A month and a half had passed since that day. Poll lay sprawled on his bed, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe. His injuries had finally healed, and he could move freely again. Still, the memory of the explosion—and the consequences of his genius—lingered.
Why did it take so long for my wounds to heal, even with healing magic? he mused, scratching his chin. Maybe it was.... some kind of radioactive interference in my Mana circuits?
He sighed and shifted his gaze to his hand, flexing it experimentally. It was surreal. He remembered the chaos vividly—his mana flaring wildly near a literal nuclear explosion.
Oh yeah, that's when I had the brilliant idea to combine mana with nuclear energy. He winced. Nice job, me.
His mind drifted back to his past life, poring over papers about nuclear reactors. He'd been a man of science then, methodical, logical… and clearly, none of that stuck.
Suddenly, a realization struck him like a lightning bolt. Wait—how the hell did I create nuclear energy?
His breath hitched as the thought spiraled in his head. Nuclear energy wasn't just some casual byproduct—it was the result of splitting atoms through nuclear fission. Splitting atoms? There's no way I did that. I don't even have a damn reactor!
Unless... Could it have been nuclear fusion? His hand shot to his throat as if to steady himself. Maybe… my mana was strong enough to fuse atoms together. But fusion takes immense energy—stars do it, for crying out loud! Am I seriously wielding something that could rival the power of a sun?
His pulse quickened, panic clawing at his chest. Mana had always seemed so simple—an elemental force to control fire, water, earth. A tool for creation or destruction in balanced amounts. But this? This was something far beyond his understanding.
If this is what mana is capable of... His fingers curled tightly into a fist, trembling. It's too dangerous to even exist.
"No… no!" His voice cracked as he stumbled backward, his thoughts racing faster than he could control. If mana can cause something like this, then any idiot with a basic grasp of science could obliterate an entire kingdom. They wouldn't even need a proper weapon—just the right spell and enough knowledge to press the metaphorical red button.
The implications were staggering, terrifying. He gripped his temples, trying to calm the storm in his mind, but every thought seemed more chaotic than the last. He could almost hear the ticking of a clock counting down to some catastrophic detonation he couldn't prevent.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips, hollow and strained. "Naa… I don't even understand how I did it," he muttered, his voice laced with frustration and self-mockery. "I'd need years of research to even scratch the surface of this."
His head throbbed in protest, the mental strain catching up with him. "Ah, whatever. My head's killing me." He groaned, slumping forward and pressing his palms to his face.
The memory of that first spell still burned brightly in his mind—terrifying in its raw power, but equally exhilarating. As much as he hated to admit it, the potential of combining mana with science sent a thrill through his veins.
Well,
Now I know what happens when you try casting dangerous spells without a staff, I have to find a way to cast spell safely. He groaned and flopped an arm over his face. My first spell was way too OP. A low chuckle escaped him. "I'm a walking disaster."
But as much as the memory made him cringe, it also excited him. The shareowner, the potential!
"Mana and science together…" he mused aloud, his voice soft but laced with determination. He let the thought linger, savoring the dangerous allure of possibility.
"If I can figure this out—if I can harness this safely—I'll be unstoppable." A wry smile tugged at his lips as he leaned back, staring at the faint traces of mana still crackling in his palm.
"Or, at the very least, I'll be less likely to blow myself up again."
His eyes narrowed. And maybe I can find out what kind of books Mom's been hiding from me. She totally thinks I learned that spell from her library. Classic Mom logic.
Poll finally dragged himself out of bed, stretching until his joints popped. The sunlight filtered through the window, bathing the room in a warm glow. It was one of those mornings that felt… hopeful. He made his way downstairs, practically bouncing with energy.
"Good morning, Father!" he called, flashing a grin as he entered the dining room.
Eryndor looked up from a stack of papers, his usual stern expression softening slightly. "Good morning, Poll. How are you feeling today?"
Poll gave a thumbs up. "Good as new! No more pain, and I can move around without any issues." He struck a triumphant pose, clearly enjoying his newfound mobility.
Eryndor smirked. "That's good to hear. Though, I suppose you've got something serious on your mind?"
Poll's grin faltered for a second. "Yeah… about that spell. I think I messed up—big time."
