""...""
I remained silent as I skimmed through Orland's file. Nothing out of the ordinary—basic physical description, job history, name, age, current status (recently changed from "AWOL" to "Terminated"), a few operation logs, psyche evaluations, and some routine health reports, all standard data, more or less.
What I was really looking for was something deeper. His personal history, or at least whatever version of it the Executerii had deemed fit to record.
Then something caught my eye.
""Married Lisa Amande in 1200 PC on January 16th...""
I paused, processing the date.
((9 years ago...a few months before I was "born" too, or would "activated" be the more accurate term? Is this a coincidence? No. Coincidences aren't this convenient))
I remained blank faced, but internally I was considering the implications with a foreboding feeling.
Orland had mentioned a "Lisa" in his final words. Was this the same one? And if so, why did their marriage coincide so closely with my creation?
""Hmm...Maybe her file's in here too""
I muttered the thought aloud as I continued scanning through the file, searching for anything that might shed light on the connection.
((Did something happen to her that made him defect?))
A few more flicks through the report, and then—
""Lisa Amande died in 1205 PC...cause of death: birth complications""
Silence stretched on for a few moments as I stared at the words, my mind slowly piecing things together.
(("They'll use you up and throw you away, Jackal...just like my Lisa…"))
Orland's words echoed in my head. This file was clearly bullshit.
""Classic Executerii information suppression...this file is useless""
I exhaled sharply. With my clearance as a GEN-7 soldier—second only to the Maestro himself—any redacted data should have been visible. Which meant there was nothing to redact. They hadn't just hidden the truth; they'd erased it before it could even be covered up.
But I wasn't at a dead end yet.
""Lisa Amande…where are you?""
Exiting Orland's file, I scrolled through the database, navigating to section "L".
""Lizzie Diaz…no. Linda Bolt…no. Ah—here we go. Lisa Amande""
I clicked on the file.
A warning window immediately popped up:
"You are attempting to access a highly restricted file. Level 7 clearance or above required. Unauthorized access will result in immediate activation of the Acheron protocol. Do you wish to proceed?"
Two buttons appeared: one green, one red. "Yes" and "No".
""...""
Without hesitation, I pressed "Yes."
A second notification followed:
"Sufficient clearance detected. Access granted"
Lisa's file appeared on the screen of the orbment.
I read through the file the same way I had combed through Orland's, my eyes scanning each line with mechanical precision, searching for something—anything—that would give me clarity. Though if I were being honest with myself, I wasn't even sure what I was looking for. The whole thing felt vague, undefined, like reaching into the dark for a shape I couldn't quite see.
""Lisa Amande. Senior Biotechnologist, Geneticist—GEN-7 Initiative...she was a researcher on the GEN-7 project?""
I paused. That wasn't what I had expected.
((…Was that why Orland…?))
Even before our final confrontation, Hanuman Orland had given me that look—the kind that lingered just a second too long, the kind that carried recognition, familiarity, history. But I had never seen him before. Not that I remembered, anyway.
I continued reading, absorbing the words with detached efficiency.
((To be completely clear…I wasn't "born" from the GEN-7 project the way the others were. It was actually the opposite. The GEN-7 project was born with the sole purpose of replicating the Maestro's work on me. I'm only labeled a GEN-7 by virtue of technicality))
I had always been different from the others, though no one ever said it outright. There was a distinction—unspoken, but present. I had felt it in the way the instructors regarded me, in the way they measured my progress differently, expected more. The other GEN-7s were not different, they looked at me as if I was a standard to measure themselves to...some with envy and others with reverence...sometimes both. Now, reading this, the truth was beginning to surface.
"Entered the project in 1204 PC. Tasked with replicating and refining enhancements observed in Subject DB-001...Callsign: "Oblivion", the most successful, employed enhanced being at the time"
I stopped. The words settled in my head like puzzle pieces snapping into place.
""Oblivion…""
I muttered under my breath.
That was me.
I thought lining up the details as I continued to read.
