I had come early. Before the bustle. Before the world remembered it was awake.
The training field lay ahead: a squared clearing ringed with tall grass and bounded on three sides by crude fencing. There was nothing remarkable about it. A few worn stumps used for sword drills, some straw dummies repaired too many times to still resemble human shapes, and a barrel of water that had already begun attracting bees. It was humble. Honest. And more than enough.
To the east of the field stood a tree—not large, not ancient, but tall and straight, its bark pale and weather-scratched. It would do.
Moving on, there are two spells in my arsenal, [Light Sphere] and [Cure Heal]. One conjured a orb of light while the other was meant to heal wounds like sprains, cuts, gashes and scratches. However, they became problematic when cast by me. Therefore, today's goal was to find a possible solution to this dilemma of mine. Let's start with [Light Sphere].
[Come forth, Light. Gentle Illumination: Light Sphere] was the chant. From yesterday's attempts, both the spells activated before my incantation was completed. Wait—both spells activated before I even finished the incantation. That couldn't be coincidence. Then, how did the effects vary so distinctly?
Chants generally have three parts, the calling of the element, here [Come forth, Light], description of the effect, [Gentle Illumination] and the name, [Light Sphere]. My spells activates the moment I call the element. What is the determinant?
"[Come forth, Light-]"
Blinding flash. And a small orb of materialized in front of me. Fist-sized, floating leisurely in front of me. While the chirping increased as birds flew away from the tree.
Let's see if I can brighten it up.
It did.
It dimmed per my whim. Whim? Or...
Intent. That might be more accurate.
Once again. It brightened up then dimmed. More complex, the orb spilt into two. Four. Eight. What about merging? Four. Two. One. There was a miniscule jump in difficulty. Assigning labels to the orbs—'A,' 'B,' and so on—seemed to simplify the process. How precise can the instruction can be?
Up. Down. Down. Left. Left. Up. Up. Split into two. A goes up. B returns to me.....
….D comes to me following a zig-zag path and merges with A while C goes off and B dims. All the orbs extinguish.
Magic responds to intent. By the end of the exercise I concluded.
"[Light Sphere]"
A point in the air starts to brighten up and forms an orb of light. Another discovery, the spell name is sufficient for me to the spell. My affinity does the heavy lifting, calling for the element while my intent or mental image makes the second part of the chant redundant.
In conclusion, [Come forth, Light] is handled by my innate affinity, [Gentle Illumination] is replaced by my intent while [Light Sphere] is the trigger.
The limits, it seemed weren't magical—they were mental. If so, then what else could be shaped by intent alone?
The orb grew, halted then shrunk to oblivion. Size did.
'[Light Sphere].' No changes. Chants have to chanted, it can't be mental.
"[Light sphere]." A orb popped out of thin air. Muttering did the job.
The orb then grew in size while dimmed in luminosity, then shrunk with decreasing luminosity. Size + Brightness did.
What more? Shape? Let's try it. ….Nothing happened. So is immutable? Or the spell is called [Light Sphere] for this reason? The latter is more probable. Hmm,...nothing more comes to my mind. Seems like I have fully explored [Light Sphere] for now. On to the next one.
[Come forth, Light. Soothing Comfort: Cure Heal] is the chant and this spell has another barrier of requiring actual injuries to practice upon. Otherwise progress and proficiency becomes difficult to judge. Reflet being a small and peaceful village has it's resident's don't injured often enough for me practice upon and the Guild is out of question with it's rowdy community. What a dilemma.
I stood in place pondering for solutions, then my eyes fell on the lone tree, standing proudly in solitude. What if...
I approached the tree, its pale bark catching the early morning light. An idea was forming, reckless but practical. If I couldn't practice [Cure Heal] on people due to the lack of injuries, perhaps the tree could serve as a substitute. Plants, after all, could be damaged and repaired in their own way. It wasn't a perfect analog to human flesh, but it might be enough to test my theory about intent shaping the spell's effects.
Placing both my palms on a low-hanging branch and my foot on it's trunk, I pulled with all my strength. There was a sharp crack and I relented. [Cure Heal] was meant to fix simple injuries, limb re-attachment would require a more advanced spell. Now, to study the injury and successfully heal it.
I stood beside the tree, examining the branch I'd damaged. The crack was sharp and clean, a jagged split where the wood had torn, exposing pale, fibrous innards. Sap oozed slowly from the wound, glistening in the morning light. It wasn't a human injury, but it was damage all the same—something to test [Cure Heal] on. If my theory about intent shaping magic held true, I could will the spell to mend the tree's wound, even if it wasn't the spell's typical use.
