"Wrong," said Scáthach.
Crack!
The tablet burst into a dozen smoking pieces.
One fragment bounced off my forehead with a faint tink.
I stared at it.
Then at the smoking rubble on the ground.
Then at my teacher.
South of the manor, the afternoon heat pressed down over the courtyard like a wet blanket. Across the desk, Scáthach watched me with crimson eyes, her arms folded over her chest and her expression carrying the quiet patience of a woman seriously considering whether burying a student in the garden counted as education.
"I did it exactly like you did!" I groaned, dropping my face onto the desk. "The angle! The depth! The little flourish at the end! I memorized every movement! I would bet my life they were identical!"
"Do not bet your life so casually."
Her eyes narrowed.
"I may take you up on it."
She isn't joking.
That was the terrifying part.
Scáthach slid another stone tablet across the desk.
"You copied the shape."
She picked up her stylus and moved it once.
One smooth stroke.
Perfect.
The rune on the fresh tablet looked almost identical to the one I had just carved.
Almost.
"The shape," she continued, "is merely a vessel."
She placed the final stroke.
"Empty."
The tablet did not explode.
Instead, the stone woke.
Amber light spread through the carved lines, warm and steady. A rhythmic pulse rolled from the tablet like the slow breathing of some sleeping creature.
The oppressive chill that had lingered around the courtyard simply vanished.
I stared.
Something twisted inside my chest.
It wasn't envy.
Not exactly.
It was the strange, humiliating feeling of watching someone perform effortlessly the one thing you had been desperately pretending you understood.
"Intention," Scáthach said.
Her voice dropped into that low, commanding register that could make my spine straighten without permission.
"That is what you pour into every stroke. Clear your mind."
She tapped the glowing rune.
"Then fill it."
It should be easy.
I closed my eyes.
Gripped the stylus.
Pressed it against the stone.
Crack!
I opened one eye.
Smoke curled from the tablet.
Again.
Crack! Crack!
Again.
This time the explosion was large enough to singe my eyebrows.
====x====
Almost half a day passed.
By the end of it, a small graveyard of shattered tablets surrounded my boots.
My hands trembled.
My face was black with soot.
My eyebrows had suffered losses I would rather not discuss.
My dignity was somewhere beneath the fourth pile of rubble.
And Scáthach had not left.
Not once.
She remained beside me throughout the entire ordeal. Two fingers corrected my grip. A flick of her knuckles straightened my back. Every mistake earned another instruction, another demonstration, and another opportunity to fail.
She was, by every conventional definition, a terrible teacher.
She had no patience for comforting words.
No interest in praise.
And during the past week alone, she had dragged me through three different experiences that any reasonable person would have classified as near-death training.
Yet every time I failed, she made me try again.
And again.
And again.
The pain was constant.
The burns were real.
The frustration was maddening.
But beneath all of it, something was changing.
Slowly.
Painfully.
I was beginning to understand.
Every tiny improvement brought me one step closer to grasping the foundation of Rune Magic.
Even if that foundation kept exploding in my face.
Crack!
I stared at the newest crater.
"...Okay."
My ears were ringing.
"Maybe I was a little too optimistic."
====x====
My training schedule had split neatly down the middle.
Mornings belonged to the blade.
Sweat.
Bruises.
Scáthach's spear.
The blunt end if I was lucky.
The sharp end if I wasn't.
Afternoons belonged to Rune Magic and continued well into the night, despite the fact that the sun never truly descended below the horizon.
The Land of Shadows had a way of making time feel meaningless.
Yet even with a sword in my hands, my thoughts always returned to that courtyard.
To the tablets.
To the explosions.
To the question that had been gnawing at me for days.
What am I doing wrong?
I swung the practice sword.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Around the three-hundredth swing, sweat stung my eyes.
My arms were beginning to ache.
And then—
The answer clicked into place.
So suddenly that I nearly dropped the sword.
Ink doesn't give a rune meaning.
I stopped.
My breathing slowed.
It only binds that meaning to the spell.
I stared at the blade in my hand.
"...I need to take a walk."
I looked around.
Scáthach was nowhere to be seen.
For once, I decided not to wait.
I left the manor grounds.
====x====
Exploring the Land of Shadows was hardly a thrilling adventure.
Scáthach had already warned me that most of the things wandering beyond the manor were either undead or monsters.
She had not exaggerated.
"There really is nothing here."
I looked around at the dead landscape.
"No people. No animals. No civilization."
I sighed.
