After five days of flight, we passed over the first city. Much to Mahya’s disappointment, it wasn’t a dungeon cluster but a bustling, populated city. While she’d cooled off considerably since the last world, her urge to clear dungeons lingered—a mix of pent-up frustration and her ambitious goal of collecting a hundred cores.
As we hovered above, we exchanged glances, each of us wearing the same questioning expression. Ultimately, we all agreed: no more cities in this world. Even Rue joined in with a quick headshake. This one might have been better—or worse—but none of us were eager to find out. Tempting fate wasn’t on the itinerary.
This city looked different from Tolarib or Zarad. Its architecture leaned toward a more practical, boxy design—like the ruined city—and lacked the over-the-top Arabian flair of the others. There were still grand houses dotting the city, but everything looked more restrained, like the city had opted for function over flash.
Two things were the same: the massive wall surrounding it and the clear division between the rich and poor. That stark contrast, one side gleaming while the other obviously struggled, was a punch to the gut that brought up nasty memories. Seeing it from above was enough to solidify my resolve to steer clear. I didn’t need another dose of emotional baggage, not when I was already carrying plenty from the last two cities. This one could keep its problems—I wasn’t in the mood to discover them.
During our travels, Al and Mahya took turns practicing with the flying sword. Al, being Al, didn’t need any hand-holding—he was completely independent, zipping around with ease. Mahya, on the other hand, had me hovering nearby like an overprotective parent for her first three attempts. By the fourth, she was rock-solid, her movements confident and steady, so I finally backed off. It had nothing to do with the stink eyes.
Every time one of them took off on the sword, Rue would watch from the balloon, looking utterly dejected, his tail drooping like a wilted flower. I could tell some of it was theatrics—his own little performance to “encourage” me to prioritize the flying sword project—but not all of it. There was genuine longing in those big eyes and across our bond. He wanted his turn, and honestly, I couldn’t blame him. The thought of Rue swooping around on a flying sword was almost enough to make me drop everything and start working on a version just for him—if only I had any idea how to make it work.
My preoccupation with this riddle led me down an entirely different thought path. The magic books were annoyingly insistent on certain rules: you can’t mix runes and magic script. Well, I did. You can’t create spells that aren’t based on aspected mana. Yet, I managed. Maybe they were missing the whole channel creation aspect within the body, which would explain their lack of progression. Still, I created those spells, and they worked, plain and simple.
Then there was the so-called golden rule: the only way to create Magitech items was with cores or mana crystals, using runes or magic script to control the effects. But even that was debunked. The cultivators proved it was complete and utter nonsense.
I looked back at my experiences. At the time, I didn’t know a thing about spell creation, aspects, or even mana. All I knew was that a man was dying, and I had two tools at my disposal: medical knowledge and mana. So, I did the only thing I could—I forced the magic to bend to my will and healed him.
It wasn’t just a matter of survival. It was instinct overriding ignorance. I didn’t know anything about magic—no rules, structure, do’s and don’ts—just raw mana and the desperate need to save a life. There were no fancy shell mesh, aspected mana, or carefully planned balance—only my will, forcing the magic to respond. At that moment in time, I didn’t view magic as something you must study first. It was something you did.
Stolen novel; please report.
In the process, I ended up creating actual spells. Not just quick fixes or hacks, but real, functioning spells that existed independently. They even had the channel creation aspect—proof enough, since they progressed in level like any other spell.
Yes, my medical knowledge had played a big part in that case, but still... it had been more than that. It had been raw instinct, desperation, and maybe a touch of madness. I hadn’t followed rules or formulas—I had just done it. The magic had responded, bending to my will in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. And yet, there I was, with spells that grew like any others.
That has to mean something, doesn’t it?
The same had been true with fire. I hadn’t built a relationship with her like I had with the wind. Instead, I forced her down my channels and kept myself alive with magic.
Fire wasn’t forgiving like Wind; she didn’t dance to my tune willingly. Every moment I worked with her felt like a battle of wills—a clash of stubbornness against persuasion. It made me wonder if magic itself had personalities, or if it was my own attitude shaping the experience. Wind felt effortless because it was part of me—playful, adaptable, quick to move on. Fire, though, demanded respect. It burned and consumed, but in the end, it didn’t do its best to kill me. Maybe that was her way of meeting me halfway.
Nowhere had I seen this described as a viable course of action, but it had worked. And I had done it purely on instinct. I hadn’t thought about it or read a book—or ten—on the subject. I acted. And it worked.
Maybe my relationship with fire wasn’t friendly or effortless like with wind. But with wind, the ease had come from my base nature. I was closest to her in my characteristics and temperament—it just made sense.
I had read a lot of books about magic—or, more accurately, endured an endless amount of wizard-speak on the subject. But the more knowledge I gathered, the more it seemed to slip away from me, as if the understanding was muddying the water.
The wizard spirals were also an idea I had come up with on my own. Based on a description I found later buried in one of the books, I had managed to build them correctly—“by the book,” as they say. Another thing I had figured out on my own and pulled off with relative ease.
The same went for splitting my mind, mana saturation, and mana manipulation. Lis had forced me to find a solution when it came to dealing with mana-saturated trees, and I had done it. No guides, no neatly laid-out instructions—just trial, error, and sheer necessity.
That sneaky bugger! He figured me out!
Instead of handing me a book to read, he had just told me to cut the trees and left me to figure it out. I facepalmed, the realization finally sinking in. It was the first time I truly saw it for what it was—him tossing me into the deep end and forcing me to swim, trusting that I’d find a solution.
I smiled, but the wave of missing him hit me hard. It had been a few years, yet I still missed him as if he’d just stepped through the Gate to the dragons.
I miss you, my conniving friend.
I thought about all the books I had read. Despite the annoyance and the sheer perseverance it had taken to plow through and untangle the awful wizard-speak, I had gained some general understanding of mana, the laws and rules of magic. Hmm, perhaps just mere suggestions in my case. The way I could store incomplete magic circles under my skin was proof enough. I never saw even a whisper about the possibility.
I came to a conclusion: it was time to stop searching in books and find my own way. My own approach. Or maybe not find it, but rediscover it.
Everything that had worked so far came from instinct. It wasn’t about memorizing the rules or following someone else’s path. It was about finding what magic meant to me. I wasn’t rejecting the books entirely; they had their place. But they were someone else’s roadmap, and it was time for me to chart my own course.
After all, my biggest wins had been my own—from healing to my connection with the wind. I had done those without any prior knowledge, and I had done them perfectly.