I placed my hands gently on either side of the break, feeling the rough bark under my palms. The chant for [Cure Heal] came to mind: [Come forth, Light. Soothing Comfort: Cure Heal]. Like with [Light Sphere], I suspected the full incantation wasn't necessary. My affinity for light magic handled the "calling" part, and my intent could replace the descriptive middle. The spell's name might be enough to trigger it.
"[Cure Heal]," I muttered, focusing on the broken branch. I pictured the torn fibers knitting together, the sap sealing, the bark smoothing over. A faint warmth spread from my hands, and a soft golden glow enveloped the branch. The sap stopped oozing, and the jagged edges of the break began to pull together, as if drawn by invisible threads. The bark crept inward, covering the exposed wood. In moments, the branch looked whole again, though a faint scar remained where the break had been. Additionally, the already leaked sap did not return inside, so what is 'lost' is not recovered, hmm, the same might happen with blood loss.
I stepped back, exhaling. It worked. Not perfectly—the scar was proof of that—but it worked. The tree wasn't human, yet [Cure Heal] had adapted to my intent, mending plant tissue instead of flesh. This confirmed it: the spell's limits were tied to my ability to visualize and direct the outcome. If I could imagine the repair clearly, the magic would follow.
But I needed to push further. The branch was a simple test, but what about precision? Could I control the degree of healing, or even undo it? I didn't want to damage the tree again—it felt wrong to keep breaking it just for practice. Instead, I focused on the scar. Could [Cure Heal] refine its work, erasing even the trace of injury?
"[Cure Heal]," I said again, this time placing a single finger on the scar. My intent was narrower: smooth the bark completely, erase any sign of the break. The glow returned, softer this time, and the scar began to fade. The bark rippled slightly, like water settling, and when the light dimmed, the branch looked pristine, as if it had never been broken.
I grinned. Precision was possible. The spell wasn't just a blunt tool—it could be fine-tuned, sculpted by my will. But what were the limits? Could I heal something more complex, like rot or disease in the tree? Or was [Cure Heal] restricted to physical damage? I scanned the tree for any signs of decay but found none. Reflet's climate was too mild, and this tree was healthy. I'd need to find another test subject for that, maybe a sickly plant or an injured animal.
For now, I turned my attention back to the spell's mechanics. With another cracking sound another injury was created. [Cure Heal] did it's job spectacularly. This time there was no remanent scarring, progress. [Cure Heal] I recast the spell on the now healthy branch. There was a glow but nothing changed. The spell was cast successfully but nothing happened. I see it only works on injuries otherwise it no different from a flash of light.
I stepped back from the tree, brushing my hands together to dislodge bits of bark. The morning air was still crisp, the training field quiet except for the faint hum of bees around the water barrel. My experiments with [Cure Heal] had confirmed my suspicions: intent was the key to shaping my magic. Both [Light Sphere] and [Cure Heal] bent to my will, their effects limited not by the spells themselves but by my ability to visualize and direct the outcome. The implications were exciting—and daunting. If my magic responded so readily to intent, what else could I achieve with practice? And what happened if my focus slipped?
I glanced at the tree, its branch now flawless, as if I'd never damaged it. The success with [Cure Heal] was promising, but I needed to test its boundaries further. Healing a tree was one thing; mending flesh, bone, or something more complex like disease was another. The spell's description limited it to "small and superficial wounds," but my experiments suggested I could push beyond that, at least in theory. The problem was finding a suitable subject. Reflet's peaceful nature meant injuries were rare, and I wasn't about to go picking fights at the Guild just to practice healing.
An idea struck me. If I couldn't find an injured person or animal, perhaps I could simulate an injury—on myself. Nothing drastic, just a small cut or scrape, enough to test [Cure Heal] on human flesh. The thought made me grimace. I wasn't thrilled about hurting myself, even slightly, but it was the most practical solution. Besides, if [Cure Heal] worked as I expected, I'd be fine in moments.
I knelt by the edge of the training field, picking up a small, sharp stone from the ground. It was smooth but had a jagged edge, perfect for a controlled cut. I hesitated, rolling the stone between my fingers. This was reckless, but I needed to know. Bracing myself, I pressed the stone's edge against the back of my left hand, just hard enough to break the skin. A thin line of blood welled up, stinging more than I'd expected. It was shallow, barely more than a scratch, but it would do.
