There Are No Bad Young Ladies in the World

Derek (1)

Derek’s first mentor was a ragged old man begging in the slums.

Even in Ebelstain, a renowned metropolis on the continent, there was a slum where the discarded poor gathered.

At the entrance of a dark alley frequented by thugs and prostitutes, the old man, as if senile, was loudly proclaiming to the air that he was a great magician.

“In my heyday, I was a grand sorcerer who soared in the Great War of the North!”

“Even the famous Duke Veltus sought me out privately to deal with the monsters on the borderlands! Keke~!”

His head, with only a few hairs remaining, was grimy, and his worn leather shirt and hem were visibly stained with dust and spilled food.

To anyone, he was just a deranged beggar on the street, and naturally, no one believed his words.

“Ah, these fools… Tsk!”

Perhaps his pride was hurt by this fact, for the old man, unbidden, would shoot fire into the air or whip up the wind.

It was an era where magic itself was precious.

In this cesspool where the discarded gathered, even the most basic magic became an irreplaceable and valuable talent.

Passersby would clap and exclaim in admiration at the magic the old man wielded, but those with a bit more discernment would rest their chins in their hands and critically remark.

“Sure, I see you can cast magic… but isn’t it too small-scale to claim to be a grand sorcerer?”

“What? You can tell by looking that you’re too young to be making such judgments!”

“Well, that’s just it. It seems you can cast entry-level 1-star magic, but that’s something noble children with good lineage can do before they even come of age, isn’t it?”

Among the crowd, a man’s critique made the old man gulp down his saliva.

He had never imagined that someone capable of distinguishing the grades of magic would be mixed in this slum.

“Of course, being able to use magic to that extent in this barren land is certainly a rare talent, but claiming to have been a grand sorcerer in your prime seems a bit too far-fetched. Let’s be honest here.”

Judging by the man’s appearance, with a sturdy build and clean clothes, he looked quite respectable.

Between the old man rolling in the slum’s corner and the well-dressed man speaking sensibly, there was no need to question who was more credible.

The nearby onlookers burst into laughter, throwing trash from their pockets or dirt from the ground at the old man in mockery.

“I knew it would come to this! That annoying old man who always boasted loudly as he passed by!”

“All he did was raise his voice, rationalizing that he wasn’t the kind of person to be in a back alley like this, just like trash!”

Being able to cast even the most basic level of magic was indeed a talent worthy of admiration among the poor of the slum. But one’s usual conduct proved to be so important.

The old man, who always looked down on others, drew lines, and spoke arrogantly, had become a laughingstock overnight.

Afterward, as always, he lay on the street, and passersby would spit or throw taunts at him.

“Fools. They can’t recognize true worth… Tsk…”

So he muttered to himself, turning over in bed, rationalizing as his only means of self-defense.

Then came a day.

Huffing and puffing, he sat down on the street, biting into a piece of oat bread he found rummaging through the trash.

“Teach me some magic, please.”

A scruffy little boy with white hair approached the old man, asking to be taught magic.

Judging by his age, he seemed a little under ten. His uncombed white hair, like a mop, was full of dirt, and his nutritional state, not so great, was typical of an orphan from the slums.

The fact that he came to an old braggart, who got nothing but stones thrown at him on the streets, to learn magic, already showed he was a bit touched in the head.

His eyes, too mature for his age, were impressive, but such a look was naturally acquired by everyone in this slum, walking a path of thorns every day.

“My name is Derek.”

“…Alright.”

The old man gazed at the boy and eventually grinned, showing his teeth.

*

The old man was a braggart.

Far from being a great wizard of yore, he was a mediocre talent at best, wandering the magical world, ending up as a third-rate, aging nobody.

It was obvious he wasn’t fit to teach magic to anyone, and he never really intended to.

Those who age without accomplishment sometimes need a follower who will take their bluster seriously and shine bright eyes upon them. The arrival of an empty-headed boy would be a great stimulus in his life, filling his dried-up need for affection.

“Hehehe, Derek, my boy. Consider it an honor to have me as your master. Though I sit here on the street now… back in the day…”

So he went on, giving a long speech to the small boy, satisfying his petty vanity.

Passersby at the entrance of the slum shook their heads or sent sympathetic glances towards Derek as they saw the old man on the street. But Derek, seemingly unconcerned, quietly listened to the old man’s story.

The old man, after his long speech, would occasionally, out of a sense of duty, recite some simple magical knowledge.

But the level was so basic. Renowned magicians trained systematically in noble houses could cover such content in days, yet he inflated it as if it were profound truth.

Whether Derek knew of the old man’s petty nature or not, he just sat quietly, absorbing the magical knowledge the old man spoke of.

Time passed. Seasons flowed like a river.

The colorful autumn leaves disappeared, and just when it felt a bit chilly, a warm spring day arrived.

The boy and the old man sometimes slept by the river, broke into a bakery for some warm buttered bread, and endured the cold in a makeshift shelter patched with rough planks.

They say it’s harder to know a person’s heart than to measure the depths of a river, but over time, it inevitably reveals itself.

Even the old man, who had been filling his vanity, couldn’t help but notice something extraordinary about the boy named Derek as a year passed.

“Are you some noble’s illegitimate child?”

“…”

In magic, the most important thing is lineage, first and second.

Even the old man, who could not be said to have reached any lofty heights of wisdom, felt a certain extraordinary quality in the boy named Derek’s ability to absorb knowledge.

Teach him one thing, and he knows two; from those two, he applies and derives three.

