Skida began the lesson by pacing before them, her boots clicking sharply against the stone.
"Until now, you’ve been taught the basics," she began. "The raw elements in their primitive states: fire, water, sand, light. Standard soldier fare. Advanced magic, however, is an art. Most officers peak at the level of manipulation between their third and fifth circles."
She stopped and looked at the Wanderer. "Manipulation is the act of refining those basics. Dropping the temperature of water until it hardens into ice, or condensing loose sand into solid rock. I’ve already seen you mimic the process. Valak told me Kuma is capable of the same."
She leaned back against a weapon rack. "In a two years, you could both easily be officers. If that’s all you want, I can help you master manipulation and write the recommendations myself. But that would be a waste of your potential."
"I can teach you my way," she continued, her voice lowering. "But it comes at a price."
The Wanderer asked. "What’s the price? And what is your 'way' exactly?"
"I can’t give you the specifics until you agree," Skida said. "But understand this: Magic is an unnatural force. It is the power to defy the laws of this world. It is the art of bending reality to your will." She reached down, scooping up a handful of grit and dirt. As she closed her fist, mana flared, and when she opened it, a solid sphere of polished steel sat in her palm.
The Wanderer stared at the ball. "I was wondering where all that metal use came from. So, the price?"
"A blood pact," Skida said. "An internal chain to ensure you never betray me."
"And if we do?" Kuma asked, his voice tight.
"Nothing serious," Skida replied casually. "Just death."
"So you’ll be the puppet master," the Wanderer said. "Pulling our strings whenever it suits you."
"No. You can do whatever you want. Loyalty is the only string I hold."
Kuma hesitated, his eyes darting to the floor. "I have my own goals. They might require me to leave Draemir one day... maybe never come back."
"You answer when I call," Skida shrugged. "Other than that, I don't care. Have your fun elsewhere."
“If you called me during my own mission, I won't come.” said Kuma.
Skida shrugged. “ Then die.”
Kuma took a deep breath, glancing at the Wanderer before looking back at the General. "I accept."
The Wanderer remained silent, a frown deepening on his face. Skida caught his gaze. "What’s on your mind, Wanderer?"
"Why do you need a pact like this?" he asked. "If you're so powerful, why the insurance?"
"Everyone has their own goals," she said, mirroring his vague tone. "What's your answer?"
The Wanderer thought for a moment then said. "I don't think it'll be a problem. I agree."
Skida’s grin was predatory. "Good."
She extended her hand. As the Wanderer reached out to take it, her fingers elongated shifting into needles that pierced deep into his palm. He gasped as he felt her blood invade his veins. It surged through his arm, wrapping around his mana circles like ethereal chains.
The Wanderer recoiled, clutching his chest. He began wrapping his hand with a strip of cloth to staunch the bleeding.
Kuma watched, trembling slightly. "Did... did it hurt?"
"Oh, it should hurt," Skida said, turning her needle-like gaze toward him. "Your turn."
She repeated the process with Kuma, ignoring his muffled cry of pain. Once the blood had settled and the pact was sealed, she stood tall.
"Now," she said, "I can explain the how."
"My way is simple: dismantle and reassemble," Skida explained.
She held up the metallic sphere, her eyes tracking its surface. "To create, you must first understand the architecture of the world. You must learn the exact combination of every object you wish to manifest. First, you dismantle the matter into nothing."
As she spoke, the sphere vanished. Her palm was empty.
"When you dismantle an object into nothingness, the world revolts. It pushes back, trying to return the object to its proper state. We simply open a back door for that energy to return, using our mana to dictate the new characteristics of the form it takes."
She closed her hand and opened it again. The steel was gone; in its place sat a warm, crusty loaf of bread.
Kuma leaned in, eyes wide. He reached out, touching the surface, and smelling the bread. "It’s actually bread," he muttered, tearing off a piece and taking a bite.
Skida continued. "The world's resistance never stops. We redirect the energy, but to maintain the new form, you must provide absolute focus and control. Otherwise..."
Kuma suddenly doubled over, coughing violently. The piece of bread in his hand dissolved into dirt and the half-chewed mouthful in his throat turned back into sand. He spat it out.
