Three weeks had passed since the recruits opened their Gates.
Three weeks of grueling, relentless study that had pushed their minds to the breaking point.
The initial, wondrous excitement of discovering magic had been tempered by the harsh reality of the work required to master it.
Carter remembered the first day of their language studies, three weeks ago. Damien had gathered them in one of the smaller, more intimate lecture halls within the Great Archive.
The air was thick with the scent of old paper and ink.
“Your journey to becoming a mage begins not with flashy spells, but with words,” Damien had stated. His voice was a cold, clinical instrument.
“To control magic, you must first control the language that channels it. Some of you may feel this is an insurmountable task.”
“The English language, for example, contains over one hundred and seventy-one thousand words. But before The Unity, the average native speaker only knew between thirty and forty thousand of them in a lifetime.”
“And to speak fluently, one only needs to master the 2,000 to 3,000 most commonly used words.”
He had looked at them. A flicker of something almost encouraging was in his steel-gray eyes.
“Your affinity gives you a significant advantage. The language of your soul will come to you more naturally than any other.”
“Focus on that core vocabulary. Master it. Let it become an extension of your own thoughts.”
“It will give you the foundation you need to construct not just sentences, but spells.”
And so, for the past three weeks, they had lived in the Great Archive.
Their days had been a blur of flashcards, pronunciation drills, and one-on-one sessions with stern, patient tutors.
They had spent hours hunched over their Lexanomicons, their minds aching with the effort of absorbing centuries of lost knowledge.
There had been no magic, no combat, only the slow, arduous process of building the foundation upon which their future as mages would stand.
Now, three weeks later, they were back in the large empty training classroom, the one with the obsidian floor and the torchlit walls.
The air was thick with a nervous, expectant energy. The recruits were no longer the terrified, confused civilians who first entered this room.
They were students, their faces leaner, their eyes sharper, their minds honed by weeks of intense study.
Damien stood before them. His expression was as severe and unreadable as ever.
“For the past three weeks, you have focused on the first path to power: study,” he began. His voice echoed in the silent chamber.
“You have begun to reclaim the languages that were stolen from you. But knowledge alone is not enough.”
“The second path to power is training, the forging of your physical body into a worthy conduit for magic. That is a discipline that my colleague, Mr. Valhallor, will be assisting you with.”
“You will meet him after you have bonded with your grimoires. Today, however, we return to the science of magic.”
“Today, we learn how to turn your newfound words into weapons.”
He gestured to the obsidian floor. “Magic is channeled through language, but it is structured by grammar.”
“The spells you will learn to cast are divided into three distinct types, each with its own rules, its own costs, and its own applications.”
He held up a single finger.
“The first and most basic type is the Direct Spell. It is a single word, or perhaps a short, two-to-three-word phrase, spoken with clear intent.”
- Example: 氷 (Kōri, Japanese) = Single word spell to create ice
“It is the foundation of all magic.
“Simple, efficient, and potent.” He speaks a single, sharp word in a language Carter didn’t recognize.
A perfect sphere of crackling, white-hot fire appeared in his hand, hovering above his palm. It cast a warm, flickering light on his impassive face.
“Fire,” he says, translating. He closes his hand, and the flame vanishes without a sound.
“The second type,” he continues, holding up a second finger, “is the Complex Spell. This is a partial or complete sentence, spoken in a single language.”
- Example: Bir ışık kılıcı (A sword of light, Turkish) = A short sentence spell in Turkish to create a sword of light
“It allows for more nuanced, conditional, and multi-stage effects. But with greater complexity comes a greater cost in both energy and focus.”
“So, it’s like, a bigger spell needs a bigger battery?” Nico asks. Genuine curiosity was on his face.
“Yes. A crude but accurate analogy, Mr. Reyes,” Damien replies without missing a beat.
“The third and most advanced type,” he says, holding up a third finger. His voice drops to a low, serious tone. “is the Mixed Spell.”
“This is the highest level of spellcasting, reserved for the most skilled and disciplined of mages. A Mixed Spell is a complex incantation that deliberately weaves in words from a foreign language—a language outside of your own Affinity—to create truly unique and reality-defying effects.”
Keyona leans forward. Her expression was sharp.
“So that’s how you get around the whole Dissonance thing? By mixing them properly?”
“Precisely, Ms. Baker. It is not a matter of brute force, but of elegant integration.”
“However,” Damien adds, his gaze sharp and penetrating, “it is also the most dangerous. Every foreign word you introduce into a spell increases the risk of Linguistic Dissonance.”
