Reflecting on the events that had unfolded since his arrival, Tars concluded there were two primary things to note.

  First, a somewhat embarrassing point for which he felt a spark of genuine apology: he had trekked across leagues to inherit an estate, only to find the owner wasn't actually dead. Fortunately, he had managed to complete the "inheritance" in the end, sparing himself the awkwardness of a wasted trip.

  Second was the unexpected evolution of Fetid Skin. It was effective against formless enemies like the shadow, but not quite powerful enough. This might have been due to the enemy's peculiar state, or perhaps because the opponent had been a Peak wizard apprentice. Old apprentices with such titles usually possessed formidable tricks and mental energy that pushed the absolute limits of their rank.

  Of course, the entity in the orb was far from its prime—perhaps possessing less than a tenth of its original power—though its mental strength had still hovered around that of a fifth-level apprentice. In the end, it had become a generous, if silent, benefactor.

  Tars looked up at the "donor" embedded in the wall, momentarily stumped on how to reach him. Eventually, he had to resort to brute force. Using the Grey-Neck Lord's claw, he gouged several handholds into the cave wall and used his short-spears as improvised pitons to laboriously pry this nameless predecessor out of the stone.

  "Your journey ends here," he murmured, looking at the two halves of the corpse with a sigh. This was the first time he had ever performed a burial. "The little insect-man's 'aunts' are even fiercer than I thought. One strike and the man is in two pieces. It's a pity about the clothes! No, wait... it's actually perfect."

  Tars measured the top half of the robe against himself. The upper portion was mostly clean, with only a few bloodstains near the tear that would be easy to wash out. He donned the blackened garment. It fit him surprisingly well; the hem fell past his knees, ending just above his ankles. He had to admit, his knees were remarkably close to his ankles.

  What he liked most was the attached hood. Pulling the hood over his head and slipping on the scavenged boots, he actually started to look the part.

  After a brief tidying up, he buried the remains and found a flat spot to rest. Then, with great solemnity, he pulled out the storage pouch, ready to witness a miracle and claim the nameless senior's true legacy.

  He took a deep breath. Channeling Bull's Strength, he gripped the bag with both hands and gave a violent tug.

  Riiiip!

  The sturdy storage pouch followed its master into the afterlife. With a faint, shimmering distortion of space, a chaotic pile of items spilled onto the ground. Only a wizard who specialized in "rupture experiments" could have calculated the loss; since Tars had no idea what was inside to begin with, he had no way of knowing what had been vanished into the void.

  According to the kobold creed: if you don't know what you lost, you've made a 100% profit.

  He began to rummage. Mana stones held little value in his eyes compared to heritage scrolls or books filled with magical knowledge. Even a few dime-store novels would have been welcome, just to give him a glimpse of another side of this world.

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  As he searched, however, his heart began to sink. There were countless jars and bottles containing repulsive substances that he neither dared nor knew how to use, and which couldn't easily be traded for mana stones. These occupied the bulk of the space. There were also disjointed, incomprehensible lab notes. He did find a small pile of mana stones, which he set aside.

  Finally, he found only three books dedicated to spells. To his surprise, two of them covered the very same subject.

  In the end, he had gained only two spells, both Zero-Ring: Scribe and Lightfoot. It surprised Tars that a Peak apprentice would carry such basic things. He had assumed someone of that level would be studying First-Ring spells or at least powerful, modified versions of Zero-Ring combat magic.

  The fact that two books covered Scribe suggested deep research. One appeared to be the predecessor's personal research notes, and it was clear there were likely other volumes in the set that hadn't been brought along or were lost in the pouch's rupture. He inferred that Lightfoot must have also been part of a larger study. For some reason, this grey-shadow senior had been obsessed with these two specific spells.

  With his meager knowledge, Tars couldn't see the true value yet, though he hoped a thorough reading back home might change that. On the surface, their uses were simple:

  Scribe (Zero-Ring): Upon chanting, a pen would seemingly come to life. A minor spell commonly used to assist in recording experiments or schoolwork.

  Lightfoot (Zero-Ring): Effectively prevents the caster from falling to their death. A practical spell in the treacherous terrain of the Underworld, but little else. Note: It is not the First-Ring spell "Levitate"; only a fool would confuse the two.

  "Two is better than none," he consoled himself. If a fifth-level apprentice was researching them, there had to be a reason. Perhaps they would open a new way of thinking. Or perhaps some wizard apprentices just didn't like carrying spellbooks, preferring to keep their mana stones and specific research materials close at hand.

  Tars's current excursion had two targets. Not only were they both relatively close to kobold territory, but they were also close to each other.

  As he sat resting, he looked at the pale-grey translucent crystal. This, too, was a gift from his predecessor. He had initially thought of tossing it into the "luxury tomb" he'd built, but a shimmering light within the crystal had made him change his mind.

  What is this for? Should I ask the half-man? he wondered.

  Crack! As he toyed with it, the crystal suddenly let out a sharp sound. The grey stone was as brittle as a dry biscuit; a gentle squeeze shattered it into pieces in his palm. He suddenly realized these fragments felt familiar—they reminded him of the essence he drew in while using the Mana Scar Meditation to recover his energy.

  On a whim, he immediately began to meditate. Usually, he felt the Mana Scar absorbing invisible traces of energy to restore his mind. This time, as he began to trace the runes, he saw a cluster of large, clearly visible motes of light in various colors surging into the Mana Scar.

  As his mental energy restored at an incredible rate, a series of images flooded his mind. It was like opening a long-awaited biography, but better—he was experiencing a story from within.

  He was a silent observer. He even saw a fleeting glimpse of himself—one of the most vivid memories from the senior's final moments. He hadn't expected his brief appearance to leave such a deep impression.

  The scenes shifted. He saw the senior's youthful ambition; the terrifying, non-human side of his physical transformations; and the unimaginable agony of his experiments. He saw the wizard tower the man belonged to, despised by others for its madness. He saw the light fade from the man's eyes as he reached a plateau he could not overcome—the inability to ascend to a Full wizard was his deepest, most agonizing pain.

  Finally, the cycle of images slowed, drifting from middle age to youth, eventually stopping in his childhood. On that day, the boy had received his first gift: a book.

  The book contained legends of the "Surface World" that the boy desperately craved, filled with fantasies of the world above. On the very last page, a single sentence was written:

  "Only a wizard may walk upon the surface."

  That was the first time the young boy had ever heard the word "wizard."