“Status,” I said.

Knowledge appeared in my thoughts while the cultists worked on untying the looped knots around my chest. Knowledge was the best I could describe it. Upon the mention of the keyword, text invaded my mind. Something I instinctively knew, like a book I had thoroughly memorized. It read:

[Cillian Bermeyer]

[Level one]

[Recent awakener]

[Abilities: Fireball, Carillia’s assistance]

The cultists finished untying me and dragged me towards the torture rack. I stopped struggling, focusing all my will on understanding my newfound knowledge. I read as fast as I could. The process took me no longer than a few seconds. It was as if I knew the contents of the information intuitively.

Attached to the knowledge was a note.

Hey, Cill. Shiela here. I see you’ve opened the system. Hooray! It took me a long while to develop this. Long enough to annoy my peers. You better be thankful. I apologize if any errors show up.

I promised I would offer assistance with magic. This is it. I trust the system is simple enough to let you explore on your own time. Just say the name of the spell you want to perform, visualizing it as best you can, and your mana chords will perform the feat automatically.

That was all I needed to read. My left arm was in the process of being clamped into the metal brace stuck to the rack when I shouted, “Fireball!”

For a moment, the others stared at me as if I was insane.

The looks didn’t last a second when they saw magic protruding from my right arm.

I had no idea what I was doing, nor what I should be visualizing, but my efforts showed results. A surge of what I instinctively knew was mana surged from my heart and into my right palm. My body enlightened, as if a year’s worth of massages and cold showers had healed aches in an instant.

The exertion of power was anything but relaxing. A whirl of fire formed before my palm. It spun like a tornado and grew. Within half a second it formed into a ball. Its heat touched my skin like a bonfire inches from my face. The room turned into an oven, yet my fingers didn’t burn to ash. Something protected me from the heat.

I quickly pointed my palm towards Arcturus. The old bastard wore a look of utter shock and terror.

The fireball decided it had grown enough. The attack blasted from my palm, shooting directly into Arcturus before he had a chance to scream. The molten fireball melted through skin—merged into one with his bone. Within seconds, the man was all but gone.

The two masked cultists tying me down screamed. I stared at the death I had caused. Arcturus died so fast, so effortlessly.

My spell had killed a man, just like that.

Spray clumps of molten lava had splashed in the fireball’s wake. The fire was spreading to the wooden table. The ceiling filled with smoke. I coughed under the heat and immediately realized I wasn’t totally immune to fire.

The two cultists tying me down abandoned their mission, freeing my arms. They covered their mouths with their robes, then rushed towards the half-open door. I should have followed, but the shock of it all made me hesitate.

The Priest Keeper’s grimace was what brought me back to action. I stood up, ready to run. I took one step towards the doors.

My limbs suddenly stopped responding. The Priest Keeper pointed her staff at me. The orb glowed, directing some sort of spell at me. I could barely breathe! It was as if my limbs were blocked with invisible shackles.

“You—” She coughed. “—are not going anywhere.” I was lifted into the air by levitation. She carried me past the flames and through the open door.

My paralyzed body couldn’t do more than cry.

***

“That’s Cill!” Em gushed. They watched as the Priest Keeper, the cultist mage, escaped the burning room. Smoke arose from the doorway and into the church until a brave cultist slammed the door shut. “He’s caught in ‘mind frost!’”

The clank of armor sounded from behind.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“The mage can’t cast magic while the spell is active,” Rakash said. “Sorcerer, keep the Warden distracted. Swordsman, cut whatever is ahead. We rush the mage. Take my blessing and run after me.”

Rakash placed her palm on Em and Ry. Through staffless casting, magic extended from her chords and into Em and Ry. Em’s limbs felt lighter, head more alert. She, despite having studied magic, could not identify Rakash’s spell. She could only guess it was a variation of ‘muscle enhancement.’”

“Go!” Rakash took up running.

Immediately and by surprise, the cultists were alerted of their presence. The mage holding Cillian paused at the center aisle, unsure how to respond. Everyone else—a dozen or so lesser cultists—took arms.

Crossbows were lifted. Two bolts fired. One missed by a mile, the other aimed at Rakash’s head. The Gorthorn flicked the bolt off with a clawed finger without slowing down.

Em panted as she tried to keep up with Ry and Rakash. She hopped onto the sanctuary, running past the altar, and towards the descending aisles. The two were fast, hopping down as if stairs didn’t exist. Even with muscle enhancement, Em struggled to chase. She’d trip if she ran any faster!

