He awoke from a restless slumber. These past five months were a blur, and he ached for a good night’s rest. Busy life and the steady influx of coffee mitigated this state of affairs.

The alarm blared in the background, and he briefly pondered flinging the offending object into the wall with his mind. But thought better of it. That would be a waste of mana. He recalled every drain on his power and he shuddered.

He laboured to the opposite side of the bed; he found nothing but a lifeless and empty mattress. His groggy senses detected a body sleeping beside him. But it was an illusion, a mirage of a past he was trying desperately to return to.

He allowed the alarm clock to live for the hundredth time. He groaned and tapped the screen to silence the irritating, generic wake-up music. Leaving his bed, his fingers traced the wild forest that was his hair.

Giving up, he headed towards the bathroom, the cold tiles prickling his feet. Getting the morning tasks out of the way, he groaned in satisfaction as the shower did its work. Piping hot water streamed down his body, dripping down his tattoos from his neck to his calves. Each was an exotic work of art, complex and intricate.

The shower was hot with steam, but he barely noticed it as the heat dragged him out of the last remnants of sleep. Typical of a shower, his thoughts trailed off in many directions.

It’s been five months, Alistair, and not a single bite. It’s like fishing in a pond where you can’t see the fish. He mentally cursed his luck. If this continues, I will eventually run out of mana. Even if I use it sparingly, it drains away on this mana-depleted world.

He thought back to how he got here. Summoned to a world he didn’t know, charged with saving it from some great threat. He threw his head back. A chuckle escaped his lips, the corners of his mouth raised at the absurdity of his noble mission. They talked big when they just pissed off a dragon and tired of throwing knights at him.

He recalled how that failing kingdom invoked summoning magic outlawed across the entire continent. They were under threat of a kingdom-ending dragon, so you can’t fault them for being desperate.

He wondered what happened to them. They were spiralling to ruin even with the dragon situation dealt with. But they still had the power to send me back, even with my preparations and my goodbyes to the people I loved. It still hurt to be dragged away, even to my home. He felt his smile widen despite himself. It was a bitter irony.

He could swear he could feel her even now. The phantom caress of her hand sent chills down his spine. Despite the time away, her embrace never left. Shaking his head, he let the unpleasant memories wash down the drain and turned to more practical thoughts.

My magic will soon fade away. I had used too much over the last few months. The experiments with the orb, maintaining my spells, and don’t forget about the Los Padros incident. Viva Los Padros and their casinos. I still have all my fingers, assholes. He left the shower, drying himself off in front of the mirror.

Wiping away the condensation, he inspected himself. The man reflected in the mirror looked haggard and worn. Life on a magical budget had taken its toll. The lack of progress drained him, and getting back to Matesh weighed heavily on his soul, literally and figuratively.

Brushing his teeth, he got dressed in the typical business suit and tie. He tried to have a quick breakfast, but the toast was just bland. He had noticed that ever since he arrived on Earth, very little gave him joy. It was probably all just in his head, but that didn’t change the effects.

Scanning for coffee and finding none, he let out a tired sigh. Deciding to vacate to his favourite cafe for a decent cup. The place was going under when he found it. Memories of the thrilling aroma and taste compelled him to save the place. He became a secret investor to keep it afloat. All because they made a damn fine cup of coffee.

He left the modest kitchen and went downstairs. The place was an antique shop he had gained to live and work out of. It was all a cover, just to show a legitimate business front.

He passed through the shop, casting a glance at the artefacts and antiques scattered about. He felt the faint thrum of power ending from the less-than-mundane artefacts. They were another bit of bait, just in case there was anybody of a magical variety around these parts.

Like his other project, not been a single bite so far. He stretched his shoulders, trying to undo that knot on his back. He made his way out the door and started down the street to his favourite destination.

Upon arriving, the small cafe was across from a busy street filled with honking cars and shouting drivers. The cafe was quiet in comparison and had only a few patrons. The much larger coffee shop brought this situation about directly across the street.

I could see customers streaming out of the doorway. Regardless, the atmosphere was calm and solemn. Each of the patrons appreciated the quiet. He felt the tension ease away the moment he sat down. The ergonomic chairs he got the owner to buy held him like a babe in its mother's grasp.

In the corner, he sat, a steaming cup of black coffee, lay in front of him. Beside it was a tablet. Sprawled across the screen were several journal articles displaying current events. At the top was the date, July 10th, 2022. The Soviet Union denies allegations of reactivating missile silos in Lithuania. United States President Wellington accused the Soviets of encroaching on the northern border of South Korea. The Empire of Japan expresses neutrality regarding this conflict. By swiping to the side, Alistair removed the tabs, leaving only a picture of a Tibetan monastery.

Taking a sip of coffee, he looked out the window, surveying the scene. He felt his jaw tense and frown break away from his lips at the sight of a family leaving their apartment. The family comprised a blonde-haired man in his forties, wearing a casual business suit. The woman, a black pantsuit and skirt. She had dark hair cascading down her shoulders.

Both wore gold wedding rings and ferried a young girl down the stairs. She looked to be around five years old, with long blonde hair and an inquisitive look on her adorable, pudgy face.

He watched them as they left the building and walked down the street. The child swung between her parents, skipping and happy. Not a care in the world, her childlike innocence, a great comfort to even the heaviest of hearts. Once they were out of sight, the tension eased. Taking another sip, he spaced out, only brought back by the ring of his smartphone.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

He tapped the call button, pressing it to his ear. A deep voice emitted from the speaker. "Alistair, I have some good news for you. The one on the phone, despite not hearing a reply, continued. "Can you at least be a little excited? I got a good price although the piece did not have any provenance.