Before he knew it, he had reached a level in theoretical fields comparable to that of first-class magicians, a domain difficult for even the fully supported noble children to achieve at this age.

“I wish that were the case.”

Derek spoke indifferently, as wisps of steam rose before his face from the bread.

It was a day he had successfully stolen a pile of steaming bread. Such a jackpot was rare indeed.

The old man picked a few from the pile of bread, stuffed them into his leather pouch, and then began to chew on a few, crunching away.

Then, pushing the remaining pieces of bread towards Derek, he said,

“I don’t know why you’re so desperate to learn magic, but you must know that a commoner, no matter how much they train, will inevitably hit a limit.”

“…”

“It’s said that on the other side of the northern walls of Ebelstain, nobles often reach the third class before they even become adults. That’s a realm that lowly-born commoners like you would take decades to achieve. With such a thick wall from the start, do you really feel like putting in the effort?”

Familiarity breeds fondness.

It’s not easy to feel affection for Derek, who acts detached from the world despite his young age. Especially for a shabby old man who needs followers to flatter him. Derek was an old soul in a young body.

Yet, as time passed and some affection grew, the old man gave life advice that didn’t quite suit him.

“You might feel your abilities are extraordinary now, but when the time comes, you’ll feel as if you’ve hit a massive wall.”

It wasn’t someone else’s story.

The old man’s memories of his youth, when he had diligently honed his magic skills, only to have the second son of the Duplain ducal family grasp it all by himself in just a week, brushed past him.

The profound compatibility and instinctive understanding of magic that flowed through noble bloodlines. The magicians born into noble families were truly of a different caliber.

“…Rather than harboring great ambitions, just live stubbornly according to your own beliefs. Like me.”

“Do you think I’m doing this because I have some grand ambition? I just need a way to survive.”

“Tsk, tsk. So young, yet you mutter as if you know the world… Mmm… The buttery scent is quite delightful. Seems like I’ve stolen some high-quality bread.”

“All I smell from my bread is grain.”

“Heh…”

As Derek chewed on his bread, the old man looked at him, revealing his yellowed teeth with a grin.

“I’ve already taken all the good buttered bread for myself. Why should a student eat better than his teacher?”

“…”

“Didn’t I tell you? Life is about living stubbornly. If you’re envious, you should have set aside your bread earlier. All the buttered bread is already in my food pouch. Heh heh.”

The sight of the old man picking out the expensive buttered bread for himself, cheating his young disciple, was indeed like that of a beggar.

Derek couldn’t even muster a hollow laugh, just stuffing the dry, tasteless bread into his mouth.

But from then on, he thought he’d better make sure to selfishly secure the tasty buttered bread in advance.

The day after, at dusk. The old man who claimed to be Derrick’s mentor lay bloodied by the riverside.

When Derrick returned from practicing pickpocketing in the streets, the bleeding was severe, and his life could not be guaranteed.

It was said that he was caught trying to steal from the northern wall guards and was beaten nearly to death.

No one knew why the old man, who was said to lack ambition, attempted to steal a two-star spellbook from the guardhouse’s confiscated items storage.

Messing with the guards of Ebelstain was akin to suicide.

Especially for a despised old man from the slums, who had no one to trip over even if beaten. His usual behavior was so disagreeable that there was no one to intervene on his behalf.

“Master.”

“Gurgle… Wheeze…”

Unable to breathe properly, perhaps due to broken ribs, the old man trembled atop a pool of blood, trying to say something.

However, his voice did not form words. He could only heave breaths with his convulsing body.

In such a state, he seemed to try to leave Derrick some last words, but soon, the trembling of his feeble hands ceased, and the old man’s wretched life came to an end. It was a fitting demise for a street beggar.

Derrick quietly looked down at the cold corpse, then dug a grave with a broken shovel he had found at a construction site and buried the body.

He laid down the shovel at the modest grave on the trash-filled riverbank corner, nodded a few times, and returned to his small dwelling.

There, a few smelly leather sheets the old man used to cover himself, a small wooden drawer he had picked up from the street, and some rags he used as pillows were scattered about.

A thorough search yielded nothing of value, but under a sheet, he found a leather pouch containing leftover bread from the day before.

Derrick took the pouch and wrapped a worn leather sheet around his shoulders as a cloak against the cold.

Then he left the old man’s trash-filled abode and headed towards the wide avenues of Ebelstain.

The old man had asserted that Derrick, of no noble lineage, would achieve little in magic training.

It wasn’t wrong. Anyone on this continent would say the same; magic had become a privilege.

But the old man did not realize that Derrick could not possibly have been born of noble blood.

– You have awakened to [The Basics of Magic]. You can now access one-star magic.

– Please select your main school of magic. This choice is irreversible.

Derrick was not originally from this world.

As he reviewed the messages that appeared in his mind, Derrick thought.

All Derrick needed was a mentor to recite the basics of magic. To learn grand and high-level magic, one must serve a great wizard, but anyone could mentor the basics.

However, even such talent was scarce in the slums. Therefore, the old, wretched man who would indulge in a bit of bluster was just the right person to impart the basics of magic.

That’s all there was to it.

Yet, despite his pathetic life, the old man wanted to teach Derrick something.

He wanted to pass on the desperation of surviving from the bottom up, gritting his teeth and clinging to life with cowardice and tenacity.

The road leading to Eberstein Avenue.

Derek, with an expression old beyond his years, pulled out a piece of bread from an old man’s pocket and bit into it.

It contained no butter.