The road turned from dirt into stone. From stone into brick. From brick into carefully reinforced pavement threaded with humming mana channels buried beneath the streets like glowing veins.
Streetlamps burned with stable light magic regulated by civic ordinance. Trams drifted overhead on enchanted rail lines, crystal engines thrumming softly. Rune-screens hovered lazily above buildings, flickering through advertisements with tired enthusiasm. The wind carried incense, fried street food, oil smoke, and ten different people yelling for ten different reasons.
This wasn't fantasy.
This was magic-powered civilization.
The first age worshiped magic.
The second age feared it.
This age issued it licenses.
The city did not simply loom—it imposed itself. Tall stone towers leaned into skybridges etched with regulation runes. Churches stood shoulder-to-shoulder with research academies. Miracle clinics sat beside potion labs. Public prayer halls sat between legal offices and enchanted cafés. Society didn't question magic.
It managed it.
Someone argued loudly about transportation permit violations.
Someone else swore at a mana-tax official.
A bard tried to play through a rune amplifier and got fined for sound enchantment abuse.
And nobody was shocked.
Here, magic was normal.
Faith existed too—respected, institutional, and organized. Blessings required registration. Miracles were recorded and filed. Prayer services had donation schedules, appointment times, and waiting lists.
People still believed.
But faith behaved.
It followed procedure.
It obeyed forms.
It had a department schedule.
Wishes?
Wishes were a joke.
A relic of childish storytelling. A fantasy concept from an age before society matured. Why rely on some mystical unknown when there were courts, temples, clinics, research institutes, emergency spell units, social aid alchemists, and divine administrators?
If someone said, "Trust magic," people nodded.
If someone said, "Have faith," people bowed their heads.
If someone whispered, "I wish—"
people laughed.
Aiden stared at the city, not sure whether to be impressed or intimidated.
"This feels like trouble," he muttered.
"Correct," Senior replied pleasantly. "However, it is well-organized trouble. Which means it comes with help lines, complaint offices, fines, and snack vendors."
They barely made it five steps into the city before someone tried to pickpocket Aiden.
He blinked.
The boy froze.
Senior raised a brow like this was scientifically fascinating.
"You're…not going to yell?" the boy said slowly.
"No," Aiden sighed. "But you're really bad at this. Wrong pocket. Wrong timing. No confidence. Honestly, I'm almost offended."
The kid glared like his dignity had just been stabbed.
Beneath the scowl, Aiden felt it:
Not a desperate scream.
Not an emotional plea.
Just a quiet ache.
"I don't want to live like this anymore."
The city heard him.
A delivery cart hit a rut. Coin purses spilled. A baker stormed out breathing fury—then stalled when he saw the boy. The anger deflated into weary obligation.
"You. Kitchen. You work, you eat. You steal again, I put a frying pan through your soul. Move."
It wasn't pretty kindness.
It was practical kindness.
The kind cities learned to survive with.
Aiden swallowed.
Because he hadn't done that on purpose.
He hadn't chosen anything.
And that meant his nature was responding faster than he was ready for.
They walked deeper in.
The city breathed around them—voices, engines, magic, prayers, expectations. Buildings wore advertisements and rune-screens like armor. Posters coated nearly every wall and board.
Academy enrollment notices.
Temple blessing schedules.
Mana-efficiency reform meetings.
Miracle registry office hours.
And then…
These:
Bold letters.
Simple message.
Authority stamped in the seal.
WISHES ARE FAIRYTALES.
THE WORLD RUNS ON MAGIC, WORK, AND FAITH.
GROW UP.
People noticed them.
People pretended not to.
They'd been popping up everywhere lately. Especially in the poorer districts. Especially where rumors wouldn't stop spreading:
A girl healed when she couldn't afford temple help.
A starving family found food.
A dying man lived.
A child was saved.
Suffering… bent.
Not through magic.
Not through miracles.
Not through registered channels.
Through something else.
People whispered.
Not loud enough to challenge institutions.
Not brave enough to call it truth.
But they whispered about someone in the slums—
someone hidden,
someone kind,
someone who didn't want fame,
someone who helped anyway.
Someone who granted wishes.
Which, according to the posters…
Did. Not. Exist.
The city was not arguing.
It was warning.
Wishes were dangerous ideas.
Wishes did not follow system or approval.
Wishes ignored rules.
Hope like that spread too quickly.
And that frightened power.
Aiden stopped in front of one of the posters. He read it silently.
Senior watched the way his eyes lingered.
Rumors.
Unknown benevolence.
A dangerous kindness.
Someone like him.
Somewhere here.
Senior said nothing.
But he smiled, just slightly.
Because fate had a sense of humor.
Aiden just hadn't met it yet.
And somewhere in this vast city…
it was waiting.
Watching.
Working.
Not knowing that soon,
it wouldn't be alone.
Far above the streets, on a rooftop framed by mana-receiver towers and softly glowing skyline wards, Seris Valen stood looking down at the living sprawl below.
She trusted this city.
Its order.
Its laws.
Its balanced coexistence of magic and faith.
Here, the world made sense.
Magic had rules.
Miracles had process.
Faith had structure.
Wishes?
They didn't belong.
They didn't fit.
They didn't behave.
Which made the recent incidents deeply, profoundly wrong.
Her earlier reports—laughed at in meetings—listed them anyway:
strange reality bends,
unexplainable outcomes,
events behaving less like spells…
…and more like choices.
And now this?
Propaganda posters?
City and temples united to crush a rumor?
That level of denial meant fear.
Seris stared down into the crowd.
Someone down there should not exist.
Someone was breaking reality softly.
She exhaled.
"…Fine," she murmured. "Let's see who you are."
Below, trams hummed.
Temples glowed.
People prayed.
Magic worked.
And something else?
Something the city refused to name?
It worked too.
The universe leaned closer.
Business wasn't just booming anymore.
It was about to collide.