"[Cure Heal]," I muttered, placing my right hand over the cut. I focused on the injury, picturing the skin knitting together, the blood retreating, the sting fading. A familiar golden glow bloomed under my palm, warm and soothing. When I lifted my hand, the cut was gone—no scar, no redness, nothing. The skin was as smooth as before.
I exhaled, relieved. It worked on human flesh, just as it had on the tree. But I needed to dig deeper. Could I control the healing process more precisely, like I had with the tree's scar? I made another small cut, this time on my forearm, wincing at the sharp sting. Instead of healing it completely, I decided to test partial healing. I visualized the cut closing only halfway, leaving a faint mark.
"[Cure Heal]," I said, focusing intently. The glow appeared, softer this time. When it faded, the cut was shallower, the skin partially mended, but a faint pink line remained. Exactly as I'd intended. I nodded, satisfied. The spell's precision was remarkable, limited only by my ability to hold a clear mental image.
But what about pain? Could [Cure Heal] dull pain without fully healing the injury? I focused on the faint mark on my forearm, picturing the lingering sting fading while leaving the visible mark intact. "[Cure Heal]," I said, narrowing my intent. The glow returned, and the nothing change the pain still lingered. So, it was strictly for healing wounds. Looks like spells are not as malleable as I originally thought.
I sat back on the grass, the sharp stone still in my hand, my forearm tingling faintly from the partially healed cut. The morning sun was climbing higher, casting long shadows across the training field. The bees' hum had grown louder, and a soft breeze stirred the tall grass, carrying the scent of dew and earth. My experiments with [Cure Heal] and [Light Sphere] had revealed a crucial truth: my magic was deeply tied to intent, but each spell had its own boundaries. [Light Sphere] could be shaped in countless ways—size, number, movement—but its core nature as a sphere of light seemed fixed. [Cure Heal], meanwhile, was strictly for mending physical damage, not for manipulating pain or other sensations. These limits intrigued me as much as the possibilities. If I could understand where the boundaries lay, I could push them further—or find ways to work around them.
I glanced at the tree again, its bark smooth and unmarred. The success with healing the branch had been a breakthrough, but it also raised questions. Could [Cure Heal] work on other non-human subjects, like animals or even inanimate objects? And what about [Light Sphere]? If I could split and move the orbs, could I imbue them with other properties, like heat or force? The idea of turning a simple light spell into something more versatile was tantalizing, but I needed to be methodical. Reckless experimentation could lead to unintended consequences—like the blinding flash from my first [Light Sphere] attempt that had startled the birds.
I stood, brushing grass from my clothes, and decided to focus on [Light Sphere] again. Its flexibility made it a better candidate for testing the limits of intent. I wanted to explore whether I could alter its fundamental nature or combine it with other effects. The spell's name suggested it was limited to creating spherical light, but my ability to split and move the orbs hinted at untapped potential. What if I tried to change its shape again, but with a clearer mental image? Or pushed it to do something beyond illumination?
I stepped into the center of the training field, giving myself space. "[Light Sphere]," I muttered, and a fist-sized orb of soft light appeared before me, hovering at eye level. I focused on its shape, picturing it flattening into a disc. Nothing happened. The orb remained stubbornly spherical, its glow steady. I frowned, recalling my earlier failure to change its shape. The spell's name, [Light Sphere], might indeed define its form. But what if I approached it differently? Instead of forcing a new shape, could I stretch the definition of "sphere"?
"[Light Sphere]," I said again, summoning a new orb. This time, I visualized it as a sphere that was slightly elongated, like an egg. The orb shimmered, and to my surprise, it stretched faintly, its edges blurring into an oval shape before snapping back to a perfect sphere. I blinked. It had worked, if only for a moment. The spell resisted, but the brief change proved it wasn't impossible. My intent had nudged the spell's boundaries, even if it hadn't broken them.
Encouraged, I tried again. "[Light Sphere]." Another orb appeared. This time, I focused on making it pulse, like a heartbeat, while keeping its spherical form. The orb began to throb, its light swelling and dimming rhythmically. Success. The pulsing was a new effect, one I hadn't tried before. It wasn't a drastic change, but it confirmed that I could add dynamic properties to the spell. What else could I do?
An idea sparked. If [Light Sphere] was light, could I make it emit something other than visible light? Heat, for instance, was a form of energy related to light. Could I will the orb to warm the air around it? I held the pulsing orb steady and focused, imagining its glow carrying a gentle warmth, like sunlight on skin. The orb's light shifted slightly, taking on a faint golden hue. I extended my hand, holding it a few inches from the orb. After a moment, I felt it—a subtle warmth, like standing near a candle. It wasn't intense, but it was there.
