The decrepit area stretched out before me, with rows of seemingly abandoned houses lining both sides of the street. Most of their windows were shattered, crudely patched up with makeshift wooden shelves. In between them, clusters of smaller wooden houses and tents had sprung up like mushrooms.
Every now and then, a towering highrise loomed over the dilapidated structures, soaring up to ten floors. To the left, the charred remains of such a burnt-out tower stood, yet it still appeared to be inhabited. The streets were strewn with filth – a sickening mixture of shit, piss, and vomit – a testament to the neglect that plagued the area, exacerbated by days without rain. In places, bags of garbage were slowly burning.
As I passed by a couple of bars, heavy wooden doors stood open, resting on the walls adorned with graffiti. Stairs descended into dimly lit basements, from which echoed the thumping beats of pseudo-hispano-techno music.
Abandoned cars lined the roadside, their frames corroded and decaying. Many were stripped of tires, doors, and other essential parts, scavenged for anything of value. Their erratic parking forced the occasional driver to slow down and zigzag between them, perhaps intentionally.
As I made my way through this 'pest infested area', I was taken aback to spot a familiar figure. A slender girl in a blue dress and a hoodie, hood pulled up over her head, wearing long boots, navigated the filthy pavement with purpose, slaloming between dirt, bags of waste, and sleeping homeless bodies, trailed closely by a shady-looking guy.
Slowing my bike, I watched her closely. Could it really be Helen? Our eyes met briefly before she lowered her gaze and quickened her pace, her follower in tow.
For a moment, I hesitated. "She must have her reasons," I told myself, contemplating leaving her to her own devices. But then, I stopped the bike and let out a deep sigh.
If I walked away now and later found out that she had been attacked and harmed by some scumbag in the slum, could I live with myself? Could I face Gonzo and meet his gaze without feeling guilty?
I turned the bike around and drove up onto the pavement in front of her. So much for my promise to myself to not stop in the slums!
"Hey there! You doing okay? Must be pretty warm under that hoodie," I said, trying to sound cool.
She stopped, pulled down the hoodie, and turned her dark brown, almost black eyes to look at me. Pushing a rebellious strand of dark chestnut hair aside, she let out a sigh, parting her sensual, beautiful lips.
I blinked, feeling strangely taken aback. Something was amiss.
"Can I bring you somewhere?" I asked before she could even return the greeting, eyeing the guy who was following her with suspicion.
"Hi," she answered, then turned towards the guy. "Mr. Soundthorn, thank you, I am OK. It is no longer necessary to accompany me."
"God bless you, Mrs. Traggar!" he said with a bow and walked away.
She knew the guy? He was her protection?
She looked down at her dress.
"Um, how do you suppose I can climb on the bike with my dress?" she asked.
I shrugged. "That dress is long and large enough; it should work."
"Can you put this inside your bike's box? Would it fit in there?" she asked, showing me her relatively large hand luggage.
"Sure," I answered.
I took it and pretended to put it into one of the side boxes, but instead, I absorbed it into my inventory. No need to torture myself and the package to make it fit there. A bit of illusion magic made it look as good as real. I was getting good at these things.
I straddled the bike, and as she attempted to climb on, I showed her where to put her feet and assisted her up with my right hand. After a brief moment of hesitation, she managed to softly land behind me, still looking dignified as she straddled the bike.
She rested against my back, her warm body pressing against mine, sending all kinds of wrong signals to my brain. "What's wrong with me?" I wondered. Was this some sort of demonic influence?
"Can you bring me to the train station?" she asked.
Taking her to the train station would get her out of the slums, which was fine, but she'd still have more than an hour to get home. I could make her trip much faster with not much for a change for me.
"Sure. I can bring you home if you prefer," I offered.
"Home?" She seemed momentarily confused but then smiled. "You mean... the garage! Oh, that would be cool!"
OK, she doesn't want to say Gonzo's name here, I concluded, and probably isn't yet used to calling that place home but judging by how she smiled, she was happy to refer to it as such.
I started the bike and felt a sense of satisfaction as she pressed herself even tighter into me. Feeling her slender, warm body against mine was... not bad.
"Damn, Lores, this is Gonzo's girl," I muttered to myself.
I wasn't driving fast, so we could chat.
"What were you doing here?" I asked, trying to push away the stupid thoughts and cover the motor's noise. It partially worked.
"Can we not talk about this on the bike? I don't want to yell," she protested.
"You can whisper as gently as you want; I can still hear you," I assured her.
"Can this stay between us?" she whispered.
"You mean not telling Gonzo?" I pondered.
She hesitated, then confirmed. "Yes, but generally... " she sighed, "I'm not sure he would like what I do here... Besides, I don't like you yelling that aloud."
I wondered what kind of business she could have here. She embraced me even more tightly as the bike wiggled between potholes.
I took a deep breath and grounded myself, bringing myself back down to the much colder reality.
"OK, I'll let you make the talking. So, what did you do?" I asked.
She rested her cheek on my back and whispered, "I try to heal people."
Oh, damn! I feared she would do something like this!
