Starting Out Isn't Easy (1)

Guilds that managed official commissions could be found in every major city across the continent.

Because these institutions maintained close ties with the Magic Tower, one could routinely find spellcasters bustling about alongside the usual mercenaries and adventurers. And wherever mages congregated in numbers, petty arrogance was sure to follow.

It started when a veteran mage with the unkempt, brutish scowl of a mountain bandit overheard Eron inquiring about work.

"Looking for a commission? What's your rank? ...Wait, an Ordinary Mage? What's your affiliation? None? Pfft! Take a hike and look somewhere else!"

One of the receptionists within earshot whispered loud enough for half the hall to hear.

"An Ordinary Mage? With no backing at all? Pfft, ha!"

Then a scrawny, anchovy-faced spellcaster chimed in after catching wind of the commotion.

"You're just an Ordinary Mage? What noble house are you from? None? Pffft! Piss off! Where does a filthy commoner get off strutting in here?"

A female mage trailing behind the scrawny man stared at Eron as if examining some bizarre zoo animal, stage-whispering with a smirk.

"Whoa... a commoner who's an Ordinary Mage. How exotic! He's got such a handsome face, though. Wouldn't he be better off finding another line of work? Plenty of women would pay top coin for a face like that."

And the moment Eron turned to walk out, a mage loitering by the entrance sneered directly in his face.

"Pffft! Look at him carrying his staff strapped to his back! Kahah! Can't even manage a basic Space Magic spell to stow it. Figures, with his pedigree. Pfft!"

Haaah... fuck me.

I swear, I want to shove a fireball right down every single one of their throats.

In this godforsaken city, where he had sacrificed the coin meant for a warm bed at an inn just to pay his transit fare, Eron barely held back the murderous rage and destructive impulses clawing at his chest as he shoved open the guild doors and stepped out into the street.

It was the first time he had been this infuriated since walking out on that wretched ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠family.

The only reason he managed to keep his temper in check was his past experience enduring worse—and the fact that Ifrit was throwing an even bigger fit beside him.

"How dare mere humans look down on us?!" she fumed, tiny fists trembling with rage. "Hey, Eron! Let's blast them to cinders with fire magic!"

While Eron didn't act on her words, for once he agreed with every fiber of his being. Had they crossed paths anywhere outside city walls, he would have reduced them to ash before Ifrit even had the chance to speak.

Whew... calm down. They're just ignorant fools who don't know any better. Bear with it. Hold it in.

Once he managed to steady his breathing, cold reality came crashing down.

"Leaving that aside... what now?"

When he first realized his pockets were completely empty, panic had set in, but a potential solution had quickly crossed his mind.

His promise to Felix Linda.

Five years ago, Eron had pledged that once he grew into a proper mage, he would return to the castle of Felix Linda, Administrator of The North, and render a month of service. Felix was renowned for his pragmatism and fairness; even if it was work fulfilling an old bargain, he was not the type to shortchange anyone on proper compensation.

The issue, however, was that Eron didn't even have enough coin to reach the North.

Five years ago, they had traveled via a teleportation circle, but the distance between the training cliff and Felix's seat of power was immense. It was far too vast a trek to attempt on foot, and his remaining coppers fell woefully short of hiring a carriage. Desperate to earn at least enough for travel expenses, Eron had spent his very last coin reaching the nearest city, assuming that picking up a quick job would be trivial.

And this humiliating farce was the result.

Spending the last five years traveling and honing his craft alongside Merna had made him overlook one glaring detail: officially, Eron was still classified as an Ordinary Mage.

It was the absolute bottom tier among the five recognized magic ranks. Mages of this standing were routinely barred from accepting commissions or joining expedition parties altogether. After all, the rank provided zero guarantee of baseline competence.

Because promotions were governed strictly by Magic Tower standards, holding the rank of 3rd-Class Mage or above served as proof of verified capability. An Ordinary Mage, on the other hand, had no such proof. The title encompassed everyone from a greenhorn who had awakened mana yesterday to an experienced caster on the verge of advancing to 3rd-Class. They were all lumped together under the same label.

Not that anyone needs to lecture me on Ordinary Mages, Eron thought bitterly.

