ã€ŠThe Dramatist Conjurerã€‹


 Peaceful Dream

    Revan slept until he couldn''t.

    A weight pressed against his throat, firm and unyielding, as if unseen hands sought to strangle him in his slumber. At first, he thought it was the sickness that had plagued him, a dry cough lodged in his throat, refusing to break free.

    He tried to inhale¡ªnothing. He tried to exhale¡ªnothing. Panic surged through his veins as he fought to cough, to make even the faintest sound, yet no relief came. The pressure grew unbearable, and then, beneath the haze of sleep, he felt it¡ªsomething real, something physical constricting his neck. His eyes snapped open.

    His vision blurred before sharpening on the horror of his predicament. His feet barely touched the chair''s crest rail, his toes struggling for purchase, a purple cloth wound tight around his throat, tethering him to the exposed beam above.

    Instinct took hold.

    His hands clawed at the noose, fingers forcing their way between the cloth and his skin, a feeble barrier against strangulation. His left leg flailed, seeking purchase on anything sturdy, while his right foot remained perched on its unsteady tiptoes. A cold sweat broke across his body as his searching foot finally found something¡ªa narrow surface just behind him. With his legs now spread in an awkward, precarious stance, he balanced himself just enough to reach for the knot. His fingers trembled as he fought to loosen it, every breath a struggle against the crushing embrace of the cloth.

    The knot gave. Revan wrenched his head free and gasped, lungs burning as air rushed back into them. "Holy shit! I survived¡ª"

    The chair beneath him gave way, tipping backward with a violent lurch.

    "Fuck¡ª!" His exclamation turned into a strangled cry as he crashed down, landing squarely on his crotch. His right heel struck the floor at an awkward angle while his left leg stretched painfully behind him, hooked to the thin surface. A sharp, searing agony shot through his body, and he howled, the sound pitiful and raw, like a wounded dog left to die.

    "Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" He writhed, hands clutching his crotch as he groaned through clenched teeth. "Fuck...my balls...Ugh...If this is a dream, why does it feel so real¡­? Ugh¡­" He panted, wincing, and forced himself to his feet, stumbling as he reached for the fallen chair. His fingers curled around its frame, lifting it back onto its legs, and he leaned against it for a moment, chest heaving. Then, still limping, still cursing under his breath, he turned toward the bed, his body sinking onto it with another quiet groan of pain.

    The room around him was unfamiliar¡ªfar too grand, too intricately designed for any place he had ever lived.

    The high walls, covered in dark wooden paneling, bore ornate carvings of twisting vines and hunting scenes, their craftsmanship too fine to be anything but the work of a master artisan. Heavy drapes of deep burgundy framed a tall, narrow window beside the bed, the fabric thick enough to block out the morning sun. A writing desk stood beside it, carved from the same dark wood, its surface polished to a gleaming sheen. A quill and ink bottle rested neatly atop it, along with a parchment of aged, yellowed paper. Across the room, a heavy oak wardrobe loomed, its iron hinges fashioned with delicate engravings, its doors slightly ajar, revealing neatly arranged garments within.

    The floor was covered by an exquisite rug, woven in deep blues and golds, the patterns unfamiliar yet undeniably expensive. The bed itself, large enough for a grown man, was dressed in velvet and furs, the sheets softer than anything he had ever slept on.

    Everything about this place exuded nobility¡ªwealth, status, luxury. But none of it was his.

    Revan''s breath came quicker, his heart hammering against his ribs. His fingers dug into the fabric of the sheets as a single thought forced its way into his mind, cold and unrelenting. ''What if this is real¡­?''

    He pinched himself, hard. Pain flared through his skin, sharp and undeniable. His throat tightened. His neck felt raw, tender from the noose. ''No¡­ no, no, no. This isn''t real. It can''t be.''

    His gaze flicked toward the window. He pushed himself off the bed, dragging his aching crotch forward, and peered outside. Below, people bustled through the cobble street, their voices carrying in the crisp morning air. Their clothing¡ªlong tunics, cloaks fastened with bronze brooches, dresses laced tight at the waist¡ªwas unmistakably medieval.

    The men wore hose and boots, some with swords strapped to their hips. A blacksmith pounded away at a forge far away, the ringing of metal on metal echoing through the street. He could see the market just outside of the territory, women bartered at the market stalls, exchanging goods for coins that glittered in the sunlight. A horse-drawn cart rolled past, its driver yelling at the bystanders as he flicked the reins.

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    Revan''s breath hitched. ''No. No, no, no. No way.'' His hands gripped the window sill, fingers digging into the wood. His pulse roared in his ears.

    Finally, he found his voice. "How the fuck did I die?" He forced the words out, barely above a whisper. He swallowed, his throat still aching. "I drank some mango juice. I went to bed. That''s all. No goddamn robbers climbing up to a fifth-floor student dorm window just to kill me in my sleep." His voice cracked as his mind raced. "What the fuck happened?"

    Then he heard it¡ªclearly then¡ªhis own voice. Or rather, what should have been his voice. It was different. Not the slightly nasal, college-student tone he had known his whole life. This voice was deeper, richer, smoother.

    His gut twisted.

    Slowly, as if afraid of what he might see, he turned toward the mirror standing in the corner of the room.

    The reflection staring back at him was not his own.

    The boy¡ªno, the young man¡ªwho gazed from the glass was taller than he had ever been, his frame lean yet undeniably strong, muscles shifting beneath the velvet tunic that hung from his shoulders. His face was sharp, angular, free of any baby fat. A thin scar traced from the right side of his chin, stopping just before his lips. His dark, tousled hair framed a face that was neither handsome nor plain, but something in between¡ªrough, hardened, a face that had seen things. His eyes, deep brown, studied him with equal parts confusion and unease.

    Revan took a slow step forward, then another. He raised a hand, and the reflection mimicked him. His fingers brushed against his chin, tracing the scar. The skin beneath his touch was smooth, real.

    ''This isn''t my body.''

    His stomach churned. His mind reeled.

    ''What the fuck is happening to me?''

    Then, immediately, the nausea struck.

    A crushing wave of memories surged into Revan''s mind, each one vivid, unrelenting, as if a thousand lives had been crammed into his skull all at once. He staggered, gripping the edge of the wooden desk to steady himself, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gulps. It was not merely recollection¡ªit was an invasion, a forceful rewriting of his very identity, and he had no power to resist.

    The young man in the mirror¡ªthe face he now wore¡ªwas not Revan Parker.

    His name was Elphonse Flint Ritch. His parents, in the rare moments they deigned to acknowledge him, had called him El Ritch. He was the third son of a dwindling noble house, a no-named, insignificant family clinging to the frayed edges of wealth in the South of the Empire, Evandria. Four siblings¡ªthree sisters¡ªtwo are smaller than El Ritch, and an elder brother¡ªhad been born before him, each struggling under the crushing weight of their lineage''s expectations. The family''s fortunes had long since waned, their estate barely holding itself together, their coffers drained. The burden of salvaging their name had driven their parents to desperation, and in that desperation, they had decided to sent three of their children to the Empire''s capital.

    The aptitude trials would determine their fate¡ªknight, conjurer, bureaucrat, or something else befitting nobility at least. A future dictated not by choice but by obligation. Yet El Ritch had never been suited for the sword, nor had he possessed the mind for spellcraft, a conjurer. He was a writer, a thinker, a boy who found solace in ink and parchment rather than battlefields and courtly intrigue. But what noble house needed a poet? What use was a dreamer to a family drowning in debt?

    He had known the answer before they had even spoken it. The weight of expectation had settled on his shoulders like a millstone, and he had done the only thing he believed was left to him.

    He had taken the purple cloth. He had climbed the chair. He had wrapped the cloth noose-like around his neck.

    And he had stepped off.

    Revan exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as the echoes of that choice¡ªof El Ritch''s despair¡ªfinally settled. The memories were his now, as much a part of him as his own past, but they did nothing to answer the real question.

    "It doesn''t fucking explain why I died after drinking a mango juice and going to bed!" His voice rose in frustration, reverberating off the wooden walls, but the rage was fleeting. His shoulders sagged as something else surfaced in his mind¡ªan exam.

    His exam.

    It was supposed to be that day, he would''ve failed.

    His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line. His head tilted back against the chair, and for the first time, the weight of it all sank in. ''Maybe¡­ dying wasn''t so bad.''

    Revan Parker had been a scholarship student, a Grade A intellect, a boy who could absorb knowledge like a sponge yet had no real ambition beyond survival. His parents had perished in a storm¡ªa hurricane, a Category Five behemoth that had swallowed their home and left him with nothing but a quiet farm in the countryside. There had been no grand ambitions left after that, no dreams beyond the next assignment, the next class, the next meaningless step toward a future he had never truly desired. He had simply existed, moving forward because stopping meant facing the hollow space where purpose should have been.

    But now, for the first time, after years of reading webnovels and fantasizing about impossible worlds, he had been thrust into one. A noble''s life. A short one, perhaps, but lavish, if played well. If nothing else, the food would be better. And work? He had always been hardworking. What difference would it make if he had to work a little harder here, surrounded by wealth and privilege? He could adjust.

    His life was set.

    Or so he thought.

    Another wave of memories struck, colder than the last. They were not the distant echoes of another boy''s past but something immediate, something urgent.

    Today.

    Today was the day a knight would arrive to take El Ritch''s exams. Not to some warm, idyllic future filled with books and leisure, but to the very path he had tried to escape. Today was the beginning of El Ritch''s training¡ªeither to wield a sword as a knight or to wield magic as a conjurer.

    Revan dragged his hands down his face.

    "Fuuuuuuckkkk..."

 Befitting of Richness

    Revan cast aside the velvet robe, stripping down with hurried, measured movements. The fabric pooled at his feet, replaced by a tunic of deep blue, its sleeves embroidered with silver thread, a mark of nobility, but nothing too ostentatious.

    He pulled on a doublet of fine black wool, cinching it tight with a leather belt, the weight of the metal buckle grounding him. From the dark oak wardrobe, he retrieved a pair of fitted trousers, secured them swiftly, and reached for the final touch¡ªa leather cuirass, supple yet firm, fastened over his chest. A token of battle-readiness, not a suit of full armor, but enough to remind whoever awaited him that he was no trembling scholar locked away in a library.

    ''Cringe? I know, but gets the point straight-'' He blinked then looked down and looked up, ''What the fuck...Who am I talking to...''

    He had barely adjusted the last strap when a knock rapped against the heavy oak door. The sound was sharp, deliberate.

    "Young Lord Elphonse, our guest has arrived and awaits your presence." The voice belonged to a woman¡ªclipped, formal. A maid. No, his memories whispered the name before he could even think to ask. Cayle.

    Revan exhaled through his nose, forcing his thoughts into order. "Yes, Cayle, just arriving in a minute¡ª"

    He bit his tongue. ''Fuck.'' The words had slipped out too easily, too modern, a stark contrast to the speech of this world.

    A brief shuffle outside. "Are you well, Young Lord?" There was hesitation in her tone, concern creeping through the mask of formality.

    ''Dumbass.'' He cursed himself, face pinching in frustration. He had barely been here an hour and already he was slipping. He cleared his throat. "I am well enough, Cayle. I shall be there anon¡ª"

    "There is no need to press yourself, Young Lord."

    A new voice, smooth as oil, laced with an ease too deliberate to be genuine. It cut through Revan''s words without a shred of deference, as if the speaker had no care that he interrupted a noble mid-sentence. That alone narrowed the possibilities of who it could be. Only a man who wielded some authority of his own would dare such a thing.

    "And since you are well and whole," the voice continued, a teasing lilt beneath the surface, "might Lady Cayle permit this humble servant to step within~?" Cayle gasped behind the oak door, muttering something inaudible and he could hear the man chuckling.

    Revan''s jaw clenched before the realization even fully settled. A knight. Of course.

    Then the voice confirmed it.

    "I, Aldric Parker, knight of the Academy known as The Anvil, stand here on behalf of the Knight of God, Gottschalk."

    Revan''s fingers flexed, a flicker of irritation sparking at the name. ''Give me some fucking rest, prick. I just fell into this world, into the body of some shut-in noble, and you want me to entertain guests? Fuck you.'' His eyes darted toward the mirror, catching a glimpse of his own reflection¡ªof El Ritch''s reflection. Dark eyes, lean face, the scar along his chin. He swallowed the irritation. He needed to play his role, at least for now.

    Aldric''s voice pressed on, carrying that same frustrating weight of false courtesy. "Might you grant me the honor of an audience, wherever you find yourself most at ease," he said, a pause just long enough to feel deliberate, "perhaps within the comfort of your own chambers?"

    Revan sighed, running a hand down his face. "Cayle, please let the gentleman in."

    The oak door swung open, revealing the knight beyond.

    He was not clad in armor, nor did he wear the polished steel of a man fresh from the battlefield. Instead, his coat, a rich shade of purple, draped to his knees, left unbuttoned to reveal a dark tunic beneath, tucked into fitted brown trousers that allowed for ease of movement. A man prepared not for war, but for a simple conversation. His hair, dark and unruly, framed a face that had been carved into sharp, symmetrical lines, a chiseled jaw leading up to striking dark blue eyes, cool and watchful. A simple, unreadable smile curled at the edges of his lips, neither welcoming nor dismissive.

    He bowed with a grace that felt practiced, polished. "I am in your care, Young Lord Elphonse." His voice remained light, almost too pleasant. "Many a tale of your deeds has reached mine ears, spoken from the lips of men most esteemed. It is a rare delight to stand before you in person."

    Revan''s brow twitched.

    That wasn''t praise.

    It wasn''t even empty flattery.

    It was mockery, veiled so finely beneath courtesy that one could hardly call it an insult. But the intent was there, slithering beneath each syllable, woven into that slight, knowing smirk.

    And for some reason, that¡ªthat ticked Revan off in a way he hadn''t expected.

    Maybe it was because of the tone. Maybe it was because of that self-assured, almost amused way Aldric looked at him, as if he already knew exactly who El Ritch was. Or maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªit was because El Ritch''s memories were still lingering at the back of his mind, whispering their old wounds and resentments.

    Maybe it was that.

    Or maybe it was just him.

    Revan gestured toward the chair, a silent invitation. Aldric acknowledged it with a nod, sinking into the seat with the same effortless poise he had carried since stepping into the room. His smile, sharp yet unreadable, did not wane.

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    "Would Sir Aldric¡ª"

    "Sir Aldric has presumed the work of Sir Gottschalk," Revan interjected smoothly, cutting off Cayle before she could finish. His gaze flicked toward her, steady and pointed. "I presume he is quite busy, Cayle. Would you please get the door? I believe Sir Aldric has some peculiar details to discuss."

    Cayle hesitated for a brief moment, blinking up at him as though that was a foreign man sitting behind the body of her old Lord. Her lips parted, as if she meant to protest, but whatever uncertainty she felt was swiftly swallowed by habit. With a small nod, she turned on her heel, moving toward the great oak door. It took effort¡ªher petite frame straining against the weight of the wood as she pulled it closed. She did not huff or sigh, did not betray any weakness, yet Revan could see it¡ªthe precise, controlled way she moved, the careful way she handled the weight without faltering.

    And then, they were alone.

    Revan made no effort to sit properly. Instead, he climbed onto the bed, shifting until he lay on his side, his right elbow propped against the mattress, his chin resting against his palm. His left hand draped lazily over his knee, his leg bent just enough to rest comfortably. A smirk curled at his lips, amusement flickering in his brown eyes.

    "Please, by all means, speak," he murmured, voice smooth, almost indulgent. "Do not let my posture discomfort you. After all, you did suggest I make myself comfortable in my own chambers."

