The Magician’s Secret

Charles hurled himself back into the underground corridor, leaving Joseph—whose ankle was still not fully healed—waiting above. Before long, the sounds of a fierce struggle erupted: agonized screams, bodies slamming against walls, and objects crashing to the floor in a chaotic clatter.

Moments later, Charles shoved Roland's body upward, hauling the portly man along. Roland's clothes and hair were in complete disarray, and his eyes flashed with both fear and anger.

"Let's go," Joseph whispered, glancing warily around.

They supported Roland and moved carefully through the darkness, avoiding lantern light and prying eyes. As the distant tolling of alarm bells echoed, the three men quickened their pace, heading for the waiting carriage.

"Get in," Charles ordered, pushing Roland into the carriage before leaping in himself. Joseph followed right behind.

"Go!" Joseph barked. The carriage lurched forward at once, wheels clattering against the cobblestones in the night, leaving the tolling bells and the growing commotion behind.

Inside the carriage, Charles sat across from Roland, who was still panting heavily. The broad man wiped at the blood under his nose, his eyes betraying a mixture of fury and dread.

"Why did you run?" Charles asked, his voice cooler than before. "I was trying to help."

"Help?" Roland let out a dry laugh. "Is that what you call forcing me, roughing me up, and dragging me off against my will?"

"If you'd been cooperative from the start," Charles replied, looking out the carriage window at the passing lanterns on the street, "I wouldn't have had to go that far. But now there's no turning back. Tell me everything—what happened with Michael, and what exactly are you running from?"

The steady rumble of the carriage wheels against the road underscored the silence that began to form. Roland clenched his fists, his lips pressed shut, staring out the window and refusing to meet Charles's gaze or respond to any of his questions.

"Fine, don't talk," Charles said with a sigh. "Once we get where we're going, you'll have to speak anyway—whether you want to or not."

His words made Roland flinch, eyes widening in terror. Suddenly, the large man lunged for the carriage door, trying to open it. But before his hand could even touch the latch, a commanding voice rang out.

"Don't move."

Roland's body froze mid-lunge; then he collapsed back onto the seat as though all willpower had been stripped away.

"Charles," Joseph spoke up, pulling a syringe from his coat pocket, "make him drift off for a bit."

Charles nodded and released a burst of his power at Roland, leaving the man's mind foggy. He barely registered the sting of the needle piercing his upper arm. Within moments, his eyes drooped, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"We'll take him to the special division," Joseph said quietly. "Once he wakes up, we can interrogate him again."

He turned to his close friend. "When you got grabbed, did you manage to learn anything?"

"Not much," Charles answered, eyeing Roland's face, where a bruise was forming near his right eye. "I'm hoping that once we're at the special division, if the boss uses mind-reading powers, we'll learn more."

Joseph let out a small sigh. "Might have to wait a while. Ever since we took down the Script-Decipherers, the boss has been drowning in work." He paused, his tone growing somber. "Plus, there's the funeral for the officers who died in the operation. She has to handle compensation for their families."

"It's a pity…" Charles murmured. "If we have to wait too long, maybe I'll try questioning him myself first." He sighed and leaned back. "Ugh… When will I finally advance enough as an Ascendant to gain mind-reading powers?"

"You only became a Superhuman a few days ago, and you're already talking about the next step?" Joseph shook his head. "Don't rush. Let your new powers settle in completely first. Otherwise, it's dangerous."

"Yeah, I know," Charles replied, though inwardly he was still eager to climb higher. He harbored the hope that the memory he had lost might return once he reached the next stage of his ascension.

He pulled out a thick thesis on cerebral functions—an academic volume he had borrowed but not yet returned. The text was daunting, full of complex theories, yet he forced himself to read it, furrowing his brow as he tried to comprehend every detail. He understood that the deeper his knowledge, the smoother his absorption of new powers would be.

Noticing his friend's intense concentration, Joseph offered him another book. "If that one's too tough, try this."

Charles glanced at the book Joseph held out. "A Magician's Secrets? What's this?"

"It's a book Uncle Edward recommended," Joseph explained. "Your current power is all about making people lose focus or hyper-focus on something. This book is perfect for that, and it's a lot easier to read. It covers techniques of misdirection—sleight of hand, creating distractions, using the moment when people let their guard down… It ties right into your abilities."

