Like I said earlier, I was born an ordinary person.

My childhood was unremarkable, except for one thing – my parents got divorced in my early teenage years. It's a heavy blow for any child, but I took it especially hard; I made a vow then that if I ever had a family of my own, I would never abandon them and would love them forever.

(Are you starting to see where this is headed?)

Sofport, my home city, back in those times was a wild, dangerous place full of broken dreams and tentative hopes, same as many other post-Soviet era places. I had no desire to live out my life in such bleak circumstances, so like many of my peers I went to study abroad.

The seemingly natural choice was USA, the 'Land of the Free'. Specifically, I enrolled into MIT, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I chose quantum physics as my field of study, inspired as I was from Gordon Freeman. Half-Life had made a strong impression upon me at a young age; and like many other closet nerds, I dreamed of being a hi-tech armored, crowbar-wielding scientist hero. It was a neat concept.

But the road was tough. Being a former comrade from a tumultuous second-world country, I had no financial prospects whatsoever. I had to study hard and jump through many hoops, yet managed to win myself a stipend. Trouble was, it covered only my education fees; I had to work for the rest of my expenses.

University was where my own hopes and dreams crashed and burned. Having to both work and study, I was busy for twelve hours a day. I had no time to make friends or for sightseeing. Weekends were also busy with frantic catch-up on lab assignments or missed lectures. I couldn't even enjoy the very subject I was studying, having barely enough opportunity to understand it. And all of this while I was alone in a foreign country, without any support.

I dropped out in my third year.

One day, I simply couldn't get out of bed anymore. I suffered a complete mental breakdown. I didn't leave my dorm for two months. The university board sent a shrink to 'fix the issue'. I sound cynical, but they genuinely tried to help me. It was no use – the pit I had fallen into was bottomless. Weird, how such profound despair could bear such a dry medical term: suicidal depression.

When the third month came and I showed no signs of recovery, I was finally expelled. Solidarity goes only so far in competition-driven societies.

MIT was also where I met Jared. He was my roommate; the only person I really got to know during my tenure. Jared was a polar opposite: he was a rich trust fund kid, who had enrolled in MIT on a whim. He thought having a science diploma sounded sexy. He liked to party, constantly talked about women, often bought expensive clothes, and never read any books if he could help it. I didn't like Jared much, but as fate would have it, he became my only real friend. That quite possibly saved my life.

Having ruined my chance at education, I was left with an ugly choice: go back home in shame, or stay in the USA and work menial jobs for the rest of my days. I felt crushed. My soul despaired. For the first time in my life, I considered the possibility of ending it all.

Then Jared visited me, and offered me a crazy idea.

Become an English teacher in Japan.

At first, I thought he was nuts. Go to yet another foreign country all alone, and without knowing the language even? It was downright terrifying.

But Jared wasn't being absurd or (even more absurdly) noble in motive. He proposed the idea, because he himself wanted to go. Turned out, he had dropped university just like me, due to a drug scandal. He then found out his family had frozen his trust fund until he finished schooling on his own. Knowing Jared, it was more likely humanity would become a Kardashev-Ivanov Type 4 civilization first.

Thus we were both going, and would face the challenges together. Even so I was deeply skeptical, even afraid, but in the end I agreed. We bought one-way tickets for the other side of the planet, and traveled to the land of anime, giant robots, and advanced technology.

Japan was terrifying. Barely off the plane, I already felt isolated, scrutinized, disoriented. The screening process for the English teaching programs was even more dreadful. The final interview felt more like interrogation. Both me and Jared were still boys practically, barely having turned 21. In the end, they approved us.

The first six months were hell. We lived in a tiny, tiny apartment; the International Space Station had more living space. We knew no Japanese, it was an ordeal to buy anything, and we could barely do our jobs. We had no idea where we were, only that it was somewhere around Tokyo. For months we just sat at the local park or in a nearby noodle restaurant after work, not knowing what to do. We couldn't watch television or play videogames, everything was in Japanese, books also. I found a shop for English books, but their cost was ten times greater than the local ones. In the end, the library in the school where we taught saved me, providing me with some entertainment to keep me sane. (And to keep having to listen to Jared day in and day out.)