I let the orb fade, its faint warmth lingering in the air for a moment before dissipating. The training field was still quiet, but the sun had climbed higher, painting the grass in vibrant gold. The bees droned steadily, and a soft breeze carried the scent of earth and dew. My experiments with [Light Sphere] and [Cure Heal] had pushed my understanding of magic further than I'd expected. Intent was the key, shaping the spells' effects within their boundaries—boundaries I was beginning to map out. [Light Sphere] could be stretched to pulse or warm, maybe even more with practice. [Cure Heal] could mend beyond flesh, but only physical damage, not pain or other sensations.
I glanced at the tree, its bark pristine, then down at my forearm, where the faint pink mark from my partial healing remained. Each success and limitation was a piece of the puzzle. Magic wasn't just power; it was a craft, demanding precision and clarity of thought. If I could hone my focus, who knew what else I could achieve?
With the sun now higher in the sky, I stepped back to the center of the training field, the grass beneath my feet soft and damp. The faint pink mark on my forearm and the pristine tree stood as proof of my progress, but I wasn't done. There were still boundaries to test, limits to push. I summoned another [Light Sphere], its glow steady and bright, and began to experiment anew, determined to unravel the full potential of my magic. Hours stretched on, the hum of bees and rustle of grass my only company, as I lost myself in the rhythm of practice, each spell a step closer to mastery.
********************
The Silver Moon Inn was a warm blur of lantern light and murmured voices as I pushed through the heavy wooden door. My legs ached, mind buzzed with the afterglow of hours spent bending [Light Sphere] and [Cure Heal] to my will. The training field had drained me—mentally more than physically—but the discoveries I'd made kept a faint smile on my face despite the fatigue. The air inside the inn smelled of fresh bread, roasted meat, and the faint tang of ale, a comforting contrast to the crisp dew of the morning.
I shuffled toward a corner table, my boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. The inn was lively but not crowded, with a handful of locals nursing drinks and a bard strumming a lute in the far corner, his melody half-drowned by laughter. I dropped into a chair, back slumping against the rough wood, and I let out a long breath. My forearm that bore the faint pink mark from my self-inflicted test, had healed almost completely yet it stood as a reminder of [Cure Heal]'s limits and my own progress. The stone I'd used to cut himself sat heavy in my pocket, a small, grounding weight.
As I settled into the chair at the Silver Moon Inn, the warmth of the room and the hum of conversation began to ease the tension in my shoulders. The faint pink mark on my forearm caught my eye again, a subtle reminder of my experiments with [Cure Heal]. It was nearly gone now, the spell's partial healing having faded the mark to a ghost of what it had been. I traced it with my thumb, my mind still turning over the day's discoveries. Intent shaped my magic, but each spell had its own rules, its own edges I could push but not break. [Light Sphere] was malleable—pulsing, warming, even briefly stretching into an oval. [Cure Heal] was stricter, tied to physical wounds, refusing to bend beyond that. The question now was how far I could take this understanding, and what it meant for the spells I might learn next.
"You look roughed up." Micah, the waitress asked, her eyebrow raised.
I sighed. "You ever practice Light magic so hard your eyes start holding a grudge? Because I do. I think I just learned how moths feel during a lightning storm."
Micah chuckled, her tray balanced expertly on one hand as she set a mug of water in front of me. "Moths, huh? Sounds like you've been dazzling yourself out there. You didn't blind any poor squirrels, did you?"
I grinned, shaking my head. "Just a flock of birds and maybe my own ego. They'll recover." I took a sip of the water, cool and refreshing, washing away the dryness in my throat. "Training's been... intense. But I'm figuring things out. Magic's more about focus than I thought."
She leaned against the table, her auburn hair catching the lantern light. "Focus, huh? Sounds like you're turning into a proper mage. Next thing you know, you'll be glowing like a firefly and healing broken hearts." She winked, then straightened. "You eating, or just here to brood poetically?"
"Food," I said quickly. "Something hearty. My stomach's starting to think I forgot about it."
"Stew and bread, coming up." Micah turned, weaving through the tables with the grace of someone who'd worked the inn's chaos for years. I watched her go, someone is subdued today. I wonder what happened.
"Good morning, Ishant." A soft voice, which I recognized instantly, greeted me.
"You too, Linze."
"I see you are rather hungry." She said probably overhearing me.
"Starving, I say." I replied. "After my tussle with Sir Barktholomew It would be odd to not be."
