The Goblin barely manages a squeak before its head gets blown off.

+177 Exp

Astra takes a big gulp of air. His fingers feel clammy, and sweat is uncomfortably soaking through his rags. He’s holding the crooked staff in his shaky hands, wisps of green wafting from its head as the magic finally fades.

Headless Goblin corpses lay all around him, staining the mild dirt road a damp red. Blowdarts and dulled knives lay all around.

He takes another gulp of air, and breathes.

It’s been a day since he nearly died. The kind lady will probably scold him for being so ambivalent, but he’s nearly starved before—seven times actually. He’s rather used to nearly dying.

He’s walking along the dirt road towards the village nearby. He’s carrying a straw basket on his back, filled with all sorts of crafts he made from strips of straw. His cutting knife is strapped to his waist, just in case he needs it.

And then he comes across a platoon of Goblins, suspiciously moving in the direction of the village. There’s nowhere to hide, nor no way to run. There are hardly any trees on the plains that surround the dirt road, and the shadows of the canopies are too far away.

So he reached for the crooked staff he’d been carrying in his basket, and he fired those green orbs at the Goblins. A single orb was enough to blow their head off. The issue was the time he needed to spend charging up the staff, and the wave of weakness that follows once he’s let the orb loose.

He won despite it. He nearly got his neck pierced by a dart a few times, but he’s alive and unharmed. Still, considering he’d killed twelve Goblins, it’s a great showing. He would’ve probably needed to run away if he was fighting solely using his dulled cutting knife.

He takes one more gulp of air, and jams his crooked staff back into his basket. He gives the corpses one last glance before he continues down the dirt path.

He’s heading to the village to sell some of the straw crafts he had lying around. And perhaps, he might get the chance to find something he can buy. He doubts he’ll find anything, but it won’t hurt to try.

After hours of walking, he reaches the border of the village.

He calls it a ‘border’, but it’s hardly a genuine one. It’s nothing but a line dug into the dirt, with tiny stubs of wood to outline the village. Just above the path leading into the village is an arc of wood, with the words ‘Hubaba Village’ carved into the wood.

He can’t help but crack a small smile at it. Hubaba Village—he’s always found the name a little but humorous. It reminds him of all the times the old man had retold the story of how the village got its name, often while he’s completely drunk.

The village isn’t that large. There are only seventeen buildings, built from wood and stone. There are only some odd thirty people living here, most of them old or weak. Most of the younger folks have left for the city just a couple hours away by wagon, drawn by the possibilities of Vurels and opportunities.

There’s a large farm just north of the village, where Ulikberries are grown and harvested to be sold to the upper class. Nobles seem to like desserts filled with the purple-colored berries, and so they’re grown here. Just next to that farm is a smaller patch, where the crops grown for the rest of the villagers are grown.

He turns left, and it isn’t long before he comes across a building with a sign hanging above its door. ‘Garr’s Wares’ it reads, though the letters are so skewed it's nearly illegible. He enters, the bell held just above makes a soft jingle as the door closes behind him.

The inside is a cluttered mess of things, put either on the shelves or stuffed into boxes. There’s a counter by the end of the room, and he sees a portly old man sleeping, with his face pressed into the counter and the edges of his curled mustache barely sticking out from his cheeks.

He walks up to the counter, and he slams his hands down.

The old man abruptly wakes up with a shout. “Bloody ‘ell!” He screams, before he calms down as he sees Astra. “Oh, it’s just you.” He groans. “Stop doin’ that, you lil’ bugger.”

Astra blinks. “You’re the one who told me to do that though.”

The old man stares. “Yea’, you’re not wrong t’ere.”

Astra snickers as he begins unloading his basket. He places the straw crafts on the counter, and the old hums as he inspects them. He then reaches into the counter and pulls out a small leather sack. He drops a few dozen Vurels into it and ties it close. Astra smiles as he takes the sack and drops it back into his basket.

Inevitably, the crooked staff sticking out of his basket catches the old man’s attention. “Wha’s that?” He asks, pointing at the staff’s head.

