Magic was a peculiar thing. First of all, it existed.

But even more strange was that the human body, especially that of mundane Earth, was seemingly built for it. In a world where none existed, it was as if humanity had still evolved alongside magic. Earth human bodies could wield it as easily if not more so than the people of worlds where it was native.

TOAL’s scientists had several theories for why. Maybe we did evolve alongside magic and it just disappeared before the advent of written language or recorded history? Humanity could speak for over a hundred thousand years before we could write, and we’ve been writing for only several thousands or ten thousands.

Maybe there was the barest iota of magic on Earth? Just enough to give rise to human-specific traits like sapience, but not to do anything noticeable like conjuring a fireball.

Whatever the answer was, it allowed anyone brought to a fantasy world to make full use of magic as if they had prodigious talent, sometimes even better than the locals.

But the same factors in real life determined your actual talent. Genetics and epigenetics, mindset, and general aptitude for the subject. Not to mention elemental affinities, which were based on much the same.

When he was first brought to a fantasy world, Artyom was above average in disposition and aptitude, thanks to being from Earth. A childhood full of schooling and dreaming of a world of magic helped a lot with that. But being quickly thrown into a war of life or death forced him into the proper mindset.

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Artyom blinked.

Twenty four left. They charged at him all at once, from all across the camp, intent on killing him where he stood. For all the innocence they expressed in their thoughts, mercy was as foreign to them as whatever Artyom was.

The man from Earth looked at the soldiers closest to him and acted on instinct.

Aura of Intimidation.

The soldiers’ swings were fueled by rage and bloodthirst, but as the wave of magically charged emotion washed over them, the red in their vision was washed away by a sudden, much stronger shade of yellow. They flinched, and Artyom took that opportunity to attack their exposed necks with a stolen sword.

Twenty two left.

Artyom’s aura quickly began to weaken, before soon it was having the opposite effect on the soldiers, imbuing the closest ones with the confidence to charge.

As soon as the next two got within range, the aura flipped back to intimidation and threw off their swings.

Artyom repeated his previous actions, and left two more corpses on the ground.

Twenty.

“What was that?” asked one of the soldiers. “I could’ve sworn he was so weak for a second, and then all of a sudden he was the scariest thing in the world!”

“It must be a spell!” shouted another soldier in the back. “Not one I know, but I’m sure about it!”

Aura wasn’t exactly a standard spell, but worked along the same principles. Magical energy, when channeled into a shape and applied with an element, became a spell. A fireball was effectively the element of fire applied to a tight ball of magic and thrown. Spellcasters could harness elements they were personally attuned to or had some trace of nearby.

One problem with Artyom’s initial training was that he didn’t get the chance to naturally attune to an element. It was a long process that involved meditating on the very nature of something, a task that could take years. He didn’t have that kind of time so he had to rely on elements in the environment.

But keeping a lantern lit or a large enough tank of water on him at all times was cumbersome, and the standard spells of those elements didn’t fit his needs. The “Personal Strength and Weakness” already within him and others, as well as the ever-present fundamental force of “Gravity,” on the other hand did.

And then there was aura. Simply put, it was the element of “Human Will,” but the only thing that affected its behavior was the emotion it was combined with. Intimidation required anger, superiority, and bloodlust. To inspire confidence in opponents, one only needed to feel fear and a lack of self-confidence. Those feelings could be internally faked, the process being akin to method acting, and Artyom had spent much of his life pretending to be something he wasn’t.

“You idiots, charge all at once!” shouted the largest of the soldiers in a deep voice that caught everyone’s attention like some sort of beacon of order. “If someone gets hit with his scare magic, everyone else nearby should also attack!”

Artyom let out a quiet sigh. He hoped his enemies would continue to play dumb, but that was just wishful thinking. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t prepared for this, however.

A group of six circled the man from Earth, and then those behind him charged.

Artyom flared his aura, not just at his attackers but all around him, and prepared to strike at those who got close.

“Got you now,” said the largest of the soldiers. “[Fearless Charge]!”

