Every time Micah pumped his arms forward, the simple jacket he wore pushed him a little further. Every time he turned or lost his grip on the ground, it kept him stable against the pull of his backpack. When his form began to suffer, it kept him steady.
It really was more than just [Lesser Strength]. It was like a living armor assisting him from the outside.
He still couldn’t run at full speed because of the cold and weight of the luggage on his shoulders, but—
He stopped dead in his tracks. His cheeks and throat burned from cold air and rough sweat as he took in two heavy breaths and thought, Luggage.
Luggage!
“Argh, no!” He kicked at nothing and pushed his hands underneath his winter cap to run through the tightly-pressed mop of his hair. He had to pull it back before it fell to the grit below.
A woman gave him an odd look and he ducked his head down, cheeks flushing with a different kind of burn.
He knew what he had forgotten. His dirty laundry. Or rather, his laundry in general. They were going to spend two days at his sister’s place before the New Year as to not crowd his parents, and then a night or maybe two at the room they had rented in Westhill with the others.
Micah had wanted to bring his laundry along. Besides, he needed to wash his good shirt for tomorrow. Could he still go to the cleaners by the time he got back? Doubtful. He would have to either go all the way back just to get his things or bring back good detergent to wash it himself.
Damnit. He should have remembered.
Of course, he wouldn’t have thought of his dirty laundry with the secretary in his doorway but still.
Now he envied Mason even more with his stupid [Basic Preparation] Skill, his stupid face, and his stupid Path.
Micah couldn’t turn back now. He was already too close and nearly late. So for the last stretch, he jogged down the street and checked the clock the moment he pushed through the doorway.
A bell rung overhead, warmth enveloped him, and the hands on the wall showed the time was eleven minutes to the shop’s close.
Safe, he thought with a small smile of relief. Alchemicals went bad, so scheduling was important in buying them.
A long counter, waiting area, and glimpse of a backroom storage greeted him. People worked behind the counter and a handful of customers finished up their business. It was the familiar sight of an [Alchemist]’s shop. Just, not Mr. Faraday’s. Nor was it Janet who stood behind the counter.
A young man maybe a year or two older than Ryan stood behind one of the registers and another, his same age instead, was in the process of carrying one of two crates left of the counter into storage.
Micah only got a look at his back before he disappeared past the doorframe, then looked around.
An almost elderly woman supervised. Her greying hair was tied back into a neat bun with a cloth over it and she wore tight clothing, sleeves curled inward and pants legs stuffed into thick boots that looked as though they should have belonged on a carpenter’s feet rather than hers.
She might have been in her sixties, but she didn’t look like she had noticed yet. Too busy. Her expression revealed the familiar focus that came after decades’ worth of experience.
A couple wanted to leave and Micah stepped aside to let them. He took another step away from the cold, hit something with the back of his foot, and jumped. A dark cylinder bag stood on the ground near the coat rack.
Luggage?
A school backpack was propped up against it and a pair of winter shoes stood in the corner.
Mrs. Ross took one look at him and called, “Stranya?”
“Huh? Oh, uhm, yes.” Micah rushed to the counter and slipped his backpack around to hover over his feet. He glanced to the side, but the others didn’t seem to notice. Separate lines.
“You’re late.”
“Almost.” He gave her a smile.
“Hrn.” She tilted her head to the side and called, “They’re here! You can bring it back out! You have the payment, I assume?”
“Oh, of course,” Micah fetched his coin purse out, counted, and put the stack of coins on the counter with an almost painful clack as his stiff fingers refused to relax for a second too long.
Mrs. Ross swept them away, thumb counting as she took a step to the side. She leaned past her apprentice to place the coins into the register and got a few pennies worth of change.
Micah watched with strained lips and brows. He frowned and glanced back down at the box next to him. Wait, had she said, “bring it back out”? Had the guy had to carry them back because of his tardiness?
Guilt crawled up his back with the thought, but the sight still soothed his aching expression.
It wasn’t even all his money, anyway. He was buying for the others, too. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bought here. Ryan and his friends were used to it.
The young man kept up his friendly smile while he waited until he could help his own customer again. He wore a thick, long-sleeved shirt with an apron thrown over. The buttons were done all the way up to the neck and wrists. A pair of gloves hid in a nook near the register.
Appearance and safety in one. For if he had to duck into the workshop at any time or switch to manning the counter? Smart.
Micah peered up at him and felt a dozen questions brimming beneath his lips. Who was he and what was he like? Nice? Reliable? Would he have given anyone new a hard time? Seen them as a rival? A ward? Would he have shown them the ropes or been annoyed by them?
You might have been my senior, Micah thought, had my parents had their way back then.
Mrs. Ross brought back his pennies and the guy wrote a receipt for the patron. He was still friendly and patient, despite this being the final minutes of work on a day near New Year. That was a good sign, right?
