8 : 173 : 16 : 22 : 19

And so I become a (tentative) junior member of the secret Order of the Covenant. Yay me! I hope they come up with a shorter, more marketable name in the future. Something catchy and original, less medieval. I could pitch an idea or two. Like, The Douchebags.

On the way to saving the world, there are some lesser challenges I have to tackle first. Such as compulsory education. Like all mountains, I begin the conquest for learning from the rock bottom. I’m taught how to read and write the Common Speech, the language spoken in the human realm of Noertia and its close neighbors. I learn basic math. What are integers. Addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. On the side I take classes in royal etiquette; how to operate the fork and knife. How to brew tea the right way. How to flush the toilet after use. There’s a lot of ground to cover for a year-old.

Thankfully, like all babies, I’m a quick learner. Instead of finding out how to shit for the first time, it’s more like remembering things I’ve always known somewhere in the back of my head, and simply forgot after slipping on a banana peel. Of course, I don’t want the others to get carried away with their high expectations, so I often make a point to act like an idiot on purpose.

I’m very good at that.

Having acquired literacy, the wonderful world of books is opened for me. I gain access to a staggering wealth of knowledge in the grand castle library, as well as Master Teresina’s private collection, which I immediately put to good use.

Piling up thicker tomes, you can create makeshift ladders that help you wipe the topside of even the tallest shelves and wardrobes. Thin pages from cheap romance drivel can be used to block any slim openings in walls or under windows, to keep the draft out. Lots of leaks in an old house. They also help you fire up the stove quickly when you're in a hurry and out of tinder. My favorite novel of all is a certain slim paperback, precisely thick enough to wedge under the door of my room and create a temporary stopper, to guard against unwanted guests during my anatomic self-study class.

Half a year later, the early summer heat wraps us in its embrace and granny finally judges I can pass for a civilized person (from a distance, if completely quiet), and the time is ripe for our first steps into the arcane arts.

The villa’s secluded backyard becomes our training ground, safe from prying eyes and flammable objects. But how come it’s always just me? I never see any other disciples around. Even the cat girl took off on a “business trip” shortly after I moved in and hasn’t made an appearance since. Can’t they afford the actress? Or is she doing another movie on the side? I’m sure that counts as adultery, somehow.

“You don’t see any other pupils, because I have none!” granny reveals. “I’ve only admitted five in all my life. Of those five, I expelled two after the first three months; the third after eight months; and the fourth after twenty-three years, when he suddenly wanted me to call him ‘husband’. Vys is the only one who looks like she might actually graduate at this rate. But she’s too busy saving the world and helping cripples across the street, so you rarely see her at home these days.”

I raise my brows at the track record. “Not the teacher of the year-material, are you?”

“Nope,” the old woman admits outright. “Never wanted to be, never will be. But that doesn’t stop the fools from asking. Everybody wants to be a legendary sorcerer and slay dragons and chuck fireballs around, with no clue what it takes, what it means. Alas, the only real way to cure people of the stupid is to actually teach them. So here I am, stuck doing what I don’t want to do, because somebody has to, and unless I pass it on, my life’s work will have been only a giant waste of time.”

“Uh, getting too real. Can we get back to magic now?”

Granny measures the yard with her feet and talks,

“Normally, I’d have you run chores for the minimum of two years before teaching you how to say good morning. Unfortunately, I’m not growing any younger here and we don’t have the time for horsing around. The Order is acutely short-handed and our society’s going downhill, fast. So for you to be of any use to us, we’re going to have to put you through the wringer and hope you make it through in one piece, instead of just, you know, self-destructing.”

“I fucked up royally when I agreed to this, didn’t I?” I ask.

“You sure did. Now listen to me.”

Granny has me stand at attention while she paces back and forth and commences with the real lecture,

“You know about mana and prana. They’re your fuel source. I've taught you what are rituals, the immaterial information structures that give spells their shape and tell them what they’re supposed to do. The next important thing to mention is ‘affinity’. What can you tell me about that? What do you think it means, to have an affinity?”

An excellent question. And I have the answer.

“It’s like choosing between a bimbo and a bookworm. One will iron your sheets, the other will break your bed, but neither is good at both. That’s the natural affinity doing its thing.”

