Ffjkbh

Report

Observing dark energy should have immortalized him in the annals of physics; instead, it earned him a footnote and a handful of derisive questions at conferences.

The fact that no one had replicated his data was, perversely, treated as evidence that he was wrong and that his experiment had been faked. Yet the Scientist knew that such failures were solely because lesser minds could not grasp the understanding required to design his detector.

When the Dean murmured that another lab might catch up "within a decade," he interpreted the words as both a curse and a challenge.

So he stopped waiting. Let DESI map its baryon wiggles; let LIGO chase another black-hole chirp.

The Cosmological State Equalizer—his brutalist cathedral of copper coils, sapphire lenses, and vacuum manifolds—would do more than measure dark energy's spectral shadow. It would pin that phantom to the corkboard of reality and keep it squirming long enough for every so-called expert on Earth to witness.

Two years of solitude in the sub-basement had burned away doubt and most social niceties. The Chancellor's signature on a discretionary fund had covered the rest. All that remained tonight was the proof.

"Yes, I just need something to smack reality in their faces. Then they'll see," he muttered, already savoring the scene.

The Equalizer loomed in the dim workshop like something from a different era: a three-story torus of superconducting custom alloys, with cables drooping from ceiling winches and coolant hissing through 3-D-printed arteries.

In one corner, a repurposed industrial cabinet served as an observation pod—really a glorified fallout shelter clad in titanium-copper plate. The Scientist squeezed inside, shouldered aside a dangling bundle of fiber lines, and sat on the velvet chair he'd requisitioned.

It wasn't particularly comfortable, but it was cheap enough for him to acquire all the copper he needed for the alloying.

"For the record," he said into the audio log, savoring the dramatic moment, "humanity is approximately ninety seconds from a century's leap forward. And even those cretins at Stanford won't be able to ignore the implications this time." Considering that the lab was only ranked seventh in the world, the Scientist had no idea what gave them such arrogance, but he wouldn't mind showing them what was what.

He pressed the power button.

The Equalizer's start-up whine climbed from subtle hum to construction drill, making his teeth rattle. Indicator LEDs fired in programmed sequence—red, amber, green—then looped again as the energy gradient rose. All nominal, the Scientist reminded himself, fingers dancing across sensor readouts: vacuum integrity, magnetic shear, containment phase offset. The photon counters spiked; video feeds blurred under Čerenkov glare.

It was beautiful. Artistry had never been his forte—not that he had ever dedicated himself to it—but even he could see that something was awe-inspiring about his creation. Maybe there is worth in the Romanticists' idea of the sublime.

He'd known he was one of the greats, of course, but to be on the brink of an achievement the rest of the world couldn't even begin to fathom… It was a heady thing.

Then the rumble began—deep and tectonic. It was within the expected parameters, but larger than his simulations had predicted. He clicked his tongue, annoyed; perhaps the basement's foundation had unforeseen micro-fissures undermining the stabilizers. He would take care of it later.

On the main monitor, a status field strobed ΔΣ > 1.4—a variable that should never exceed unity. He frowned. Suppressor coils misaligned? Impossible—

The containment lattice hiccuped; the indicator loop accelerated through colors like a child mashing elevator buttons. Somewhere overhead, a bolt gave out with a sound like a snapped bone. The Scientist reached for the manual-override keyboard. The pod's door, rated to halt shrapnel from an over-pressurized turbine, should have opened on hydraulic rails. Instead, its lock flange warped inward as though struck by a giant, sealing him inside.

Another rumble—higher pitch, almost a groan. Readouts blurred into a waterfall of warnings. "No, no, not yet—" he muttered, hunting for the emergency shutdown sequence. Keypress number three registered; number four resulted in a blue screen.

The equalizer's core flared on the monitor: a sunspot was blooming in negative space. Lines of containment code scrolled, failed, and scrolled faster. Why now? He thought, absurdly. I was so close to the truth.

Then, everything balanced in a way that shouldn't have been possible. His last conscious observation was that the phase-contrast plot had begun drawing fractal petals—and that the symmetry was curling inward toward a singularity.

He sighed, "I knew I should never have trusted that copper trader. Who even calls their company Ea-nasir's Secure Materials?"

Then the world became pure, featureless light.

Consciousness returned in fragmented bursts. At first, only flashes of color—blooms of mauve, jade, indigo—floated across his vision like auroras. Then came sound: muffled lullabies, arrhythmic, like a song slowed to half-speed. He tried to swallow; his tongue felt swollen, foreign. Where is the lab? Where am I?

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him. His senses insisted his arms were tiny. When he tried to bend his knees, they collided with something soft much sooner than expected. This was not a hospital gurney. The air smelled of warmed milk and crushed lavender, undercut by iron—a hint of blood or perhaps incense.

Words he could not understand continued to come at the same low and solemn rhythm.

It had been years since he'd had to suffer anything like this. Please no.

He braced for the surge of terror as he was pressed closer, but felt only a pleasant buoyancy, as though someone had replaced his marrow with champagne bubbles. His mind began to work again.

Was this the effect of sedatives in a recovery ward? Unlikely; the chant he now heard contained diphthongs unrecorded by any Romance tongue, and he knew thirty languages well enough to order coffee. These vowels curled like smoke, elongated, then snapped shut like case endings in a language that seemed to have never bothered with structured alphabets.

His head lolled as he tried to look up. A woman's face came close enough for him to grasp some details—elegant cheekbones, luminous skin, a broad-brimmed hat that should have looked theatrical.

Intricate sigils pulsed faintly along her cheeks and temples. He squinted at them—bio-luminescent bacteria? No, the emission bands were too narrow; more likely, they were made with phosphor-based ink.

He refocused. The woman was too big. Either he'd been found by the largest human he'd ever heard of, or…

His mind had always been his greatest asset, yet it took him distressingly long to recognize his predicament: he was an infant.

He rebelled against the impossibility. Reincarnation was something he had long dismissed outright as religious nonsense. And if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that unscientific drivel could not be taken seriously. When his thoughts did not dissipate his dream, he was forced to confront reality.

She spoke again, her voice gentler than beach foam. He caught two syllables repeated rhythmically: lun-ai, lun-ai. The way she gazed upwards at a pale sphere suggested it had something to do with the moon.

She shifted him in her arms. Beyond her shoulder glimmered a statue made of marble so flawless it appeared liquid, depicting a serene goddess embraced by a crescent halo. Candle flames marched along channels carved into the stone, their reflections pursuing each other like fish.

I shouldn't see it. Everything else is unfocused, yet this statue remains perfectly clear.

The Scientist's academic disdain for organized mysticism sputtered, wavering as power prickled his new skin. Something unseen brushed against the chamber, and static tingled down every nerve.

An object of worship, he decided after a moment, shaking off the impossible sensation, somehow illuminated well enough for me to see it. Unfortunately, he had more than his fair share of experience with similar cults.

His parents' absurd gullibility meant they had fallen for one scam after another throughout his life—self-proclaimed gurus, miracle workers, and faith healers all found fertile ground with them. He had grown to loathe religious cranks and their manipulative tactics. And now, I'm stuck with another idiot. Again.

An elder stepped forward—her robes heavier, the symbols more ornate. She bore a crystal sphere that glowed from within, with shards refracting light into geometric flakes that drifted free of gravity like luminous pollen. Her chant wove a counter-melody to the younger woman's.

His hearing sharpened as the motes brushed against his cheeks, and the haze lifted from his vision. The experience felt like a camera lens racking into focus—except the lens was his frontal cortex.

Neural acceleration, he noted. Impossible under standard biochemistry. Therefore, reincarnation or simulation. He tried to lift a finger to test tendon response, but his digit wobbled, fat and useless. It was irritating.

More infants were cradled throughout the hall, each undergoing the same luminous baptism. Mothers whispered endearments he did not understand but recognized rhythmically as affectionate diminutives. In his former life, he had observed cult gatherings with a cynical anthropologist's eye; this one exuded a sincerity that pressed against his analytical detachment like warm sap.

A veil parted near the goddess statue. From behind it emerged a woman robed in obsidian silk, her face obscured except for eyes like polished hematite.

Even the older priestess inclined her head, revealing a clear hierarchy.

When the veiled figure lifted one hand, every crystal mote hung frozen midair. She rotated her wrist, and the motes turned with her. Gesture-activated commands? No—field manipulation, his new intuition whispered. Something akin to a Lorentz force acted upon a substrate no particle accelerator had ever cataloged.

The line of mothers advanced. At the pedestal, a baby was placed atop a moon-embroidered cushion; the veiled woman drew a glowing sigil above the child—three strokes, each axially symmetric—before pressing her palm to the infant's crown. Light descended like liquid mercury, soaking into the soft skull. The child stilled, features slack with bliss.

It is possible that I have awakened in a distant future, where science has advanced so much that it appears magical to a humanity that has lost control over itself and is divided across vast expanses of space… No, that may be even more nonsensical than this being outright magic.

He fought to squirm, only managing a petulant kick. Heavy cloth brushed his cheek as he was placed on the cushion. The chanting swelled. The woman's palm lowered until it touched his brow. Electricity—no, not electricity, something smoother—poured through him.

A flood of familiar blue erupted behind his eyelids, resembling computer messages:

SYSTEM INITIALIZATION

…

…

Synaptic pattern detected: "Orion Amadeus Voidwalker."

Core attributes recalibrated.

