Chapter Seventy-Five: Testing the Crow

As for training the crow, Kevin possessed only theoretical knowledge. His father’s collection included records on animal training, but it had been a long time since he’d read them, and now he felt uncertain. Still, the principle was simple: use food as guidance. When the animal performed correctly, reward it with something to eat, or perhaps a bit of play.

In truth, as a mage, there were more convenient ways to train—such as directly forming a contract. With a contract in place, master and pet could communicate through it, making commands and their execution far easier. Of course, this merely eliminated the language barrier. If the pet’s intelligence was too low, even if the master’s intentions were transmitted directly into its mind, it might still fail to understand, and nothing could be done.

Kevin met the requirements for a contract; his mental strength was more than sufficient to bind a crow. But while forging a contract was easy, dissolving it was troublesome. Every contract contained a fundamental spirit: both parties must respect and uphold their promises. If one party broke the contract prematurely, it was a violation, and the other could invoke the contract’s backlash.

On the continent, there were two common types of pet contracts: the equal contract and the master-servant contract. The equal contract, though named for equality, still distinguished between master and pet, but the pet retained certain rights. For example, if the master wished to head east, the pet could refuse and wander west instead. The closeness and harmony between master and pet determined much; when dissolved, the backlash was mild.

The master-servant contract, however, dispensed with such issues. The pet would obey all the master’s commands—attack, bite itself, ram into a tree, anything. The relationship was akin to master and slave: the master’s word was law, enforced by the contract. If the pet failed to obey, the contract could kill it outright.

Yet the master-servant contract had a major flaw. Intelligent pets might grow passively resistant. If the master was in danger or lost consciousness, a pet long abused might remain indifferent or even turn on the master. If the master fled, hoping to leave the pet behind as a decoy, some pets under equal contracts would remain out of loyalty, but almost all pets under master-servant contracts would escape alongside the master, sometimes even faster.

Death was the ultimate penalty for breaking the contract. If the outcome was death regardless, pets could make their own choices. When the master was powerful, slaves obeyed; when the master was weak, slaves no longer wished to be slaves. The logic was universal.

Master-servant contracts were generally considered inhumane, scorned by many. But sometimes, they were simple and effective; the pet required no careful nurturing, just enough food to survive and attack on command. Only a minority of highly intelligent pets were prone to rebellion. Most animals, even magical beasts, developed a slavish temperament after prolonged subjugation.

Kevin hoped for a clever crow, but whether this one was intelligent remained to be seen. Not wanting to waste mental energy, he decided to train it for a few days and observe the results. If it failed, he would capture two more for comparison, and only contract with the smartest.

He brought the crow back and fetched some scraps of meat from the mess hall, placing them on the bird trap. Closing all the doors and windows, he released the crow inside.

Crows were said to be clever; Kevin wanted to see for himself. After several attempts, would this crow learn to avoid the trap’s mechanism and eat the meat? There were other tools in the room—a stone to be picked up and dropped onto the trap, triggering the mechanism first. The device was merely a net clasp, its mesh large enough to peck from the outside.

Opening the cage, the crow flapped about for a moment, then dove straight for the meat. With a snap, the net clasp caught it. The crow struggled, squawking incessantly.

Kevin shook his head and released the crow. Again it lunged, again it was trapped, again it struggled, seemingly incapable of learning. Kevin began to doubt the crow's intelligence; even mice grow wary of traps over time. If crows were truly so stupid, would the professor praise them so highly? Or was this particular crow an exception—a dullard among crows?

Driven by scientific curiosity, Kevin repeatedly released the crow, and each time it was caught. After more than ten trials, he saw no improvement.

Kevin shook his head, believing he had caught an imbecile. He decided to capture two more for comparison.

With the bird trap in hand, he went out again, leaving the crow locked in its cage to prevent messes. He wandered the fields until dusk, finally catching another crow, tagging its leg as "Unqualified 7."

