Dunce flinched, his head jerking up instinctively. He found himself once again staring into the wrinkled face of the old man. There was no readable emotion in those eyes, only a piercing scrutiny. "Wh-what question?"
The old man, whose name Dunce didn't yet know, frowned slightly beneath the shadow of his hood. *So, he really is a simpleton. Well… perhaps that makes him perfectly suited… for my purposes.* "I just asked you. Have you ever eaten a full meal?"
Dunce nodded slowly. The old man hadn't hit him yet. Maybe… just maybe, he wouldn't? Dunce dared to hope, his voice trembling slightly. "Y-yes. Sir. I know you're angry. If… if you're not going to beat me… could I go?" Even though this one attempt at picking a pocket (or "fishing" as WatanaLei called it) had failed, the day was long. He still had a chance to meet the quota WatanaLei demanded. Failure wasn't new to Dunce; he'd endured plenty. The thought of warm bread kept him going. His entire existence revolved around that small victory.
A corner of the old man's mouth twitched. "Did I say I *wasn't* going to beat you? You attempted to steal my coin purse. Inflicting some pain seems rather… just, wouldn't you agree?"
The fragile hope drained from Dunce's face, replaced by familiar dread. He hunched back down, hands instinctively shielding his head. "Th-then… could you not hit my hands?" he mumbled into his knees.
Surprise flickered in the old man's eyes. "Why?"
"Because… I need them to fish," Dunce whispered, the words thick with desperation. "If my hands are hurt, I can't fish. If I can't fish, there's no bread… and WatanaLei… WatanaLei will beat me anyway."
"Fish? WatanaLei?" The old man paused only for a second before understanding dawned. He knew what "fishing" meant in this squalid underworld. He knew what "WatanaLei" represented – a petty tyrant controlling street rats. A dark, almost cruel amusement bubbled within him. *This fool of a thief, caught red-handed, begging not to have his *tools* damaged? He's precisely as dim-witted as he looks. Perfectly malleable.*
"A beating would be merciful," the old man stated, his voice dropping lower, colder. "By my standing, I could end your life right here, and no one would lift a finger. Do you believe me?"
Dunce blinked. "End my… life? That… that's dying, right? Sir, what does dying feel like? Is it painful? And… there'd be no more bread after you're dead, would there?"
Despite himself, the old man felt a flicker of something unexpected – a dark amusement cut with a strange lightness. *This simpleton, asking me of the taste of death… Little does he know, in a decade or so, his own name will whisper fear across the Continent: 'Dunce'. He will become the bringer of death, not its curious victim.* He dismissed the thought. The future was for shaping. "Do you want to be full?" he asked abruptly, cutting through the morbid distraction. It was time to get to the point.
*Food.* The word ignited something primal in Dunce. His stomach growled loudly, betraying him. The meager breakfast bread was long gone, consumed by the biting cold. He looked up, raw hunger blazing in his dark eyes. "Yes! Sir! More than anything! Or… or maybe just one of those purple coins? Just one?" The image of a roasted chicken leg swam before his eyes, making saliva pool in his mouth.
"I won't give you coins," the old man stated flatly. "But if you wish to be full… come with me. I will feed you. And… I will not strike you."
Dunce's eyes widened. *Food… safety?* The offer shimmered like a mirage. He thought of Girl, who had also left WatanaLei, handed over to a stranger. "R-really? You'll make sure I… eat enough?"
The old man nodded. "You may make other requests. I will accommodate them if feasible. But understand this: leaving may mean you never return to this wretched corner of Knotwood City. Are you prepared for that?" He needed the boy compliant, not homesick. A wailing, troublesome brat would jeopardize everything; disposing of him later would be a messy annoyance.
Dunce shook his head vigorously. "I'll go. I want to go with you. Food is enough. I don't need anything else." Shelter, warmth, security – concepts he barely grasped, all bundled into the promise of not being hungry.
The old man felt a sliver of satisfaction. He had his vessel. "Coming with me means work. Hard work. Are you afraid of that?"
"Work? What kind of work?" Dunce mumbled, confused. Work meant stealing. Or maybe scrubbing pots?
"Work cleaner than thieving," the old man replied tersely. "And I won't beat you, remember? What you don't know… I will teach you."
Dunce dropped his gaze. "But… but I'm stupid. Everyone says so. Could I really learn?"
"I say you can learn," the old man snapped, impatience fraying his control. "Enough talk. Follow me." He turned and strode out of the alley.
Dunce scrambled to his feet and hurried after him. He hadn't taken three steps when the old man stopped abruptly. Dunce, lost in thought about possible bread-related futures, bumped solidly into his back. "Oof!" He staggered back, clutching his smarting nose.