Although, many apprentices had school so he might not have been working for so long.
Mrs. Ross’ voice relaxed when she asked, “Did you bring your copy of the receipt, too?”
Micah nodded and fished it out. She scribbled something down—confirmation that it had been retrieved, probably—and peered at the list. Her mouth made silent words and her eyes darted at the crate next to the counter as she went it over, then nodded.
“Right. It should all be here. We’ll bring your other two boxes back out of storage in a moment.”
Micah blinked. “Two?”
At the same time, a familiar face stepped back out of storage and headed for the counter with the crate. His eyes widened when he saw Micah and Micah’s eyes widened when he saw him.
“Darren!”
“Micah?”
He set the heavy box on the counter and wore the exact same uniform as the other guy, except one of his buttons was open and he wore the gloves to go with it.
“What, you two know each other?” Mrs. Ross asked.
“Uh, yes, Mrs. Ross. He was my junior in the classroom. I think I told you about him once?”
“Huh?” She looked at Micah in confusion. Her expression seemed to be relaxing more and more as they neared closing time. Was her [Work Ethic] Skill letting up? “Oh, yes, yes. I remember. Get the other box, will you?”
She didn’t sound like she remembered. “Wait!” Micah called and took a step to the side. “I can get it?”
The woman turned on him, expression back in full force. “You cannot go in the back. It’s off-limits to customers.”
Darren frowned at him in confusion, still poised at the door to head out and with question marks written all over his face.
“But I was late?” Micah said. “I don’t want you to have to lift it.” It was at the end of a long day. Darren looked more tired than his senior. He didn’t even know how he was going to get all three of the boxes out of here, but he added: “I have a temporary strength Skill right now?”
“Still, no.”
Darren smiled. “It’s alright, Micah. It’s my job.” He disappeared and Mrs. Ross nodded in satisfaction. She turned her look on him until Micah stepped back in front of the counter.
“We can’t just let people back there,” she explained. “There are health hazards or you could break something.”
He understood that, but still. “I’m an [Alchemist], too?”
“I remember. It doesn’t change anything if you aren’t familiar with the workplace. Now, about your order.” She tapped the counter, directing his attention back to his receipt. “I see you bought the moving fireworks? You are aware we don’t make most of the fireworks we sell ourselves?”
He nodded.
“Well, we did make these. Unlike the others, these are alchemical.”
She said the word like she might write it down on a blackboard. Micah resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“Do you remember the rules surrounding those?”
He nodded. “I can’t let someone with a fire aura handle them, I can’t tinker with them in any way, and I can’t use them after two weeks.”
“Exactly. I know how much you young people like to experiment with fireworks, but that wouldn’t be a good idea here …”
She went on about rules and explanations, working through the rest of his order while they waited, but Micah didn’t catch most of it. He was busy watching her face, her expression, deciphering her tone, words, and phrases. He looked at her hands and saw the callouses there. He wondered.
The young man might have been his senior, Darren apparently his rival, and she might have been his master; he her [Apprentice].
What would that have been like? What would she have thought of him, his wrong Skills, wasted levels, and lack of a proper alchemy Path? Would she have been happy? Patient? How much extra effort would he have had to put in to keep up? How would she have wanted him to further his Path?
It felt odd, looking at a person who might not have been a stranger if things had gone differently.
Eventually, she finished and wished him a good day. Micah caught that much and said it back. She went to her other apprentice to talk about closing the shop and Micah quickly set the crate on the other one again to free up the counter. It wasn’t that heavy at all, but—
He tried picking up both of them at once and felt the strain. Without his strength Skill, those might be a bit more of a problem. Especially with a third on top. He’d have to hurry to the room.
Darren showed back up and set the third box down with a sigh. It was even taller. Fireworks shafts poked out of the top and Micah felt a little giddy. He pushed up on his feet to peer at all the other fireworks inside. Leaping frogs, firecrackers, artilleries, and sparklers; even just penny snaps.
Of course, not all of it was his. He was ordering for five. But fireworks were shared with everyone.
New Year’s had always been one of his favorite holidays. He could have tons of fun on his own and everything was so loud and busy, nobody would notice. Even from Westhill, he could see the truly spectacular fireworks the rest of the city used, with proper alchemicals and magic.
He would hide out somewhere near his family as long as he could and hope they were so distracted by drinks and friends, they wouldn’t notice it was time to go home, just so he could watch a little longer.
The colors often reflected on the Tower. After he had gotten his [Essence Sight], it had all become twice as awesome. He still remembered his first New Year’s looking at it with new eyes.
He had hidden in his room during the summer festival.
“Micah?” Darren was asking.
“Huh?”
“Is it all there?” he asked, amused. He must have thought Micah was counting.
“Oh, no, no,” he said and eased back down. “I was just lost in anticipation.”
“Ah.”