“Well, congratulations, twerp. We’re ten minutes into our first class and I want to strangle you already.”

What? Did I get it wrong?

“Let’s pretend we’re talking about magic for a minute. According to the classical model, everything that exists belongs to one of the eight primary elements: Earth. Fire. Water. Air. Lightning. Gravity. Dark. And Light. You read this in a book, so you know.”

The last two are totally made-up, aren’t they?

“Every living soul has an innate affinity for one of these elements too, which determines what school of magic you’re able to learn most painlessly. Sure, you can study any type of magic, it’s not illegal, but your proficiency with elements you have no affinity for is greatly diminished. In short, you don't have the talent and can never reach the level of somebody who does. So rather than trying to be a jack of all trades and master of none, mages typically focus on mastering their affinity before they try anything else. That’s usually a lifelong job—for humans, that is. Immortals have more time to waste.”

“Immortals?” I repeat and raise a brow.

Can there be a word as bombastic?

Granny nods. “Yes. Folks such as emiri or ptoleans, who do not die of natural causes. We’ve put all of those races under the common label of ‘immortals’ and in the ‘fantasy’ section of literature. It’s forbidden for the immortals to get involved with us lesser beings, which is why the common man has all but forgotten they’re even there.”

“Forbidden?” I raise the brow higher. “By who?”

“By the immortals themselves. Who else? No other species could force rules on their kind.”

“But Master Endol’s here? How come?”

Did somebody smuggle the guy across the border in the trunk, mixed among cigarettes and bags of coke?

That doesn’t seem to be it.

“Master Endol is a volunteer emissary,” granny pronounces with some reluctance. “One of the few, who have come over in a self-imposed exile to ‘educate’ us. So that we might one day be released from our quarantine in Noertia and open formal relations as equals. But that’s got naught to do with today’s topic. A bit of focus, please.”

Focusing. Focusing hard.

“You already know a handful of spells,” Master Teresina goes on, “which gives us a clue regarding your affinity as a mage. You should be able to tell what it is by now.”

We’re not fifteen minutes into our first class and you’re quizzing me already? Is this payback for asking too many questions?

“Uhh...Ice?” I suggest.

Ice Shield and Frost were among the first spells I learned, so that seems a given.

Granny turns to me with a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Was ‘ice’ one of the prime elements I just listed?”

“Yes? No? Maybe? I don’t remember so well. How do I roll back the chat log?”

“Let me put it this way: where does ice come from? What is it made of?”

“Ummm…Mommy ice and daddy ice get down and dirty?”

“Okay, it's back to the books with you.”

8 : 142 : 08 : 16 : 55

It turns out my overwhelming potential is too much for one Master to handle, so they all end up taking a share of the burden. In the high halls of the main castle, the runaway fantasy Mexican, Master Endol lectures me about the gritty inner workings of physical existence. Elements. Laws of mechanics, of locomotion, of forces big and small. Magnetism, the non-sexual kind of attraction, and energy, emission, radiation, and all that stuff that puts you to sleep faster than a can of melatonin.

I may not be too thrilled about it, but I’m not a total dunce either. There’s not much else to do but study here, so progress is unavoidable, given enough time. Pleased with the results, Master Endol then takes it upon himself to also teach me the Old Tongue, the native language of the elves. Though nobody asked for it.

“Excuse me, teach!” I interrupt the class. “With all due respect, you’re the only emiri in this country, so why do I have to learn a language I’ll likely never need in my life?”

Emiri is what the elves call themselves, by the way. “Elf” is considered a derogatory term, apparently. Their own N-word. These guys are sure no house elfs.

“Because you are certain to need it,” Master Endol assures me. “Selef Enhua is the language of the gods. It was used to shape the very reality we live in. Magic and language are irrevocably connected. A mage needs a way to tell reality what he wants it to do, and the Old Tongue is the most potent, efficient way to do so. Each word serves as a complete information structure on its own. There is only so much you can convey with your focus and imagination alone. Profound understanding of ritual architecture may allow you to substitute words for gestures, or the crude utterances of the Common Speech, but any truly grand ritual still necessitates verbal instructions. Which brings us back to our exalted speech. If becoming an arcanaerian is your intent, then you must learn it, speak it, live it, and in time make it your own.”