"It's boring."
I paused.
"It's really boring."
Aside from Scáthach and the giant dragon turtle, there was almost nothing here that resembled ordinary life.
I eventually found a quiet place and sat down.
For a while, I simply watched the dead world around me.
The Land of Shadows was unlike anywhere I had ever lived.
There were creatures.
There was food, although most of it consisted of bugs that I had long since stopped asking questions about.
There was even someone providing supplies.
Someone I had never seen.
Someone who seemed to watch over me from a distance and, for reasons I still couldn't understand, occasionally sent food.
I had no idea who they were.
That uncertainty alone made me cautious.
I prepared Detox Magic beforehand, just in case.
Better paranoid than dead.
"Teleportation Magic still isn't working..."
I stared into the distance.
"I wonder what's happening outside."
Varda and the others should still be there.
They would protect my home.
I trusted them.
At least, I tried to.
Still...
Something continued to bother me.
I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being guided toward something.
Not by Scáthach.
She was obviously involved in my training, but this felt different.
The sensation was subtle.
Like there was another presence somewhere beyond the edge of my understanding.
Someone guiding me.
Sharpening my blade.
Sharpening my mind.
Preparing me for something I hadn't yet encountered.
I frowned.
"I just hope some entity isn't using me like that bastard god did."
The thought made my stomach tighten.
Then another thought surfaced.
The turtle.
Its question.
The bottomless pit.
I remembered the strange conversation.
"I understand now."
I lowered my head.
Power.
That was what she meant.
But how much?
How much power would I need before I no longer felt afraid?
How strong would I have to become before the future stopped hanging over my head like a blade?
Then, from somewhere deep within my mind, came a whisper.
A remnant.
A voice belonging to the person I had once been.
Kill all the gods.
I went still.
My past self would have considered that carefully.
Maybe even embraced it.
But eventually, that hatred had died.
The same day I did.
I drew my knees toward my chest and rested my head against them.
A long breath escaped me.
"Thinking about the future is more exhausting than anything Teacher puts me through."
"You called for your teacher?"
I jolted.
My head snapped upward.
She was standing behind me.
Only ten feet away.
I hadn't heard her approach.
Of course I hadn't.
"T-Teacher!"
Scáthach tilted her head.
"Hmm~."
A faint smile appeared on her lips.
"Does my student think his teacher is too heartless?"
I immediately looked away.
"I'm sorry, Teacher..."
I swallowed.
"Please don't throw me into that pit again."
A short laugh escaped her.
Then her expression softened.
"You still haven't found your answer, have you?"
"The rune magic?"
"No."
Her gaze sharpened.
"The turtle."
I froze.
My shoulders slumped.
"No..."
The words came more quietly this time.
"I don't think it's something I can overcome."
"Why?"
"Because my fear is connected to the gods."
Scáthach studied me.
"So you fear them?"
"Yes."
I clenched my fists.
"I'm afraid of what they can do."
My voice tightened.
"But more than that... I'm afraid for the people I love."
I looked toward the horizon.
"And the elves."
Scáthach was silent for a moment.
"That is not a baseless fear."
Her words were calm.
"The gods possess great power. Most of them may be sealed, but their children can still inherit fragments of that power."
I knew that.
I had seen it firsthand.
Falna—the blessing of the gods—could grant ordinary mortals power approaching that of demigods.
I had witnessed warriors barely past the beginning of their adventurer's journey perform feats that rivaled Saint-class magic.
And they had only been Level Two.
"But, my student..."
Scáthach stepped closer.
"Your fear is not of the present."
She stood directly before me.
"It is of a future that has not yet arrived."
I didn't answer.
She reached out and placed a hand on my head.
"You are not the same person you were in that future."
Her fingers gently moved through my hair.
"You have changed."
Her voice was surprisingly warm.
"You have become stronger."
I looked up at her.
"You are stronger than the person you once were."
A small smile touched her lips.
"So keep training."
Her hand rested gently against my head.
"Keep pushing yourself."
Her voice became firm again.
"Become stronger."
She stared directly into my eyes.
"And when the time comes..."
Her crimson eyes seemed to burn.
"Be ready."
For a moment, I could only stare at her.
She always did this.
Whenever I fell into despair, whenever the future became too heavy to bear, this woman would quietly reach out and pat my head as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
How could someone so frightening be capable of something so warm?
Then a familiar image flashed through my mind.
A certain mad swordswomen.
The memory was so absurd that I couldn't help smiling.
"I understand, Teacher."
