Chapter 7: Magic Theories.

Emil stared at the book. 

Something about it pulled Emil's curiosity. Perhaps it's the dust collected by the book which added mystery. But one thing is certain, he felt like the book has been waiting for someone to find it, not to boast, but to reveal its nature. 

Emil reached up to the book slowly, brushing off the dust with his sleeve. The book felt cold. Not in temperature, but its presence held that heavy mystery. 

He opened it. The first page was empty, no dedication, no seal, nothing. Then in the second page, words were written, written in the same language as the world around him, just like the symbols he had seen written in the journal of Lugira. As soon as his eyes read the scriptures, a translation formed in Emil's mind.

'Magic, like blood, flows unseen. It has rules. And most importantly, it remembers.'

Emil let out a quiet sigh. His fingers lifting up the page to turn.

In the distance, the ticking of the grand clock echoed— although it was almost quiet, it's like the library had a barrier for sound proofing, or maybe the shelves had already silenced the room.

The weight of the cold book lingered in Emil's chest as he cradled it. He stepped away from the shadowed aisle, the soles of his boots made the faintest sound against the tiled floor, yet the silence of the library swallowed it. His breathing slowed to match the ticking of the clock hidden within the library. 

His gaze swept the room until it found Lumier, sitting in one of the velvet-padded lounge near the window, with a soft touch of the sunlight. Her face glowed with fascination, her eyes focused on reading the golden hymns of the love goddess Mynus, her lips ever so slightly curved while reading, forming a soft smile..

He walked toward her, careful not to disrupt her dreamlike state while reading. She looked up, smiling at him briefly, then returned to read, not noticing the book he held.

Emil sat down beside her, placing the book on his lap and slowly opening it once again. The scent of old ink and tainted oil rose faintly from its pages.

'Magic is not a miracle. It is an interaction between the realms of the Gods, humans and their will. Between the source and the soul.'

The text began on the third page. As he turned the pages, the classification began.

'The First: Scroll Magic

Born out of runes, also known as the tongue of Gods, etched on a vellum bark, 

empowered through rituals. These are used daily by commoners, light conjuration,

spark ignition, water purification. It is reliable and simple. When the usage runs out,

it can be disposed of, through burning.'

Emil imagined the intricate symbols he found on Lugira's case, and the book under his desk. Perhaps those were examples. 

'The Second: Acquired Magic

Made manifest by the Elixir of Absorption, brewed annually on the 14th Sun of the month Athereon. Risky. Expensive. Volatile. The user's body must endure a violent awakening as mana is forcibly harmonized with their blood. Failure can result in death, madness, or elemental affliction.'

He stared at the page much longer. 

'The potion is made only by certified alchemists and is overseen by local covens or the Magistrate of Arcane Affairs. Widely outlawed in poorer regions.'

Huh..? A sip of power bought by money poses many complications. It sounds like the military enhancements back on Earth. Emil thought to himself, scoffing in the face of that idea.

The Third: Gifted / Bestowed Magic

Those under the age of 15 may, through divine communion, receive blessings from the pantheon. This can occur during rites, pilgrimages, or at random. These children are known as Sigilborn—their gifts marked by a divine crest on the chest or back. Rare, but revered.

Emil's brow slightly furrowed. Under 15… He looked down at his own hands. Lugira's hands. Could Luira be among them? He questioned himself.

The book offered no instructions as to how to invite this kind of blessing. Perhaps it's only the Gods' choices.

Time passed like spilled ink across a parchment. Emil didn't look up. Not once. His hands turned the pages with rhythm just like a man under hypnosis. Despite the book's thickness, the concepts became much easier the more Emil read. Perhaps it's the knowledge within Lugira's body aligned with the topic of magic. 

Emil reached the end of the book. A thick page. Unmarked on its outer edge, he turned the page.

Then stopped.

What he saw was not written in any symbol he came across in this world. It was in English.

'The Fourth Method: Forbidden.'

Emil's chest tightened as he froze in place. The handwriting was neat, it was as if it was written by a native. It fell out of this place.

'Magic can be digested, drawn into flesh. There are herbs, native to lowland forests—Fenroot, Azure Moss, and Drall Bark, when brewed into a tea and followed by focused meditation .'

'Painful. Forbidden. Effective.'

