A Magician’s Path Through Magica

Now I'm here, sitting in front of Grandpa's headstone, at the Mirnian cemetery. The rain falls steadily, and the thick gray clouds don't let a single ray of sunlight break through. Tears stream down my face as I think about the beautiful moments we shared, each memory like a fragment of sunlight in this gloomy storm.

I still can't believe it's been two weeks since Grandpa passed away.

Just a week ago, we held his funeral.

My parents cried a lot in those first days and barely spoke. My little sister didn't really understand where Grandpa had gone or what had happened to him. It was like she couldn't accept it at first, but eventually, she cried too. She misses him, just like the rest of us. And Grandma… she's been the hardest hit. She cried the most, and for days afterward, it was as if she had lost a part of herself. Her cooking, once so vibrant and filled with care, hasn't been the same. For a while, she barely spoke or interacted with anyone, as if a part of her had died with him. We're all struggling in our own way.

About 50 people came to his funeral, a turnout none of us expected. Many were friends from Mirnia, but a few were old acquaintances of his—mostly adventurers who had been in his party years ago.

One man, in particular, stood out. He was slightly taller than Grandpa, with a similar sturdy build. He wore an old robe with a hood pulled low over his head, casting his face into shadow. There was something mysterious about him, like he didn't quite belong here—or maybe it was just the way he lingered at the edge of the gathering, watching silently.

Since the funeral, I come here every day, just to stare at Grandpa's headstone. Ever since he passed away, I haven't been able to train—not even once. Training without him feels like running a race with no finish line in sight. I just can't bring myself to do it. If he could see me now, he wouldn't be proud of me anymore.

I'm useless. I'm nothing. Grandpa wouldn't be proud of me. He wouldn't even look at me. I'm a disgrace—a weakling who can't even push himself to train now that Grandpa's gone, I think, the words cutting deeper with every repetition.

"Why can't I just be braver? Or at least try harder?" I say aloud, my voice trembling as tears stream down my face, some slipping into my mouth and making it hard to speak.

I stand up, wiping at my cheeks even though it's useless, and salute Grandpa's headstone. With a heavy heart and a face wet with tears, I leave the cemetery, walking past rows of other headstones, each one a silent monument to someone who was loved and lost.

I'm not the only one who's lost someone important, I remind myself, but the thought does little to ease the ache in my chest. 

I step out of the cemetery, heading in the direction of home, but I barely take three steps before realizing something is wrong. Three boys are standing under the shadow of a nearby building, their eyes fixed on me. They're older—no doubt about that.

One of them stands out the most. Unlike the others, he doesn't wear a hood. His long blonde-silver hair catches the faint light, and his piercing blue eyes seem to size me up from a distance. He's at least a head and a half taller than me, likely somewhere between 12 and 14 years old. The other two, though slightly younger than him, still look much older than I am.

They start moving toward me in a menacing way, their intent clear in their slow, deliberate steps.

Before I can react, others begin to emerge. From the corners of nearby alleys, behind crates, and even from behind me, older boys appear one by one. My stomach twists as I count them—nine in total. I'm surrounded.

My heart races, each beat pounding louder in my ears. My palms grow clammy, and sweat drips down my forehead. My entire body trembles as fear courses through me. Yet, I force my face into a strained mix of anger and determination, hoping to look just a little intimidating.

"Who are you? What do you want?" I demand, though my voice betrays me, trembling with nervousness. 

The oldest says "Who are we? Just some guys. What do we want? Revenge." His voice drips with malice, his mischievous tone only amplifying the tension. "Surely, you remember that time you embarrassed three of my friends, while defending a dirty elf."

They move closer, boxing me in completely, cutting off any chance of escape. From behind the leader, four boys I recognize step forward—the same ones I fought months ago in that alley. Now they're part of this mob, bringing the total to thirteen. Their eyes burn with disgust and anger, their faces twisted with hatred.

"Is he the one who beat you?" the oldest boy—their leader—asks the four, his voice sharp and mocking.

They hesitate, glancing at each other in shame. The silence is heavy until the fattest one blurts out, "Yes... it's him!" His tone is laced with humiliation and anger.

The boss laughs, a cruel sound that echoes through the rain. "You're pathetic! How did you lose to this weakling? Even my little brother could've taken him down!"

