I drag a breath through my teeth.
Time to organize the circus living inside my skull.
I never bother with notebooks here. The fountain pens they provide feel like medieval torture devices disguised as writing tools. Better than a quill, sure, but the ink takes forever to dry, smears if you even think about moving too soon, and dries out instantly if uncapped for more than two seconds. Damn thing can’t pick a struggle.
I lean back, eyes on the ceiling, letting the mental notes from the last two weeks assemble themselves like files dumped on my brain’s desktop.
So… the first week…
Morning classes hammered on about Magical Energy—"unquantifiable," according to our instructor. They apparently attempted quantification but gave up after realizing it behaves like physical strength: wildly inconsistent and impossible to reduce to neat integers.
Still, the important part is that Magical Energy is innate, something woven into the body, and can be used to enhance it. That part fascinates me. Enhancement isn’t just about muscles; it includes senses—sight, hearing, perception—anything connected to cognitive function. You channel energy into the relevant organ and it boosts that faculty.
The catch? The amount of energy needed for noticeable improvement is hilariously arbitrary. Very on-brand for this world’s power system.
Afternoons that same week shift toward practice. As our Practical Arts professor loves reminding us, “a blade unused grows dull.” Instead of blades, we’re sharpening our Magic Skills—mostly the act of activating/casting them cleanly, reliably.
Naturally, I used the sessions as a perfect testing ground. If the universe insists on giving me a weird, niche Skill, then I’m legally obligated to catalog its limits.
Distort’s first test with the standard crystal orb ends in disappointment. The orb resists my ability like a stubborn piece of academic equipment that refuses to calibrate. So I adapted and switch to the small stones scattered across the arena. I already know Distort works on a rock I’m holding—shrinking it felt like compressing a three-dimensional model while the universe reluctantly recalculated physics around it. The real test is shrinking something out of reach. Maybe even out of sight.
Two conditions must be met by a thing to be viable for Distort:
- First, the target must be inside a six-meter (previously five) radius around me.
- Second, I have to “know” its exact location.
So, I start thinking more… What exactly constitutes as knowing? Eventually I ended up tossing a rock onto the ground while everyone else was busy gawking at the other three who’re chucking firestorms and lightning bursts. I take one final look at the rock, imprinting its coordinates into memory like a mental screenshot, then turned away.
I threw it. I saw where it landed. As far as my brain was concerned, that rock is a known thing in a closed system. With that certainty settled, I pour Magical Energy into my heart and whispered:
“Distort.”
When I turned back, the rock is noticeably smaller.
Success—though the victory comes with a price. Permanent shrinking of solid objects devours my Magical Energy like I’m feeding a black hole. It shouldn’t be this expensive; the density isn’t impressive, and I’m barely manipulating mass. But permanence is a harsh mistress.
It’s almost funny: my Skill is objectively incredible—shrinking matter without destroying structure should break half the known laws of physics—and yet the cost makes it practically useless in combat. I keep hoping leveling up will fix it, but even if I reach level fifty, I doubt I’ll be tossing enemies around like a cartoon villain enlarging and shrinking props.
The second week’s morning classes shift gears into basic high school algebra—shockingly similar to Earth’s version, right down to the suspiciously arbitrary use of letters as stand-ins for numbers. Alongside that, we start learning about level progression. Seems like the someone’s general capabilities (strength, defensive capabilities, and Magical Energy reservoir, etc.) is proportional to one’s level stage which I already kinda predicted. And apparently humans unlock their first Magic Skill at level thirty, then gain another every fifteen levels. But there’s a cap: three Skills max.
The limit comes from biology—specifically, the basal ganglia and the hippocampus can only accommodate three distinct Skill structures to be stored reliably. So if you want to learn a new skill, you have to literally force yourself to forget an existing Magic Skill. Like Pokémon.
The brain literally runs out of space for new Skill learning. It sounds wild, but who cares at this point.
Other fantastical races, though, play by different rules—other than therians. Elves can learn up to six Skills, gnomes four, the almost-extinct faeries seven, and the apparently-mythical angels eight. Then there are nephilims, rare and unlucky, who can only learn one. The instructor glosses over the reason, probably to avoid saying something that would get him canceled by whatever counts as academic society here. No one wants to be the Paul Broca of this world.
