CH6 • Impact of Influence

The tavern was dimly lit, its air thick with the mingling scents of stale ale, cheap stew, and the acrid tang of unwashed bodies.

If there was one thing I hated about this new life—more than anything—it was the food and drink of this medieval, steam-powered, magic-infused world.

Eight times out of ten, the meals were horrible.

I always ordered water. Always. Then, without fail, I cast a purifying spell over it—earning no small amount of side-eyes from both commoners and mages alike.

Elton had asked me about it once.

"Why do you always purify your water?"

I had shrugged. "It's better this way. I like my water with a bit of… magical aftertaste. It's habit."

He scoffed. "Just like the soups, meats, fruits, and even vegetables? Caelum, just admit it—you're a clean freak."

"Sure. Whatever floats your boat," I'd reply, as always.

Wooden beams stretched overhead, blackened with years of smoke, while the uneven floor creaked beneath the weight of tired travelers and off-duty mercenaries.

Laughter and drunken boasts rose and fell in waves, a chaotic symphony of voices blending into the background.

We had stopped here for a moment's rest before the next leg of our journey, but somehow, the conversation had shifted to the lone figure sitting in the corner—a young mage, barely more than a boy. 

I wasn't sure which of us first noticed him, but now, as we sat at our worn table, drinking cheap wine and nursing our exhaustion, his presence had become the center of our discussion.

The boy was hunched over, clutching a half-eaten loaf of bread as if it were the last meal he would ever taste. 

His gray mage robes, now little more than tattered cloth, hung loosely around his thin frame. He was gaunt, his sharp cheekbones casting shadows under the dim candlelight. Dark hair, messy and unkempt, curled over his forehead, barely covering the wary intensity of his eyes. 

Those eyes, sharp yet hollow with hunger, darted across the room, assessing every movement, every potential threat.

When I asked one of the servers about him, she scoffed, wiping her hands on her apron. 

"Mitca, that one. Been loitering here for days now. Won't cause trouble, but he ain't got anywhere to go either."

At first glance, he was just another street urchin. 

Another forgotten soul abandoned by the world, his fate balancing on the thin edge between becoming a slum rat or a slave.

And yet, when he met my gaze, something flickered behind his eyes—something different.

Determination. Desperation. A quiet plea.

He hesitated for only a moment before standing. His movements were cautious, deliberate, but not hesitant. 

He had considered his odds and had decided to take the risk.

He approached our table, standing stiffly at the edge as if he expected to be turned away at any moment. 

"Are you a mage?" he asked. 

His voice was soft but steady, unwavering despite the obvious vulnerability of his position.

I arched a brow. "Why do you ask?"

He swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the rough wood of the table. 

"Because I need one to teach me." 

A pause. 

He seemed to reconsider his words, then squared his shoulders, forcing himself to continue. 

"I'll work for you. I'll do anything. Just… teach me magic."

The mercenaries at my table exchanged glances, some rolling their eyes, others smirking. 

Elton, lounging beside me with a half-filled goblet of wine, exhaled through his nose in amusement.

"That bold, rat" he muttered, taking a lazy sip.

I ignored them, studying the boy in front of me. 

He was young—too young to be alone in a place like this. 

But there was something about him. 

Something uncomfortably familiar. 

If I hadn't been a reincarnation, if my past life had never carried over, I might have been just like him.

"Sit," I said.

Mitca obeyed instantly, pulling out a chair across from me, his hands curling into fists on his lap.

"You're an initiate mage," I observed.

His lips pressed together, his expression flickering between pride and shame. 

"First-cycle," he admitted.

That explained a lot. 

First-cycle mages were the weakest of their kind, barely capable of channeling mana. 

If a mage tower threw one out, it meant they saw no potential. 

They were, by the tower's standards, failures.

"Which tower trained you?" I asked.

His jaw tightened. "The Mountain Tower. Until they threw me out."

I nodded. 

Expected.

"Show me," I said, gesturing to the empty space beside the table.

Mitca blinked. "What?"