"Sir … Barktholomew?" Linze had an odd countenance as she spoke.
"There was this one brave tree standing tall at the side of the field." I gestured her to take a seat and continued. "…So naturally, we had a duel."
"You ... had a duel with a tree? Figuratively?" Linze asked.
"No no, literally. Branches were broken, trunks scratched my own self, clothes and all were roughed up." I said theatrically, enjoying her reaction.
…Linze stared at me like I'd just confessed to dating a shrub.
"You dueled. A tree," she said slowly, as if repeating the words might force her brain to make sense of them.
"Not just any tree," I corrected solemnly. "Sir Barktholomew. Noble, stoic, took a mana bolt like a champ."
"Here's your breakfast." Meanwhile Micah came back with my breakfast. "What happened to her? " She asked.
"Ishant dueled a tree." Linze replied softly. On hearing, Micah also had quite a look on her face. I took my breakfast from her hand, "Thanks Micah." while she stood in place. Stunned.
"Mm. tasty." I savored my first bite. While the two ladies rebooted.
"Wait a minute!" Micah was the first one to recover. "What do you mean you dueled a tree? Trees don't move. What did you do?"
Linze nodded along Micah's questioning.
"Well, not much. As agreed upon, I was practicing magic in my allotted field as per agreement." Taking a sip from my mug of water, I continued. "As you know, for practicing the healing aspect of light magic real injuries are required."
"Uh huh." Elze, who came god knows when, agreed.
"But that doesn't mean it has to be people." I replied, swallowing a piece of bread with stew.
"So, a poor tree had to ply substitute." Linze finally spoke.
"It was not some poor tree. It was none other than Sir Barktholomew, the tall." I replied with some reverence. Micah collapsed on a nearby chair. Elze slapped the table and let out an undignified snort. Linze, to her credit, blinked dumbly then pinched the bridge of her nose in pure academic suffering.
"It suffered devastatingly. I branches broken and bent," I said, holding up a finger like I was revealing the secrets of the universe. "So, not just casting. We had philosophical debates as well. Heated ones. Barktholomew has strong opinions about leaf taxation."
"You're telling me you spent the entire morning… casting Light magic on a tree," she said, tone flat enough to iron clothes with.
"You've gone mad," Micah said. "I knew the glow got to your head."
"It's not madness," I defended. "It's practical innovation. I needed a training partner who wouldn't file a complaint, bleed out, or ask for a tip."
"Or run away for attempted murders." Elze muttered, clearly struggling to keep a straight face.
"Exactly." I pointed my spoon at her like a wand. "And thanks to our valiant battles, I've refined my control. The last spell only blinded two squirrels. That's measurable progress."
Linze actually looked a little impressed. "That's… better than I expected. Still dangerous, but better."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"Anyway," I said, finishing the last of my stew and pushing the bowl away, "Sir Barktholomew and I have called a truce. For now."
Micah stood up, shaking her head with an exasperated smile. "Well, let me know if he ever drops by for ale. First round's on me."
"Careful," I said. "He's got deep roots. Might drink you out of business."
Elze groaned. "You've been punning with trees all morning, haven't you?"
I grinned. "Guilty."
Linze, to her credit, just sipped her tea with a resigned dignity that screamed I regret sitting here but I'm too polite to leave.
Micah moved off to tend to another table. Elze leaned over, lowering her voice slightly. "So. What's next? Planning on moving up to dueling rocks? Maybe seducing lightning bolts?"
I leaned back in the chair, letting the morning's exhaustion settle into my bones lick a sat of potatoes. "Not quite. Too tired for more duel and my bed calls me."
"So, what are you waiting for?" Elze eve the straightforward asked me.
"I hope you are not suggesting that I sleep right after eating." I pointed.
"Is that a problem?" She asked again.
"It is for me." I replied.
"So. What are you going to do?" Linze asked, I could see curiosity in her eyes.
"Nothing." I replied.
"Nothing?" The three asked simultaneously.
"Yes," I said. "What? You thought I had plans?"
"Well," Micah said "Yeah. You feel like someone who has a plan for everything."
"Really?" Interesting.
"That's true," Linze added.
"Well anyway. Nothing comes to my mind so I am gonna sit here for a bit and then sleep." I replied simply.
"Alright then, we'll leave you to your devices." Elze was the first one to relent, she stood up and dragged Linze with herself out. Meanwhile, Micah removed the dishes cleaning up table. Leaving me to my thoughts.