Experience being accounted for…

ERROR

Higher Will detected, previous Experience remanded upon Class Selection.

Classification: Initiate.

Advancement queue: pending.

Error resolved.

Welcome, Orion Amadeus Voidwalker.

An infinitely large computer appeared before his eyes, indifferent to the eons that passed. It simulated, calculated, and analyzed. Everything was within its purview, from subatomic particles to the largest black holes. It was the ultimate expression of a machine. It already knew everything and yet kept searching for more.

His reflexive response was both childish and scholarly. "Oh."

It was the smallest syllable in any tongue, yet it contained a universe of mirth, horror, and fierce curiosity. Whatever magic saturated this chamber had just named him, cataloged him, and perhaps even rewritten him.

The Equalizer, for all its greatness, had never once spoken a word in return. This System had greeted him like an old colleague. It felt immense yet still a single unit in a way that was hard to describe, just as the Earth constituted a single massive ecosystem while most biologists focused only on localized ones.

He had only seen a glimpse of it, but that was enough to recognize its purpose. It, too, sought to understand everything.

Silver motes drifted outward, crystal lanterns flickered low, and the line of mothers flowed deeper into the temple's nave. The Scientist—no, Orion—lay cradled against a warm breast, considering that, for the second time, his understanding had expanded faster than he could put in words.

The fear ebbed. In its place blossomed an altogether more productive sensation: wonder sharpened to a blade. If the world insisted on dressing physics in robes and chanting hymns, fine; he would learn the liturgy, parse its grammar, and diagram its hidden calculus.

He would map this new world, just as Kepler mapped orbits, through patient observation and rigorous inference.

Eventually, he would know the Truth.

The Lunar Sanctum was many things at once: a monastery, an academy, a fortress, and—if Orion judged by the sheer volume of chanting that echoed through its corridors during the holy days—an immense organ pipe through which thousands of cultists attempted to summon the favor of the Moon-Mother.

The outer wall alone, a dark grey parabola of basalt blocks fused together, could have enclosed four Roman Colosseums end to end.

Orion had triangulated the measurements from within, but without a frame of reference beyond the distant peaks, it was challenging. In three full years of his new life, he had never stepped outside the Sanctum, so he had plenty of time to ensure that his observations were accurate.

The sheer number of people who attended the services, the rumble of provisioning wagons far below his nursery balcony, and the flow of pilgrims coming and going during processions indicated to him that the institution was large, wealthy, and—most vexingly—utterly convinced it wielded true miracles rather than the effects of a machine so vast that it seemed a planet unto itself.

He wasn't a stranger to mistakes. His last one had resulted in… well, hopefully the singularity hadn't managed to remain stable for long. The university was likely toast, but from the flashes he could remember, the Equalizer had already broken down too much to sustain it.

Shaking his head, Orion resumed his observations while waiting for his mother to finish grading some papers.

He knew that courtyards were arranged in hanging gardens encircled by defensive fortifications, as he often had to endure his new mother's attempts at socializing him. Watching two armed soldiers march along the nearest wall reminded him that the garrison was composed of at least a hundred men, and capable ones at that. He had yet to hear a single one move out of sync with the others.

He would have thought there would be more, but Asteria—his mother— had made it clear that they were there more for appearances than for a genuine need for protection. After all, the real power within the Sanctum lay with the witches.

And he deduced an annual budget rivaling that of a small nation from the fact that she discarded cracked sapphire vials the way a mediocre grad student would discard plastic pipettes.

Overall, the Sanctum seemed impregnable. No one ever suggested the possibility of being in danger.

But walls are not built for aesthetics. They are built to keep things out.

Asteria called it "the cradle of Lunar Enlightenment, the best place for witches to explore their blessings." Orion thought of it as a cult with excellent logistics.

Either way, he was certain of one thing: the Sanctum held a fanatic belief that its rites shaped reality, that incantations and prayers could change the world with nothing but the power of their faith. And belief, when shared by thousands and funded by gold, could do much. Especially when the people here seemed intent on ignoring every basic law of physics. If I have to see another teenager do hoops on a flying broomstick, I will lose it.

He had already endured several indignities. Everything from his hair—the color of freshly fallen snow, curling in unruly waves—to his eyes—pure purple. Whoever heard of purple eyes? Ridiculous.

Nappies and breastfeeding were aspects he was very glad to have gotten through quickly, and he was confident he had set a new potty training record.

But the worst offender was his new name. He had already been subjected to a melodramatic name once and had managed to change it upon escaping his idiotic parents; Orion Amadeus Voidwalker sounded like the kind of handle a rebellious undergrad might choose for an online forum.

The fact that an infinitely complex computer had bestowed it during his induction rite into a cult did not improve his opinion. Worse, the System refused to reveal anything beyond a sparse stat block despite his attempts to beg and cajole it, and his mother found nothing strange about that.

He alone seemed to care about it as anything more than just a useful informational tool. From what little he had been able to glean, people needed to pray or meditate deeply for their status to appear, and few ever bothered except during important ceremonies or after significant achievements. To the locals, it was something the gods granted to make life easier.

Asteria hadn't entertained his questions for long, merely explaining that he would learn more once he started his lessons and that it would only really become relevant once he got a real class.

Orion couldn't forget what he had seen on the day of his rebirth, even if he wanted to. It took almost no effort for his status to appear.

STATUS

ORION A. VOIDWALKER

Class: Initiate (E-rank)

Level: 3 

Mind: 9 

Attunement: 4 

Body: 3

Trait: Mana Manipulation (E-rank)

Name aside, everything else was quite interesting. His class wasn't anything special, considering that every other kid born within the Sanctum received it, but when he had asked what E-rank meant, he was met with a surprised stare.

"It usually takes a lot of dedication to see that much. You must have a talent, moonbeam," his mother had murmured with a smile, before gently steering him away from asking any more questions.

Not that it takes a genius to get the gist of it. The class is basic, and the trait it provides—this Mana Manipulation—is equally simple, but from what I gathered, most people don't even know that much.

Nine for Mind felt like a personal insult. "Nine out of what?" he had demanded in the privacy of the nursery. Nine out of ten would be acceptable, if arguable; nine out of a hundred would be blasphemy.

The System, unfortunately, declined to elaborate. Voice commands—Analyze! Expand! Justify your metric!—bounced off its Cherenkov blue overlay like photons off a dielectric mirror. Nor did gesture, whistle, or code-word pry additional data from the ethereal interface. He hoped that his "talent" would yield more information down the line, but so far, that wasn't the case.

Nevertheless, he had been able to glean some insights on his own.

First, the level increased on the anniversary of his rebirth during the Ceremony of Gratitude, which was held annually. His mother had given him a vague explanation that the Initiate class was a placeholder until he reached maturity and that it would only allow him to earn a limited number of experience points. She advised him not to worry too much about pushing himself until then.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

It may simply be that the Initiate Class earns a fixed amount for each religious ceremony I undergo. That means obtaining any answers is years away… No, I won't just accept that.

Second, the interface would abort if he attempted to show it to others; no one else could see his HUD. Whether that was a security feature or a failure of his own, he could not yet prove.

They discuss the System very little. Mother certainly doesn't mention it when her friends come for tea, and even in the rare instances it comes up, it is always referred to as a gift from the goddess. I am almost certain no one else saw what it actually is, or at least they do not recall it.

Thus, the System remained an opaque constant. Fortunately, not every aspect of this new life was as secretive.

Through liberal crib-side eavesdropping, he created a rudimentary organizational chart. The Sanctum's government resembled a four-tiered pyramid. At its apex was the High Priestess, regarded by all as the most powerful witch in the country, whose word was seen as law, along with the Veil Priestesses—basically the equivalent of cabinet ministers.

One rung below were the Magistrae, a cadre of perhaps a hundred, each responsible for a College of practice: Potions, Warding, Liturgy, Astrology, and a dozen more whose names Orion didn't care to remember. His new mother was part of this class, and despite her scatterbrained behavior, she was well-respected for her skill.

Lastly, there were the Sisters and Brothers—robed witches and wizards who either conducted basic lessons or fulfilled specific duties. Asteria, for instance, commanded a dozen such women in her role as Magistra of Potionmaking. They were referred to as Madame and Sir, respectively, and were regarded as the backbone of the Sanctum.

Below were the workers who washed clothes, cooked, and maintained the coven in pristine condition. Surprisingly, they were well treated and, as far as he could tell, appreciated for their help, despite not having "magical" classes. Among them were also the soldiers who patrolled the outer walls—the only instance of there being more men than women, as far as he had been able to tell.

The children, meanwhile, fell into two castes: the Initiates, who were born within the Sanctum walls to mothers already in service. They received the placeholder Initiate Class at birth. Orion belonged here.

Then there were orphans and foundlings saved, adopted, or tithed by the region that fell under the Sanctum's command. They arrived at ages ten to thirteen from all over the province in hopes of receiving a magical class. Most would go on to become workers and helpers of the Sanctum, but a rare few would be accepted as members, if they were fortunate enough to receive a class that granted them direct access to mana.

That is what annoys me the most. Everyone refers to the Class Ceremony as something sacred, but as far as I can tell, they have no problem influencing it. From what I know, it's very rare for kids outside the Sanctum to receive a magical class while almost every Initiate does, which suggests they are doing something to increase our chances. Additionally, after people receive their class, they are stuck with it until the next tier, which is very rare to achieve as a commoner. Mother told me the story of a Farmer who grew to be a Druid, but she made it clear it's extremely rare to see such a huge shift.