'This method bypasses the need for divine favor or sanctioned potions. It was once used by the arcane deserters of the Third Schism. Most died. The few who lived became something else.'

Beneath all that, written in the same English script:

'Knowledge survives when it hides.'

Emil slowly closed the book. His pulse beating faster than the ticking of the clock. His heartbeat drummed out of his chest.

He slowly glanced toward Lumier beside him. She was still in her deep reading, legs curled beneath her chair, humming softly as she turned a page.

He looked back at the closed book. Someone left this here. Someone from Earth. Or someone that knows Earth.

Then, he stood.

His sudden movement caught Lumier's attention.

"You're done already?" she blinked at him, half in disbelief, her tone teasing, yet touched with concern. "That book's as thick as a fireplace brick…"

Emil offered a faint smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Just… skimmed," he murmured, slipping the book under his arm. "I needed to see what it was about."

Lumier narrowed her eyes a little, unconvinced, but said nothing. Her eyes lingered on him as he walked away, a crease forming on her brow.

Emil made his way through the aisles of knowledge, the ancient tomes bearing down on him like silent judges. The strange weight of the book still clung to his arm. Not physical, but present.

Mr. Herbert was at his usual place, standing near the large globe of Iradune, one hand tucked behind his back, the other adjusting his monocle as he examined a handwritten scroll. The scent of tobacco leaf and aged ink hovered around him like a personal aura.

Emil approached slowly.

"Mr. Herbert," he began, his voice low, respectful.

The old man turned his head, his pale gray eyes focusing behind the monocle. "Ah, Lugi. What a pleasant surprise. Finished your little romance with the love goddess already?"

Emil offered a dry chuckle. "I found something else. Something… heavier."

Mr. Herbert raised a curious brow. "Heavier, you say?"

Emil hesitated, then asked, "What exactly is magic, Mr. Herbert? How does it work?"

The librarian stilled.

It wasn't the question itself but it was how it was asked. Not with a child's awe, but with a soldier's suspicion.

"…Now that's a question," Herbert muttered, leaning slightly on his cane. "Most children your age ask how to get magic, not what it is." He paused, tapping the metal tip of the cane on the floor. "But very well."

He turned and slowly walked toward a nearby table, gesturing for Emil to follow. Once seated, Herbert steepled his fingers and began, voice falling into that dry, lecture-like tone only lifelong scholars could wield.

"Magic, my boy, is like wind. You cannot see it, but you can feel it brush against your skin. It exists around all living things. Some believe it is a residue left behind by the Gods. Others, that it is the breath of the world itself."

Emil sat straighter.

"Now," Herbert continued, "not all can use it, mind you. There are tiers. Levels of attunement."

He lifted a finger.

"At the bottom, there are the sensitive. These individuals can perceive magic, its movement, its density, but cannot wield it. They feel when a storm of magic is coming. They can walk through an enchanted field and tell you where it begins and ends, but they are blind in terms of action."

A second finger.

"Then, there are those who have access. They can ignite a flame without flint. Chill water without ice. Simple things, really. Practical, modest, predictable. Most of the common folk who train themselves, or take scrolls, fall under this category."

A third finger.

"And finally, the wielders is what we used to call wizards before the term became wrapped in political titles. These are the ones who manipulate greater flows of magic. They bend weather. Shape terrain. Wield fire that can tear through platoons. They are rare. Feared. Often… conscripted."

"Into the war?" Emil asked, carefully.

Mr. Herbert sighed, "Into many wars. Few remember how they started. Fewer still understand why they persist. But the powerful never stay idle."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, Mr. Herbert looked directly at Emil, his monocled eye narrowing slightly.

"You've always asked about magic before, Lugi. But this is different. You sound like someone expecting to use it. Or…" he leaned slightly forward, "someone who already has."

Emil looked down at the book in his hand. The fourth method still haunted his thoughts.

"I'm just curious," he said.

Mr. Herbert gave a dry chuckle, nodding as if amused by his own doubt. "Curiosity," he said, rising with a quiet grunt, "is often the first spark before the fire."

He tapped his cane once, echoing against the marble tile.

"Just don't forget, Lugi: magic remembers."

Then, with a slow turn, he left Emil alone at the table. The distant ticking of the grand clock resumed its quiet rhythm.