Despite the sheer difficulties, I found that Japan held an odd appeal to me. The few times I managed to get out of the city the country looked beautiful, and I wanted to explore it. I also discovered Japan's vibrant street racing scene, and fell in love with tuned-up cars and night battles. Yet I barely had any free time for either excursions or races, bogged down in work and daily survival. The pattern repeated.

I had worked as an English teacher barely for a year when I suffered another mental breakdown. However, instead of psychologists and false sympathies I was presented with a dismissal notice. It seemed locals had little tolerance for shouting, angry foreigners. Jared came to my defense, only to be fired on the spot too.

We tried to find another teaching job, only to discover that the entire teaching community had blacklisted us. We tried other jobs, but nobody was willing to hire foreigners. I despised the locals' chauvinism and railed against it. I yelled at business owners and showed them rude gestures. On Jared's urging I begged, even on my knees. It made no difference. Our money quickly ran out and within weeks we were completely destitute.

We were trapped. We didn't have enough money even to leave Japan. What, calling our parents so they could bail us out? And go to our separate homes as complete failures? Yeah, fat chance. We'd rather live as homeless hobos than return.

...so we did exactly that. Jared and I started drifting around Japan.

For three long years, we lived as vagrants. We traveled across the country, from Kagoshima to northernmost Hokkaido. (We obviously skipped the tropical islands.) We met many strange people, visited a fuckton of exotic places, and discovered some things even the locals didn't know about. Harsh winters and pleasant summers were our companions; we slept under open skies as often as under abandoned roofs. We evaded trouble with both the police and the Yakuza, as well as legions of evil aunts and uncles. We learned Japanese, and we even learned to distinguish dialects; at long last we had access to the local culture. So good we became at social camouflage that only our foreign looks could distinguish us from the locals. My own mother would scarcely recognize the gaunt, severe man I had turned into, now walking the roads with a watchful eye.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

It was a hard life, make no mistake. But I liked it, despite the hardship. I had never felt more free in my life. Every day was a new adventure. And Jared was always there, at my side, even if sometimes we hated each other in the guts and would often argue. Yet when push came to shove, we always stuck together.

Until one day I had enough.

I was twenty-five, when me and Jared passed the northern countryside of Kobe for the tenth time. That year it was a particularly hot summer. We were staying in Makinata District, in Ogocho, for the first time, lodging at a shrine temple tended by a kind old man. We were given food and shelter in exchange for house work. It was good, honest arrangement, and we decided to stay a couple of weeks before moving on.

Yet by the end of the second week, I realized I wanted to stay. I talked to the old man many times, and came to like him. I also became accustomed to the quiet, tranquil atmosphere of the shrine temple. That night, on the last day of our stay, the sky was full of stars; and under that starry light I told Jared I was staying.

Jared agreed to stay too. Yet he did so for barely a month, before leaving; the shrine temple plainly wasn't his type of scene, where he had nobody to hustle or carouse with. But like me, Jared was tired of wandering. He managed to settle in Makinata, becoming an attendant at a gas station and quickly insinuated himself in the local street racing crowd.

I liked my new home. Weeks and then months passed in a blur as I tended the shrine temple. I spoke with the old man about myriad of topics from all spheres of life, and in our discussions I learned a plethora of earthly (and esoterical) advice. The old man possessed a quiet, dignified wisdom and he spoke with gentle kindness. I had never met anyone like him before or since.

Jared got me into street racing, too. It was exhilarating at first to be behind the wheel after so long, adrenaline pumping and sharp corners rushing at you in the headlights halo. Yet that passion of mine was far eclipsed by my fascination with the knowledge I gained from the old man. Under his tutelage, I learned calligraphy, astrology, Asian mythology, and... and...

And I began to study the occult. Like, actual occultism, not the dime-a-dozen New Age crap that every self-help store had on offer. No, I'm talking about real metaphysical knowledge, like... uh...

Look. If I have to explain it to you in detail, this will take a whole book. So you gotta trust me on this one. This was some heavy stuff.

The shrine temple had its own library dedicated to the subject. And some of the material inside was... ancient. Authentic. Even... magical.

OK, not like, actual magic, but something very close. Something resembling real, tangible, applicable knowledge.

The library reminded me of MIT. It seemed so long ago, like another lifetime. I felt nostalgic for the first time in my life. On a happier note, my passion for study was re-ignited. I scoured the dusty tomes and scrolls, looking for that spark that would make me alive again.