“Got it from a Goblin.” He says with a shrug, ignoring the mild panic in the old man’s eyes. “It was two weeks ago. One tried killing me in my sleep.”

“You’re one scary lil’ bugger, ain’t you?” The old man sighs. “You’re probab’y the only one ‘ere brave enough to go against them Goblins.”

Astra tilts his head. “Is that why the Village was so empty?”

The old man nods. “Yeah. They scared of the platoons that comes ev’ry day. If we hide, there’s some chance they’ll jus’ move on.”

Astra hums. “I don’t think that’s going to do anything.” He says, remembering the Warlock he killed. “When I was coming here, I came across twelve Goblins. I think they know that you’re all living here.”

The old man’s eyes practically bulge out of their sockets. “Twelve!?” He shouts. “And you’re alive!?”

“I almost died, but here I am.” He admits.

The old man stares for a moment, before a sardonic smile comes to his face. “Lad, why’re you still here?” He asks, his voice dropping low. It makes him sound somewhat coherent for the first time. “All the kids ‘ave gone to Florade already. Why don’ you join them a’ready? Leave us weak folk here?”

Astra blinks. “Why should I?” He asks, not quite understanding.

He sighs. “Lad, you’re wastin’ your life ‘ere.”

Astra blinks again. “Am I?” That is far from the truth. He’d stuck around for so long so that he’ll finally get his Record Calibrated. And now that he has, he’s using the forests and the Goblins to get used to the Magic he’s firing from his staff. “I don’t see how.”

The old man just sighs, and pats him in an uncomfortably patronizing way.

Astra slings the basket back onto his back. But as he turns to leave, the old man calls out, “By t’e way, you still lookin’ for that book on Magic?”

He turns and nods. “I’m always-” He’s interrupted when the old man suddenly flings a fairly thick book his way. He catches it and stumbles slightly from the weight. He blinks. “What’s this for?”

“Giv’ the title a read.”

He narrows his eyes at the title. “Aria’s Guide to Magistry?” He blinks. “Wait, this…”

“Ye’ kept askin’ for book on Magic.” The old man waves at the book. “So there ya’ go. Some guy sol’ it for cheap couple days back.”

Astra grins. “You’re the best, old man!”

He just grumbles, but Astra can tell the old man’s silently pleased. He always twirls his mustache when he’s happy. “Bugge’ off, lad.” He says, and then adds a quiet, “Careful ou’ there.”

“I will!”

The bell clings as Astra leaves the old man’s place, and he grins again at the book the old man gave. He really wasn’t expecting the old man to give him a book about Magic! Is something going on? Is he about to leave like Maman did? Maman did leave him a book when she disappeared.

He hopes not. The old man’s really nice.

He drops the book into his basket and turns towards the dirt path he came from. With a smile still on his face, he fixes his basket’s strap and begins walking home.

His return trip is far less exciting. He finds no Goblins, nor any paths a new platoon might’ve left behind. It’s only him and the soft winds blowing across the grasses around him. It’s really nice, if a little curious. Is only a single platoon sent to the Village every day? He should’ve probably asked the old man about that before he left.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

He makes it home, and he quickly slings the basket from his back and grabs the book the old man gave. He lays down on his pathwork bed, and with an excited grin he pulls the book open.

And immediately, he’s bombarded by numbers and terminologies he doesn’t understand. He can read them, but their meaning is lost on him. Paleo? Integrals? Samsara? What do all those even mean?

But after a few pages, he comes across a diagram. A drawing of seven circles, with six drawn around a single center circle. The 6 circles have a symbol drawn on each of them: A fire, waves, rocks, lightning, trails of wind, and vines. The one in the center depicts a swirl of some kind.

There are words written beneath each. He squints his eyes as he reads the one below the center circle.

“Force.” He reads, and then turns his eyes to the left side of the page. “The origin of Magic. A compilation of pure vectors, driven by Prism and structured by…” He squints at the words. There’s a slew of odd terminologies he doesn’t understand right after that.

Still, he’s fairly sure he’s grasped the basics of it. Force is the literal ‘force’ of Magic, and can be branched out into other types of Magic. He still doesn’t know how or why it works, but he might gain some insight when he fully reads through the book. If he manages to understand all the piling terminologies, that is.