The old man turned, fixing Dunce with his gaze. "What is your name?"
"Dunce. They call me Dunce."
A dry chuckle escaped the old man's lips. "'Dunce'? Apt. Remember my name: Goriz. Magister Goriz. An Alchemist. From this moment… you are my apprentice." He pronounced the last word with a weight that Dunce didn't yet understand.
Dunce nodded vigorously, whispering to himself: "Goriz… Goriz… Goriz…"
"Goriz!" the alchemist corrected sharply, his voice crackling with annoyance. "Not… whatever that garbled mess was. Master Magister Goriz. And you will address me as such. 'Magister.'"
"O-okay, Magister," Dunce echoed, bewildered. "But… what is a Magister?"
Magister Goriz felt an absurd urge to sigh. *This will require monumental patience.* "A Magister," he explained, his voice clipped, "is one who imparts knowledge. The one who teaches." *And one who will use that knowledge for his own ends,* he added silently. Turning on his heel, he walked into the bustling street, the name 'Goriz' resonating with hidden power, a name known and respected (and feared) in the highest circles of the Alchemists' Guild for his genius, his ruthlessness, and his unpredictable temper.
Dunce suddenly remembered WatanaLei's reaction when Girl left. "Magister! Could… could you come with me? To see WatanaLei? He's given me bread… for a long time. If I'm leaving… I should tell him. Otherwise… he'll be angry."
Magister Goriz paused. The request was absurd, a waste of his time. Yet… *For the plan to succeed, he must cut all ties, bury the past. His compliance must be absolute.* Calculatingly, he nodded. "Very well. Lead the way."
Dunce, navigating the labyrinthine back alleys of the River's End slums like a seasoned rat, eventually stopped before a ramshackle shack leaning precariously against a taller, only slightly less decrepit building. The usual clamor of kids being shouted at was absent; they were all out on Goriz's kind of "fishing."
"Here?" Magister Goriz asked, wrinkling his nose at the stench of unwashed bodies and despair.
Dunce nodded and pushed open the rickety door.
WatanaLei lounged inside, cradling a jug of cheap grain liquor. Business had been decent lately, thanks almost entirely to Dunce's uncanny, if simplistic, efficiency at lifting coin purses. He dreamed of a comfortable future – a real house, maybe even a wife, leaving behind the squalor and the stingy pleasures of backstreet brothels. The door crashed open, shattering his booze-fueled fantasy.
"Huh? Back so soon? How many catches?" WatanaLei slurred, squinting at the thin figure in the doorway.
Dunce flinched. "Uncle. I… I didn't catch any."
No catch? Lei's genial facade cracked instantly, replaced by cold fury. He shot to his feet. "No catch? Then why the hell are you back here? Forgotten how much skin bruises?" He loomed over the boy.
Dunce trembled. "I… I came to say goodbye."
*Goodbye?* WatanaLei's blood ran cold. *My golden goose, trying to fly away?* "Leave?" he spat, his voice climbing an octave. "After all the bread I've stuffed into you? Think you're too good for this now? Got wings all of a sudden?" Losing Girl had been nothing; she barely earned her crust. But Dunce? Dunce was his retirement plan. Panic laced his anger. He forced his voice softer, oilier. "Hungry again, boy? Here, have another crust. Then get your useless hide back out there. Tandor't go dreaming foolish thoughts, eh?" He flexed a meaty fist, the unspoken threat thick in the grimy air. "Or else."
Years of ingrained terror almost broke Dunce. *Another piece of bread?* It was a tangible, immediate temptation. He hesitated, warring instincts locking his throat.
"Or else *what*?" Magister Goriz's icy voice cut through the tension like a blade. He stepped into the shack, his dark robes filling the doorway, instantly dwarfing WatanaLei and the squalid surroundings.
Lei stumbled back, eyes wide. "Who… who the hell are you?"
"Irrelevant," Goriz stated, scanning the room with palpable disdain. "I am here to inform you. This boy, Dunce, leaves with me. Effective immediately. His days of grifting for you are over."
Fear warred with greed inside Lei. This figure radiated menace, but Dunce was his meal ticket. He straightened, putting on bravado he didn't feel. "The hell he does! So that's it! Found yourself some fancy backer, eh, you little rat?" The rage focused. He swung a heavy fist directly at Dunce's thin chest. "I'll teach you betrayal!"
Dunce instinctively curled into a ball, bracing for the familiar agony of impact. But it didn't come. He dared to peek. WatanaLei's fist hung frozen in mid-air, caught in Magister Goriz's surprisingly strong, pale hand. Sweat beaded on Lei's forehead. He strained uselessly.
