Chapter 180 - 179: Wild Work of Art

Chapter 180: Chapter 179: Wild Work of Art

"A work of art!"

Fletcher’s gaze was glued to a waitress bent over clearing a nearby table. His eyes tracked the swaying curve of her ample backside as he murmured his appraisal.

Then, another waitress, even more curvaceous and carrying wine glasses, hurried past him, her leather skirt clinging to the powerful muscles of her legs.

His eyes lit up. "This one’s not bad either. Such curves, full of power!"

"Oh, look at that one! The rhythm of her steps is like a cheetah in the jungle!"

He held a wine glass in his hand but hadn’t taken a single sip, offering commentary from time to time. "This attire is a work of genius! It perfectly balances practicality with... practicality!"

THUMP!

He suddenly thumped the table lightly, an expression of mixed wonder and envy on his face, his gaze locked on something diagonally in front of him.

Fletcher’s commotion drew Hesia’s eyes away from another scenic view—a waitress squatting down to clean up a spilled drink, her tight skirt tracing a suggestive, rounded curve.

He followed Fletcher’s gaze.

A waitress with her blonde hair tied up was weaving between several tables, carrying a platter of grilled fish.

Her steps were steady and powerful, and the way her leather skirt flared with her movements carried an unrefined, wild beauty.

"A true work of art! A wild work of art!"

Just as Hesia was thinking, ’So this is the type he likes?’

He heard Fletcher lower his voice, his tone filled with excitement and resentment. "Damn it! I swear that slit in her skirt wasn’t so high six days ago! Some lucky bastard must have done some more ’creating’ on it these past few days!"

Only then did Hesia notice that the slit on the waitress’s outer thigh did indeed have the rough marks of a tear. The edge was frayed, and there was even a thick, broken thread dangling from a seam of the leather skirt, swaying as she walked.

Fletcher, as if suddenly realizing his lack of composure, cleared his throat in embarrassment.

"Ahem... my apologies, Mr. Galen. You probably aren’t interested in this sort of... thing."

Just then, the blonde waitress Fletcher had dubbed his "wild work of art" walked over with their food.

She placed a large platter of sizzling salmon baked on a cedar plank and a small pot of creamy white stewed pufferfish on the table.

"Enjoy your meal."

As the waitress set down the dishes, her eyes met Hesia’s appraising gaze.

The corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk.

She then leaned forward slightly, showing off the view below her collar, her warm breath almost brushing against Hesia’s ear as she prepared to whisper some words of invitation.

"Don’t disturb our meal here."

A voice came from behind her.

The waitress froze, pouted, then turned and sauntered away, swaying her hips.

Fletcher let out a sigh of relief. He straightened his collar and said apologetically to Hesia, "Sorry about that. The girls here can be a bit tactless sometimes. We... where were we?"

Hesia picked up the bowl of creamy pufferfish stew before him and took a sip. The searing, savory broth slid down his throat, washing away the stray thoughts in his mind as well.

As the rich, savory aroma filled his mouth, he said, "This is actually quite good."

"We were talking about how you can’t understand why those idiots can’t learn your Magic."

"Oh, right, right! Yes." Fletcher also picked up his spoon and scooped up some soup. "What I mean is, how can something like Magic be something you need to learn?"

Seemingly realizing his words could be misinterpreted and offend Hesia, a Mage Apprentice, he quickly added, "I’m not talking about a genius like you, sir. I mean those idiots who can’t be taught no matter how hard you try."

"Take those two idiots, Brendan and Doric, for example. They insisted I teach them Magic." He poked at the pufferfish meat in his bowl with his spoon. "I clearly told them all the key points—that feeling, that melody that resonates with the world! But they just can’t get it, no matter what!"

Hesia savored the tender, rich grilled sockeye salmon and thought, ’This guy is a Mage. Does he really not know that a Mage’s Magic is an innate talent?’

"You mentioned before that Magic is more like an art to you?"

"That’s right."

"Well, have you ever considered that someone with no artistic talent might never be able to master that art?" Hesia followed his line of reasoning. "To put it simply, your Magic is something you were born with. Your teammates can’t learn it through study."

"I see... It’s true that not everyone can master an art..." Fletcher had a moment of realization, then fell into thought again. "But my Magic isn’t something I was born with either. I only came to grasp it gradually later on."

’Not born with it?’

Recalling that Fletcher didn’t even know the basics about Casters, Hesia suddenly realized something. "Have there been similar cases in your ancestry?"

"Ancestry?" Fletcher thought for a moment, cutting a piece of the cedar-plank salmon and putting it in his mouth. The smoky char of the fish mingled with the fresh scent of the wood. "I... don’t think so. I remember the day I suddenly grasped Magic, I nearly scared my father into falling off his sheep. He’s a shepherd. The most magical thing he’d ever seen in his life was two rainbows in the sky."

He spread his hands, a helpless look on his face. "You could say that aside from these handsome looks, I didn’t get any Magic Talent from my parents."

Hesia thought, ’Same here.’

’But isn’t this guy a Mage whose Power comes from his bloodline?’

’Then Wild Magic...’ Hesia recalled what he’d read in books. ’The source of Wild Magic is fairies.’

"Then do you know about beings called fairies?"

Fletcher looked confused.

"Tiny creatures that look a bit like humans, usually with wings, kind of like a dragonfly’s or a butterfly’s, and they glow with different colored lights..."

Hesia described.

"There’s also a type of fairy that changes with the seasons. In spring, their skin and hair are green..."

...

"In winter, their skin turns ice-blue and their hair becomes pure white..."

Hesia described as many types as he could, and was about to start describing the appearance of a Ghost Witch next.

Fletcher’s knife and fork suddenly froze. "What you’re describing... those are fairies?"

He swallowed, his voice a little dry. "I... I have seen them."

"Where did you see them?"

"In my dreams."

"In your dreams?"

"Yes, that’s right." Fletcher seemed to be lost in memory. "When I was a kid, I liked to go to a valley near my home to take afternoon naps. It was a valley filled with all sorts of strange flowers, and I found it very comfortable to sleep there. I would often dream of those... fairies. I always thought it was just because of all the colorful butterflies around."