Chapter 81
Written by Bayzo Albion
The lessons with my teacher pressed on, each one layering new depths onto the fragile foundation I was building within myself.
"There have been people in this world," she said, narrowing her eyes slightly as if peering into some distant memory, "who could sense the fabric of reality on an instinctual level. They didn't need equations, tomes, or mentors. They simply *knew* how the world worked—its rhythms, its pulses. We called them intuitives, naturals... miracles. But like every gift, it comes with strengths—and glaring weaknesses."
She stepped closer, her gaze locked onto mine, unblinking and intense. With a casual flick, she tapped my forehead with the shard of ice she'd conjured earlier. The cold bit into my skin like a sharp reminder, sending a shiver racing down my spine.
"So, Balthazar," she continued with a faint smirk curling her lips, "don't get ahead of yourself just yet."
The ice slipped from her fingers, thudding softly against the floor before bouncing away. But it didn't melt into a puddle like ordinary ice might—no slow drip, no spreading wetness. Instead, it began to... unravel. From the inside out, as if defying the natural order of decay.
I held my breath, mesmerized and a little unnerved.
Before my eyes, the crystalline edges trembled and glowed with a soft, ethereal light. The ice seemed to dissolve into itself, fracturing into a translucent mist that hung in the air like a fleeting dream. Then, with a whisper of motion, it transformed further—into a stream of pure mana, alive and swirling like sentient smoke. It rose upward, twisting gracefully through the room, before vanishing without a trace, leaving only the faint chill in the air as evidence it had ever existed.
"See?" she added calmly, as if this display were as mundane as breathing for her, not the awe-inspiring spectacle it was to me. "True magic doesn't *create* things out of nothing. It merely reflects them—echoes of the world's essence. That reflection holds as long as you sustain it. Let go, even for a heartbeat, and it fades away."
I stared at the spot on the floor where the ice had been. Empty now. No residue, no dampness. As if it had never been real at all. The realization settled over me like a heavy cloak: what I'd thought was power was just an illusion I had to nurture.
"While you're still weak," she went on, her voice steady and matter-of-fact, "everything you summon will be fleeting. Holding the form is far harder than calling it forth. Any fool can spark a miracle. But only someone who truly grasps what they're wielding can make it endure."
Her words lingered in the quiet room, stirring an unease deep in my chest. Creating had felt like child's play—exhilarating, effortless. But now I understood: real strength wasn't in the flashy conjuration that dazzled onlookers. It was in the quiet persistence, the unyielding grip that prevented the wonder from slipping back into oblivion.
And so, my training forged ahead. Day after day, I cycled mana through my body while simultaneously wrestling with the art of speech: starting with isolated sounds, then stumbling words, and finally pieced-together phrases. It was grueling—my tongue twisted like a stubborn knot, my throat burned from the effort, my head throbbed with frustration. Yet I persisted, mimicking her patiently, and bit by bit, meaning began to solidify, like stones stacking into a sturdy wall.
Mornings were for mana. Evenings for eloquence.
"Wa-ter," she drew out slowly, emphasizing each syllable without rush.
"Yo-da," I mangled it, the sounds tumbling awkwardly from my lips.
"That's from a different school of magic altogether," she sighed, a hint of amusement flickering in her eyes. "Try again."
By the thirtieth attempt, "water" no longer warped into "yoda." By the fortieth, I uttered it clearly enough that a cool tremor stirred in my palm—a droplet forming in response, as if the word itself had summoned it.
We built from the basics, one simple concept at a time: "ice," "cold," "weight," "silence." I spoke them aloud, learning to feel them in my bones. First to hear the resonance, then to invoke it, and finally to anchor it in place.
"Names are crutches," she repeated often, her tone firm but guiding. "Cling to them while you're learning to walk. But when you're ready to run, let them go."
Sometimes my ambition outpaced my skill: I'd attempt something grandiose like "crystallization" to sound more profound, only to choke on the syllables, my voice failing mid-word.
"Leave the scholars to their fancy toys, Balthazar," she'd squint wearily. "Just say 'solid'—and make it so."
