The Dragon's Reverse Scale
There's a saying called the reverse scale. It refers to the scale that grows upside down on a dragon's chin, and touching it supposedly sends the dragon into a frenzy, laying waste to everything around it. That's why people use "reverse scale" to mean a point you absolutely must never touch.
Women aren't scaly creatures, but they have their own reverse scales too. For them, it's age.
This can be explained biologically. Once a woman passes thirty, the chances of her bearing healthy children drop off sharply. No parent in the world wants their descendants born sickly and frail. So men instinctively prefer younger women.
Women, meanwhile, wish they could stay young forever. Unlike women, men don't lose fertility with age (though their erections might weaken). That's why you hear tales now and then of some geezer past sixty knocking up a twenty-something girlfriend.
Because of that, men just shrug it off when called "mister" or "old man." Aging is sad, but undeniable. But call a woman "ajumma," and it's a life-ending bombshell. Exaggerated, it sounds like "You're done as a woman."
"Me... an ajumma?"
The woman's shoulders trembled visibly, even from a distance. Her little sister looked utterly clueless about the crime she'd committed—pure, childlike malice.
"Hey. You there."
The woman called out to Ian with a twisted smile that was equal parts chilling and pitiful.
"Yes?"
"Who's that... little earth dwarf next to you?"
Ian was stunned. Was she getting revenge just for being called ajumma? This woman was petty!
"I'm not a dwarf!"
Kids hate being dismissed by adults. Same reason elementary schoolers despise being called "Jammin."
"Hehe. Big sis isn't an ajumma either, okay? Try calling me 'unnie'~?"
The woman extended an olive branch first—adult-level diplomacy. But the little one showed no mercy.
"No way! Ajumma! You wrinkly hag!"
The little sister vanished somewhere. No need to worry; it was a familiar spot, wide open like their own yard. Ian figured she'd gone to pick and eat wild berries first.
Ian focused on the woman in front of him.
"Excuse me, traveler—who might you be?"
The woman looked at him in mild surprise. Such polite speech for his age—total opposite of his sister.
"I'm Eredis. A wandering mage."
"...A mage?"
Ian jumped. This was a medieval world, but a fantasy one. Monsters and magic existed here. Mages were another word for war itself. Wherever battles raged, you'd find mages. This was his first time seeing one in the flesh, but Ian felt an inexplicable dread hard to put into words.
Mages were too nebulous a concept. Naturally—he'd never met one in his past life either, so terror was inevitable.
Why's a mage here...?
Ian recalled this world's common sense. Mages meant war.
Is war coming? No way...
He shook his head. The rulers of this village, the Feldenberg family, weren't prestigious enough to hire a mage for war. At best, they smashed bandits. What need for a mage there?
Not that bandits were pushovers. Organized bandits became armies, their leaders suddenly "lords." Still, the Feldenbergs lacked the power for real war.
"I'm looking for a black-haired boy living in this village..."
"Pardon?"
The mage who'd introduced herself as Eredis stared right through Ian's hair as she spoke. Unless some kid dyed their hair—a rare quirk—Ian was the black-haired boy she sought.
"Any other black-haired boys around besides you?"
Ian shook his head. He was the only one. Hence his honorable nickname: Ian the Raven.
"Just me."
Eredis stared at him a moment longer, then burst into cheerful laughter.
"Chronomancers, honestly."
Chronomancer?
Ian had no clue what that meant.
Eredis Manskal was a wandering mage.
Imperial mages fell into two broad categories: secular mages and truth seekers.
Secular mages were what folks usually meant by "mage"—those who learned magic to wield influence over others. War mages and magic academy professors fit here.
Truth seekers, unlike them, never settled down. They roamed endlessly, their sole pursuit the exploration of magic. They spared no effort for higher achievements.
The line wasn't cut-and-dried. A truth seeker might settle under a noble's patronage yesterday; a cushy layabout might hit the road for magical breakthroughs tomorrow.
Eredis leaned toward truth seeker by nature. Her goals: reach greater heights as a mage and pass her achievements to posterity, advancing the world.
