Sunday didn’t fully trust in Old Rud’s many lessons. He was smart enough to know things were not black and white, and that personal experiences skewed the man’s view of the world. It was one thing to know, and another not to allow himself to become the same.

Memories of the old bastard came often since Sunday had been reborn. Was a part of him using the memories as an anchor, afraid that he would lose himself to the life in undeath he had been granted?

The alligator made a few circles over the river, showing off, before bringing him to the opposite bank. Arten scrambled back and hugged a tree, making Sunday chuckle. The man was an enjoyable sight at the moment.

Sunday jumped on the mud with a plop, and after making sure his legs were not trembling, gave a grand smile to the dumbstruck human.

The large alligator’s scary mouth didn’t seem as scary anymore, and Sunday patted it on the side of its maw, making the humongous creature give out a throaty sound that could be interpreted as growling.

“I knew you had gratitude in you, fatty! Thanks for the ride. Can you help me again in a bit?”

The alligator opened and closed its maw. Sunday wasn’t sure it understood him, but this world was magic, right? He decided to take his chances if only to fuel the fear and confusion in Arten. People were less likely to fuck with you if they thought you were scary crazy and could speak with prehistorically-sized monsters.

“How…? His horn is fine too…” the human stuttered. Sunday swelled with pride then coughed out some more swamp water. The taste was atrocious but bearable. He had tasted worse things, Old Rud’s cooking being one of them.

“Some things are better left as a mystery,” Sunday smiled. It was good practice for when the time came to spread rumors or stories about himself. He had decided that he needed a certain flair, an aura that captivated and made people think he was more than he was. A performance for the masses.

Arten looked at the large alligator that easily slid back into the water, his horn proudly sticking toward the sky. Without a word, the man turned around and trudged on. Sunday followed.

This side of the swamp was unsurprisingly almost the same. The light that reached them was going down, announcing the departure of the sun. Arten frowned at that and hurried his steps. Sunday didn’t mind either way. Night or day was the same to him.

It was almost fully dark before they reached a small clearing. The fireflies came out in droves and Sunday gazed at them again, watching them dance among the leaves and tall branches. Would the Lampyria spell he found shine brighter in his hands now that he was a proper mage? Would it still be hurt?

Arten answered his question as he burst in motion, before cupping his hand around one of the lights. It turned out to be just a regular firefly so he let it go. Can’t he tell them apart? It was clear as day to Sunday which were fireflies and which were spells. Arten didn’t seem to have the same sense though, and it took the man a few tries until he caught the right one.

Soon after a ball of light lit up the night world of the swamp. It was much larger than Sunday had managed to produce on his first attempt – about the size of a bowling ball. It was soft light, that made the shadows dance and gave a different type of beauty to the swamp.

Sunday almost asked if the spell would be alright, but stopped himself. It was a silly question. Spells were tools after all – essences that took shape and held various abilities. If he thought differently then that would mean each time he used the moths he was killing them. Not that he was particularly fond of bugs, but the thought rubbed him the wrong way. Plus, they fed off his own essence and seemed to be thriving now that he had let them rest.

Arten continued like that. It was almost as if they were going in circles and Sunday started doubting the man knew what they were doing. Surely good spells were not that easy to find. Phantasmal Fall had been a lucky one for him, but it was still just a weak thing that created a moment of confusion in his targets. He had yet to try on himself.

With the sudden urge overcoming him, he did just that. It felt as if he was about to fall as the ground disappeared beneath him. A momentary distraction resulting in a sinking feeling. The same as if he was going down a stairway blind, and expected one more step than there was.

Such a simple effect, yet it had been instrumental in his fights a few times. He wondered how it worked. What was the exact science behind it? It was easy to write it off as magic, and even if someone offered an explanation, he was sure it would go over his head. It didn’t stop him from wondering though.

A sound interrupted his fascination.

A thump, like that of a rubber ball hitting a tree with high velocity. What a strange image.

“That’s it! Quiet now!” Arten whispered excitedly.

Can spells hear us come for them? Why be quiet?

He followed in silence either way. The sound came again from a tree near them. Sunday saw some splinters fly out. A couple of seconds later a brown ball shot out of where it had been lodged in the tree bark and with a whooshing sound hit another, producing the same dull sound and breaking its bark. It didn’t go too deep.

That’s a spell…? It was odd to look at it. There was no glow and nothing strange or magical about it. It was just that, a rubber ball hitting trees. How are we catching that?! What is this idiot doing?

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Arten was halfway into taking off his shirt and holding it with both hands. The man moved quickly, crouched down below the supposed trajectory of the spell. Sunday noticed that most of the densely packed trees had holes in them. The spell had been playing pinball all on its own for who knows how long. It was a miracle it hadn’t flattened the swamp or exhausted itself already. There were so many questions buzzing in Sunday’s head that would remain without answer that all he could do was sigh and follow the idiot human. He wanted to see what would happen.

And what happened was great.

As the spell shot out again in a straight line Arten jumped with his shirt held in both hands, trying to pin it down. He missed by a large margin and fell face-first on the ground. Sunday chuckled silently but didn’t intervene. He noticed the ball was spinning as it flew, and slightly changed direction after each shot so as to not simply go between the same two trees.

The human stood up, his expression like solid stone, and waited again. The light he had cast still floated above him illuminating the trees around and giving Sunday the best possible view of the show.

