The morning began slowly.
The room was cool. The air—dense, heavy, unmoving. Silence was absolute. The house held every sound—no rustling, no knocking. Even the birds outside sang in hushed tones, as if afraid to stir something.
Light slipped through the cracks in the shutters—thin, uneven. Roxy lay on her back, motionless. Her eyes had been open for a while. She was just waiting for her body to decide it could get up.
And for the fear inside to fold back into its usual shape. Not fear of magic. Not of failure. Of something else—the mirror. Of what might be where the part in her hair lay. Of what might appear if the sunlight hit wrong.
Roxy blinked, as if that was the sign—it's time. Her body wasn't ready yet, but she was already moving.
First thing—the mirror.
It stood against the wall, low, with a crack in the bottom right corner, but still reflected enough to show what mattered. Roxy stepped closer. She didn't look at her face. Didn't check for shadows under her eyes. Just the hair.
She pulled a strand toward the light, stretched it, slowly checked the roots. The color held. Warm, even, no blue gleam. No trace of the bloodline. A couple more weeks, at least. Gently, almost tenderly, she tucked the hair behind her ear.
She went to her bag, pulled out a vial—dull, dark green, a film crusted at the rim. She shook it. A faint slosh answered: some left.
Enough for now. Later—either brew more herself or find a place to buy it. But this wasn't Sharia. Not even the Asuran capital. It would be hard to find.
Inside, as always, that familiar feeling: Last time they saw blue roots, heads had to roll.
Not panic. Memory. Cold, worked-through. She wasn't afraid. But she accounted for things. Always accounted.
I gave my name. Said I was from Sharia. Didn't lie about my bloodline. Just didn't clarify. Migurds aren't liked. Migurds are feared. And right now, I don't need anyone afraid of me.
She exhaled and murmured the tongue-twister she'd known since childhood:
"Sharia's silken shawls whisper in a shimmer…"
The sound was light, without hooks. No dragging vowels, no harsh snaps. Neutral. Clean. Wouldn't give her away, not even in sleep.
Roxy looked at herself one more time. Ready. Time to go.
***
The house was already awake.
Roxy stepped out barefoot, collar pulled tight. Moved softly down the corridor, brushing against nothing. Habit: don't make noise in someone else's home.
Lilia was already up. Standing by the wall, seemingly by chance—but her back was straight, shoulders braced, eyes steady. Roxy nodded in greeting. Said nothing. Lilia didn't respond, just tracked her with her gaze as she passed toward the kitchen. Counting steps, maybe.
The kitchen was warm, full of steam from porridge and dull morning light. Paul was at the window, leaning against it, drinking wine from a mug.
A nod.
Another nod in return.
Understanding. Without closeness.
Zenith appeared a little later. Hair in disarray, but her hands were precise. She poured herself some wine.
"Morning, Roxy…"
"And to you…"
Roxy's eyes flicked to Zenith's hands. Fingers—tight, firm, with small calluses near the base of the thumb and pinky. Working hands. But not kitchen work.
Between movements, she noticed a thin, discreet chain. A medallion on it—an old church seal. Blackened, the relief worn smooth.
Roxy lifted her head slightly, watching. No whispered prayers. Not a single sign or sound. But every movement—trained.
She turned—always off the strong leg. Lifted her cup—careful not to bare her side. Back held straight. Center of balance right beneath the chest.
Combat training. Not a simple priestess. Didn't just recite sermons.
And she hadn't forgotten. Still in shape.
A chill ran down Roxy's back.
Not fear—reflex. Memory.
She knew the type far too well. Knew too many like Zenith. Knew how it felt to dodge fire cast by hands like those—harsh, measured, not meant to frighten, but to burn clean through. Combat clerics didn't hesitate. Didn't ask. Didn't warn. They executed.
Roxy didn't flinch. Didn't alter her breath. Gave nothing away. Just one brief flare of swearing, inside:
"Perfect. Now try living with her. Not just nearby—under the same roof. In reach. Inside her space."
But she said nothing. Didn't show she'd noticed. Didn't show she'd tensed. Didn't glance back—so nothing would reflect. She kept herself as always: slightly distant, polite, like a guest who knew not to disturb the household order.
But the thought was crystal clear:
"If something goes wrong—she won't ask. She'll strike first."
Perfect. Another level of complication. Another threat whose hand won't shake. Roxy looked away, reached for a cup, made it seem like she was thinking about the weather.
"Like the kid wasn't enough…"
Not an easy house. Paul—a swordsman. Lilia—either fighter or scout. Zenith—a battle cleric. And the child—a walking disaster.
She drank. The porridge had gone cold. The taste didn't matter. Her body moved on instinct.
"And in this house, I'm not just here to teach. I have to prove I'm not a threat. And at the same time—contain someone who doesn't yet know what they are."
Roxy rose slowly from the table. Gave thanks. No glance toward Zenith. No signal. Just a slight nod before heading back to her room.
Inside, she opened her bag and pulled out an old, thick notebook.
On the first blank page—a slow exhale.
Then, the first line:
Student: Rudeus Greyrat. Instinctive mana activation. No chant. No sign. No formula. Trigger—through force. Behavior—stable. Emotional state—restrained. Self-esteem—fluctuating. Parents—combat background. Household—a closed system. Risks—internal.
A pause.
Then, just beneath:
Laplace Factor?
A sound outside the door. A step. Floorboard creak.
He was already outside.
Roxy stood.
***
It was quiet in the yard.
Yesterday's traces of water had dried up, the ground turned soft, loose. The air had a chill to it, but not frost—bearable. Roxy stood by a tree, staff planted in the dirt, left hand holding open a notebook.