Artyom felt no magic emanating from the man or falling upon those at his back, but just like magic, they shook off his aura as if never being affected by it and attacked.

“Shit,” the man from Earth swore as he cast a speed spell on himself to be able to get his sword in position to parry all three of the strikes coming for him at once. While his enhanced strength was enough to catch and hold back the whole trio of blows, his stolen sword began to crack and soon shattered under the combined force.

Artyom jumped to the side before the enemies’ weapons could touch him. Rather than going back in for a counterattack, he looked at the largest of the soldiers who’d shouted out the Skill and with all his strength, threw the hilt of his pilfered weapon at the man.

Systems always made things complicated. No two worlds’ were alike, in that the abilities they granted as reward for the same tasks and efforts varied, but the sheer scope of what constituted an “ability” was mind-boggling.

The name of the Skill that was shouted out sounded like an army leadership Skill, something a commander or general would use to strengthen their troops before or during a battle. Since it had only affected three of the soldiers, it probably wasn’t that strong, or its user was just very low leveled. The latter was already obvious.

Being from another world and starting with no System powers, Artyom was at a natural disadvantage. Normally most newcomers to a world would be granted their first levels and abilities within a day, as they bring an adult perspective and level of effort to something most began as a child, not to mention that Earthers naturally leveled up faster.

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But for whatever reason, Artyom didn’t get any levels despite how much advanced spellcasting he’d performed. The man from Earth didn’t even have a simple magic efficiency Skill to call his own. Much of his repertoire hung on taking advantage of even the slightest boon or meta-magical ability, but the unpredictable nature of Systems led him to plan out alternatives when Skills weren’t good enough. Or in this case, when there were no Skills.

The sword hilt was knocked away from the massive soldier’s head as he parried it. He returned a mocking sneer and began to raise a finger to tauntingly wag, but it froze halfway up when a rush of blood spurted out of his shoulder.

Artyom tsked but ran straight at the man instead of shouting the spell name Gravity Lance or taunting him back. When the man from Earth didn’t have any levels, he made due with being clever and brutal.

Before the largest soldier could even blink, Artyom was already before him. The man from Earth tried to get in close and lay a palm on the giant’s chest, but a quick sweep of his sword kept him back. Artyom quickly navigated behind him to strike again, but somehow he was keeping up and denied any approach with deftly timed swings.

Giving it one more try, Artyom cast Gravity Lance and aimed directly at the giant’s heart. Close up, it would have been nigh-impossible to miss. Yet, as the invisible projectile entered the soldier’s personal space, he swung his sword and caught the spell. It bored a hole through the steel that definitely weakened the structural integrity of the weapon, but otherwise left the wielder completely unharmed.

Artyom frowned. Wasn’t this guy supposed to be low leveled with how weak his earlier Skill was? How was he putting up so much of a fight? He was a soldier though; not any sort of official leader. Artyom figured the Skill he used earlier might have been obtained through a fluke, by just ordering the others around like he was doing now, and being rewarded with a peculiar pittance for his efforts.

“What’s wrong? Never had your attacks parried like this before?” he asked with a smug grin.

“It has to be some kind of blocking or parry Skill,” thought Artyom. “It’s surprising he isn’t announcing its name like every other idiot here would, but he still gave it away with that taunt. He could be trying to mislead me though, but a parry Skill fits with how he caught my invisible attack. I’ll just have to roll with it.”

Artyom quickly bent over to pick up some dirt from the ground and threw it at the massive soldier.

He readied his sword with a smirk, but he grimaced as the dirt flew past it and into his eyes.

“So it only works on actual attacks, not distractions. And he has to be aware of the attack as well.”

While he was distracted, Artyom charged at a different, much smaller soldier behind him, and cast a quick Gravity Lance through his head.

Nineteen.

Artyom knew he was burning through magic now, especially with his crowd control spells still active over such a large number, but every instant counted.

With a new, unblemished sword in hand, the man from Earth ran back at the massive soldier and with both hands on the blade, swung with all his might.