I'd whisper "solid," and a tiny, jagged icicle would materialize in my hand. It lasted longer than a mere second—three full breaths this time. On the fourth, it unraveled backward into mist, dissolving like a sigh.
By the end of the week, I managed my first coherent sentence:
"I... can... hold... it."
"Let's test that," she replied simply, her challenge hanging in the air like a dare.
I drew in a deep breath, murmuring "water" under my breath as I let myself embody it fully. The droplet pooled in my palm. I layered on "weight," "still," "close." It didn't waver. My heart hammered so loudly I could feel it echoing in my ears, a wild rhythm that made me want to laugh with sheer exhilaration.
"Five seconds," she noted, counting steadily. "Seven... nine... Ten. Not bad for a slow learner."
"I'm not slow," I retorted, the words flowing without a hitch for the first time.
"We'll see," she said, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward, betraying a reluctant approval.
In this way, I learned to speak—and to sustain. Words became hooks, snagging sensations from the ether; those sensations bridged the gap, drawing mana into tangible form. The clearer my pronunciation, the longer the manifestation held, as if purity of voice wove a stronger thread to bind it.
– – –
"What's your name?" I finally mustered the courage to ask my teacher, my voice still tentative but steady.
"Mirin," she replied softly, glancing at me with a gentle smile that warmed the room like a fleeting sunbeam.
As a child, everything seemed straightforward to me—no boundaries, no embarrassment. I plunged into provocative questions with the raw honesty only kids possess, questions that, looking back, masked a deeper yearning for connection, for belonging in this strange paradise.
"When I grow up... will you marry me? Be my wife?" I asked, staring at her with the solemn intensity unique to children, my heart laid bare.
"Yes," she answered lightly, as if she'd anticipated the question all along—as if it were the most ordinary inquiry in the world.
*Cool as ice,* I thought, but something flickered in her eyes, a shadow I couldn't yet decipher.
"I fell in love with you at first sight," I blurted, the words spilling out in a rush of unfiltered passion. "Your hair is like the morning sun, and your eyes... they remind me of a clear blue sky. No, even better—like the sky in spring, when everything's just waking up. You're like an angel descended from heaven. Your divine beauty... it's distant, yet I feel it so close, almost tangible."
She listened, her gaze drifting past me, as if lost in some private reverie.
"Yes, yes, yes," she echoed mechanically, her tone flat and bored, like someone who'd heard such declarations a thousand times before.
*At least blush!* I inwardly recoiled, the indifference stinging like a slap. I'd poured out my soul, expecting magic, and got apathy in return.
"Why are you so cold to me?" I pressed, unable to hold back. "Doesn't your heart race like mine does when I look at you?"
She regarded me calmly, her expression almost devoid of emotion, but her voice carried an undercurrent—weariness mixed with a wisdom far beyond my childish fervor:
"The harder the reward is to attain, the more desirable it becomes... and the greater the joy when you finally claim it."
She crouched down to my level, her eyes meeting mine evenly, and brushed her knuckles lightly against my forehead—not tenderly, not harshly, but like testing the warmth of bathwater.
"You're asking about the future, Balthazar. Futures aren't built on simple yeses and nos. They're forged from what you can hold onto. Love is a form, too. You can't just summon it—you have to sustain it."
She nodded toward my open palm.
"Manage to hold that water drop for ten counts, and you'll learn to hold a word. Hold a word, and someday you'll hold a gaze. Then we'll see what you ask me when 'growing up' truly means you've grown."
I clenched my jaw, determination igniting like a spark. *Ten counts? Fine. A hundred. A thousand if that's what it takes.*
"Then I'll become strong," I declared, "strong enough to hold on."
"Start with one," Mirin chuckled, pulling back. "One steady count without trembling, without tears, without excess chatter. Save the marriage proposals for later. Your grammar's still shaky."
I nodded gravely, as only a child can. For the first time, I grasped that her "yes" wasn't a promise—it was a path. One I'd have to walk myself. And I'd reach the end.
Yet her words echoed like both a sentence and a summons. She wasn't extinguishing my flame; she was testing it, watching to see if I'd flicker out like a candle in the wind.
"Are you, by any chance, from another world?" she asked suddenly, squinting at me with newfound scrutiny.