Sitting on the windowsill, I flipped through a book.
"The Terrors of the White Light"
…There are only three truly dangerous beings under the white light. All of them vile, monstrous, and abhorrent to the Creator's radiance. Thus, know well, faithful followers of Millis—the most loathsome creatures in His sight: the Migurds. The Supards. The Eternals.
Let us begin with the most insidious and cunning: the Migurd tribe, also known as the Mind Scorchers.
These telepaths can not only read thoughts but implant them. With their abominable powers, they sow heretical visions into the minds of the faithful, twist perception, warp reality. The most skilled can erase memories or make a man believe he's already dead. But that's not the worst. Their name—Mind Scorchers—is no metaphor. They can burn your mind alive.
Know your enemy by sight: blue hair, youthful, wrinkleless skin even in old age, short stature—averaging 140 to 150 centimeters. They can live up to 200 years but rarely leave their homelands. Incapable of lying with words, yet able to implant falsehoods without ever speaking.
With each reading, I learned more about this world. But considering this book was edited by the Church, taking it at face value would've been stupid.
Mind Scorchers? That sounded terrifying. The idea of someone reading my thoughts… no thanks. What if they found out I wasn't from this world? That could be dangerous. I had no idea what would happen if anyone discovered the truth.
When was that teacher finally going to arrive? The one I was promised? My desire to use magic was growing by the day. How much longer was I supposed to wait?
I looked up. A star streaked across the night sky.
***
Early morning.
Dew still clung to the grass, and the roosters had only just begun to crow. A few villagers were already out and about, going about their business.
Down the long dirt road, a lone figure moved slowly on horseback.
A travel-worn cloak hid most of their form. Atop their head sat a pointed hat. The horse was loaded with bags, but what stood out most was the long white staff resting against the rider's leg—topped with blue crystals, etched all along with strange glowing runes.
The figure held the staff in one hand, leaning on it like a crutch.
She tilted her head, squinting at the village ahead.
"Is this it or not...? Whose bright idea was it to live in this godsforsaken hole, anyway...?"
Grumbling under her breath, she glanced around for someone to ask directions. Fortunately, a small group stood near a fence up ahead. The horse shifted toward them without prompting.
The closer she got, the more heads turned. Finally, one of the men—a broad, heavyset guy with a thick moustache—stepped forward and barked:
"Oi! Who the fuck're you, struttin' in like you own the place?!"
The figure smirked and tilted up her hat, revealing her face.
"A guest. One you didn't ask for—but you'll be putting up with anyway."
The girl watched the man's face shift with obvious amusement.
"Well I'll be… you're a woman!" He squinted at the staff. "The fuck is that supposed to be, huh?!"
"It's a staff, Gnid. What, never seen one before?" another man behind him piped up. "She's a fucking witch!"
The figure rolled her eyes.
"Genius. Real inquisitor-level brains on display."
The mustached man scowled, but before he could speak, the one behind him gasped in alarm.
"She's a witch! Burn her!"
The girl's brow furrowed. She tapped the staff on the ground with a tired finger.
"Oh come on, not this again. I'm hungry, I'm exhausted, and I'm in no mood to play 'Witch Hunt.' Is Paul Greyrat here? I'm his guest."
The mustached man choked on his words, suddenly wary of the staff. The man behind him began whispering a prayer under his breath.
"Figures... First the kid's batshit, next thing they're blowin' the fuckin' house to pieces with magic."
"Listen up, witch!" the big man puffed his chest. "You're not from here. Folks like you aren't welcome!"
The girl tilted her head, eyeing him lazily.
"Is that so...? Not welcome?"
She gave a dramatic sigh, slipped off the horse, and took a few steps forward, tapping her staff as she walked.
"Alright. Let's settle this civilly. I'll leave—"
The man started to puff up with smugness, but she cut in:
"—right after I turn you into a toad. You know, just to keep things fair."
The crowd stiffened. The mustached man grimaced, glancing at the staff.
"You threatening me, witch?"
She smiled faintly.
"No, no. Just laying out the rules. You don't want me here—I don't want you here. The only question is, who's going to outlast who."
Someone behind him gulped audibly.
"So, Gnid," she added, nodding at him. "Nice name, by the way. Where's Paul's place?"
The man looked like he wanted to argue, but one glance at the staff killed that idea. Growling under his breath, he pointed at a house in the distance.
"Over there. Do your business and piss off out of my village!"
The girl nodded, smirking.
"Don't worry. I won't be staying a second longer than I have to."
She grabbed the reins and started walking toward the house, leaving tense silence in her wake.
A few steps later, without looking back, she added:
"And if you see any toads around—don't kick them. Might be your brother."
Someone behind her stifled a nervous laugh. No one dared reply.