The giant grinned as his own sword came to meet the strike.

Artyom’s smile was wider.

Two pieces of metal clashed, and the giant’s sword immediately broke in twain, the shattered top half of the blade flying over a dozen feet away.

The massive soldier immediately knew something was wrong, but was still cleaning the dirt from his eyes.

“He doesn’t even need to see the attack, just be aware one is coming. But every Skill has its weakness, and parry Skills can have many. Let’s test them all out at once.”

Artyom jumped back and put the rest of his plan into action. He threw the sword at his head, a Gravity Lance at his heart, and charged at his legs.

“[Perfect Parry]!” roared the giant in a show of bravado against the cloying desperation in his voice as he activated his Skill. His broken sword caught the Gravity Lance, and he moved his head out of the way just in time to only have an ear partially sliced by the thrown sword, but he could do nothing about the man whose palm was on his chest.

Not able to block multiple attacks at once? Needing a suitable weapon to use it? Whatever The Skill’s weakness was, it didn’t matter anymore.

“Parry this!” Artyom shouted as he cast Gravity Blender.

A spurt of blood and a single chunk of viscera flew out of the giant’s mouth before he fell to his knees, and then to the ground.

Eighteen.

The other soldiers looked on in sheer horror. They tried to take a step back.

“I know what you’ll do if you get away; you’ll just prey on passersby like actual bandits,” said Artyom, his eyes burning with hatred. “You’ll kill them on the spot, just like you’ve done to the people of Freeacres, and one day the hero might end up your victim. You know how this has to end.”

A few of the soldiers furthest out still tried to run.

Artyom dashed towards them and caught up within seconds, and plunged his stolen sword into their backs.

Fifteen.

This time, the smell of blood brought up the taste of bile in Artyom’s mouth. Killing a retreating enemy was definitely a war crime, but if he hadn’t done this, they would absolutely do it to an innocent. Holding the role of judge, jury, and especially executioner was a terrible burden. But one that Artyom didn’t have the luxury to process right now. This might have been war, but it was more than that; this was justice.

The other soldiers understood this. They raised their weapons high and ran at Artyom in a desperate attempt at carving out a chance at life through him.

Aura of Intimidation.

The nearest soldiers froze and Artyom cut through them snicker-snack.

Fourteen, thirteen.

One of them tried sneaking up on him while he was killing his compatriots.

Artyom dodged out of the way of the attack and threw a Gravity Lance. It pierced his chest, but didn’t instantly kill him. The following slash did.

Twelve.

Desperation was setting in, and the remaining soldiers jumped him all at once, weapons flying pell-mell heedless of who it would actually hit.

Artyom focused gravity magic into his feet and jumped. Gravity Bounce. He flew ten feet into the air and floated for a moment before starting to come down.

Most of the attacks that would have hit him otherwise missed, but a few of them instead hit the soldiers. One of them was nicked hard on the arm, but another wasn’t so lucky.

Eleven.

The remaining soldiers readied their attacks for when he inevitably landed, but Artyom didn’t give them the opportunity.

He cast the spell again, this time while turned to the side, and flew towards the ground at the same speed as his ascent. When he touched down, he quickly broke into a roll to burn off his momentum, and rose to his feet as soon as he was still.

The other soldiers ran at him, but they’d arranged themselves in enough of a line that Artyom was able to take out the one at the front.

Ten.

With so many fewer enemies, the man from Earth was confident he could keep track of them all at their full strength. He ended his weakening spells and instead focused it on the closest soldier to a much stronger degree before charging.

Nine.

He moved the spell and then his sword to the next target.

Eight.

And again, and again, and again.

Seven, six, five.

The last of them understood their fate and gave one final, empty charge.

Artyom cast his magic on all of them at once.

Four, three, two, one…

Zero.

A battlefield of blood and broken bodies lay all around him. What was once a merry party became the very thing it was meant to celebrate. Irony, karma, it could be called many things. A tired Artyom called it a necessity.