Even though it was deemed unqualified, he brought it back, intending to compare the two. But upon returning, he was surprised by what happened.

The original crow, "Unqualified 6," viciously attacked the newcomer "Unqualified 7." No sooner had Kevin placed them together in the cage than the old crow pounced, kicking the new one down and battering it with wings and pecking fiercely. The newcomer put up no resistance, though both were similar in size.

Kevin hurriedly opened the cage, and the new crow fled, darting chaotically around the room. The old crow followed, relentlessly chasing. After a brief scuffle, the newcomer collapsed to the floor. Fortunately, both wore tags, or Kevin might not have distinguished them.

Kevin intervened, scooping up the battered crow and returning it to the cage, locking it securely. The old crow perched atop the cabinet, cawing triumphantly.

"You seem quite the fighter," Kevin said, looking up at the crow. It feigned deafness, glancing about.

Kevin looked around as well; there weren’t enough cages for all the birds. He would have to buy more tomorrow. Since the old crow couldn’t be caged, it would have to stay loose in the room.

That night, Kevin resumed reading and writing. The old crow wandered idly, unable to leave with doors and windows shut. The newcomer huddled in the cage, safe from further attacks. Bored, the old crow began to study the room’s lone human.

Kevin wrote and read, occasionally glancing at the crow from the corner of his eye. At first, the crow kept its distance, cautious. Gradually, it inched closer. Whenever Kevin turned a page, the crow quickly retreated.

After many repetitions, the crow finally hopped onto the table. Kevin looked up; it was within arm’s reach. He smiled, then resumed reading.

The crow watched Kevin warily, then glanced down at the book, tilting its head.

Kevin laughed, "Can you understand this?"

The crow cawed and, startled, flew back to the cabinet top.

Kevin bent over his work until bedtime, blew out the lamp, lay down, and silently prayed the crow wouldn’t relieve itself on his head.

The night passed quietly; both crows were calm. In the morning, Kevin found bird droppings atop the cage, some of which had landed on the caged crow. Clearly, the loose crow had deliberately targeted the newcomer.

Kevin was puzzled—did these two have a prior feud? If he were a crow, suddenly captured, he’d try to befriend the others to unite against unforeseen circumstances. Why did the old crow bully the new one? It wasn’t as if they were prisoners and the old-timer was hazing the newcomer.

Still confused, Kevin went into town, bought nine cages, then returned to the fields with his trap. The local crows seemed wary now, and after a day’s vigil, he caught only two.

He tagged them "Unqualified 8" and "Unqualified 9," marking the tags with special colors for easy identification at a distance.

He brought the newcomers home. The oldest crow was unrelenting, taking on both at once. Kevin instinctively released yesterday’s battered crow as well. Crows were vindictive; seeing two new allies, the previously cowed crow immediately joined the fight, and a three-against-one melee broke out in the cramped room.

Black shadows darted in the air, caws echoing. Kevin couldn’t follow the details; the crows were all black, small, and fast, and he relied on the tags to tell them apart.

But soon, the three newcomers fled. The oldest crow was astonishingly brave, holding its own against three opponents. Crow 7 was especially clever, darting back into its cage first. The other two followed suit, all three huddling together in panic.

Kevin quickly shut the cage, ending the battle. The victorious crow perched on the cabinet, proud and unscathed. The three caged crows bore signs of pecking and lost feathers.

“You’re truly formidable?” Kevin was amazed. By human standards, fighting three opponents of equal size was difficult; he imagined it was similar for birds.

The crow cawed in response.

"Good, tomorrow I'll catch a few more and see how many you can take on," Kevin said, not caring if the crow understood.

That evening, Kevin read and wrote as usual. The three defeated crows were caged separately, but the winner was allowed to roam freely.

The crow hopped onto Kevin’s table again, bolder now. Even when Kevin spoke, it didn’t fly away. The other three watched from their cage, their feelings unknown, their gaze unreadable, but surely not pleased.

