image [https://i.imgur.com/e0cEVeo.jpeg]

“Ah, I see, I see,” Petros was walking in circles in front of the table Dolor was still attached to “So, you are telling me you were racking up another tab at one of our competitor’s establishments when suddenly two SSB spooks show up and ask you to come with them. They then proceed to knock you out and prepare you for execution on political charges, when suddenly a special grade magicarm that was allegedly used to kill your father in prison on Crudele’s orders and sent back to you as a warning, and which you, apparently, casually carry around with you to pubs and taverns, comes alive and binds with you, despite you being a maneless drunken ex-military grunt, and proceeds to kill the two highly trained SSB mages. Right after committing a double murder of members of probably the most powerful social caste in the Republic, you escape through the festive streets of the Capital, swarming with people and State dogs. And speaking of dogs, on your way here, you not only killed those two SSB magents but also a militia officer. And now you are here.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it. Very exhaustive summary. The only minor correction is that technically the militiaman was killed by his manahound, not me,” said Dolor in his defense.

“And how, pray tell, did the manahound turn on him? Did it perhaps bite through its spell leash?” inquired Petros.

“Not quite…the dagger chopped his leash arm off and the manahound attacked him, presumably because he hadn’t been a very good dog dad.”

“I see. Well, unfortunately for him, he is now a dead dog dad. But we are digressing here, young Dolor. Tell me, do you think that showing up here, at this establishment, which is technically and formally illegal, after having committed a triple murder of State reps, the only people who have rights in this country, might I add, is a good idea?” asked Petros now fully still and staring directly into Dolor’s eyes.

“Look, I know that this is a bad look, but I promise, nobody saw me. I made sure I wasn’t followed,” said Dolor with a badly hidden lack of confidence.

“Oh well in that case, if nobody saw you, I guess we can all forget that you were seen by the three state employees, whom you killed with a special grade magicarm on the festive streets of Capital City during Anniversary Day, the most important holiday of the year. Are you having a laugh at my expense, Lance Corporal? Do you take me for a fool or one of your pedestrian ex-military drunkard friends?”

“No, Petros. Please, just hear me out. You are the only person who can help me, and all I need is a couple of pointers in the right direction,” Dolor pleaded with as much sincerity as he could muster.

“Oh? And what did I do to earn the honor of being the only person whom you can turn to in this hour of need? "

“You are the only majo I know, who doesn’t work for the Conclave,” stated Dolor.

“Majo” was a derogatory term often used by the manaless to refer to the magekind. The term has had a long history. It was popularized in the Kingdom era, where it was used originally by members of the aristocracy and the manaless commoners who gladly followed the example set by their elites. Being systemically oppressed for several centuries by the ruling class had a knock-on effect on how magekind were perceived by the general manaless population of the Kingdom, who regarded magekind with great weariness and suspicion and would not normally associate with them fearing societal and sometimes even legal consequences. To be a majo meant, most times, being unable to live in habitation sectors reserved exclusively for the manaless, being unable to obtain any job other than in military or industrial sectors, and receiving a lot of side-eyed looks and demeaning comments from the members of the manaless majority whether on market squares or in churches. Dolor did not know if the people followed their leaders in their disdain and oppression of the magekind, or if the leaders were following the people, merely playing to the moods of the majority and using the magekind as a convenient scapegoat in times of need.

“You know, Lance Corporal, I would normally tell you to hold your horses on the political incorrectness as there is no need for such foul language in my esteemed company. However, I am going to forego telling you this, because you somehow managed to commit one of the few crimes that this country prosecutes harder than using the naughty words.” Petros was standing next to a wooden cabinet and was fixing himself a drink. “What is it you want then and, more importantly, why should I help you? You are a wanted manaless terrorist fugitive who has defiled the sacred holiday of the Revolt Anniversary Day by killing not one, not two, but three brave, loyal, and devout magekind sons of the Republic. The only ‘pointer’ I can give you is to turn yourself in and spare me the inconvenience of going through all the paperwork if I were to turn yourself over to the SSB myself. "

“Now that you are asking, I am not entirely sure what kind of help I exactly need from you, but I was hoping you could answer some questions I have since I am new to this whole magic shit,” said Dolor.

