Revan awoke to the sensation of stiff fabric beneath his fingers, his body sinking into the plush embrace of a red and gold sofa. The upholstery was firm, its embroidery rich but unpretentious, the kind of furniture one would expect in a noble''s study—comfortable, but not indulgent.


    He blinked, his vision adjusting to the dim candlelight flickering from iron sconces along the walls. Bookshelves loomed around him, stretching high, filled with tomes bound in leather and parchment, their spines bearing inscriptions in a script he half-recognized from El Ritch''s memories. A library—a medieval library.


    Revan shifted, pushing himself up, but the moment he moved, pain shot through his back like a coiled snake striking at his spine. A sharp ache settled at the base of his neck, and he gritted his teeth.


    ''Ugh… that fucking knight… I''ll kill him, I swear…''


    Slowly, he adjusted himself, his left hand bracing against his lower back while his right rubbed at his throbbing neck. He inhaled through his nose, exhaled slowly, then used his right hand to pull himself against the sofa''s body, his posture now less pitiful.


    Then, another thought crossed his mind, one far more irritating than the pain.


    ''Did I get carried here like a damned damsel in distress?''


    The realization settled in with a special kind of humiliation. The library was on the far right end of the mansion, opposite El Ritch''s chambers. That meant someone—Aldric, most likely—had dragged him all the way here. Revan scowled, the image forming unbidden in his mind: a knight, smug as ever, parading him through the halls like some swooning noblewoman.


    ''Really… fuck that… boot-strapped short-pants—''


    "Are you up already?"


    Aldric''s voice cut through his thoughts, muffled at first, before sharpening as the knight came into view. Through the narrow gap between the book columns, Revan spotted him moving leisurely, something in hand.


    "I must express my thoughts—" A pause. A brief chewing sound. Then, between bites, Aldric continued, "You are a hardy lad, I must say. For a fleeting moment, I found myself taken aback—how swiftly you called upon mana, as though it were second nature."


    He stepped out from behind the bookshelves, circling the sofa, his posture utterly relaxed. In his hand, he held a simple wooden bowl, filled with stew, which he ate with unbothered ease. He stopped just behind Revan, taking another spoonful, chewing with infuriating nonchalance before pointing the spoon directly at him.


    "Now, I find my curiosity well and truly stirred concerning your circumstances." His tone was casual, but there was a sharpness beneath it, a weight to the words that was impossible to ignore. "What say you, Young Lord Elphonse?"


    "I say no." Revan did not hesitate. His voice was firm, flat. "I have no interest in giving interest to your interest." He met Aldric''s gaze, his expression as impassive as he could manage. "I must remind you that you follow through your duty—"


    "-Isn''t that what I am doing?"


    Aldric stepped forward, rounding the sofa and settling onto a matching red and gold chair directly opposite to Revan. The arrangement was deliberate—the library''s furniture formed a complete sitting area, a sofa in the middle, with single chairs flanking either side and between them a simply table of dark oak. Revan occupied the central sofa, and to his right, another vacant chair mirrored Aldric''s.


    The knight leaned back, still holding his bowl, and tilted his head slightly. "I recall with clarity—Lord Otto bade me train his son in the ways of knighthood. Yet now, having awakened mana within you"—he gestured toward Revan with his spoon—"I find myself unfit for the task. What you require is a Conjurer, one who may instruct you in the very foundations of mana inscription and its many applications, so you might one day"—he took another bite, swallowed with ease—"uncover what manner of Conjurer fate intends you to become."


    He scraped the last remnants of stew from the bowl, then glanced back at Revan, a smirk tugging at his lips.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    "So that you may," he mused, "prevent getting carried back in like a damsel in distress."


    Then, as if to seal the insult, he grinned and blew a playful smooch in the air.


    Revan''s nose scrunched in utter disgust.


    "You''re disgusting," Revan said outright, his tone as flat as his expression.


    "It is a point of view," Aldric mused, scooping the last scraps of stew from his bowl before placing it beside his chair on the floor. "A man who cleanses his ass with water would no doubt find it foul and absurd that another tends to the same need with mere paper." He chuckled at his own example, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Such is the way of men—ever deeming their own custom the only mark of civility."


    ''Good point,'' Revan admitted begrudgingly. ''But I''m not agreeing with this fuck-wit.''


    "Agree to disagree," he said simply.