He takes another glance at the crooked staff leaning by the wall. He thinks of that whiplash he feels with every green orb he fires, or the burning sensation that courses through his veins.

Is that what Magic really feels like? Burns and pains coursing through his flesh with every spell cast? Maman says that most Magicians begin learning from when they’re young. But how? How do children deal with pains like that?

He knows it’ll get better. His hands used to go hot with pain when he fought with his knife, but he no longer feels that. That dulling will no doubt happen again with time.

It doesn’t make him any less queasy.

He continues reading. The words don’t get easier, the numbers don’t get any shorter, and it isn’t long before he has to physically wrench his eyes away from the twisting letters on the page. His mind rings with a headache-inducing buzz, and he takes hold of his crooked staff to calm his mind. The usually uncomfortable warmth becomes strangely comforting.

He takes a deep breath.

He likes reading books. He really likes it actually. But something about that book makes his head hurt. Even as he skimps over words he doesn’t quite understand, he can feel some sort of pressure on his eyes. It’s like those words are somehow attacking him.

Or maybe they are? He doesn’t know. Magic is Magic, after all.

There’s something that managed to stick, though. Somewhere in the middle of that twisting body of text is a piece of advice from the author. “An affinity can be built through mastery.” It says.

And it gives him an idea. An affinity for Force can be created just by using it over and over again? That’s perfect! He can progress in his [Prism Gathering], and he still has a Goblin infestation he needs to survive. It’s the best chance to use the crooked staff over and over.

With his plan set, he spends the rest of the day reading through the book. He has to look away once in a while, clutching his crooked staff and taking deep breaths to slowly dull the headache. It doesn’t get any better the more he does it. If anything, the pain seems to get worse and worse the further he reads.

By the time he reaches the last page, three days have gone by. His eyes are dry, and his head feels stuffy from all the time he spent inside the hut. His stash of Pulip Nuts has slightly dwindled during it, and his buckets of river water has just about run out.

Which means it’s time for him to return to the forest.

He doesn’t head out immediately. He’s completely exhausted from all the reading, and he can barely take a few steps before the world begins to spin.

It’s fine. He can last a day without water.

He takes a deep breath.

Prism Gathering — Rank I

Progress Cache: 21%

Allows [Astra] to absorb Prism from the atmosphere.

Recorded Techniques: [Meditative Breathing]

The book mentioned something about this, actually. The author mentions that there are eleven known techniques, and increasing the Rank of [Prism Gathering] becomes far easier the more techniques he uses.

It’s not that easy, unfortunately. It seems most Magicians don’t tend to share their own techniques. He seems to have lucked out with his [Meditative Breathing].

He’s thankful. He’s fairly sure he would’ve been dead if he didn’t have this.

Hmm. He wonders what would’ve happened if he died during his Record Calibration. Would he have just vanished from the planet, torn into Ether and fed back to the Record? Or would he have become some sort of undead being, revived by the Calibration at the moment of death?

He doesn’t really know. He is interested to find out, though. Maybe he’ll ask when he finds a Necromancer.

With those rather morbid thoughts, he finally falls asleep.

It’s a dreamless sleep. He hasn’t dreamt for years now.

When he wakes, he cheers at the distinct lack of that persistent headache, before grimacing at how dry his throat feels. He’s used to rationing his water when the weather outside becomes too harsh to bear, but the dryness of his throat never gets any better.

He grimaces. He can already envision what’ll happen. The forests are no longer safe. Platoons of Goblins roam the trees and the paths. He can imagine himself walking down the sloped paths, only to be jumped by a platoon of a dozen or so Goblins. He’ll live, sure, but his buckets of river water will surely have been spilled due to all the jostling.

His usual routine won’t do. He can’t carry six or seven buckets all at once. They’ll just spill before he can return home.

So he takes a couple of his wooden buckets, straps his knife into his waist, and with his crooked staff in hand, he leaves his hut behind.

And nothing happens for some time. He reaches the larger forest neighboring his hut, and he begins climbing the sloped dirt path, heading towards the river halfway up the path.