Eryndor set his papers aside, his expression turning thoughtful. "Ah, so you're ready to talk about it?"
Poll nodded. "Yeah, but I'm still piecing things together. I don't think I understand magic as much as I thought I did."
Eryndor chuckled. "We'll discuss it over dinner. Your mother should be here for that conversation."
"Where is Mom, anyway?"
"She went shopping."
Poll blinked. "Shopping? Again? She's like a treasure hunter with a grocery list."
Eryndor shook his head with a soft chuckle. "Well, that's your mother for you."
Poll leaned back with a sly grin, eyes glinting with mischief. "So, Father… what about you?"
Eryndor raised an eyebrow, already sensing trouble. "What about me?"
Poll tapped his chin, as if pondering some great mystery. "Shouldn't you be, I don't know, off doing your valiant Captain of the Guard duties? Defending the kingdom, saving damsels, yelling orders—something heroic like that?"
Eryndor blinked, clearly caught off guard. He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding Poll's gaze. "Ah… well… about that…" His voice trailed off as he suddenly found the ceiling extremely interesting.
Poll leaned in closer, his grin widening like a cat ready to pounce. "Wait a second… Are you telling me you're bunking work?"
Eryndor straightened, his expression a mix of mock outrage and playful defiance. "Bunking work? That's a serious accusation, son! I prefer to call it… uh… tactical delegation."
Poll snorted, barely holding in a laugh. "Tactical delegation? Oh, that's rich! So, who's out there valiantly protecting the kingdom while you're over here being a tactical genius?"
Eryndor crossed his arms, trying to look stern, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him with a twitch. "Watch your tone, kid. I'm the Captain of the Guard—I've earned the right to strategically plan from the comfort of my chair!"
Poll leaned even closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a scandalous secret. "You mean... you've ditched your post. Admit it, Dad, you're playing hooky."
Eryndor sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Alright, fine. Let's call it… a well-deserved mental health day. Happy now?"
Poll burst into laughter, holding his sides. "Mental health day? Oh, you're killing me, Captain. I'm going to tell everyone the kingdom's strongest warrior is hiding out in his own kitchen."
Eryndor pointed a finger at him, his tone playful. "One more word, and I'll draft you into duty. How'd you like to spend your day cleaning horse's butts"
Poll grinned wider, saluting with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Forgive me, sir! I'm far too young for such responsibilities."
Eryndor shook his head, his chuckle rumbling deep in his chest. He gestured toward the table with a playful wave. "hm... now you're on the line Fuel up before you start another riot."
Poll gave an exaggerated bow, his smirk never fading. "Your wish is my command, Captain."
After a quick breakfast, Poll stepped into the courtyard, basking in the warmth of the sun. The breeze carried the scent of fresh grass and flowers, the kind of peaceful morning vibe that clashed hilariously with his inner turmoil.
He eyed the wooden sword leaning against the wall. Picking it up, he gave it a few experimental swings. His muscles, still a bit stiff, protested at first but soon fell into rhythm.
I could practice a small spell, he thought, temptation tugging at him. But then he remembered the promised dinner discussion. Nah, better wait. Mom would definitely bust me if she found out.
He focused on his swordwork instead, running through the drills his father had taught him: careful strikes, quick footwork, and precision. Each swing felt better, more natural, as if his body was waking up after a long nap.
From the house, Eryndor watched through the window, arms crossed. A rare, quiet smile touched his lips.
Good. He's not rushing into magic, he thought, nodding to himself. He's starting to learn restraint.
Poll, blissfully unaware of his dad's silent approval, continued his practice, each swing of the wooden sword filled with determination.
His thoughts, however, weren't nearly as composed.
Maybe I should name this sword… he mused. Like, "Slicer of Vegetables" or "The Wooden Wonder."
The wind caught his hair as he imagined his opponent falling. Poll grinned, twirling the sword once more. "Fear me, world! For I am Poll Nightvale—Master of Magic and Science! The Slayer of Explosions!!"
The birds paused their chirping for a moment, as if collectively deciding that this human was too much.
Hah..!!
Poll stopped, lowering the sword. "Yeah, maybe I should just stick to training. Save the drama for dinner."
***