He turned his attention on the guy. “I didn’t know you worked here?”
“Well, I do.”
“Did you get an apprenticeship?”
“Yep. During the summer break. Right after classroom.”
“Ooh, did you get the Class?” Micah leaned a little closer.
Darren smiled and nodded. “Yep. I’m an [Alchemist] level three.”
“Awesome.”
“Yeah, but, uh— We’re kind of closing in a few minutes?” He scratched his face with a gloved finger and took a step around the counter. “So, sorry to kick you out into the cold, but—”
“Oh, right, right,” Micah said and went for the other crate. “I get it. I shouldn’t have shown up so late.”
Darren was taking his gloves off and frowned. “Are you going to carry those three all on your own?”
Was he? He glanced back at the door. Ryan should have been here to help him, but he didn’t know where the other guy was. They had split up before the interview. Micah had the receipt.
“Yeah,” he said, figuring he must have been busy with something else or better yet, he trusted Micah to get it done on his own. He could get it done, with or without Ameryth’s help. And he had Ryan’s help, one way or another, from his aura since he was close enough in Westhill.
“Where are you headed?”
“Uhm, the youth center toward the north end? It’s, uhm—”
“I know it. I’m headed in the same direction for a little ways. I could help you carry it if you want?”
“Uhm …”
Micah glanced at the crates again and quickly set the third down. He tried lifting them all at once and suppressed a groan. Less from the weight and more from the height of it all. He could do it on his own but … what if they toppled or starting snowing again? Or if his buff ran out before he got that far?
Besides, he wanted to talk with Darren a bunch and ask questions. So he said, “If it’s only a little ways?”
He nodded. “Give me a minute.” He crouched down to get off his boots. The shoes in the corner had to be his, then.
Micah waited and awkwardly set the third crate back on the counter. Mrs. Ross noticed him but glanced at Darren and seemed to catch on. She headed over to speak with her apprentice about work for a moment, mostly about scheduling and reminders. She did tell him he had done a good job. Darren seemed to take the compliment for what it was: he smiled and thanked her.
Micah smiled for him, too.
The moment he finished slipping on his jacket and backpack, he picked up the large cylinder bag as well and slipped its strap over one shoulder.
“Is that yours?” Micah asked.
“Yep.” He leaned over the counter to call a goodbye to the other guy, picked up the crate, and headed for the door.
Micah quickly followed him with his own backpack and luggage in hand. He balanced them on one knee and got the door for him. At least, they blocked the cold from reaching his torso.
“What’s in it?”
“A drum?” he asked. The shape should have been a little obvious, apparently.
Micah wasn’t really the instrument type but it was exciting to meet someone else who was.
“A drum? You play? Are you like in a— a … Wait a second.”
Darren glanced at him and averted his eyes. The expression of avoidance was an answer in itself.
“Are you going to take part in the parade?” Micah asked. “Oh, are you a drummer boy?”
“Drummer guy,” he corrected him with the tone of someone who’d had to do it dozens of times already.
“So you are!” Micah would have pointed if he could, but his hands were a little occupied. He took a moment to check they were headed the right way and turned back on him.
“I have been, for a few years now.”
“With the sash and jacket and everything?”
“Yep.”
“Here in Westhill?”
“Westgate.”
“Ooh.”
No wonder he had never seen him during the parade. But he could actually play an instrument?
“Do you have a Class for it, too?”
“Yep. I’ve got … four Classes, now,” he said and jerked his shoulder up, “which isn’t great because you aren’t supposed to collect clutter Classes so quickly. I got all of them in the last half year, which has been kind of awesome. But I got three from work so it should be fine.”
“[Alchemist], [Apprentice] and … [Worker]?” Micah guessed, lowing his voice near the end when they walked past someone.
“Three, two, one, and one.”
His levels? He didn’t lower his voice, unlike him. He seemed pretty open about them and stood tall, almost like he was … showing off? Or at least proud. And why shouldn’t he be?
Micah glanced back at the shop in the distance and let all the questions he’d had fall away. Besides, he hadn’t even asked the real ones: What would he have thought of it all? Would he have been happy, there? Probably not, but it was good that someone else could be.
He smiled for him. “You know, I was thinking of you just recently.”
Darren gave him a creeped-out look. “You were?”
“Well, not recently. During the Tower changes?”
“Oh?”
“I was in the Tower, then. And there was a bunch of new ingredients all around me and I couldn’t even do anything with most of them because I had no idea what they did, you know?”
He let his frustration seep into his voice, overcompensating for the lack of gestures he could tack on.
Darren chuckled, and it only sounded a little uncomfortable. He probably didn’t want to talk about the Tower.