""Primary objectives: enhancement of embryonic cell viability, accelerated cognitive and physical conditioning, neurological restructuring to suppress emotional instability""
If I was capable of humor, a dry chuckle would've escaped my lips. That was a nice way of saying "create killers with no hesitation" I had no doubt every GEN-7 in existence currently had some version of that line in their files.
((The timeline matches up…I began work at 4 years old somewhere near the start of 1204 PC, after going through more than a decade of training within hotel Nowhere. More or less 3-4 years of my childhood, stretched into 19 years and 8 months of relentless conditioning through the use of the hotel's properties—a place where time didn't flow. Every moment in this timeless dimension was spent sharpening me into what I am now. Intermittent field tests punctuated the years, refining my skills, ensuring I met expectations. When I was deployed for real, biologically, I was still just a 4 year old. But the mutation cycles combined with rigorous training had given my body accelerated development, leaving me with the frame of someone in their early teens...))
I let the thought sit for a moment, lining up the details, ensuring everything fit. It did. Too well in fact.
""Lisa Amande dedicated her efforts to overcoming instability issues in enhanced human embryos. Using her own embryonic cells, she worked toward creating the next generation of enhanced soldiers...""
I froze momentarily.
""…Using her own embryonic cells?""
I echoed.
Something in my chest twisted, but I shoved it down and read on. My fingers tightened around the orbment, the smooth surface pressing into my skin.
Lisa Amande. The name wasn't familiar, but the implications of her works were...if I was a philosopher I'd comment on how it's often the people you never meet that shape the world you're going to experience.
""Due to repeated failures and frustration, Lisa Amande developed an obsession with completing the work at any cost...""
There were attached psyche evaluations. I opened one.
""Subject exhibits signs of increasing emotional detachment, hyper-fixation on project success, and displays growing disregard for the constraints of her own wellbeing, spending more and more time in hotel Nowhere to abuse it's hyperbolic effect on time to complete her work. Repeatedly dismisses concerns from colleagues regarding personal involvement in experimental trials""
An interview log accompanied the evaluation, I pressed "play" on it and watched the transcribed subtitles.
"Lisa, this is getting dangerous. You're too personally invested in this—"
"I don't have time for this conversation again. The failures only mean we haven't gone far enough. The work must continue"
I stopped the file from playing further I could already guess what happened next, these researcher types were painfully predictable after all.
((She used herself to create the perfect soldier...))
I thought emotionlessly, it was clear from the fact she used her own embryonic cells but what she would do next would be on a whole other level.
Nonetheless, I kept reading, eyes scanning ahead.
""In a last-ditch effort, she sought to use her own body to give birth to a specimen…but due to complications during childbirth, Lisa Amande unfortunately passed…""
I didn't react, having already more or less predicted it. My face remained blank, my breathing even. I had read words like these before. I had seen reports detailing deaths, casualties, eliminations. It was all the same, wasn't it?
But something about this one lingered.
"The child, however…survived. And was given the designation: DB-013"
The thoughts in my head clicked into place before I even read the next line.
((DB-013…That's Callsign: Limbo))
The gears in my mind turned, faster now, the pieces now drew a complete picture of the situation.
""She was subsequently buried in the "Gardens". Her husband, Hanuman Orland, was given a redacted version of the story. The child, after being put through the Beta Curriculum (a massively scaled down iteration of the same training subject DB-001 underwent), was given the Callsign: "Limbo" in reference to his developed ability as a living conduit to the Void""
That was where the file ended. Any further details would be in Limbo's personal records or buried deep within the classified logs of the GEN-7 project.
I stared at the last line for a long moment, my mind tracing the connections.
Lisa Amande. A researcher obsessed with the project. A woman who had, in the end, become the project. She hadn't just been conducting experiments—she had been the experiment.
She had sacrificed herself for it.
And Orland…
Orland had lost his wife to it. And if she had used his DNA to create Limbo...his child to it.
((Come to think of it, there were some visual similarities between them, and Limbo is 4 right now so the timeline fits...))
The thought settled into my mind, unbidden but undeniable. I layered Limbo's face over Orland's in my thoughts, tracing the details—subtle, but there. The shape of the jawline, the angle of the eyes, the way their expressions carried the same weight, both people who had seen too much.