    Aldric''s expression did not change immediately, but there was the briefest pause¡ªhalf a heartbeat¡ªbefore he exhaled sharply through his nose.

    "Pfft."

    The sound was quiet but unmistakable. He brought a hand to his mouth, the corners of his lips twitching as he stifled what might have been a laugh.

    Revan''s brows pulled together. A frown settled on his face.

    "I apologize," Aldric said at last, amusement still laced in his tone. He exhaled once more, this time more controlled, as though schooling himself back into formality. "I was told the third child of House Ritch was a rather timid boy. I merely wished to see for myself just how much of a coward you truly were¡­"

    He sighed then, his smirk fading into something more measured. "Allow me to offer my introduction once more¡ªAldric Parker, a knight who holds the favor of your father. By his own request, I have come to instruct you in the art of combat, and to weigh your aptitude for tasks beyond the field of battle." He bowed his head slightly, though he did not rise from his seat.

    Revan barely heard the last part of his words. His mind latched onto a single phrase, one that did not fit.

    By his own request.

    "My father did this for me¡­?" The words left him before he could stop them. Disbelief laced his voice, a note of raw confusion he had not meant to show. He had El Ritch''s memories¡ªhe had lived them just moments ago. And nowhere, in any of them, had there been warmth. No kindness. No concern from his father.

    This did not fit.

    What changed?

    His thoughts twisted, contorting in on themselves. ''Don''t tell me this is some clich¨¦ bullshit¡ªsome nonsense about how a father always loved his son and simply showed it in materialistic ways.'' He scoffed inwardly. ''I''d puke, I swear to God.''

    Aldric tilted his head, watching him with a keen eye. "Does it astonish you, that he holds love for you?" His fingers brushed against his lips, his voice taking on a mock-wistful air. "A jest, I assure you."

    He chuckled then, shaking his head. "I have no wish to meddle in the affairs of one''s kin¡ª" A pause. A shrug. "¡ªbut ponder this, scholar. Your father, who scarce ever showed you warmth, now bestows upon you a private instructor? It stirs a thought in me. I once knew a fellow at the slaughterhouse, who would tend to a pig with the utmost care¡ªwatching over it, feeding it well¡ªonly to sharpen his knife when the time came to part with it and sell the meat."

    His lips curled, the smile as pleasant as it was unnerving. "But, well. One''s matters are their own. After all, One does what one can."

    Revan''s eyes narrowed.

    "What are you implying?" He shifted then, pushing himself upright, his legs folding beneath him as he sat on the bed properly. His voice was steady, though the weight of the words hung heavy in the air. "That I commit homicide upon my father?"

    "Such grievous thoughts!" Aldric gave a sharp exhale, one hand pressing against his mouth in a dramatic display of shock. "Would you really do this of your own accord? Oh my~"

    Revan exhaled, his irritation melting into something else¡ªunderstanding.

    ''He''s playing with me.''

    Aldric was a man of words, not bluntness. He would never openly suggest such a thing, no more than he would outright deny it. This was a game. A test of wits, of reaction. And even if Revan had shown an inclination toward something so drastic, Aldric would not act on it unless he had ensured his own position remained untarnished, unstained by the blood spilled.

    Still, the question gnawed at him.

    Slaughter.

    What had he meant by that?

    Revan was to go to the Capital. To become a knight, most probably. To swear himself to the God of this world, forsaking all claims to land, all rights to marriage and children. That much, he knew. But was there more?

    And if so¡ªwhy now?

    Why, after years of neglect, had his father chosen to invest in him? Why had he sent a knight, a man of skill, to personally evaluate him?

    What changed?

    Revan had read more than enough. He knew what changed.

    Countless stories, countless tales of noble houses where fathers sent their own kin to the slaughter, all for the sake of securing their worthless, dwindling legacies. Sons were nothing but pieces on a board, disposable, their lives measured in usefulness and discarded when they became inconvenient. He had seen it before, in books, in history, in every retelling of dynasties built upon the bones of their own blood.

    And he would not allow it. Not with his fate.

    Peace. That was what he wanted, what he would carve for himself in this world. No ambitions of grandeur, no desire to play at the dangerous games of lords and kings. A quiet life, unbothered, untouched. And no one¡ªno one¡ªwould stand between him and his peace.

    ''Not even the fucking God of this world.''

    He did not need to rebel, did not need to wage some doomed war against the hand that sought to strangle him. There was another way. A quieter way.

    "Weighing your choices, are you?"

    Aldric''s voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, sharp as a blade honed for the kill.

    "How utterly charming."

    The knight chuckled then, but this time, he did not bother to hide it. He leaned back, amusement writ across his face, the barest curl of his lips betraying a pleasure in whatever conclusion he had drawn from Revan''s silence. "To scheme against your own father whilst standing before the very man sent to shape you into a warrior." He exhaled, shaking his head as if marveling at the audacity. "Tell me¡ªwhat if I were his eyes and ears, set here to watch your every step?"

    Revan did not flinch. Did not hesitate.

    "Would you tell if you were really his ears and eyes?" His words came quick, clean, slipping between them like the edge of a dagger turned in one''s palm.

    Aldric''s brow arched. There, a flicker of something¡ªapproval, perhaps.

    "Why would I not?" he mused, tilting his head, watching him with the same sharp gaze a falcon might turn upon prey caught between its talons. "It would only make you trust me more. Reverse psychology works wonders~"

    That smirk again, lopsided, deliberate. One corner of his lips lifted just a fraction higher than the other, the subtle shift changing the entire shape of his expression. A man who held his words like a game of dice, never letting them fall where one expected.

    It was a good answer. A perfect answer. And yet¡ª

    Revan felt it in his gut, a deep, unshakable certainty.

    This man¡ªAldric¡ªwas no one''s ears, no one''s eyes.

    But Aldric''s own.

 Exams...Of Course.

    Revan had three priorities in this life:

    i>A peaceful existence.

    ii>A countryside estate with all the comforts of nobility, and

    iii>A life of unrestrained indulgence in fine cuisine.

    ''Unfortunately, a deadbeat of a father and an instigating bitch won''t let that happen easily.''

    He exhaled sharply as they stepped into the hallway, a silent resignation settling over him. The corridor stretched long and dignified, lined with walls of polished wood, their surfaces dark and gleaming under the flickering glow of iron sconces. The scent of burning oil mingled with aged parchment and the faint trace of lavender¡ªan old attempt to mask the stale air of a house that had seen better days. Ornate rugs ran the length of the floor, their intricate patterns dulled by time and use. Heavy crimson drapes loomed over arched windows, their fabrics embroidered with the fading sigils of House Ritch, a duck with a crown, blade and a shield, a once-proud emblem now reduced to a mere decoration.

    It was a noble''s home, but not a prosperous one.

    The air was thick with quiet judgment as they passed. Servants in simple, well-maintained garb offered stiff bows, their expressions carefully schooled into neutrality, yet their eyes lingered too long on Aldric.

    Even the household guards, men accustomed to seeing knights come and go, shifted slightly at his presence. Their hands tensed against their sword hilts, their stances unconsciously braced. Revan saw it all, and the realization came easily.

    They weren''t wary of him.

    They were wary of Aldric.

    It was not fear, not outright, but there was a certain stiffness in how they acknowledged him¡ªa respect too careful, a deference too practiced. The knight moved through the halls with the ease of a man who knew he had nothing to prove, yet every step he took sent ripples through the space around him.

    Revan did not like that.

    A man who commanded more presence than a noble in his own home was not a simple knight.

    "Sir Aldric," Revan began, tone light as if posing a casual thought, "why must I train when I can simply become a bureaucrat? A proper education should suffice¡ª"

    "A war is not won by brutes," Aldric interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying its usual knowing cadence. "If the cowardly strategize and the dumb fight for us, that is not a war." He cast a glance over his shoulder, winking. "And, well, Lord Otto did order me to do so. Therefore, we will do it."

    Revan sighed. ''Bastard.''

    They descended the staircase, boots tapping against the stone steps, and exited through the back of the cobblestone mansion. Beyond, the training field stretched wide and open, a space of churned earth and packed sand. Soldiers moved in formation, their bodies slick with sweat, their hands wrapped around dulled blades and weighted spears. Their instructor''s voice barked commands, sharp and relentless, pushing them forward without mercy.

    The presence of Aldric did not go unnoticed.

    Whispers ran through the air like an unspoken current, heads turning subtly, hands pausing in their drills. The wary glances from before became something more¡ªacknowledgment, apprehension.

    Revan caught the way they instinctively stepped aside, clearing a path for Aldric without him needing to ask. Even the instructor, a grizzled man with a scar splitting his lip, dipped his head slightly before resuming his shouting.

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    A knight held respect, certainly. But a man like this?

    Revan knew, without a doubt, who held true authority here.

    And it wasn''t him.

    Aldric strolled toward the weapon rack, fingers brushing over the handles of various blades before plucking one from the rest. A practice sword¡ªdull-edged steel, heavy but blunted, crafted to withstand strikes without cutting flesh. He tossed it to Revan without warning, and Revan caught it on instinct, the weight of it pressing against his palm. Another was taken for himself.

    Aldric did not remove his coat.

    Revan narrowed his eyes. "Are you positive you want to test me while wearing all that?"

    The knight scoffed, stepping onto the field without pause. "Thank you, Young Lord, for your concern, but¡ª" He let his gaze sweep over Revan from head to toe, eyes calculating. "¡ªI don''t think there will be any need."

    Every word, every tone, chipped away at Revan''s patience.

    His grip tightened around the hilt of the practice blade, fingers curling with irritation.

    Then, without warning, he moved.

    His boots kicked off the ground, body surging forward with a burst of speed. Left foot steady, right foot propelling him with enough force to twist his torso. His arms followed the motion, his entire body acting as torque as he swung the heavy blade in a horizontal arc.

    A sharp clang rang out.

    His momentum halted¡ªstopped cold. His hands hissed in pain.

    Aldric had blocked it. Effortlessly. His feet had not shifted. His expression had not changed. He had met the full brunt of Revan''s strike without even flinching.

    Revan scowled, stepping back.

    "Young Lord does have some fire," Aldric mused, his smile unwavering.

    Revan''s brow twitched. His nose scrunched in irritation. "Shut up!"

    The blade came down in a vicious vertical swing.

    Aldric took a single step to the left.

    The strike hit nothing.

    Revan''s teeth clenched as he turned, swinging diagonally¡ªonly for Aldric to step back, his movements fluid, effortless. Every attack was met with the same dismissal, not even worth the effort to block. Avoidance. As if he was not even worth the energy of a proper engagement.

    Revan swung again. And again. And again.

    Each strike met only air.

    A minute passed. Then another.

    Then¡ª

    His knees hit the ground.

    His hands pressed against the dirt as he gasped, body heaving, exhaustion weighing heavy on his limbs.

    Above him, Aldric stood. Composed. Unbothered. Watching.

    "Are you done?"

    The words cut deeper than they should have.

    Something flickered in Revan''s mind, unbidden. A memory. Not his own.

    {"Are you done?"

    The voice of his elder sister.

    The sun had hidden her face¡ªor perhaps, the trauma had blurred it into nothingness.

    El Ritch stood, small and trembling, surrounded by faces twisted in disdain, in disgust. They mocked him openly, some with cruel laughter, others with sneering whispers. Eyes bore into him, burning, hollowing him out with their contempt.

    This¡ªthis was why he had locked himself away. This was why, when they had finally forced him out, he had chosen death instead.}

    Revan gasped, jerking back into the present.

    A hand tapped against his head.

    "Young Lord," Aldric''s voice rang, steady and unmoved. "I asked¡ªAre. You. Done?"

    Revan''s vision sharpened.

    That same situation. That same disdain. That same look.

    Aldric was gazing down at him as if he were nothing. As if he were less than nothing.

    Something inside him snapped.

    "NO!"

    A roar tore from his throat, and suddenly¡ªhe felt it.

    A surge of energy, wild and untamed. Thin white lines formed around his body, dancing along his skin like threads of light. The exhaustion that had gripped him moments ago shattered, replaced by a fire that burned through his veins. His body felt severely light.

    He launched himself forward.

    Aldric''s eyes flickered. For the first time, something akin to recognition passed through them.

    "Mana?" he murmured.

    Revan''s right arm coiled back, fist clenched, body driven by fury.

    He swung.

    Aldric caught the strike against the flat of his blade. The practice sword bent from the sheer force of impact, curving inward as if it might snap.

    "YOU WILL NOT GET TO DO THIS!"

    Revan''s left hand grasped Aldric''s coat, holding him in place as his right arm pulled back once more.

    "I AM R¡ª"

    A sharp pain cracked against the back of his neck.

    His body seized.

    Aldric had thrown his bent sword, striking the practice rack, rebounding it back with a precise force that sent it colliding against Revan''s spine. The impact cut through the rage, through the mana, through everything.

    His vision blurred. His body failed him.

    Aldric caught him before he could collapse completely.

    "Rest well, Young Lord," he murmured, voice edged with something unreadable. "We have lots to talk about."

    The last thing Revan heard before the world went dark was his own voice, distant, fading.

    ''Fu¡­ck yo¡­u¡­''

 The First Path Of Conjuration

    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¡ªcomfortable, 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¡ªa 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¡ªAldric, most likely¡ªhad 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¡ª''

    "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" 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¡ªhow 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¡ª"

    "-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¡ªthe 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¡ªLord Otto bade me train his son in the ways of knighthood. Yet now, having awakened mana within you"¡ªhe gestured toward Revan with his spoon¡ª"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"¡ªhe took another bite, swallowed with ease¡ª"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¡ªever 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¡ªwhy?

    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¡ªno 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¡ªand from how Aldric spoke¡ªhe 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¡ªjust as swiftly¡ªlet 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¡ªwhite 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¡ªher eyes¡ªwere 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¡ªjust a quiet, assessing weight.

    "My humblest apologies, Young Lord Elphonse," she said smoothly, "I would have chosen finer attire"¡ªher gaze flicked, ever so briefly, to Aldric¡ª"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¡ªI 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!''

 Step Down The Ladder, There Are No First Steps

    She began simply.

    "Mana is the fundamental energy permeating all existence. It exists as white tendrils, flowing invisibly through the air, the ground, and living beings. To the uninitiated, mana cannot be seen¡ªonly sensed, a faint instinct, a pull at the edge of perception. However, to those who meet certain criteria, mana is visible, its tendrils dancing through nature like threads of cosmic silk."

    She raised her right hand''s index finger, a slow, deliberate motion, her gaze shifting toward El Ritch.

    "Do you see anything above the finger with your eyes?"

    Revan followed the motion, eyes narrowing slightly. He saw nothing. Just her hand, motionless in the dim candlelight.

    He shook his head.

    Rok-To tilted her head, the movement oddly precise, almost mechanical. A strange shift in her posture, like a marionette contemplating its own strings.

    "That is¡­"

    "Curious, isn''t it?"

    Aldric cut in smoothly before she could continue, reclining back into his seat with that ever-present air of amusement.

    "What was it you spoke of, witch? That which one must possess to awaken the mind and set foot upon the path of mana?"

    Rok-To opened her mouth, but again, Aldric did not let her finish.

    "Descendants of witch or wizard blood¡­ or¡ª" he glanced at Revan, lips curling, "severe brain injury, huh?"

    His gaze sharpened, settling on Revan with the same look a scholar might give a particularly interesting specimen.