"Magic. Show me what you can do."

He hesitated, glancing around as if expecting someone to stop at me. 

Still, he nodded. 

His eyes fluttered closed, and he raised a trembling hand.

A faint spark of mana flickered at his fingertips. 

Weak. 

Unstable. 

It was the simplest of spells—the light incantation, the absolute baseline of magical capability.

Sweat formed on his temple as he struggled to hold the spell. 

The tiny glow wavered, dimmed—and then sputtered out entirely.

He exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping.

I tapped my fingers against the table. "Again."

His jaw clenched. 

This time, he took longer, concentrating harder, but the result was the same. 

A flicker, a struggle… and failure.

A scoff cut through the silence. "Pathetic."

I didn't need to turn to recognize Elton's dry, unimpressed tone. 

He leaned against the table, arms crossed, watching the display with disinterest.

"You're wasting your time, Caelum," he said, swirling the wine in his goblet.

"If the tower threw him out, it was for a reason. Weak talent. No potential. That's how it works." He said bluntly. 

Mitca flinched, but he didn't argue.

I glanced at Elton, then gestured at myself. "And what does that say about me?"

Elton rolled his eyes. "You, however, weren't so easily as to say 'discarded.'" He raised his drink as if to toast my supposed exceptionality. "By the world's standards, at least."

Rolling my eyes at him, as I turned back to Mitca.

"You lack control," I said, my voice even. 

"Your fundamentals are weak."

His fingers curled against the table's edge. "I know."

"You don't need to be a master right now," I continued.

"You just need to be consistent. Mana isn't about forcing power—it's about understanding how it flows. Strength comes with refinement, not raw force."

Mitca looked up at me, a glimmer of hope surfacing beneath his exhaustion.

Elton sighed. "What are you trying to do, raise a disciple? You're not a master."

I ignored him.

"Mitca," I said, ensuring the boy was listening. "Why do you want to be a mage?"

He hesitated, then whispered, "Because it's the only thing I have left."

That kind of desperation—I had seen it before. 

A child clinging to a dream not out of ambition, but because the alternative was nothingness.

Elton groaned, rubbing his temple. "If you want to save every stray you meet, that's your problem. But I'm not dragging along another burden. He'll slow us down."

I turned to him. "Not if I take full responsibility."

Elton narrowed his eyes. "What?"

"I'll personally ensure he doesn't become a burden. I'll train him, feed him, and make sure he earns his keep." I spoke matter of factly. 

Elton studied me for a long moment, searching for an angle. 

He had started to know me too well to believe I was doing this out of pure kindness.

"You're trying your strange theories, again," he finally muttered.

I smirked. 

He wasn't wrong.

Elton sighed. "Fine. But if he slows us down even once, he's your problem."

I nodded. "Fair enough."

Mitca turned to me, wide-eyed. "You really mean it?"

I ruffled his hair—an absent, instinctive gesture. His whole body stiffened in surprise.

"I wouldn't have said it otherwise."

For the first time, he smiled. 

Hesitant. 

Small. 

But real.

And just like that, Mitca became my responsibility. 

My next test subject.

***

I possessed the erudition of a well-read scholar, steeped in the arcane teachings of the mage tower. 

Yet when it came to the unspoken rules and everyday subtleties of the world around me, I was as lost as a traveler without a map. 

People found it perplexing—here I was, capable of unraveling the mysteries of the cosmos, yet stumbling over the simplest social customs, an enigma of brilliance and bewilderment.

The journey—both inside and outside the carriage—was anything but easy.

Many recognized Mitca as my pupil and granted him some leeway, but that respect vanished the moment I wasn't near him.

He had spent much of the trip asking mercenaries, cargo drivers, and even fellow travelers if I was a noble-born mage, only to be shocked each time they denied it. That was why he kept glancing at me with wide-eyed awe.

"Cut it out, Mitca. There's nothing divine about Caelum—you'll learn that soon enough," Elton he'd say, casting an eye toward the carriage window with a smirk.