Joseph added, "Uncle Edward also said that while using your power on people does help in absorbing your abilities, learning to make them lose or shift focus without relying on supernatural powers yields even better results."

Charles flipped through the book, scanning its contents. "The special division is more considerate than I thought."

Joseph offered a faint grin. "The stronger your command over your own power, the less chance you'll have of being devoured by it. Remember when I was injured fighting the Script-Decipherers? I was badly hurt, but my power didn't consume me because it's become a true part of me now."

Charles nodded and thumbed through A Magician's Secrets. The pages were filled with explanations of swift hand movements, ways to draw attention, and techniques to divert an onlooker's gaze. He was beginning to see why Edward Cavendish had recommended it.

Time passed as the carriage rattled through the darkness, the wheels striking the cobbled streets in a steady rhythm. Streetlamps flickered across the windows, and at some point, the scenery outside changed from the decaying backstreets of Old Town to moderately better-kept neighborhoods.

"You can get off somewhere around here," Joseph suggested, once the carriage was rolling through the calmer heart of the city. "It's late. You can hail a public coach to take you home."

"What about you?" Charles asked, casting a glance at Roland's slumbering form.

"I'll bring Roland to the special division, let Uncle Edward know so we can interrogate him properly, then I'll head home. I have to pass that way anyway."

"In that case, I'll get off here." Charles gave a quick nod.

Joseph tapped his cane against the carriage door, signaling the driver to stop. The wheels slowed until the carriage came to a halt. Charles stepped down onto the street and turned back to Joseph.

"Be my witness, yeah?" Charles said with a crooked grin. "I'd like to be reimbursed for my travel expenses."

"Understood." Joseph nodded, smiling faintly.

"Take care," Charles added.

"You too."

The carriage pulled away, wheels clacking against the pavement until the sound receded into the night. Charles watched until it vanished around the corner, then drew in a deep breath, savoring the nocturnal air of the capital. He started walking toward his lodgings, keeping an eye out for any passing public carriage, his mind swirling with everything that had happened that night.

...

Earlier that same day…

Morning sunlight streamed through the small window of the carpenter's workshop. Wood dust shimmered in the beams, and the mingled scent of lumber and polishing oil filled the air. James sat at his worktable, his calloused hand carving ornate patterns into a nearly finished piece.

"Dad, I'll help sand the wood," William said as he approached, holding a strip of sandpaper. The boy's eyes shone when he saw the intricate design his father was carving.

James nodded, his attention fixed on the project. He felt the faint heat emanating from the crystal in his jacket pocket—the crystal he had found in a dark alley the previous night. He did his best to ignore it and focused on carving. As his chisel traced the grain of the wood, his fingertips began to go numb, and suddenly, his fingers started to elongate against his will.

"Dad! Your fingers…" William exclaimed in alarm.

James looked down at his hand, his face going pale. He jerked his arm, desperately trying to shake off the bizarre sensation. Bit by bit, his unnaturally stretched fingers shrank back to normal.

"There's… There's nothing wrong, son," James said in a trembling voice, clearing his throat to hide his unease. "I've just been working too hard. Must've been your imagination."

William stood there, clearly worried. "But I saw it… I saw—"

"I said it's nothing!" James snapped, voice rough with fear and confusion. Then he immediately regretted raising his voice. "I'm sorry. I'm just… tired. Too much work."

That afternoon, James felt increasingly unwell. His hands trembled as he tried to continue carving, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air. He stared at his still-unfinished piece, noticing that part of the design had become warped.

"It has to be perfect…" he muttered, trying to suppress the strange tingling that shot up his arms.

Yet again, his fingertips started to go numb. James set down his chisel, clenched and opened his hands repeatedly, hoping the sensation would subside. This time, it only got worse. The skin on his hand began to stiffen, turning rough and woody like bark.

"What… what is this?" He leaped up, knocking into his workbench and causing various tools to clatter to the floor.

Hannah, who had been hanging laundry outside, rushed in when she heard the commotion. "What happened?"

"Stay back!" James shouted, hiding his hand behind his back so she wouldn't see. "I… I just dropped something."

But Hannah saw his alarmed expression. She moved closer. "You look pale. Let me see."

"No!" He backed away until he collided with the wall, feeling the crystal in his pocket grow hot. "I'm fine. I just… need to be alone for a minute."