    "I recall, with clarity, striking you upon the head after you first called upon mana," Aldric continued, his voice thick with faux contemplation. He turned toward Rok-To, his expression light, but his words deliberate. "Could it be that, by my own hand, I sealed the very valve that grants him sight into the realm of mana?"

    Revan''s face remained neutral, but inwardly, he sneered.

    ''If this fucker ruined my chance to cast my fireball, I swear on whatever authority El Ritch holds, I will make sure he hangs.''

    "No," Rok-To dismissed flatly.

    She barely even looked at Aldric as she spoke. Instead, she turned to El Ritch, stepping forward until she stood directly before him. Slowly, deliberately, she reached out, placing her rough hand over his own where it rested upon his lap.

    Her skin was calloused, dry, the hand of a woman accustomed to work.

    "You will feel heat for a moment," she murmured. "Please endure it."

    Her fingers tightened, firm but not unkind.

    Revan braced.

    The sensation began at his palm¡ªa prickling warmth, not unpleasant at first, but quickly intensifying. The heat crawled up his arm, spreading outward in slow, deliberate pulses. It traveled through his veins, winding through his torso, his stomach, his legs, then finally his chest, until it reached his head.

    And then¡ª

    He saw.

    Thin, white threads, barely visible yet everywhere. Nigh-infinite strands floating through the air, winding between the shelves, curling around the room like mist caught in a slow breeze.

    Revan inhaled sharply, his eyes darting across the expanse of the library.

    The mana passed through him¡ªthrough everything¡ªas though he were no more solid than air. He lifted his hand instinctively, attempting to grasp one of the threads, but his fingers slipped straight through it, as though nothing was there at all.

    He frowned.

    Then, something caught his attention. A disturbance in the flow.

    Some of the strands were behaving differently¡ªshifting, diverting course, moving around something as though repelled. Revan followed the anomaly, his gaze tracing the path of the errant threads. His eyes rose, tracking their movements, until finally¡ª

    They led him to Aldric.

    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    The mana did not pass through him.

    Not the way it passed through Revan, through the furniture, through the very walls. Instead, it moved around him, each thread bending, curving away from his presence entirely. Not drifting, not swirling naturally, but deliberately avoiding him¡ªas though forced aside.

    Aldric tilted his head slightly, watching him with a knowing expression.

    "Do I look special?" he mused, his voice light, almost playful.

    The threads shifted in response, parting fluidly as if to accommodate his very presence.

    He glanced down at Rok-To, watching the mana threads pass through her as they had passed through him. Unlike Aldric, she did not repel them, did not stand apart from the flow. They wove through her body as if she were merely another part of the world''s fabric.

    Then, she let go.

    The sensation of prickling warmth dulled but did not vanish entirely. The remnants of her influence still lingered beneath his skin, like embers refusing to die out.

    "I''ve understood the problem," she said, stepping back toward her chair.

    She did not sit.

    "The mana channels¡ªchannels¡ªchannels¡ª"

    Revan''s brows furrowed. Something was wrong. The way she spoke¡ªthe repetition¡ªher tone. Staggered. Hollow. Like an echo.

    "I-I-I-I¡ª"

    The stutter grew worse, her voice catching as though she were struggling to continue. Then¡ªsilence.

    She sat back down, unmoving, eyes locked on him.

    Unblinking.

    Dead still.

    Aldric exhaled sharply, his voice losing its usual mockery. "Your doll has expired. Would you now come out of the library, you book-worm?"

    Footsteps.

    Revan turned sharply, looking over his shoulder just in time to see Rok-To stepping out from behind the bookshelves.

    His breath caught.

    The mana threads around her shifted with her this time, responding to her presence, collecting in singular points before dispersing again. She did not simply exist within them¡ªshe interacted with them. Moved them. Commanded them.

    Revan snapped his gaze back to the chair.

    The other Rok-To still sat there, frozen. The mana around it behaved differently from the one walking towards them, just like as it had passed through him, through the bookshelves, walls¡ªtreating it as something lifeless, not a true part of the world.

    "How¡ª" The question spilled from his lips before he could stop it.

    The real Rok-To circled the sitting arrangement, her steps slow, deliberate. Her gaze flicked between him and her duplicate, unimpressed by his shock. When she reached the chair, she did not sit immediately. Instead, she turned to her other self.

    "If I had not poured my mana into the boy," she mused, staring at the lifeless copy, "she would have worked for another five minutes." A sigh. "Irritating."

    Revan could only stare.

    "What¡­ is that?"

    She smiled at last, a knowing curve of her lips, and reached out. With a simple motion, she made the seated Rok-To stand, moving it aside before lowering herself into the chair. The thing obeyed, shifting with mechanical grace, its limbs stiff but controlled.

    "This here is mine own doll, fashioned to stand in my stead wherever I wish it to go."

    ''Holy shit.''

    "Yet know this¡ªit remains but a work in progress." She leaned slightly forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "For now, it falters oft, unable to draw in mana of its own will, much like a body left to starve without food." She exhaled sharply. "But in due time, I shall perfect it."

    Revan''s mind raced.

    It wasn''t magic in the way he had imagined¡ªnot fireballs, not lightning, not the flashy spectacle he had read about in stories. It was something more intricate, more methodical. A construct, a living tool, molded by will alone.

    "How does it work?" His voice betrayed his awe. "I am amazed. Truly."

    Rok-To chuckled, the sound richer than before, more human. The shift was noticeable now. This was her true personality¡ªnot the cold, mechanical voice of the doll, but something with warmth, wit, and sharpness all its own.

    "That is indeed a work to be amazed by," she admitted, eyes glinting. Then, her voice turned playful. "But flattery won''t get you close, sweet boy~"

    Revan blinked.

    She leaned back, crossing her arms. "You have to be mine student to learn the master''s secrets."

    ''Fuck it. I''ll become one.''

    Before he could respond, Aldric clapped once, sharp and deliberate. "Sweet chat, both of you," he chimed, the usual mirth returning to his voice. "Unfortunately, he cannot be a witch''s student. He is a noble, and Lord Otto will definitely not let it happen." He leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. "He is to either go to the Academy and be a Conjurer now, or become a bureaucrat. But¡ª"

    Aldric''s gaze shifted to Revan, his smirk curling just slightly.

    "Seeing how you are crazed about all of this, I believe the Academy of Conjurers at the Capital is what you will for, yes?"

    Revan exhaled through his nose.

    ''Talk about reading people through their fucking eyes. If Aldric had been a woman, I might have just fallen in love with the bastard at least three times by now. Too bad.''

    He sighed. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.

    Aldric shrugged, turning his attention back to Rok-To. "Well, that is indeed unfortunate. I had put my offer though."

    Rok-To''s smile did not fade.

    She stood, her movements graceful, fluid. The doll moved with her, mirroring her pace as she stepped away.

    "Wait, she won''t teach me?" Revan asked, startled.

    Aldric sighed. "Of course she won''t." He tilted his head, gesturing vaguely with his hand. "She gave you an offer. You couldn''t take it because¡ªwell¡ªsituations. Too bad."

    Then, he stood as well, following after her.

    "Young Lord, you may return to your chambers," he said over his shoulder. "I will have a talk with your father as he decides the next course of action."

    They disappeared behind the bookshelves, their voices carrying just faintly enough for Revan to catch snippets of conversation.

    "¡ªthat desperate to take a noble from anywhere¡ª"

    "¡ªhad specialty like you¡ª"

    Revan clenched his jaw, looking down, frustration simmering beneath his skin.

    ''Damn it.''

    He did not know much about witches, did not know much about Rok-To, but something in his gut told him¡ªinstinctually¡ªthat she was important.

    And now he had lost his chance.

    ''My fucking luck sucks.''

    Now he had to learn magic from a Conjurer.

    A proper Conjurer.

    One with a pole shoved so far up their ass about how rich they were that he''d have to listen to their drivel for months. El Ritch''s memories about them, haunted him.

    Damn it.

 Rewind It Hillbilly, First Steps Again.

    Before returning to his chamber, Revan took hold of several books¡ªones that seemed to contain knowledge of history, fairytales, and whatever else might give him some insight into this world. A practical decision. If he was to navigate this life without ending up hanging from another rope, he would need to know how things worked.

    He returned to his room without much ceremony, though Cayle insisted on inquiring¡ªrepeatedly¡ªif he required anything.

    And what was he supposed to say? Branded orange juice from the supermarket?

    Instead, he simply refused, waving her off, and let the door shut behind him with a dull thunk.

    A sigh left his lips as he moved toward the bed. The soft mattress sank beneath him as he dropped onto it, groaning slightly as he straightened his back, pushing against his lower spine with both hands. He sat there for a moment, allowing the tension in his shoulders to settle before finally shifting forward, reaching for one of the books.

    The Steps of Conjuration.

    Revan scoffed under his breath.

    ''Of course, a noble family would fancy themselves obsessed with something they haven''t had for generations.'' He turned the old parchment with care, feeling its age beneath his fingertips. ''What a useful use of my ancestors'' greed.''

    The first pages were dedicated to acknowledgments. Among the names listed: Solomon and Merlin¡ªscholars, researchers, men who had advanced their studies in magic because of the first ever realized Conjurer, Ashur.

    ''Neat introduction to a classic book with a Solomon and Merlin here too. Goddamn. Would read. Ten out of Ten.''

    As he continued, the text laid out the foundation of Conjuration in brief. It explained how the bloodlines of witches, diluted by generations of mixing with non-magical folk, had given rise to Conjurers. These individuals, though unable to wield inherent magic with the same raw instinct as their witch-born ancestors, had turned to study¡ªdeveloping their own unique disciplines, pushing the known boundaries of magic, and expanding their chosen branches into new and powerful forms.

    At the heart of it all lay The Oracle¡ªthe Capital''s prestigious academy, a place where Conjurers earned their titles, their prestige, and their recognition. To be a Conjurer was to stand as an equal to nobility, a title that carried weight on its own. Unlike knights, they were not bound by the Oaths of Forsworn or Celibacy. They had the freedom to pursue knowledge, to devote their lives to research, or, should they choose, to join the military and earn further rank and status.

    Revan tapped his fingers against the page, mulling over the implications.

    ''Hm. Hm. Quite interesting indeed.''

    His eyes flicked further down the text.

    ''Now, where''s the fucking guide for me to cast fireballs in a closed room?''

    He carefully turned the pages, the parchment old and delicate beneath his fingertips, until at last¡ªhe found it.

    The guide.

    He wasted no time.

    First, he moved to the window, pulling the thick burgundy drapes over it. The fabric was heavy, swallowing the light, plunging the room into near darkness. Only a single sliver remained¡ªa small patch of unblocked space where a thin beam of light streamed through, cutting across the oak table.

    Revan positioned himself before it, his right hand resting against the wood, palm open beneath the ray of light.

    He focused.

    The book had instructed him to look¡ªnot at his hand itself, but at the spaces between his fingers. At the shadow they cast.

    His breath steadied. His eyes narrowed slightly.

    And then¡ª

    He saw.

    Not clearly. Not yet. But faint distortions flickered between his fingers, a ripple in the air, subtle and delicate, like heat rising from stone. It was there. Barely visible, but real.

    A slow grin crept onto his face.

    ''Fuck YEAH!''

    He screamed internally, the rush of discovery sending a thrill through his veins.

    Now to strengthen the perception.

    Revan could see the thin white tendrils, but barely. It was not enough.

    He followed the book''s guidance, holding his hands an inch apart, focusing on the space between them. His breathing slowed, deep and measured. The pages had warned him¡ªperception comes first, manipulation comes later. He had to feel before he could grasp.

    So he focused.

    Not on his hands. Not on his body. On the space itself.

    His palms remained steady, the heat of the sunlight pressing against them where they lay over the oakwood desk. Yet between them¡ªbetween his fingers¡ªsomething else stirred. A faint shift, subtle, a cooling sensation where there should have been none. It spread slowly, creeping along his skin, a gentle contrast to the warmth of the room.

    Then came the tingling¡ªat the corners of his eyes, an itch beneath his skin. He resisted the urge to rub at it, holding firm.

    And then, they came into focus.

    The mana threads.

    Between his palms, they moved differently than those in the open air. Unlike the ones drifting idly through the room, these did not pass through him. They pulled away from the space between his hands, creating a void where none should exist.

    A small grin crept onto his lips. That''s it.

    The sensation confirmed something vital¡ªmana interacts with biological systems, but only when acknowledged. Once perception stabilized, then manipulation could begin.

    Step by step.

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    This is it. This is¡ª

    Crack!

    The door snapped open.

    Revan''s head whipped around, his heart slamming once against his ribs.

    A woman stood in the doorway, resting against the frame, arms crossed. Dark hair, long up to her shoulders, her eyes sharp, dark brown and her face filtered and made attractive with cosmetics. She wore a regal purple tunic, tucked under the black leggings which was tied with a brown leather belt. He boots raised above her ankles.

    Tall, poised, expression unreadable.

    His breath caught.

    "Sister Anneliese Elke¡­"

    The name left his lips before he even thought to speak it.

    A ripple passed through him¡ªone that did not belong to him. Fear, deep and instinctual, curling at the edges of his gut. El Ritch''s fear. His palms grew damp. A cold tension coiled in his chest, pressing against his lungs.

    The response was immediate. Reflexive.

    "What is the meaning behind this long-winded address?" Her voice was honeyed mockery, light and deliberate. "Has our brief sparring match placed such distance between us?"

    She stepped forward.

    Boots clicked against the stone floor.

    Revan stepped back.

    His movement was small, barely noticeable, but it did not stop. Inch by inch, retreating, until his leg struck the bedside and he could go no further.

    Anneliese''s gaze flickered, briefly shifting toward the bed, then back to him. Her lips curled¡ªnot a sneer, not quite a smirk. Something closer to amusement.

    "Aw, is mine own baby brother striving to become a grand Conjurer?"

    Before he could react, pain seared through his ear.

    She had reached for him¡ªtoo fast to evade¡ªand pulled him aside, yanking him away by his ear with a casual cruelty that felt practiced.

    Revan clenched his jaw.

    The sharp sting spread down his neck, but he refused to make a sound. His fingers twitched slightly, the remnants of El Ritch''s instincts clawing at his mind.

    Stay quiet.

    Do not provoke.

    Worthless. That was the word El Ritch had accepted for himself. But it was not Revan.

    He was prideful.

    Anneliese did not hesitate as she reached for the books.

    Her fingers moved swiftly, flipping through the pages with no care for their fragility. A rough, careless treatment of texts older than either of them, as if they were mere playthings for her idle curiosity.

    Revan swallowed, forcing his voice steady. "The book is old¡­"

    Anneliese did not even glance at him.

    "Did you speak, my baby brother?"

    She had heard him. She knew what he had said. And yet, she refused to acknowledge it. The dismissiveness was deliberate, another needle beneath the skin, another thread woven into the years of habit El Ritch had endured.

    Revan''s breath grew quicker.

    But this time¡ªthis time, he did not let it consume him.

    The words pushed through, forcing their way past El Ritch''s choking instinct.

    "Those books are ancient. Do not play rough with them if you cannot read them!"

    The flipping stopped.

    Slowly¡ªalmost lazily¡ªAnneliese turned her head toward him.

    "What did you just say?"

    Anneliese''s voice carried a strange amusement, like a scholar hearing an animal mimic speech for the first time.

    Revan straightened, ignoring the way his back ached. "I said, elder sister¡ª" he forced the words through clenched teeth, "¡ªisn''t it time for you to leave me be? I have needs I need to tend."

    The sentence didn''t come out right. Too modern. Too off. The weight of it made his skin crawl, his expression threatening to scrunch in disgust. Never¡ªnot even in his past life¡ªhad he been humiliated like this. Not by professors, not by peers.