“I just meant,” Micah said, “I’m still envious of your [Identify Ingredient] Skill. I’m hoping for an appraisal Skill myself soon. I’ve practiced a lot to make it happen once I’m high enough level.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said with a nod. “I get that. I get these papers from school with all the requirements we have to fulfill by the time we’re done and I’m working on it, path-wise. I’m practicing [Douse Fire] at home, right now.”
He shifted his shoulder again and Micah told him to wait a second. He rested the weight on his knee to free up one hand and pulled his strap a little further until he said it was good.
The cold crept in while they stood still, but they were walking slow enough that it did that anyway. Neither of them seemed to mind.
“Thanks,” Darren said.
“You’re welcome. And thank you. For helping me. Sorry for making you carry those boxes back and forth, and now, and stuff.”
“It’s fine. Really. I have [Lesser Strength]. But more than that, I have my excitement for the weekend.”
Micah suppressed a brief flash of envy and asked with bemusement, “You have what?”
“My excitement for the weekend,” he repeated himself. He walked a little sideways to talk better. “You know that feeling, when you finally get a day off, so you’re in a good mood and feel stronger?”
“Ah?”
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Darren smiled. “You’ve just … got more energy, I suppose? It’s like a mindset thing. Not always, but it helps. Usually on the weekends.”
“Oh, no I get that,” Micah said, giving up the facade of confusion. “Doubly. I have a mindset Skill that kind of makes me feel stronger, you know?” [Savagery] lowered his inhibitions about force and gave him focus. Too bad it was no use in carrying around some boxes.
Darren seemed surprised. “You do? From your Path?” he guessed. Getting mindset Skills from Classes usually required a higher level. It was no wonder he got it right.
“Yep.”
“I heard you have a combat Path? Back in classroom.” He nodded in its direction in the city.
“Yep, too.”
“What’s it like?”
Micah considered for a moment and shrugged. “No different? I mean, I think it makes me a little better at fighting. Others say so. But I haven’t gotten that many Skills from it. Two, in fact. And one of them is a cleaning Skill.”
“A cleaning Skill? From a combat Path?”
“[Winter Cleaning]. For preparing things for a lack of care, like when you put a weapon into storage or leave your house for a while?”
“Oh? Your dorm supervisor must be happy about that, you cleaning up your room before you leave.”
Micah chuckled. “Yeah.”
“My, uh, senior has a cleaning Skill. Mrs. Ross says she wouldn’t have minded if I had gotten one as well.”
“Really? Oh, what’s his name? Your senior?”
“August. He’s alright.”
“And what’s he like? What’s it like?” Micah asked. “Being an apprentice? All of it?”
Darren smiled. “It’s … tough, and new, but exciting. Mrs. Ross is pretty great. She’s strict and has high expectations, but she can be pretty understanding when we don’t meet those expectations.”
“Go on?”
“And, uh … I like learning new things? She said we could move on to chemicals in the new year.”
“Ooh, tell me more about that,” Micah said.
Tell me more about everything.
He was only half-asking for himself. For his younger self, who would have been even more curious. And he was half-asking for Darren because he obviously liked being able to talk about it.
He seemed more confident now than how Micah remembered him in the classroom. It seemed like a good sign.
Darren told him a bit about his daily routines, how he had gotten his Classes starting out, which Skills he had, what the liked the most and what frustrated him. The new things he learned, equipment he learned to use, and responsibilities he was slowly given over time.
“One time, I got to lock up after everyone,” he said, “because they had to leave early and it was just me.”
“Awesome.”
“I know, right?”
The closer they got to the street where they would have to split directions, the slower they walked.
“Yeah, and then I got the [Worker] Class,” he said. “I’m not sure why I got it, because I didn’t take up any part-time jobs or anything, you know? I help out at home sometimes or at the band, but that shouldn’t be enough.”
“Maybe you just really like working?”
“Yeah, that’s what everyone else always says.”
“And?”
“Maybe. I mean, I got [Lesser Strength] from it so I’m grateful, even if it might slow me down.”
“And you have your weekend strength.”
“Exactly. And you have your … temporary strength? You mentioned something earlier.”
“Oh, that was just a spell from my principal.” He saw the question mark on his face and explained, “I had a meeting with her just before this, but it dragged on. So when I said I might be late for this, she gave me a bit of strength for an hour so I could make it here in time.”
“Wow. She sounds nice?”
It was an offer to elaborate. Micah hadn’t spoken much about himself. Comments here and there, but he was much more interested in learning about other people’s lives than talking about his own.
“She is, but …” he said and eyed the cross street. It was just a little stretch off, now. They wouldn’t have time to talk about much else. “Uhm.”
Darren followed his look and nodded. “Right. You’re going to have to head straight on?”
“Yeah, but, uh—” Micah kind of wanted to talk more and had a sudden idea. He almost jumped around. “Oh, hey, Darren! Do you have anything planned for New Year’s yet? After the parade, I mean.”