"I said," Goriz hissed, his voice low and dangerous, "he is *my* apprentice. You have no further claim. Or privilege." With a contemptuous flick, he sent Lei staggering into a pile of filthy rags.
Lei rubbed his aching wrist, fury overriding sense. "You bastard! Think you can just steal him?"
Magister Goriz's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Scum like you pollute the air. Persist… and I will grant you a taste of the Void." He raised his right hand, the one that had stopped Lei's blow. Guttural syllables, alien and chilling, slithered from under his hood. Black flame, cold and writhing like liquid shadow, bloomed in his palm. It cast no warmth, only an unnerving, violet-edged light. Goriz flicked his wrist. The black fire shot out like a stream, striking the shack's lone, three-legged table.
No explosion. No roaring flames. The wood simply… ceased to be. One moment solid, the next, a faint haze of greasy smoke and the smell of pure corruption. Gone. Utterly.
Dunce and WatanaLei stared, slack-jawed.
"Magister," Dunce breathed, amazed. "Was… was that magic? Where's the table?"
"That," Goriz corrected, letting the residual heat shimmer the air around his fingers, "was True Sorcery. Not sleight of hand." *A little taste of necromantic fire blended with elemental flux… enough to terrify a fool.* He turned his gaze back to Lei.
WatanaLei's teeth chattered uncontrollably. "Y-you… you're a Sorcerer! Master Sorcerer! Please! Spare me!" The reality crashed down. This was no back-alley thug. This was a practitioner of the dark arts. Men like this killed pests like him without a second thought, and no city guard would lift a finger against a registered Magus, especially not for some slumlord thief.
Goriz glanced at Dunce. "Your farewell is concluded. We leave." He turned towards the door, the implication clear: *Stay here and die, or stay silent.*
Dunce looked at the ashen-faced, terrified WatanaLei, who merely trembled, all fight drained. "WatanaLei… I'm going," Dunce said quickly, then hurried after Magister Goriz. As he stepped outside the shack, an unfamiliar lightness washed over him. The relief wasn't just about escaping the imminent beating… it was a deeper relief. The image of Magister Goriz effortlessly tossing WatanaLei aside had sparked something deep within – a tiny, suppressed flame of satisfaction. Bread and safety outweighed WatanaLei. The mysterious sorcerer couldn't be worse than this. He tried not to think about Girl's whispered warnings about 'going with strangers,' focusing instead on the Magister's promise: no beatings.
Magister Goriz walked at a measured pace, allowing Dunce to keep up easily. The gloom of the overcast sky seemed less oppressive to Dunce now. "Magister? Where are we going?"
Goriz halted abruptly. "Do not question me. Follow." The command brooked no argument.
Dunce flinched. The voice was steel wrapped in shadow. Old habits surged. "Y-yes, Magister. Sorry."
Goriz continued walking, satisfied. *Simpleton, yes. But obedient. Perfect.* He led them away from the stinking riverbanks, towards the city's heart.
Soon, Dunce recognized where they were heading. The Grand Phoenix Hotel. Its polished chrome-and-onyx facade screamed obscene wealth, a gaudy monument towering over the grime they'd just left. Dunce remembered lurking near its grand brass portals ("phishing grounds," WatanaLei called them). Goriz strode towards the entrance without hesitation.
"Shoo! Scram, gutter rat! Out!" A towering doorman in an ornate but cheaply gilded uniform blocked Dunce's path, brandishing a heavy baton like a cattle prod. "Filth like you don't belong here!" He made shooing motions, his face twisted in disgust.
Dunce stumbled back, fear returning. He looked past the burly man to where Magister Goriz had already vanished into the opulent lobby. *I have to get to the Magister!* He swallowed hard. "P-please, sir. I'm with him. The Magister."
The doorman sneered, puffing out his chest. "Your *Magister*? Dreaming big, aren't we, rag-boy?" He spat near Dunce's worn, scavenged shoes. "You reek of the sewers. Not a chance in hell you set foot in the Grand Phoenix. Get lost before I help you *find* the gutter!" He took a menacing step forward, baton raised. Gutter urchins vanished under bridges every day; who'd miss one more?
"He *is* with me." Magister Goriz's voice, devoid of inflection but carrying immense weight, echoed from just inside the doors. He stood in the lobby's warm light, a pillar of darkness. He had anticipated this obstacle. Let the boy feel the sting of rejection, know who held the true power to open doors.