    Anneliese''s brow arched at his tone, but she said nothing. Instead, she moved.

    The shove came fast and forceful.

    His back slammed against the corner of the oak table. Pain, searing and vicious, ripped through him, shooting up his spine, which was already hurt, like fire. His legs buckled, and he collapsed onto his back, his right hand catching against the floor while his left clawed at the pain. His breath hitched. His nose finally scrunched in disgust.

    She crouched down beside him, her presence looming.

    "Did you¡ª" she gestured vaguely toward the books with a flick of her hand, "consider that gaining insight into mana would have granted you some measure of confidence against me, dear brother?"

    Her voice was light, airy, almost mocking in its gentleness.

    "Did you, even for a moment, believe that Father would spare a thought for either of us?"

    Revan barely heard her.

    The agony in his back overrode everything else, a sharp and persistent reminder of the wounds from training, now worsened by her hands. He gritted his teeth, sucking in air through his nose, and for the first time, he let modern words slip through his lips.

    "I don''t give a fuck about you or Father, as the matter of point stands."

    His own words surprised him.

    ''El Ritch could go fuck himself. This is me in his body after he died, and I, unlike that fucking rat, have pride.''

    Anneliese''s head tilted slightly, her brows furrowing for the first time. Not anger¡ªcuriosity.

    "What is that foul and uncouth language?" she mused, her expression never losing that slight, knowing smile. "Have you been mixing with the common folk?"

    Her amusement did not last.

    Her hand shot out with terrifying speed.

    Revan barely had time to react before her fingers wrapped around his throat, tightening hard.

    "Amusing words," she sneered, her voice no longer carrying its earlier playfulness. "Yet you forget yourself, Elphonse." Her grip tightened, her nails digging into his skin. "I remain your elder, a squire in rightful standing, and above all¡ªour eldest, Rolf Urs Ritch, is not here to shield you from me."

    Revan''s vision blurred at the edges.

    His hands gripped her wrist, trying to pry her fingers away, but she was stronger than she looked. His head grew lighter, his breath catching in his throat. Still, he glared at her.

    His lips parted, breath shallow. "I don''t give a fuck¡ª"

    Her fingers squeezed.

    His words cut off.

    Dark spots danced at the corners of his vision. His limbs felt heavy, his body sluggish, slipping¡ª

    And then she let go.

    Revan gasped, air rushing into his lungs too fast. Drool dripped from the corner of his lips, trailing down to the floor. He coughed, struggling to steady himself.

    And then¡ª

    "Isn''t that a sight to behold?"

    A new voice.

    Revan''s head snapped up, his vision still blurry.

    A man stood just inside the doorway, clad in a white tunic and brown trousers, his right hand¡ªgloved in thin leather¡ªholding several books, his left tucked casually into his pocket. His long, silky brown hair fell neatly past his shoulders, tucked behind his ears, his skin clear and almost too smooth. He had a lean figure, the kind that spoke of someone who maintained their body not for battle, but for appearance. A scholar.

    And behind him¡ª

    "That indeed is." That familiar voice. That familiar purple coat.

    Aldric.

    "How dare you set foot within the eastern mansion of the Ritch family without making yourself known?"

    Anneliese rose to her feet in one smooth motion, turning sharply toward the intruders.

    "Declare your name at once!"

    Before the man in white could respond, movement blurred past them¡ªCayle.

    She bowed fully, hands clasped in front of her. "I apologize for not informing you, Lady Anneliese."

    Straightening, her head remained lowered, her gaze fixed at Anneliese''s feet.

    "This gentleman¡ª" she gestured toward the man in white with both hands, "¡ªis Cain Spillion, the Conjurer from the Academy Oracle, assigned to help Young Lord Elphonse master Conjuration!"

    Revan''s breath steadied. Father sent someone? That is unexpected.

    Cayle turned slightly, about to gesture to Aldric, but before she could¡ª

    "I am but a humble knight," Aldric interjected smoothly, stepping forward. "Escorting Conjurer Cain."

    Nothing more.

    Revan caught it. He did not divulge his identity.

    Anneliese exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders, but not all. She glanced down at Revan once more, lips curling in something that might have been satisfaction.

    Then, she turned away.

    "My promise to you, baby brother¡ª" she stepped past Cain and Aldric, her voice laced with condescension, "we will meet again."

    She bowed slightly to Cain, then to Aldric, before turning toward the door.

    She was leaving.

    No. Not like this.

    Not after this.

    Not after the humiliation, the choking, the way she looked down at him.

    She couldn''t just leave.

    "ANNE!"

    The word came like a whip, raw and unrestrained.

    She stopped.

    Slowly, she turned her head, her gaze snapping back to him.

    "MY PROMISE TO YOU, ANNE¡ª" his voice rose despite the pain in his throat, "I WILL MAKE YOU FUCKING CRAWL!"

    The sheer force of it sent another sharp pang through his back, but he stood anyway, every muscle screaming in protest.

    Anneliese''s expression darkened.

    For the first time, she did not mock. She did not sneer.

    She glared¡ªferal, dangerous, seething.

    But she did not speak.

    She could not speak.

    Because she knew.

    Here, in front of Aldric. In front of Cain. She could do nothing.

    She turned.

    And then, she left.

 Ill Take The Path Even If You Are A Coward

    "That was¡­"

    Cain and Aldric exchanged a glance, then turned back to him.

    "¡­Something," Cain exhaled.

    Aldric merely shrugged. "Is help required, Young Lord¡ª"

    "No," Revan cut in, raising his right hand as he groaned. "No¡­"

    Without waiting for further discussion, he pushed himself off the floor, dragging his pained body back toward the bed. His muscles screamed with every step, but he ignored them, collapsing onto the mattress with a heavy sigh.

    Aldric, ever at ease, dragged a chair closer and settled into it. Cain remained standing, arms crossed, watching the knight with something akin to exasperation.

    "Seriously?" Cain asked.

    Aldric only shrugged.

    Cain sighed and turned back to Revan. Moving with a scholar''s precision, he placed the books he had carried onto the oak table, straightening them absentmindedly before shifting his focus back to his new pupil.

    Standing at Revan''s right, he gave a short bow. "As the gracious lady has already spoken," Cain began, his tone light, practiced. "I am Cain Spillion of House Spillion, hailing from the capital, Evandria. By the command of Lord Otto, your father, I have been sent, bearing his letter to the Academy Oracle. My task is to instruct you in the fundamentals of mana application, and by your performance, you shall be placed within a fitting class in the Academy." He smiled, every syllable carrying the air of well-rehearsed formality.

    Still in pain, Revan groaned, nodding halfheartedly.

    "We may halt for a while and have you tended to," Cain offered. Then, almost too casually, he added, "Sir Aldric¡ªthough he may not have spoken of it himself¡ªis quite skilled in the art of massage."

    Aldric turned toward him with the slow precision of a man realizing he had made a grave mistake.

    "I really shouldn''t have told you about the vomit girl incident," he muttered, shaking his head.

    Cain only shrugged.

    "Oh, I do know the last bit," Revan groaned, his fingers trailing over the searing pain along his spine. "In fact, the skill he possesses is precisely what caused this."

    Cain mused thoughtfully, casting a glance toward Aldric. "Wonderful."

    Aldric lifted a hand, waving off the conversation entirely.

    Cain sighed again, this time rubbing his temple. Then, shifting back to Revan, he straightened his gloves. "Since we cannot have our time wasted, let me aid you, Young Lord Elphonse."

    He tugged off his right glove, placing it carefully on the oak table before stepping forward.

    "Please turn back and remove the shirt," he instructed. "I need to see the wound."

    ''Woah. Shit''s getting sexual.''

    Suppressing an exhausted chuckle, Revan exhaled sharply through his nose before complying. He turned, lifting the shirt over his back, letting the fabric rest above his waist.

    Silence.

    A long, unnerving silence.

    Then¡ª

    "That wound¡­" Cain''s voice lacked its earlier lightness. "It cannot be healed by me." A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, "It has gone far too much."

    Revan stiffened slightly.

    "A shame, really," Cain continued, his tone shifting back to something almost casual. "If you had mana perception with the help of the wound, we could have had you create a mana core. That would''ve made the process of your wound healing faster too, in fact."

    Revan''s mind stalled.

    What the fuck is a mana core?

    He turned slightly, looking over his shoulder. "Conjurer Cain, may I ask¡ªwhat exactly is a mana core?"

    Cain''s expression lifted, pleased at the question. "Ah, it would be my pleasure."

    He stepped back, raising his right hand as he spoke.

    "There is ambient mana all around us, yes? But in order to command it, a mana of your signature must first be released, so that the threads may become familiar with your presence before they can be directed." He twirled his fingers, the motion precise, deliberate.

    ''So I am mama virus, spreading my child, corrupting other kids...Huh...''

    "A mana core is formed when the threads of mana circulating around us are drawn inward, accumulating just beneath the heart," Cain continued. "They move through channels¡ªveins, arteries¡ªcreating a flow, a circulation. When sustained long enough, this process forces an involuntary second organ to form beneath the heart."

    His fingers curled slightly, forming a small sphere.

    "A second heart."

    Revan remained quiet, absorbing the information.

    ''Neat.''

    "Let''s do it, then," Revan said at last.

    Cain let out a soft chuckle. "I apologize, but you cannot simply will it into existence. You lack mana perception¡ª"

    "I have it."

    Cain''s words halted.

    Revan turned his head slightly, the exhaustion in his body fading beneath his irritation. "Test me."

    Cain hesitated for only a moment before lifting his right hand, raising a single index finger.

    Revan followed the motion.

    And saw.

    The threads moved, shifting in delicate, intricate patterns, forming a circle then a rotating sphere. Other threads from the ambient air joined it, shaping into semi-circles around the center. The longer he watched, the clearer it became¡ªthe flowing lines, the near-perfect symmetry.

    "A flower," Revan murmured.

    Cain stilled.

    A blink. A glance toward Aldric.

    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    Then, back to Revan.

    "How long have you been enlightened in mana, Young Lord?"

    Revan exhaled sharply. "Half a day."

    Cain tilted his head slightly, as if processing the absurdity of that statement.

    "And how did you gain mana perception again?"

    Revan did not answer immediately. Instead, he reached toward his bedside, retrieving The Steps of Conjuration¡ªthe book he had been sitting behind, hidden from plain sight.

    Cain''s brows furrowed as he took the book, flipping through the pages with expert familiarity.

    "You gained mana perception¡­ from an outdated published book?"

    ''Evidently.''

    Revan nodded.

    Cain let out a breath, rubbing his hand over his face before dragging it back through his smooth, glossy hair. Then¡ª

    He chuckled.

    Soft at first, then fully amused.

    He shook his head.

    Then, with a slow exhale, he smiled.

    "Never in my twenty years¡­"

    Cain chuckled as he spoke, amusement laced in every syllable. There was no restraint to his reaction, only genuine thrill. "I have encountered many noble prodigies and gifted minds, yet none who could attain mana perception in less than a day¡ªwithout prior training, no less¡ªmerely by familiarizing themselves with mana and studying from an outdated tome."

    He exhaled, finally calming, but the astonishment still lingered in his expression.

    "Truly, I am baffled beyond words."

    ''Well¡­ I was somewhat an A-grade student. My useless ability to geek out over something finally came in handy. That''s cool.''

    "So can we start?" Revan asked, impatient.

    Cain nodded immediately. "This wound is conveniently placed just slightly below where your heart should be," he began, stepping closer. "I will pour mana through the wound, and Young Lord, it will burn quite a lot. You must remain calm and stable, lest the flow of mana breaks."

    Revan swallowed. His body was already screaming at him, and now he was about to deliberately subject himself to more pain.

    "Well then," Cain murmured.

    His fingers pressed against the wound.

    The pain flared instantly.

    Revan gritted his teeth, his breath hitching. He turned his head slightly, catching a glimpse of Aldric nodding toward Cain before standing from his chair. Then¡ª

    The mana flowed in.

    A deafening white noise swallowed the room.

    Sound vanished. The voices of Aldric and Cain faded into nothingness. The pain¡ªGods, the pain¡ªwas like fire and steel, sinking its teeth into his back, raking up his spine with relentless force. His fingers curled into the bedsheets, nails digging into the fabric as he struggled to not pass out.

    And then¡ª

    A warmth.

    It settled beneath his heart, curling deep, wrapping around his ribs like tendrils of something alive. The mana circulated, moving, a foreign yet strangely intimate sensation.

    Another jolt.

    Too much.

    His body gave out.

    Darkness swallowed him whole.

    ¡ª

    When Revan''s eyes opened, the world felt wrong.

    He was alone.

    The chamber was the same. The books. The table. The mirror by the wall. But¡ª

    His body.

    He knew this body.

    With growing dread, he dropped his gaze, stepping forward¡ªonly to see his own reflection. His real reflection. His body from his past life.

    He flexed his fingers. It felt real.

    Reaching up his chin to pinch, he hesitated. What if¡­?

    What if everything had been a dream? What if none of it had been real? The mansion. The magic. The pain. What if¡ª

    The door creaked open.

    Revan''s head snapped toward the entrance.

    A boy stood there.

    His own age.

    Wearing the same noble attire.

    Wearing El Ritch''s face.

    "Did you have fun playing nobility?" the boy asked, stepping inside.

    Revan''s brows furrowed.

    El Ritch''s voice was even, but there was something beneath it. Something bitter.

    "Did you have fun in my stead?"

    The way he said it, the way he looked at Revan¡ªthere was no confusion. No hostility. Just¡ªresentment.

    Revan took a slow breath. If this was a dream, best to go along with it.

    "I''d say no," he answered.

    El Ritch''s expression did not change.

    "Your cowardice towards reality made it harder, I''d say."

    For the first time, Revan noticed¡ªthe words they spoke were in modern tongue.

    A dream, then. Or something else.

    El Ritch''s lips curled. Not a smirk. Not quite anger. Something close to grief.

    "Cowardice?" he scoffed. "You expect me to fight back against those? My elder sister is a tyrant. You expect me to simply say no?"

    "Yes," Revan said simply.

    El Ritch''s face twisted.

    "Just like I did today," Revan continued. "Yes, you should have done it."

    A breath. A sharp inhale through clenched teeth.

    Then El Ritch lunged.

    Revan barely had time to react before he was knocked onto his back, El Ritch''s hands wrapping around his throat.

    Weak.

    He was weak.

    Revan could see it clearly. Even in this dream, even in his anger, El Ritch''s hands trembled.

    "You expect me to say no after all this?!"

    And then¡ª

    The visions struck.

    Memories that did not belong to him.

    El Ritch¡ªcrawling on all fours through the halls of the mansion, Anneliese behind him, forcing him forward as the maids and guards watched.

    Laughter.

    Mockery.

    Her hands breaking him in sparring matches, beating him within an inch of his life.

    Her voice¡ªcalm, pleased¡ªhanding him a strip of purple cloth he had hanged with. Telling him to kill himself with it.

    Sad.

    Yes.

    But¡ª

    Revan kicked him off.

    El Ritch hit the ground, gasping, hands scrambling against the stone floor.

    Revan did not give him a chance to recover.

    A step forward. A boot to the stomach.

    El Ritch gagged, curling in on himself, clutching his ribs.

    Then¡ª

    A fist.

    A sharp, brutal punch to the jaw, knocking his head back.

    Revan grabbed him by the throat.

    Held him there.

    His grip firm.

    Not choking. Not killing. Holding.

    "I do empathize with you," Revan murmured. "But I have lost too much to be afraid of a person bullying me into submission."