His barely restrained glares toward Mitca said everything.

But he tolerated it—for my sake.

Mitca, for his part, understood his position well enough to keep his head down.

At first, I entertained his request to learn magic, but it quickly became apparent that sorcery wasn't his calling.

His grasp of the fundamentals was weak, and abstract reasoning eluded him. 

He struggled with even basic mana control, let alone the complex calculations required for spellcasting.

He was better suited to the warrior's path—yet fate had cursed him with a mage's body.

That was when my thinking changed.

I revised my initial theories, replacing them with something new: the concept of a "warrior mage."

Something that didn't exist in this world.

Mitca would be my test subject, a proof of concept for my experiment, once we reached our destination—all while I played the dutiful clown to the prince in the duchy.

A warrior capable of wielding both magic and aura. Two opposing energies in one vessel.

Impossible?

No.

I refrained from refining Mitca's magical prowess and instead focused on conditioning his body. 

Strengthening exercises, endurance training.

Whenever he asked when I'd start teaching him magic, I always said, Later.

Mages had inherently weak bodies. Mana created density issues, a deficiency in muscle growth. 

To counteract that, I began carefully siphoning his mana, forcing his body to adapt over time.

This experiment would take a decade or so to more to bear fruit, but I was patient.

Mages lived twice as long as aura users, and aura users lived twice as long as ordinary people. 

As for the divinely blessed, their lifespans varied—some lived as long as their faith and holistic practices allowed.

Even so, Mitca listened intently whenever I spoke, clinging to every scrap of knowledge I offered.

I sighed, catching Elton's knowing glance as he quietly observed the mental gymnastics I played with words.

He had given us four days to explore the city before we resumed our journey, though I suspected he only agreed so he could restock supplies and tend to his own business.

Shady.

Elton was a gambler. 

He'd likely play a few games, win some coin, then return as he always did.

I had lost enough games to know he was an expert at reading people, but he had also learned that I wasn't a risk-taker—I was a calculating player.

Once, after another round of losses, he muttered, "You're already terrifying with magic, but with reasoning and analysis on top of that… it's like you have the eyes of probability."

"Stay close to me while we're here," I told Mitca.

He nodded, shrinking further into his seat.

As we neared the heart of the city, the air thickened—not just with noise and bodies, but with something more tangible.

Tension.

A divide.

I could feel it.

I wanted to see both the beauty and the ugliness. 

I never shied away from reality, nor did I tolerate fabricated illusions.

Velden thrived as a hub of trade, but beneath its glittering facade lay a rotting foundation.

Elton must have noticed it too. 

My gaze lingered too long on the alleyways as we approached the stables.

The further one strayed from the well-groomed districts, the clearer it became.

Beyond the wealthier quarters, past the bustling markets and paved streets, the slums loomed at the city's edge like a festering wound.

And that was where I felt most inclined to explore.

***

The market sprawled out before us in a vibrant display of color, sound, and scent. 

Stalls lined the winding streets, their canopies of faded cloth casting patches of shade over the cobblestone paths. 

Merchants bellowed their wares, bartering with eager customers who bustled about, clutching baskets filled with goods. 

The scent of fresh bread mixed with the pungent aroma of drying herbs and the occasional waft of something unmistakably rotten from the alleyways.

Beside me, Mitca clutched a single bronze coin in his fist, looking down at it as though it might magically transform into gold if he wished hard enough. 

I had the remaining four bronze tucked in my palm, a paltry sum by any standard, it was minimal, if spent wisely.

"Are you sure we can buy something with just this?" Mitca asked, eyeing the stalls filled with hanging meats and fresh fruits.

"Depends on what you want," I said, adjusting the sleeves of my coat. 

"If you're aiming for a feast, then no. But if you're aiming to survive, then yes." I said as he followed me. 

He frowned. "I want to just survive."

A smirk tugged at my lips. "Good. That's the first step to learning how to live."

We wove through the market, my eyes scanning everything, cataloging prices, quality, and the nature of the sellers. 