“I would not have believed you, young Dolor, if you did not attack me with that magicarm earlier. But you, as you can see, are not in any position to ask me questions. I, however, do still have some questions regarding your newly found secret talent,” said Petros as he finished taking a sip of something that looked like a gin and tonic to Dolor, who had little to be proud of in his life, other than his almost encyclopedic knowledge of various alcoholic drinks, fostered by years of having a trauma-driven drinking problem.

“Sure, ask away. I got all the time in the world, not like I am a wanted terrorist fugitive on the run,” sarcastically remarked Dolor. He immediately felt a painful pins-and-needles sensation that engulfed his entire body as purple lightning bolts began crackling around him while the aluminum table he was tied to acted as a giant conductor, sending electrical shocks to his liver, kidneys, and back muscles. Dolor began convulsing widely, with only the restraining seals preventing him from jumping off the table.

“Do not take advantage of my welcoming hospitality, Lance Corporal!” Petros stopped casting and lowered his arm. “Did I tell you that before my forays in the hospitality industry, I had experience working for certain…government bodies…where I was known for being a natural at various interrogation techniques,” proclaimed Petros with pride palpable in his voice.

Dolor could not move. After all the pain he had felt in the last 24 hours, this was by far the worst, and it only lasted for a moment, while seeming like an eternity to Dolor. He felt something warm on his legs. He realized it was his urine, which involuntarily escaped his bladder after the elf’s lighting spell hit Dolor. He has suspected that Petros, the infamous “Captain of the Lower Deck”, had some sort of experience working for the State. After all, there was no way he could not. He was an elf mage who must have been old enough to have served in the Royal Army under both the Last King of Lestralla and Crudele. Elven magekind like Petros were valued particularly highly because of their longer lifespans, which allowed them to accumulate more knowledge and skills in using magic and thus made them extremely valuable for military purposes. While the Kingdom tried to control the population of magekind by making magekind family lines unable to produce magekind offspring, the elven magekind families were usually spared from this fate. Similarly, orcs, even those who were manaless, were also spared from these policies because of their naturally overwhelming physical strength. Considering Petros’ mannerisms, his magic and interrogation skills, as well as his “Captain” nickname, Dolor assumed that he was probably in the Royal Marines or perhaps some other secret unit of magekind soldiers committing war crimes off the books, of which there was no shortage under either the previous or the current political regime.

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“Apologies, Captain, I did not mean to offend you,” said Dolor after finally managing to regain control of his contorting facial muscles. He was still breathing heavily. “Can you undo my restraints, please? I think I pissed my pants under the persuasive power of your argument.”

“At ease, Lance Corporal, we all make mistakes, some of us, admittedly, more and dumber mistakes than others,” the usual carefree demeanor returned to Petros’ face, having replaced the “don’t fuck with me” expression that Dolor spotted during his convulsions on the elf’s face. “There will be time to take care of your little accident later, for now just do as I say.” Dolor was not going to force the issue after what he had just experienced, piss-drenched trousers were the least of his concerns right now.

“What do you want to know?” asked Dolor.

“Was this the first time you were able to use magic? How did you use it? Did you have any specific thoughts before the magicarm became activated?” Petros began firing away the questions at Dolor.

“Yes, this was the first time. I had no signs that I was capable of magic throughout my life. Both my parents were manaless,” Dolor attempted to recount what he was thinking right before the dagger claimed magent Mons, the first of its three victims so far. “I am not exactly sure how I ‘activated’ it. I was sitting on my knees, with the SSB magent about to blow my brains out, when it suddenly flew out and sliced his partner’s stomach,” said Dolor honestly.

“So, you did not explicitly think in your head ‘I want the dagger to fly at the orc and slice his stomach’?” asked Petros

“No, it was not like a ‘go-go-magic dagger’ type of manifestation. I remember one thought, or rather an emotion, I had before that moment, it was regret. I regretted being born manaless in this world, which appears to have no place for people like me, even though all I ever wanted was to just live my life and be left alone.”