""...""
Without realizing it, the orbment slipped from my fingers. It landed on the bed with a dull *thud*. My head tilted back, eyes fixing blankly on the ceiling.
I wasn't sure what I was supposed to feel about this.
If anything at all...
""...""
Silence filled the room, stretching unchallenged as I drifted deep into thought.
((So Limbo being the one to pick me up had another purpose as well...was everything deliberate from the start? Just how long have you been pulling the strings from within the confines of this hotel, Maestro?))
More questions. Always more questions. My attempt to obtain answers only unraveled more layers, each thread leading back to the same unseen hands guiding everything from the shadows.
((Does Limbo know? Has he realized?...would he even care...?))
My thoughts wandered again to my ghostly colleague. If he knew, would it matter to him? Would it change anything?
""…Haaaa~""
I exhaled a long sigh, pressing a hand to my face, rubbing my temples.
""Well…I suppose it doesn't change anything""
It was almost amusing, in a way. After all that effort, after prying into things I didn't have to, I had arrived at the exact same conclusion I had reached before.
""Limbo was right. What has transpired cannot be changed, so it's pointless to get worked up over it. I went through all this trouble just to go back to the same verdict I reached earlier""
My voice was quiet, the words more for myself than anyone else. I let out another sigh, remembering the conversation we had aboard the Stygian Courier's dragon fleet.
I closed the orbment and placed it on the bedside cupboard, my gaze shifting to the white paper lying beside it—still unread.
""Well…time to get back to work""
I muttered, picking up the paper and beginning to decipher the Vigenère cipher.
The missions listed within only confirmed what I already suspected. Over the next few weeks—maybe months—I would be running multiple operations, sabotaging the Rivalin Guild at every turn. The moment they so much as stepped foot in any territory with a nearby hotel door, I would be there.
The war had already begun...
*Meanwhile…
*In a place far away yet untouched by what was about to transpire...
"Ugh..."
The fire crackled before me, a living thing, flickering and writhing as if whispering secrets in tongues I could not yet understand. My fingers hovered just above the flames, trembling despite my best efforts to still them. The heat kissed my skin, a forewarning of the torment to come.
"Okay...ha~...okay..."
I whispered to no one but myself, my breath hitching as I fought the primal instinct screaming at me to stop. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, the anticipation almost worse than the act itself.
Fear...
It was my enemy right now...but also my teacher...my obstacle as well as my proof of success should I conquer it.
It sat in my gut, heavy, suffocating. My body knew what was coming, and every nerve begged me to pull away, to abandon this madness. But I had made my choice.
"Haaa~ Haaaaa~..."
Every breath I forced into my lungs only intensified that feeling of suffocation, it was like my heart and lungs were being squeezed slowly by an unseen hand.
(""Take control of your life before it takes control of you, because life can and WILL make a mess out of you"")
His words echoed in my mind. The words of that boy. The one who had saved me that fateful night. His words were cold and unquestionable, like an uncaring truth, a fact of reality. If I faltered here, then what was the point? If I couldn't endure this, how could I ever hope to wield it?
"Pheeew~...Okay...okay...let's do this...on 5..."
Resolve hardened within me. My jaw clenched. My breath hitched.
"5...4"
I began counting down, each subsequent number finding it harder and harder to leave my mouth.
"3...2..."
Nonetheless I pressed on.
"...1!"
I practically screamed out the final number.
And then—
"HYAAAAAAAH!"
I plunged my hand into the fire.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!"
A scream tore from my throat, raw and guttural, before I could even comprehend the pain. The flames consumed me, licking hungrily at my flesh, searing through my skin with a fury that was beyond anything I had ever imagined. It was not just heat—it was violence, an unforgiving force that carved into me, reshaping my nerves into conduits of suffering.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!"
My body arched forward, muscles seizing as the agony exploded in white-hot bursts across my vision. The scent of burning flesh invaded my nostrils—thick, acrid, nauseating—and realization struck like a hammer to the chest.
I was burning.
"Hhhnggh...nghhh...!"
Eventually my screams slowly turned into strangled whimpering as the pain was choking out my agonized screams.