Strange thing is, I haven’t seen any of these races yet. The Kingdom’s capital looks awfully human-dominated. Maybe those fantastical species migrated, went into hiding, or they just don’t do city life. Either way, the textbooks insist they exist… or existed.
Afternoon practicals of the second week are more interesting. The professor announces a shift to the second method of triggering Magic Skills. Before demonstrating, he explains why the first, convenient method—verbal activation—is flawed.
“Speech is the most facile of methods,” he said, “the very manner by which even seasoned warriors accustom themselves to newly gain’d Skills.” He lifted a hand to his ear as if straining to hear danger. “Yet it avails only when the Skill’s name be vague. For should it possess clarity…”
He stops there. No dramatic pause, no explanation. He trusts us to fill in the blanks.
Verbal activation is easy because speech is hardwired into every sentient species—familiar, reflexive, instantly recognized. Activating a Skill by name ping-pongs through the brain: the temporal lobe identifies the word, the prefrontal cortex affirms intent, and that mental spark meets Magical Energy like flint to steel. Simple. Elegant.
And catastrophically loud from a tactical standpoint. Especially when you’re against an opponent with even a hint of intelligence that can recognize language. For instant, there’s Flameblast—one of the most common Skills here—which is mostly activated through an announcement by students here. But let’s say I want to use it in a practical setting against said intelligent enemy. Of course the enemy would instantly know to dodge, shield, counter, or laugh, with how predictable the Magic Skill’s capabilities are.
So of course we’re—
The door creaks open, slicing through my mental monologue. I turn, pulled out of analytical deep-dive mode, and there she is: Genovefa. Sweat beads her forehead, dampening the loose strands of her silver hair. She must’ve returned from the second-years’ Magical Energy enhancement drills. They adopted some new curriculum last week. Not sure though.
“I am back.”
“Good work out there.”
Two whole weeks sharing a room with her… I’m still not sure whether I’ve adapted or simply given up resisting. At first, I couldn’t think straight—not because of anything dramatic, just the absurdity of the situation. But familiarity is a powerful anesthetic. Everything eventually settles, the ridiculousness dissolving like cotton dropped in water.
I face the wall again, trying to slip back into that neat, orderly flow of thoughts—but the quiet fractures. Cloth sighs against cloth. A soft slide, a muted fall. The unmistakable rhythm of someone changing.
Genovefa is undressing behind me.
At this point, neither of us reacts. And that’s the problem. The fact that we’ve reached a level of mutual normalcy where she changes clothes a few feet behind me without batting an eyelash… it’s bizarre. A princess shouldn’t be this casual. Dorms don’t have changing stalls—the rooms are too compact, crammed with so many scholars that efficient space-sharing trumps dignity—so I understand why she’s used to changing in her own room, with roommate or not.
But still. She could at least learn to drop that habit and wait until I step outside. I’m not a girl, after all!
Leaning back in my chair, eyes firmly on the wall, I call out:
“Hey, you should kick me out next time you’re going to change. It just feels—”
“It’s far too much trouble,” she answers, utterly unbothered. “I do change with haste, and you are ever buried in deep thought. Moreover, you appear not the sort of man who would steal a glance.” A tiny pause. “Are you?”
“You’re right. Hero status or not, peeking at the princess’ bare body would probably get me killed.”
“A shameful exaggeration,” she says, but I hear the faint amusement beneath. Fabric swishes again. “Yet so long as you know your place, all is well.”
More shifting, one last rustle, then the soft thump of her weight hitting the mattress. She’s done. Quick as always. I don’t even have time to complete a single coherent protest before she’s already fully changed in a white chemise.
“Oh—pray, Shin,” she calls, making me turn. She lies atop her bed, then rolls once onto her side. “How is the new drill on your end?”
“Difficult.” I rise, cross the short distance to my own bed, and sit at its edge. “The second way of casting a Magic Skill is brutally taxing.”
She pushes herself upright, fingers catching one of her sidelocks as she begins braiding it without really paying attention. “Ahh…” she murmurs, gaze drifting toward the window where the sun is bleeding into evening. “Activation by motion, then?”