"We'll start with the language," she said. "Not pretty words. The words that actually hold the spell in place."
Language. Not formula. Not gesture. Not the force inside waiting to be pushed out. It didn't begin there. It began with the word. Its structure. Its meaning. The way it connected to mana.
I'd expected something else. Maybe she'd show me a technique—how to hold the staff, how to feel the current. But she started with the language. Not what I pictured—but, thinking about it, it made sense. If magic was a summoning, then the wording mattered. And if the language wasn't just packaging, but the key... then everything depended on how you understood it.
Pretty words meant nothing if you didn't know what was behind them.
So I didn't know much of anything yet...
"You can't hold a spell if you don't understand how it's built. It's not just words. It's structure. Like a skeleton for mana. Without it, the spell falls apart—spills, like water across the floor."
She turned the notebook, showed a page of inscriptions. The symbols were clean, dense, with long tails and sharp little spines. Not one touched the edge. Not one looked accidental.
"This is the base. Letters, if you want to call them that. But each letter already means something. Not a sound—an essence. This one is water. That's movement. And this is form. Without them, you can't even build the simplest spell."
I looked at the page. The symbols meant nothing to me, but they looked right. Like someone had carved them from something solid, and now they held their shape even without the paper. There wasn't a single stray line. Nothing blurred. Nothing wasted.
"Don't memorize the strokes," Roxy said. "Remember the feeling. Every line is a mana path. Watch where it flows, where it shifts direction, where it stops…"
She ran her finger along the symbols, showing how they linked. She spoke them, pointed out where the stress fell, where to pause, where the sound should stretch.
She flipped the page. A new row. No longer isolated signs—clusters now. Tight and short, like words.
"See? They combine. Like breath: inhale, exhale, hold. A spell runs on rhythm. And this language sets the pulse."
I nodded, though I wasn't sure I understood it all. But there was something in her voice that made me listen.
I looked again at the symbols. No longer as text. But as trajectory. A line wasn't a line—it was flow. A curve wasn't decoration—it was a shift in mana. A pause wasn't silence—it was that moment before the thrust. It all had to move together. And if even one part was off—it broke.
Rhythm. She said it's like breath. So I tried to find it. Inhale—the sign begins. Exhale—it ends. In between—a pulse.
I started reading the clusters, slowly, not aloud—just inside my head. The symbols moved one after another. I didn't understand what they meant, but I could already feel where to pause, where to let them pass through.
"Today you won't cast anything. Just look. Memorize. Later you'll try forming words—but without mana. First, understand how it works. Without that, everything goes wrong."
She stepped back. A little to the side, leaving my line of sight clear.
"Watch. And try to see where the sign ends... and the meaning begins."
I nodded again.
I looked at the symbols. They didn't seem random anymore. Still foreign. But not meaningless.
Where the sign ends... and the meaning begins...
Roxy said nothing more. Left me alone with the page...
***
The bucket stood by the wall. A simple piece of dented tin. Inside—stagnant, lukewarm water. A thin film shimmered on the surface. I stood and stared. Didn't blink. Everything in me was focused.
Minutes passed. Shadows crept along the ground. But I kept the shape in my head. The words of the spell began to form on their own. One. Then another. Then a third. No sound. Just outline.
The symbols lit up. My hands moved forward on their own.
"Seize the water. Become form."
The world didn't change. No flash. No sound. But the water—shuddered. Barely. Like something shifted inside. I leaned closer. The surface stilled again, but under it—a vibration lingered. As if someone had touched the inner wall.
"Seize the water. Become form."
Softer this time. Almost a whisper.
The water trembled again. Stronger now. I squinted. That was real. Not an accident. Not imagination. It responded. Like it had heard. Like it had been waiting.
"Seize the water. Become form."
This time I didn't think. Didn't weigh it. The words just came. Like it wasn't me speaking. Like something else spoke through me.
My voice rose to a shout. The water exploded upward. Spun into a spiral, like it wanted to leap out of the bucket on its own. And then—
Bang!
The bucket burst. Metal shards flew. One glanced off my forehead. The sound rang sharp, echoed in my ears like someone had struck steel against stone. Blood blurred my eye. I staggered, but didn't fall.
Pain surged through me. But it didn't matter.
All that remained in my head was the rhythm. The symbols. And the water. Still vibrating beneath my fingers.
"What the hell?!" A sharp voice behind me.
I didn't turn. I stood there, hands still raised, one eye smeared with blood, the other open. Watching the vortex still churning in what was left of the bucket, like it refused to admit the spell was over.
"What are you doing?!" Roxy. Already at my side. Her hand clamped hard on my shoulder.
I swayed. Didn't resist.
"It did it on its own…"
"No, it didn't!" She stared at my face, at my temple. "Shit. Are you alright?"
I blinked. Blood dripped down my cheek. A dull red drop hit my chin and fell.
"I'm fine…"
"You're not fine," she snapped through her teeth, already running her fingers across my forehead. "You just—damn it—"
She stopped mid-curse. She felt it. The mana still boiling under the surface—hadn't faded, hadn't left. It was still clawing for release. Like a beast startled halfway through the pounce. One more nudge, and the spell would've gone off again.
She gripped my wrist hard.
"Stop. Now."
A moment—and it was over. I didn't resist. Just stared. My fingers trembled slightly.
"That's enough for today. You just crossed a line most mages spend months getting near…"
"But—"
Her eyes froze over.
"One more time—and I'll cut your hand off. Myself."
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