The people here weren't much different from those in any other trading town—merchants were either greedy or desperate, buyers were either cautious or clueless, and everything was a game of information.

Unlike Mitca, who stuck close to my side with the wary posture of a stray dog, I moved with practiced ease. 

I wasn't a noble, nor did I claim to be one, but my demeanor, my cleanliness, and my way of speaking set me apart. 

A mage should have been hunched over scrolls, socially inept, perhaps even unkempt. I was none of those things.

"Here." I stopped at a stall selling rough brown bread and plucked a small loaf from the stack.

The merchant, a balding man with a missing front tooth, narrowed his eyes at me. "Two bronze."

I scoffed. "For this? You overcharge." I turned the loaf in my hands, squeezing it slightly. "Baked few days ago, over-kneaded, and the crust's too thick from over-baking too. One bronze."

The merchant's mouth twisted. "Boy, do I look like a charity?"

I didn't flinch.

"And do I look like an idiot?" I placed the bread down. 

"There's another baker a few stalls down selling fresher loaves for the same price. Why would I waste my coin here?"

The man huffed. "Fine. One bronze."

I handed over the coin, passing the bread to Mitca. 

He looked at me like I had just performed magic.

"How did you know all that?" he asked in awe.

I tapped my temple. 

"Observation. And common sense. Bread shouldn't sound like a rock when you tap it. There's no war, so a fresh early week day bake should still be quite soft to the touch." I said indifferently. 

Mitca grinned, biting into the loaf eagerly as we moved on.

Next, we approached a stall displaying dried meats and nuts. 

A younger merchant greeted us, his eyes flickering over my attire.

"A mage?" he guessed. "Not often we see one shopping for food."

I offered a polite smile. "Even mages need to eat."

He chuckled. "True enough. What'll it be?"

"How much for the dried venison?" I asked.

"Three bronze for a full strip."

I hummed. "That's a noble's price."

"It's fair," he defended.

"Fair for whom?" I countered, resting a hand on the edge of his stall.

"Dried venison lasts long, but only if cured properly. This batch," I pointed to the meat, "wasn't hung long enough. 

The inside is still too soft, meaning it'll spoil faster. Two bronze."

The merchant's brow twitched. 

He opened his mouth, closed it, then exhaled through his nose. "You're sharp. Fine. Two bronze."

I exchanged the coins and passed the venison to Mitca, who looked at me as though I had just pulled gold from thin air.

"You don't even haggle," he whispered as we walked. "You just talk and people give in."

"It's not about haggling," I said, breaking off a piece of venison and tossing it into my mouth.

 "It's about understanding people. Reading them. Like spells. Most merchants aren't dishonest; they just expect buyers to be ignorant. If you prove you're not, they'd rather sell at a lower price than not sell at all."

Mitca chewed on my words along with his food.

As we wandered deeper into the market, my eyes landed on a small booth nestled between two larger stalls.

Unlike the others, this one wasn't selling food or fabric.

It displayed instruments and finely crafted artworks.

Mitca followed my gaze, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "You like that noble stuff? You sure you don't have some fancy blood in you?"

I ran my fingers along the strings of a lute, testing the tension.

It reminded me of a guitar—not that such an instrument existed in this world.

"Music is a kind of magic," I said. "It stirs emotions, tells stories, even shifts the atmosphere of a room."

The merchant, an elderly man with a wispy beard, watched me with interest. "You've got a feel for it, young mage."

I plucked a few notes, letting the melody drift into the market noise.

A familiar tune hummed in the back of my mind, a song from another place—one I'd never hear in this world.

At the mage tower, people assumed I disliked music. That wasn't true. I simply had a preference, one that didn't exist here.

Now, playing a short, simple tune, I hummed the rest in my head before setting the lute back down.

A pleased smile tugged at my lips as a few passersby had started to listen—only for their attention to shift as I stopped.

Mitca stared at me, wide-eyed. "You really do know everything."

I chuckled. "Not everything. Just enough."

