Breakthrough

--

"Mr Miles..."

"Etome Miles."

"Ah.. yes, professor?"

"What do you think your issue is?"

"Umm, I have no understanding of magic manipulation.."

"Mana. Magic is the technology that runs on mana. Like your sigil. Continue.."

"Ah, yes. I'm new to mana. I was an accountant and an assistant, never having trained my body, or my mind. So I find it hard, and it's taking time. And I lack the killing intent, as you said. I'll try harder."

"Yes, and no. I am glad you are realistic about your goals. But, right now, stop doing that. Believe you can do it. A part of you believes you can't. That you won't. A part that has formed such a rigid idea of what you can and cannot do, that you will never move beyond it. That is the only advice I can give you. To be honest, you should have found it the easiest to do this exercise. Any idea why?"

"Hmm. Because of you? Or the shaping instructor maybe?"

"Yes, in a way. Cadets jump the gun, using mana under the guidance of whatever mages their families contract. They have to, really, to stand a change at admission."

"I see."

"Not you though. You are starting with that mark, the Acamdemy sigil. It is harder for you to use mana, that's what it does to beginners. There was a time, long ago, when commoners trained here and became giants."

"Can you give me a hint?"

"A hint? Think of holding a tray of food. It's easy right? Not if you are twisting your arm, or bending backwards, or folded over. You haven't learned any bad habits in the first place so this failure is rather unexpected. Your first shot was in line with my expectations."

"Umm, sorry?"

"I can think of only two reasons - one, you are convinced that you cannot possibly lift this tray that you have never held, so your mind is working against you, giving you the nerves and making you drop the tray until the task becomes impossible. The other, quite a headache that one, is that your arms are damaged. Or shoulders. Something is making this simple task rather hard for you. We need to figure out which one it is."

"And if it is the second?"

"Well, then we shall try to fix it. If it is fixable. Anyway, we'll have a clear answer by the end of this term whether you can be a mage. Put in your best effort, anything less is unacceptable. I will give you my best as well. You may leave. See you tomorrow."

...

Tommy didn't head back right away. Despite Morgan's advice to rethink and take a break, he felt compelled to try again. It felt wrong not to. He didn't know how to become a mage. And not knowing rankled him.

He understood it was irrational to expect this from himself. He had never been trained. He would never expect such commitment of his own employees. He would tell them they were being irrational, to take a break and take it slow. Everything Morgan told him was right. And yet, be it irrational, be it childish, he was pissed at himself for being so normal.

'Not manaless. Not anymore. I must be missing something.'

He looked inwards - meditating. Not observing though. He entered the habitual trance he used to solve the very real problems his grandfather sent his way. His mind, usually a muted river flowing gently, was bubbling and frothing now. Emotions churned bringing up memories long buried and forgotten.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Anger, fear, disappointment, nostalgia, loss, excitement... he accepted them, letting them pass. He felt each of them, individually and collectively.

Not being good right away hurt, and so he would take it slower.

The excitement helped - a new challenge.

Love and nostalgia too - 'Grandfather and Fruit would both be proud. That cat is too smart for its own good. I bet it would just shoot mana bolt back at me, giving me that haughty look. That bugger.'

His own pride and curiosity - 'A mere commoner becoming a mage is big deal, right?'

And the loss. The hope. Burdens he carried, sadness long forgotten, joy and ennui, pain and hunger. A smile slowly dawned on his gloomy face.

He thought over everything Morgan had said, took note of what she said to whom, when. He made a plan of action. There was a lot of advice he had stubbornly refused to acknowledge. And more that was handed to others, ideas that felt important, that hinted at the overarching tapestry - both mana manipulation, and the mana bolt spell.

He focused outwards then. He took in the struggles of that one candid spirit left behind. The empty range was overlaid with images of his classmates launching their bolts, their actions - both small and large. He replayed the more successful ones, noting similarities. Then the others, what they seemed to be doing that didn't work. He had watched them for so long. All day. Not having the sense to truly observe should have been frustrating, and it was. But being aware of the frustration, he ignored it.

A faint recognition loomed as the lingering shadows cleared. Like peering through a fog, like goosebumps running through his bones, he breathed in and felt. His lungs were an icy fire, a thread of fresh mint dissolving in his blood. He tugged on it, pushed it to his arms. It listened, flowing all the way to his fingers.

In doing so, the thread twisted around the mark. Surprised, he almost lost control of it then, the chill diffusing across his chest and back.

Reorienting himself, he held it softly, his thoughts keeping it together like loose sand. He let his intent gravitate it forward again. He wound his arm back, getting ready in a throwing pose, as if getting ready to chug a real ball across the field. He did want to kill that willow bastard staring at him from the far end, its painted eyes annoying.

'Hmm, that doesn't seem to help much.'

It didn't matter. The process continued, a little cloud of energy manifesting in his balled palm, oozing out of his fingertips, diffusing out through the skin. Then, he threw it. And failed. It stuck to his hand.

'Like cat vomit.'

A weightless glove of sticky air, not letting go of him. He repeated the throw. He waved his arm, wiped it on the grass. It just wouldn't let go.

He wasn't in that trance anymore, the unexpected oddity having pulled him out. And he crashed down. He legs cramped. He was tired. So exhausted that he couldn't even push himself up to his elbows. So, he laid there, staring at the real birds flying under the fake sky.

'That went well. Safe to say that was mana. I can just ask if it is supposed to be so sticky. What is up with these birds anyway? Are they for target practice as well...'