The four remain silent, their faces red with embarrassment, as the rest of the group bursts into loud, mocking laughter. The boss raises a hand, and the laughter stops immediately. The silence that follows is almost more unsettling than their taunts.

'Wow, he must be really strong for them to respect him so much,' I think, my eyes scanning their movements with caution. My body tenses, readying itself to fight or flee, though both options seem hopeless.

The boss steps closer, his intense gaze locking onto mine. I stare back, refusing to show fear.

With a sudden flick of his hand, he conjures a lace of light—a spell that creates glowing bands of mana. The shimmering threads shoot toward me, wrapping tightly around my arms and torso before I can react. I fall to my knees with a groan of frustration, the muddy ground soaking into my trousers.

"You bastard! Set me free!" I snap, my voice trembling with both rage and desperation.

"Or what?" he retorts, his sarcastic tone paired with an evil smirk.

I grit my teeth, staying silent as he strides forward, towering over me.

"I heard some things about you," he continues, his tone shifting to one of mock curiosity. "Your friend Oliver told me all about it."

The mention of Oliver leaves me stunned. My mind races. 'Oliver?! Did he really talk about me to him? That can't be!'

The boss watches my reaction with satisfaction, then adds, "He told me your grandpa died two weeks ago. Killed by a warg, wasn't it? But wasn't he an adventurer? How does a professional adventurer get taken down by a little wolf?"

His words sting, and then he laughs—a sharp, cruel sound. The others join in, their jeering faces twisted with mockery.

My anger boils inside me, rising with every laugh. I glare at them from where I sit, my fists clenched, powerless but fuming. The muddy ground beneath me feels cold, but the heat of my rage is all I can focus on.

I try to respond, but my mind is clouded with doubt and anger. Even if I did manage to speak, what good would it do? He's clearly stronger than me—if he can cast such an advanced spell to trap me, I wouldn't stand a chance. My thoughts haven't been the same since Grandpa's death. I feel so pathetic.

"Your grandpa was no adventurer," the leader sneers, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "He was just some random farmer who happened to look like a famous mage." His words are met with uproarious laughter from his lackeys.

"He was probably just as pathetic as you. But hey," he continues with mockery etched across his face, "at least now he can go adventuring on the other side. He can't die again, can he?" The laughter swells as he looks at me, his gaze full of malice and amusement.

I keep staring at the mud beneath me. The anger and hatred burning inside me moments ago are draining away. All that's left is a deep sadness—and shame. I'm nothing but a coward, I think bitterly.

"He told me you wanted to be an adventurer too," the leader taunts, his smirk cruel and condescending. "But a loser like you, tainted with the blood of a weak farmer? You'll never make it. Never." His words hit harder than any spell could, his sneering expression cutting deeper than a blade.

How dare he insult my grandpa like that. My chest tightens as anger bubbles back to the surface. With a voice steadied by a sudden surge of pride and defiance, I say, "What do you know about adventuring?!"

His mocking grin falters, confusion flickering across his face. He's no longer amused—no longer sure of his dominance. I see it in his eyes. He's wondering why I'm standing up for myself, why I'm not breaking under his words.

"What did you just say?!" he growls, his tone sharp and menacing. But to me, he no longer looks so threatening. He insulted my grandpa, the man who meant the world to me. I couldn't stay silent any longer.

His lackeys stare at me, stunned. They don't see the weakling they mocked just seconds ago. Now, they see something else—determination burning in my eyes, courage I didn't know I had.

"You're just an arrogant little boy," I spit back at him, my voice unwavering. "You've only gotten this far because of your daddy's money."

My words hit him like a thunderclap, and I see the sting of them in his expression. For the first time, his confidence falters. His smirk twists into a scowl.

"Shut up!" he roars, his voice trembling with fury. He glares at me like a wild beast, unhinged and dangerous.

He hurls a bolt of lightning at me with a frustrated scream. I try to dodge it, even though I'm trapped, but it grazes my cheek, leaving a stinging wound.

Before I can react, he charges at me, his anger boiling over. His foot connects with my forehead, sending a jolt of pain through my skull. I collapse onto my back, dazed and hurting.