    The visions shifted.

    This time¡ªhis memories.

    A machete.

    Revan running after three grown men, their terrified shouts echoing in the countryside.

    A storm.

    The news¡ªCategory Five Hurricane.

    A phone call cutting off.

    No bodies to bury.

    A scholarship.

    A life rebuilt, piece by piece, through sheer force of will.

    Revan exhaled sharply, his throat tightening. He would''ve cried, yes. To his memories but not in front of El Ritch. He was there to prove a point.

    He released El Ritch.

    The boy''s eyes were wide. Red. Teary.

    "Why¡­?" El Ritch''s voice cracked. "How do you not think about your parents? They died talking to you¡ª"

    "They died." Revan''s voice was steady. Cold.

    "The story ended."

    "There is nothing more to it."

    He swallowed against the lump in his throat. "I cried for them. I gave them a funeral, even without their bodies. I gave my best, as I promised I would. And I promised their son would never be bullied again."

    El Ritch coughed, swallowing thickly. His right hand covered his face, his palm over his eye, but the tears still slipped through.

    "I really¡­" he gasped between breaths. "I couldn''t do it¡­ I am weak¡ª"

    His shoulders trembled.

    "I tried, Raven. I tried my best."

    A ragged inhale.

    "If only my parents noticed me once¡­ just once¡ª"

    His voice cracked.

    "Maybe I would have¡­ Maybe I would have been close to you."

    Revan stayed silent.

    For the first time since arriving in this body, since taking this life, he didn''t know how to answer.

    After a moment, Revan finally spoke.

    "You tried your best when you were alive. You gave it your all. Yes, maybe you could''ve done better. Maybe you could''ve fought harder."

    His gaze was cold, unwavering.

    "But now, you''re dead."

    El Ritch flinched.

    "I have no more words of sympathy for you," Revan continued. "No apologies, no pity. You lost. That''s the truth."

    A pause.

    "Except¡­"

    Revan took a step back.

    "Give me your life, and I will make it better."

    He watched as El Ritch''s breath caught, watched as the boy''s tear-stained face twisted in quiet disbelief.

    "My promise to you¡ª" Revan''s voice was steady, resolute, "¡ªI will make you the strongest Conjurer in history. The most famous to have ever walked the Empire of Evandria. I will take on your mantle." He said betraying his first three aims of this life. He had to do it.

    El Ritch stared at him, eyes wide, unreadable.

    Then, slowly, Revan reached out.

    A hand extended between them.

    An offering.

    A silence stretched.

    Then¡ªEl Ritch''s gaze dropped, flickering to the outstretched hand.

    For a moment, he did not move.

    Then¡ªhesitantly, almost reluctantly¡ªhe lifted his own hand, grasping Revan''s.

    "No more fake words of sympathy," he muttered, rubbing at his face with the sleeve of his tunic.

    Revan nodded.

    "No more sympathy," he agreed.

    "For you. For me. I will make sure your name is known in every reach of Evandria."

    El Ritch exhaled, long and slow.

    And then, for the first time¡ªhe smiled.

    The world darkened.

    ¡ª

    When Revan''s eyes opened, his vision was blurred, unfocused. A heavy haze still clung to the edges of his consciousness. His body felt wrong¡ªtoo light, too unsteady.

    Then, he felt it.

    A hand.

    Firm and steady, pressing against his shoulder, keeping him upright.

    His vision adjusted. His body settled. He turned his head to the side.

    Aldric.

    The knight''s left hand was braced against Revan''s shoulder, supporting him up.

    The warmth under his chest pulsed¡ªalive, thrumming beneath his ribs.

    Revan exhaled, closing his eyes once more.

    He could see it. Even without looking.

    The white rotating sphere of threads.

    A mana core.

    They had done it.

    His body swayed slightly, exhaustion overtaking him, but he did not fight it. His mind was calm, steady.

    For the first time since waking in this world¡ª

    He let himself rest.

    His eyelids grew heavy, his breathing slowed, and the world darkened once more¡ªthis time, into a soft, dreamless sleep.

 The Joy Of Learning

    Against all reason, against all his ideals, Revan had promised El Ritch a near-impossible thing.

    The strongest in the Empire Evandria.

    It had sounded good in the moment, a rallying cry, a convenient way to fuel his motivation. But now, in the dim solitude of his chambers, reality settled over him like a damp, heavy cloak. He did not even know what Conjuration truly was, nor did he understand what mana really brought to the table. He had seen the effects, felt the raw potential surge through his veins, but knowledge was different from mastery.

    And yet¡ª

    He welcomed the challenge.

    A student, a geek, an obsessed idiot¡ªhe had always been the type to lose himself in problems that others abandoned. No matter how absurd the goal, no matter how insurmountable, if there was a puzzle to solve, he would solve it.

    The pain lingered, but it had dulled into a persistent ache. Cain and Aldric had left him to his own devices, the night stretching quiet and unbroken around him. The sconces along the walls flickered steadily, their warm light casting elongated shadows over the room''s heavy oak furniture. His gaze drifted to the table, where a familiar book rested beneath the candle''s glow¡ªThe Steps of Conjuration.

    Revan exhaled, reaching downward cautiously, testing the pain. It was there, but manageable. His body was adjusting, recovering. Slowly, he crouched, peering beneath his bed. The books were still there, hidden where he had placed them long before. History, fairy tales, culture¡ªknowledge hoarded away from prying eyes. Even before his sister had come to torment him, he had tucked them out of sight, a habit born of necessity.

    He straightened, rolling his shoulders. No time for rest.

    ''If only dopamine release was a manual function. Goddamn.''

    With a quiet exhale, he pulled the book closer, flipping through the weary pages until he reached the next step.

    Chapter Two: The Fundamentals of Manipulation

    Once mana is perceived, it can be directed.

    Unlike Witches, who instinctively weave spells, Conjurers must break mana into measurable, predictable interactions.

    Mana follows intent, but intent must be structured.

    The first rule of manipulation is:

    "Mana follows the path of least resistance."

    Revan tapped his fingers against the table absently as he read. If one cannot control the flow, mana will disperse or backlash.

    The exercises that followed were meant to help a Conjurer understand the flow of mana. The first test seemed simple enough¡ªcreate ripples in a bowl of water without touching it. A rudimentary task, meant to develop precision over mana''s direction and force.

    Simple in theory.

    But the execution was another matter entirely.

    Revan sighed, slipping from his room quietly, careful not to wake anyone. The mansion was silent at this hour, servants long since retired, and the guards who patrolled were either too inattentive or too accustomed to the young lord''s oddities to question his movement.

    He returned minutes later, a bowl of water carefully balanced in his hands. Setting it on the floor, he sat before it, legs crossed, posture relaxed.

    And then, he began.

    Extending his perception of mana, he focused on the water, willing something¡ªanything¡ªto happen.

    Nothing.

    Revan scowled.

    He tried again, visualizing the tendrils of mana, attempting to coax them outward like invisible hands. Still, nothing changed. The water remained as still as before.

    He clenched his jaw.

    It''s instinct, he realized. The process wasn''t manual. It wasn''t something he could force with conscious thought. It had to be natural, ingrained, something second nature.

    And that was the problem.

    ''No wonder this book is outdated. This book is shit.''

    Revan ran a hand down his face. ''But well, beggars can''t be choosers.''

    He needed another approach.

    Reaching for the bowl, he stretched his arm forward¡ªbut the movement pulled at his back, sending a sharp jolt of pain up his spine.

    "Fuck!" He hissed, recoiling immediately, his hand instinctively going to rub the sore muscles. He kneaded the aching spot absently, his mind still turning over the problem, when he noticed something.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    Warmth.

    Not just heat from his body, but something else¡ªa deeper warmth, blooming from his core and flowing toward the site of pain.

    Mana.

    Revan stilled.

    A theory formed in his mind, simple but promising. Mana¡ªambient or internal¡ªseemed to seek equilibrium. It followed disruption, flooding to areas of stress or injury.

    He had to test it.

    Without hesitation, he pressed two fingers into the right side of his chest, near the joint of his shoulder. He applied pressure until pain flared¡ªsharp, biting. His body reacted immediately, a dull throbbing following in its wake. But more importantly¡ªmana reacted.

    A faint pulse, a flicker of warmth spreading into the area from his chest.

    Revan''s lips parted slightly, his breath evening out as he felt the movement. It works.

    Encouraged, he repeated the process.

    Pushing against different points¡ªhis right arm, his left¡ªuntil the sensation of mana reaching the affected areas became undeniable. He continued, pressing along his legs, his wrists, each time watching for the telltale warmth that followed.

    Small dark spots formed where the pressure had been strongest, blood clotting beneath the skin. He ignored them.

    This wasn''t pain¡ªit was progress.

    With every repetition, he adjusted his breathing, syncing it to the natural ebb and flow of mana, conditioning himself to the rhythm.

    This had to become passive.

    It will become passive.

    Because if he could control this¡ªif he could shape it¡ªthen manipulating mana would no longer be instinct.

    It would be his.

    A silent daybreak.

    Crimson light seeped through the heavy folds of burgundy drapes, casting long streaks of red across the chamber. The dim illumination stretched over the polished wood of the furniture, flickering faintly where the candle sconces had long since burned out.

    Revan grinned through his exhaustion, his body trembling from exertion. His hands, damp with sweat, flexed weakly at his sides. Small black spots marred his skin¡ªclotted blood, evidence of his relentless experimentation. His arms bore the same marks, as did his legs and even his chest. Yet, despite the bruises, despite the soreness lingering in his muscles, satisfaction coursed through him.

    He had done it.

    He could understand the flow of mana beneath his skin.

    With a deep breath, he exhaled, steadying his thoughts. The mana stirred, responding to his will, surging from his core like a tide breaking against the shore. It reached his right palm first, warm and fluid. Another breath¡ªhis left palm followed. A third¡ªhis legs awakened with the same current.

    Revan''s grin widened. The results were consistent. The theory, sound.

    But now came the true test¡ªthe sweet dish.

    If mana could exit his body through his extremities, then the opposite should also hold true. He could absorb it¡ªdraw it in. If a normal being carried an inherent wellspring of mana, then what if he, for just a moment, became an empty fake vessel? What if he forced himself into a state where his own reserves were locked away, creating a void?

    Mana, after all, followed the path of least resistance.

    The moment the idea solidified in his mind, he acted.

    His breath came slow, deliberate, as he pulled all the active mana back into his core, tightening it, compressing it, until it could no longer move freely through his limbs. It was extremely tough, making him repeat the process several dozen times but he was successful finally. His body became a void¡ªa hollow space where mana should have been. A fake empty vessel.

    And just as he had hoped¡ª

    The tendrils of mana in the air reacted.

    Revan''s eyes widened as he felt them, invisible strands in the atmosphere stirring, reaching toward him, seeking to fill the unnatural emptiness. His skin prickled, absorbing the ambient energy, and the moment it crossed into his body, it was sucked into the core¡ªdevoured by the white, rotating tendrils within.

    "Fuck?!" The words burst from his mouth in shock.

    ''A bat-shit theory had actually worked.''

    A sharp exhale left his lips, followed by laughter.

    A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

    "Young Lord, the bath is prepared for your use, and the breakfast is warm and ready to be served."

    Cayle''s voice, composed and measured.

    Revan blinked, his gaze snapping toward the window. The sun had risen fully, bathing the room in golden light.

    ''How many hours did I spend doing that?''

    He ran a hand over his face, rubbing at the exhaustion creeping in. "Yes, thank you, Cayle. I will be on it¡ª"

    ''Fuck.''

    Again, the modern tongue slipped through.

    There was a slight pause outside the door, but Cayle made no comment. "As you say, Young Lord." Her footsteps faded down the corridor.

    Revan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. Today, he would learn mana manipulation¡ªperhaps even manifestation¡ªfrom Cain. Excitement hummed beneath his fatigue.

    But first, he needed to clean himself up.

    ¡ª

    The bathroom was a space of polished cobblestone, enclosed by high arched walls and a vaulted ceiling that allowed for better ventilation. A brass tub sat in the center, filled with steaming water drawn from the underground reservoirs, perfumed faintly with oils that masked the mineral scent. A copper pitcher rested on a low stone table beside it, its spout still dripping from when Cayle had poured the bath.

    Revan peeled off his sweat-soaked tunic, his gaze falling briefly to his bruised limbs. The darkened blotches stretched in uneven patches, remnants of his crude self-inflicted training. He clicked his tongue but thought little of it¡ªhis body would recover.

    But before the bath¡ªhis teeth.

    From a small wooden box near the basin, he retrieved a chewed birch twig, the end frayed into bristles. He pressed it between his teeth, grinding it slightly before beginning the meticulous task of scrubbing along his gums and enamel. The faint taste of wood and bitter sap filled his mouth. It was nothing pleasant, but it was effective. Once satisfied, he rinsed his mouth with the lukewarm water from the basin, swishing it before spitting it back.

    Finally, he stepped into the tub.

    The water stung at first¡ªhis bruised flesh protesting the heat¡ªbut soon, his muscles loosened, tension melting away with every breath. He washed quickly but thoroughly, ensuring the sweat and grime from the night''s training were gone before stepping out and drying himself with a linen cloth.

    Clothed once more, Revan made his way toward the dining hall.

    ¡ª

    The dinery was a grand chamber, its long oak table stretching across the center, flanked by carved high-backed chairs. Tapestries depicting old battles and hunting scenes adorned the stone walls, their deep colors faded with time. A grand iron chandelier hung above, though the candles had already been replaced by the morning light streaming through the arched windows.

    Cayle awaited him by the side, her posture ever-straight, hands folded neatly before her. At his arrival, she stepped forward, placing his meal before him¡ªa plate of eggs, their edges crisped to golden perfection, alongside thick slices of bacon, still sizzling from the pan. A small loaf of bread, slightly torn at the side where it had been freshly broken, rested beside a shallow bowl of honeyed butter. The scent alone was enough to remind him just how empty his stomach had become.

 In The Process To First Friend

    "Have you had your breakfast, Cayle?"

    Revan''s voice was casual as he chewed on a slice of bacon, the salt and fat still coating his tongue.

    A brief pause. Then, measured as always, Cayle responded. "No, Young Lord. It is mandatory that you be fit and well¡ª"

    "Since I am now, I ask of you to join my lonesome."

    He cut her off without looking, but he could feel her hesitance.

    Her head remained bowed as she shook it. "It would be preposterous to do such a thing."

    Revan exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temple. ''First, the way I''m speaking is making me want to throw myself out a window. Second, do I really look like some tyrant overlord? I''m fifteen. Do I have ''merciless dictator'' written on my forehead? For fuck''s sake¡­''

    He sighed, setting his fork down. "You offended me, Cayle."

    That made her pause.

    Slowly, she lifted her head, her dark eyes finally meeting his. He realized then that he had never truly looked at her before. She was always in the background, always present but never intrusive. Her gaze held a peculiar shade¡ªdark, but with flickers of green and blue buried beneath strands of black hair that often concealed her face. Small in stature, but not frail. Even beneath the full cover of her maid''s uniform, Revan could see it now¡ªthe faint, toned definition along her arms, the signs of someone who had wielded something heavier than a tray before taking up her duties.

    She''s trained.

    Noted.

    "As to not lose your work here, join me on the opposite side of the table. With your food."

    Cayle hesitated, eyes flicking between him and the seat. Then, with a soft exhale, she turned toward the kitchen. A few minutes later, she returned with her plate and silverware, settling into the chair across from him.

    Her meal was a stark contrast to his. Mashed potatoes, boiled greens¡ªplain, functional.