“A single miscalculation, a single moment of lost focus, and the spell will collapse, turning its power back on the caster with catastrophic results.”
Damien walks over to a large, blank section of the obsidian wall. He places a hand on its surface.
Glowing, white lines of text begin to appear, diagramming the structure of a complex spell.
“A Complex Spell is like any other sentence,” he explains. His voice turns into that of a university lecturer. “It has a subject and a predicate, a cause and an effect.”
“In magical terms, we call this the Base and the Effect. The Base is the core of the spell, the foundation upon which you build.”
“It is an action or an object that could exist on its own. The Effect is the modifier, the unique property you are trying to achieve.”
“It cannot exist without a Base to act upon.”
He points to the diagram on the wall. “For example, in English, a correct Complex Spell (1 language) would be: ‘A spear of ice’—that is your Base—’that can pierce steel’—that is your Effect.”
“The Effect simply adds a property of hardness to the Base, an ability that is well within the confines of English magic’s power to create simple objects.”
“But what if you used a base and two effects?” Amy asks. Her quiet voice cuts through the lecture.
“Could you have a spear of ice that pierces steel and also freezes whatever it touches?”
“Yes, as long as the spell contains a base, you can add as many effects as your body can handle.”
“But you could not create a working spell with only two effects.” Damien replies instantly. “A spell requires a foundation.”
- Example of a BAD spell: (effect) “pierce steel” (English) + (effect) “आत्मानं च शुद्धयतु” (Sanskrit)
- Translation: “pierce steel” + “and purify the soul”
“It would be like trying to build a roof with no walls to support it.”
“The structure would collapse.”
He gestures to another line of text that appears on the wall.
“An incorrect Complex spell example would be: “(base) A spear of ice + (effect) can purify the soul.” The Base is valid, but the Effect, purification of the soul, is a power that belongs to the Sanskrit language.
“Attempting to force that property onto an English spell would cause the incantation to fail. It would result in a violent backlash.”
“A Mixed Spell,” he continues. The diagram on the wall shifts, showing a more complex structure. “circumvents this limitation by properly integrating the secondary language.”
“The correct form of that spell would be an English Base—’A spear of ice’—followed by a Sanskrit Effect.”
- Example: (base) A spear of ice (English) + (effect) यत् आत्मानं शुद्धं कर्तुं शक्नोति (Sanskrit)
- Translation: “A spear of ice” + “that can purify the soul”
He speaks a string of complex, multi syllabic Sanskrit words. Beside them, the English translation appears in glowing letters: ‘that can purify the soul.’
“This,” Damien says, gesturing to the complex, bi-lingual sentence on the wall, “is the art of true spellcasting. The seamless fusion of different powers to create an effect that is greater than the sum of its parts.”
“It requires not just power, but knowledge, precision, and control.”
“That… seems complicated,” Yulian says, scratching his head. “To remember all those words, from different languages, in the middle of a fight…”
“Not just complicated, Mr. Volkov. It is often impractical,” Damien states.
The glowing diagrams on the wall vanish with a wave of his hand.
“Which brings us to the most crucial tool for any field agent.”
“The Spell Tag.”
He begins to pace again. His presence fills the room.
“Imagine this scenario: you are in the heat of battle. Your opponent is fast, ruthless.”
“You need to cast a powerful, long-lasting defensive spell, an incantation that is ten words long. As you begin to speak, your opponent does not politely wait for you to finish.”
“They charge. You are forced to choose: complete the spell and take a potentially fatal blow, or abandon the spell to defend yourself, leaving you vulnerable.”
“In either case, you are likely to end up dead.”
The recruits are silent. A grim understanding dawns on their faces.
“This is not a theoretical exercise,” Damien says. His voice is cold and hard. “We have lost good mages, skilled mages, because they were a fraction of a second too slow, their incantations a single word too long.”
“Pride in one’s spoken ability is a luxury we cannot afford. That is why the Library developed Spell Tags for use with our grimoires.”
Akira, who has been silent until now, speaks up. His voice is sharp and analytical.
“It’s like abbreviation. A way to pre load the intent of a complex Effect into short phrase, or single word.”
Damien turns to him, with a flicker of approval is in his eyes.
“Precisely, Mr. Kendo. A Spell Tag is a single, chosen word that acts as a key to unlock a much longer, more complex spell that has been inscribed onto a grimoire.”
He gestures to the wall. A new diagram appears, this one showing a Japanese incantation next to a simple, bracketed word.