Hannah stood there, noticing his sweating brow and trembling stance. "James… you're hiding something, aren't you?"

Before he could reply, Emma's laughter rang out from outside, followed by William's voice: "Emma! Slow down!"

Their children's voices made James flinch. He took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm okay," he said quietly. "I just need to finish this piece… It's due at the Montgomery mansion by this evening."

Though unconvinced, Hannah stopped pressing him. "I'll bring you some tea, then."

After she left, James looked down at his hand. The bark-like texture gradually disappeared. Fear and confusion churned inside him, but he had no time to panic. He had to finish this piece before sunset.

Glancing at the half-carved wood, he lifted his chisel again with a trembling hand, praying that his body would hold together—at least until the job was done.

Evening's last light was fading by the time James arrived at the Montgomery mansion, pushing a cart laden with the newly finished furniture. The gray edifice cast a long shadow across the ground.

"Apologies, Carpenter," the head servant greeted him with a grave expression. "There's a sudden change of plans we must inform you about. The mansion must cancel your order."

"Cancel?" James felt the blood drain from his face. "But… I've already finished everything…"

"The master of the house just received an urgent letter from distant relatives and must depart at once," the servant explained. "He might be away for quite some time. We can only compensate you with half the agreed payment—"

James stood there, fist clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palm. Half-pay wasn't enough to settle his looming debts, not even close. Nor would he get the high-paying follow-up job he had been counting on.

"I am truly sorry," the servant added, handing him a small pouch of coins. "We regret any trouble this causes—"

James stared at the pouch, feeling the weight—or lack thereof. It was nowhere near enough to cover his debts or pay for William's books or keep up with Emma's growing needs. All the hopes he had poured into this commission, each careful carving stroke, now seemed cruelly worthless.

"If… if I leave it here until the master returns…" he began, voice trembling with desperation.

The servant shook his head. "He might not be back any time soon, and his tastes could change by then. There's nothing more we can do."

James accepted the pouch, his hand shaking. It felt too light—too light to pay his debts, to buy William's school supplies, or to keep the rest of his family afloat.

Dragging the cart back along the gravel path, James heard the wheels scraping over the stones like the mocking laughter of fate. The furniture he had so painstakingly crafted was now just unwanted wood. Every carved pattern he had poured his hopes into had become a weight he had to haul home.

'How am I going to tell Hannah?' he thought, heart pounding. 'How will I face William and explain that I don't have enough money to pay for his studies?'

Emma's bright laughter echoed in his memory, along with her innocent wish: "Daddy, I want to go to school with my brother too…"

James felt hot tears welling in his eyes but forced them back. A man shouldn't cry. Even if his heart was shattering into a thousand pieces.

Darkness spread across the village by the time he returned, only the glow from neighbors' lanterns lighting the dirt road. Parking the cart in his small workshop, James regarded the ornately carved furniture in misery. Beyond the workshop doors, he could hear his children's cheerful chatter inside the house, intensifying the ache in his chest.

"Daddy's home!" Emma's little voice rang out, followed by the patter of tiny feet.

James quickly wiped at the unshed tears, forcing a smile for his daughter's sake.

"How did it go?" Hannah asked as she appeared, Emma in her arms. Worry laced her kind expression. "Did it all go smoothly at the mansion?"

James could only shake his head, unable to meet her eyes. "They… canceled the order."

For a moment, no one spoke. Only the far-off chirping of cicadas broke the quiet.

"But…" William began, voice trembling, "what about my school?"

His son's question cut through James like a knife. He clenched his hands at his sides. "I… I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Hannah interjected quickly, trying to soften the blow. "We still have each other, and that's what really matters. We'll figure something out tomorrow. Let's just get inside for now, the food's almost ready."

But James stood rooted in place. "You go ahead. I need a moment to tidy up the shop."

After his family went inside, James slumped onto an old stool. Misery engulfed him. He fished out the coin pouch, counting the contents… Not enough. It would never be enough.

Images of William's disappointed eyes, Emma's laughter, and Hannah's patient acceptance all washed over him at once—followed by a sudden recollection of the strange crystal hidden beneath his pillow.

'Maybe...' he thought. 'Maybe it's worth enough to sell...'

With that faint hope flickering through his despair, James stared at his trembling hands, uncertain whether to embrace the unthinkable or wait for fate's next cruel blow.