“Yeah.”
Just as I’d guessed from watching upperclassmen, hand signs and bodily movements are the alternative to speech. Instead of an oral trigger, it’s a motor one. No shouting your Skill’s name. No broadcasting your move set like a walking tutorial prompt.
The problem is neurological. Without speech, the temporal lobe doesn’t get its usual recognition cue. There’s no verbal label to confirm, yes, this is the command, so the brain has to rely entirely on intent, pattern, and motion to ignite the Magical Energy infused in the heart.
Even summarizing it makes my head hurt. In practice, it’s worse. The professor dumps the problem in our laps and gives us the entire afternoon to “discover” the solution. As if this is something you casually stumble upon. None of us manage it. Not a single clean activation. And the seniors are forbidden from helping—some kind of pedagogical hazing ritual maybe. I don’t know, I’m just ranting internally because I sucked.
“Methinks I envy you somewhat,” Genovefa says. “I would that I possessed a Magic Skill already, as thou and the other Heroes do.” She lets the half-braided hair fall; without a ribbon, it simply curls back into place. “I wager I should fare better in unraveling such a puzzle. You face earlier was most strained—while you made those peculiar squeezing motions with your hand.” She tilts her head, studying me now, eyes sharp with curiosity. “Truly,” she continues, amusement threading her voice, “of all gestures you might’ve choose to bind unto a shrinking Skill… that was thy selection?”
I open my mouth, fully prepared to fire back. Her calm delivery paired with surgical cruelty is still something my nervous system hasn’t adapted to. But the words stall halfway out.
“…I didn’t know you were watching me.” I frown. “Weren’t you and the rest of the second- and third-years busy with your Magical Energy enhancement drills?”
No fluster. No startled denial. She simply looks away.
“I did but… I just happen to see,” she says.
That’s it.
I’m not the type to jump to conclusions. And even if I were, this wouldn’t be the moment. Still, there’s no universe where she just happened to see me. People can multitask, sure—but drills like those demand focus. Split attention fries the brain faster than Magical Energy exhaustion.
We’ve settled into a kind of uneasy normalcy. Not friends—not quite—but comfortable enough. Which makes this odd. Watching me practice? Quietly? That’s new. And it’s definitely not because of our spectacular first meeting.
Whatever. I don’t have enough data points to form a hypothesis.
I let myself fall back onto the bed, roll away from her, and curl slightly as my eyes close. Tomorrow can deal with today’s unanswered questions. Mysteries can stack for all I care—
Fourth day of the third week. Early afternoon, and we’re still stuck in the coliseum, collectively banging our heads against an invisible wall.
Ray extends his right hand, thumb pressing lightly against his ring finger while the rest stay rigid. “Agni…” he whispers. Nothing happens. “Ugh…”
Mark steps forward, palm out, then sweeps his arm as if cutting the air. Still nothing. “This is way harder than I thought.”
“You got any ideas, Shin?” Joshua asks.
I shake my head.
Up until now, controlling Magical Energy with consciousness and triggering Magic Skills through speech has been straightforward. Comfortable, even. But this second activation method brings everything to a grinding halt—and it’s only the third week.
The professor watches our collective suffering with a low chuckle. Not mocking. More… sympathetic.
“Are you lads faring poorly in its unraveling?” he asks, one hand resting upon his chest. “I assure you, even unto myself, the method proved no simple thing. Thus I expect not that you four should grasp it anon.” His gaze sharpens slightly. “Yet as Heroes, this is a necessity.”
We trade glances, then look back at him and give a synchronized thumbs-up before returning to our corner of frustration.
Alright. Maybe I’m approaching this wrong.
A hand pats my back—Joshua. “You looked like you locked in for a bit.”
“Kind of.”
Mark steps closer. “Let’s hear it.”
I tap my temple. “You know how speech is easily recognized by the brain? It’s faster to process spoken language than visual gestures. That’s why early humans relied on grunts and vocalizations instead of pure action-based communication. Ooga-booga beats interpretive dance.” I extend my hand, palm out, then make a squeezing motion. “But sign languages exist and they’re even easily understood in our modern era. They work because each gesture is mapped to a specific meaning—sometimes context-dependent, but still structured. And was developed and refined for years to make that recognition easy.”
