When Tars returned to his "three-way ventilated" grand bedroom, he felt as if a lifetime had passed.

  Was he tired? Was he in pain? Was he sleepy?

  He decided to seek out the half-man immediately. He wanted this disheveled look—the natural effect of genuine hardship without the need for exaggerated acting. Originally, he had planned to collapse into a long sleep after sustaining himself on Spirit Boil throughout the journey, but he realized that was unnecessary. A man must keep his word; the half-man had told him to return once he mastered Mage Armor, and he had delayed long enough.

  He looked down at his borrowed robe and boots, thought for a moment, and stowed them in his storage pouch. He shouldered a spare beast-fang staff from the cave and wobbled toward the familiar coordinates.

  As he walked through the tunnels that felt both intimate and alien, he thought of the "cry-baby" insect-person. He pulled out the nursery pouch and gave it a little shake.

  "You need to work harder! Hurry up and come out. I don't even know what you look like yet. I'll give you a bit more time, but if you're still hiding after that, I'm going to find another familiar..."

  He spoke to it as one would coax a child, his pace wandering. Back in familiar territory, his entire body began to relax. The nursery pouch vibrated twice in response, as if it actually understood a few words.

  His pace varied between quick and slow, taking almost twice as long as usual to reach the great stone. Once there, he said nothing. He simply empowered the spell model and cast Mage Armor.

  The hazy silhouette of the half-man emerged, maintaining the exact same sitting posture as before. He still had that unblinking eye, the head missing a fragment, and that same expressionless face. Everything was perfectly in harmony.

  "It seems you have become a true wizard apprentice, you scar-covered little kobold..."

  The voice arrived via that unique application of mental energy. Tars wondered if he would ever hear the half-man actually speak with his mouth. Tars struck a pathetic pose, though in truth, simply standing there relaxed was enough to project a picture of absolute misery.

  "I encountered a wizard apprentice. With a wave of his hand, he could throw a barrage of fireballs. If it weren't for the Mage Armor catalyst you gave me, I surely would have been roasted alive." He smoothed down his tattered fur.

  "There are wizard apprentices in the vicinity already?" the half-man asked.

  Thinking of the elf woman he had seen earlier, Tars nodded firmly.

  As they spoke, a potion bottle drifted through the air and stopped in front of him. Tars blinked at it, took it with both hands, and gripped it tight. This potion was also deep green, appearing no different from the one Baont had given him. It seemed this was likely a standard, common restorative; he had secretly hoped the half-man would offer something more exotic.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  A thought struck him.

  "It was a wounded apprentice. I eventually defeated him with a short-spear. This is his storage pouch—can you help me wipe his signature from it?"

  He tucked the potion away and produced a blood-stained pouch, testing the waters with his request. Tars remembered that when he received his current pouch, the half-man mentioned he had cleared the previous mark.

  Tars held the pouch out with both hands. Without a verbal reply, an invisible ripple emanated from the half-man. The pouch in Tars's palms gave a slight twitch, then fell silent.

  The ease with which he did it—as if it were the most mundane task—shattered some of Tars's theories. For a moment, he had wondered if the half-man was merely another apprentice, perhaps not as "high-end" as he had imagined, or if he was here for the same mission from Wizard Niteli.

  "An interesting little toy, just like you," the half-man said.

  An object slightly smaller than a thumb appeared before Tars. It had clean lines, a square shape, and was covered in strange patterns and numbers.

  "This is that interesting little gift. Simply put, it is a Wonder."

  The statement left Tars looking utterly blank. He reached out to take it but failed for the first time; the object seemed fixed in mid-air. As he stared, it began to look familiar—it appeared to be a strangely fashioned die.

  "Once you grasp it, you cannot easily let go. You may place it in a storage pouch—that is a faint spatial isolation—but do not take it out to play with it idly, lest you drop it," the half-man explained. "It is called the Demon’s Die. It is a Wonder condensed under extremely unique circumstances by six playful imps. Six very special imps bestowed their unique powers upon this die. A 'Wonder' is a unique, high-tier existence that cannot be replicated."

  "This means that as long as you roll it, its effects are valid even against full wizards, or even Great wizards—provided you are lucky enough and have the chance to act against one."

  As the half-man finished, Tars finally found the chance to blink his dry eyes. He wasn't blinded by the miraculous gift; his first thought was that this thing was expensive—extremely expensive. It was the kind of item he couldn't afford. Moreover, there was no reason for the half-man to give him such a thing for free.

  So, he remained silent, like a well-behaved child, waiting for the "catch" that was surely coming.

  Before the explanation continued, the die drifted slowly into his hand. Recalling the warning, he gripped it with a death-grip. The moment he touched it, the knowledge of its use surged into his mind.

  The material felt like a mix of metal and bone. While it was said to have powerful abilities, to Tars, it seemed almost mischievous—fitting for six playful imps. First, one had to kiss all six faces of the die to become its master. But being its master wasn't all good news.

  Throwing the die was the moment the master awaited a turn of fate.

  The faces from one to four followed the master's will, inflicting temporary blindness, panic, dancing, or hysterical laughter on the chosen target. This was what Tars initially thought was "small-time," but a closer look revealed its horror: the die had its own judgment. It could cause permanent blindness in those with weak wills, paralyze those with psychological trauma through fear (or even scare them to death), force the lazy to dance until they collapsed from exhaustion, or make the grieving laugh until they suffocated.

  Everything seemed to follow a rule, yet there was no logic to it.

  But it was the last two faces that made Tars's hand tremble.

  Rolling a five or a six belonged to the master—meaning the odds were high. If rolled, the user would "graciously invite" a demon who happened to be looking their way for an impromptu trade. The die only selected demons who enjoyed "amusement"; the dull, brutish types were never chosen.

  A trade conducted this way could not be refused. Theoretically, it was an exchange of equal value, but those who deal with demons rarely meet a good end. Whimsical demons often had erratic thoughts; they might demand your left eye, or "the thing you hold most precious."

  What was truly "playful" was that all of this was recorded on the die. In fact, the tiny object even bore the final fates of every previous owner.

  "If I don't use it, I'll be fine, right?" Tars looked up and swallowed hard.