The merchant grinned. "A well-learned mage with an ear for music. I'll make you an offer—take the lute, just play another tune."

I shook my head, waving off the attention. "Not today."

Mitca frowned. "Why not? You clearly love it."

I glanced at the few bronze coins left in my pouch. "Because other things come first."

He hesitated, then nodded. "Right. That makes sense."

We made one last stop at an herb seller, where I spent the remaining bronze on a small pouch of dried medicinal leaves. They weren't much, but they'd help with minor wounds or sickness on the road.

Mitca eyed the purchase, confused. "We have extra back at the carriage."

I didn't answer, slipping the pouch into my coat. Some things were better to have and not need than the other way around.

With our shopping done, we made our way toward the town square, where a group of street magicians performed for a small crowd.

Mitca watched them, his expression unreadable.

"What?" I asked.

He hesitated before speaking. "You don't act like other mages. You don't act like a noble either. But you don't… act normal."

I smirked. "That a bad thing?"

He shook his head. "No. Just different."

Leaning against a post, I watched the performers alongside him. "People like to put others into neat little boxes. Mages should be bookish. Nobles should be arrogant. Commoners should be ignorant. But life isn't that simple."

Mitca was quiet for a long moment before he looked up at me. "You're like the older brother I always wished for."

That caught me off guard.

I glanced down at him. "You think so?"

He nodded, kicking a loose pebble. "You're the only person who ever talks to me like I matter. Like I can be more."

Something tightened in my chest, but I only ruffled his hair. "That's because you can be more. And I'll make sure of it."

Mitca beamed, and for the first time, I realized how much those words meant to him.

The contrast was stark. Mitca had wanted to say something about the winding path I'd taken, but he held his tongue.

I had led him through alleyways, tunnels, and sealed gates—each obstacle bypassed with quiet magic, his concern growing with every step.

Cobblestone streets gave way to uneven dirt paths, riddled with filth and neglect.

Buildings leaned against each other like weary souls, their wooden frames brittle with age and disrepair.

The air here was thick—not just with the stench of decay, but with something heavier. Desperation.

From the shadows of crumbling homes and darkened alleyways, eyes watched—some curious, some wary, some openly hostile.

I was no stranger to places like this.

Here, survival was not guaranteed.

A woman sat on the steps of a broken home, cradling a feverish child, her expression hollow.

A few feet away, an old man slumped against a wall, too weak to even beg.

A boy, no older than Mitca, rummaged through a pile of discarded cloth, pressing tattered scraps against his thin frame, searching for something that might fit.

This wasn't living.

This was enduring.

And I couldn't ignore it.

Mitca hesitated beside me. "We should go," he muttered.

I didn't move.

Instead, I knelt beside the feverish child, pressing the back of my hand to his clammy forehead.

Shallow breaths. Skin pale beneath the grime.

Mana surged to my fingertips—warm, steady.

Closing my eyes, I crafted the spell in my mind. A sigil formed, glowing green, layered with four supporting disks, each inscribed with intricate runes.

This was an original spell—built on three principles: circulation techniques used in mana control training, muscle relaxation methods, and water-elemental properties.

Healing magic was vague, traditionally tied to the light attribute, but I had found another way.

The problem was efficiency. Spells were transactions—mana was the price. The closer a spell was to perfection, the lower the cost.

Fortunately, I had more mana than most.

Creating new spells was a domain of master mages for a reason. A miscalculation could backfire horrifically—mana instability could cause permanent damage, crippling a mage's pathways.

A deep understanding of runes, control, and the fundamental laws of magic was required before even attempting to construct a sigil-based spell.

But I had already done the work.

The sigil pulsed as the spell took hold.

The child's skin regained color. His breathing steadied. Within moments, the fever had vanished.

His mother gasped. "What—what did you do?"

Before I could answer, another voice broke through the air.

"He… He's a mage. He healed him."

Heads turned. People took notice.

And just like that, the whispers began.