“Associating an action with a Skill’s name, then?” Ray says, unusually restrained. “I already tried that. It’s hard to make the brain recognize meaning fast enough.”
He’s right. The issue isn’t whether an action can represent a Skill—it’s how to make that association stick in the first place—and as fast as possible. After all, in the future, time might not be on our side.
That’s when it clicks.
Sign languages didn’t emerge fully formed. They started crude, inconsistent, barely functional. Only later—like with Old French Sign Language in the seventees—did they become formalized systems. And they worked because learners followed a pre-established manual, repeating patterns until recognition became automatic.
Repetition. Structure. Reinforcement.
Ray points a finger at me. “And don’t even suggest chanting the Skill’s name while doing the motion. That’ll take forever—and it might not even work.”
“I agree.” I nod. “But we don’t have to rely on normal learning speed.”
That gets their attention.
The human brain has an innate language-processing system—not just for speech, but for language itself. Sign languages activate the same left-lateralized network as spoken ones: Broca’s area for grammar and meaning, temporal regions for recognition, parietal areas for integration. The modality changes, but the machinery stays the same.
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If we enhance that system—boost its processing speed and plasticity with Magical Energy—we’re not inventing a new pathway—we’re hijacking an existing one.
And for the first time all week, it feels like the wall in front of us has a crack.
“So we enhance our brain while we try associating the action with the Skill’s name?” Mark asks.
I meet his bright blue eyes and nod. “Yes. It’ll drain Magical Energy—probably more than we’d like. We’ll need to keep the enhancement active for extended periods.” I lift my left hand and gesture toward the right side of my head. “To conserve energy, we only enhance the left hemisphere. That’s where language recognition and association actually happen.”
No one argues. No one even comments. We just nod and disperse, each of us taking position a few meters apart. The unspoken urgency is mutual—we need to get past this hurdle fast so we can move on to actual Skill handling, not stay stuck in neurological theory limbo.
The afternoon dissolves into repetition. The four of us mutter our Skills under our breath while repeating our chosen gestures, again and again. Seniors drilling nearby steal the occasional glance. Judging by their expressions, they think we’re at least barking up the right tree. That alone fuels Ray, who doubles down with renewed vigor.
Minutes blur into hours. Sunlight shifts from bright orange to a deeper, molten gold. Students from the viewing seats trickle away, notes tucked under their arms, heading back to the dorms. Even some seniors finish their drills and leave.
We remain.
Mutter. Gesture. Test. Nothing. Reset. Loop.
“Distort…” I whisper, extending my hand and closing my fingers. I turn toward a stone well within range. I raise my hand again, then clench, imagining the weight of it resting in my palm.
I expect failure. Another empty attempt. Another reset.
Crack.
It’s subtle—barely perceptible. But the stone twitches. Shrinks. Then contracts a little more.
It works.
The sensation is different this time. Not brute-force activation, not a shouted command answered by magic—but something quieter. Like the brain finally recognizing a word it’s been trying to remember all afternoon.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I turn, ready to say something—anything—but I’m already too late.
Ray has his arm extended, fingers locked into the same gesture as before. A violent stream of flame erupts between his middle and index fingers, focused and furious, less fireball and more industrial flamethrower—hotter, tighter, angry.
Mark follows with a sharp chopping motion. The air screams as a blade of pure electricity tears forward, slicing space itself before dissolving into sparks.
Joshua stomps. The ground answers. A chunk of stone surges upward into a squat pillar, and with a two-handed shove, he sends it crashing forward.
All three deactivate their Skills almost at once.
Ray jumps, fists raised. “Let’s fucking goooooooooo!”
Mark grins. Joshua joins in, clapping Ray on the shoulder.
I don’t cheer. I will if I can but I barely have the energy to breathe right now.
Sustained Magical Energy enhancement feels like a light jog that never ends—five hours straight, no cooldown. Sweat soaks through my clothes. My limbs feel hollow. I briefly spare a thought for the poor cleaning staff who will have to deal with my uniform later. Sorry. Truly.
The professor claps, sharp and approving.