His little speech was pleading and directed to the epitome of indifference. He sighed dejectedly, accepting the facts as they came.

Alistair finally responded. "I'm still waiting on the price, Jeremy." His voice was neither soft nor deep. It was slick and refined, almost melodic.

He waited for the desired response, noting a rustling of papers in the background. He took another sip of his coffee, grunting in satisfaction.

Jeremy sighed again, answering the query. "Five hundred thousand!" He announced the figure with pride. He expected to be praised, sounding confident in his belief. The silence that followed told a different story. The lack of reply flustered the man and so he resigned to patience.

Alistair cocked his head to the side, his brow furrowing. His eyes drifted to a familiar waitress, her long dark hair. The cafe faded away, transforming her uniform into a ball gown of golden lace. He could almost hear her laughter, that coy and mischievous smile.

Shaking his head, he dismissed the memories. "I find the figure acceptable. Transfer the money to my account, minus your commission."

The man on the other line let out a dejected sigh, accepting his fate. "Of course, my friend, I will do so. But come on, you are now a multimillionaire, get excited will you!" His deep voice spiked, and the words tumbled out with a playful edge.

Despite Jeremy's attempts, they fell on deaf ears. Alistair bid him farewell and hung up the call. Now, with his peace reclaimed, he let himself drift in peace. Thoughts drained away, slipping into the void.

Before he could fall into slumber, he awoke and looked around. Realising he hadn't fallen asleep, he smiled. That would have been awkward for the patrons. He took another sip. The warmth slid down his throat and into his belly.

Suddenly, a jolt of electricity coursed through him, inflaming his senses with a specific thought. He knew what that meant and knew what he had to do. Despite his efforts to keep it at bay, his mouth turned up into a grin.

Turning to his hands, he rolled up his left sleeve. He had a tattoo of a runic symbol painted on his forearm. The symbols seemed to move in a circular pattern, surrounding a central orb. Blood spilled from his finger, dripping dark red blood.

Pressing the bloodied appendage to the tattoo, tracing a circle and tapping the centre. The surrounding space warped, yet none of the other patrons seemed to notice. Alistair melted away. The sensation was familiar and always uncomfortable.

Across town in a small rustic store, labelled Ancient Antiques Emporium. Alistair reappeared in the basement. Materialising atop a pedestal inlaid with runic carvings, all shimmering with an ethereal light.

He stood up slowly, determination in his eyes. He fished a band-aid from his jacket and wrapped the bleeding finger. Basic field medicine complete, he swiftly made his way to the pedestal.

Standing in the centre, rolling up both sleeves, he settled cross-legged on the ground. Rewritten: As he thrust his arms forward, his tattoos merged into a seamless pattern. The two semi-circles united to complete their form, casting a radiant light.

He looked to the heavens, his senses passing through concrete and mundane forms of matter. The room shook, Alistair held his own and pressed his arms together. Space warped all around him. Exotic colours bled into reality and the world was akin to an oil painting. His sense of reality skewed, and he suddenly vanished from the room.

Right before his eyes, the world lurched with a loud crack of lightning. Smoke and gasping voices replaced the dull basement. Getting his bearings, he turned to the side, and several indistinct shapes appeared from the smoke. His thoughts were fuzzy, pushed away by a glorious sensation throughout his body.

The sensation enveloped his entire being, akin to sweet oxygen, when deprived for so long. The reservoir of power within refilled to the maximum and the delightful sensation reached grander heights. Snapping himself back to reality, he noticed the smoke dissipating.

Rolling up his sleeves and pressing his hand to another tattoo on his forearm. It shimmered out of phase with reality. Seeping over his entire body, rendering him completely invisible.

Assured he would be unnoticed, Alistair slowly moved to the side, stopping in his tracks. On the side, Alistair slowly moved, stopping in his tracks, assured he would be unnoticed. Surrounded, he remained where he was.

Remaining stationary, he watched and waited. The smoke cleared, revealing a gaudy and massive throne room. It had all the trappings of medieval wealth. Gold, silver, and stone enveloped the space. A golden throne was the main event.

Seated was an old man, perhaps in his sixties. He wore a gold, red tunic and embroidered cape. His crown was equally gaudy, with many jewels embedded around the rim. The King watched on with a sour look, and the smoke finally cleared.

Now, with the literal air cleared, his smile widened with a toothy grin. He turned to the man at his side, resembling an equally gaudy wizard. He had the hat, the staff and all the stuff that would make Henry Patter proud.

"Juro, you have done well! I was sceptical you could summon the trinity." The King’s gruff voice resonated through the space, reaching everyone with an air of authority.

Remaining in the background, Alistair moved to the side, blending into the crowd. Observing, he watched the events unfold. In the centre of a runic symbol, adorned with many unfamiliar runes, three young people emerged.

Observing their appearances, Alistair scowled in disbelief. They are just kids, no older than teenagers. There must be a mistake in the summoning. The gloomy thought pervaded his mind, conjuring gruesome images of lifeless children. Struck down in their youth and their lives wasted away.

The King remained seated, gazing intently at the bewildered teenagers. To his side, the wizard stepped forward. "Heroic Trinity, we have called you here in our hour of need. Please, young heroes, help us defeat the demonic tide threatening the great empire of Judica!"

With a dramatic flourish, the wizard-turned-orator made quite the performance. His staff even hovered at the side. He called upon the heroes to seize their destiny, and the weight of expectation hung in the air.