The doorman froze mid-swing, his face paling. "Sir! My deepest apologies! I didn't realize…" Recognition of the sorcerer's robes and the palpable aura of power instantly deflated him. He bowed low, gesturing grandly towards Dunce. "Please, young sir, do come in! My sincere apologies!"
Dunce scurried past the suddenly obsequious doorman and over the threshold to stand beside Goriz. "S-sorry, Magister. I…"
"Enough," Goriz cut him off, already turning away. *Good. The lesson is learned.* He strode purposefully into the lobby, Dunce hurrying to stay close to his dark robes. The plush, garish opulence, the glittering chandeliers reflecting in polished marble floors, the scent of expensive perfume and stale cigar smoke – it was overwhelming. Sharp, judging eyes from well-dressed patrons raked over Dunce's thin frame and cheap, ill-fitting clothes. He felt horribly exposed, shrinking into himself, eyes fixed on the hem of Goriz's robes like a life raft.
They stopped before a set of heavy, frosted glass doors. Goriz pushed them open. A thick wall of warm, humid air, scented lightly with unfamiliar herbs, washed over them.
"So warm!" Dunce gasped involuntarily. His chilled bones seemed to sigh in relief.
A middle-aged attendant in a crisp white tunic emerged, pasting on a professional smile that didn't quite reach his eyes as they flickered over Dunce. "Welcome back, Magister Goriz. How may I serve you today?"
Goriz retrieved his purse and pulled out a single *starlight crystal*. He tossed it to the attendant with negligent ease. "Clean this boy. Scrub him until he gleams. Then procure suitable attire for him – practical, durable. Understood? You may keep the remainder."
The attendant's eyes bulged at the gem's brilliance. *A Stellalight! That's more than a month's wages!* Dunce's lingering street stench was instantly forgiven. His smile became genuine, even radiant. "Of course, Magister! Absolutely! Young Master will be immaculate! Stefan! Rolf! Attend the young Master, please! Immediately!" He snapped his fingers, summoning two large attendants who appeared promptly, their expressions carefully neutral though their noses wrinkled slightly.
Dunce instinctively shrank back towards Goriz.
Goriz didn't even glance at him. "Go with them. Become clean. My apprentice cannot be a walking cesspool."
*Clean?* The concept was vague. He'd seen WatanaLei wash in a bucket once, groaning about his aches. It hadn't seemed painful. Reassured, Dunce nodded. "Yes, Magister." He followed the attendants through the mist-shrouded archway.
Goriz moved to a plush velvet chair. "Refreshments. The boy will require time," he commanded, the attendant already pouring tea.
"Certainly, Magister! Right away!" the attendant chirped, practically sprinting to relay the clothing order before returning with a steaming cup.
Goriz sat, took the cup, and waited, eyes closing in contemplation, ignoring the lingering glances from other patrons relaxing in plush robes. *One hurdle down.* The bath attendants wouldn't know it yet, but they were about to encounter geological history.
---
**An hour later...**
Dunce emerged transformed. The grime-encrusted street urchin was gone. In his place stood a thin, pale boy with damp, dark hair hanging limply around his ears. His features were plain, earnest. He wore the simple cotton trousers and tunic that had been brought, and a sturdy, quilted jacket that looked absurdly large on his small frame but radiated comforting warmth. He fidgeted uncomfortably with the new fabric. The face staring back at him from the polished metal mirror had been unrecognizable – a blank slate, strangely vulnerable. Only the slightly vacant, wide-eyed stare confirmed it was him.
"Does he meet your requirements, Magister?" the attendant asked, beaming, already calculating the exact worth of the remaining crystal shards in his pocket.
Goriz's eyes swept over Dunce. He gave a curt, satisfied nod. *Acceptable. The canvas is prepared.* "It will suffice. Come." He rose, ignoring the tea cooling on the table, and swept towards the exit.
Dunce, now clean and warm but feeling oddly more out of place than ever in the grand hotel, trotted quickly after him. As they left, the lead bath attendant burst out to his colleague: "Gods below, Marcus! It was like chipping concrete! Layers! I swear we removed half his body weight in filth! It was… phenomenal!"
"The *smell*," the other attendant shuddered theatrically, grinning. "But yeah, Stefan. That scalding water… it practically smoked! Worth every minute for the Magister's crystal!"
Marcus chuckled, palming the crystal fragment. "A boy born of the river mud. Tonight, gentlemen, drinks are on the Magister's generosity!"
---
They ascended in a wrought-iron lift cage to the upper floors. Goriz unlocked a door to a suite of rooms – far simpler than Dunce expected from the lobby's grandeur, but spotlessly clean, with two narrow beds, a writing desk stacked with strange instruments and books, and a large, reinforced window overlooking the smoggy city skyline. The lingering scent of ozone and dried herbs hung in the air.