He shrugged again and said, “Uh, not much. I would, uh, celebrate with my family and stuff. Why?”
“Because we rented out the top room in the youth center,” Micah said. “And we’re inviting a bunch of people. So there will be games, and food, and fireworks. And some of us are going to sleep over. And besides, it’s going to be Ryan’s birthday so there is going to be cake.”
They stopped at the end of the street and Micah asked, “Do you want to drop by and hang out?”
Please say yes, he thought. Everyone else had invited people. He was the only one who had gotten shot down every time. And it would have been awesome to catch up more. With the others, too. Lang and Finn. They’d been classmates and made a loose promise to meet up during the summer break, but that had never happened. Micah hadn’t even known he had an apprenticeship.
The others would probably want to see him, too.
Darren seemed intrigued. “It’s Ryan’s birthday on New Year’s?”
“Yep.”
“So you two are still hanging out all the time, huh?”
“Yep.”
“I mean, uh …”
“Please?” Micah asked him. He crowded him.
The guy took a step back and said, “Sure? I mean, I would have to check. And I could only hang out after the parade and bring my stuff back home, and check with my family.”
“Sure, sure,” Micah said, suppressing his glee into a little bob up and down on his toes. “But there will be lots of people so you can come and go as you please. It’ll be a small party.”
“Maybe,” Darren heeded him.
The single word tempered his expectations enough, but he refused to let it bring him down.
“Maybe,” Micah agreed. He had two of that answer now, though he sincerely doubted Kyle would show up. “You’re invited, either way. And you can invite a handful of people if you want? Just … not too many? Or they shouldn’t invite other people and then they invite other people and—”
“I get it,” Darren said.
Micah rolled his eyes in exasperation. He had heard enough cautionary tales about parties gone wrong.
The other guy gently set his box on the two in Micah’s arms. His knees buckled and he had to tilt his head left to see him, then.
“Have a good New Year, Micah,” he said. “And be careful carrying those the rest of the way, you got that?”
“I’ve got my Skill,” he said. “You, too. It was awesome seeing you again.” He meant it, too.
“Right. Bye?”
He waved, but Micah couldn’t return the gesture, only the word. He headed across the street and shifted his grip to balance the boxes as he did. It was just a few streets and he had two strength Skills from Ryan and Ms. Denner.
And then it left.
[Skill — Red Armor: Lesser Strength lost!]
He still hated that. More so because of the surprise. He had hoped it might last him until he got to the end, but apparently not.
That was the one bad thing about his current alchemy: the ephemerality of it all. Any stat he gave himself would leave and losing them hurt. It had happened with his test batch of [Surging Strength] before the exam, and it had happened now, and it would happen again.
He hated how weak he felt afterward, by comparison. He made it to the next crossing before the crates started swaying, his hands ached, and he had to set them down to readjust the pile.
Just then, Lang called, “Oi, Micah!”
Because of course, he did. They showed up just then and not when Micah was triumphantly carrying all three on his own.
He sighed and waved back with a strained smile. He was happy to see them again, but—
Ryan walked straight up to him and took one of the boxes. Because of course, he did that. “You tried to carry them all on your own?” he asked.
He didn’t sound mistrusting like he’d used to when they had first met, but he didn’t sound completely confident either.
“Yeah,” Micah just said.
“Sorry, we’re late,” Finn said. “We took a detour while we were waiting and got distracted by a hot babe.”
“Dude.” Lang shoved him. “Poor taste. She’s six weeks old.” He wore long-sleeved sportswear and a hat that only covered his ear tips, but little else. It left the rest of him bare to the elements with spots of chilled red.
Micah cheered a little at the sight and shared a knowing look with the guy when he got closer. It got him a smile in return. They had plans for New Year’s.
“Jeez.” Finn took another crate. “I was just joking.”
“Joke on your own time,” Ryan said. “And about literally anyone else. Because I sure won’t be, if and when.”
Lang took the last crate and huddled up against the cold. Micah was left standing there with his just his backpack and followed after them as Finn chuckled.
“Ooh, Ryan’s going to be an overprotective older brother. Not that it’s a surprise to anyone.”
“So what?”
“He got enough practice with that one back there.” Lang rolled his head back to mean Micah.
“I’m not his little brother,” he protested.
“So we thought, too,” Finn said. “But we turned out to be wrong. No shame in that, Micah. Right, Ryan?”
“Screw you.”
Lang leaned over to confide in him. “He’s grumpy.”
“Why?” Micah whispered.
“Because—”
“Because these two idiots,” Ryan talking over them, “let me do all the work and then complained when they realized we were going to be late.”
“What if there had been no fireworks?” Finn asked. “We would have had to pick them up tomorrow morning.”
“Then maybe you should have helped out a little?”
“I did?”
“How?”
He grinned. “By giving you my strength.”