“Well wrought,” he says. “We shall resume the morrow, refining your technique until the coming month.” He swings his staff once, decisively. “You are dismissed. Until tomorrow.”
We bow in unison.
I’m still mildly bitter he didn’t just hand us the solution—four days of looking like idiots could’ve been avoided—but… solving it ourselves feels good. Real. Since coming to this world, agency has been in short supply.
“Last one to the dorms has a small dick!” Ray yells, already sprinting. “Onward, comrades!”
“How do you still have that much energy?” Mark groans—but runs anyway.
Joshua lingers beside me, watching them pull ahead. “They’re like kids… I can barely run right now without chugging an Energy Potion.”
I shudder.
A memory from last week surfaces uninvited: a glowing blue vial, slimy texture, bitter bark-like aftertaste. Efficient, sure—restores Magical Energy faster than food or rest—but I hate everything about it.
“We should stop by the infirmary, then,” I sigh. “As much as I hate those things, I could use one.” A beat. “Oh. Right. We are kids.”
“Huh. Oh—yeah.” Joshua laughs, scratching the back of his head as we start walking. “This Hero thing really messes with how I think we’re supposed to act.”
Ahead of us, Ray and Mark shout something incomprehensible and disappear around the corner.
Annoying as they are, I can’t really fault them. We were dropped—no warning, no consent—into a world stuffed with magic, wonder, and the not-so-small responsibility of eventually fighting demons. Acting childish now and then is probably less immaturity and more psychological first aid. A way to remind ourselves we’re still human.
I mean… I’ve been narrating my own life in my head for as long as I can remember. Long-winded monologues. Dry jokes no one hears. If someone’s been reading my story, they’re probably exhausted by now.
Truth is, I don’t really know them. They’re classmates, sure—but not confidants. And they don’t know much about me either. So I don’t get to judge how they cope.
Ray might be a narcissistic, meta and precognition commentary-spewing menace, but that bravado feels more like duct tape than ego. Mark looked visibly shaken on day one, then slid back into his familiar neutral mask—the responsible straight man who scolds Ray because someone has to. Different defenses. Same pressure.
So—
“Loosen up,” I tell Joshua, glancing at him. “It’s better this way. We’ve got six years to get used to this world. After that, we can pretend to be adults.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he smacks my back. “Alright, man.”
“Stop it, man…” I trail off, stopping mid-step.
From across the grounds where the second-year’s starts to disperse. Genovefa is watching me. She lifts a hand, expression perfectly neutral. I raise mine in return—then stiffen as Leyni steps in front of her, blocking my view. Leyni glares at me, sharp and unapologetic, before Genovefa tugs gently at her sleeve and smiles. Reluctantly, Leyni steps aside.
Joshua leans closer, grinning as he tries to catch my expression. “You and the Princess seem to get along pretty well.”
I don’t answer.
“You lucky bastard,” he adds. “Getting roomed with her.”
I recoil. I’ve never once considered a catastrophic coincidence a blessing. I don’t fare well with women to begin with—never have—and sharing a dorm room with one feels less like fortune and more like a prolonged endurance test.
I keep my eyes on Genovefa and gesture toward the dorms, a small motion of the hand to say I’m heading back. She inclines her head in acknowledgment.
That still feels wrong. I should be the one bowing. But she turns away without ceremony, already walking off, as if observing me has exhausted its novelty. Leyni throws me one last glare—sharp, territorial—before falling into step behind her like a dutiful guard hound.
I turn back to Joshua. “You wouldn’t say that if you were in my shoes.”
“You say that,” he replies, chuckling as he starts walking again. I fall in beside him. “But you two look like friends.” He glances at me sideways. “Honestly, I’m starting to think she might be into you.”
Hey, hey, this is an anime or a novel. Girls—real girls—don’t just fall for the most aggressively average guy in the room for no reason. Bedsides, we’ve only known each other for three weeks, barely. I know he’s joking, but that kind of comment is Ray’s brand, not his.
I wave a dismissive hand. “Fuck off.”
The final day of the third week disappears into refinement. We grind gesture-based activation into our nervous systems through sheer repetition, reinforcing our brains again and again while chugging Energy Potions to refill what we burn through. Slowly—painfully slowly—it starts to stick.