*************
My recovery had been far too rapid. My practice session in the guild's grounds consisted of repeatedly breaking tree branches and mending them. I had unintentionally strained myself, yet there was no soreness or fatigue. Contrarily, I recovered quickly. Too quickly. No muscle soreness, no aches. No signs that I'd just spent hours pushing my magical limits.
I rubbed my arm, looking for any residual strain, but there was nothing. Not even the faintest muscle fatigue. Odd. Curious, I tried flexing and stretching—again, no stiffness. It was like I hadn't trained at all.
'Think of it as a free tune-up.' The words of the old God echoed in me. The tune-up was that it? But he had said ' Just adjusted to be reasonably fit.' So where does this come from? Reasonably fit didn't mean superhuman. It didn't mean I could magic-sprint a marathon and then feel fresh enough to duel a tree. Something didn't add up.
I sank into the creaky wooden chair at the Silver Moon Inn, elbows on the table, fingers steepled as I stared into nothing. I sat unbothered by the bedhead I had thanks to my nap. If this was the effect of light magic constantly patching me up subconsciously, then I was sitting on a time bomb of magical dependency. But if it wasn't magic—if this was my new baseline—then what exactly had that "tune-up" changed?
Was it metabolism? Cellular recovery? Did magic strengthen muscle tissue in real time? I didn't feel overclocked, just... efficient. There were no surges of power, no giddy bursts of energy. Just a silent, eerie smoothness to everything I did.
That should've been comforting. It wasn't.
I needed to be methodical. If [Cure Heal] was responsible, I had to find the trigger—was it subconscious intent? Some kind of self-repair loop? Or had the God simply underplayed the extent of my adjustments? That should be it. I learned [Cure Heal] yesterday and practiced properly only today, no way this is some self-repair loop neither it is some subconscious intent.
Which led me to an unsettling conclusion: I might be changing at a fundamental level. Was my body even fully human anymore? Magic that responded to thought and intent was one thing—cells that ignored biology to repair themselves instantly was another.
It wasn't just about healing. I hadn't been sore. My mana hadn't drained the way it should have. Hours of casting, of pushing and bending light like a sculptor, and I didn't even have a headache. No mental fuzz, no magical hangover. I felt... too clean. 'As a novice, you do not know how to control your mana effectively and might end getting tired faster due to inefficient use.' Even Linze had warned me yesterday. I didn't realize it in the morning at breakfast. But now?
Now I was starting to wonder if I'd bypassed the learning curve entirely.
I rested my forehead against the cool wooden table. Maybe I was overthinking it. Maybe I was underthinking it. But either way, I needed more data. Testing. A framework.
What I needed was a controlled environment. A full series of stress tests: duration casting, consecutive heals, mana monitoring. Only then could I even begin to understand if this was divine tampering, subconscious casting, or a complete biological rewrite.
I raised my head and caught my reflection faintly mirrored in my water mug. Same face. Same brown eyes. But there was something in the way I held myself now. Posture? Energy?
I didn't know. But I was going to find out.
"Ishant! Are you awake?" Micah's voice and a knock pulled me out of my reverie.
"Yeah," I replied, opening the door. "What's up? Miss me already?"
"Not quite but lunch is ready if you are hungry." She replied.
"Did you cook it?" I asked curiously.
"Yep." She smiled. "You have a problem with that?" I felt some unknown pressure radiating from that smile of hers. But still.
"Yes, quite a bit actually." I replied smiling. "You see, one fine night I was subject to saline levels that would embarrass ocean waters."
Micah raised an eyebrow. "You're still on about that soup?"
"I'm just saying," I replied, adopting a mock philosophical tone. "If flavor had a kill count, that stew would've been convicted at the Royal Court."
She narrowed her eyes, arms crossing. "You trying to get free lunch by slandering my culinary war crimes?"
"I'm just saying I'd appreciate food that doesn't double as brine for necromantic rituals."
Micah sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "You're lucky aunt likes you. Come on, soup critic. Let's see if your high standards survive today's lunch."
I followed her down the narrow stairs to the common room. The inn had that midday lull: a few locals lingering with tankards, the fire down to embers, a breeze slipping in through an open window. The bard from earlier was gone, replaced by a quiet hum of kitchen sounds and murmured conversation.
Micah led me to a corner table and returned moments later with a steaming bowl and a loaf of bread.
I sniffed the air cautiously. No immediate scent of ocean water. Promising.
"So?" she asked, arms folded, watching me like a hawk.