*Crackle* *pop!* *pop!* *squelch!* *pop!* *pop!*
The skin peeled first, curling away in blackened ribbons, exposing the raw, angry red tissue beneath. Blisters bloomed, swelling grotesquely, only to rupture and ooze with a clear, sticky fluid that hissed upon contact with the flames. My nerves screamed—I screamed—as pain became my entire existence. It crawled up my arm like an infection, racing through my bones, deep, all-encompassing.
"Khh—! Ahh—hck!"
I let out choking gasps as the torment choked the life out of me, my entire body turning pale as tears streamed down my face, but I did not pull away. I couldn't.
This was the price.
This was understanding.
"HA!~ ah!..."
I gasped through clenched teeth, my breath coming in ragged, shuddering gulps. My hand was dying, and yet—somewhere in the depths of my torment—there was a perverse clarity. I was feeling it. Experiencing it. I was no longer separate from fire. It was inside me now, woven into my pain, into my very being...
"GAAAAAAAH!"
And then, just before the moment I might have collapsed, I forced every bit of strength remaining in my body to move and wrenched my hand free from the fire.
"Haaa~...haaaa~...haaa~"
I stumbled back, clutching my wrist, my body wracked with violent tremors. My vision swam. I could hardly breathe.
"Argh!"
I winced in pain, my hand was ruined—a mangled landscape of charred skin and exposed flesh. Patches of blackened, dead tissue clung to my palm, while the rest was a mess of raw red meat, glistening and slick. Every slight movement sent bolts of fresh agony lancing up my arm, but I couldn't look away. This was it.
I had burned.
I had suffered.
But most of all, I had learned...
Through the haze of pain, through the thundering drum of my own heartbeat, I felt something stir. A flicker—not from the fire before me, but from within.
It was faint at first—barely more than a whisper of breath.
"Haaa~...haha...hah...haha~...ha..."
A tremor ran through my body, a mix of exhaustion, agony, and something dangerously close to exhilaration. And then—despite the searing pain, despite the tears streaking my face—I let out a sound that I barely recognized.
"Haha..hargh!...hahaha!..."
A laugh.
A real, breathless, broken laugh.
"Hahahaha...HAHAHAHA! Finally…!"
*Click* *sizzle* *sizzle* *crackle!*
*FUUUSSSH!* *Whoosh!*
The moment the flame roared to life in my ruined right hand, I clutched my wrist with my trembling left, barely holding steady as the whitish-azure fire climbed toward the ceiling, its flickering light casting eerie shadows against the walls.
It was small—delicate, like the flame of a candle in the cold night—but it was mine.
"I...did it..."
My voice wavered between ragged gasps and breathless laughter, raw from the hours of screaming.
"I finally...success!…Hahaha!"
I had done it. I had wielded fire.
After endless hours of preparation, research, practice along with agonizing trial and error, I had finally harnessed the magic I sought. The simplest of pyromantic spells, the barest flicker of control—nothing grand, nothing spectacular—but it was real.
And I had done it.
"It's possible...I've proven that it's possible...haha~...hahahaha!"
I said in a daze, almost in disbelief at the fact that I actually succeeded using such a stupid, barely thought out method.
"..."
For a moment, I simply stared, mesmerized by the swirling, ghostly-blue flames licking at my wounded skin.
*sizzle* *sizzle*
The burnt flesh hissed in protest, the pain lancing up my arm like liquid steel, but I didn't care.
I only exhaled, letting my shoulders slump, my entire body trembling from the effort.
"Haa~...haaa~..."
The flame wavered, dimmed—then flickered out entirely.
All that remained was the lingering heat against my skin, the ragged rise and fall of my chest, and the deep, aching satisfaction settling into my bones.
(I did it...I ACTUALLY did it!...)
I had succeeded.
"Ow..."
But the revelry was only temporary as the elation of success had faded now, leaving only the raw, searing pain of my ruined hand. My breath came in short, shallow gasps, my entire arm trembling as if it had been set ablaze all over again.
"P-Potion..."