A piece of human garbage he never wished to remember flashed across his mind.

Jaylon Hynek.

An Ordinary Mage, and a thoroughly defective excuse for a human being.

Thanks to that man, Eron understood all too well how the world viewed an Ordinary Mage. Of course, Jaylon hailed from the high-ranking House Hynek, and with his family's clout, he had easily secured spots in the ten commissions required for promotion. Yet he had repeatedly failed the Magic Tower's examination, remaining an Ordinary Mage to this day—a truly irredeemable failure.

"What an absolute load of shit," Eron muttered.

"Hey, what's a commoner anyway?" Ifrit asked, fluttering around his head with an utterly baffled expression.

"Huh? A commoner is a commoner. What else would it be?"

"I mean, why is everyone making such a fuss over being one? I get the Ordinary Mage part, but what's with the rest?"

"Well, being a commoner isn't the problem so much as a commoner wielding magic."

Magic was long considered the exclusive domain of nobility; by common belief, only those of noble blood inherited the mana required to cast spells. In broad terms, that was true. Yet that didn't mean mana never manifested in commoners.

How could such a contradiction exist?

The answer lay in illegitimate children and cast-offs abandoned by noble houses. In recent years, the Empire had adopted a far more lenient stance toward illegitimate offspring in its bid to gather talented individuals, but in the past, that had not been the case. When the dormant bloodlines of such discarded scions skipped generations and surfaced in ordinary lineages, commoners born with mana would occasionally appear.

And naturally, society looked upon such commoner mages with deep prejudice.

It was somewhat ironic: even as the stigma surrounding illegitimate births had softened, commoner mages were still treated like dirt. Finding a proper mentor was nearly impossible, and even if one managed to build genuine skill through sheer grit, securing a spot on an official commission was an uphill battle.

"Wait, what does it matter who casts magic?" Ifrit grumbled.

"Humans care about that sort of nonsense."

"Blegh! Humans really make no sense whatsoever."

"Can't say I blame you," Eron sighed. "Half the time, I don't understand them either."

"So what are we going to do now?"

"Good question. What should we do?"

Of course, avenues for taking on work weren't entirely closed. He could join an organization officially recognized by the Magic Tower. Demonstrating his skill and gaining membership would serve as proof of ability, granting him access to guild commissions. He had even heard of syndicates formed exclusively by commoner-born mages.

Yet Eron had zero desire to tie himself to any organization—not now, and most likely not ever.

He refused to belong to anyone, nor would he submit to anyone's authority. The life he pursued was one of untethered freedom. That had been his primary motivation for aspiring to become an Archmage, the guiding beacon of his journey—just like his master, Merna.

"Ifrit, you wouldn't want to be cooped up around a bunch of strangers anyway, right?"

"Huh? Other humans besides you? Ugh, no thanks. Hate them."

"See? Knew it."

Ordinary people couldn't see or hear Ifrit in the first place. Unless someone understood his circumstances completely, like Master Merna, being around a team would be an unbearable headache for Eron as well.

"Wait! That doesn't mean I actually like hanging around with you—!"

"Yeah, yeah. Got it, got it. I hear you."

"Hey! You're not listening at all!"

Leaving the flustered spirit to throw her tantrum, Eron pondered his options. What viable path was left?

Taking on a commission through official guild channels was out of the question. As for earning quick coin in the city, only one realistic option remained: manual labor.

Haul cargo at the docks? Why the hell did I become a mage just to break ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my back doing that? Not happening.

Which left only one practical alternative: shadow an incompetent party bound to botch their quest, and snatch the commission out from under them.

There was simply no other way. Fortunately, a prime target had already presented itself. One of the arrogant fools from just moments ago.

“You're just an Ordinary Mage? What noble house are you from? None? Pffft! Piss off! Where does a filthy commoner get off strutting in here?”

Five years of travel and battle-tested experience gave Eron sharp instincts. The moment he had laid eyes on that scrawny bastard and his entourage, he knew they had zero chance of clearing the commission they had taken. The team's composition was a total disaster from the start.