“Let us use an example. Imagine a mage with a sword style weapon type grimoire named ‘Lancelot.’ They wish to imbue the blade with a powerful, long-lasting fire.”
“Japanese is the language to manipulate Fire on a small localized scale. The full Complex Spell in Japanese would be ‘刃を包み込む強い不滅の火’ (A powerful, immortal fire that envelops the blade).”
He lets the complex phrase hang in the air. “To spend the time to speak that full sentence in combat would be suicide.”
“Instead, the mage inscribes the full spell onto their grimoire, but they bracket the entire phrase and assign it a single Spell Tag.
“Using either square ([ ]) or curly ({ }) brackets to enclose the spell. Either or, it does not change the result.”
“For example, let’s say, the activation word is ‘Blaze.’“
The diagram on the wall changes. It shows the new, efficient structure: Lancelot + Blaze[刃を包み込む強い不滅の火].
“Now,” Damien continues, “to activate the full, complex effect, the mage need only make physical contact with their grimoire, speak its name, and then speak the activation word or phrase:
“Lancelot, Blaze!”
“The full, ten word incantation is unleashed instantly. It is faster, more efficient, and in a real fight, it is the difference between life and death.”
“So, we can just make up any word we want for the tag?” Nico asks. His eyes were wide with possibilities.
“Any word, from any language you prefer,” Damien confirms. “It is a personal and tactical choice.”
“However, be warned. Using a Spell Tag puts a greater strain on a grimoire than a standard spoken spell.”
“It increases the wear and tear on the magical matrix. Use them too frequently, and you risk shattering your weapon.”
“A Spell Tag inscribed through a tattooed spell,” he adds, his gaze lingering for a moment on the bare arms of the recruits, “will cause significant physical strain on the body with each use. There is always a cost.”
He claps his hands together. The sharp sound echoes in the silent chamber.
“Theory is a foundation, but it is not a fortress. True understanding comes only through application.”
His lips curl into a slow, cold smile. A sight that sends a collective shiver through the recruits.
“Ms. Sato.”
Ruby, who has been leaning against the wall with a relaxed, almost lazy posture, pushes herself upright.
A bright, competitive fire ignites in her pink eyes.
“You have been a valuable, if silent, assistant,” Damien says. “Now, you will be a valuable demonstration.”
He turns to the recruits. “Ms. Sato is a highly skilled combat specialist. I, as you know, am a researcher and a scholar.”
“We are going to engage in a brief duel. Your task is to observe. Watch how we move.”
“Watch how we cast. And understand the lethal, unforgiving speed of a real magical battle.”
The tension in the room becomes a palpable, electric thing. Even Akira leans forward.
His usual mask of bored superiority is replaced by one of intense, professional focus.
He, more than anyone, is curious to see how Ruby will fare against the formidable Head Scholar’s assistant.
Damien and Ruby walk to the center of the obsidian floor. They face each other from a distance of about twenty feet.
They stand in silence for a moment. The only sound is the faint, flickering crackle of the torches on the walls.
“Ready when you are, Damien,” Ruby says. Her voice is a cheerful, almost playful taunt. But her posture is anything but.
She is coiled like a spring. Her body radiates a tense, focused energy.
“Try not to be too disappointed when this is over quickly,” Damien replies. His voice is a flat, emotionless drone.
They both raise a hand.
“SUMMON! ASTAROTH!”
Damien commands.
A vortex of swirling, black and silver energy erupts in his hand. From it emerges a sleek, modern compound bow.
Its limbs are crafted from a dark, metallic substance that seems to drink the light from the room.
“SUMMON! MAMORI! TAMORI!”
Ruby calls out.
Two shafts of bright, pink light shoot down from the ceiling. They strike the floor on either side of her.
The light solidifies, forming into a pair of ornate, black tonfa. She snatches them out of the air, spinning them with a practiced, fluid grace.
The two mages stand ready. Their grimoires gleam in the torchlight.
The air crackles with anticipation. The recruits are glued to the scene.
Their hearts pound in their chests. This is no longer a lecture.
This is a real fight.
Ruby makes the first move.
She doesn’t charge.
She flows. With a burst of speed that makes everyone’s eyes widen, she closes the distance between them.
Her movements are a fluid, graceful dance of controlled aggression. She spins, her tonfa a blur of black and silver, and launches a furious volley of strikes at Damien.
But Damien is not there.
Just as her first strike is about to connect, he vanishes. Not in a flash of light, but in a subtle, almost imperceptible shimmer of displaced air.