I struggled to my feet, legs weak and unsteady, dragging myself toward the shelf where I had prepared the necessary remedies in advance.
"Urgh!..."
*Sizzle!* *sizzle*
My vision blurred for a moment, dizziness creeping in as the lingering scent of scorched flesh filled my nostrils. The smell was nauseating, but I pushed forward, reaching for the supplies with my uninjured hand.
"I need...argh!...this..."
A strip of cloth lay among the bottles. I grabbed it, hastily tying it around my mouth and biting down—hard. I knew what was coming next. I had to be ready.
"MMMM~"
With shaking fingers, I opened the container of salve. The thick, herbal paste gleamed under the dim light, its scent sharp and medicinal. I hesitated for only a second before pressing a generous amount onto my burned palm.
"MMMMHHHHH!"
A strangled, muffled scream tore through my throat as the pain spiked.
It was worse than the fire.
*Slam!*
The salve seeped into my charred flesh, the cool ointment sending a shocking wave of pain through my nerves. My body convulsed involuntarily, my knees buckling as I clutched my wrist tight, trying to ground myself.
"HNNNGHHH!"
My teeth clamped down on the cloth, the fabric doing little to muffle the guttural sobs of agony that wracked my frame. The pain was all-consuming, a deep, searing throb that pulsed through every fiber of my being.
Tears welled in my eyes, flowing unchecked like a river hampering my vision. But I didn't stop. I could not stop.
With painstaking effort, I reached for the glass vial—the health potion. The deep crimson liquid shimmered under the light as I pulled the cork off with my teeth, spitting it aside.
With one last breath to brace myself, I tipped the bottle, letting the potion cascade over my ruined hand.
"MMMMFFFF!!"
My muffled shriek tore through the room as the potion began its work.
A slow, excruciating heat spread through my flesh, as if my hand were knitting itself back together thread by thread, nerve by nerve. I could feel it—the regeneration, the slow reversal of my injuries—every inch of burned, ruined skin being forced back to its original state.
My entire body trembled violently, my back arching as the sensation overwhelmed me. The pain was almost unbearable, but I gritted my teeth, endured it, forced myself to endure it.
And then, slowly…agonizingly…it began to subside.
The ragged tremors eased. The heat dulled into something more manageable. My breaths, though still labored, steadied little by little.
Finally, when I dared to look down, I saw my hand—whole.
No burns. No charred flesh. Only smooth, unblemished skin, tinged pink from the remnants of pain but otherwise…intact.
I exhaled a shaky breath, my body slumping in exhaustion. The cloth fell from my lips, damp with saliva and muffled screams.
It was done.
The pain was gone.
And yet, as I stared at my newly healed hand, I found myself smiling—just a little.
"Haaaa~ Heh..."
Because now…now I knew.
(It's true...magic isn't just knowledge. Not just theory. It was sacrifice. It was suffering. It was power born from pain, a reward to be claimed by those willful enough to take it into their hands despite the agony...)
My theory on how to properly learn magic was correct, it was ad-hoc, poorly thought out and desperate as it can get, but with whatever limited resources and knowledge I had on it, I had still managed to achieve real magic for the first time, and that was a victory all to itself.
(""Take control of your life before it takes control of you"")
His words echoed in my mind, reverberating through my very bones. A truth I could not ignore. A reminder that this—this agony, this struggle—was just the beginning.
"Haaaa~"
I let out a long, slow breath.
The pain had finally faded, leaving behind a phantom ache where the fire had kissed my flesh. I turned toward the shelf, reaching for the lacy black glove I had prepared beforehand. The delicate fabric felt wrong against my skin—too soft, too unnatural. The memory of searing heat and raw, blistered flesh was still fresh in my nerves, and the contrast made me shudder. Even so, I forced my fingers through, pulling it snug over my once-ruined hand.
(There. No one needs to know...)
It was time to move forward.
With quiet efficiency, I cleaned up the evidence of what I had done, ensuring that no one would trace my actions. The ashes, the salves, the empty potion vial—I left no trace behind. I couldn't afford to.
This was only the first step...
Ever since that fateful night—many weeks ago, close to a month now—when that boy had saved me, I had been relentless.
