A terrible guide to magic. Pt 1

The sounds of Zora cooking filled the small apartment, the scent of sizzling food drifting through the air. It was a rare moment of domesticity, a stark contrast to the nothing that happened thirty minutes ago.

Meanwhile, Seraniti was busy sorting through the weapons they'd received, checking each one. She didn't trust second-hand gear, and she sure as hell wasn't about to find out mid-fight that something was busted.

A video played in front of her, hovering within the little cache of their temporary home, but she was only half watching until—

"Tch…fucking piece of fucking shit!"

Truly, a masterclass in swearing.

Why was she cursing? Simple.

No, really. It was that kind of frustration—the kind where you try to plug in a USB, it doesn't fit, so you flip it… and somehow it still doesn't go in. Only when you flip it back to the original position does it finally work.

One of life's greatest mysteries.

Seraniti clicked her tongue, exhaling sharply through her nose.

She wasn't sure what pissed her off more—the weapons she was checking or the fact that the perseveres just loved screwing with her in small, insignificant ways.

"Ahhh—!"

Seraniti sucked in a sharp breath as the back of her head slammed against the edge of the table. A dull thud rang out, followed by a string of silent curses as she rubbed furiously at the sore spot. Her vision blurred for a second—on the brink of tears, on the brink of violence, and most definitely on the brink of reconsidering her life choices.

With a long sigh, she hauled herself up, yanked the chair closer, and dropped into it with all the grace of a thrown brick. Flicking her fingers, she summoned another screen while the first one was left running—because background noise was essential to the art of doing shit without losing your mind.

The new screen loaded up her notes on her CD—short for ΜΙСΛ, but honestly, the terms could be used interchangeably. It was high time she recalibrated it. Even if she could only shave off a fraction of a second from her casting speed, every millisecond counted.

"Zora! When's lunch ready?"

Seraniti called out as she swapped into a pair of shorts and a simple shirt she had stashed in the little room earlier.

"Thirty minutes!" came Zora's yell from the kitchen, the sounds of culinary witchery continuing uninterrupted.

Perfect. More than enough time.

She unclipped her ΜΙСΛ, letting it connect to the software as she got to work. The screen filled with data while the first video continued playing, the comforting hum of white noise kicking in.

—As, also known as magicules. But knowing my audience, you're probably using this video as background noise while you procrastinate. THAT'S FINE. I get it. I really do. Ahem. Welcome to; Big Ass Tower of Magic Bullshit™ Part One.—

The host, some human with glasses way too big for his face, adjusted them dramatically before continuing.

—Like your mom, Thaumaturgy is broad enough to break the scale.—

The screen cut to an animation of a seesaw snapping under the weight of your mother.

—Magicules consist of nine particles; the nucleus, three infotons, and five pitons. The nucleus is the engine—it takes input from a piton and reads it. Sounds useful, right? Well, it's completely fucking useless if it has no fuel to burn. Like a car without gas. Or me without coffee.—

A small clip played of someone staring at an empty coffee cup, slowly zooming while capturing the existential dread.

—Infotons, meanwhile, handle information transfer. Think of them as the shitty TripleC of your body, transmitting magical information between your meatsuit and your CD. If you've ever wondered why casters fry their brains when they push past their limit, congratulations! You've found the bottleneck."

—Now, let's talk about pitons. Imagine a cousin you feel way too attached to and suddenly develop feelings for. That's a piton.—

The screen displayed a cursed family tree before violently scribbling it out.

—Their job? Feeding the nucleus fuel, boosting effects, and making magic actually tangible. They're why magic isn't just theoretical bullshit but something that actually happens. But we're forgetting one more thing—the collapse particle.—

A pause. The video cut to a black-and-white image of a stick figure slumped over.

—Yeah, it's useless. Like you.—

The screen abruptly shifted back.

—But where does magic come from? Glad you asked. Oh wait—you didn't. Well, too bad. For hundreds of years, people assumed it came from somewhere else because spells always carried a Title. Even if the caster was born in the middle of nowhere, the spell still had this piece.—

—And then—

A dramatic zoom-in towards the host.