“Yeah,” Lang agreed. “You should be carrying all these boxes on your own, Mr. [Strength in Numbers].”
“Oh, no, no,” Finn said and bowed a little. “Mr. [Mage].”
Ryan rolled his eyes up in an expression of utter defeat. “I hate you all. Micah, can you—?”
Micah got the door for them.
Finn blew a kiss at Ryan as he stepped inside. “We hate you, too.”
“Seriously, though,” Lang asked as they followed him into the dim space. The windows were closed. “When can we expect you to learn a levitation spell for stuff like this?”
“Never?”
“Never? I thought you were a [Mage]?”
“Not full-time.”
They continued to banter as Micah rolled up the remaining shutters to light up the room. The floorboards were old but sturdy beneath him, covered with scuff marks, and worn from years of use. Wooden circles were missing in places and tiny gaps could collect grit and dust.
It was the type of floor he would be more comfortable on with shoes rather than socks.
Two brooms stood in the corner with a dustpan and trash can underneath them and he knew the others had at least swept already. They were slowly cleaning up when they had the time to prepare for the big day.
There were a few tables with benches, a small kitchen in the corner, bathroom, and a few games on the lower floor. Table shuffleboard, darts, a small closet with board games and playing cards in it. He wasn’t sure they were all complete, but they knew the rules well enough to improvise.
Upstairs was mostly empty space with folded tables and benches for any event possible.
“Question: Would any of you trust a [Mage] with levitating a beer case?” Finn was asking, sitting on a barstool with his hands in his pocket.
Lang thought about it for a second and shook his head. “Nope.”
“Me, neither.”
Ryan shrugged. “Don’t know, yet.”
“Ah, we would trust you,” Finn said. He slapped a hand on Ryan’s shoulder and started massaging him from the side. “And we’d beat you if you let it drop.”
Ryan smiled and pushed the hand off. “Oh, you could try.”
“Oho, someone’s confident.”
“A few levels in [Fighter] and suddenly, he isn’t the same person anymore,” Lang said, shaking his head like a sad mother. “What happened to my little boy? He was never so violent.”
Hadn’t they regularly gotten into fights with the other classrooms growing up? Micah wondered.
“Can you stop letting the sewer gates open for one second,” Ryan said, “and focus on getting some work done?”
Micah smiled and waited for a few minutes to get a word in edgewise, but it never felt like the right time. Not that he had much to say. He liked listening, but he didn’t really feel confident talking about that kind of stuff with them yet.
Talking about beer, girls, or getting into a fight—he’d just be all talk, right? He’d be a pretender until he was older.
It was little better than lying.
“What do we need to get done?” Lang asked and swept his arms out, spinning a little. “It’s all done.”
It was not all done.
“Hey, Finn? Do you have [Lesser Strength]?” Micah asked, cutting in out of the blue almost without meaning to.
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Why?”
Micah shrugged. “Just wondering. Ryan, I have to head back to the school,” he said and pointed in the other direction. “I forgot my laundry in the rush and some other stuff.”
“Oh—”
“What, already?” Lang cut in. “But I thought we wanted to get work done? And talk about your Tower adventures and stuff. Ryan won’t open up about it. Oh, and maybe get up to no good with some early fireworks?”
He jerked a thumb at the crates on the counter behind them and wiggled his eyebrows at him.
That did sound tempting, but Micah shook his head. “I need my shirt.”
“Your shirt?”
“For his appointment tomorrow,” Ryan told them. “With the Chores Office, right?”
Understanding lit up in at least Finn’s eyes. “Ohh.” He leaned dangerously far back. “I get that. You looking for work?”
“Yep,” Micah said. “I need something, now that I can’t go into the Tower.”
“Well, see you later then?”
“Yeah,” he said and inched toward the door. “Bye?”
“Bye,” they said.
Micah ducked back out into the cold. He headed off a brisk pace and pulled his backpack tighter by its straps. A little while outside of Westhill, he felt the effects of Ryan’s [Pack Aura] wear off and was left even weaker than before.
It was hard to notice the Skill sometimes when he spent almost every day around Ryan, but it was easy to notice when it was gone. He felt like he was having a bad day and couldn’t do as much. A hint of exhaustion and laziness that he’d have to shake off.
This time, it built up in frustration. No matter whose plate he looked at, it seemed they had something better and Micah had nothing but platitudes.
There was an ephemerality to it all, his potions, ingredients, spells, even the armor he wore and weapons he used. Even his fire resistance ring. It would all break. And when it did, could he really claim it had been his strength all along?
The only thing that remained was his Skill to make it all, to collect ingredients, fight, purchase, and take care of things so they would last a little longer. Micah wanted more of that.
[Lesser Strength]. Even Lisa had [Surging Strength] and she was a [Summoner]. His Class and Path were no excuse.