His image was burned into my mind: a black-cloaked ghost, hair pale as death, eyes like glowing rubies in the dark. He had moved like a shadow, fought with inhuman precision, wielded power as if it were simply an extension of himself.
And I replayed the events of that night—over and over again, intoxicated by his power, his control over the world around him...
And ever since that night, I had thrown myself into magic like a girl possessed.
Only one thought existed in my head…
(Maybe I can't be like him…but even if I had only a fraction of his will and power...that would be enough)
With that as my driving motive, I had locked myself away in the mansion's library, isolating myself from the outside world. While the place was vast, its towering bookshelves filled with all manner of knowledge, there were painfully few books on magic.
That wasn't surprising.
Magic was heavily regulated, and for a child under 12, it was outright illegal to even begin studying it.
But I did not let that deter me.
For hours upon hours, I had scoured every book, searched through every text, piecing together whatever scraps of knowledge I could find. Alchemy manuals, old scrolls, religious texts that spoke of miracles, even outdated medical journals—anything that so much as mentioned the arcane, I devoured.
It was incomplete. Fragmented. Half of what I found contradicted the other half, and I had no teacher to guide me...
This was understandable, by every national and international law I know, it was prohibited to expose children under the age of 12 before their awakening ceremony to ANY element of the supernatural.
But it didn't matter...not to me.
Through sheer, desperate will, I had assembled something. An ad-hoc, incomplete, yet technically functional understanding of magic.
Enough to take my first step.
Enough to begin.
The first step, according to everything I had pieced together, was perception.
Before I could control magic, before I could shape it, I had to see it.
This fundamental force—known as Mana—was the very essence of magic. But what was Mana? Was it energy? A force? The breath of the world? The books disagreed, offering half-truths and contradictions. Some described it as the "lifeblood of existence," others as "concentrated willpower given form." But despite my exhaustive research, I still didn't fully understand what it was.
What I did understand was that, to perceive it, I needed to awaken a kind of sixth sense—one that required a fusion of mental and physical stimulation. Meditation to hone my focus, and exercise to sharpen my awareness. A balance of the body and mind that would force my consciousness open to the unknown.
So, I began.
I wasn't sure what I was doing, but I tried.
I meditated for long, grueling hours, forcing myself into deeper and deeper states of concentration, trying to reach something beyond my grasp. And when I wasn't meditating, I exercised—starting with pull-ups.
Which…went about as well as one would expect.
I managed a pathetic 4 pull ups before my arms gave out. The strain left me breathless, shaking, my fingers barely clinging to the wooden beam I had chosen as my makeshift bar. My body was weak.
But eventually I came up with a unique solution to this dilemma, I had something no one else had...
A unique perception.
I had been born with the ability to see emotions—not metaphorically, but literally. Emotions took form as [colors], shifting and morphing in response to the feelings of those around me. It was an innate, supernatural sight I had always possessed, a quirk of my existence that I had never quite understood.
And so, I made a leap of logic.
(If emotions could be seen, if something intangible could take on color in my mind—then why not Mana?)
I latched onto the idea with desperate determination, focusing all of my effort into visualizing Mana as I would an emotion.
And then, finally—I saw it.
Not in the way I saw emotions. Not as vibrant [colors] dancing in the air. No—Mana was different.
It was colorless.
A stream of colorless…something, an imaginary current that wasn't really there, and yet was. A paradox. Something felt, rather than seen. It didn't exist in the physical sense, yet it was present all the same, flowing, shifting, waiting to be shaped.
Or at least, that's what I thought it was.
I wasn't entirely sure.
But I didn't need certainty—I needed to grasp it.
I reached out with my mind, grasping at that invisible thread, molding it like a child shaping dough. At first, it resisted, slipping between my fingers like grains of sand. But slowly—painstakingly—I learned to hold it. To command it.
But controlling it was only half the battle.
The next step—the true challenge—was shaping it into something real.
And that was far harder.
Mana was formless by nature. A shapeless, flowing energy that had no inherent structure. If I wanted to turn it into fire, I needed to force it into the form of flames.
