Chapter 1268: The Value of a Piece of School History

“Someone’s looking for me?”

When Ian heard the innkeeper say someone was asking for him, he couldn’t help pausing in mild surprise. He didn’t know a soul here—aside from Master Caleb, whom he’d met yesterday, no one should even recognize him.

Did Master Caleb know he was staying here?

Unlikely. He hadn’t said a word.

And he’d already left the man his contact info; there was no reason for him to use such a clumsy way to find him. With that thought, Ian’s expression grew even more puzzled.

He hadn’t even given anyone in the Market his name, so where would a visitor come from?

“Who is it?” he asked.

“A very troublesome fellow.” The innkeeper seemed to have caught his confusion and lowered his voice, adding a warning, a murky glint in his eyes: “The guy outside is Baboua. The intelligence dealer who’ll sell anything if you pay him enough. If he suddenly comes looking for you, most likely someone paid him to dig into your business. Watch yourself.”

“This man… will sell anything for money, does nothing but information trade, even dares to sell the secrets of Ancestral Spirits.”

Clearly.

The well‑meaning innkeeper had misunderstood a bit.

And he obviously loathed this information broker.

“So it’s him.”

Ian understood at once—so it was Baboua. Looked like the “wealth” he’d flaunted yesterday and his unfathomable power had made this local snake eager to come probe him again?

After displaying his strength yesterday, Ian didn’t really believe anyone would be stupid enough to risk their neck investigating him just for a fee. The notion that money can buy gods only works up to the line where life is at stake.

Information traders are all clever bastards.

They don’t take on loss‑making, suicidal business.

At least, that was how Ian saw it.

“Thanks for the warning, boss. I’ll be careful.” Ian nodded to the innkeeper in acknowledgment. For this taciturn man to speak up was already a rare kindness.

“Mm.”

Seeing how calm he remained, the innkeeper couldn’t help secretly admiring the composure of this young Wizard. Once he left, Ian straightened his robes, packed away his Alchemy Tools, and pushed the door open.

He wasn’t some indiscriminate do‑gooder; whether the warning was heeded or not, that was the other man’s business.

“Maybe he’s already found the information I asked for.” Ian smoothed his robe, opened his door, and stepped out. In the inn’s small courtyard, other guests were already up and moving about.

In the morning haze, a few people clearly dressed as Wizards in various styles were washing up or talking in low voices. Wizards came and went along the vine bridges, some stretching lazily as they walked out of their tree houses. As Ian emerged, a middle‑aged Witch with a gentle face gave him a friendly nod. Ian smiled back.

Just as he stepped onto the main walkway, an older Witch was coming out of a tree house opposite. Her skin was bronzed like old copper, a necklace of colorful seeds and animal teeth circling her head, a heavy leather book cradled in her hands. When she saw Ian, she smiled slightly and spoke in heavily accented English.

“Good morning, young traveler. The ‘Ancestral Spirit Wind’ was fierce last night—did you sleep well?” She was a White Wizard, with a bit of a shamanic air about her.

Ian could tell.

“Good morning, ma’am. Thank you for the concern, I slept very soundly. Are you a Wizard who studies prophecy?” Ian stopped, nodding politely, playing the role of a newbie Wizard.

A flicker of surprise passed through the Witch’s eyes. “Yes, I am Nadia the ‘Dreamer’, from Western Congo. I came to this place in search of inspiration.”

“Then may you find it.”

Ian offered the customary blessing.

Nadia smiled in satisfaction. “You are wise, and your tongue is sweet. May the Ancestral Spirits guard your journey.”

She lightly patted Ian’s shoulder.

Then turned and left.

Ian continued forward and soon saw another young Wizard standing by the edge of a vine bridge, staring out toward the distant rainforest.

The man wore a hybrid robe that fused European tailoring with African totems, a pair of round‑frame glasses perched on his nose, and a short brass Magic Wand in his hand.

“Hey,” he greeted first, his English fluent. “You’re the one who checked in last night, right? I’m Amit, Indian‑born, but I grew up in Cape Town. This place… it’s primitively exciting, isn’t it?”

“Definitely different.” Ian smiled.

“I’m studying Cross‑Cultural Magic Fusion,” Amit said excitedly. “See that Magic Rune Artifact shop over there? They use bone‑carved runes instead of wands—that’s practically revolutionary! Back in Mumbai, I only saw Spell Boxes made from sandalwood and snakeskin, but they’re nowhere near as direct as these Bone Runes.”

Ian nodded. “Indeed. The Magic here is closer to the raw essence of survival.”

“Exactly!” Amit’s eyes lit up. “Not like those old fossils in the United Kingdom, always fussing over ‘bloodline’ and ‘etiquette’. Here, Magic is power, and power is survival.”

The two exchanged a look and smiled, as if they’d found a kindred spirit.

Then turned and passed by each other.

At the same time.

After brushing past several White Wizards, Ian also felt a hostile gaze on him.

In the shadowed corner, a black Wizard in filthy leather armor, scarred face and vicious eyes was openly sizing Ian up. His gaze slid over Ian’s seemingly ordinary robe and young features, his lips curling into a greedy, mocking smirk. His ill intent was already written all over his face.

In a place this mixed and murky, a lone young outsider who looks inexperienced is often the best kind of fat sheep.

“Heh.”

Ian was all too familiar with that kind of look. After traveling the Magic World for this long, he knew that to certain people, kindness and concessions were nothing but signs of weakness. His stride never faltered; he didn’t even fully turn his head, just let the corner of his eye sweep coldly over the Wizard.