So when he got to school, Micah didn’t find himself in his room when he stopped walking, but staring up at the deathly silent rows of bookshelves upon bookshelves in the Registry.
He shivered despite being in the warm and slipped his backpack around. His journal held a slip of paper a clerk had made for him months ago. He smoothed out the crinkles to read it and glanced up. A quick search around placed himself and he went questing through the rows for something.
It was easy enough to find, but Micah still stopped in front of its shelf and stared at its name written so plainly on its spine.
Northern Magics.
Was he really going to do this? They had waged two wars on them, tried to conquer two of their Towers, and killed thousands of innocents instead of trying to foster peaceful relations like other nations. They regularly tried to get beyond their borders to raid them and forced climbers who had fought monsters all their lives to retire and turn their weapons on people.
Other kinds of monsters, everyone said, but they were still people all the same.
They had kidnapped. Half a century ago. Men, women, children in the hopes that their children would have levels.
And worst of all, it had worked. There was an entire minority caste of people with levels in the North who were treated as the lowest-class citizens because things hadn’t worked out the way they had wanted to, because they weren’t as powerful as expected, because of jealousy and pride.
They were their citizens, weren’t they? And they were stuck up there with a bunch of monsters.
The more Micah listened, the more he heard. Of savage beast people who pillaged from a young age, cults and cult-like religions, ritual maiming, sacrifices, and worse, decadent rulers, and a culture in constant strife with itself because everyone wanted to claw their way to the top.
Did he really want to study their magic?
He grabbed the book and fled, glancing left and right as he walked through the rows. He kept an eye out for anyone he knew. He found a private corner Lisa liked to read in and sat down.
[Controlled Breathing] kept him calm as he stared at the cover on the table in front of him.
It wasn’t desperation that made him do it. It was a curiosity he seldom got to indulge in that Darren had reminded him of.
More than caring about what Forester had to say, Micah really wanted to know what was behind that cover. He wanted to know what was behind all covers. He wanted to know everything.
It wasn’t the magic’s fault its wielders were all so horrible, right?
Knowledge is universal, you idiots, Delilah had said. Micah wanted to be someone who believed in that. The person he had been years ago before his first day of classroom and his siblings had gone missing.
He wanted to know.
He opened the book and searched the pages for the first bit of useful knowledge, skipping all the printing information, editor comments, forewords, and author stuff, because who read that anyway?
He skimmed the first few pages until the formatting looked like it might be getting to the good stuff and read.
In the following work, I will aim to introduce you to the four main schools of magic that are prevalent in the Northern region of the continent, as well as a few minor ones I have discovered during my studies.
In short, these four will be:
Hereditary magic, whose commonality is reversed in Northern nations. The two most common forms of hereditary magic are by far and large what I will refer to as Northern Tattoos and Beastkin. Both are present from birth at varying stages of development and grow with age and training.
Tattoos have many different functions, some of which I will elaborate in this text. An example of the most powerful we are aware are those of the Vitran royal family. Their red markings can heal wounds similar to powerful regeneration. The most common one is a green tattoo among the working class that functions similar to a regenerating low-grade stamina potion, instead.
Beastkin are people born with bestial features which enhance their physical capabilities. These traits, unfortunately, also carry their bestial nature with them. They are perhaps the most physically imposing of the North, above the stone Elementalists and those with physical Tattoos.
The second most important form of Northern magic is Enchanting whose secrets are closely guarded. Because of this, I will go into more detail about the culture surrounding the craft and its capabilities. We have been able to glean certain small secrets about their craft over the years.
The third is what I refer to as Elementalists, not to be confused with our Class of the same name. Elementalists collect something Northerners refer to as the “Essence of the World” to empower their bodies for short bursts of elemental might or manipulation. Over time, their bodies adapt to the saturation to make these effects permanent. The strongest Elementalists are comparable to our elemental [Mages] below level ten, despite the amount of effort that goes into their craft.
Micah stopped reading there and reread the short paragraph three more times to make sure he had absorbed it all. Elementalists. Had they been what Forester had spoken about in the beginning of the school year?
They apparently empowered their bodies using essences. How? Micah had thought about that himself before but never put any serious thought into it.
He did now.
Cut off legs and head respectively? He remembered the conversation he’d had with his parents when he had tried to explain alchemy to them. He had used that as an example because people had patterns, too. All life did. Even some things that weren’t alive developed patterns over time.
And what were potions but patterns given fuel to work, resources to work with, and a container to be held in?
So if people had patterns, or if bodies could be empowered using essences in some other way, then the questions was, How? Right?
That Micah hadn’t been able to answer back then. He hadn’t been able to think of an answer. But now, he remembered shoving healing essence through his body and wind essence making him feel restless.
He took in a deep breath of as much air essence from the world around him as he could, until he closed his eyes, until he felt like his lungs would burst.
He held his breath and took another glance at the page. It was all the right there.
He could do this.