I dipped the spoon into the stew and took a bite. To my surprise—and slight disappointment—it was good. Savory, balanced, and shockingly free of salt-related trauma.
"Okay," I admitted. "You win this round."
Micah smirked. "I always do."
With a creak the inn's entrance door swung open and the twins entered.
"Looks like you two had a fiery commission this time." I couldn't help but ask. They were sweating buckets, their slouched shoulders didn't hide their fatigue.
"You can say that again." Elze replied. "Who knew hunting horned rabbits was going to be this grueling."
"Horned Rabbits?" That was new.
Linze groaned as she sank into the seat across from me. "Not just any horned rabbits—territorial ones. They've apparently been nesting near the eastern orchards and charging at anything taller than grass."
"They're like tiny, furry battering rams with anger issues," Elze muttered, dropping into her chair beside her sister. "One of them nearly took my knee off." That's surprising. Elze wasn't any slouch by any means. Even I could see her skills while she practiced. Still they were threatening even for her that spoke volumes.
"Wait," I said, setting down my spoon. "You mean to tell me you two just got headbutted by oversized rabbits with a vendetta against verticality?"
"Don't laugh," Linze warned, pointing a finger at me with the last of her strength. "They were fast. And a lot."
"Even with magic you couldn't handle them?" Linze swung her head in refusal.
"My strongest affinity is Fire but they reside in a forest, I can't go around causing forest fire. Second comes Water and my arsenal doesn't have any spell for the element that would have been useful. Finally third and my weakest affinity, Light. Again mostly used for healing and purification rather than offense. So, no the situation was just not favorable." Linze gave me resigned look as she elaborated her dilemma.
I nodded slowly, chewing over her words more than my bread. "So basically, you brought the wrong toolbox to a rabbit demolition derby."
"That's one way to put it," Elze said, taking a gulp from the pitcher Micah had just placed in front of her.
"Hmm, have considered traps?" That got me a look.
"Traps?" Micah asked.
"You said they are nesting. So, is their mating season or something?" I asked, if it is that would make things easier.
"I… think so. The guild posting did say the sightings increased recently. Could be." Elze answered.
"I would explain the aggression," I mused, resting my chin on my knuckles. "Animals get testy during breeding seasons. Territorial, hormonal, and just generally in a mood. Like Elze when she skips breakfast."
"I will launch this mug at you," Elze said without missing a beat.
"See?" I said to Linze. "Rational, predictable behavior."
"Back to the point," Linze cut in before her sister could go full projectile warfare. "Traps could work, but we'd need to know their patterns—where they eat, sleep, what they're attracted to."
"I suggest you go with a food based trap."
"Food based, huh. That makes sense. Food is essential while birthing and raising." Linze agreed with my suggestion while sinking in her thoughts.
"So, what do they eat?" Our resident barmaid, Micah asked me.
"How would I know? Can't read remember." I pointed out.
"Right." Micah quiet down.
Linze, after a moment's pause, frowned thoughtfully. "Still… if they're nesting near the orchards, maybe they're going after the fruit?"
"Could be," Elze agreed. "The apple trees are in bloom. A few of the workers mentioned damaged bark and chewed leaves."
"Then baiting a trap with fruit might actually work." I tapped my spoon against the side of the bowl. "Something aromatic—sweet, sticky. Enough to make the rabbits ignore their suspicion."
Micah raised a skeptical brow. "So you're telling me we're going to trick rage-filled rabbits with a fruit basket?"
"Welcome to pest control," I said. "Step one: weaponized pears."
"Test fruit lures tomorrow. Pick a quiet section of the orchard and observe their behavior first. See what attracts them, when they move, how they respond. Then build the traps accordingly."
"Using what?" Elze asked.
"Eyes, sis. Our eyes." Linze pointed the obvious.
"Correct. Scatter the bait in observable areas. Take the high ground and observe." I said smug as a cat.
"Makes sense." Micah butt in this time.
Micah leaned against the table, arms crossed, one brow raised. "And what happens if your bait works too well and a whole herd of horned lunatics charges the orchard like it's their birthday?"
"Then you better hope the trap's sturdier than your last stew," I quipped, dodging the apple chunk she flung at me with ninja-like reflexes. "And that we have an escape plan that doesn't involve becoming rabbit speed bumps."
"Speed bumps? Is this another of your weird words." Micah asked.
"Anyways. Give it some thought." I stood up, my lunch finished. "I'll be in my room if you need some help." And made my way for the stairs.