    "Indeed." Aldric leaned back, folding one leg over the other. "Though I find myself far more curious about your circumstances as a Conjurer rather than a knight..."


    For once, there was no layered meaning, no sarcasm, no hidden agenda tangled in his words. Just a plain, unembellished thought. That, more than anything, made Revan pause.


    Now that Aldric had voiced it, he found himself equally curious.


    He sifted through El Ritch''s memories once more, trying to find a reason—why?


    House Ritch had no Conjurers. None of them had ever been gifted in mana. His father had raised soldiers, bureaucrats, warriors meant to serve the Empire in either steel or parchment. His elder brother was already in the Capital, a knight in service. His sisters were in training, preparing to follow the same path. Not once, in any history of his bloodline, had magic been an option.


    ''Was it because of transmigration? Did I get a new body or is this just… a modification? A magic-swordsman would be pretty fucking cool.''


    Revan barely had time to entertain the thought before Aldric cut through it.


    "Well, since I can''t comprehend how mana works, I''ll need to bring in my trusted friend. After all, conjuration and knighthood do not mix."


    Revan blinked.


    ''Did that mean—no magic swordsman? Aw man, this shit sucks.''


    He shoved the thought to the back of his mind. Something to be upset about later. Right now, something else had piqued his interest.


    "Conjurers?" His voice carried a new excitement, an eager curiosity that he barely masked. Through El Ritch''s memories—and from how Aldric spoke—he had gathered enough to assume Conjurers were this world''s version of mages. But he had yet to see one, had yet to witness real magic. The thought sent a thrill through him.


    Aldric, ever perceptive, caught it immediately. "Excited, are we?" He smiled, then—just as swiftly—let the expression fall into something colder. "No."


    Revan tilted his head. "No?"


    "I don''t sit right with Conjurers," Aldric admitted. "My friend is a witch."


    A shift in Revan''s thoughts. ''A witch?'' He had no context for the distinction. ''What''s the difference?''


    Before he could ask, the sound of footsteps echoed through the library.


    He barely had time to process the new presence before a figure emerged from behind his sofa, moving with a quiet grace that sent a shiver down his spine.


    A woman.


    She was clad in a white gown, its fabric loose but carefully embroidered, stylized in intricate patterns of flowers and leaves—white upon white, subtle but deliberate. Her hair, long and black, had a rough, unkempt quality, as though untouched by oils or perfumed rinses. Not dirty, but raw. Her face bore the faintest trace of wrinkles, subtle creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth, a map of age that suggested experience rather than frailty. Her lips were dry, chapped from either the elements or simple neglect. But her eyes—her eyes—were heavy, dark and unreadable, brimming with a weight that made Revan uneasy.


    Aldric gestured toward her with a lazy flick of his fingers. "Do meet my old friend, Young Lord."


    The woman pinched the sides of her gown, lifting it slightly as she gave a shallow bow.


    "Pleasure to be acquainted," she said, her voice rough, carrying none of the soft lilt one might expect from a noblewoman. "I am to be called Rok-To."


    She lifted her gaze, meeting his eyes with something that was neither warmth nor hostility—just a quiet, assessing weight.


    "My humblest apologies, Young Lord Elphonse," she said smoothly, "I would have chosen finer attire"—her gaze flicked, ever so briefly, to Aldric—"had a certain someone thought to inform me where I was being taken."


    Aldric shrugged, utterly unbothered.


    Revan exhaled, waving the tension off with a gesture. "It is fine, really. Do take a seat." He motioned toward the middle chair, positioned between his own and Aldric''s.


    Rok-To inclined her head slightly before settling into the offered chair.


    No hesitation. No stiffness.


    She did not sit like a woman who waited for permission. She sat like a woman who had already claimed her place.


    "I''ve come to know about your use of mana," she said, wasting no time with pleasantries.


    Revan gave a slow nod.


    "Mana is no simple force—I need you to grasp this truth," she continued, her voice firm, unwavering. "Yet even if understanding has already found you, I shall offer a brief exposition, that you may have a proper foundation to build upon."


    Revan''s heart thrummed in his chest.


    ''Holy shit. It''s happening. It''s happening guys!''


    His fingers curled slightly against the armrest of the sofa, his mind already conjuring possibilities, expectations.


    ''I am going to cast fireball in a closed room!''