—Œtherside was discovered.—

—When casters of the past were called Intermezzo—a bridge between your dumbass and something i don't know anything about—first recorded around ten thousand years ago. Or maybe six thousand, six hundred forty-five PCE. Honestly? Who the hell knows? Historians can't agree on shit.—

—While the Magic Sequence Design has changed over time—kind of like how your ex looked before and after putting on makeup—two things have stayed the same; the Title and the Black Box seen in modern sequences.—

A dramatic pause.

—So, what is a Title? Great question. The answer? It's an empty slot in a spell, filled in by your spirit with some lost magic language. Why? Who the fuck knows. Ask a Preserver. Though statistically speaking, you have a higher chance of one of them diddling your doodle than actually asking your crush out.—

—Now, let's talk about the BIG BLACK C—I mean Black Box. What does it do? Absolutely nothing… except hold collapse particles and magicules after receiving them from the Nine Points. It doesn't process anything. It doesn't convert anything. It just exists. Like that one guy in your friend group who never actually contributes but still gets invited for some reason.—

A stick figure labeled The Black Box stood awkwardly in a group with no one talking to it.

—Now, onto CDs. These babies have been around for about two thousand years, but back then? They functioned about as well as your d—I mean, they weren't as advanced as they are now. And, surprise surprise, they didn't look nearly as cool either.—

—Even if you suck ass at using manas, you can still technically use a CD. But it'll have a higher physiological burden on your body. Translation? You'll feel like you just ran a marathon while being punched in the gut. Good luck.—

—But what dictates who can use manas? Well, young Tommy, just like how your father left to buy milk and never came back because he was too busy getting some peaches, your C/ID or Consciousness/Information Dissemination is what really calls the shots. It's basically your babysitter, and it's the reason you're a dumbass.—

—It's made of Magicules, which I am not explaining again. Rewind the damn video.—

The screen changed to a clip of a man angrily skipping back through a video.

—Now, what else is in your C/ID? Glad you asked. First up, we got Information Protons. These hold your genetics and make every caster uniquely stupid in their own special way. Then we have Consciousness Bandwidth—this determines how well you comprehend the fact that you got cheated on. On your birthday. Sucks to be you.—

—And finally, Spirit Protons. Think of them like that one time you got so mad about being cheated on that you angrily… handled business. That's Spirit Protons. Congratulations. You're gross.—

A blurred-out image of a man dramatically wiping away a single tear appeared for exactly one second before cutting back to the guide.

—"But what about the rest of the sequence?" you ask, because you lack patience and critical thinking skills. WELL, IF YOU LET ME EXPLAIN, YOU FOOL—

The screen violently zoomed in on a diagram labeled "THIS IS IMPORTANT."

—The White Circle is called a Circle because wow, what an original name. It's basically a tunnel between your CD and the spell, acting as a control unit—kind of like your blood vessels. The CD, the Circle, and the Black Box form a closed feedback system, which means that when one thing fucks up, everything else fucks up too.—

—Now, let's backtrack to the Nine Points. This bad boy usually sits dead center in a spell and is responsible for pulling in manas and collapse particles before distributing them to the Circle and Black Box. But here's where shit gets really weird—this also corresponds to the Nine Circles inside the Œtherside that surround the Etemenanki, the big-ass thing nobody likes talking about because it raises too many uncomfortable questions about existence.—

"This guy is an absolute menace."

But damn if he wasn't entertaining.

—The last part of Magic Sequence Design is called the Potentzial. This sits between the Circle and the Black Box—basically, the instrument from which all magical bullshit emerges. If the Circle is your blood vessels, and the Black Box is a glorified clipboard, the Potentzial is the goddamn factory.—

—It's also the part that makes magic look cool—aka, the flashy shapes you see in anime that weebs lose their shit over. But unlike anime, where no one ever explains why magic circles look like rejected geometry homework, here? They're a mix of bandwidth and frequencies. That's why similar types of magic share the same base structures. Basically? Math on steroids.—

A chaotic montage played of someone flipping through a calculus book before throwing it out the window, followed by an intermezzo screaming at a chalkboard.