"You know, these people here have such limited access to healthcare," she continued, her voice barely audible against the hum of the engine. "They only receive basic assistance, some food coupons, and essential supplies. For anything else, they need money, and most of them don't have anyone who earns enough to help them. Even the food they receive is barely enough, let alone lodging. Yes, they can post pleas for help on social media, hoping for attention, but the vast majority receive nothing."
She paused to catch her breath before continuing, "I can heal. I cannot do wonders, but I can improve their lives. You have just seen Mr. Soundthorn; he is a plumber. He must fix the water pipes if they break in this area. He works for one of the local bosses. He has no day off, no employment insurance, no vacations, no health benefits, and no pension. He is always in debt, a slave of loan sharks, and lives in this stinking, feces-ridden slum with pigs wallowing in the cesspool and starved, agitated, rabies-afflicted stray dogs ready to pounce. He must pass on a monthly “rent” to the local goon, who passes on a cut to the police. When a family member falls ill, a common occurrence in this disease-ridden environment, his financial option is not always to take the sick to the hospital."
OK, I haven't seen those pigs yet, but enough stray dogs... Anyway, I abstained from commenting.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
"OK, tell me more about what you do!" - I yelled.
"You don't need to yell; I can hear you well when I keep my ear on your back," she answered, a bit annoyed. "I've rented a small studio, practically for free, where I promote natural healing— a bit of Ayurveda, a bit of mysticism, healing crystals, and meditation. I also perform small healing pulses if somebody comes and I judge they need some help. It's so interesting to see all the insights that magic gives me! I learn so much just by observing various people, listening to what they tell me, and then comparing it with what my magic reveals. I administer very small, minimal pulses of healing and try to spread them to more people, and yet, it works. I can see some progress. I don't ask for money; they give me only what they can. Most of the time, I give things back or share them with others who are even more in need."
Actually, she does a clever thing; it is the best way to evolve her magic.
She pressed her head on my back with a sigh, probably waiting for my questions, and as she did that, I tried hard to abstain from thinking dirty things... I shook my head, perplexed.
What's wrong with me?
Then, in a sudden epiphany, I almost halted the bike in shock as I realized what my issue was. Magic has a profound influence on people's feelings toward each other; it amplifies and intensifies emotions.
When two auras touch each other, it is akin to smelling and seeing, and it can evoke powerful reactions. One can feel either oppressed, dominated, welcomed, or invited; one can experience positive or negative feelings and encounter friendly or malevolent auras. But when you let the aura touch the other person, it is akin to touching and tasting.
I was containing my aura within myself, keeping it passive, hiding it, and this was an effect of her aura invading me and practically touching me.
It was widely known among Aldea's inhabitants that users of complementary magic tended to be attracted to each other. While not an absolute rule, it held true in most cases.
My magic was dark, and hers was light—could there be a more complementary pairing?
Additionally, there was another factor at play. She possessed what is called a source of magic. I had discovered this when I "cleaned" her, but I hadn't made the connections yet. The growth of her magical source and the improvement in her magical power had suddenly made her even more appealing to me.
"Helen, I need to talk to you," I said firmly, rebuffing her aura. She tensed her hands, lifting her face from my back.
"But aren't we talking already? Why do you suddenly seem so serious?" she wondered.
This wasn't the sort of conversation we could have while riding on the bike, even if I was driving slowly. As we had just left the slums and were now passing through fields, I turned onto the first country road to the right and stopped in what appeared to be an abandoned garden. I parked the bike near a fallen log.
"What are you doing? Why did you bring me here?" she questioned, still seated on the bike.
"I need to talk to you," I sighed, contemplating how best to explain things to her.
“You said that already...” she answered, still clinging to my back.
"Let's sit over there on the log," I suggested, motioning towards the fallen tree trunk nearby.
"Uh, this seems serious..." she joked tentatively, retracting her leg from the other side of the bike. She gave me an uncertain smile. "Actually, I wanted to tell you something too..."
Her big brown eyes, now a mix of jest and incertitude, met mine. I inhaled, surprised.
"Okay, you first," I urged.
"Well, maybe you won't like this, but I think you've gone a bit heavy on the eye shadow," she began hesitantly. "It's almost as if your mascara got smudged and spread all over. Don't be mad, though, I think it looks good, just maybe a bit too much..."
I sighed inwardly. Was she trying to change the subject? Her observation irritated me slightly; I thought I had done a better job of masking the gray shades. I was not putting any shade around my eyes; quite the contrary, I was trying to brighten the skin there, but it looked like that. Adding and maintaining another layer of illusion for my eye shade would be too much effort.
"Alright, noted," I acknowledged before diving straight into the heart of the matter. "I have the ability to sense and identify magic in people. I'm pretty good at it, and I must say, very few people possess it. Even fewer develop affinities for magic."
She raised an eyebrow at my statement. "Okay?" she responded, cautious yet intrigued.
"You have an affinity for white magic, but there's something more, something very rare: your body has developed what's known as a source of magic."
Her attention piqued, her brows furrowed in curiosity.
"What do you mean by that? Doesn't every caster regenerate mana?" she inquired.