The clanks of armor approached from behind. Running footsteps.

With a grimace, Em picked up a scroll from her satchel. She haphazardly flicked a fireball toward the footsteps’ direction with the best aim she could spare during the run. She was afraid to check behind.

The Priest Keeper finally realized Rakash wouldn’t be stopped by standing around. She released Cill, who fell to the ground. She pointed her staff down the middle aisle, directly at the three approaching maniacs.

The orb of her staff glowed. A projectile formed, taking the shape of a raggedly sharp pointing spike. Em’s heart dropped. The mage was casting “crystal icicle!” They were dead!

Rakash barely slowed down. Mana surged into her fingers. A magic coating wrapped her claws, extending her already deadly nails into the claws of wyverns.

The icicle shot forth.

Rakash thrust her claws against the crystal. The tips of two weapons met. Both spells cracked into pieces in an instant, but the defense wasn’t perfect. Crystal debris flew past Rakash, cutting her and Ry’s skin before both spells dissipated into thin air.

Eyes wide, the cultist mage knew she didn’t have time for another spell. She turned around and rushed towards the doors, where three masked cultists accepted her into their protection. They held their swords, forming a protective concave before the mage.

Within the next few seconds, Rakash and Ry reached Cillian. They paused, holding formation.

Em was a few rows behind. A few more rows, and—

Something caught her leg. She tripped, falling on her face. In a panic, she pushed herself back to her knees. The clank of armor came from five seconds behind. She pillaged through her satchel. Where was that spell?

Em turned around just in time to see the behemoth in black plate armor holding a two-handed sword meant to slay dragons. Black mithril. The most durable of legendary metals, immune to most magic, and heavy enough that only vigor users could wield their weight. The figure must have been seven feet tall. Em had heard rumors of these black-plated warriors of the cult. Even the Royals struggled to believe they were real.

In desperation, Em flicked through her scrolls, her fingers eventually landing on the distinguishable piece of parchment. The surface was smooth, expensively delicate. There was no way to miss it.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Em ripped in half the scroll, releasing a spell her ancestors had spent months crafting.

“Arcane discharge” lit the whole room in a blinding white. The scroll priced fifty silver marks in material worth translated into a physical shockwave.

The magic released was borderline rogue, uncontrollable, and dangerous, thus a double-edged sword. Yet, scrolls did not follow the rules of mana chords. The safety of a mage did not matter when the spell was cast by an object.

The same spell was known to have killed wyverns. And nobody, nobody, expected such power to come from a mere piece of paper.

The shockwave blasted directly into the chest plate of the Warden. He was thrust backwards, falling limp on the ground.

Em, her breathing rough, stared for a second before standing up and joining her three companions. Cultists surrounded their little position on all sides. The Priest Keeper blocked their exit. For a moment, however, everyone stayed hesitant. Their attention was on the collapsed Black Plate.

“It’s dead, right?” Ry whispered.

The armor flinched. Em’s heart dropped. Slowly, but ever so surely, the mass of armor pushed itself up. It picked up its sword. All that resulted from Em's scroll was a slight bump on its chest plate.

***

I stood up just in time to find us utterly surrounded and helpless. Crossbows filled my vision where staves and swords the size of boulders didn’t. The black-plated swordsman took a step forward.

Ry pushed Em out of the way, then held his sword, facing the swordsman. The two locked in a staredown. Rakash frowned at the Priest Keeper and her men. Em handed back my sling bag, then faced the crossbows, keeping attention on both sides.

Once again, I stood around, useless as a spoon in a gunfight.

But I had yet to read the rest of Shiela’s note.

You are not to inform anyone of this system, nor of your association with the Gods. This is the only courtesy I ask. I did not reincarnate you to spread your name as my apostle. Revealing the extent of your reincarnation would be far too problematic for the world. I hope you understand.

The swordsman in black took a step forward. Ry twitched. I continued reading.

Oh, and in case you still get in trouble, I asked my good friend, and God of this planet, Carillia to look after you. Don’t hesitate to call for his assistance if you are in a pinch!

Regards, Shiela.

Well. That seemed awfully convenient. The guards were getting too close for comfort, and I could sure use some damn assistance.

With as much intent as I could muster, I called, “Carillia’s assistance!”

[...]

[…]

[Carillia is unable to assist at this moment.]

At my cue, the black-plated swordsman took running. Ry screamed as a sword the size of ship masts slammed down at his head.