*******************
The door to my room clicked shut behind him, muffling the faint hum of the inn's common room below. The space was small but cozy: a narrow bed with a patched quilt, a wooden desk scarred with years of use, and a single window letting in the soft afternoon light. Dust motes danced in the slanted rays, and the air smelled faintly of old wood and wax. I dropped onto the bed, the frame creaking under my weight, and let out a long sigh. Lunch had been a lively affair, with Elze, Linze, and Micah's banter. But now, in the quiet room, my mind shifted to a different kind of work—my progress in literacy. It's been five days since my arrival and... my death.
'Sigh.'
In these five days I have made learning the local script one of my top priorities. To that effort, I'd spent nights sounding them out like a kid, tongue tripping over unfamiliar combinations. But I had them down now, from the soft hiss to the rolling of tongue that still felt like a growl in my throat. But here, I am learning bit by bit, letter by letter.
The faint creak of the bedframe settled as I leaned back, propping myself against the wall with a pillow. My eyes drifted to the small small desk where a stack of parchment sheets lay, covered in my clumsy attempts at writing. The sight of those scribbled pages brought a small grin—proof of progress, however shaky. Five days in this world, and I'd gone from staring blankly at signs to recognizing every letter of this strange alphabet. Not bad for a guy who died and woke up in a fantasy.
I pulled a sheet of parchment from the desk, along with a quill and a small inkpot. The alphabet here was nothing like Earth's—47 characters, all curves and sharp angles, each with a distinct sound. Some were soft, like the breathy ha or the lilting ei. Others, like the guttural kh or the rolling rr, still tangled my tongue. But I had them memorized now, their shapes and sounds etched into my brain through hours of repetition. I could even sound out simple words—bread, water, light—though my pronunciations made Linze wince during our lessons. She'd been patient, though, her soft voice guiding me through phonetics while Elze snickered at my stumbles.
I dipped the quill in ink and scratched out a few words on the parchment: sun, tree, heal. The letters were wobbly but legible. I muttered the words aloud, testing their weight. "Sun" came out smooth, like a sigh. "Tree" had a crisp edge, and "heal" felt softer, almost like a whisper. I was getting the hang of it, but the words felt foreign, like they didn't quite belong in my mouth yet. The goal now was to weave them into my daily speech, to make them as natural as breathing.
If I could think and speak in this language, I'd be one step closer to belonging here—not just surviving, but thriving.
I set the quill down and grabbed another sheet, this one covered with a chart I'd made to track my progress. Each letter was listed alongside its pronunciation and a few example words Linze had taught me. I scanned the list, muttering the phonetics under my breath: ka, ke, ki, ko, ku… sa, se, si, so, su… The rhythm was almost musical, and I caught myself tapping my foot to it. I'd nailed the basics—every letter, every sound. But that wasn't enough. I still struggled with words and my writing looked like a child's scribbling.
Grammar was clering going to be a hurdle, and it loomed like a storm cloud. Linze had tried explaining the basics during our lessons—something about verb conjugations and word order—but it had gone over my head like a poorly aimed [Light Sphere]. Apparently, this language didn't just slap words together like English; it had rules about tense, agreement, and some infuriating particles that changed depending on context. I groaned just thinking about it. For now, I'd focus on building my vocabulary, slipping words like sun and heal into conversations with Micah or the twins. If I could make them second nature, maybe the grammar wouldn't feel so daunting.
I leaned forward, scribbling a new goal on the parchment: Use five new words in conversation tomorrow. Simple ones—food, water, light, tree, sky. I'd try them out on Micah first; she'd probably tease me for sounding like a toddler, but her reactions would make it worth it. Next, I'd tackle some basic sentences. Linze had written a few examples for me: I eat bread. The tree is tall. They seemed straightforward, but I knew better than to underestimate this language.
I leaned back against the wall, the parchment still in my lap, the quill resting on the desk. The afternoon light had shifted, casting longer shadows across the room, but my focus held steady. The alphabet was mine, the sounds were starting to feel familiar, but there was so much more to learn—words, phrases, the rhythm of this world's speech. I flipped to a fresh sheet of parchment and began copying out new words from Linze's examples, each stroke of the quill a small step toward fluency. The inn's distant hum faded as I lost myself in the work, the scratch of quill on paper blending with the quiet creak of the bedframe. Hours slipped by, the light dimming through the window, but I kept at it, determined to master this language, letter by letter, word by word, until Micah knocked at my door for dinner. I set the quill down, a quiet resolve settling in my chest. This world had thrown me into the deep end, but I was learning to swim—magic, language, and all.