...What the hell do you think a mage is?"
"Grumpy and prickly."
Ian couldn't respond to these fantasy people's stereotypes. Mages aren't cranky grandmas. They don't swear for fun! What do you people think we are?!
"Still kinda weak, though."
Cathy squinted slightly—still pretty.
"You don't swear much normally, do you?"
"...Obviously."
"Knew it. Start swearing. What'd you even do before becoming a mage—no cussing practice?"
It grated on him. He wanted to sic Eredis on her.
"You know the mercenaries disrespect you, right?"
"Kinda."
Cathy patted his shoulder lightly. It made him twitch.
"Go apeshit on them. Show some authority."
"Why?"
Truth was, mercenary disdain didn't matter to Ian. Survive this trek, done. Lifelong strangers—what did he care about their gossip? But Cathy's next words hooked him.
"So when shit hits the fan, they'll protect you."
"..."
Solid advice, right to the bone.
Ian admitted he'd misjudged things. Merchants like Rick naturally feared him—mages had noble ties, and merchants bowed to nobles to survive. But mercenaries? Loyal only to their employer, and even that was shaky. If things went south, would they fight? Or bolt? Obviously bolt—even with 100 Ians at stake.
Mercenaries were power, but uncontrollable. And here, only Ian could control them.
Yeah. Time to go apeshit...
Cathy's advice was simple: Instill fear through brutality. Make them fear Ian more than the enemy, and they'd fight to protect him.
"Mage! Enjoy your meal?"
Emily wouldn't quit, despite the rejections. Perfect chance to instill fear. Ian steeled himself and went savage.
"Hey. Bowl. Go wash it."
He... tossed it at her!
Emily's eyes went wide—not from awe at his charisma, but awkwardness. Cathy looked away from afar. Ian didn't get it. Why? I'm nailing this. And why's she blushing? Embarrassed?
But Ian was confident. Tossed a bowl in public! So cruel! Murder next?!
...Not even close. Emily, bone-deep used to superiors' disdain, found it natural. Yes! Now he acts like a mage!
"Yes, mage! Leave it to me!"
"...?"
No effect. Ian couldn't fathom her. No pride? Really okay with this? Not a true medievalite, Ian didn't grasp status society's terror—how it baked violence into beauty, slicing lowborn from high with a blade.
"Heh. Mage gave her work."
"Lucky Emily."
Mercenaries didn't blink. Still no fear.
Damn. What now?
To fix this, dredge real rage from deep inside. True anger lets you rage. But who was mad here? He knew he was power-tripping.
INFP Ian struggled to even fake anger. But the spark came from an unexpected place.
"Ptooey..."
"...?"
Ian blinked. Did he see that? Emily, holding his bowl, met his eyes and hawked a glob of spit into it. With a seductive smile, she shoved leaves in and scrubbed.
Ian's eyes rolled back. You crazy bitch! She spit in my bowl!
"Gahhh! What the fuck! You fucking bitch!"
"Y-Yes...?"
"Fuck! I said wash it! Who told you to ruin my bowl?!"
Roar!
Ian drew power from his dantian, unleashing a chilling lion's roar. Gal! This bitch! As the mage truly raged, nature's mysteries resonated, amplifying his fury.
Rumble...
"Gasp!"
"W-What?!"
Wind whipped, earth trembled. Leaves scattered with eerie, scream-like wails.
"M-Mage! Sorry! My mistake!"
Startled Emily flattened herself on the ground. She had no clue what she'd done wrong—just reflex to beg when a mage snapped!
"Who told you to spit in my fucking bowl?!"
"B-But! To clean a bowl, you need moisture..."
"Use water, you fuck!"
"W-Water's dirty!"
Thud. Ian clutched his neck and collapsed. Struck down by his chronic illness: [Medieval Hygiene Mindset]...
The watching mercenaries felt chills of terror.
What the...? Scolding a servant washing his dishes? Casually savage!
That mage is one prickly bastard!