My eyes opened to the sight of a deep crimson fabric canopy above me. For a long moment, I simply lay there, savoring the unfamiliar feeling of a safe, comfortable sleep. It was a profound luxury. I sat up and examined my arms and torso. The tapestry of cuts and bruises that had marred my skin was gone, seamlessly healed by the Draughts' magic. I was also wearing new clothes—a soft black hoodie and durable pants. They have good fashion sense here, I noted with mild surprise.
The sounds of cheerful activity drifted in from outside. Stepping out of the small, mountain-carved room, I was met with a bustling scene: Draughts of all sizes moved through the village, their daily lives unfolding with a sense of purpose.
I closed my eyes, focusing inward. Within my storage space, the beautiful sword I had pulled from the stone rested peacefully. Memories of last night's celebration surfaced—the floor littered with vibrant, alien flower petals, the feast of surprisingly delicious foods, some of which had been offered to the local creatures. I recalled the six-legged beings with their three colorful tails and hard, chitinous faces that scurried about, efficiently cleaning the mess. It was a clear sign of a complex, functioning society.
A Draught in a distinctive purple hoodie approached and gave a slight bow. "Greetings, Hero. I am here to bring you to the training grounds."
Yesterday, King Rugidigus had suggested we assess each other's capabilities. It seemed the time for that had come. The prospect of learning more about magic in a world fundamentally built upon it sent a genuine thrill of anticipation through me.
We walked through the winding paths of the village. Draughts of all ages filled the thoroughfares. Adults moved with quiet purpose, while young ones chased each other, their joyful laughter a stark, welcome contrast to the oppressive silence of the wilds.
Finally, we arrived at a vast, open ground. The very air hummed with latent power. Dozens of Draughts were deep in practice, their spells slamming into training dummies or clashing against each other in brilliant bursts of light and sound. My escort bowed and returned to his own practice. I found King Rugidigus observing the trainees with a practiced, critical eye.
He turned as I approached. "I trust you rested well, Hero?"
"I did, thank you," I replied. "But you didn't bring me here just to watch, did you?" As fascinating as the spectacle was, a restless energy was building inside me, a need to do.
A knowing smile touched his lips. "I recall you mentioning your... limited experience with formal magic."
Oh, right. I had confessed that to him yesterday. It was the simple truth; while I could manage minor utility spells, the larger, more potent workings of magic were still a mystery to me.
"Do not mistake this for doubt," he continued, his voice calm and measured. "We have placed our hope in you. But it would be a shame if you departed our home having learned nothing new. Allow me to share some of the foundational knowledge we have gathered over the ages."
He gestured for me to sit on a smooth, worn rock, and he began to speak, his words falling into a rhythmic, almost poetic cadence.
---
[Magic]
From feelings deep, a force is spun,
To wish for things not said or done.
We want what's not in our own hand,
And this is what all souls understand.
It makes the strange and wild seem true,
If you believe in what you do.
Your heart must be both strong and clear,
To banish every doubt and fear.
It splits the wise from those who rush,
It hushes noise, it brings a hush.
We learn its ways to help us live,
And learn what real attention gives.
The more we learn, the more we see,
How wise a single soul can be.
---
The meaning settled over me like a cloak. So mana wasn't merely a fuel; it was woven from the very fabric of desire and emotion. The strength of a spell was intrinsically tied to the clarity and conviction of the caster's will. It was a profound revelation. If I can truly believe in myself, could my power grow exponentially?
I was deeply grateful. This was insight that might have taken me a lifetime to grasp alone.
My gaze drifted back to the training field, my fingers unconsciously tracing the space where my sword was stored. The Draughts weren't just waving wands. One fighter wielded a blade that trailed living flames with every swing. Another chanted from a floating grimoire, summoning shields of hardened light. A third had called forth a creature of pure, crackling energy to spar with.
A deep, unfamiliar urge stirred within me—a pull to not just observe, but to act. It was a primal call to movement and conflict that I could no longer ignore.
Before I knew it, I was on my feet. The weight of the legendary sword materialized in my hand with a thought. I walked towards a particularly skilled Draught who was effortlessly disarming his opponents with a graceful, fluid sword style. He noticed my approach and sheathed his blade with a fluid motion.
"What pleasure do we have to meet the great Hero?" he asked, his tone respectful, but his eyes held a sharp, assessing glint.
I took a steadying breath. "Can you train me?" The request felt right. After witnessing such intense focus, I craved to feel that same seamless connection between will, weapon, and action.
A broad, eager grin spread across his face. "Hahaha! Well, I won't go easy on the great Hero. Come!"
In a flash, his sword was back in his hand. He didn't wait for a signal, charging forward with explosive speed. I barely had time to raise my own blade. The sharp, resonant clang of our swords meeting echoed across the training ground, a sound that felt like the true beginning of my path here.
---
[Cherry's POV]
Far to the north, in a barren region of jagged rock and dust, the air was thick with grunts and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground. A circle of hulking Naughts looked on, their expressions a mix of profound embarrassment and grudging awe. In the center stood Cherry, barely winded, surrounded by a dozen of their best warriors, all now groaning in the dirt.
This brutal display was their version of "training." For the Naughts, defeat was not a shame, but a lesson written directly into the flesh. Cherry had found this tribe during her desperate search for any sign of Sparx. Aligning with them provided essential shelter and information. She had quickly learned of the endless war and how outsiders like herself were seen as potential champions, or "lights."
To become their leader, the path was simple: defeat the current strongest. As a Magus who had honed her body with the same discipline as her mind, her power had been utterly overwhelming.
Now, as their acknowledged champion, a hollow feeling lingered in her chest. Each passing day without a single clue about Sparx's whereabouts made the flame of her hope burn thinner. A quiet, cold fear whispered in the back of her mind: Did he die? Where is he?
She sighed, her shoulders slumping for just a fleeting moment as she stared up at the oppressive, unchanging purplish sky. "Stubborn fool," she whispered, the words carried away by the wind. "I hope you're okay."
Then, with a visible effort, she straightened her posture, pushing the worry down into a locked compartment of her heart. She turned back to the groaning Naughts, a fierce, commanding smile returning to her lips.
"Come on, you lot! No slacking off!" she barked, her voice cutting through the air like a whip, demanding action to fill the silence of her worry.