At thirty-five, she was a solid mage with a name in mage circles.
Just as humans crave kids after stability, Eredis—having achieved decent mastery—felt a twinge of desire for a disciple.
As if reading her mind, a mage sought her out. His name: Gerard. An acquaintance.
"Feeling like taking a disciple lately?"
"Where'd you pick up that nonsense?"
A chronomancer "finding" a wanderer was odd to begin with (no storm magic involved). They toyed with time-space magic, plucking future threads for "prophecies."
Whatever future he'd glimpsed, Gerard dropped a bombshell.
"Seek a black-haired boy in the Colbrunn region's Feldenberg territory. Make him your disciple, and good things will surely follow."
Eredis snorted at the advice. Typical chronomancer vagueness: "Do X, get good stuff~."
Chronomancers shared futures among themselves—a poorly kept secret. And their conclaves endlessly debated the "better future." She knew they puppeteered the present to realize it.
Hence the hate for chronomancers. Who were they to play god, whispering from the shadows?
Eredis figured Gerard had seen some weird future and was nudging her to make it real.
They never spilled specifics—uncertainty first, treaties second.
No reason to heed him. He'd sulk, then chase another future.
But the bait was tempting. Chronomancers loved using people as chess pieces, luring with "good things await."
And they did happen—if you became their puppet. Second reason for the hate.
Bored anyway. Might as well check it out.
Gerard proposed; Eredis chose. No deep thought needed. Do what felt right.
But she was in a funk lately. Stalled on magical progress, no joy. A trip for a mood boost sounded good.
Traveling was her lifelong gig anyway.
She headed straight for Colbrunn.
And damn that chronomancer—right on cue, she met the black-haired boy. First button fastened.
"Kiddo. What's your name?"
"Ian."
Eredis ruffled the boy's hair. Eyes half-curious, half-fearful—but bright and spirited, utterly lovable.
Gerard, you unlucky chronomancer bastard. This one's the disciple, huh?
"No beating around the bush. Your big sis here came to take you as her disciple."
"...Pardon?"
Ian was speechless at Eredis's sudden pitch. A total stranger offering discipleship on first sight?
Disciple wasn't code for "lab rat," was it?
"You want me as your disciple?"
"Yep! I wanna teach you magic. Whaddya think?"
"..."
Ian couldn't respond. His brain reeled from the shock.
Past life or this one, skills meant power. "Learn a trade, never starve"—skilled folk got respect everywhere for doing what others couldn't.
Skills always cost something: money, connections.
No free lunch. That's why Ian couldn't dream beyond farming—no cash, no teachers.
Who hands their precious livelihood to a stranger for free?
In this world, trades were hell to enter. Intro via acquaintance, then years as a dogsbody: fetch food, tend family, chores, punching bag... After 3-4 slave years, maybe one basic skill as charity.
Ten years grinding scraps, then independence dreams.
Famous artisans? New disciples mean hierarchies: first-gen, second-gen. Guilds festered with abuses—polish seniors' boots, prep tools, 90-degree bows, laugh at crap jokes...
Learning others' skills was brutal. Only parents taught free.
Yet here was an exception: Eredis.
"I... dunno."
Too-good-to-be-true deals screamed poison. Scammers baited greed. Sounded like a no-brainer win? That's how they hooked you.
A naive medievaler might bite. But Ian was reincarnated.
Proof: Korean-black hair.
Scammer?
Trafficker. Ian's first thought.
Eredis seemed legit—a solo female traveler. Otherwise, her crew lurked in the woods. Definite kidnappers.
What the...?
Meanwhile, Eredis gaped at Ian's shifting gaze.
Pot, kettle—she was one of the hottest mages around. "Great Eredis" hype already buzzing.
She offered discipleship, and he eyes her like a shady peddler!
Yell it in any city: mages would line up.
But the boy's innocent suspicion scratched her pride.
"What's not to know? C'mon, spill to big sis."
Ian pondered how to say "You seem like a fake mage" politely.
So he went with:
"You seem... like a fake mage."
"???"
Eredis convulsed in shock. Mage Eredis—punched by the sister, now Ian too...