I glanced at Mitca. His hands were over his mouth, his eyes wide, glistening with unshed tears.

"What kind of healing spell was that?" His voice trembled, caught between awe and fear.

I exhaled. "Something I carefully constructed—built on theorized fundamentals of the light attribute."

Mitca wiped his eyes and let out a shaky laugh. "You're a saint, Caelum."

I smirked and waved him off. "Hmph. Hardly."

But as the murmurs in the crowd grew, I realized the weight of what had just happened.

This wasn't the kind of place where miracles went unnoticed.

And that… might be a problem.

"I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the commonwealth's great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the Nobles or the wealthy councils, but the uneducated moderate who are more devoted to order than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice." I'd say while quoting a phrase from my past life as I looked around the people in the slums. 

"I'm no saint. Trust me. I'm more selfish than these people." I'd say as I walked onto the next ramp in the alley. 

I had no interest in any of it.

So I walked where the light didn't reach.

***

The further I went, the more the scenery dire the change. The way to rotting wood and packed dirt roads. The sharp stench of unwashed bodies and stagnant water.

The parts the Church's eyes ignored.

I had seen this before.

Not just poverty. Neglect.

The clergy only healed those who could pay.

The rest?

Left to die.

The air was thick with the stench of rot and desperation. 

Trash lined the dirt roads, pushed into gutters where rats feasted without fear. Wooden buildings leaned against one another, their beams cracked and ready to collapse. 

Some homes had no doors, just fabric draped over entrances like a mockery of privacy.

People moved through the streets in slow, dragging steps—if they moved at all.

Some sat slumped against walls, their faces gaunt and eyes vacant, lost in hunger or sickness. 

Others gathered around small fires, warming thin hands as they cooked what little they had—scraps stolen from the wealthier districts, rotten fruits, even bones picked clean of meat.

One of them noticed me—a teen, maybe seventeen or eighteen, his eyes sharp with suspicion.

"You lost?" His voice was rough, hoarse, as if he hadn't had a drink in days.

I shook my head. "No."

"Then what're you doing here?"

"I'm just passing through."

"Rich folk don't come here." His eyes flickered over me, taking in my cloak, my boots, my belt. "We don't take kind to your like, go back where you belong mage."

I crouched down. "And what do people who belong here look like?"

He hesitated. Smart kid. He knew a trap when he heard one.

I didn't press him.

Instead, I pulled a small piece of dried meat from my pocket. 

It wasn't much, but the way his eyes locked onto it told me enough.

I held it out. "You want it?"

His fingers twitched, but he didn't move. "What do you want for it?"

I smiled. "Nothing."

Now he really didn't trust me.

But hunger won over doubt. He snatched it from my hand and shoved it into his mouth so fast I thought he might choke.

"Where can I go without trouble?" I asked.

He didn't answer.

I already knew, I was a sore thumb in the weeds of the world I was now in.

The slums were a place where hope went to wither and rot. The alleys were narrow, choked with refuse, and the air carried a sickly blend of filth, sweat, and decay. People here didn't just suffer—they were forgotten. Forgotten by the nobility, the clergy, and even by fate itself.

A Mage's Curiosity

The air was thick with the stench of decay and unwashed bodies. The slums stretched before us, a graveyard of the living, their sunken eyes fixed upon us with equal measures of desperation and resignation. Some clung to shreds of hope, reaching out trembling hands as if we were divine saviors. Others had long since surrendered to their fate, their hollow stares passing right through us.

I had never been a saint, but I refused to be blind.

At my feet, a girl lay convulsing, her frail body wracked by an affliction that defied logic. Her skin burned with fever, slick with sweat, yet dark veins spidered across her arms, pulsing like ink seeping beneath fragile parchment. Her pupils, blown wide, flickered with unfocused light, her lips parting to whisper fragmented words between ragged breaths.

This was no common illness.

"This isn't curable by divine grace healing," I murmured, lowering myself beside her.