"Mana allows for the creation of basic elements from nothing, but that devours your reserves," Skida continued, ignoring Kuma's struggle. "Using the back door saves your mana, but it demands far more time and mental precision. You will learn both methods."
"Now, grab some sand and focus," Skida commanded.
The Wanderer scooped a handful of grit from the training ground. He closed his eyes, channeling his mana into his palm until he could feel the rough edges of the grains pressing against his skin.
"Focus on a single grain," Skida said, her voice cutting through his concentration. "Engulf it. Touch its essence."
The Wanderer isolated one speck in his mind’s eye. Through his mana, he felt its weight and density.
"Now extend that focus. Every grain, one at a time. Map them all."
As the Wanderer struggled to hold the mental image of hundreds of tiny, individual fragments, Kuma interrupted. "I think I did it."
The Wanderer glanced over. Kuma’s hand was open and entirely empty. Not a speck of dust remained.
Skida arched an eyebrow. "You have some skills, maggot."
The Wanderer looked back at his own palm, a spark of frustration fueling his resolve. He pushed his mana deeper, tracing the silhouette of every grain until his head throbbed.
"Good," Skida noted. "Now, shake the foundation of their existence. Crush them into nothingness with your mana."
The Wanderer surged his power inward, trying to collapse the sand in his hand. He felt a resistance, a pushback from the world like a rubber band he can't stretch. He squeezed until his knuckles went white. When he opened his hand, the sand had been pulverized into a fine powder.
"It’s a start," Skida said, her tone unimpressed. "That’s what usually happens. Your friend over there happens to be a genius."
She turned toward the exit of the training grounds. "Anyway, I can’t be your babysitter all day. Practice the dismantling. Both of you. I’ll have some science texts sent to your quarters tonight to study. Now get to work. I’ll be in my office."
The two of them spent the rest of the day in the dirt, practicing the dismantle. Every time the Wanderer opened his hand, the sand was there, another powder of failure.
"Feel the pushback and redirect it," Kuma coached, watching his own hand where the air shimmered as matter vanished. "Focus more."
The Wanderer tried again, pouring his mana into the grains, but the Spiral kept disturbing the process from within. He opened his fingers. Fine powder spilled out. "You’re a terrible teacher, Kuma."
"Nah," Kuma grinned. "Your head is just thick."
The Wanderer shoved him, a tired smirk playing on his lips. "My knuckles are thick, too."
The moment was cut short as a group of Royal Guards approached, their silver-etched armor catching the fading light. They carried an air of superiority around them.
"Who are you?" one of them asked, his voice had a kind of contempt.
"We’re under Skida’s command," the Wanderer replied.
The man laughed, his armor rattling with the movement. "A new toy then, Skida always breaks her toys. We usually get the replacement."
The Wanderer’s posture shifted as he stepped toward the guard. Kuma immediately moved, grabbing the Wanderer’s shoulder and holding him back. "Not worth it, man," Kuma whispered. "Let’s just get back to the quarters. The books should be there by now."
The Wanderer glared at the guard for a long moment before shoving Kuma’s arm down. He turned slowly, the tension in his shoulders visible as he began to walk away.
"Ah," the guard called out behind them. "The little boy is having a tantrum?"
The Wanderer’s teeth ground together, turning back again.
"Just let it go," Kuma muttered, steering him toward the exit. "We don't know the fallout if we fight them. They aren't Royal Guards for nothing."
They walked in silence past the remaining insults until they reached their quarters. The room had been transformed; dozens of heavy, leather-bound volumes were stacked high on the table and floor.
Kuma quickly grabbed the nearest book and flipped it open. "These are incredible," he breathed. "It’s all here; nature of matter, anatomical diagrams.... every detail you’d need to rebuild something from scratch."
"Didn't take Skida for a bookworm," the Wanderer said, flopping onto his bed and staring at the ceiling.
"Yeah, well..." Kuma didn't look up, his eyes already racing across the diagrams. "You should start. This is going to take a lifetime to master."
The Wanderer reluctantly pushed himself up. He grabbed a thick tome on mineralogy and began to read. The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the sound of turning pages and the scratching of pens. Until they both fell into sleep, buried beneath a sea of paper and ink.