Chapter 102: Racial Talents and Individual Talents

Even though he had already prepared himself mentally for Bourne’s penchant for stirring up trouble, Viscount Gordon was still taken aback when he actually saw the state of the alchemy workshop.

“This really is a replica of the Arcane Garden from the Mage Tower—even the size is nearly identical,” he muttered, at a loss for words. “But honestly, Father spoils him too much—even inscribing spatial expansion for him.”

Viscount Gordon had received some training as a spellcaster and happened to understand spatial expansion, so he naturally assumed the Count had personally intervened. As for whether Bourne could have done it himself, the thought never crossed Gordon’s mind; after all, this spell simply couldn’t be cast successfully without a high-level spellcaster.

Soon after Viscount Gordon arrived, a great many noble carriages nearly blocked the entrance entirely. Raymond hurried out to greet the guests and assigned staff to direct the parking. Fortunately, the Raymond Trading Company personnel were seasoned in handling such occasions. In the past, the mere sight of so many nobles would have left them weak at the knees, especially since many of these were rarely seen in daily life. The lowest among them held the rank of knight, and many bore the insignias of grand noble houses, their carriages marked with family crests, representing their respective lineages.

Though the staff still felt some trepidation, they were at least able to speak up, issue instructions, and direct the carriages—enough to manage the crowd. Nobles rarely killed commoners on a whim, especially among the Netherese; unlike in novels where noble heirs would sometimes murder commoners in the streets, such things almost never happened here. It’s akin to being bitten by a dog—would you bite back? Of course not; you’d beat the dog with a stick. Nobles behaved similarly: even if there were grudges with commoners, noble heirs would never dirty their hands themselves—they’d have someone else deal with the issue. (Of course, if that failed and a commoner managed to turn the tables, that was another matter.)

Moreover, Netheril had a tradition of slavery, one that ran through the entirety of its history. The main slaves in Netheril were still gnomes; in fact, the early construction of Netheril relied heavily on gnome labor. (Elves, being lovers of peace, especially in later times when they aided Netheril, couldn’t tolerate seeing the Netherese enslave gnomes. Many elves helped gnomes escape; the gnomes now living in the south and east are largely descendants of those who fled at that time. As a result, gnomes harbor deep resentment toward Netherese—this is important! It will be on the test!)

Watching the grandly dressed nobility flood in, Viscount Gordon couldn’t help but sneer inwardly, though outwardly he put on a delighted and honored expression as he welcomed them.

Despite the lavish decorations outside, the interior of the alchemy workshop was almost bare and unfinished. Yet the crowd was in high spirits, watching the Raymond Trading Company staff working overtime, smiling and chatting among themselves without the slightest concern for the chaotic environment.

Even as night fell, the nobles remained, still enjoying themselves. Viscount Gordon had no choice but to arrange a dinner party right there in the guild’s open space. Yet no one felt the least bit slighted—drinks and laughter flowed as if this place were the finest banquet hall.

The staff of the Raymond Trading Company were stunned; so noble banquets weren’t as dependent on opulence as they’d imagined. Even a dirt-laden open yard sufficed. Their usual campfire dinners suddenly didn’t seem so inferior after all.

Only Viscount Gordon understood why this crowd was so willing to endure such conditions, casting aside their vaunted noble pride without hesitation.

“My son, you’ve really landed your old man in a big predicament,” he sighed softly. “But then, I am your father, after all.”

***

After nightfall, Harbwick was unceremoniously evicted by Bourne. The ranger was overjoyed to learn he could leave on his own. The pressure of sharing space with “the legendary” Count Eolum had been unbearable. The news that he could go home was like a royal pardon, and he almost tumbled out of the academy in his haste. Bourne, watching his pathetic retreat, was so exasperated he nearly lobbed a fireball at Harbwick’s face.

He mused that he couldn’t let Harbwick focus solely on alchemy; he’d have to arrange other courses for him as well. As for tuition? Bourne sneered. Let him pay it off with a lifetime of service!

As for Harbwick’s afterlife, Bourne doubted that a ranger who’d spent over a decade in the black market would ever reach Gannas’s divine realm; more likely, he’d fall into the Abyss or the Nine Hells. By then, Bourne figured he’d be able to wrestle with devils and demons himself. Even in death, Harbwick could still be put to good use!

Anyone who saw Bourne’s expression just then would surely have thought he looked like a devil straight from the infernal depths.

“Grandfather, why did you do this?” Bourne asked upon returning to the Mage Tower, seeking out the Count.

“He’s your discovery. If you’re certain of his loyalty, then you should be the one to cultivate him,” the Count replied, his face unchanged, sipping his tea with his usual elegance.

“But…”

“That’s enough; there’s no need to discuss this further.” The Count set his cup down, cutting him off. “What you’re really wondering about is his talent, isn’t it?”

“Well… yes, that’s about right.” Bourne was still a bit puzzled as to why his grandfather wouldn’t take Harbwick under his wing, but he trusted there must be a reason for it.

“Talent is sometimes called a specialty; it can be discussed in terms of racial gifts and individual gifts.

“A racial gift refers to a unique trait of a species—for example, fish are naturally adapted to life in water. The same applies to intelligent beings. Take elves: elves are naturally long-lived, with an ordinary lifespan of up to 700 years—and that’s just average, mind you. That longevity is the elves’ racial gift.

“Of course, besides longevity, there are other advantages, which brings us to individual talents. These can be common skills or latent aptitudes. For example, most elves have the potential to become spellcasters, and elven spellcasters hardly need sleep. That’s quite different from the common races. Elves meditate for four hours a day, which is equivalent to human sleep for eight hours; deep trance is as restorative as deep sleep. Elves even dream while meditating, but after years of practice those dreams become a form of inner reflection and mental discipline…”

(This is true—D&D rules are written this way. No use arguing; if you don’t believe it, go check the sourcebooks.)

“Humans have their own racial talent, which is their ability to adapt to nearly every professional system…”

Bourne was dumbfounded. Though he had suspected as much, hearing his grandfather spell it out made it seem almost unbelievable.

And the human talent for latent aptitudes was so unpredictable—it was almost like winning the lottery.

This made Bourne think of an old poem: ‘Heaven has bestowed upon me a talent that must find its use.’

But then again, that sentiment seemed rather empty—who could really know where their talent lay?

If Harbwick had never encountered alchemy, he might have spent his whole life as a mediocre druid.

Which reminded Bourne of a particular D&D mechanic: Feats! Isn’t that just another name for special talents?

Furthermore, humans are the only race capable of mastering all feats through training, study, or inheritance.

And with talent being so random, Bourne found himself thinking of his first arcane spell, Identify, and the matching identification rune.

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