***
Standing in the yard, I practiced my sword swings—my daily routine for the past year. I'd just turned six. In this world, birthdays only mattered at five, ten, and fifteen, so there was no celebration. Just another day.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted someone approaching the house. The white horse looked expensive—tall, strong, nothing like the village nags. Paul had a thoroughbred too, but this one looked even more impressive.
The rider kept getting closer. My heart beat faster. A flicker of hope caught fire. Could it be...?
I dropped the sword and moved toward the gate. With every step, the figure came into sharper focus. The pointed hat looked a little ridiculous, but maybe that was the fashion for mages. And that staff she carried? It screamed magic.
I held my breath. She dismounted.
"This Paul Greyrat's place?"
A girl. A very short girl. Her travel cloak was dusty, her clothes practical, covered with runic embroidery—in her trousers, her belt, her coat, even her cloak.
But what really hit me was her face. Young. Way too young.
And just like that, my hope died. They said magic was hard. But this girl looked like she needed a teacher herself.
"What, you deaf?"
"Yeah."
"Seriously?"
"Ah—no, I mean—not like that." I floundered. "Yes, this is Paul's house."
"Good. You his youngest? Take me to your father. I heard his kid's got…" she glanced around, smirking, "...'talent.'"
"Well… that's me. I mean… you're the teacher?"
I said it out loud, and it immediately felt awkward. After all that waiting—this was her. My teacher...
"You?"
Her eyes scanned me up and down.
"Hah! Funny one, aren't you..."
But then her eyes landed on the scars on my arm. Something shifted in her expression.
"That's a wind sickle, isn't it? And a strong one at that… Who did a number on you?"
Her tone turned serious, and her gaze drilled into me. I suddenly felt small.
"I… read some words from a grimoire, and it—"
"Liar."
"No!"
She sighed, as if she couldn't tell anymore if I was joking or just stupid.
"You want me to recite the spell back to you?"
"Go ahead. Impress me."
Her tone—mocking and casual—hit a nerve. Fear surged up, but so did stubbornness. Zenith had forbidden me from repeating those words. But this was a magic teacher. So maybe…
"Um… ahem… So then…"
"Alright, joke's over. Can I come into the yard?"
Her gaze drifted past me, scanning the property.
I had no choice. I had to cast it. The words began forming in my head—symbols in a language I didn't know, surfacing on their own. One… two… ten of them.
"Air. Become a blade."
My lips moved on their own, shaping sounds I didn't recognize. The wind stirred, twisted.
Her attention snapped straight to me.
"Ras-kha!"
"Enough!"
The staff smacked me right on the head. I lost focus, and the wind spell unraveled on the spot.
Now she was actually looking at me—really looking. Her gaze locked on the scars on my arm, sharp and focused.
"Where did you learn that language?"
"I didn't. I don't even know what it is."
"Hmph... I can't tell anymore when you're messing with me and when you're serious."
She sighed and lowered her staff.
"All right, seriously now. You can't just say spells out loud like that. Magic works in its own language—you need to learn it."
"I am serious. I never studied it. The words just... come to me. Out of nowhere."
She stared at me like she was sizing me up all over again.
"Huh. Looks like we've got ourselves a little prodigy... Can't even wipe his own ass yet, and already trying to blow himself up with magic."
I flinched. That smug tone grated on me. Her face looked young, but she didn't talk like someone my age. And that was the worst part—how she talked down to me like I was a child and she wasn't.
"Well, I've shown what I can do. What about you? You sure you're even a mage?"
"Me? Nah. I just wave my hands real convincingly."
She clicked her tongue and smirked.
"So what now, are we gonna stand here all day or are you letting me in?"
I stepped aside and opened the gate. She strolled in like she owned the place, didn't wait for an invite. Her horse stayed by the fence, lazily chewing on a bush.
"Paul's inside," I muttered, catching up with her.
"Great. So, since you're clearly a chatterbox, tell me—what've you been up to before I showed up? Other than trying to get yourself killed with spellcasting."
"Training. With a sword."
"Lovely. Sword, magic, attitude worse than a stray mutt… Who's raising you, again?"
"Paul."
"Ah. That explains it."
No. Why was she leading this?
I sped up and walked ahead of her. She followed without a word, silent, like someone used to walking wherever she damn well pleased.
"Name's Roxy," she said, like she barely cared. "And you, oh mighty wind-blade sorcerer, what do they call you?"
I turned back. She was squinting slightly, something between amusement and curiosity flickering in her eyes.
"Rudeus," I said flatly. "Rudeus Greyrat."
"Rudeus," she echoed, tasting the name. "Hmm. Sounds fancy. Like: 'I'm not just some five-year-old, I'm a natural disaster with a surname.'"
"I'm six."
"Oh, pardon me. That makes you an experienced catastrophe."
I sighed.
She snorted, shaking her head.
"All right, Rudeus. Show me where your dad is—before you summon a hurricane or turn someone into a frog. Unless that already happened and I'm just late to the party…"