He reappears ten feet to her left. His bow is already drawn, an arrow of pure, black energy nocked and aimed at her heart.
“Too slow.”
His voice is a calm, clinical assessment.
He releases the arrow. It flies through the air, not with a whisper, but with a low, hungry hiss, like a striking snake.
Ruby doesn’t try to dodge. She spins on her heel, slamming her tonfa together in front of her.
“MAMORI! Bouclier!”
The French word for ‘shield’ is a sharp, commanding bark.
A hexagonal shield of translucent, pink energy materializes in front of her, just in time to intercept the arrow.
The black energy bolt impacts the shield with a deafening “CRACK.”
The sound is like shattering glass and thunder combined. The shield holds, but cracks spiderweb across its surface.
The force of the impact sends Ruby sliding back several feet, the soles of her boots scraping against the obsidian floor.
The shield dissolves into a shower of pink sparks. Ruby is breathing heavily.
A bead of sweat traces a path down her temple. Damien, on the other hand, looks completely unruffled, as if he’s merely conducting a simple lab experiment.
“Your defense is adequate, Ms. Sato,” he says. His voice is a flat, emotionless drone. “But a purely defensive strategy is a guaranteed loss.”
“You cannot win a war of attrition against a superior opponent.”
“Who said I was being defensive?” Ruby replies. A fierce, competitive grin spreads across her face.
She slams the butt of one of her tonfa onto the floor.
“TAMORI! Chaînes d’illusion!”
The floor around Damien erupts. Shimmering, pink chains, made of the same translucent energy as her shield, shoot up from the obsidian floor.
They writhe like ethereal snakes. They lash out, trying to ensnare him, to bind him.
Damien simply takes a single, calm step back. He raises his bow and speaks a single, sharp word in a language Carter recognizes from his Lexanomicon as Yoruba.
An invisible wave of force erupts from him. The magical chains shatter into a million glittering particles, like a cloud of pink dust.
“A clever use of French illusion magic,” Damien says. His tone is still that of a detached observer. “But you forget, Ms. Sato. I am an alchemist.”
“My specialty is not in creating illusions, but in deconstructing them.”
He nocks another arrow, this one a shimmering, silver-white.
“Let me show you.”
He fires. The arrow flies not at Ruby, but at the ceiling high above her.
It impacts the dark stone and explodes in a silent, brilliant flash of light.
A fine, almost invisible silver dust begins to rain down on the battlefield.
Carter watches, confused.
What was that? A distraction?
Ruby seems unfazed. She charges again, her tonfa a blur of motion.
But this time, something is different. As she moves, the silver dust seems to cling to her.
And wherever it touches, her form begins to waver, to flicker, like a faulty hologram.
“What’s happening to her?” Nico whispers. His voice is tight with tension.
“He’s disrupting her illusion magic,” Akira says. His voice is a low, analytical murmur. His eyes are glued to the fight.
“The silver dust isn’t an attack.”
Ruby falters. Her movements are suddenly slower, less certain.
She looks down at her flickering hands. A look of genuine shock is on her face.
It is the opening Damien has been waiting for.
He moves. His speed is a blur of controlled, efficient motion.
He is on her in an instant. The sharp, bladed edge of his bow is pressed against her throat.
The duel is over.
The room is silent for a long moment. The only sound is the ragged, heavy breathing of the recruits.
They have just witnessed a battle that was both breathtakingly beautiful and terrifyingly lethal.
It was over in less than a minute.
Damien steps back. His bow de-materializes in his hand.
“The battle is won not by the mage with the most power, but by the one with the most knowledge,” he says. His voice is a calm, final declaration.
“Never forget that.”
The recruits erupt in a wave of awed, excited chatter. They are stunned, impressed, and terrified all at once.
Damien holds up a hand. The room falls silent again.
“Do not praise me,” he says. His voice is flat. “What you just witnessed was a simple, academic exercise.”
“Compared to your true combat instructor, I am a weakling.” He looks at them.
His eyes cold and hard. “That man is a force of nature.”
Akira’s eyes light up at the mention of Gendric. A look of pure, unadulterated excitement is on his face.
Damien turns to leave.
“Later tonight, review the chapters on grimoire theory in your Lexanomicon tonight,” he says.
“For now, we’ll make our way to the armory. Today you’ll each receive with a grimoire.”
The recruits are in a state of buzzing excitement. They are no longer just students.
They are about to become mages. And the thought is both terrifying and exhilarating.