He shoved—
—and fell off his chair, choking. The air essence forced its way in his body and so many things went wrong, he could barely count. He could barely notice anything beyond the pain, anyway, that came from it being forced out of his light blob lungs.
Micah slapped his chest with a clenched fist and held his breath until his [Controlled Breathing] handed him back the reins.
He picked himself up, then, and was just happy nobody had been around to see that, to dote on him like a small child. He’d made a mistake. It hurt. He gently lowered himself onto the chair.
Moving on.
Obviously, he had done something wrong. But what? He went back to the table of contents and searched for the Elementalists’ chapters. Maybe he should have done that in the start.
A brief search and he took his time carefully skimming the first few pages, this time.
One thing he noticed was that the Northerners apparently referred to much of what they did as “weaving,” not “brute force pushing.” Who would have thought? There wasn’t any mention of patterns as far as he could see. Had he been wrong to assume that those were the answer?
Instead, the text spoke of developing one’s spirit, temporarily empowering, and slowly saturating it with essences over years.
Micah remembered Lisa talking about spirits, once. He knew much more about them from school by now and had his own suspicions. He closed his eyes and considered his light blob lungs.
The text didn’t go into too much detail. It wasn’t a guide on how to replicate the magic. It was a condensed description of what the author had been able to find and dealt more with thoughts, capabilities, and culture than offering any explanations. Maybe another book would be better.
But for now—
Micah knew his biology. The lungs delivered air to the blood. Blood delivered air to the rest of the body, practically saturating it. What if he needed light blob veins as well?
He breathed in a small trickle of air essence above the amount he normally took in with each breath and focused on it. He tried to dissipate it throughout his lungs and … push tiny motes of it out into his body. Just a little push, nothing forceful. He wanted to see if they would find their own way, just like air found its own way into his bloodstream from his lungs.
They did. For a few centimeters, at least, before they were too diluted to notice and fizzled out.
The text said a lot of effort went into becoming an Elementalist, that they had to practice for years before they could even touch the essences of the world, much less control them, and that it took even longer to train temporary empowerment techniques. Apparently, it took the longest to form permanent abilities.
Even then, those were comparable to things like [Lesser Fire Mastery] and [Firebolt]. Resistance and manipulation. A weak spell without the right tattoo or components to work with.
But Micah could already manipulate essences. He could already wax them, wane them, filter, breathe, and touch them, control them in his own body and control them in his potions, to a degree.
Years of training.
He smiled and shut the book. For them, maybe. He had Skills, levels, and a Path he was trying his hardest to make use of.
----------------------------------------
“So, Mr. Stranya,” the woman at the Chores Office said. Mrs. Maas. She had his Proof Of paper on her side of the desk and looked like she was trying not to let her surprise show.
Or at least, she had. She had given up and then given up, too exhausted to be surprised. Because of course, he would be level fifteen at his age already. Why not? Micah didn’t know if he should feel uncomfortable or proud, which made him feel both and doubled the discomfort.
He rubbed his hands on the side of his pants and glanced at the other children sitting at desks around the large office, a space designed and funded by the city to promote [Workers].
“You applied for any part-time job you could work during the break and one you could work while attending school afterward.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I see you’ve had the [Candle] cantrip for quite some time, now.” She reached down to get something from a bin next to her desk and went on before he could reply, “We are always looking for new lamplighters?”
It was a map of the city. She rolled it out in front of him and showed him the various routes on it.
“You’ve surely seen them walking around? You would simply have to walk your route an hour before dark and modestly zigzag the street to light each lamp. You could sign up for refills and lamp maintenance on the weekends. How about it?”
She met with his face with a fake enthusiasm from years of routine any child above ten could spot.
Micah glanced at the unlit decorative candle on her shelf and tried to make it work for a moment.
“Uhm, I can’t,” he said when nothing did.
She sighed and tucked the map back away without a fight. “I didn’t think you would. Few people want to be lamplighters nowadays. I think there’s a rumor going around that it doesn’t help you level as much, which is nonsense.”
Sure, let’s go with that. Micah would rather not have to explain to her why he couldn’t use the Skill. But screw [Candle] anyway, he decided. He had better things he could focus on.
“Uhm, if possible, could I have something that lets me be in the fresh air? I wouldn’t mind the dark or cold.”
She glanced at him with a, “Hm,” and considered his papers again. “Well, your Skills don’t lend themselves to any one job over another. It’s nice that you have [Lesser Agility] and [Controlled Breathing]. Those two together function similarly to [Lesser Stamina], which we want.”
She got another folder out and leafed through, apparently checking openings from what Micah could see.
She stopped on one page. “Fresh air, you said?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, then: How would you feel about being a paperboy?”
Micah’s eyes went wide and he answered, “That would be perfect.” He could pick morning jogging back up and get all the wind essence he needed.