“This whole magic thing's becoming a lot more than I bargained for, to tell you the truth. Do you think it’s too late to class-change to ninja?”

“Now say that again—in the words of the gods.”

Fuck my life.

8 : 167 : 13 : 07 : 29

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

“Listen very closely,” granny tells me, articulating with particular care. “I will explain this to you in a way even a braindead tapeworm could understand.”

There’s a bucket of water in front of me in the backyard. I’m kneeling in front of the bucket, my hands dipped in the cold water. I’m expected to make the water do what I want, but right now it’s a problem of the water doing whatever it wants, and me feeling incredibly stupid.

“Every magic takes three things to work,” Master Teresina instructs me, like she honestly believes I’m a relative of tapeworms. “I call it, ‘the three F-rule’. The Fs come from the first letters of ‘fuel’ and ‘form’. Form, as you know, is the 'form' of the ritual. Some fancypants call it ‘eidos’, or ‘schema’, or 'formula' but I prefer to use real words. You know the fuel too. That’s the mana you absolutely suck at converting the orthodox way.”

“Do I have to learn how to dish out mana, if I can just...not?”

“Yes, you do. Because pure mana is by far more potent than raw ambient prana, and you need it if you ever mean to cast a spell worth a damn. You don’t want to trust cheap gimmicks with your life. You work out the fundamentals first.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

“That’s ‘yes, master’. Now, you use that pretty little head of yours to think up an image you want the water to take. The visualized image in your head serves as an information structure in its most basic, primitive form, transmitted though physical contact. No chants or anything complicated required. Then, you start feeding mana into the water and make it match the idea you have in your head.”

“You called it ‘three F-rule’?” I interject. “So what’s the third F for?”

“The last F stands for ‘just fucking do it’.”

That a hint?

I soak my hands in the bucket and try to think. What do I want the water to become? Imagine it. It could be anything. Oh wait, I know! I've got something very R-rated on my mind now!

“Now start feeding mana into the water,” granny instructs me. “Slowly, little by little, while constantly preserving the image in your mind.”

“Alright. I’ve got this! Just hang back and watch!”

I start putting my mana into the bucket. Three tenths of a second later, all the water in the bucket is ejected straight up to the sky. Unfortunately, my head is in the way and I get a nice, icy wakeup splash. Two beats later, what little water failed to smash into my eyeballs comes raining down as a refreshing shower, while I’m spitting and wiping my face.

“What the shit!?”

Granny is less than impressed. “Did I tell you to ‘pour all your mana into the bucket at once and wish for the best’? No, I did not. Not only are you bad at making the stuff, you're even worse at controlling it! Now run a lap around the house and get another bucket, so we can try this again.”

As I sit there on the ground, gathering myself, a random thought occurs to me out of nowhere.

“By the way, granny, what’s the difference between 'eidos' and 'soul'? I mean, isn’t the human soul basically just a clump of vital energy someone or something wrote in the shape of a person?”

Granny gives me a sharp scowl, her face even sourer than usual.

“Kid,” she answers me in a voice that makes even the summer sun seem chilly. “We don’t talk about souls in broad daylight.”

8 : 089 : 10 : 24 : 21

In his cluttered abode in the north-eastern castle tower, monstrous Master Khram tells me about world history, about geology, geography, and the different life forms that populate this planet, big and small, intelligent and bestial. His kind are called “cruleans”, apparently, though they also have another name for themselves. But that name is supposed to be a big secret and they don’t share it with non-cruleans.

“...Thus ended the War of the Gods and the Age of the Covenant began,” Master Khram rumbles on, holding on his palm a book that’s half the size of my bed. “The sundered land was divided between the survivors by the sacred Millennium Accord, by which each race was granted their own realm to dwell in, not to seek a quarter of the land of another, and the Created were at peace and free at long last. The Immortals solemnly swore to neither aid nor harm those beneath them—or there would be grievous consequences.”

“What kind of consequences?” I ask in an effort to stay awake.