The Lunar Sanctum proclaimed the Class Ceremony to be a matter squarely in the hands of the Moon Goddess, but they acted very differently. That hypocrisy, even if it wasn't deliberate, grated on him fiercely.

Today, however, was different from the monotony he'd been subjected to so far as a toddler, because he would finally be able to conduct an experiment.

It wasn't the first time his mother had taken him along for a lesson, but she usually focused on the older students who didn't need as much supervision, and thus was able to pay too much attention to him to try his hand at potion making.

This was the first time she would take him for a first-year class, and he was almost certain he could avoid her notice, given how busy she would be ensuring that no one made their cauldrons explode.

Today's lesson gathered two dozen newly classed teenagers in the subterranean laboratory she used for larger classes.

Asteria swept in, dressed from head to toe in violet, with him trailing behind her in his unnecessarily dramatic black robes. Who even dresses a three-year-old in swishy black robes?

Every inch of her attire conveyed that she was a woman of power: silver thread embroidered lunar sigils along the hem; a torque of hammered white steel rested against her collarbones, polished to a mirror shine; fragrant smoke spiraled from the incense she had set up, filling the air with resinous myrrh and creating the illusion that she was appearing from nowhere.

Yet Orion could not overlook the hard-won calluses on her hands or the ink stains at her wrist. He had seen her pour over cauldrons in the deep night and read through her students' papers at every available moment. For all the nonsense she believed, he could respect her work ethic.

He toddled beside her, careful to match her pace. I can't wait until I'm not at risk of being bowled over by just about anyone.

Asteria placed him in his niche, a hollow formed where one of the lab's arching buttresses met the back of her lectern. From this spot, he enjoyed both concealment and a line of sight to every workstation. She presented him with a small bronze cauldron, half-filled with distilled water, and a spoon carved from cedar.

"Have fun, moonbeam," she murmured with a soft smile. "If you impress the Moon-Mother just enough, you might get a Potioneer Class."

He nodded, feigning innocence. Today was his chance to put his ideas into practice, and it wouldn't do to reveal his hand too soon.

Then she rose. "Blessed day, children! Leave your bags at the back, still your tongues, and seat yourselves by pairs. There shall be no chattering in my class." The last phrase came with a pointed glance at a neon blonde boy already elbowing his partner.

A piece of chalk floated from her desk to the blackboard and began to scribble the lesson title in graceful, angular script.

THE SAPPING BREW – FIRST PRACTICAL LESSON

Orion stifled the reflexive gasp that threatened to escape his lips. The spectacle remained impressive even after the hundredth time.

"Why," she asked, "does the Sanctum choose the Sapping Brew as the first potion to be taught? You have all had introductory lessons, but until today, you haven't been allowed to actually make anything."

A dozen hands rose. Asteria pointed to the blonde boy.

"It needs only four ingredients, Magistra," he chirped, "and it has no side effects even if the ingredients are put into the wrong order!"

Orion winced in solidarity with his mother. He had to deal with his own fair share of fools who were convinced they knew something while disregarding the very basics.

Asteria's answering smile was kind, but a vein pulsed at her temple. "A surprising claim, young Pelian. Yet the Moon-Mother teaches that incomplete truth is a candle set too near parchment." She tapped the desk once. "Who will speak the other half?"

A girl with proud pigtails stood. "Magistra, the Brew can still have unexpected results if the instructions aren't followed properly. Too little salt, and it merely makes the drinker sluggish; too much acidwort, and it turns into a sleeping syrup. In both situations, it fails to achieve its aim."

"Excellent, Bethany. A point will be added to your final score." Asteria pivoted, her skirts swishing. "Remember, children: the Moon-Mother blesses our efforts when they are done with care. Every mis-weighted ingredient means negligence, and negligence is a lesser sin only than malice." The chalk underlined the word care thrice.

Orion nodded. Aside from the religious nonsense, the emphasis on correct dosage paralleled medicinal chemistry. He knew several pharmacology professors who would agree that getting measurements wrong was a sin.

Upon Asteria's nod, the class flooded into the rear storeroom. Its large oak doors groaned, and the heady musk of herb bundles mingled with the damp cellar air. Orion took the chance to slip from his nook into the tide, using his small stature to disappear among the robes.

He appropriated three moonberries—dark, nearly spherical, and faintly luminescent; one vial of silver wolf bile sealed with a wax stopper; a chunk of dried valerian root, a known sedative; a couple of wooden sticks; and a pinch of silvery powder he believed might be magnesium filings, judging by its plate-like gleam and low density. Reading the local language was still spotty, but he had come a long way, given that he had no frames of reference.

Escaping the crowd without being stepped on proved more challenging than obtaining the supplies. A knee nearly collided with his head. He ducked, pivoted, and re-emerged beside his cauldron just as Asteria turned.

"Bored, moonbeam?" she asked, keeping an eye on the chaos of kids returning to their stations.

"Not at all," he chirped, adopting an angelic expression, and stirred the water. The motherly coo that followed was expected, and Asteria soon returned to watching her students.

"Listen and remember, novices. Fire magic is a potioneer's best friend, but it can just as easily be your worst enemy. Ensure your chants are well-enunciated and your intent is clear, or you'll have trouble with contamination. Now, repeat after me."

"Lady of Crescence, grant us your breath;

Kindle in copper the hush of your depth…"

This was what passed for a spell around these parts. He knew that at higher levels, witches were capable of casting without speaking, but it was clear that every action carried a religious undertone.

Mid-prayer, tongues of fire erupted beneath half the cauldrons despite the absence of tinder or flint. The students who hadn't achieved the miracle repeated the refrain until flames finally appeared.

Chanting makes it easier to remember religious conditioning, Orion mused. Effective, if ridiculous.

He would not humiliate himself by singing to light a match. He doubted it would work, anyway, given his lack of belief.

First, he carefully placed the magnesium below his little cauldron. Next, he dipped the cedar spoon into the water, lifted exactly one drop, and let it fall onto the filings. A faint pop—barely audible beneath the chatter—announced ignition. The reaction consumed oxygen eagerly, and a thin blue flame soon slithered along the cauldron's underside, which he fed with a stick of wood.

He exhaled in relief. The fire, created through chemistry, was indistinguishable from the magical one at a distance. Not that anyone could see it, but if they did happen to, they would think he had managed it via chant. Very unlikely for a three-year-old to do, but it would be better than them questioning how I know how to create a fire chemically.

No one reacted. Asteria paced the aisles, stopping to examine Pelian's stir pattern.

Phase one was complete. Now came the real work.

It's time to see if my theory about this "magic" being caused by the System is correct.

By the end of the lesson, Orion expected to have at least an idea of how all this "magic" business actually worked. However, he needed to eliminate as many external variables as possible first.

He craned to watch the other students. Pelian, the lemon head, seemed to be taking his sweet time with the stirring. While he had added the ingredients in the correct order after Asteria's gentle scolding, his potion was nowhere near the required shade of lilac and actually seemed to verge more toward red. Does stirring have such a significant effect?

To his surprise, Bethany seemed to be stirring only at a slightly higher pace, yet her mixture shifted from red-grey to magenta without issue. Orion's limited experience told him that such a difference didn't really make sense.

Hypothesis: More attuned Classes tend to yield greater results, despite relatively similar actions. The observation lacked instrumentation, but his eyes would have to suffice. If Bethany has a Potioneer class and Pelian a regular Wizard one, it would make sense, in their twisted world, that performing the same actions results in a better brew.

But how was that actually possible? Orion suggested that it was a matter of the System's ability to interpret their intent. If the potion was only partially dependent on ingredient interaction and instead relied heavily on the brewer's intent and "magical" ability, then someone with a clearer connection to the System—in this specific instance, with potion-making—would seem to have superior talent.

He also catalogued variations in prayers, despite wanting to dismiss them. Some kids used chants that directly referenced sleep, while others merely narrated a story about the Moon going to sleep at the end of the night.

Asteria drifted between the benches, correcting their choice of words.

"Your aim is to pacify, not to put to sleep," she chided one over-zealous girl ladling bile too early. "If you imbue the potion with that much desire, you will break the balance and have unexpected results."

The religious overtone framed what vaguely resembled actual rules in a way that was easy to understand.

Orion respected that begrudgingly.

A squeal echoed across the tiles as a cauldron bubbled too quickly. Green steam puffed, and the culprit, a scrawny girl, stepped back, her cheeks aflame. Asteria quenched the brew with a gesture that produced frost along the floor.

She addressed the entire class, radiating disappointment. "Remember, children: trying to speed up the process to catch up with the others will result in a lesser harmony within the brew."

Under the cover of the collective scolding, Orion nudged his spoonful of valerian root into the miniature cauldron. Bubbles rose, lazy and uniform, as heat climbed from the magnesium blaze. Asteria's eyes swept to the left, and he flattened himself against the stone, painting innocence across his cherubic features.

He allowed himself a fractional smile when her gaze went past him, before returning to his stirring. I suppose that there might be an upside to being a child again. As long as you seem busy and are in sight, adults don't ask themselves too many questions.

Cauldrons burbled. Students murmured chants. The chalk scribbled a final reminder: Stir counterclockwise thrice, sunwise once; temper with faith; steep till moonrise.