Kinesthetic activation never feels as natural as speech. The difference is stark. Speaking feels like moving your own body. Gestures feel like controlling a character in a game—delayed, constrained, filtered through an interface. Less freedom. Less intuition.
But it works. And that’s enough.
By the time I return to my quiet room, I don’t even bother removing my uniform properly. I collapse face-first onto the bed, muscles aching, brain buzzing, consciousness slipping like a poorly secured bookmark.
Ahh… I’m blacking out. Sweet darkness, take me—!
Creeeeeak.
I turn my head toward the door.
Genovefa steps inside, a faint sheen of sweat at her brow.
“I am back,” she says, as naturally as breathing.
“Great work out there,” I reply. The words come out automatically, muscle memory at this point.
I instinctively bury my face into the pillow as the familiar sounds begin—fabric shifting, layers slipping free. I don’t need to look to know what’s happening.
How did this become normal?
If I ever make it back home and tell my friends about this, they’ll either call me a liar or recommend psychiatric help. Probably both.
The whisper of cloth against cloth stops.
I wait for the soft thump of her settling onto her bed.
It doesn’t come. Instead—footsteps. They draw closer.
I flip over just in time to see her standing beside me, looking down. Too close. Way too close. “W—what…?”
“Tomorrow…” She averts her gaze, calm as ever. Not stiff. Not hesitant. Just composed. And that composure is somehow worse—because my brain is screaming this is not how this scene goes.
“Tomorrow is a day of respite,” she continues evenly.
“…Yeah,” I manage. “So?”
She looks back down at me.
Five seconds pass. Six.
Then—
“Let us go abroad within the city,” she says. “You and I.”
“Pardon?”
“How did it come to this…?” I mutter through clenched teeth.
Standing alone in the city square beneath the early sun feels like being dropped onto a stage without a script. Dozens of passersby flow around me—merchants calling out wares, boots clacking against stone, cloth brushing cloth—while I stand there like an unattended NPC waiting for dialogue to trigger.
On day-offs—weekends, as we call it on Earth—I’d usually be holed up somewhere quiet, dissecting this world’s magic system, poking at its rules, testing its seams. Instead, I’m here to learn about the Kingdom’s history and culture.
Apparently.
My gaze drifts over the surrounding architecture. Gothic spires claw at the sky, all sharp angles and looming shadows, yet here and there I catch modern structural logic peeking through—clean load distribution, efficient layouts—just dressed up in blackened stone and barkwood paneling. Backsteingotik aesthetics slapped onto something suspiciously engineered.
I guess this will be a good opportunity to gather dare. I’m not opposed to learning about the Kingdom. I just… prioritize magic. But unanswered questions gnaw at the back of my mind. Maybe if I just let this pass, I’ll have enough crumbs to chew on.
“She’s running late.”
She said we’d wander the city. Which—by most definitions—makes this a date. Just… not the romantic kind. More like a guided tour by royalty. I don’t mind. It’s not like I dislike her—
Tap.
A light touch on my shoulder. Smaller hand.
I turn.
Genovefa stands there, dressed far more elegantly than I expected—an ornate chemise layered beneath a laced, sleeveless bodice, tasteful and refined without being gaudy. Totally different from her almost modern clothes I saw her in the first day.
“Have you waited long?” she asks.
“Yeah. Actually, a bit.”
She punches my shoulder—light, quick, almost playful. “You were meant to reply, ‘I just arrived this moment.’”
I blink. “That’s a pretty tall order even coming from you.”
She pivots and gestures for me to follow. I do, falling half a step behind her without thinking.
The city opens around us and as we pass, foot traffic subtly parts, like a slow tide yielding to gravity. Whispers trail in our wake.
“Is that Her Highness…?”
“Then who is that beside her?”
“I’ve heard he is one of the Heroes studying in Acshe.”
“Truly? He looks rather… unremarkable.”
I’m used to being noticed for the wrong reasons—too quiet, too stiff, too normal in a way that circles back into odd—but hearing it framed like this still lands with a dull thud. Even Genovefa lets out a small, contained chuckle.