Before I knew it, a whole year passed. By day I was doing chores and errands, while by night I was studying (and occasionally racing). Gradually, I managed to filter the useful lore from the chaff, and delved deeper into what I began to consider to be actual methods for harnessing metaphysical energies.

During that time, my discussions with the old man were becoming more and more sophisticated, and included the supernatural. The old man confirmed my suspicions that there was a whole universe out there that was hidden from modern civilization. It became my obsession to uncover those secret horizons and to transcend the invisible barriers by becoming a true mage – one who was every bit as powerful and flashy as the wizards in fantasy stories. I dreamed of hurling fireballs and have lightning crackle at my fingertips.

(Oh, how naive...)

Eventually, I surpassed the old man in understanding. But instead of winning his approval, he condemned my efforts. He tried to keep me from further study, warning me about the dangers forbidden knowledge held. I listened to his words with silent contempt. I continued to study in secret, because I didn't want to offend the old man, who had become like a spiritual father to me. But I had every intention to go down that path, no matter what dangers it held; for I was after its treasures, those being the possibility of discovery or even creation of real spells.

By the next summer, I had done it: I'd assembled an underlying theory for rudimentary manipulation of magical energies.

The time had come.

(If at that point you wonder how I turned from a grim have-not into a power hungry proto-sorcerer, here is a bit of context: it was mainly because of my brother, Alex. Yes, I have a younger brother, who is living back in Sofport. I'll tell you more about him later in the story. For now, I'll say this much: Alex was trying to become a mage, just like me, following his own set of methods.

Yet my brother never had to face the challenges I had. He never lacked friends. He had finished university – true, in our home country, but still! And he had started studying magic years before me. He had no access to a library full of arcane lore, but he had resources, support, and confidence. And every time I contacted him, I heard piece by piece how my little brother was turning into someone capable, someone powerful, while I was plunging toward rock bottom.

So yeah. I would prove I could be a person who controlled his own destiny like Alex, like a true mage. I would do all this, and more. I was never going to let myself fall behind my brother, who always had it easy and had never tasted true despair.)

(You see now where this is headed?)

Thus burdened, one late summer night I prepared for the greatest trial in my life: casting my first real spell.

My preparations were meticulous: I checked the casting steps a dozen times, I fasted for three days, and I cleansed myself ritually before the casting. The spell I had chosen was about divining one's fate. It stood to reason that if I knew my fate, I'd be able to live my life better by attracting desirable events and avoiding imminent disasters. That night the stars again shone brightly in the sky. I was about to make history!

I failed completely.

I cast the spell impeccably; I chanted and arranged components with laser precision; yet in the end, nothing happened. No grand visions, no ethereal mirages, no summoned higher powers. The only result was silence, broken by the faint buzzing of cicadas outside.

I was crushed. Over the next week, I tried several other spells, each simpler than the last, yet to no avail. My efforts... were for naught. My knowledge was defective.

My life was a failure.

The next two months: deep depression, the kind I hadn't felt since dropping out of university. The old man tried to help me, but nothing could break my despair. I pushed away the old man, anger and self-hatred blazing inside me like a terrible demon. I barely talked, and when I looked in the mirror, I saw a broken stranger in my place.

This was the second time in my life I thought about suicide.

This time, however, I decided to go through with it.

Jared helped me find a tanto. I gave him some bullshit explanation why I needed it. I spent days steeling myself for the act. Having always had a penchant for dramatics, I also planned to end my life on my birthday.

It was late autumn when my sacred day came. Waiting until dark, I climbed the steep cliff located near the shrine temple. That day was a literal dark and stormy night, like a cliché made real. Heavy rain poured from the skies, lightning and thunder tore the heavens, the wind furious enough to make grown men bend over.

None of this affected me.

I stood on the cliff, dressed in monasterial garments, shouting profanities at the heavens and at whatever indifferent gods were listening. I raised high the dagger I held, ready to plunge it straight into my chest, and end it all.

Then suddenly, someone very powerful – or something – grabbed me by the wrist.

Shocked, I spun around, but lost my footing, and fell from the sheer cliff.

Yet instead of falling to my death, I fell... somewhere else.

It was another world. Another reality.

It was the Sea of Stars.

And that was the moment when my true story began.