Honestly, what idiot had organized a five-man party composed entirely of mages? Unless they had a 1st-Class versatile mage capable of frontlining and handling close quarters, an all-caster formation in rugged terrain was an invitation to a slaughter.

Well, that just means I'll be doing them a favor by saving their necks. And in return, I'll be taking a fair cut of the reward.

"Alright, let's go with that."

"Huh? What? What're you planning?"

"First, we head for the mountains."

"The mountains? Why?"

"You'll see."

Ignoring Ifrit's barrage of questions, Eron set off toward the rugged mountains looming beyond the city outskirts.

"A B-rank danger rating just for wiping out goblins? Isn't this commission basically free money?"

"Mountain terrain is tricky, though. Especially when dealing with swarms of goblins."

"Even so, you have to admit this is a total cakewalk. Right?"

"Well, I can't argue with that."

The five-man party chatted leisurely as they prepared their camp halfway up the mountainside.

"Hey! Keep your wits about you," Bran, the party leader, called out with a stern tone. "When you're dealing with monsters, you never know what unexpected variables might pop up."

Yet the responses that came back were entirely devoid of urgency.

"Yes, yes, whatever you say, Leader."

"Come on, Bran, we already cast a wide-perimeter Detection Magic spell. Nothing's slipping by. Let's just kick back and relax~"

Despite the slack discipline, Bran didn't press the matter. Truth be told, his warning had been purely perfunctory. He was just as complacent as the rest of them.

Goblins were among the weakest creatures in the monster hierarchy. Even accounting for their numbers and the disadvantageous mountain slopes, the commission hardly posed a serious threat. Yet the guild had slapped a formidable B-rank danger rating on it.

Bran was practically walking on air at the prospect of logging a high-difficulty commission under his belt. Currently a 3rd-Class Mage, his immediate ambition was naturally to advance to 2nd-Class Mage.

One of the core prerequisites for the rank was successfully completing at least ten high-difficulty commissions. There were other requirements, of course, but Bran brimmed with confidence. As long as he satisfied the commission quota, he was certain he could pass the evaluation and achieve 2nd-Class status.

"If I'd known the job would be this easy, we should've brought that guy along," one of the female mages mused.

"That guy?"

"You know, that cute, handsome one back at the guild. You saw him, right? The commoner Ordinary Mage."

Bran frowned as the memory resurfaced. The pathetic commoner who couldn't even stow his staff in a spatial pocket using Space Magic and had to carry it strapped to his back like a pack mule.

"Why the hell would we bring trash like that?"

"Since there's no real danger anyway, wouldn't a little eye candy have been nice?"

"Tsk! Spouting absolute nonsense."

Bran detested the very idea of a lowly commoner, incapable of wielding proper magic, daring to parade around with the title of mage. If ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠they had crossed paths out here in the secluded mountains, Bran would have taught the upstart a harsh lesson in his place.

To Bran's mind, magic was a divine privilege granted only to the exceptional. A noble, exalted art reserved solely for the aristocracy. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠notion of a commoner acting like an equal was an intolerable offense. His party being composed entirely of mages had stemmed from that very arrogance; Bran's deep-seated magical elitism dictated every choice he made.

"Maybe once I strike it rich, I'll hire him as my personal plaything," the female mage teased with a giggle.

"Hire him?"

"A face like that is hard to come by, even in high-end pleasure parlors."

You blow all your earnings on those parlors anyway, as if you'll ever save up that much, Bran sneered inwardly. Still, he found himself agreeing that such a demeaning occupation was far more suited to the man.

Commoners ought to stick to filthy, degrading work where they belong.

That was the extent of Bran's contempt.

A short while after camp preparations were complete...

"Wait... what's this? Fog?"

"Is this area supposed to get fog?"

"No way. Not at this altitude."

Sensing something amiss, the group snapped to attention, their eyes scanning the thickening white mist.

"What about the Detection Magic?"

"Nothing. Not a single ping on the perimeter."

"Really?"

Just a freak weather anomaly, then?

The moment that careless conclusion began to form in their minds—

"Kyah-gyak!"

"Kya-kya-kyak!"

The vile, predatory cackling of creatures stalking their prey ripped through the unnatural mist.