Orion took note of the temperature gradients, compared flame hues across stations, and mapped chant intensity to potion opacity. He did all this quietly, with his spoon dipping rhythmically to maintain appearances.

He didn't know what would end up being relevant. It was possible that the whole brewing process was completely irrelevant and one merely needed a clear connection to the System to convert water into the Sapping Brew, but his gut told him it wasn't that easy.

He tapped twice against the cauldron, counting his heartbeats, then let the cadence of his stirring match the rest of the class.

Magnesium hydroxide clouded the water's surface, so he skimmed it with his spoon and added the berries. Indigo juice bled into the bubbling liquid, with the pigment swirling like ink.

So far, so good. Now for the real thing.

He was tempted to look around to ensure that nobody was watching him, but he knew better. At that moment, he resembled any other toddler trying to mimic older children. However, if he allowed himself to seem like he was hiding something, he would be discovered.

Therefore, he kept his head down and stirred. Paradoxically, this focused action served as his best shield.

Next, he crumbled the rest of the valerian root and added three careful drops of bile. The last produced iridescent rings that broke and reformed. He withheld the salt for now, as that was supposed to go in after the chanting.

The Sanctum taught that words and intent mattered as much as any actions. Around him, teenagers whispered prayers, hoping the Moon would grant stillness to their work.

Orion didn't care for the invocations, but he could not deny that something responded. He thought back to what he'd seen three years ago, to the magnificent machine known as the System. If anything could be considered a god, it was that, not some personification of the moon. Whatever magic was going on in this world had to be caused by the System.

It is hard to believe that such a magnificent thing would care to respond to prayers. Perhaps it was less about what was spoken and more about the certainty and knowledge behind the speech.

"That's a good dissolution stage, Alberta. Take your time with the prayer, and you'll have a great potion. Just make sure to enunciate the words clearly—nobody is rushing you!" Asteria said as she looked toward a girl in the front row.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She was heavyset and sweaty, but the smile on her face in response to the praise was blinding.

"Class, remember to place your full trust in the potion. If you doubt, the outcome will suffer!" Asteria continued before retaking her seat.

He refused to entertain the notion of praying over the potion to a goddess he didn't believe in. Even if he lowered himself enough to do so, he doubted it would be effective. His mother had made it clear that belief was necessary.

But what if it was something I did believe in?

The idea felt absurd. Who had ever heard of someone praying to science? No, Orion wouldn't do that. But what would happen if he simply recited some of his observations? Technically, it should suffice to satisfy the "belief" factor.

As for how one transformed that into action… Well, from what he'd been able to overhear, mana was something of a constant. A permeating force that reacted to sufficient willpower or faith. It seems too simplistic, but it's not as if the kids are doing anything but mumbling prayers.

Eyeing the potion, he sighed and decided to get on with it. It hadn't changed color again, and it clearly wouldn't improve on its own.

Alright, this is supposed to slow down things. What does that mean?

Could it be referring to the Deceleration parameter? But how could a dimensionless measure of cosmic acceleration fit in this context?

No, that wasn't it. I should start from the basics. This is supposed to be the simplest potion.

He lowered his head and spoke scarcely louder than a breath, letting syllables fall directly into the steam, "Acceleration equals force divided by mass." Nothing flowery, no rhyme. A principle as unyielding as granite. It was a cosmic truth.

The surface flashed, like sparks between oil and water. The color became darker, if only a tiny bit.

Interesting. So I should go in the opposite direction.

"Alright," he murmured, stirring clockwise with his wooden spoon. "If this Sapping Brew is meant to slow things down, then there must be something to resist motion…" His eyes were fixed on the shimmering liquid as he began to recite work through a possible formula.

"First, I should account for all factors involved… let's go with a = F/m = −(γ/m) v, where F is the retarding force, γ is the drag coefficient, m is the mass, and v is its velocity."

The potion drifted toward pure lilac, and he was emboldened.

"Next," he continued, "I posit an initial condition v(t) = v₀. This would basically lead to an exponential speed decay, even if it never quite reaches zero, essentially as close as one can get to describing slowness."

The liquid brightened until it glowed softly. Orion could hardly keep the grin off his face. It's working.

A rational description—spoken with conviction—affected the brew as the others did with prayers.

He added a single grain of salt as the recipe dictated, apparently meant to lock in the balance. A shimmer ran through the brew and settled into the desired pastel.

All the while, he kept the posture of a child lost in make-believe, stirring and humming tunelessly. Across the aisle, Pelian grumbled over his cloudy sludge. Bethany got a comforting pat from Asteria for managing a respectable hue. Her attention swept right past Orion when another cauldron started bubbling ominously.

"That leads me to the last conclusion. To describe something like slowness, I need to put every piece together. Something that would distinguish it from true stillness."

The potion continued to bubble and shift, its color now teasingly close to the optimal lilac hue Orion had been aiming for.

A brief smile betrayed his satisfaction. The gradual lightening of the potion was now evident. "v(t) = v₀ exp[ −(γ∕m) t ]. Such a formula would even counteract opposing forces, while never allowing for complete stillness."

As he finished stirring meticulously as instructed, the potion reached a perfect, soft lilac.

When the class ended, each student poured their attempts into labeled vials and set them on the instructor's rack. Orion used his sleeve to conceal the action, then filled an unmarked vial from the supply table. He wiped the glass clean to avoid leaving fingerprints and placed it among the others.

The crush of departing children rattled the tables and then gradually faded away. Asteria remained behind to inspect the results, while Orion padded to her side, yawning for effect.

"Twenty-five?" she murmured, counting bottles. "I swore I had twenty-four students." She lifted the extra vial and held it to the torch. "The color is perfect. The viscosity is a bit too thin, but that's to be expected without enough experience." She uncorked it, tapped a drop on parchment, and watched how it spread. "Better than I usually see from first-years. They must have been thinking about slowing something down rather than tranquillity or stillness…"

Orion gazed up, wide-eyed. "It's pretty," he offered, and meant it.

Asteria laughed under her breath. "It is pretty. Whoever brewed this trusted the Moon-Mother in full." She crouched, bringing the vial down to his level. "See how the light barely refracts? That tells me they knew what they were doing. Perhaps one day you'll make potions like this."

It still makes no sense that it worked, but in this world's twisted logic, using real science is obviously superior to prayer.

"How?" He asked, quite honestly.

Asteria twirled the stopper between two fingers, considering how much explanation to give a child barely old enough to feed himself.

"Well," she said at last, "think of your body as a lamp. As you grow and the Moon sees your efforts, She pours more oil into you. With more oil, you can burn brighter and shape the flame better. It is as much a matter of dedication as it is of aptitude."

To demonstrate, she whispered a single syllable. A pearl of white light blossomed from her palm, extending into a ribbon, then transforming into a silver serpent that licked sparks from the air. It coiled around her wrist, its scales reflecting the glow of the torches.

Orion forgot to breathe for a moment. He knew magnesium burn, plasma jets, phosphorescent salts; this was none of those. No heat brushed his cheek, and there was no smell of ozone. Yet the luminosity had weight, like moonlight one could cup in both hands.

The serpent coiled, bowed its shining head to him, and vanished as Asteria closed her fingers. "A simple spell to master once you've a class and some practice," she said lightly.

His face must have been amusing because she let out a peal of laughter. "Oh, that was so precious! You were always a serious baby, so you haven't seen this before, but it's a common application for mothers. A flame that doesn't burn and is easy to manipulate makes for quick entertainment."

Orion's mind raced as he tried to understand how she had done that. While the potion he had brewed clearly defied normal chemistry, there was still cause and effect. A specific understanding led to particular reactions, and ingredients needed to be paired in the correct order to avoid negative consequences.

He realized then and there that his experience with "magic" had been far too limited. His mother was a potioneer, and she frequently used "enchanted" items in their apartment, but those did not appear or behave significantly differently from the mundane electrical appliances he was accustomed to.

Asteria placed the unnamed vial back with the others. "This will be a master sample once it's done cooling," she decided. "I'll show it next lesson as proof of what faith can do."

Orion swallowed a laugh, feeling both pride and nerves. Faith indeed.

She lifted him and balanced him on her hip as the torches dimmed one by one. He did not resist; small bodies grew tired quickly, and the vantage point allowed him to survey the benches, noting who had left residue and whose cauldron still steamed. Data was everywhere if one kept looking.

They ascended the spiral staircase that connected the classroom to the cloister walkways leading to the main route to their apartment. Through slit windows, Orion observed the sky glowing violet beyond the outer wall, with the first stars emerging through the dusk. A fresh breeze drifted in, carrying mountain air and resin.

Asteria hummed an old cradle tune that sounded half prayer, half lullaby.

Orion rested his head on her shoulder and pretended to doze. When she believed he was asleep, she often muttered plans aloud: which storeroom needed restocking, which shipment of glassware was late, and which feast day rehearsal would borrow her apprentices.

Tonight, she murmured about obtaining more valerian, noting that last winter's crop had dried poorly. Orion listened, cataloged, and matched her remarks to his mental map of supply chains.

Below them, deep in the lab, the vials turned cold as the last flicker of heat departed, signaling that the process was complete.

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION

+1 to Attunement

+1 to Mind

+101 Exp

Level up!

What?

Every seventh day, the gardens on the fourth floor filled with the cheerful noise of children too young for lessons.

