Chapter 51: Light Spell

Night fell, darkness enveloping the pine forests of Tania Mountain near Alvado Town.  

Snow began to fall again, which was good—it would cover their tracks and mask their scent.  

Amidst the quiet, shadowy thicket came the sound of snapping branches. Wade walked behind York, the short-statured gnome whose hands emitted a circle of white radiance.  

This wasn’t candlelight or firelight, but an illumination spell.  

Zero-level cantrip—Light Spell.  

It was an extremely common low-tier spell, not difficult to learn. Anyone with the most basic magical aptitude who could cultivate mana through meditation could master it.  

Of course, this only meant the Light Spell was frequently used among mages, not that it was commonly seen in general.  

After all, mages weren’t as plentiful as wild shepherd’s purse flowers by the roadside.  

Mages were quite rare—perhaps only one in ten thousand newborns possessed the innate qualification to learn magic.  

Wade had once fantasized about becoming a mage himself, so he’d researched the subject thoroughly.  

According to “All About Mages,” those capable of becoming mages exhibited differences from ordinary people from childhood.  

They might claim to see things others couldn’t, or bend iron spoons without touching them.  

By age seven or eight, strange rumors would spread through nearby towns until one spring, a robed mage wielding a magic wand would visit the prodigy’s home to persuade their parents to let them leave.  

This was the ideal path to becoming a mage—innate talent would let one advance smoothly, and teachers would invest fully in instruction because a high-tier mage’s potential rewards far outweighed the costs.  

The reason mediocre teachers traveled great distances to recruit apprentices was their firsthand knowledge that “talent” almost absolutely determined a mage’s ceiling.  

Compared to talent, knowledge, training, and wealth paled into insignificance. A magical genius might naturally cast first or even second-level non-systematic spells through maturation alone, without any instruction.  

For the mediocre, this might require a decade of study.  

It sounded unfair, but such was reality.  

The mage profession was inherently unequal, always perceived as more noble than others.  

Wade never expected this gnome to be one of those “noble” mages.  

Unfortunately, the gnome’s talent seemed mediocre—Wade watched him fail two or three times before finally conjuring a faint glow in his palms.  

The white light shone brightly on the gnome’s bald head, sparse gray hairs scattered around the bare area like… well, a strange gasket.  

A walking, peculiar gasket.  

Wade’s gaze was involuntarily drawn to the gnome’s “Mediterranean” hairstyle.  

Even Mia pressed against the slit in Wade’s helmet to stare at the gnome’s lightbulb-like scalp.  

Wade mused this might be due to a ghost’s phototaxis, or perhaps the little ghost was puzzling over what that suspiciously smooth object really was.  

Admittedly, the gnome’s presence alleviated tension.  

Though York remained silent while leading, Wade heard intermittent suppressed snorts from behind.  

“Keo, that’s rude!”  

“Sorry Auntie, I think I’m getting lightheaded…”  

Can’t blame you, lad. Human nature.  

Wade thought this as they followed the gnome along winding forest paths.  

“Here we are!” The gnome suddenly stopped. “Porter, help me move this stone!”  

“Coming.”  

Lucas stepped forward to the moss-covered bluestone, slightly bending his knees to lift it aside effortlessly.  

Beneath lay a square iron door resembling a cellar entrance—narrow enough for perhaps just a gnome to pass through.  

“Old York, this is your ‘good spot’?” Lucas asked. “Is there really space below for all of us?”  

“Plenty,” York said. “This is York’s secret… secret warehouse! Could stuff you all in like cotton!”  

“But the entrance is too small.” Lucas scratched his head, imagining getting stuck midway—upper body aboveground, lower half below, completely immobilized.  

How dreadful.  

“Old York, we’ll need to dismantle this iron door,” Lucas said. “Otherwise even if your warehouse is as spacious as claimed, we can’t enter.”  

“Dismantle?!” The gnome shuddered, clearly disliking the suggestion.  

But after glancing at Wade and the hundred weary, travel-worn Tanians behind them, he sighed.  

“Fine… do it quickly. But… don’t let York watch.” Covering his eyes, he turned away.  

He seemed saddened—perhaps fond of that patterned door.  

Long companionship breeds attachment, even to inanimate objects.  

Like Wade cherished his round-headed mace and round shield scavenged from the wasteland.  

He’d also grown fond of his current iron helmet and sword, having remembered to retrieve the latter when leaving.  

If someone threatened to crush his helmet—were it necessary—Wade knew he’d feel sorrow too.  

He understood the gnome’s feelings, but the entrance needed widening for swift concealment. Soldiers lurked nearby—discovery could come any moment.  

Joining the effort, several large men used iron swords and hoes to pry open the door.  

Amidst teeth-grating metal screeches, the iron door bent inward before being uprooted, nails and all.  

They spent more time excavating surrounding soil and removing the doorframe, significantly widening the entrance.  

Old York hung his head, gathering the broken door in his arms.  

“Follow old York. The last one in must move the stone back to seal us.”  

“Women and children first,” Lucas stepped aside.  

The line formed single file as mothers and children entered first behind the gnome.  

As the group aboveground dwindled, Wade, Lucas and Bardel remained last to restore the site, replacing excavated turf.  

Lucas, entering the passage last, dragged the bluestone back to block the entrance.  

Instant darkness swallowed them completely.