I nodded, a smile playing furtively on my lips. "Yes, they can, but they need food or air containing mana to do so. That doesn't exist here on Earth."
She fell silent for a moment, trying to digest what I had just told her.
"And you're saying this ability of mine is so rare?" she asked, wondering.
I nodded once more. "Probably one in a thousand casters possesses it."
"But how can there be other casters if there's no magic?" she pondered.
I chuckled. "Good question! They're not casters until they encounter some magic, and only then might they develop magical affinities. Maybe one in a hundred develops these magical affinities, but as I mentioned, only one in a thousand casters develops a source of magic."
"You're joking! So you're saying that one in a hundred thousand would be like this? There's no way you could know this!" she exclaimed, incredulous.
I shrugged.
"Maybe my estimates are a bit off, but I haven't encountered any other 'true caster' here in our town," I admitted.
My estimates were based on what was known about Mephisto's world, but I couldn't reveal that without my point to become derisory in her eyes. Instead, I could only assume that human beings here on Earth would be somewhat similar.
"Maybe you're wrong," she retorted, growing more confident with each word. "Perhaps your ability to detect magic isn't as good as you think. 'True caster' is a term from Mephisto's game! Are you trying to trick me with game terms? Even in Mephisto's game, they're not that important; their mana regeneration is just slightly higher than others."
I shrugged again.
"Let's forget about Mephisto," I said, redirecting the conversation. "What I wanted to convey is that you're precious and, as a result, in danger. There's no free mana here. Do you really want to risk becoming a source of mana for other casters?"
This gave her pause.
"Our mobile phones can listen for trigger words and transmit everything we say, drones can eavesdrop from two hundred meters away using directional microphones or even read our lips, and social media knows more about us than we do ourselves, tracking our emotions and actions from years ago. But as long as we stay under the radar, no drones are tailing us, and no one is monitoring our social media to see where we've been. As long as our phones are elsewhere or we don't utter the triggering words, we can live our peaceful lives. But once we catch Sauron's attention, we're fucked! There's nowhere to hide."
She nodded silently, prompting me to continue.
"What you're doing is great for developing your magic, but it's also incredibly dangerous and could draw unwanted attention. Once you're on a monster's radar, you and your friends are in trouble. At best, you might end up with a mana-draining artifact."
"But how could my little work attract... what you call Sauron's ire?" she inquired.
Had I not been clear enough? I took a deep breath, hoping my message would finally sink in.
"Imagine a sensitive caster wanders through your rooms and senses your magic. You let your aura roam free, and cast spells there, right? They'll investigate until they find the source! Or consider this: about one in a hundred people may develop magic affinities. How long until one of them becomes your client? What if they react to your magic? Once they become casters, they'll naturally be drawn to people with magical sources, just like they'd crave and relish food containing magic. Even if you try to block everything, tiny fragments escape like pheromones. You'll attract more people than you want around you, people who feel like they can't breathe without you. It's how casters would feel in a world without magic. What would you do then?"
"How can you possibly know this?" she questioned.
"Maybe I'm just rambling, or maybe not. But please, trust me," I urged.
"But if these 'pheromones' escape regardless, couldn't this happen anywhere? What's your solution? Should I just stay locked in my room?" she asked.
“First, you need to learn to control your aura. With good control, even if small motes of mana escape, all they'll see is a beautiful girl. Only an exceptional, specialized caster might discern those tiny motes of mana for what they are. There's always a risk, but once you let your magic examine somebody, you're inviting danger.”
“So your solution is for me to do nothing? To hide in my home and not help, even if I can?”
I sighed. She's so stubborn!
"If you did that, it would be more secure. In any case, you should learn to control your aura. You can't let it flow freely around you as you do now!"
"And how should I do this?"
"You can try the exercises taught in Mephisto. The aura training principles there are valid!"
"Are you making fun of me?" She eyed me skeptically.
I shook my head. "No."
She studied me for a moment, clearly hesitant to believe. "Or..." she ventured after a pause. "You know more than you're letting on?"
"That might be..." I admitted.
I
Well, shit, even my Identify spell recognizes her now!
"You know something? You should also do some exercises. Magic improves your body too, just saying..."
She sighed, raising her gaze to look at me, but didn't elaborate further.
Helen will always be Helen. I'm not going to change her, but at least I tried. I looked back into those big, round eyes. Why did I think before that she was shallow? Ubiquitous? There was a light in those eyes! I shrugged.
"That's all I wanted to say. Please think about it!"
As we left and drove further towards Gonzo's workshop, I pondered it. If our bodies feel magic and appreciate people who have a magic source, if we see them as beautiful, does that not mean that we evolved in an environment that had magic? Maybe Earth did have magic before? Then I thought about the goblin, about all the casters I'd already interacted with here on Earth. I thought about the images I saw after our performance at Stavros. The magic used in those fights!
"Drats, how could I have been so superficial? Why did I not think about this before? Where did those casters get their mana from? I mean, there are mana crystals and mana potions, but to live only on those is impossible in the long run! There must be some sources here on Earth in one way or another."