Orion knew the routine so well that he could visualize it with his eyes closed: his mother would step out from her workshop, still smelling of herbal steam and beeswax finish, take a single indulgent breath, and announce with her warm, unshakable cheer, "Come, moonbeam, time to see the sun and your friends."

He did not object out loud. Objecting only led to longer speeches about the importance of friendship, and he had long since learned that Asteria could be surprisingly stubborn.

Instead, he tucked the potion manual he had been studying under his mattress, hid two loose sheets of notes in his pillowcase, and marched beside her out of their apartment and toward the silver arch that guarded the garden.

As he always did, he promised himself that the outing would amount to fieldwork. When full liberty finally came—whether at ten, when he could start attending lessons; at thirteen, when he got his class; or whenever the Sanctum decided he could be trusted enough to go off on his own, every clue gathered now would matter.

Asteria's fingers brushed against the runes etched into the archway, and the silver gates swung open. Outside stretched a square mile of patterned lawns and flower beds that grew in spirals, circles, and crescents, all laid out as if someone had dropped a pebble into a pond and frozen the ripples in green.

At the center shimmered a pond whose water never settled on a single hue; one moment it was lapis, the next a smoky jade. Fish the length of a man's hand glided beneath the colorful surface, slippery enough to evade the most curious children.

Sometimes Orion thought the pond was larger than it had been the previous week, and sometimes it seemed smaller. The fish appeared to grow and shrink with it. When he first saw them, he pressed his face to the water's edge, hoping one would drift close enough to catch. After Asteria caught him fashioning a makeshift spear, she laid down the absolute rule. "You can only look at them, moonbeam. They aren't potion ingredients."

Since then, he had observed from a distance, cataloging how water currents pushed the fish away whenever a threat approached too closely for comfort, causing their wake to refract through the ripples, making the water almost syrupy long enough for them to vanish. If he could have opened one up, he felt he could have learned so much, but the Sanctum loved its mysteries.

He would wait. Patience in this life had to substitute for proper lab equipment. He had only rarely managed to replicate his success from three years ago with the Sapping Brew and obtained an attribute point, and never when it made sense.

Sometimes, his Mind increased after listening to a homily, while his Attunement seemed to be even pickier, though not as much as his Body.

It was frustrating, but he knew he would eventually get his answers. Every seemingly unrelated occurrence was a data point, after all.

The garden, although dedicated to relaxation, remained a place of small, useful secrets. For instance, the moss rugs between the paving stones were never damp, even after rain. A particularly dry soil below the initial strata? No, more likely the moss itself has a "magical" trait.

Some plants or animals, he had learned, were apparently endowed with unique abilities or attributes. According to his mother, that was their version of the Moon's blessing, which sapient species perceived as the System.

The orchard's pear trees flowered in sequence from the outer rings inward. That genuinely baffled him, but one day he caught an elderly witch pouring something on the roots of the farther ones, leading him to conclude that she was deliberately altering the speed of their cycles.

Why she was doing that, he didn't know, but his mother always checked to see if there were flowers on the trees before letting him "go play." It's probably an obscure security feature. Or maybe she just likes pear flowers. Ugh.

The children were not particularly interesting, but they served a purpose. Asteria believed that friendship forged better people, and Orion didn't care enough to argue against that philosophy—only against the time it wasted. Given that he had no other pressing issues, he couldn't mount much opposition to her directive to make friends.

Still, there were worse duties than sitting under a willow while children chased one another in squealing loops. He had even formed what could be described as a quiet alliance with three of them.

Luna and Dorian preferred climbing branches and occasionally returned to show him a shiny beetle or a colorful feather; they understood he would only give brief acknowledgments, but they didn't seem to mind.

Selene, solemn and platinum blonde, stayed near him with a basket of wildflowers. She did not demand that he speak; instead, she braided stems into crowns and occasionally handed him one to examine. He suspected she enjoyed having a witness more than a playmate. In return, he appreciated her talent for remaining silent. Many adults were not so gifted.

One further advantage of their spot near the willow was its proximity to the mothers' bench. Witches in teaching robes, herb-mistresses from the coven's Pantry—the large complex where every ingredient was stored—two enchanters, and the lone mundane mother—all gathered beneath an ivy trellis and exchanged news while the children played.

From their discussions, Orion pieced together a solid understanding of the current events that the Sanctum preferred to hide from Initiates. Today, the breeze carried something more intriguing than the usual gossip about a particularly dashing guardsman or which toddler had almost levitated a spoon.

"The last shipment of Ginori pine practically floated on its own," Selene's mother grumbled, an alchemist of explosives who complained about everything from cloud cover to the pitch of morning bells. "You call that density? Bah, the Ranch has gotten more brazen with their scams. If they didn't have a monopoly, I would have long since stopped buying from them."

"They shorted the marble honey, too," the shorter cook added, the only woman on the bench without embroidered sigils on her sleeves. Her voice was quick, pleased to share something of interest. "The Chief Cook told me that this has been going on for a while, but that it has recently gotten much worse."

Asteria's brow lifted. "That explains why the Veil Priestess asked for Melma's Obscuring Concoction to be prepared in such great quantity. I have made enough for her to curse those annoying elves to soggy socks and creaky hinges for three generations."

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Soft chuckles drifted over the flowerbeds as the mothers giggled at the idea of elves grumbling about suspicious humidity soaking their socks or their doors creaking incessantly, no matter how much oil they applied.

Sometimes, it was hard for Orion to remember that he was now part of a coven of witches, given how routine his life had become. However, at other times, he was abruptly reminded of this reality. They spoke of cursing entire factions as easily as children talked about their games.

The distinct lack of fathers around is one such clue, he thought drily. It wasn't that men weren't accepted within the coven, as more than one boy ran around the garden, but the structure of the cult was such that only women could ever rise to the upper ranks.

This resulted in a situation where only men with little ambition ever stuck around. While there were a few of those, families with one mother and one father were much less common than those with a single mother.

"I believe I might know the cause," the cook finally said, earning surprised glances. While respected for her service, she was not necessarily important enough to receive such valuable information.

Going by her grin, she was relishing the attention. As the only mundane mother in a group of witches, she must have often felt sidelined, so knowing something the others didn't had to feel like vindication.

Eventually, however, she caved in at the others' urging, "Usually, we get as much marble honey from the Ranch as we ask for, even if they increase prices close to their festivities, but in the past couple of months, they've been very stingy. Now, the Ranch is the premier food producer of the south, so for them to have started cutting back, it means they have received a huge order. And marble honey is apparently an important ingredient in their healing potions."

Orion could see that some of the witches had already understood where she was going, but they were gracious enough to allow her the pleasure. "I believe the Greenwood Enclave might be preparing for another period of skirmish with the Ebony Gauntlet. I went looking through our ledgers, and the only times they ever throttled our orders this much were when the elves started fighting with the necromancers."

That was very interesting and suggested an acumen in the woman he wouldn't have thought her to possess. By the surprised looks of the others, Orion wasn't the only one who had underestimated her.

Unfortunately, he only knew the basics about those factions. He knew they were major powers within the Cyril Magocracy—the confederation of provinces the coven belonged to—but his attempts to obtain a history book that provided more than just tales of the Moon Goddess had been thwarted by his mother so far.

Still, he was gradually building a mental map. When the time came for him to participate in actual lessons—and not just the basic skills his mother taught him—he would also gain access to the library, and nothing would hold him back.

A shift beside him broke his focus. Selene was staring with her pale, faintly luminous eyes, a half-finished petal crown in her lap. "It's not," she whispered.

He frowned. "What's not?"

"The fighting that's coming." She said, staring at the clear sky as if expecting a thunderstorm to roll by. "It's not like the past."

"Are you saying that the elves and the necromancers will go to war?" he asked, leaning into her space. The Cyril Magocracy was more a loose union of powerful factions than an actual nation, so minor conflict was expected, but full-on war was not. As far as he knew, it had been over a century since the last time.

Unfortunately, Selene didn't seem interested in offering any further explanation, as she returned to her flower crown, effectively shutting down the conversation.

Orion swallowed his curiosity. Past experience warned him that Selene's cryptic remarks resisted interrogation and often became nonsensical if he pushed harder. And then I'll be treated to a lecture about being kinder to my friends.

The bench talk drifted into less useful territory—apparently, the cook fancied a baker known for his muscular arms—and Orion's interest also shifted.

In the distance, a pretty witch in sky-blue robes herded a dozen children toward a rack of brooms propped beneath a cedar. Feeling a thrill, he immediately recognized this as the first flight lesson of a new season. Until now, he had always missed the start and only caught the successive lessons, where confident fliers streaked overhead. Today, he might finally get to hear how they defied gravity.

He rose, brushed wilted grass from his knees, and crossed the lawn at an angle. Selene abandoned her basket without a word and followed, silent as a mouse. Asteria's eyebrows climbed in surprise when he looked at her for permission, but she gestured her assent. "Don't bother Madame Thurgood with your questions," she called after them.

Bah, as if that would do me any good. She's probably just going to tell them to believe in themselves.

"Broom flight," the witch began, and he hurried forward, not wanting to miss anything, "is one of the oldest skills taught in the coven. A High Priestess was the first to hold the class five centuries ago, but it was a known practice even before that. It is so important, in fact, that anyone who wishes to officially join the Coven at their maturity must have a passing grade in this class."