—Now, you might be wonderin; Why the hell are these things in 3D? And to that, my answer is. Fuck if I know.—

The screen briefly showed a philosopher deep in thought before cutting to a baby aggressively chewing on a table corner for some odd reason.

—But that brings us to the real question—where the fuck is this stored? Because let's be real, it's not in your mind. Your brain is already rotted beyond belief.—

The screen flickered to a phone with deeply questionable search history before immediately switching to something else.

—So, let's talk about CD types. There are four main ones; Intensify, Control, Support, and Retain. But modern ΜΙСΛ units? They can double as regular combat weapons, so if a caster's swinging a stave at you? Yeah, fair game.—

A quick image flashed of a caster smacking someone in the face with a Stave.

—CDs come in a wide-ass variety of models; Stave, Short Stave, Bracelet, Hæfende, Rings, Canister, Firearm, Blunt, Melee, Drone— hell, even instruments count. Basically, if it can hold a Casting Device and doesn't immediately explode, someone, somewhere, has probably weaponized it.—

—Oh, and let's not forget the weirdos. Like Efreet the Exstincto, who uses a goddamn Chainsaw ΜΙСΛ and is somehow still alive today.—

—But frankly, we're running out of ti—

The video abruptly ended, cutting to a derpy, low-effort outro—complete with cursed music and a pixelated version of the host's face spinning in the corner.

A small icon popped up, displaying the host's avatar—smug as hell, as if he knew he had just left the audience with more questions than answers.

Seraniti stared at the screen.

"What the actual fuck."

She sighed, rubbing her face.

"Foods ready in fifteen mashaa!" 

Seraniti snapped her fingers, a small thumbs-up flickering into existence in front of Zora before vanishing the next second.

With a sigh, she leaned back, letting her gaze drift for a moment.

Thaumaturgy.

The term that encompassed all magic—its vast, tangled history stretching from Œtherside to Ealain Chlasaigeach Nuaimsichte, or Modernized Classical Arts. A system that had taken hundreds of years to refine, an effort spanning across countries. Some of which… no longer even existed.

She muttered to herself as she fine-tuned her CD, fingers moving with precision.

"Anyone can use magic—but people have a natural inclination toward certain types."

She adjusted a parameter, watching the data shift before continuing.

"Take the Anura, for example. They have a special organ that lets them produce toxins—sometimes even aphrodisiacs. That's why most end up dealing with shady people."

Another flick of her fingers, another change.

"And then there's humans. Neither exceptional nor terrible at anything—but the most diverse of the lot. You can spot them easily. Every single one has those nine dots in their irises."

Her gaze flicked back to the screen, a familiar diagram flashing across it.

The 4 Bodies and Limbed Magic System.

"This one only deals with how a sequence is made."

She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly.

"And even then, it's fucking useless if you don't actually understand, for example, how fire comes into existence in the first place."

She clicked her tongue in mild irritation, switching the video to something else—something to wash the nerves clean before she started overthinking again.

A familiar screen popped up.

And then—

—Duh yeah, D Duh yeah~—

The video looped, the same absurdly catchy tune repeating over and over.

A familiar, high-pitched voice filled the room, followed by a certain blue-haired, twin-tailed character bouncing across the screen.

Fifteen minutes passed.

She blinked.

…Shit. 

Seraniti stood up, stretching slightly before making her way to the kitchen. She dropped into a chair with a tired sigh, resting her arms against the table.

"Smells good. What is it?"

Zora grabbed two plates, carefully plating the cooked meat before setting them down. As she did, a shadow crept from the fridge, pulling out something to wash it all down with.

"Monsta. Uh… some type of deer. That's what the label says, at least."

Seraniti raised a brow but didn't question it. They quickly muttered their thanks to the food before digging in.

As they ate, a screen materialized between them. Zora, however, remained standing, casually picking at her meal while keeping her eyes on the display.

—As you may know, the grace period is ending soon. As a result, we'll be moving toward the nearest city for resupply. The teams bringing supplies will be sent in a few days, while the last preparations are made in case things go to shit.—

Seraniti chewed slowly, her eyes narrowing slightly as she skimmed the information from the data she got earlier.