“Ok, that’s quite enough of your philosophical digressions, Lance Corporal, stick to answering the questions directly,” demanded Petros. “Now, this is the most important question, so please pay attention,” Dolor blinked and Petros was already standing over him, having seemingly teleported from the other side of the room where he was standing until then. “Where the fuck did you get the mana to use this thing, Dolor?”

Dolor knew that this question would come up. Hell, he was asking himself that same question. Despite being manaless, even he knew the basics of how magic works. To cast spells, a sorcerer needs to consume mana to fuel the cast. The more complex a magic technique is, the more mana it would require. After centuries of population and mana control, the vast majority of magekind had inherently limited manapools. Certain talented individuals could have manapools that would be slightly larger, however virtually all magekind, would require mana capsules, small glass injectors containing a glowing blue paste made from manadust, to be consumed before magic could be used. Training and experience helped mages improve their spell-casting efficiency and spell selection, but one’s natural manapool capacity was more or less set in stone and not improvable, requiring the usage of mana capsules even by the most experienced mages. Unsurprisingly because of that the Conclave had total control of all manadust and mana capsule production in the country, and thus ‘renegades’, or rogue mages, were almost unheard of outside of isolated military incidents, where sorcerers have free access to mana supplies and sometimes snap under the battle conditions. However, Dolor did not use any mana, and even he knew that using the dagger as many times as he did would require at least several doses of mana injections.

“I did not have any mana capsules. I was able to use the dagger…just like that, without mana,” stated Dolor, understanding how unbelievable that would sound.

“Were you now? Goodness me, Lance Corporal, you are positively full of surprises! According to what you are saying, not only did you suddenly awaken the ability to use magic at the ripe age of thirty-three, but you are also a savant?” asked Petros with enthusiasm in his voice.

“A savant? What is that?” Dolor inquired.

“I am not surprised you haven’t heard of it. After all, their existence is officially denied, but they are very much real, young Dolor. Savants comprise an infinitesimally small segment of all magic users with abnormally high manapools, which allow them to cast spells without using mana supplements.”

“This can’t be real. Are you saying some people can use magic without capsules?” Dolor was visibly shocked.

“On yes, that is exactly what I am saying, Lance Corporal. All of them, or rather, all of those who Covenant is aware of, are quickly identified and ‘recruited’ to serve for the Benefit of the State. They say that savants are people whose ancestors managed to, mostly by miracle or happy accident, avoid being magically neutered and deprived of their mana, leaving their manapools relatively unchanged from the ancient era, when it is said that magic could be cast by utilizing one’s natural manapool. Years of magekind population control have resulted in the shrinkage of natural manapools, making all magekind dependent on the supply of mana capsules, thus ensuring their loyalty to the Royals and making them easier to control.”

“Oh really? Then why hasn’t anyone heard anything about them?” asked Dolor skeptically. “There is no way the existence of such people could have ever been concealed completely from the public. It would have been leaked through bureaucratic gossip or some other channel, would it not?”

“Who said anything about them being hidden, Lance Corproal? Au contraire, many of these people are quite prominent, with some even being household names. So, they are ‘hiding’, in a sense, but doing so in plain sight. For example, you would not think that any high-ranking Conclave mage would have problems acquiring as much mana as they wanted, right? Thus, one would have no reason to suspect that these people are savants but simply wealthy influential mages with unrestricted access to mana. This is made easier because the existence of savants, or the very concept that magic could be cast without mana supplements, is officially denied and most members of the general public, just like you, are not even aware of such a thing being possible,” explained Petros with a tone of a patient schoolteacher pre-empting all questions his students may ask him.

“And who might these ‘high-ranking Conclave officials’ be? Any names of famous savants hiding in plain sight?” asked Dolor, not knowing what kind of answer he was expecting to hear.

“Sure, I do, Lance Corporal!” said Petros with a cheeky smirk stretching from ear to ear, uncharacteristic of his usually noble and stoic face. “Ever heard of this man called Artifex Crudele, the High Chairman of the Conclave and our dear Leader?”