Once she had looked everyone in the eye, she continued. "I shall now tell you the tale of Cassiopeia, the High Priestess who now resides with the Mother Above All. Of how she found the best Silver Pine sapling, lovingly singing to it until it had grown enough to gift her a branch, and used her devotion to the Mother to take flight with her prayer alone." The witch explained, distributing the other brooms around the class.

She immediately noticed him sidling up to the group, but seemed amused by his presence. Tapping a finger on her lips, she made it clear that as long as he kept quiet, he'd be allowed to listen in.

Unfortunately, there were no more brooms for him to grab, so he made do with a nearby branch. That prompted an even brighter smile from the witch, and Orion could almost feel her suppressing the urge to coo.

Its upper part was as smooth as bone, while its lower body was somewhat thicker, with a few smaller twigs protruding. Overall, it was a reasonably decent approximation.

The witch mounted her own broom and spoke clearly, "Every night, the moon rises." The shaft responded with a slow, graceful rise until her boots hovered a handspan above the turf. She pivoted easily, her skirts fluttering at knee height. "Trust the Mother," she said, "and she will lift you. That's all there is to it."

The older children followed her command, feet astride their brooms. They repeated, "Every night, the moon rises"—some shy, some bold. Brooms wobbled, jittered, or simply lay still. Two shot upward with triumphant laughs.

When the last had managed to lift off, Orion straddled the stubby stick and inhaled. "Up," he said. Nothing. The branch might as well have been made of stone. Another try—no movement. Around him, the older Initiates began to move through the air; his frustration rose with it, embarrassing in its intensity. He stepped back from the crowd, feeling his cheeks warm, and slipped behind a hedge.

Anger rarely solved problems; cold calculation, however, never failed him. Kneeling, he snapped a twig from the nearby bush and began writing into the damp soil.

"Start with the fundamentals," he muttered to himself. Just because they are flying doesn't mean there is no reason behind it.

To hover, a broom must exert a force equal to its weight. In a world with gravity similar to Earth's, that means roughly 9.8 newtons per kilogram.

I should start by calculating the vertical force of the broom system. If I ignore the magical origin of the propulsion, I can just definite it as F_net = F_broom − m g, where m is the mass of the rider and the broom and g is the gravitational constant.

He sketched a little diagram to help him visualize. To calculate F_broom, I need a coefficient to account for the "magic" κ, the channeling frequency vector ω in radians per second, and finally the effective radius from the broom's axis where the magical "lift" acts, R. That makes it F_broom = κ ω² R.

Selene padded over the grass and crouched beside him, watching the lines form. "Is it a puzzle?" she asked.

"Sort of," he answered, adding the net force acceleration. Divide net force by mass: if κ ω² R > mg, a is positive and there is lift-off; if equal, you hover; if less, you descend. Now I just need the velocity and height as functions of time. v(t) = v₀ + a t and z(t) = z₀ + v₀ t + ½ a t² should do it.

The class behind the hedge had descended into excited chaos; children were now looping, occasionally tumbling into flowerbeds with soft thuds. Madame Thurgood laughed and encouraged them to test their brooms further.

Orion set his twig aside, collected his rudimentary broom, and tried something different. He placed his palm on the handle, closed his eyes, and brought every calculation to the fore.

He pictured vectors, magnitudes, and balanced sums. He sensed a faint, responding hum. Emboldened, he swung his leg over it and murmured, "Rise."

The broom nudged upward an inch, then two. The soles of his boots parted from the earth for the span of a heartbeat, just long enough to confirm lift, but not long enough to attract notice, and he willed it down.

SYSTEM NOTIFICATION

+1 to Mind

+1 to Attunement

+ 215 Exp

Level up!

Pride flared into giddy triumph.

When he turned, Selene stood so close that her breath stirred his collar. Her lips curved into a soft O of surprise; then she pressed a finger against them in a conspiratorial hush. "Secret secret," she whispered, and danced away toward the pond, petals from her flower crown fluttering behind her.

The moment Asteria whisked open the shutters, the orange rays of dawn spilled across Orion's blankets like ink, and cold air nipped at his cheeks. He tried to burrow deeper into the soft quilt, but his mother had already hooked two fingers under it.

"Up, moonbeam. Adventure awaits."

He allowed himself to be pulled upright but protested nonetheless. "Morning is for farmers and roosters."

"You're eight. You can nap in the carriage if you are still tired." She placed him beside the wash basin and left to gather her things.

Eight, yes… Yet when the blue System pane appeared at his mental urging, the stats it displayed weren't directly proportional to his age, as should have been the case for an Initiate.

STATUS

ORION A. VOIDWALKER

Class: Initiate [E-Rank]

Level: 10 

Mind: 19 

Attunement: 14 

Body: 10

Trait: Mana Manipulation [E-rank]

From what he had been able to extract from his mother's vague answers, children without a proper class were expected to average one level per year and receive only the single point per attribute that level provided, with a few rare exceptions who advanced in one field or another depending on their nature.

That tidy hypothesis broke when he had gained an extra level by first crafting his first potion, and then levitating a branch off the ground.

He had tried to replicate his success, but spending almost every waking hour with his mother made progress hard, and applying the same formulae again didn't lead to extra gains, although he had managed to get the pillow to float for a good minute.

The Body score climbed only one point each year in line with expectations, not that he put much effort into it. However, his Mind soared whenever he cracked a new portion of this world's language or brewed a new potion. Unfortunately, the experience he gained from such feats was not sufficient for him to reach another level.

Attunement, the most mysterious attribute, spiked whenever he paired science with "magic." This was quite rare, given how infrequently he was exposed to new magic long enough to grasp its functioning, and most of it consisted of advanced spells or potions—things he simply lacked the "power" to replicate.

Still, he was aware that he could be considered quite advanced for his age. It wasn't as impressive, given his actual age, but he had mostly focused on developing his understanding of the world and building a strong foundation.

When the time came, his growth would be explosive.

That private triumph warmed him as he splashed water on his face and hands. He quickly dressed in the outfit Asteria had laid out: charcoal trousers, a lamb-soft shirt, and that sky-blue jacket padded like a winter quilt. Going outside the walls was the only bribe strong enough to make him accept pastel colors. His mother knew that and took ruthless advantage of it.

He emerged to find Asteria swirling a white fur cloak around her shoulders, with a witch's hat on her head. "Boots," she reminded without looking; then, seeing him hop around to fit the sturdy leather to his feet, she smiled. "Silverpeak Town is a short flight from the east gate. I want to get there before the market's full."

The hallways' crystal lamps spread soft light, intentionally low enough not to disturb those who had just woken up, but Orion felt fully awake. During his brisk walk down four winding flights, he counted his breaths to calm the hop in his step. Finally, finally, he would be able to see the world beyond the Sanctum's walls.

"Oh, he looks very excited today," an elderly witch he knew as Aunt Quila murmured as she encountered them on the way down.

Asteria paused to greet her, prompting Orion to slow down too. She ignored the glance he cast her way with practiced ease. Over the years, she'd gotten very good at that.

"He is. We're going to Silverpeak Town for the first time," Asteria answered, smoothing Orion's rebellious white curls.

"Oh, that's wonderful. Would you mind terribly stopping by the foundry district and getting my new work knives? Old Gerrick told me they'd be done last week, but I haven't had the time to go down to get them." Aunt Quila asked, and Asteria nodded without missing a beat.

"Of course, Aunty. We were going to go there anyway."

Fortunately, they managed to leave without further interruptions. A few people stopped to say hello, but they were all preoccupied with their own responsibilities.

They hurried past the third floor, where children streamed sleepily toward the classrooms, and soon reached the ground floor. The eastern door opened like a hangar onto the Sanctum's inner court.

The stables stood there, their moss-covered roofs speckled with frost. The groom who met them smelled of saddle soap and cider and bowed elegantly as he gestured through a gate. "Magistra, young master."

Inside the launch area, two Pegasi waited, as large as supply wagons. Orion had only caught glimpses of them before—a flash of wings, a comet tail of silver hair as they passed above the walls.

Up close, each beast's hide glistened like fresh snow, and their eyes were pools of pale violet, similar to Orion's own. They grazed from fruit troughs, chewing melon halves to pulp. When the leather harnesses slid across their backs, they merely flicked their tails.

Orion's knowledge of biology protested vehemently: twenty-foot wings, no matter how impressive, could not possibly lift the creatures, much less a carriage. And even if they did, the trip would be anything but smooth.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

I guess the principle isn't that different from the flight formula, but then, why have wings in the first place? Is there an intrinsic benefit gained from having limbs commonly associated with flight?

Despite his annoyance, he couldn't help but stare at the Pegasi. They were truly majestic beasts, and he could see a spark of intelligence in their eyes.

"Cool," he breathed, feeling like a kid for once.

Asteria's grin crinkled her eyes. "Everyone is the same the first time. Pet them if you like—just keep clear of the feathers."

Orion hurried forward and was met by the pegasus, which neighed contentedly as he stood on his tiptoes to stroke the velvet fur near one shoulder joint, feeling a faint hum beneath the skin, as if a motor thrummed there.

The carriage rolled closer, revealing a luxurious structure made of lacquered black wood adorned with golden runes. When the door opened, Orion found the interior to be equally impressive. Inside, red cushions awaited, magically enchanted to radiate warmth. Bouncing onto one, he pressed his nose against the window, not wanting to miss anything.