    Revan quirked a brow as he stabbed a piece of bacon with his fork, pointing at her plate. "Does everyone here eat like that?"

    She shook her head. "I prefer it. Unlike others, I have a weak stomach. I have to be fit."

    She did not touch her food immediately. Instead, she waited.

    Revan noticed.

    She was waiting for him to take a bite first.

    Suppressing a sigh, he cut a piece of his omelet, bringing it to his mouth. The outer portions had been salted a bit too generously, but it fit his taste well enough. Satisfied, Cayle cut into her broccoli, scooping it with a bit of mashed potato before eating.

    "You can rest for a day," Revan said, swallowing down another bite. "Because seeing that food¡ªno disrespect, Cayle¡ªmakes me want to murder myself."

    Cayle said nothing.

    Revan clicked his tongue, spearing a particularly thick slice of bacon and setting it on her plate.

    Her eyes flickered. Back and forth.

    "Young Lord," she started, voice uncertain. "I don''t think this is appropriate¡ª"

    Revan leaned back slightly, resting his elbows on the table. "Our family has three mansions. The most southern one¡ªmy beloved parents reside in. The one in the capital¡ªwhere my younger sisters and elder brother live. And finally, this one, passed down to me by my grandfather." The words flowed easily, plucked straight from El Ritch''s memories. "For the last ten years, this estate has been under my name. My authority."

    He tapped his fingers against the wood, watching her expression.

    "This is my mansion. And I believe I can make a few cultural changes."

    Then, as the thought settled fully in his mind, something lit behind his eyes.

    ''I am a fucking genius.''

    "From now on," he continued, "one can talk however one likes. However one wants to. However one damn well pleases¡ªso long as the sentence makes sense in context." He gestured vaguely, lips twitching. "Got that, Cayle? Yeah?"

    She blinked at him.

    A pause.

    Then, carefully, "I do think, Young Lord¡ª" She hesitated, coughing lightly into her fist. "That would be inappropriate¡ª"

    "Nuh-uh."

    She frowned. "Uh¡­ what¡ª"

    "Nuh uh."

    Her lips parted slightly, then closed as she exhaled. "...Your mansion, your wishes?"

    Revan smirked, nodding. "Now you''re getting it."

    Cayle sighed.

    Then, with barely a thought, she picked up her fork and ate the slice of bacon.

    Revan took another bite of his omelet, feeling particularly pleased with himself. ''Finally. At least I have a place where I can, quote-unquote, unleash modern slurs.''

    Revan didn''t let silence settle. Without missing a beat, he leaned slightly forward, his expression shifting into something halfway between curiosity and self-satisfaction.

    "So, any thoughts about me being a Conjurer? Does it make me¡­ awesome?" A slight grin pulled at his lips as he watched Cayle''s reaction.

    She tilted her head, brow furrowing slightly. "I do not understand. Why would I be in dread watching you be a Conjurer?"

    ''Ah, fuck, old English¡­'' Revan groaned internally. He had been dealing with it since waking up in this world, but every now and then, the phrasing still threw him off.

    "I meant inspired or captivated," he corrected with a small cough, slicing into his bacon and spearing a piece of omelet onto his fork before placing them both into his mouth. He chewed slowly, giving her time to respond.

    Cayle remained composed as ever. "I do believe it is in great interest that you have achieved something awe-inspiring. Lord Otto and Lady Elefa would be very proud and praise you for your accomplishment¡ª"

    "Seriously, Cayle?!"

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    Revan groaned aloud, his frustration spilling over before he could stop it. Cayle actually flinched¡ªnot from fear, but from the sheer surprise of his outburst.

    "I''m asking your opinion! Why are you always so damn politically inclined?" He gestured vaguely, exasperation leaking into every word. "I''m fifteen, not some senile old lord who can''t handle a straight answer!"

    Cayle, to her credit, did not waver. Her face remained perfectly neutral, voice even. "I believe that was my opinion, unfiltered."

    Revan exhaled slowly. She''s just a maid. Of course, she wouldn''t be quick to share her personal thoughts. She was here to do a job, not to make friends.

    But Revan wasn''t about to let that slide.

    If he couldn''t speak freely about his life, then he would start by prying into theirs.

    ¡ª

    After breakfast, Aldric and Cain arrived, pulling Revan back into the demands of the day.

    Cain''s lessons on mana manipulation proved more structured than the book''s vague ramblings, and while Revan had already grasped the fundamentals, Cain''s refined techniques helped him solidify his control.

    Dusk fell, the sky painted in deep hues of red and purple as Cain and Aldric eventually departed.

    Revan, however, wasn''t done.

    Moving carefully, he slipped behind Cayle as she made her way through the hall. But before he could even think to startle her, she stopped, turning her head slightly.

    "Yes, Young Lord. Do you require assistance with something?"

    Revan blinked.

    ''She caught me? What the shit?!''

    He recovered quickly, lifting a single finger. "Actually, yes."

    Cayle regarded him with quiet patience.

    "I need to inquire about something," Revan continued. "Tell me about the village you''re from."

    She hesitated for only a moment before answering. "I hail from the Hills of the Free Men. My village is small, situated within one of the valleys there."

    Short. Direct. No embellishment.

    Revan nodded, letting the answer settle before waving a hand. "That''s all. Thank you."

    She gave a small bow and turned away.

    ¡ª

    The same routine continued, but tonight, Revan pushed further.

    Now, it was manifestation.

    "You raggedy-ass book, give me something good this time. I promised a bitch I''d be the strongest¡ªI have to fulfill it at least once."

    With perception and manipulation under his belt¡ªor so he told himself¡ªhe moved onto the next stage. The book''s structured explanation provided clearer direction than before, making the process feel almost deceptively simple.

    The first exercise: a hollow sphere of grass strings, with a small pebble nestled inside. The goal? To gather the surrounding mana around the pebble, molding it into a visible shape.

    Revan scoffed as he read. ''This is the easiest thing this book has ever asked me to do.'' Compared to the cryptic nonsense it had given him before, this was practically a gift.

    Or so he thought.

    He worked throughout the night, attempting again and again to shape the mana, to wrap it around the pebble in a visible form. Each time, he failed. The mana dispersed too quickly, his control faltering at the final step.

    By the time dawn broke, he had yet to succeed even once.

    ¡ª

    A sharp knock rattled the door.

    "Young Lord, your breakfast is ready."

    Cayle''s voice.

    Revan stirred slightly but did not wake.

    Another knock.

    "Young Lord?"

    Nothing.

    Cayle sighed, knocking once more¡ªthis time, firmer.

    Still no response.

    ¡ª

    Revan was finally woken not by Cayle, but by Aldric.

    "Aw, is there a tired princess~?"

    A finger poked his cheek.

    Revan''s eyes shot open, his brain barely processing what was happening before his hand swung outward on instinct. Aldric dodged with an easy chuckle, stepping back as Revan groggily sat up, rubbing his temples.

    "Fuck off," he grumbled.

    Aldric only smirked. Cain raised a brow and Cayle had her hands on her face, "It''s a sweet banter. Audience need not be worried~" Aldric defended him playfully.

    Revan spent barely a minute freshening up before heading straight back to his chambers.

    No breakfast. No distractions.

    He had wasted an entire night failing at manifestation, and he knew why.

    He did not have enough mana manipulation to sustain the shape. His core could generate the energy, but directing and holding it in place required more than what he had.

    So, he adjusted.

    As Cain guided him through his usual exercises, Revan moved with careful subtlety. In minuscule, nearly undetectable increments, he began concentrating Cain''s mana into his core instead of letting it flow freely.

    Small steps.

    Precise adjustments.

    No sudden movements.

    If Cain noticed, and he did most probably, he said nothing.

    And Revan, ever the student, ever the obsessed idiot¡ªcontinued.

    Throughout the night, Revan continued. Again, and again. And again.

    Failure met him at every turn. The sphere collapsed. The mana dispersed. Every attempt at manifestation crumbled before it could take form. But between the repeated failures, something became clear¡ªthe structuring was missing.

    ''If I can''t visualize it, it won''t happen.''

    The realization brought a grin to his exhausted face. He was getting closer. The problem wasn''t the flow, nor the exertion. It was the lack of a defined construct. He needed more than just raw willpower¡ªhe needed a precise image.

    Another night passed in relentless trial and error, yet the result remained unchanged. Even so, Revan did not stop.

    This time, he didn''t even bother trying to sleep.

    By the time the first rays of dawn filtered through the drapes, he stood from his desk, body aching but mind still sharp. He made his way to the washroom, forcing himself through the routine of bathing and brushing his teeth, the cool water grounding him just enough to keep moving.

    At breakfast, he tore into his food with ravenous focus, the exhaustion settling in his bones but doing little to dull his mind.

    "Cayle," he spoke between bites of chicken and rice, "what did people in your village eat?"

    Across the table, Cayle paused mid-bite. She had finally stopped resisting his invitations to eat with him. After three or four days of relentless nagging, she had accepted it as a routine¡ªsimply sitting across from him without need for further instruction.

    "Berries, Young Lord," she answered simply, cutting into her greens. "And fruit. In the cold and damp, they are the easiest to grow and provide the best energy."

    Revan hummed in acknowledgment, scooping another bite into his mouth. The food was simple, but nourishing. At the very least, it kept him functional.

    After breakfast, Cain and Aldric arrived, and the training resumed.

    Revan had to show something for his progress, or Cain would adjust his lessons and slow him down. That was the last thing he wanted. So, he demonstrated the result of his manipulation training, guiding the flow of mana through his body with refined control.

    Cain exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "It takes a month to gain even a basic grasp of manifestation, even for prodigies. To do it so soon¡­ I can''t believe it."

    Aldric, ever unimpressed, merely offered a dry glance before turning away.

    Cain wasted no time pushing Revan further, expanding the training beyond manipulation into proper manifestation. The lessons began with simple structures¡ªfirst two-dimensional forms, then three-dimensional constructs. It was precise work, tedious in a way, but it helped. It gave Revan the structure he had been missing, and soon, finally, he managed it.

    A perfect sphere of mana, forming around the small pebble within the grass-string hollow. The sphere was a two dimensional construct technically, he had broken the sphere''s surface in parts and visualized the two dimensional constructs bending and forming a structure that is three dimensionally round and hollow.

    But the next step¡ªthe next demand of the book¡ªbrought only frustration.

    "Make the sphere intangible yet present in surface structure."

    ''That shit ain''t even possible.''

    Revan ground his teeth as the sphere cracked again, splitting in uneven halves before dissolving into nothing. It was the same result, over and over.

    ''How the fuck am I supposed to make the atoms intangible? What the fuck is this nonsense?!''

    The dawn broke, light bleeding into the sky. His eyes burned from exhaustion, his limbs heavy with fatigue.

    Three days.

    Three constant days without sleep.

    His body was claiming its due.

    "Fuck this¡­ Curiosity kills the cat. I''ll sleep tonight. Enough of this Gandalf bullshit. I need to sleep."

    Dragging himself from his chair, he forced himself through the motions¡ªwashing up, changing clothes, making his way to the dining hall where breakfast awaited.

    Cayle was already seated across from him, eating in her usual quiet, methodical manner.

    Revan pushed his fork through his omelet absentmindedly, his mind still caught in the puzzle.

    ''How¡­ That shit isn''t even possible¡­ Even if I were Einstein, it''d only be doable if I could see at a microscopic level. That second part of the book is fucking wack¡ª''

    "¡ªLord Elphonse?"

    The voice barely registered.

    "Young Lord Elphonse?!"

    His mind snapped back into focus, his head jerking up as Cayle''s gaze met his own. Her plate was empty. His¡­ was barely touched.

    She studied him carefully, a faint crease between her brows. "Are you unwell, Young Lord?"

    Revan exhaled, shaking his head. "No¡­ No."

    She tilted her head slightly. "Then is the food not suited to your liking?"

    Another absent shake of his head, his thoughts still tangled.

    For a moment, Cayle simply watched him, unnoticed by Revan as he continued to poke at his food. Then, finally, she sighed.

    "Young Lord."

    His eyes flicked up.

    She hesitated briefly, then asked, "Would you mind telling me how it feels to use mana?"

    Revan blinked. His fork paused midair.

    "I''ve never had the opportunity to ask a Conjurer," she admitted. Her voice remained level, but there was something else beneath it¡ªcuriosity.

    A distraction, perhaps. A ploy to make him eat.

    But even so, it was progress.

    And for the first time that morning, Revan smiled.

 It Is A Dream We Live In

    ''The Crow Who Dreamed of Dragons

    In the sky so wide and high,

    A little crow went flapping by.

    Black as night and quick as light,

    With beady eyes so big and bright!

    He loved the things that shone and gleamed,

    A silver coin, a button, a beam!

    A locket lost, a golden ring,

    Oh, how he loved each sparkling thing!

    "One day," he cawed, "I''ll shine so bright!

    I''ll hoard and hoard with all my might!"

    For every crow who gathers well,

    Will change¡ªoh yes!¡ªa magic spell!

    With every treasure, big or small,

    His wings grew strong, his body tall!

    Feathers shimmered, gold and red,

    Dreams of fire filled his head!

    And when his nest was full and tight,

    He closed his eyes one silent night.

    And as he slept for years untold,

    His feathers melted into gold!

    Then¡ªROAR!¡ªhe woke with mighty wings,

    No longer small, no need for things!

    A dragon now, so grand and bright,

    He soared into the morning light.

    So, little crows, be quick, be keen,

    Gather treasures, bright and clean!

    For if you hoard with patient cheer,

    A dragon wakes¡ªso have no fear!''

    Revan traced a finger over the inked lines of the fairy tale, his eyes scanning the verses with idle thought. The words flowed in simple rhyme, a child''s tale spun from wonder and ambition, but beneath its playful cadence, he saw something else.

    A crow that hoarded, a crow that changed. ''This shit would be cancelled so easily in my world, just because it is teaching kids to steal...''

    Revan closed the book slowly, exhaling.

    He had spent the last hour flipping between history and folklore, trying to stitch together a semblance of understanding. The history book had been thin, its contents sparse, as if this world itself had barely begun weaving its own story. And yet, the myths¡ªthose had weight. The fairy tales, the legends, the whispered accounts of the past¡ªthey held more presence than history itself. The book of Fairy tale, Folklores and myths and legends were thicker then the history book, ''Unbelievable.''

    There was only one god recorded. The Mother. Though unlike the religions from Raven''s homeland this one had very detailed explanations about origin of the God itself, how she was angered, how she spared the people of this realm, from the wrath of Gods when the age of Gods was ended by us waging war against their kindness. ''Interesting propaganda.''

    Bias, perhaps. Or maybe history had been kinder to this world, its records untainted by the blood-soaked annals of conquest and war. Or maybe, Revan thought, it''s just because no one has lived long enough to write more.

    He had questions. Many.

    But for now, they were secondary.

    His promises¡ªto El Ritch, to himself¡ªremained.

    Tugging the book of fairy tales and myths beneath the bed, he let the white cotton bedsheet drape over it, hiding it from sight. Then, at last, he slipped beneath the woolen blanket, feeling the warmth seep into his bones. He had gone three days without rest, running himself ragged in his pursuit of power, but now, finally, sleep came easily.

    ¡ª

    Revan awoke groggily, grumbling under his breath as he rubbed at his heavy eyes.

    ''What the actual fuck¡­?''

    He had slept¡ªa good, solid six hours, uninterrupted and without disturbance. Yet the exhaustion remained, clinging to his limbs, weighing down his movements like iron chains. His body felt no different than before he had collapsed into bed.