“You are quite the curiosity for others,” she says. “Yet not in a flattering manner. Were you like this in your former world as well?”
I shake my head. “I stood out sometimes. Just… not like this.”
Silence settles between us, not awkward so much as unoccupied. I let my gaze drift across storefronts and signboards while my thoughts loop back to the academy—to the third week, to experiments half-finished and conclusions that refuse to line up neatly.
I understand how magic functions now, at least in principle. What I don’t have is application. My Skill bleeds Magical Energy like a punctured lung. Density scales the cost brutally. Two uses, maybe three on a good day, and I’m already eyeing those revolting Energy Potions. Worse, the Skill demands prerequisites that make spontaneous use almost herculean.
“Your mind seems to wander again.”
“Is it that obvious?” I fish a marble from my pocket, toss it up, reach to catch—misjudge the timing, fingers snapping shut on empty air—not being able to close the distance. “Shit. Not fast enough… If only I can…”
My voice trails off as I stare at the marble that rolls on the ground before I stop to retrieve it. Something in the back of my kind forms as I jog back to catch up.
She glances back. “Pray, do not lose yourself so. You are meant to behold the city.”
“Yeah. I just don’t have anything smarter to say right now.”
What a dilemma. We’ve spent weeks sharing a room, exchanging small talk, navigating an unspoken truce of personal space—yet my tongue still locks up around her. It’s not because she’s a princess. That excuse is too easy. The real problem is simpler and more humiliating: my brain is calibrated for equally strange people. I know how to talk to eccentrics, to overthinkers, to people who weaponize sarcasm as a coping mechanism. Normal conversation—whatever passes for normal here—keeps slipping through my fingers.
“You are no great conversationalist,” she says mildly. “That much is plain.”
“Well, gee, thanks, Einstein.”
She tilts her head. “What does this ‘Einstein’ mean?”
“Nevermind.”
We drift to the main plaza eventually. And just when I thought I’ve seen enough Medieval Germanic architecture, the plaza introduced me to some bizzare and purely fantastical one. It was bigger than the city square, pavement smooth littered with numerous stands while at the middle sits a wide fountain with statues of four men in armors, wielding different weapons.
We drift onward and eventually spill into the main plaza. Just when I think I’ve saturated my visual cortex with enough medieval-Germanic stonework to last a lifetime, the city escalates. The space is enormous, broader than the square we passed earlier, paved with unnaturally smooth stone and crowded with market stalls. At its heart stands a massive fountain—and rising from it, four statues.
They’re armored men, larger than life, frozen mid-legend.
The first holds a spear, posture confident to the point of arrogance. There’s something about him—sharp lines, heroic swagger—that reminds me uncomfortably of Ray. The second bears a double-edged sword, handsome in a composed, storybook way, like the default protagonist on a paperback cover. The third is an absolute wall of a man in heavy armor, gripping a staff thick enough to be a weapon in its own right. And the fourth—cloaked, face half-obscured, holding a revolver.
Not a crude fire lance. Not a pot-de-fer hand cannon. An actual revolver. Cylinder, barrel, grip—the whole historical absurdity.
“What the—how—” I stop myself. I’ve already swallowed enough anachronisms in this world to know when to pick my battles. Still, seeing a gun immortalized in stone at the center of a royal capital does things to my sense of causality.
Who are these men?
I turn to ask Genovefa—but she’s staring off into the distance, attention pulled elsewhere. I trace her gaze and I can see at the far end of the plaza two girls—a red-haired in ponytail and a short blonde. I’ve already seen the first one—a friend of Genovefa. The other one though…
“Those two—?”
“Iustitia and Eris,” she says, finally looking at me. “I do not favor being seen with a gentleman. It invites… misinterpretation. But with you, it should pose no trouble to impart greetings with them.”
“Okay. That’s just mean.”
I know I’m mid as hell, but that still stings. Apparently standing beside a princess doesn’t even register as rumor-worthy if I’m the one doing it. That kinda stung.
We start after them as the pair drift out of the plaza, our steps quickening.
“Let us hasten our pace.”
Her tone tightens. Questions stack up in my head like unresolved error logs.
“Hey, Your Highness,” I say, keeping stride. “What’s with the sudden urgency?”