I try to scramble to my feet, but he grabs my shirt and slams my head into the muddy ground. He presses his filthy boot down on my head, pinning me in place. Mud clogs my nose and mouth; I can barely breathe.

"You little shit!" he snarls, his voice venomous. "You're worth nothing! How dare you disrespect me?! I'll kill you and send you to your grandpa!"

He pushes harder, forcing my face deeper into the mud. My lungs burn as I struggle for air, his words ringing in my ears. But even in the suffocating darkness, I feel something stir within me—a spark that refuses to die.

The leader continues to force my head into the mud, kicking me aggressively without a moment's hesitation. His insults rain down as relentlessly as his blows.

"Die, you low-class filth! You worthless dog! Just eat mud—that's all you're good for! You blood-sucking maggot!" he snarls, his voice filled with hatred, his words cutting deeper than the physical pain.

As I endure the beating, one of Grandpa's last words echoes in my mind: 'True strength... it comes from the heart of those willing to fight for it.'

A fire ignites within me, small but unyielding. I can't let this end here. I have to stand up. I have to fight. For my dreams. For my family. And most of all—for Grandpa!

"It's not like that!" I scream, my voice breaking through the sound of his jeering. "My grandpa was no simple farmer! He was one of the strongest adventurers the western region has ever known!"

The earth beneath us begins to tremble. Small pebbles leap into the air, and the wind grows wild and violent. Blue flames flicker to life, circling me and the leader. To me, they feel like the warm embrace of a mother cradling her newborn—gentle, protective, and filled with purpose.

The boys around us freeze, panic flashing in their eyes. Fear and confusion etch across their faces as they witness the unnatural phenomena. The leader falters, his barrage of insults halting as he stares at the flames, bewildered and unnerved.

"And I will become the strongest!" I roar, my voice echoing with unshakable determination. "The strongest in the WORLD!"

I rise to my feet, mana surging through me. The binding that held me fall away as though it was no more than a fragile thread. The boys gape at me in stunned silence, their leader among them.

"Shut u—" the leader starts, but he can't even finish. A sudden burst of mana explodes from me, hurling him and his lackeys into the air like ragdolls. They crash to the ground—or into the walls of nearby buildings—landing over twenty meters away.

The chaos subsides as the trembling ground and swirling winds calm. My body steadies, and I take a shaky breath. I don't know how I did it—or even if I did it—but one thing is clear: I'm saved.

I glance at the boys sprawled around, most of them unconscious or groaning in pain. Without sparing them another thought, I turn and run. I run as fast as my legs can carry me, ignoring the burning in my lungs.

Mud clings to my face and clothes, drying and cracking like a second skin. A faint trickle of blood runs down my temple, warm and sticky against the cool evening air.

The familiar streets of Mirnia blur as my head throbs with every step. The houses seem to grow impossibly tall, looming over me like giants. The once-narrow roads stretch endlessly, twisting into paths I can't recognize.

I can't go any further. My body gives out, and I collapse onto the side of the street, gasping for air. My vision blurs, my head spinning from the blows I've taken. Darkness begins to creep in at the edges of my sight, and my mind empties, leaving behind only a strange clarity.

Just as I'm about to lose consciousness, I hear steps and a figure appears before me. The fading light of dusk makes it hard to see clearly at first, but as the figure draws closer, I make out the shape of an old man.

His white hair glows faintly in the dim light, and his dark eyes seem to hold a depth I can't comprehend. His milk-white skin and gentle expression remind me of Grandpa. He's about the same height, too.

The old man looks down at me, curiosity and kindness in his gaze. "I didn't expect to meet you here, Arthur," he says, his voice calm and soothing.

I stare at him, bewildered and trying to process his words.

"Your parents must be worried," he continues, stretching out a hand toward me. "Come on, Arthur. Let me take you home."

I hesitate for a moment, unsure of whether to trust him. But something in his presence feels safe—comforting. I take his hand, and he helps me to my feet.

"Nice to meet you, Arthur," he says with a small smile, shaking my hand firmly. "I knew your grandpa. I'm sorry for what happened to him."

He pauses, a shadow of sorrow crossing his face before his smile returns. "My name is Mercurius Athernal, but you can call me Mercur."