The groom climbed onto the driver's board. "Hold to the leather straps if your stomach's delicate," he called through a small speaking hatch. "The updraft's strong this early."

Asteria settled opposite Orion, placing her satchel next to her. The hatch slammed shut, and the reins snapped taut. The pegasi stamped once, wings flaring outward, and with a roar of "Yah! Let's get going!" from the rider, they leapt.

For an instant, his inner ear sensed free fall, but the cushions embraced him, and a featherlight sensation filled the cabin, steadying it like a pendulum brought to rest.

Outside, the stable walls blurred and fell away. He heard the walls rushing past and felt the subtle tremors of acceleration, while the runes glowed gold, likely working hard to dampen the effects. They reminded him more of a truck than a plane, and he was very curious about the kind of runes the witches might have carved to produce such an effect.

Do they have prayers for soft landings? I suppose so, considering all the stunts they pull on their brooms.

High winds brushed the windowpane with scales of frost, but each crystal pattered away as if the glass exhaled heat. From that height, Orion could see the Sanctum's upper terraces wrapped around the mountain like jeweled belts. It was truly beautiful.

Hanging gardens spilled ivy and moss hundreds of feet downward, the leaves shimmering faintly with ice. The fortress-temple looked grown, not built: a silver seed that sprouted into stone, glass, and greenery.

Then they banked east. Valleys opened up—deep bowls of mist studded with fir hills—and he noticed a curious optical lensing around the carriage, as if the air inside a bubble was traveling with them.

That could solve the comfort problem. An envelope would reduce the energy needed to keep the carriage stable, although it would likely increase the power requirements on the pegasi.

"Keep your eyes open," Asteria said. "The far ridge there—the one with the twin peaks—marks the edge of our territory." Estimating the distance wasn't exactly easy, but considering their height, Orion eyeballed it at a hundred miles. I didn't know the range was so large.

"Why are the summits that smooth?" he asked, pointing to three mountains that stood out from the rest.

"Ice dragons reside there. A smooth peak means an active nest." Her tone carried the reverence usually reserved for sacred texts.

Orion blinked before shrugging. Yeah, why not dragons too?

Minutes later, the carriage eased into a gentle descent. Snowfields faded, pine crowns swept by, and finally, slate and wooden rooftops flashed below. Silverpeak Town sprawled across the entire valley floor, at times blending in and at times standing out. Towers sprouted here and there, but none was as tall as the one standing proudly in its center, gleaming silver as the name promised.

They settled on a landing field broad enough for twenty such carriages. The pegasi touched down, their hooves kicking up soft earth. Orion expected a jarring impact, but the suspension charm softened it into a sigh. The windows lowered, and their breath became visible in the morning chill.

I almost forgot what winter is truly like, considering that the Sanctum is always at a comfortable temperature.

Outside, messenger hawks as large as his torso wheeled on tether chains, their handlers strapping canisters to claw clasps. A freight crew herded six-legged lizards onto padded sleds, their tails twitching with sparks. Orion knew them to be beasts bred to keep goods warm en route through the mountains, having seen them lead supply carts into the coven. Everything smelled of oats, polishing oil, and mountain air.

"Welcome to Silverpeak!" The driver said as he opened the door, bowing.

"Thank you, Mr. Stone. We will need your services once more in the afternoon, if you don't mind hanging about," Asteria said, gracefully descending before turning around and giving Orion her hand.

He took it, still too dazzled.

"Of course, Magistra. The boys and I will wait for you." The man replied, closing the door behind them.

The landing zone opened toward a low arch where two watchmen stood. When they saw Asteria, their eyes fixated on her hat and the brooch pinned to her cloak. They saluted, stiffer than boards.

"Ma'am! Welcome to Silverpeak!" one shouted, bearing more detailed symbols in his leather armor. The other men all snapped a salute, and Orion was left blinking in surprise.

His mother, on the other hand, wasn't phased and merely nodded, "Thank you."

Orion raised his brows at the deference. Is Mom that scary? Either that, or the relationship between the coven and its territories is more strict than I expected.

No matter; he was quickly distracted when Silverpeak Town proper came into view. Seeing it from above had been a treat, but it didn't truly convey a sense of what was on the ground.

A thousand voices suddenly filled his ears, and it was nearly overwhelming for someone who had been a recluse for the past eight years.

Stalls were pressed shoulder to shoulder. A dwarf in a cobalt smock shouted about sun-forged chisels, showcasing blades carved with tiny, detailed flames.

A cat-eyed, long-eared, beautiful humanoid that Orion immediately pegged as an elf offered phials of "cloud milk," said to distill sadness from the drinker; every phial gave a different shimmer.

Human peddlers hawked parchment that turned ink silver under moonlight, claiming it came directly from the Lunar Sanctum. These men quickly fell silent and slinked away when they noticed Asteria.

Orion's head swiveled so fast that he worried about straining his neck.

The Sanctum possessed more powerful magic, but the abundance here was equally impressive.

His mother moved with unhurried purpose, and the crowd parted for her as if by a gravitational force. People glanced once, noticed her hat, and adjusted their course, much like fish yielded to a ship's keel.

She paused at an herb stand where coils of dried ghost peppers hung like scarlet corkscrews. Touching the merchandise, she murmured, "Good oil content. If our suppliers don't improve, I'll divert orders here." She tucked a coil into her basket and slipped a large bronze coin into an expectant hand, and Orion noted the vendor's grin widen; business with the Sanctum seemed to be highly regarded.

Between spice stalls, a would-be pickpocket lunged for a merchant's purse. The pouch twitched, cloth unfurling into a soft maw that swallowed the thief's wrist and tightened like oozing tar. He yelped, flailing until two constables ambled over. No one seemed startled, as if this were a daily occurrence.

Asteria led them to the rim of a fountain where musicians played hammered dulcimers, their strings intertwined with threads of ice that resonated with chilling harmonics.

Orion longed to go and ask how they could possibly not melt, more interested in a possible superconducting material capable of resisting the current temperature, but a black-haired apothecary flagged down his mother to lament a poor shipment of valerian. Asteria nodded in understanding, promising to inform the Sanctum's stewards.

Every new sight tugged at him in three directions at once. A woman in a crystal mask poured molten glass into floating molds; by the time the globes drifted downward, they had cooled into perfect spheres etched with constellations. A baker sold bread that whistled flute tones when torn, with steam holes tuned like organ pipes. Two children sent wooden boats sailing in puddles, racing them while the tiny sails moved with an unseen wind.

Orion absorbed it all, piecing together a map of regional capabilities. The Sanctum was a star, and Silverpeak was its bright satellite, trading on the luster but not sharing its secrets. It is probably where most of the coven's trading is done, so it has strategic importance.

Soon, they reached the base of the tall, silver-veined tower he'd seen from above. Orion craned his neck and found himself gazing at the intricate construction. It was even taller than he had anticipated, easily soaring one hundred fifty feet into the air. It was primarily made of stone, but unlike the rest of the town, with its wooden accents, it featured a silvery metal woven intricately into its design.

Knowing how soft silver could be, Orion wondered how the entire structure hadn't collapsed yet, eventually attributing it to more magic. I hadn't given engineering of this scale much thought, but if a material as unsuitable as silver—or one of its alloys— can support such weight, there might be no real limit to what these people can achieve.

"Ah, you are here!" rumbled a voice from above, and Orion craned his head up to see where it came from. He blinked in surprise when he saw who'd spoken and realized that she was, by far, the largest woman he'd ever seen.

A giant?

Remove

Of all the absurd things he'd seen so far, a nine-foot-tall woman could not be considered the most unbelievable, but it still took Orion a moment to accept what his eyes were telling him.

"Come on, let's go in. Lucina is an old friend; I'm sure you'll like her," his mother said, pushing her hand against his back to urge him forward.

As they walked up the steps, Orion noticed that while they were normal human-sized, they were bunched together in pairs, with the third one being twice as long as the previous ones, as if to create a second staircase for very tall people.

Considering who they were here to see, that made sense.

At the entrance of the building, they were greeted by two more guards; these seemed to be ordinary humans, although they were clearly well-trained. On Earth, their muscular bodies might have marked them as gym rats, but here, they wore silver armor engraved with numerous runes and carried very tall, very sharp halberds.

"Magistra, sir," they greeted in unison, not even blinking at having to show respect to a child. Orion nodded back, confused, but dismissed the feeling. He wanted to get a better look at the woman to see if she was simply a human with gigantism or an entirely different species.

He had seen the elves and dwarves around town, which was enough to send his mind spinning with theories about their divergence from a common ancestor with humanity, but he hadn't been able to get more than a cursory look at them. This time, it seemed like he might.

Inside the building, Orion was not surprised to find very tall ceilings. Tapestries hung throughout the spacious chamber, depicting scenes ranging from hunts to moonlit landscapes. This made it clear that the town was connected to the coven in more ways than just its location. He even spied the Lunar Sanctum's banner, featuring a full moon over a mountain.

Another point to Silverpeak being directly subordinate to the coven, rather than merely depending on it for protection.

"Ha ha! I finally get to see the sprog!" A loud voice rumbled. Looking up, Orion saw that it was the same woman as before, descending the steps of another staircase three at a time, confirming his previous theory.

"I had invited you to tea, if you remember, but you didn't come," his mother said lightly, and it took him a moment to realize she was teasing. A small, joyful smile spread across her face, and she took a few steps to hug what was apparently an old friend.

