"I can hardly believe that the automatic railcar broke down just because of a few parts. If it weren't for the esteemed Mage bringing the parts, all of you useless people would have died for today's negligence!" The middle-aged man at the front of the vehicle was spitting angrily at the repair crew.
But the young ones in the repair crew lowered their heads, though their faces showed fear, there was no hint of cowardice in their eyes.
Not far from them, the gold-haired Mage looked coldly at the mortals' performance. He took out some tobacco and used an old lighter to ignite it—although the lighter was old, being able to use such a lighter was a symbol of status in the camp. His father had given it to him, the third son, because of his talent, a lighter that had been passed down for who knows how long.