Mitca scoffed, arms crossed, his sharp features drawn into something unimpressed. His tawny hair, usually pulled back in neat precision, had loosened from the humidity, stray strands falling into his sharp, knowing eyes. "Of course it isn't. We're in the slums. This is possibly a 'curse illness'—something they were born with. Divine magic doesn't touch it. Potions don't work. Spells don't work. That's why people end up here." He gestured to the ruined souls around us. "And people who end up here… well, you know how that story ends."

I ignored him, already pressing my fingers lightly against the girl's wrist, then her forehead, cataloging every symptom. Her fever was unbearable, the body barely enduring its own rebellion. The clergy had undoubtedly tried their blessings, yet the disease had persisted, gnawing away at her existence.

"Why bother?" Mitca asked, though there was no real bite to the question.

I glanced up at him, then back at the girl. "Because I can." I smiled faintly, feeling the puzzle settle into place. "A mystery. A riddle. Why live mundanely as a mage when the world is full of things waiting to be unraveled?"

Mitca had no response.

The crowd murmured as I shut my eyes, reaching inward, sifting through the currents of my own mana. Healing magic was the domain of clerics and priests, not mages. But magic—true magic—was about understanding the rules of the world and bending them.

I let my power slip beneath her skin, threading carefully between her natural aura and the festering sickness. Pain rippled through her body at first, a sharp inhale escaping her lips, but she had long since grown numb to suffering. And yet, for a fleeting moment, her unfocused gaze found mine—grounded, present.

Not an infection. Not a mutation.

Something designed.

A layered affliction woven into her very essence. Not just mana-born, but inscribed with runic sequences that entwined with aura itself. A fusion that should have been impossible.

"Fascinating," I whispered to myself, the weight of discovery settling in my chest.

Mitca gave me a wary glance, but I was already lost in the process, peeling apart the sickness strand by strand. To undo it was useless—any attempt to return her body to a 'prior state' would only reset her to another cursed moment. No, this was a construct. A deliberate cruelty.

I would not undo it. I would rewrite it.

Piece by piece, I altered the very structure of the affliction, replacing its purpose, twisting it from a death sentence into something benign—an overactive immune response, something treatable by common herbs and rest. The process drained me, time slipping away unnoticed.

Six hours had passed before I finally exhaled.

The girl lay still, her chest rising and falling with newfound ease. The dark veins had faded, her sweat-drenched skin now merely damp, no longer slick with fever.

A gasp echoed through the slums.

I blinked, momentarily dazed. Fifty—no, more—onlookers had gathered, their faces filled with awe and trepidation. Some whispered prayers, others hesitated, uncertain whether to call me savior or sorcerer.

Mitca stared.

I wiped the sweat from my brow. "That was fun." My voice was hoarse, my body heavy with exhaustion. I looked around, belatedly registering the sheer number of people. "Huh. Why's there so many of you?"

The murmurs rose. The word 'miracle' passed between lips like an ember catching fire.

I almost laughed.

Magic was no miracle. It was knowledge, made manifest. And in a world built on rules, there was always a loophole waiting to be found.

Before I could gather myself, a man stepped forward.

At first glance, he was unremarkable—draped in a travel-worn cloak, its edges frayed with time. His hood obscured most of his face, save for the sharp angle of his jaw and the faintest glint of eyes that held an unsettling intensity. He had been among the crowd, silent and watchful, yet now that he had spoken, it felt as though he had been waiting for this moment.

"You are… fascinating," he said, his voice smooth, measured, and unnervingly deliberate. "A mage who can unravel what even the divine cannot? That is no small feat."

I stiffened, the exhilaration of my success giving way to a creeping wariness. He spoke not like a curious bystander, but as someone who understood exactly what I had done. More than that—he recognized it.

I forced my expression into neutrality, schooling my features into careful disinterest. "Not really," I replied, cautious.

The man smiled—just a slight upturn of his lips, calculated rather than warm. "No. It is indeed." His gaze flicked briefly to the girl, now resting peacefully, before returning to me. "Tell me, where did you learn such a thing? That was no ordinary continuing spell string casting."