The other woman, Lucina, engulfed her in her enormous arms, almost making Asteria disappear. "You know I can't stand to make the climb. I would get tutted at all the way by those old witches and then forced to spend the afternoon jumping at shadows."

Orion observed the interaction with fascination. His mother was a sociable woman, capable of striking up a conversation with just about anyone. She had a regular circle of friends who would visit their chambers or whom she would stop to talk to in the garden, but he had never seen her so relaxed with them.

"Oh, that is entirely your fault. If you hadn't tried sneaking in every other month in your youth, you wouldn't face such scrutiny," Asteria replied with a titter, pulling back from the hug.

Her proportions are well within the standard range for her overall size. She shows no signs of acromegaly, and while I cannot perform an accurate blood pressure test without the proper equipment, she appears to be in good health based on a cursory evaluation. Additionally, there is no lethargy in her movements, and I cannot find significant deviations from the human phenotype, aside from her size. Muscle mass seems proportionally well-developed, though not outside the standard deviation.

"Nice to meet you, little man," Lucina turned to him, extending a hand. Orion took it, watching with fascination as his hand vanished into hers. She shook it twice and released her grip, never applying more pressure than one would expect in a normal handshake with a child. If anything, her touch was very delicate.

She has likely struggled to control her strength in the past. Alternatively, she may have a complex about making others feel safe despite her size; however, I do not see hunched shoulders, and her eyes are fixed on mine. Therefore, she has either dealt with it or never had it.

"Quiet kid, is he?" Lucina asked, turning to his mother, and Asteria smiled in a way that suggested things weren't exactly like that, but she didn't elaborate. Orion could be very talkative when he wanted to know something, but even he knew not to start asking sensitive questions in a public setting. That had been a hard lesson to learn in another life.

"Alright, well, let's go up to my office!" The giant woman shrugged, turned around, and led the way. Instead of taking the stairs, as he might have expected, she guided them to a large door and tapped lightly on it with her knuckles.

It opened after a moment, revealing a man in elegant, if subdued clothes, who nodded in greeting, "My ladies, my lord. Where might I take you?"

"Tenth floor!" Lucina exclaimed, walking in. Orion noted that everything in this building seemed designed for people her size, suggesting it was either intentionally made with her in mind or that others had previously occupied it with similar needs.

Or maybe she's enjoying the benefits of a previous occupant who wanted a grandiose building, though the stairs make me think otherwise.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Both answers were intriguing in their own way, but before he could think about them further, the door shut, and the man said, "We shall reach our destination within two minutes."

There was no lurch, as Orion might have expected, nor any sound of pulleys or gears grinding. Instead, they left the ground floor silently, and he made an "ah" sound. "This is like a broom."

The man inclined his head. "Indeed! I am a mage specializing in levitation magic, and I have been contracted to handle the Town Hall's needs for the next year. Casper's Omnidirectional Transports at your service, young lord."

Orion hummed, disregarding the insistence on referring to him as a lord for the moment. Considering that a broom could fly in any direction, it made sense that it required someone to command it. However, this elevator only needed to go up and down. Did it really need someone to be there at all times? Couldn't they streamline the experience by automating the liftoff?

I shouldn't be so surprised. In a place where nothing makes sense, why would something like this be any better?

The elevator stopped after the promised time had passed, and the mage opened the door. Looking him over, Orion noticed that while his uniform fit well and was of good quality, the accessories he wore were subpar.

He's probably a mediocre wizard down on his luck, and this job offers a decent wage. Otherwise, I doubt anyone would choose to spend their time directing an elevator.

"Come on in, the view from here is fantastic. Nothing like from up the Sanctum, of course, but it is a different experience," Lucina said, guiding them down the stone hallway and into a large room. Orion noted the increased silver inlays before taking in the sight.

A twenty-foot-wide glass window served as a wall, and from there, the entirety of Silverpeak Town was visible. Orion hardly noticed as he let out a sound of surprise, scrambling closer and pressing his nose against it.

Plumes of smoke drifted lazily from chimneys throughout the town, though they seemed concentrated near the western flank, where the terrain became rockier as the valley began to narrow. He counted at least a hundred birds the size of the eagle he'd seen upon their arrival, all flying purposefully with satchels and boxes attached to their legs.

Once in a while, flashes of color illuminated the streets, and people of all sizes and shapes ambled around, appearing as small as his finger from his perspective. Sometimes, he could not deny his childish body, and it often became a bother, but the wonder he felt at that moment did not annoy him. It was a very pretty sight.

When he finally pulled away from the window, he found his mother and Lucina seated by a coffee table, holding porcelain cups of proportional sizes filled with something steaming in their hands that released a familiar aroma.

The mere notion that the divine brew might be found here had him scrambling toward them. In the sanctum, only herbal and fruit teas could be consumed if one didn't want water. Alcoholic beverages were also available, but he couldn't partake—not that he desired to. He had seen what resulted from the abuse of such poisons in college.

Coffee, on the other hand, had been his drink of choice on Earth. A stimulant with few negative consequences was a rare thing, and he spent many sleepless nights working on his projects thanks to it.

"No need to hurry, there is more than enough for you, too," Asteria chuckled as he took a seat next to her, sinking into the soft cushions. She then proffered a delicately painted cup with bird motifs all over, filled with a light brown liquid.

Unfortunately, a closer sniff revealed it wasn't exactly coffee; however, the aroma was pleasant, prompting him to take a tentative sip. A slightly bitter caramel flavor, along with milk, and a surprisingly floral aftertaste flooded his taste buds, leaving him craving more.

"Forgive him; it's his first time out of the Sanctum, and he's a very curious child," he heard his mother say, but he didn't bother to voice the grumble he felt inside.

It was true that after years in that place, however clean the air might be and however much he might enjoy putting his brain to the test of figuring out exactly how "magic" really worked, being thrust into the world was almost overwhelming.

"Oh, no worries. My nieces love mou just as much. It's been a best seller last season since demand from Valderun spiked after a gala where Archmage Ipsosil's favorite granddaughter had it brought out for everyone." Lucina replied, and Orion tuned back in.

Asteria let out a giggle, hiding her mouth behind a hand. "Look at you, knowing the intricacies of the capital's politics. You've really grown into the job, haven't you? I still remember when your father decided to abdicate in your favor and you came asking for my help to escape."

Lucina waved a large hand, her face flushing with embarrassment. "Oh, don't talk about that, you'll ruin my cool image with your son!"

Orion met her eyes and did his best to convey how unimpressed he was. She made a wounded noise, gripping her chest. "Ah, so cold."

The lighthearted chat continued for several minutes until all the cups were empty, and Orion felt bored enough that he almost stood up to examine the silver inlays more closely. He remained confused about how they could be strong enough to support the tower's structure. They didn't seem to be iron pyrite or magnetite, and while the variety of iron alloys was quite extensive, he was fairly certain he recognized the luster of silver.

I wonder if they managed to find a new alloy or if this is just another matter of "Magic." Oh, who am I kidding? Of course it is. But then again, I've figured out the underlying principle several times already, so this might not be that different. They might not even realize what they've done here.

He was interrupted before he could jump off the admittedly very comfortable couch because Selina put down her cup, and the atmosphere shifted. From light and jovial, it suddenly became much more serious. "I would love nothing more than to keep catching up, Asteria, but we should get to business."

"Yes, we should. I still have much I would like to show Orion before we have to go back. Now, what is the issue this time? Your letter was just vague enough that I know it's a matter of alchemical reagents not working as they should, but I need to know what I'm supposed to work with before I can give you a solution." Asteria replied, putting down her own, much smaller cup.

Lucina grunted, scratching behind her bushy braids, "I don't really know all the details, but I can tell you it's important. You know we are due for a migration from the Ironwoods because those damn druids aren't going to take care of the vultures themselves, and unless they make a detour from the predicted path, the dwarves won't be affected. Something in our defenses isn't working as it should, and I want to know if it's sabotage, incompetence, or something else!"

That sounded much more interesting than trying to divine the exact composition of a metal from thin air. Orion glanced at his mother and saw her nodding with a pensive look. "I should be able to tell you that much, but you know that if it gets that bad, we will intervene. The Lunar Sanctum won't allow a flock of monsters, no matter how large, to attack a town under our protection."

Lucina grimaced. "I know that, but I would still like for us to be self-sufficient in this. The people know that the Sanctum has our backs, but they should also be able to trust the administration to protect them!" She slammed her fist onto the table, which immediately gave way, scattering chunks of wood and shattering the delicate cups.

"Oops," she said, looking at her fist as if it had betrayed her.

Asteria tittered before waving a hand over the mess. "May the Light of the Goddess shine on our mortal sins and wash them away."

A pale haze descended at her gesture, and for a moment, it was like watching time rewind itself. The splinters that had scattered as far as ten feet away flew back into the table, and the broken wood melded into one piece. The cups flowed together, returning to their previous state, and when it was done, it was as if the outburst had never happened.

"The Coven will make sure Silverpeak Town is capable of self-defense if that is your request. Whether directly or indirectly, we shall ensure our subjects' well-being." With that, Asteria stood up, tugging Orion to follow her.

He did, allowing his feet to move on their own while his mind raced to understand precisely how she had accomplished what she'd done.

Up to this point, he had managed to apply relatively simple scientific principles to the magic he had encountered, but rewinding time? That was on another level altogether.