She doesn’t look back. “It is… unusual. To see them abroad without escort.” Her hands curl into fists. “I also wish to know the reason.”
“I could ask you the same thing. Shouldn’t Leyni be glued to your shadow right now?”
“T—this is different!” She glances at me, flustered. “You are with me. That suffices.”
“Putting your trust in a guy whose entire combat résumé is ‘shrinks objects’ feels bold. Didn’t realize you had that much faith in me.”
She ignores that. We’re close enough now.
She cups her hands and calls out:
“You two!” waving.
They turn, paper bags of what look like sweets and bread tucked under their arms. From this angle, the air around them practically hums with pedigree. It’s the same invisible pressure Genovefa carries—polished posture, unconscious authority. Nobles, then. Which makes their unescorted wandering even stranger.
Then again, maybe royalty gets tired of being bubble-wrapped too. If I had a permanently attached watchdog dictating my every step, I’d probably sneak out for pastries too.
The blonde—the shorter one, Eris, if I’m guessing right—raises an eyebrow and lifts a pastry shaped like a star. It looks like a donut of some sort. She waves it lazily.
“Chérie, chérie… look what we ’ave ’ere. If it ain’t Her Beautiful Highness blessin’ us with ’er presence. Hey—come ’ere!”
I blink. “A… child?”
The accent hits me like a thrown brick. Thick. Sounds like Cajun. Completely out of left field. I’ve been swimming in Germanic tones for weeks and suddenly I’m treated to something jarring.
Genovefa strides forward. “I am heartened to see you both, truly. Yet you ought not to wander the streets without—”
Gallops.
The sound cuts clean through the plaza. Hooves pounding stone. Wheels rattling fast—too fast. One horse. One cart. Closing distance.
I grab Genovefa’s hand on instinct and yank her back.
“What are you—”
“Out of the way!” someone shouts.
A horse-drawn cart bursts through the crowd, civilians scattering as it barrels forward, missing bodies by inches. Its trajectory is wrong—wild—straight toward the two girls.
Iustitia—red hair, posture snapping rigid—steps in front of Eris, teeth clenched. “Stand fast!”
Eris yelps, half-turning, pastry still in hand. “Mercy me—what madness is this?! This jaunt was not meant to court calamity, chérie!”
Genovefa tries to pull her hand free, but my grip tightens without thinking. “Shin,” she says, sharp now, “what’s wrong? Release me at once!”
I don’t answer—because for once, I don’t have one. No logic tree. No tidy chain of inference. Just a twist in my gut, hot and wrong, screaming that this is bad. Very bad. And before my brain can even catch up, the cart is already upon them, thundering like a runaway car. The men atop it are dressed in black. Masks. Too coordinated.
I haven’t seen much of this world yet, but some patterns are universal. Bandits are one of them.
In a single, brutal motion, one of them leans out and snatches Eris and Iustitia like a bird of prey taking small animals. The cart doesn’t even slow. It just barrels past, wheels screaming as it vanishes down the street.
“W—what…?”
My hand loosens around Genovefa’s.
You have got to be kidding me. This was supposed to be sightseeing. Pastries. Architecture. Instead, I’m witnessing a noble abduction in broad daylight.
“Ngh—?!”
Genovefa tears free and enhances her legs mid-stride, launching herself forward in a single, explosive leap, already in pursuit.
Guilt blooms in my chest—sharp and immediate—for standing there like an idiot. There’s nothing I can realistically do. I know that. And yet something else flares up underneath the guilt, hotter and louder, hijacking my body before my reason can veto it. Magical Energy floods my legs. Hamstrings. Calves. I sprint after her, the ground blurring beneath me.
This is stupid. I know it’s stupid. I’m not built for this. Even if I catch up, then what? Fight adult bandits who are clearly higher-level than me? I’m barely past Magic 101, armed with a Skill that shrinks rocks and a body that still feels like it’s borrowing power on credit.
And yet, as my legs burn and the wind tears at my ears, I can’t help but grin.
Zero to a hundred. No warm-up. No tutorial prompt.
Just when I thought I am free from a problem, I am plunged into another one…
“My,” I mutter between breaths, “what a dilemma this is…!”