    As if those hours had done nothing.

    Frowning, he pushed himself upright, repeating his morning routine with quiet efficiency. The fatigue lingered, but he ignored it. He had long since learned to function under strain.

    Cain arrived at the usual time.

    "Lovely morning, Young Lord Elphonse," he greeted with an easy smile.

    ''There''s nothing fucking lovely about this morning,'' Revan thought.

    Instead, he mirrored Cain''s expression, forcing a small smile. "Indeed."

    The pleasantries passed quickly, a few words exchanged before training resumed. Revan played his role well, feigning difficulty, ensuring that any progress he revealed remained just believable enough. Cain had already remarked on the unnatural speed of his progress before¡ªany more and suspicion would begin to fester.

    Still, the sleep-deprived haze of his thoughts brought forth a question.

    "May I ask, Conjurer Cain," he said, deliberately fracturing the two-dimensional square he had manifested, watching as the whitish mana construct crumbled into nothing, "why is Sir Aldric not present with us today?"

    Cain''s reaction was minor¡ªtoo minor for the untrained eye to catch.

    A pause. A small, barely noticeable hitch in his mana flow. The kind of change that accompanied a shift in breath¡ªsubtle, nearly imperceptible. A sign of stress. A telltale mark of someone who was either lying or carefully choosing their words.

    "Funny you should ask," Cain said, his tone smooth, unruffled. "Because I don''t know the reason either. My apologies."

    Revan met his gaze for a brief moment, then simply nodded.

    He wouldn''t press.

    It was none of his business.

    But that didn''t mean he wouldn''t remember.

    Keeping his expression neutral, he continued with the exercise, feigning the failure of his mana constructs, watching them break apart in controlled, intentional failure.

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    Just as expected. Just as planned.

    ALDRIC PARKER

    "Well, isn''t that a surprise?"

    Aldric''s voice carried mock excitement as he leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the wooden armrest, the other bringing his cup of coffee to his lips. His gaze flickered over the woman standing before him, taking in every detail.

    Rich dark grey coat, buttoned neatly to the collar. A silver medal pinned to her left breast¡ªthe shape of a shield, denoting rank. The coat stretched down to her knees, black leggings tucked into polished boots that reached just above her ankles. Military. High-standing. Efficient.

    Her dark eyes, sharp and cold, stared at him through the dark bangs that fell from beneath the brim of her peaked cap. She was assessing him just as much as he was her.

    Aldric smirked. He knew her type. The kind that took themselves too seriously.

    "I''ve heard about you lot," he mused, letting his gaze travel down to the squadron behind her.

    At least a hundred men, standing in rigid formation. Four groups, five columns each¡ªneat, disciplined.

    Aldric tilted his head slightly, unimpressed. "I''d still say that, with that little tail-wagging army trailing behind you, it isn''t much of an impressive sight."

    He saw the way her jaw tightened, how her back straightened further, as if trying to appear taller, bigger. She said nothing. Instead, she exhaled slowly, controlled, keeping her temper in check.

    Aldric took another sip of coffee, deliberately slurping the liquid with an obnoxiously audible noise.

    Her eye twitched.

    He smirked behind his cup. Perfect.

    "How may this person, in all his humility, grant you a penchant of help?" he drawled at last, setting his cup down.

    The woman did not rise to the bait.

    "Sir Aldric of the Guild and Academy of Knights, Anvil, the¡ª"

    Aldric raised a hand mid-sentence, stopping her without a word. He did not break eye contact as he took another long sip of his coffee, the slurp even louder than before.

    A pause. A flicker of irritation crossed her otherwise unreadable face.

    He licked his lips and sighed in satisfaction, finally lowering his cup. "Please. I am but a humble man. I require no such titles. Just my name will suffice."

    Then, without missing a beat, he resumed drinking, slower this time, staring at her all the while.

    She studied him for a long moment. Then, with a measured breath, she relented. "Sir Aldric, then."

    He nodded approvingly, motioning for her to continue.

    She straightened. "I have been presented with a quest from the Church, and in such, I require your diligent aid¡ª"

    "I''m too tired from my previous missions."

    He cut her off immediately, shaking his head in feigned disappointment. He set his cup down, finally breaking eye contact, reaching instead for the edge of the table as if prepared to rise.

    She exhaled sharply, adjusting her stance. "This particular reason is why¡ª"

    For the first time since their conversation began, she moved with purpose.

    Uncrossing her straightened arms upon each other, she reached into the depths of her coat with her left hand, retrieving a sealed parchment. The thick yellow paper bore the unmistakable red wax insignia of the Eyes of the Goddess, Mother. The Church''s Inquisition.

    Aldric''s fingers twitched at his side, his smirk thinning slightly.

    The woman extended the document toward him. He took it without hesitation, breaking the seal in a single motion, scanning its contents with a practiced eye.

    They had anticipated his refusal.

    Of course they had.

    This was no mere request. The parchment bore the Queen''s signature¡ªan official commission. He was bound to this now. A matter sanctioned by both throne and church.

    An investigation into missing children.

    Aldric sighed, pressing his thumb against his temple as he set the parchment down.

    ''It sure was a nice day¡­''

    "I would help you diligently. Of course. Presently, yes, but I am no detective, nor am I a dog. What would they have me do? Supply you men from my guild?"

    Aldric sighed as he rose from his chair, stretching his arms in mock reluctance. "For that, time is required. A notice must be pulled. Forms signed. All so very tedious."

    With a snap of his fingers, the plump waitress waddled over, her apron dusted with flour, a bright smile already forming as she neared him.

    "It was a wonderful coffee, ma''am," Aldric said smoothly, pressing a gold coin into her palm. A ridiculous amount for something so simple, but he had never been one to follow common standards.

    The woman gasped, her face lighting up. "Anything for you, darling! Do come back next time. It''ll be on the house."

    She reached up, pinching his chin playfully before sauntering back to her post.

    Aldric chuckled to himself. ''The women from the east really are¡­ different.''

    His amusement, however, did not extend to his companion.

    The woman before him remained still, her posture rigid, unyielding as stone.

    "The investigation does not require men," she stated. "The Queen''s councillor has confirmed as much, as he has also confirmed your expertise. That is why we come to you for aid, Sir Aldric."

    Aldric''s gaze flicked to her, studying the way she held herself.

    ''So that''s how it is.''

    He had no interest in mingling with Conjurers¡ªnever had. Their ways, their beliefs, their entire foundation stood in contrast to the principles of knighthood. Where knights built strength upon discipline and steel, integrity, honor and unyielding change. Conjurers relied on intellect, on manipulation of forces unseen, their perception based upon change of things. Their worlds were opposite ends of a spectrum, and he had no desire to bridge that gap. Not trustworthy. In his opinion, the worst of men displayed and cheered for.

    And the missing children?

    Likely another case of nobles playing their games in the shadows. The same old story, repeating itself with the same, tired script. Twenty years ago, they had uncovered an entire network¡ªchildren trafficked, bartered like livestock. Noble and commonfolk similar. The resolution had been swift. An uncompromised execution. Titles had not saved them. Nobility had not shielded them. Three weeks, the Capital burned as Knights of the Anvil hunted down and massacred every possible connection that was proved with evidence. The poor and the rich, none were safe. Which finally resulted in the respect between the Conjurers and Knights, where Knights were severely disrespected before because quote-unquote from conjurers, "They have no ''critical thinking'' while serving or passing judgement. They are brutes to be exploited and discarded."

    And yet, here they were again.

    "Have you looked at the chambers of the Lords who sponsor you?" Aldric asked, his voice deceptively casual as he turned toward the street, watching as the city slowly came alive with the day''s first movements.

    A pause.

    "That was the case twenty years ago¡ª"

    The woman''s voice, clipped and tense. "We checked them," she snapped before he could finish, her voice laced with exasperation.

    Finally.

    Aldric smiled internally. ''There it is. A crack. A sliver of real frustration.''

    He pressed further, tilting his head. "Did you really? Are you sure you personally checked them? And not your officers¡ªwho may have been bribed¡ª"

    The crack split open.

    With a sudden, violent motion, she slammed her palm onto the wooden table beside her. A sickening crack echoed through the air as the wood split under the force. Blood dripped from her fingers, a small wound where the skin had torn. A Conjurer was obviously similar to a common man in physical strength. What was she thinking? Aldric snickered internally.

    Aldric barely suppressed his smirk.

    "Two hundred and thirty."

    Her voice was sharp, cutting through the murmur of the waking street.

    "Do you know what that means, Sir Aldric?"

    The way she spat the title, ''Sir'', was nothing short of venomous.

    "Two hundred and thirty children. Gone altogether. Not just from the Capital, but from Strig. Your city-" She looked around, "The one you are meant to protect."

    Aldric''s smirk faded slightly.

    She scoffed, shaking her head. "I do not know what kind of nobility I am assigned to work with, but I do believe, with or without your help, I will solve this case."

    She did not say it.

    But Aldric heard the words anyway.

    Or die trying.

    For a brief moment, he considered her. Truly considered her. Her conviction. Her anger. Her resolve.

    He didn''t trust her, not fully. He never trusted Conjurers. But he could respect her. Even if this was all a facade¡ªeven if she was hiding something beneath the surface¡ªhe could respect the effort she put into maintaining it.

    He nodded, exhaling through his nose before offering her a slight bow.

    "My apologies. I was¡­ negligent."

    Rising to his full height, he looked down at her, his expression unreadable save for the faintest, knowing smile curling at the edges of his lips.

    "Allow me to assist you."

    The woman''s jaw clenched as she met his gaze, her irritation only growing.

    Aldric, of course, found that endlessly amusing.

 The Procedure of Envelope

    One Month Before Elphonse Flint Ritch Became a Conjurer

    For a full month, Aldric and the woman who had introduced herself only as Philia, with no mention of a noble house, scoured the outer lands beyond the imposing city walls. Their search led them along the winding trails of the Sleeping Woods, a vast and ancient forest that stretched southward of the city, its dense canopy shrouding unknown depths in the realm of south, Dripping Heart.

    The investigation focused on the borders of Sector One, mainly just around the borders that were exposed to the city. The outermost northern portion of the Sleeping Woods. This sector encompassed the land between Empty Rose, the Old City nestled in open grasslands¡ªancestral seat of the Ritch family¡ªand Strig, the New City, where the Anvil now stood.

    Sector One stretched as far as the Fourth Scout Hand of the Anvil, a network of small forts used for reconnaissance and defense against bandits, monsters, and other dangers lurking in the dark. The forest itself curved around Empty Rose in a great U-shape, enclosing the Old City from the north, south, and west. Only the east remained open, a stretch of bare grasslands that led further into the heart of the empire.

    The Perwinkle River, opening from the south of Empty Rose and pouring into the Lake Fin in south east of The Old City in the open grassland, it split the forest in two, and in the south laid Sector Two¡ªa far more treacherous expanse of unknown depths, where neither bandits nor men dared establish footholds. The dangers that lurked there had never been fully cataloged, and as a result, only one Scout Hand of the Anvil, the fifth and the last, operated in its vicinity. Few ever ventured that deep, and fewer still returned.

    But Sector One? That was territory well-mapped and patrolled, secured through a strict three-day rotation enforced by the Scout Hands. Any movement along its borders¡ªespecially one large enough to smuggle children¡ªshould have been noticed.

    Should have.

    Yet for an entire week, Aldric, Philia, and her hundred-strong squadron combed the southern border of Strig without finding so much as an unnatural broken twig.

    Not a single footprint. No disturbed soil. No sign of caravans having passed.

    Nothing.

    Philia stood among the trees, her breath coming in measured pulls, sweat clinging to her brow despite the cool morning air. "This is¡­ worthless," she muttered, frustration seeping into her usually measured tone.

    Aldric exhaled, tilting his head back to gaze at the towering trees. "A shame, indeed."

    He had hoped¡ªif only for convenience''s sake¡ªthat they would find something here. A track, a clue¡ªsome indication of movement. Anything that could point toward an answer.

    But there was nothing.

    If the missing children had been taken through these woods, then whoever was responsible was meticulous beyond belief.

    With the Sleeping Woods yielding no answers, their only option was to turn to Strig itself.

    ¡ª

    Strig, the New City

    A full sweep of the city would draw too much attention. If panic took hold, their task would become even more difficult. So, they did as any careful investigator would¡ªthey changed their approach.

    Philia and her soldiers shed their formal uniforms, dressing instead as travelers, traders, and wandering mercenaries. Their investigation began in the heart of the city''s commerce¡ªthe Fish Eye Market.

    Unlike the old markets, which had grown chaotically with the city''s expansion, the Fish Eye was planned from its very foundation, a new better market, a costly market. Seen from above, its circular structure was unmistakable, a great ring of commerce lying just beyond the city''s northern gates, the very same gates that opened toward the Capital.

    The market''s buildings were well-constructed¡ªtwo-story timber and stone structures, with shops occupying the lower levels and living quarters built above them. The streets were paved with cobblestone, not dirt, a rare luxury outside the Capital. The market stalls, though temporary, were arranged in meticulous symmetry, following a radial pattern that led to the great central plaza, where merchants gathered to auction their finest wares.

    Everything about the Fish Eye spoke of order and wealth. It had been designed to attract traders, to make Strig a hub for commerce. And unlike the Old City''s narrow, winding streets, here every road led precisely where it was meant to go.

    But to the right of the Fish Eye, just beyond the last row of prosperous storefronts, lay a different sight altogether.

    The Old Residential District.

    Here, the roads were no longer cobblestone, but charred clay, hardened over time and reinforced with scattered stones to prevent erosion. The houses¡ªif they could be called that¡ªwere hastily constructed, built more for function than form.

    Unlike the Fish Eye''s permanent structures, these wooden dwellings had an air of impermanence about them. They were homes to workers, laborers, and common folk¡ªthose who had settled in Strig after the city''s rise but had never been given proper placement within its grander design.

    At a glance, many of the houses looked the same¡ªsingle-story structures made from cheap timber, their roofs often patched with whatever materials could be salvaged. Some bore signs of recent repairs, others were already leaning, weakened by the passage of time and neglect.

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    But their most defining feature?

    They could be destroyed at any moment.

    The entire Old Residential District existed in a state of uncertainty, its fate dictated by the whims of the nobility. If a lord decided that the layout of the city should change, that the roads should be expanded, or that a new estate should be built¡ªthen these homes would be the first to go.

    It was not a place to plant roots.

    But it was, perhaps, a place to disappear.

    As Philia''s men began their discreet questioning, Aldric lingered at the edges of the district, hands tucked into the folds of his coat. His sharp gaze wandered over the buildings, taking in every detail.

    A city as new as Strig should not have had this many cracks in its foundation.

    And yet, cracks were all he could see.

    The Old Residential District never stopped.

    It was a place of movement, of labor, of survival. No man stood idle, no woman wasted time in chatter, and even the children were set to task from dawn till dusk. These people had no luxury for leisure, no patience for a stranger''s questions.

    Aldric stood at the heart of it, watching.

    The buildings, though simple and cheaply made, had been constructed with purpose. The timber was old, weathered by time, yet sturdy¡ªdesigned not to last, but to be rebuilt with ease. The walls were held together with both knots and nails, ensuring that entire sections could be dismantled and reassembled without wasting material. Now it made sense why their homes always looked aged, even when they remained structurally sound.

    They were never meant to be permanent.

    He shrugged off his coat, hanging it loosely over a rope where freshly washed clothes dried in the open air. No one would steal it. Not here. Not in a place where time was currency, and no man had the luxury to covet another''s belongings.