My breath hitched.

That phrase—it was an advanced magical concept, one only seventh-circle mages or higher could even attempt. I hadn't consciously thought of it while working, yet the implications struck me like a blow. My fingers twitched.

I had just performed something that should have been impossible at my level.

The realization sent a cold ripple through my spine, my previous satisfaction turning into unease. I took a half-step back, instinct tightening my muscles.

"I was raised in a mage tower," I answered carefully. "We study things others don't."

The man hummed as though pleased, tilting his head just enough for the dim light to catch against his pale cheekbone. "Astounding," he mused. "Your knowledge is beyond the rest. Tell me—have you ever considered the forgotten magics of old? The lost wisdom of ancient species?"

That caught my interest.

Ancient species? The phrase was not unfamiliar, but references in texts had always been vague—half-truths and speculations buried beneath layers of rewritten history. If he had true knowledge of such things, real details…

I leaned forward slightly before I caught myself.

"I can't say I have," I admitted, curiosity warring with caution. "But I'd be… very interested."

Beside me, Mitca shifted.

His posture, once lax with indifference, had turned rigid. I noticed the way his fingers clenched around the small satchel of herbs we had bought earlier, knuckles white with tension. A silent warning.

The stranger's smile widened ever so slightly, just enough to unsettle.

And in that moment, I knew—this conversation was no mere coincidence.

"Then, perhaps, we should speak further," the man said smoothly. "There is a sect mage—a scholar of such matters—who would be most eager to meet you. I can arrange an introduction."

I frowned.

This was too convenient.

But my thirst for knowledge gnawed at my restraint. He wasn't just anyone—to be here, in a place like this, with such connections meant something. And I didn't care.

If he had what I wanted—if I could trade, buy, or gain access to the relics and lost texts he spoke of—then I would be the one to win.

If there was truly forgotten magic, erased species, knowledge lost to time… how could I ignore it?

Mitca finally spoke, his voice unusually sharp. "And why would you offer that connection to my master so freely?"

The man turned his gaze to him, unreadable. "Because knowledge should not remain buried."

Mitca's eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue.

I considered the offer for a moment before nodding. "I'll listen."

The man inclined his head slightly. "Good. Then we shall meet again. Take this."

He pulled a parchment scroll from his cloak and held it out. A faint shimmer traced along its surface—a spell sigil, sealed into the material itself.

"This will allow us to communicate anywhere across the continent," he explained.

I took it, studying the arcane symbols carefully. "Interesting. Well then, thank you."

Mitca's jaw clenched as I waved him off, bowing slightly to the man. Around us, the slum dwellers still pleaded for my aid, but my time here was done. My mana was nearly depleted.

Without another word, the stranger turned and melted into the streets, vanishing as swiftly as he had appeared.

Mitca exhaled sharply. "You shouldn't trust him."

"I don't," I admitted, flexing my fingers, feeling the lingering drain of my magic. "But I can't ignore what he said either. Besides, I just got something valuable—this scroll."

Mitca's expression darkened. "You don't get it. That's a tracker and a double-edged sword, Master. These kinds of parchments are illegal. They bind both parties into a contract just to communicate."

I smirked. "No worries. I'm going to dissect the spell sigil in this parchment and make my own."

I tucked the scroll into my bag, turning back toward the slums. I reassured the desperate faces that I'd return soon.

Mitca said nothing. He knew it was a lie.

His scowl deepened. "You're too reckless."

I ruffled his hair. "And you're too suspicious."

He batted my hand away, his glare sharp with frustration. He wasn't just upset—he was worried. He feared I was walking blindly into another contract with a hidden noble, unaware of the dangers lurking beneath such deals.

And he was right to be wary.

If it weren't for Mitca, I might have already found myself tangled in trouble before even realizing it. For that, I was grateful.

We left the slums, weaving through the dimly lit alleys, unaware that unseen eyes had already marked us.

Somewhere in the shadows, watching, waiting—an underground world had just found its next target.