Another night passed. Kevin went out again. Today, the carpenter’s shop had finished his order—a model catapult. He inspected the goods: two models, one as large as a table, the other about the size of a basin. Five pairs of load-bearing wheels were faithfully reproduced; even if not tested now, they might be useful later, and the cost was modest.

He hauled the models home and went out to catch more birds, but luck failed him; after a day’s effort, he caught none. Perhaps the local crows had grown wise to his tricks. He baited the trap with meat, but in this area, only crows were meat-eaters.

Fortune smiled, however, as he met a bird vendor on his way home. Kevin inquired about buying crows, but was told none were available. Most people considered crows unlucky and seldom bought them, so vendors didn’t stock them.

When Kevin asked for birds with strong fighting ability, the vendor offered hawks and eagles. Kevin felt it would be unfair to pit an eagle against his crows, so he requested something less formidable.

The vendor presented magpies, claiming magpies were aggressive birds. Large flocks would even attack hawks and cats, though sometimes they became prey themselves. In any case, they were strong fighters.

Kevin promptly bought six, deciding to round out the number.

Back at the barracks, the guards watched Kevin hauling in birds day after day, but asked no questions. In his room, doors closed, Kevin opened all the cages, broom in hand for safety, ready to witness a bird battle.

The strongest crow appeared calm, sizing up the six magpies. The magpies, new to the environment, were curious and chattered incessantly. The three defeated crows, though their cages were open, stayed inside, unmoving.

Suddenly, the strongest crow launched from the cabinet, diving into the magpie flock. The magpies attacked as one. The crow, however, slipped through, gliding backward as the magpies pursued, even flanking it from both sides with impressive tactics.

The crow crashed into a bird cage hanging from the ceiling, sending it swinging. The magpies followed, but as the cage swung back, in the tight space, a few magpies were hit, stumbled, then regrouped and continued the chase.

There were three cages hanging overhead, containing Kevin’s other crows. The strongest crow battered the cages, swinging them wildly. The caged crows couldn’t bear the motion and escaped to avoid the chaos.

But once free, the magpies attacked them as well—after all, they were crows too. What was meant to be a one-on-six or even one-on-nine battle became a four-on-six melee. Birds were everywhere; feathers flew, some fell to the floor, pecking each other madly.

At last, the strongest crow showed its prowess, darting left and right, beating all six magpies, who scattered in fear. The other three crows seized the chance to counterattack, driving the magpies under the bed.

Seeing the battle settled, Kevin used his broom to herd the magpies, who fled to their cages; he closed the doors behind them. Turning back, he found the strongest crow, not yet sated, attacking the three defeated crows once more. Today, the three seemed emboldened, confronting their tormentor.

But soon, the strongest crow proved victorious, driving off the others yet again. In the end, all the birds returned to their cages, except for the original "Unqualified 6" crow, who remained atop the cabinet, still unscathed.

Such combat ability, even employing swinging cages as weapons—how could its intelligence be so low as to fail to solve a simple trap? Kevin was baffled.

He brought out the bird trap again, placing some meat. But, disappointingly, the strongest crow still foolishly dove for the bait and was caught. The moment it was trapped, the other crows cawed, as if mocking it.

Kevin experimented with the other crows, caging the strongest. Crow 7 picked up a pen from the table, dropped it onto the trap, triggering the mechanism and eating the meat unimpeded.

He tried Crow 8, who did the same: fetched the pen, triggered the trap, and ate the meat. Crow 9 was no different.

All three battered crows succeeded—why not the strongest? Kevin released it for another attempt. As soon as the strongest crow appeared, the others retreated to their cages, acknowledging its dominance. This time, the strongest crow finally learned, picking up the pen, triggering the trap, and eating the meat.

Kevin breathed a sigh of relief; at last, the crow could learn. Its intelligence was low, but not beyond hope.