(But how does one create something from nothing?)
That was the question, I decided on using "fire" as my first project as it was the most abundant thing around me with all the lanterns and fireplaces in this mansion.
It took me days to find the answer. Days of failure, frustration, exhaustion. Until I finally synthesized a process, a formulae in my mind that might work—
The only way to shape Mana…was to truly understand what I wanted to create.
To conjure fire, I had to do three things:
1. Visualize it. See it in my mind with absolute clarity.
2. Understand it. Know what it was, how it worked, how it existed.
3. Experience it. Feel it—truly feel it—so that my soul would remember its nature.
And so, I did.
I spent hours staring into the fireplace, until my eyes were sore from the strain, memorizing every flicker, every twist of the flames, visualization.
I poured over books on the physics of fire, learning that flames weren't a substance, but a reaction. A rapid, violent rupture of air and heat, a natural process rather than a solid force, understanding.
And then—when knowledge was no longer enough—
I plunged my hand into the flames.
The pain was unlike anything I had ever felt. A raw, blistering agony that seared through my nerves, branding itself into my very bones.
I screamed. I convulsed. I nearly lost consciousness from the sheer, unrelenting torment, experience.
And when all of that knowledge—the visualization, the understanding, the experience—came together…
I succeeded.
A spark. A flicker. A tiny azure flame danced upon my fingertips, struggling against the air, weak but undeniably real.
It had taken weeks of relentless effort, of exhausting research, of pain. But in the end…
I had done it...
*Knock* *knock* *knock*
At that moment when I was basking in the glorious feeling of my success. A crude, graceless rapping appeared at the door, souring my moment.
Not the soft, respectful tap of a well-trained servant, but the impatient pounding of someone who didn't care to hide their irritation.
"Sophi-I mean…milady?"
Came the voice from beyond the wooden frame, laced with exasperation. A maid.
"What are you doing in there?"
Not a question of concern. Not a question of worry.
A question of annoyance.
For a long moment, I said nothing.
"…"
I stood in silence, my newly healed hand still tingling with phantom pain, hidden beneath the black lace glove. My heart still beat with the rush of accomplishment, the lingering memory of the blue flame that had danced between my fingers just moments ago. The warmth of success had yet to fade, and with it, a realization settled over me—
(I've done something that no one else my age could do…)
Magic was something that required the awakening ceremony—a ritual conducted at age 12, when a child was formally introduced to the supernatural world. That was when they first became aware of the mystical forces within them, when they gained the ability to sense Mana for the first time. That was the normal process.
(Just like him I've risen above the norm…)
I said remembering the visage of that mysterious boy who saved me from an unpleasant fate at the hands of the kidnappers.
I had grasped magic before the awakening ceremony.
I had forced my way into a world that wasn't supposed to be open to me yet.
And now…
"Hey! Answer me! I don't have time for this today! Haaaa~"
The irritation in the maid's voice—the dismissiveness, the expectation that I would scurry and submit like a child—felt almost laughable.
(Why should I be afraid of some damnservant?!)
For the first time, I didn't feel powerless.
I didn't feel small.
I had power.
And I intended to keep it...
"Haaaaaa~"
I inhaled slowly, steadying my breath. My body was still exhausted from the ordeal, my muscles weak, my burned skin raw beneath the glove. But I straightened my posture, schooling my expression into one of composed authority.
Then, finally, I spoke.
"Nothing of concern…"
I said, my voice even, calm—firm.
"Tch!..."
I could almost hear the maid's scoff through the door.
"Nothing of concern? You've locked yourself in there all day"
The maid said rather disrespectfully to someone that was technically above her station.
"I'm reading"
I replied smoothly.
"Is that a problem?"
I asked, a tinge of coldness coloring my voice.
"…"
A pause.
The maid clicked her tongue, muttering something under her breath before finally saying:
"Just don't make a mess"
*Clop* *clop* *clop*
Then, the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall.
"Phew~"
I exhaled.
"heh…"
Slowly, my lips curled into a small, knowing smile.
(Time to take control…)
I thought my head filling with sinister thoughts, fueled by my newfound achievement.