—Like last time, we won't be able to get too close as a precaution. Even then, it'll take days to travel between cities. The teams will clear a path first, then we'll establish a proper bridge to bring in real supplies.—

The mayor's voice was even, but the information accompanying his words painted a grimmer picture.

No usable drones. No available ships.

Every nearby city was either too busy dealing with their own problems or too damaged to send reinforcements.

Seraniti exhaled through her nose, setting her utensils down for a moment.

"So we're going in blind. Again."

Zora hummed, still eating. "Looks like it."

Seraniti leaned back in her chair, watching as the screen flickered with status reports.

"Well. That's gonna be fun."

Zora just snorted, still chewing.

Neither of them believed that.

This wouldn't be the first time plans changed.

Plans changed every hour when she was in Crisis Control.

Back then, she was at the bottom of the tower—no influence. Just another cog in a machine built to react, not decide. Her opinion never mattered, and all she could do was grumble to herself while orders flipped on a whim.

Nothing ever went as expected in Terra II.

It never had. It never would.

They kept eating until their plates were clean, neither in a rush nor particularly savoring the meal—just finishing it out of routine more than anything.

"Are there any training centers in this town? Or at least some empty lots?" Seraniti asked, leaning back in her chair.

"For exercise?" Zora tilted her head. "There are a couple spots a few minutes away, but if you want something more private…" She tapped her fingers on the table thoughtfully. "Check the lower levels. If this town has any, you might find an area down there. While you're at it, maybe you'll find something actually useful."

As she spoke, her shadows slithered across the table, moving with practiced ease as they cleaned up—stacking dishes, wiping surfaces, putting things away.

Then, as if she had just remembered something—

"Wait. Did you ever read that report from the doctor?"

Seraniti blinked. Right. That.

She had almost forgotten.

Before the ship crashed, she had gone for a check-up. It had been routine—at least, it should have been. But she still remembered the doctor's words, the casual, almost amused tone in his voice.

'Well, well! Look who finally decided to show up! I would've thought they whacked you for taking that thing from them.'

By then, the neural implant had been in her body for three months.

And if anyone had been paying attention, they'd know that both she and Zora had a habit of… acquiring things.

It hadn't even been a planned theft. She had looted the damn thing like any other salvage off of the person she killed, as a job and from the desk. Only after she had it installed did she realize where it came from.

Blæc Rocc.

A name too big to be messing with.

The scandal that followed had been massive—so bad it shook the industry. Fiesta, Boliv, the Columbian States—all of them pulled out. Most of the ricos who had already bought in weren't fazed, but for everyone else? It was a death sentence.

NeuralDr1ve—the same model she had—wasn't supposed to exist in public hands.

Ten thousand units had been distributed in secret.

And everyone knew Blæc Rocc was hiding something.

What? No one could say. 

Soon after, scavengers got their hands on them, which sparked multiple battles across the plate. Those who installed them started dropping like flies.

Seraniti didn't intend to be one of them.

She had paid a whopping ten million to erase any trace of the implant that could be linked back to her—scrubbing every record, cutting every digital thread that could lead them to her location.

As for taking it out?

Not an option.

There was no telling what kind of failsafe was buried in the system. If it pinged back to them—even for a second—they'd know.

And even then, she still wasn't sure if all the trails were cut.

She had done everything she could—burned records, paid absurd amounts to make sure her name was buried deep—but there was no such thing as true erasure. Not in Terra II. Not with cabals like Blæc Rocc.

For now, the implant worked like any other neural device. It made life more convenient, than ever. Normal. But she wasn't stupid.

That little piece of Orekin did something.

And if it did… she'd rather spend whatever time she had left doing everything she ever wanted before it killed her.

Because Seraniti wasn't a good person.

She was a killer. A murderer. A traitor.

She had taken lives. Killed people she once held dear. Lost those she called family.

Her predestination was sealed long ago. She knew she was going to die.

But she wasn't afraid of dying.

What terrified her was what came next.

Would her life have had any purpose? Would it have mattered?

Or would she just… disappear?