    He moved through the district at an even pace, knocking on doors.

    Most were answered by wives and children.

    When a child opened the door, Aldric simply asked for an adult. If there was none, he left. He had no interest in wasting time with idle prattle.

    With the housewives, his approach was more direct. He asked about rumors¡ªwhispers of missing children, unfamiliar faces lurking where they did not belong.

    By the end of the day, he had his answer.

    Nothing.

    Not a single lead. No missing children. No foreign threats. Nothing but exhausted men, hard-working women, and children who would inherit the same burdens as their parents.

    Retrieving his coat¡ªstill exactly where he had left it¡ªAldric turned and left.

    ¡ª

    The bar was exactly as one would expect¡ªcrowded, loud, and thick with the scent of sweat and ale.

    Behind the counter, the bartender wiped down a mug, speaking in low tones to Philia, who sat at the bar. A simple chair, no back to lean against. Her fingers curled loosely around a mug of ale, her posture rigid despite the drink in her hands.

    Behind her, men ate in weary silence, swallowing whatever food was set before them. Others sang with the bards, drowning themselves in drink and song. Some played cards, their coin purses growing lighter with each round.

    No fights.

    That, more than anything, surprised Aldric.

    He moved to the bar, taking the seat beside Philia. She cast him a brief glance before returning to her drink.

    The bartender turned his gaze to Aldric. "What can I get you?"

    "Sweet ale," Aldric said simply.

    A nod. A moment later, the bartender retrieved a bottle, dust-covered and aged. He poured the ale into a mug, placing it before Aldric with a slow, deliberate push.

    Aldric took the mug but did not drink immediately. "I''d like a moment of your time¡ª"

    "No use," Philia interrupted.

    She finished the last of her ale in a single motion, slamming the empty mug onto the counter.

    "I''ve asked. I''ve paid. There is nothing here but workers who spend their days breaking their backs and their nights trying to forget it." Her voice carried no frustration, only certainty.

    The bartender glanced at her briefly, then resumed washing the next mug.

    Aldric exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "Then I take it the Fish Eye was a waste, too?"

    Philia gave a short nod.

    "Then the Old Market will yield the same result," Aldric concluded, taking a deep pull from his ale, leaving half the mug untouched.

    For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

    Then Philia''s voice cut through the air¡ªquieter than before, but not without weight.

    "I really tried to look the other way," she admitted.

    Aldric turned his head slightly, watching as her expression tightened.

    "I really hoped," she continued, "that after what happened two decades ago¡ªafter the purge of the Blood Swamp and the nobles¡ª" She exhaled, shaking her head. "A quarter of us died for that cause. We thought we had learned something. But time, it seems, is a flat circle."

    She reached into her coat, retrieving a yellowed parchment and sliding it across the counter.

    Aldric caught it between two fingers, noting the broken wax seal¡ªa duck with a crown, a blade, and a shield.

    The sigil of House Ritch.

    He turned the parchment over with mild curiosity, using one hand to unfold it while the other still held his mug.

    It was a simple letter.

    A request for the evaluation of their third son, Elphonse Flint Ritch, for placement in the Capital''s institutions¡ªknighthood, conjuration, or bureaucracy.

    Aldric read it twice. Then shrugged.

    "Do unravel the mystery for me, will you?"

    He had his own theories, but he wanted to hear hers.

    Philia''s fingers tapped against the wooden counter, slow and measured.

    "Elphonse Flint Ritch was a nepo-child," she stated. "Sent to the Capital to study, only to return a failure¡ªno promise in knighthood, no gift in conjuration. He stayed hidden in his family''s estate for a year, and now, suddenly, they request a reevaluation¡ªand in the field of conjuration too."

    She let the words settle.

    "House Ritch has never produced a Conjurer before," she added, her voice quieter. "That alone makes me suspect them."

    Aldric understood her thought process.

    "Alchemy..." He muttered.

    Philia''s gaze sharpened.

    "You believe that House Ritch has been kidnapping missing children, using them as components for alchemical processes meant to unlock their third son''s conjuration?" Aldric tilted his head toward her slightly.

    It was not an absurd theory.

    Two decades ago, it might have been. But now? Now, everyone knew what the nobles of the Capital had done. What they had practiced.

    Philia nodded.

    "We cannot simply interrogate them, I know," she admitted. "We have no proof. But Aldric,"¡ªshe caught herself¡ª"Sir Aldric, I know something is wrong with them. I just need to check. Once. Just to be sure."

    Aldric hummed, swirling the ale in his mug.

    "Yes," he mused, "we cannot interrogate them without proper cause. A conjecture is not evidence."

    But as the words left his lips, something clicked.

    Aldric smiled.

    He had the answer.

    "But what if I were the evaluating officer?"

    Philia blinked, caught off-guard. "How would that even work? We don''t know who the evaluating officer will be¡ªit could be a knight, or a Conjurer¡ª"

    "It will work."

    He tipped his mug back, draining the rest of the ale in one gulp before setting it down with calculated force.

    "You leave it to me," Aldric said, standing from his seat. "I believe I need to have a small chat with the Queen''s councillor."

    Without another word, he placed a gold coin on the counter¡ªfar too much for a single mug of cheap ale¡ªand strode out of the bar.

 Past Failures, Future Discoveries

    After a brief exchange of letters with the Queen''s councillor, Aldric finally held official permission in his hands.

    If there were any Conjurers in the empire Aldric could stomach, the councillor was among the few. Eccentric, theatrical, the type to treat the world like a stage upon which he performed his own grand amusement. Men like him made Conjurers tolerable¡ªif only because their ridiculousness outweighed their arrogance.

    Sitting in his chamber at the Anvil, Aldric chuckled as he read the last parchment aloud, savoring the absurdity of it:

    "Letters passing through the leaves,

    Like the touch of the sun reaching the mud and life,

    I''d love you throughout all the despair and hope."

    Aldric snorted. Poetry.

    Not just any poetry¡ªlove poetry.

    No doubt the councillor''s doing, spreading whispers of a tragic and forbidden romance between them, likely dictated to his scribes with a theatrical flourish. The thought alone made Aldric shake his head in amusement.

    "This will be fun¡­" he muttered under his breath, exhaling through his nose as his laughter faded. Carefully, he folded the parchment and placed it inside one of his trunks.

    But amusement aside, there was work to be done.

    Gottschalk, the original reevaluating officer, had been conveniently reassigned¡ªsent north on a mission near the Hornet. With him occupied, the councillor had appointed Aldric as his replacement.

    And so, at last, the day arrived.

    The day he would step through the gates of House Ritch.

    ¡ª

    Aldric''s journey began at the Anvil, the knightly stronghold standing at the extreme southeast of the city. His wagon rolled along the old charred mud roads, paved with uneven stones placed for stability, the wheels creaking as they passed through the Axe of Gunth¡ªthe Old Market.

    The market had earned its name after its first shop, a weaponsmith, and over time, the district had expanded around it, forming the shape of an axe blade facing eastward.

    Seated in the back of the wagon, Aldric leaned against the white canopy, the cloth flapping gently with the breeze. His gaze followed the shrinking silhouette of the Anvil until it disappeared entirely behind the growing crowds.

    As they passed northwest, the Old Residential District came into view.

    Aldric watched as laborers, builders, and woodcarvers toiled under the morning light, their hands calloused, their backs bent from hours of relentless work. Children, no older than five or six, ran errands with hurried steps, balancing baskets of goods with the precision of those who had never been allowed to stumble.

    Women, dressed in plain linens, carried buckets of water from the wells, their conversations brief, measured, spoken between the tasks that never ceased. Near one of the timber workshops, a man sanded down a wooden beam, the rhythmic sound of his tools blending into the cacophony of city life.

    Here, no one stood idle.

    No one wasted time.

    Aldric gave a slight nod of acknowledgment¡ªnot to them directly, but to their labor, to the unspoken effort that built and sustained the city.

    The wagon took a sharp left, the road beneath shifting from old hardened mud to new cobblestone.

    To the north of the Old Market lay the Fish Eye Market, the circular trade hub that marked the city''s connection to the Capital.

    Between them, however, stood Evangel Academy.

    Aldric clicked his tongue at the sight of it.

    ''What a terrible decision.''

    The academy had been built as a capital-sponsored institution, designed to educate both nobles and commoners in the same halls. In theory, a place of learning. In reality?

    A disaster waiting to happen.

    Now, poor commoners would be criticized not just for their poverty, but for their literacy. They would be ridiculed for daring to rise above their station, for speaking in the same tongues as the nobility. The divide would grow, not shrink.

    They should have simply built a separate school for them¡ªor none at all.

    Surrounded by towering timber walls, their outer layers darkened from years of exposure, Evangel loomed over the street like a fortified temple. At its center stood a great dome, carved with intricate patterns of devotion. And above it all, cast in the deepest iron, the figure of their faith¡ªMother.

    Her statue, sculpted in majestic grandeur, depicted her wielding a sword and shield, her face veiled by cascading waves of hair. A goddess of both protection and judgment, her presence was inescapable in the empire.

    The wagon took another sharp right, bringing the academy''s grand entrance into view.

    Outside, students of nobility descended from their lavish carriages, their elegant attire flowing like banners of wealth. Laughter and idle chatter filled the air as they stepped onto the academy grounds, their posture as poised as their status demanded.

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    Aldric barely spared them a glance.

    "This is not a school. It''s a banquet hall for noble brats to parade their wealth."

    His wagon slowed, caught in the traffic of morning arrivals.

    Finally, the road cleared, and they moved forward once more.

    ¡ª

    The wagon took a slight left, approaching the gated entrance to the noble residences.

    Aldric''s eyes narrowed slightly as he spotted the guards.

    They were clad in full armor, their chest plates engraved with a familiar sigil¡ªa duck wearing a crown, flanked by a sword and shield.

    House Ritch.

    Among all the noble houses, the Ritch family still held power enough to keep their insignia stamped onto the very men guarding every other noble behind these walls.

    They were not the wealthiest, nor the most influential¡ªbut they were still standing.

    Aldric exhaled, leaning back slightly as the wagon slowed once more.

    The guards stepped forward for inspection.

    Their eyes, trained and practiced, moved over the carriages and passengers with silent efficiency.

    Aldric tilted his head, watching them work.

    The House of Ritch, it seemed, still knew how to play the game.

    The Gates of House Ritch

    The guards had been stationed for him.

    Aldric could tell immediately¡ªthe deliberate formation, the weight in their stance, the subtle shift in their eyes. This wasn''t routine security. This was intimidation. A silent reminder of authority.

    It would have worked on some Conjurers, perhaps¡ªthe ones who flinched at the clink of steel, who had spent their days wrapped in robes rather than armor. But Aldric?

    He merely smirked.

    If anything, the guards should have been grateful that he was here and not Gottschalk. Otherwise, some of them would already be dead.

    The inspection was swift. Documents checked, permission granted.

    And then, the gates opened, allowing them passage into the noble district.

    ¡ª

    The Two Sides of Strig

    Aldric chuckled as the contrast hit him immediately.

    It was like stepping into another world.

    Gone was the hardened clay of the Old Residential District. Gone were the hastily built wooden houses, the endless toil, the sweat that clung to the air.

    Here, the cobblestone paths gleamed, untouched by mud or grime. The drainage system was pristine, no acrid stench lingering in the alleys. People walked without urgency, their movements slow, measured, deliberate¡ªyet despite their ease, Aldric saw no joy in them.

    Their conversations sounded poised, refined, the carefully curated dialect of the aristocracy.

    And yet, when stripped down¡ªwhen one translated their words into the tongue of the common folk¡ªit all sounded the same.

    "How many harlots I have slept with!"

    "The gold is worth more than my father¡ª"

    "I do not care for her happiness."

    Aldric''s fingers drummed idly against his knee. Perhaps he was reading too much into it.

    Perhaps.

    But unlike the workers of the Old Residential District¡ªwho had earned Aldric''s respect¡ªthe nobles here evoked only pity.

    They lived in comfort, yet their lives were hollow. They spoke with grace, yet their words meant nothing.

    ¡ª

    The Estate of House Ritch

    The wagon continued forward until Aldric saw it.

    The Ritch mansion.

    Unlike the wealthy townhouses of the other nobles, confined behind gilded steel gates and decorative gardens, the Ritch estate was something else entirely.

    It stood alone in the vast clearing, a fortress among houses, its outer walls built of heavy cobblestone, its size imposing enough to dwarf the neighboring estates.

    Aldric exhaled sharply.

    This was not the home of a noble seeking prestige.

    This was the home of a noble seeking survival.

    The estate grounds stretched wide, its front garden alone large enough to house at least ten noble manors.

    To the right, a small exclusive market catered solely to the nobility¡ªnothing like the Fish Eye or the Axe of Gunth, where merchants fought for space and trade was dictated by supply and demand. Here, everything was tailored to convenience, each shop carefully selected to provide only what was in fashion.

    The wagon took a left, following the cobblestone road along the estate''s outer railings.

    Aldric glanced at the garden, eyes trailing over the manicured trees and flowerbeds, where male and female workers toiled under the watchful gaze of armed guards.

    Former soldiers.

    Aldric could tell from the way they walked¡ªthe subtle weight in their steps, the awareness in their movements. These were not simple estate guards. These were men who had seen battle, who had spent years on the field.

    His gaze flicked up to the railings¡ªpainted black steel, their points tipped in gold.

    A fortress, indeed.

    The wagon rolled to a stop before the grand entrance, where a guardhouse stood¡ªa place for rotating shifts, built into the mansion''s outer wall.

    ¡ª

    Aldric stepped down, rolling his shoulders before stretching to the side, a sharp crack echoing from his spine. He groaned, repeating the motion in the opposite direction, shaking out the stiffness from the journey.

    He turned to the wagon driver, resting a hand on his hip.

    "I''ll tell them to let you in and offer you food," Aldric said. "Rest here. It shouldn''t take long."

    The driver grunted, shifting in his seat. "That''s what you said two weeks ago when we went to the Sleeping Woods."

    Aldric grinned, offering a careless shrug.

    The guards gathered at the gates, some already resting their hands on the hilts of their weapons.

    "Name your business."

    The speaker was a bulky, bald-headed brute, his expression carved into a permanent scowl.

    Aldric reached into his coat, retrieving the parchment and holding it up.

    The bald one barely spared it a glance before jerking his chin toward his left.

    "Pass it to him."

    Aldric followed his gesture, gaze shifting downward to a smaller man standing nearby.

    ''An amusing pair,'' Aldric thought dryly, handing over the parchment.

    The smaller man, his hair growing wild down the back of his neck, took the letter in silence, scanning its contents.

    Then, without a word, he bowed.

    The bald brute hesitated, then followed suit.

    "We welcome you, Sir Aldric."

    The other guards, who had gathered idly near the gate, stiffened.

    Some of their eyes widened, barely concealing their shock. Others jerked backward, their previous ease vanishing entirely.

    And then¡ªlike rats scrambling from an open trap¡ªthey dispersed.

    The crowd thinned instantly, guards returning to their posts, their previous amusement long gone.

    Aldric tilted his head slightly. ''Ah. So that''s how it is.''

    He turned to the small guard, offering an easy smile.

    "Mind if you let my friend stay here with you?" Aldric motioned toward the wagon driver. "He''s not accustomed to noble customs, and I''d rather not have him picking a fight with anyone."

    The small guard moved with a jerkiness that reminded Aldric of a puppet, bowing once more.

    "As you say, Sir Aldric."

    Aldric dipped his head slightly in response.

    "You have my gratitude, friend."

    With that, he turned, stepping through the open gates of House Ritch.