“What?” Master Khram stirs, as if he already forgot he had a student, too enamored by his own recital. “Oh! Well, it depends on the severity of the offense, I suppose. But in the event that one race should attempt to conquer another, all the others would be bound by the Accord to join together against the aggressor. The resulting destruction would be much too great for anyone to risk. Grim business. But it is this very threat that upholds the peace; no one wants to draw the short end of that stick! Save the emiri! Hrmph! They always do as they damn well please, and care little for the opinions of others! Thinking they alone know what’s good for all of us…Ha! Their kind is the very image of hubris and arrogance, if you ask me! Oh, don’t tell Master Endol I said that. He’s not that bad, for an elf…A rare exception to the rule.”

“Master Khram!” I raise my hand and interrupt the rambling. Whenever he gets started about the elves, there's no end to it. “Another question!”

“Ehrm, yes, what is it?” He turns back, obviously pleased someone finally calls him master too.

“Earlier, you told me the gods started a big war with each other, which is why there are none of them left now.”

“Yes?”

“But isn't that weird? I mean, gods are supposed to be these higher beings, right? Super powerful, endlessly wise, and yadda-yadda. Even bigger and badder than the immortals. They could make new worlds, create life with a snap of their fingers, or erase it—so what got them quarreling all of sudden? Did the Dad God catch his wife in bed with the mailman, or what? You’d think gods were a little better than that.”

“Zero!” Master Khram exclaims, stunned. “That is blasphemy! I will not have language of that sort in this class!”

“What’s the problem? They're not here anymore. And why would they care what a bug like me says about them?”

“We created owe our undying respect to our Makers, setting aside if they’re here to hear it, or are not! That goes for you too!”

“But I think it’s a good question!”

“Hrm, there are no surviving records to explain the causes of the conflict,” he attempts to answer, scratching under his horn. “To begin with, we fleshly beings couldn’t comprehend the reasons of the gods. It is not our place to ponder such things.”

“Yeah, yeah. ’Mysterious are the ways of the gods’, and all that crap. Well, you know what I’m thinking? Terrible writing, that’s what. Whoever came up with that story didn’t have a shred of imagination and could only write from personal experience. But that’s where the editor should’ve stepped in! So we wouldn’t have our whole mythology based on cuckery. Talk about embarrassing!”

“I see. And do you know what I think, my young pupil?” Master Khram asks me and closes his enormous book with a slam.

“No, what?”

“That your homework for tomorrow shall be to write down, ‘I will not mock the Gods, or our creation myth’, three hundred times, in proper cursive. And in the Old Tongue, of course.”

“Three hundred—Aw, come on!”

“Five hundred!”

8 : 135 : 07 : 19 : 25

When summer is at its finest, I sometimes skip class to explore the picturesque valley, and it’s on these adventurous trips that I meet Lieselot, Master Gunlau’s youngest daughter.

We may come from virtually different worlds, but find we also have a lot in common. Neither looks her age. When I first saw Lieselot, I was sure she was like at least sixteen and not literally twelve. We’re used to being the underdog, the odd one out, and burn with the desire to prove ourselves. We’re both honest, upstanding souls, only a bit awkward at expressing ourselves, and don't shy away from getting physical. I swear, I’m not a pedophile.

As such, we become fast friends and spend our free time merrily beating each other up. Lieselot teaches me techniques she learns from her father, by using my body as a crash test dummy, and I kindly return the favor, punishing that dumb potato with magic whenever my temper and stamina run short. Of course, there’s no hiding these antics from granny, and various creative penalty games often await me by the time I crawl back home at night, trying in vain to hide my bruises.

Eventually Master Gunlau himself learns about our budding friendship and private lessons. Instead of getting upset, or suspecting me of being a sex offender, he insists I join the school and undertake formal training, worried I’ll get myself injured with improper technique. What a big heart!

Like that, I get to hang out with my friend even during the day, while also learning how to kick and punch people the right way. But, a mage who’s also a close combatant? Won’t that break the whole class balance? Oh well.

On the side, Master Gunlau teaches me about the Order, convinced my full membership is only a matter of time.