Dunce hovered just inside the threshold, intimidated by the stark orderliness. *Can I really be here?*
"Enter," Goriz commanded, shedding his heavy outer robe onto a hook. Beneath, he wore simpler dark trousers and a tunic, revealing a frame gaunt but surprisingly wiry. His hair was white as frost, his face deeply lined, but his deep blue eyes held an unnerving intensity that made Dunce want to look away.
Almost on cue, Dunce's stomach unleashed a loud, protesting gurgle. Goriz's gaze snapped to him. "You hunger?"
Dunce nodded miserably. "Yes, Magister. I only had… one piece of bread today."
Goriz moved to one of his travel trunks. After a moment's search, he retrieved a small, dark wood box. He opened it, revealing several small objects nestled in velvet. He selected one: a tiny, perfectly spherical wax ball. He hesitated for the briefest instant, the barest flicker of something in his eyes. Then, he tossed it to Dunce. "Consume this."
"O-okay," Dunce mumbled. He caught it and popped the strange little ball straight into his mouth, assuming it was some sort of exotic food. He started chewing hesitantly.
*Thwack!* Goriz's hand connected sharply with the back of Dunce's head. Pain and shock sent the wax sphere flying from his lips. Dunce yelped, clutching his head. "M-Magister? Why?"
Goriz pinched the bridge of his nose. *Patience, Goriz. Patience.* He retrieved the ball. "The protective wax," he said with forced calm, meticulously peeling it away, revealing a small, ruby-colored pearl nestled within. A delicate, sweet scent immediately perfumed the air – not cloying, but energizing. He gripped Dunce's chin firmly and placed the pearl directly onto the boy's tongue. "Swallow."
Before Dunce could react, the pearl melted like morning dew on warm stone, coating his tongue in cool, sweet liquid that flowed effortlessly down his throat. A wave of gentle coolness spread through his chest, settling comfortably in his core.
"Go into the privy chamber," Goriz ordered, pointing to a small door off the main room. "Remove your trousers. Sit upon the pot. Now."
Dunce blinked, confused. But the tone brooked no delay. "Y-yes, Magister." He hurried into the small tiled room, obeying the confusing instructions. What could this possibly achieve?
Goriz sat on the edge of his bed. *My last Essence Elixir of the Void Serpent Armor… gone.* The ingredients alone had taken a decade across poisoned jungles and glacial peaks; the nine-fold purification under volatile stellar alignments… it was irreplaceable. Used on a street rat. Yet, the plan demanded it. This alchemical marvel, designed to purge profound impurities, forge resilience, and subtly reforge latent potential – it was the crucible in which the vessel needed to be tempered. The boy's newly cleaned skin was just the surface; the real transformation was beginning. *He will be pliable. Malleable. Perfect.* The end justified the expense.
---
**From the privy, a symphony commenced:**
*Fwoomp... Splat! Gurgle... Fwoomp-SPLORCH! Whumpf...*
Interspersed with sounds Dunce had never made before – groans of deep, almost painful relief mingling with surprised sighs.
---
*Fwoomp... Splat! Gurgle... Fwoomp-SPLORCH! Whumpf...*
Time crawled. Goriz focused on a diagram on his desk, etching lines onto vellum with a needle-sharp stylus. Still, no Dunce emerged. A sliver of genuine concern cut through Goriz's usual detachment. *No! Was the Void Serpent Armor essence too potent? Did the vessel crack?! A wasted elixir! An impossible loss!* He shot up, marched to the privy door, and shoved it open.
The assault was immediate and powerful. A thick, noxious cloud of rot and decay hit him like a physical blow, forcing him to recoil and clamp a hand over his nose and mouth. His eyes watered. *By the Sundered Stellas!*
Inside, Dunce crouched naked on the privy seat, looking up at him with wide, startled eyes.
Goriz fought down rage and disgust. "Are you… finished?" he demanded, voice muffled.
"Y-yes, Magister," Dunce replied, still dazed.
"Then why," Goriz ground out, each word sharp as ice, "are you still inhabiting that chamber? Did you intend *live* in this miasma?"
Dunce scrambled down, hastily pulling up the simple trousers. "No, Magister! Sorry, Magister!"
Goriz slammed the door shut and stalked back into the main room, throwing open the window to let the foul air escape into the polluted city skyline. He took deep breaths of the tainted but comparatively fresh air. *Patience, Goriz. The vessel survives. The foundation is laid.* He looked back towards the closed privy door, his blue eyes gleaming in the dim light. *And the experiment continues.*