The spell shot out again, and Arten jumped. This time his timing was better, but that didn’t serve in his favor. The ball hit him square in the side and sent him doubling over on the ground. Did it crack a rib? Sunday didn’t want to have to reveal the moths just to heal the stupid man.

Arten seemed fine, thankfully, if a bit winded.

“Won’t you help?!” he asked with annoyance. Sunday shrugged. As much as he liked the spell he was under the impression Arten would take it. It was enticing though, especially after seeing it in action. He had been shot by a rubber bullet once, used as a moving practice target for some bored bastards, and the bruise had been a thing of legend.

“I think you’re doing fine,” he said. It came out a bit louder than he had hoped and in the next moment, the spell shot right at him. It heard me?! It had lowered its angle and Sunday had to throw himself flat on the ground to dodge it. He heard the whoosh pass above and a second later the crunch of the tree behind.

Without thinking he stood up and turned. He grabbed at the ball at the same moment it shot again. Using both hands somewhat reduced the force but it still hit him in the chest and threw him on his back. He didn’t let go, however. He turned on his stomach and used his full weight to hold it down.

It struggled with more force than Sunday had expected. Almost as if he was trying to wrestle a small and fierce animal or a rabid child. The spell grew still for a few seconds and just as Sunday was about to relax it shot forward, forcing him to extend his arms as he tried to hold on. It managed to drag him for a foot or so. There was a pause as Sunday groaned.

“Take it!” Arten screamed. He had almost reached Sunday, having lost a few precious seconds staring at the spectacle.

“What?!” Sunday retorted.

“Take in your soul space! Use it! Fucking do something!”

The spell once again grew still and Sunday pushed off with the tips of his toes and threw his whole body on it as if it was a live grenade and he was playing the hero. It shot upwards, lifting him half a foot off the ground but he held strong. He landed hard, mostly on his knees and chin, but the ground was soft enough that he only suffered some pain and a bruised ego.

“I am the only one doing something you motherfucker!” He yelled.

Sunday felt a weight drop on top of his back forcing whatever air was inside him out. This moron… what the fuck?!

“What are you doing?!”

“We can’t let it get away! I don’t have space!” Arten retorted and wiggled adding some more awkwardness to the situation and making Sunday groan.

He doesn’t have space? He got his dry spell, the light, and something else?

The spell shot upward again and Sunday groaned. Sandwiched between Arten and the spell left him with few options. Good thing it was not strong enough to seriously hurt him. Do undead bastards like me bruise?

“What do you mean you don’t have space?” You lying sack of swap mud.

“I’m at full capacity! I was considered above average for being able to hold two spells at first rank! Can you do more?!”

Shit! Is that right?

“No?”

“Come on!”

Good then! You will beg me for it back! Stupid piece of— wait, why am I angry? I wanted the spell and I’m getting what I wanted. Ha! Take that you human filth. I’ll fucking take the world and make you polish my boots! No, that’s wrong. That’s slavery. We don’t do that. Maybe I’ll invent capitalism so I don’t feel bad about enslaving people…

Sunday reached for the spell as he had done before but this time, there was a hell of a wall. His essence was pushed back and mauled by the spell’s berserk one. The Omen of Duality had accepted him easily, as if the spell had waited for him, and the Phantasmal Fall had been no issue either.

But this little thing was not giving in!

Sunday pushed harder until his teeth were pressed together with such force that he heard them squeaking. He didn’t know why he was flexing so hard, but it felt right.

“What the fuck is taking so long? Are you trying to make me shit myself?!” Arten called from on top.

“I’m working on it, you worthless idiot!”

Sunday pushed harder. Finally, the spell gave in and he felt it disappear from his hands as it became essence that poured into his soul space. It was there then, bouncing around and trying to wreck the place to no avail. The moths paid it no heed as they flew around the crown of Sunday’s core, while the mote of purple kept falling and righting itself the next moment.

What a strange thing spells are.

Sunday plopped on his belly and sighed with relief.

“Get off me already!” he barked.

“Is it done?”

“Yeah, it’s trying to wreck me from the inside now.”

Artem rolled to the side and patted Sunday on the back. “Good job.”

Sunday turned on his back and sat up. His ribs were hurting badly. “What do you mean good job? What was your plan if I wasn’t here? You got no space?!”

“It’s a gift,” Arten said making Sunday blank. “An insurance for you. I’m no combat mage and I want something else that’s unachievable for now. The light will serve as a placeholder for now. You helped me and the ranun, and it's obvious you care what happens to Pearl even if you try to hide it. You’re not like the usual highborn undead. You’re a good guy. I hoped to ask Jishu for help, at first but you saw where that led…”

So now you’re throwing all your chips on me. Sunday remained silent. His pride was hurt most of all. He considered himself a blank canvas which could make the observers see only what he wanted. It seemed that his control was lacking with this new body. Everything was out of control.

“So, how about it? Help make the village a safe place for Pearl. I promise she will have a good life for as long as I can ensure it.”

“You just want what her blood will give you.”

Arten nodded. “I want that too, yes. To protect her, and myself.”

Bank on my perceived sensibilities and hope I’m fucked up enough to feel I owe you something.

“I’ll see what I can do. If you’re scheming, I swear I’ll let that freaky spell bash you in the mouth until all you can eat is swamp water and soup with a straw. You want me to beat up some bastards or what?”

“In a way, I think that’s what some need.”

I can at least agree with that. All some assholes often need is for someone to punch them in the face. Even me.