“Rule number one: all life is sacred,” the man teaches us the core tenets one day, always warmly smiling. “All life is precious. Protect all that lives. Shield those around you from harm by any means available to you. Always seek to make the choices that benefit the greatest number of lives. Should you learn that another soul is at risk, even if it be a stranger, even if it be only a small animal, your duty is to help according to your ability and the circumstances at hand. This is the most important rule.”

“...”

The day is sunny and summery, so we receive our class outdoors on a flowery plain, where cicadas cry. It could be called fun, if I didn’t have to stand in the crane pose on a tree stump, balancing an enormous rock on top of my head. I have to maintain a constant, steady flow of internal energy through all my limbs and spine to avoid being instantly flattened. The muscleheads call it “chi,” but it’s actually plain regular mana, they just don’t know it. Or care.

Lieselot has clearly done this before. Her boulder is a lot bigger than mine, but she stands still as a statue, a scatterbrained smile on her face, and holds up two more piles of rocks on her outstretched palms.

“Rule number three: the Order takes no sides,” Master Gunlau continues as he walks slowly around us. In his hand is a long straw with which he occasionally points out where our poise is failing. “We work in favor of all life and the living. Our duty sometimes requires the use of force, but we are not soldiers or mercenaries. We must never join with those who could later bring us at odds with our own creed. We go where the need is greatest, at no one’s bidding. We stand on the side of the oppressed, and should they become oppressors themselves tomorrow, we will smite them in the name of fairness all the same.”

Although it only increases the difficulty, I feel like asking a question.

“But if we’re on nobody’s side, then who pays the bills? Being heroes is great, sure but running all this can’t be too cheap.”

Master Gunlau has a diplomatic answer ready.

“Thankfully there are certain generous souls out there in the big world, who share our ideals and wish to support our work. Since they cannot fight alongside us, they’ll help us by means more convenient for them. We accept what we need and direct the rest to those who need it more. Amassing riches is not our purpose.”

“Really? And there are a lot of those, uh, generous souls?”

I don’t know many rich people, personally, but I get this impression social justice is not their top charity target.

Master Gunlau’s smile widens.

“Well, let us say that not all of our donors are fully aware of their role. Is not life more precious than gold? We sometimes find it necessary to remind the wealthier citizens of this thing called karma: if your greed compels you to raise your earnings by morally questionable methods, then the costs may end up being greater than the profits.”

“You mean, you go all Robin Hood on those guys?”

“Pffwhahaha!” Lieselot cracks up and starts giggling.

She’s not the only one. The rock on top of her head abruptly snaps and breaks into two halves which tumble heavily onto the ground at her feet.

“Aw, that’s no good, jellybean,” Master Gunlau scolds his daughter, the smile on his face unfading. “You can’t lose control of your chi like that. Someone could die.”

“Oopsie!” Liselelot says and sticks out her tongue, not the image of remorse.

“…”

This class is actually torture.

It’s torture, isn’t it?

Over time, real food and spirited exercise slowly make me look more like a hero and less like a labor camp escapee, and—to my big relief—I grow a bit taller too. I wouldn't say it’s all easy living, but as I slowly build my stats and learn the ropes, the people around me also begin to accept I’m an actual person and part of their regular monkey sphere.

I can't lie: life here is pretty nice.

Almost good enough to make me forget my terrible past.

Almost, but never completely.

At my request, Irifan’s agents go check out the village of Buckinworth, but what they bring back at summer’s end is mostly a letdown. I'm told the whole shackville was abandoned after the incident. Those cabins rot empty now, the branches go unpicked. The villagers scattered here and there between the other nearby settlements, Selia Bengholm most likely among the others. Learning her current whereabouts is going to take more detective work, and the Order is always short on manpower. I might have to wait a long while for more news. Sucks, but what can you do?

I guess I should be glad.

It would’ve felt better to have Selia here with me, but surely anywhere’s better than that goblin dungheap. What happened there was awful and saying this is awful too, but now that she’s free of the burden of her old man, she can finally live her life the way she wants to.

One of these days we’ll meet each other again, I just know it. And then I can show Selia just how far I’ve come.

Oh, she’s in for a big surprise.