But then he dives left into the forest, and comes right into the face of a Goblin. It’s squatting right next to the bush, and seems rather busy with something. Its expression of surprise quickly turns to rage, and it opens its mouth as it yanks its blowdart from the string on its waist.

He stabs his knife right through the Goblin’s neck as quickly as it can. It sputters for a moment, before the blowgun slips between its fingers.

+201 Exp

He doesn’t relax. He might’ve only seen one Goblin, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be others nearby.

He’s right to do so, as he suddenly hears something from his left. He barely manages to duck before a poisoned dart goes flying over his head. He turns to see a platoon of ten Goblins staring at him, eyes turning between him and the Goblin corpse next to him.

They begin screeching as they pull out their knives and blowguns.

He pulls out his crooked staff in turn, feeling that uncomfortable feeling creep up his arm as a swirling green orb forms over his staff’s head.

He points it at the platoon, ready to let it loose, and stops.

A thought rings inside him. He’s inside a forest, deep in what he assumes has become the territory of a Goblin Camp. If he sends this green orb flying, he’ll no doubt attract attention. He can’t have that. He won’t be able to gather his Magic in time, and his knife only has a few more uses before it fully dulls.

What if…he doesn’t let the orb fly? If he instead slams the staff into the Goblin’s skull, it’ll surely still work, right?

He has no more time to ponder. The first wave of darts come flying, and he ducks under as he rushes forward. A Goblin is there to meet him, snarling as he hefts that rusted knife high into the air, intent on jamming it through his skull.

He takes a deep breath, and he swings his staff upward.

A disgusting squelch sounds as the staff’s head paves right through the Goblin’s face, the green orb completely tearing through the flesh and bones. The rusted knife falls onto the dirt as the Corpse limply follows it.

+198 Exp

“Well,” He stares at the staff. The green orb that’s taken the place of the head looks a tad smaller, but the pressure remains just as strong. “Guess that works.”

He sprints forward. The Goblin she’s approaching squeaks as it tries to swing its knife. It doesn’t make it in time, and his staff burrows right through the Goblin’s face, splattering blood all over the crooked wood. He takes a breath, and with a mighty swing he tears the staff out of the dead Goblin’s head and straight into the skull of another.

+441 Exp

He leaps to the side, and a volley of darts goes flying past. A Goblin appears behind him then, ready to shake his back. He takes another breath as he spins, jamming the staff towards the Goblin’s knife. The rusted metal snaps beneath the overwhelming Force, and the Goblin screeches as the green orb bores a hole straight through its chest.

+176 Exp

He turns to the remaining Goblins. They’re all still in the midst of reloading a dart into their blowguns, and he leaps into a run. They squawk as he comes across them, and they can do little as he tears them down one after another. The green orb grows smaller and smaller with every Goblin he kills, but it’s more than enough.

By the time the last Goblin falls dead, the green orb’s shrunk by around half. Despite that, the invisible pressure remains just as strong.

+1379 Exp

He sighs. That…had gone a lot better than he was expecting. He thought he would have struggled a lot more with keeping the green orb attached to his staff, but he barely needed to think about that.

Still, what is he supposed to do with the green orb now? He can’t just fire it. It’ll create a loud mess no matter where he fires it.

…Ah! Right, he remembers reading about this. Magic can ‘break apart’. How is he-

He nearly tumbles as the pressure suddenly vanishes, and he watches with wide eyes as the green orb unwinds, turning into strings of green as it fades into the air.

He blinks. It’s that easy, he supposes.

With the threat over, he begins walking deeper into the forest, following the distant sloshing of the river as his guide. Eventually, the trees begin to thin out, and he starts seeing the sparkling waters of the rushing rivers.

But as he approaches, he begins hearing something else.

Grunts and screeches. Ones that sound awfully familiar. He carefully peeks his head from a bush, and he very nearly gawks at what he sees.

Goblins. Tens upon tens of Goblins, drinking and splashing about the River.

He gulps.

It seems his plan to get some water has become a lot more complicated than he initially thought.