I lowered my head.
"Thank you."
"Good."
Scáthach turned toward the manor.
"Then let us return."
I stood.
"Wait."
She pointed toward the forest.
A number of undead had begun shambling toward us.
"Since you are feeling better..."
Her smile widened.
"You will open the way."
I stared at the incoming horde.
"...With magic?"
"No."
She looked at me.
"Only your sword."
I sighed and pulled my weapon from its sheath.
I really shouldn't have expected her to become softer.
====x====
I had spent years learning how to bend reality with magic.
Rune Magic forced me to confront something much simpler.
Reality did not care how clever I thought I was.
I had been handing it beautifully written sentences in a language it had no reason to understand.
If my will wasn't woven into the mana before the ink touched the stone, the world would simply reject the command.
And, in my case, reject it explosively.
Mastering Rune Magic had taken far longer than I wanted.
One explosion became ten.
Ten became twenty.
Eventually, I stopped counting.
Every failure forced the same question into my head.
What am I missing?
And every single time, Scáthach gave me the same answer.
Go back to the basics.
So perhaps the problem wasn't Rune Magic.
Perhaps the problem was my understanding of the basics.
Maybe I've been looking at the foundation from the wrong direction.
I exhaled.
Wiped the ash from my forehead.
Dipped my quill.
This time, I did not think about the shape.
I did not think about copying Scáthach.
I did not think about the last fifty explosions.
I thought only about what I wanted the stone to do.
Purpose.
Intent.
Will.
I poured all of it into the ink.
Not like writing a command.
Like breathing life into one.
The quill touched stone.
The rune formed.
Nothing exploded.
The silence felt almost unreal.
Then—
The lines ignited.
A steady golden light spread across the tablet.
Mana surged through the engraving.
From the edge of the training hall, Scáthach watched.
Her student's shoulders had finally relaxed.
His movements had slowed.
There was no longer hesitation in his hand.
The mana no longer pooled uselessly on the surface of the stone like spilled water.
It flowed.
Directed.
Controlled.
Alive.
A fierce smile slowly appeared on Scáthach face.
Fifty attempts.
She crossed her arms.
I expected a hundred.
Her eyes narrowed with something dangerously close to pride.
Perhaps this boy truly is something.
Of course, she would never tell him that.
Praise could make a student complacent.
And Scáthach had always preferred sharpening her blades before she used them.
The tablet hummed beneath my hands.
Warmth traveled up my arms.
It was the same deep, primordial sensation I had felt whenever Scáthach activated her own runes.
My heart skipped.
It worked.
"It worked!"
I actually shouted.
I nearly jumped out of my chair.
A laugh burst from me before I could stop it.
I had no dignity left to protect anyway.
A thirty-four-year-old man had just succeeded at basic Rune Magic and was celebrating like a child.
I looked up.
Scáthach was already watching me.
"As expected of my student."
Her voice was softer than usual.
She crossed the hall and placed a hand on my head.
Then she gently patted it once.
Just once.
My throat tightened.
My eyes began to sting.
Don't cry.
Do not cry.
Especially not in front of the Queen of the Land of Shadows.
You've embarrassed yourself enough already.
I quickly looked away.
Then I noticed it.
That dangerous little spark in her eyes.
My stomach dropped.
"Oh no."
"Now..."
Her smile became almost sweet.
"Let us see how you handle something a little more complex."
I stared at her.
Ah.
I knew that smile.
That was the smile of someone who had just discovered a new way to make my life miserable.
My previous life had taught me many things.
But perhaps the most important lesson was this:
Success is merely the reward for surviving the next, harder punishment.
====x====
North of the manor, the training field was a barren stretch of hardened earth surrounded by jagged rock.
It formed a natural barrier against the dead forest and provided a clear line of sight for hundreds of meters.
Enough warning to see anything shambling toward us.
Not that anything ever approached while Scáthach was standing there.
Even the undead possessed survival instincts.
"Watch closely," she said.
I gave a silent nod.
Her hands were empty.
Then I noticed the faint runic light shimmering across the back of her right hand.
She stepped toward a massive stone pillar.
Her stance widened.
Her shoulders relaxed.
She raised a fist.
Then struck.
Not with force.
Not with speed.
With precision.
Her knuckles barely touched the stone.
The runes flared white.
BOOM!
The pillar did not break.
It simply ceased to exist.
Dust erupted outward.
Fragments of stone shot through the air.
When the cloud cleared, there was nothing left but a crater.
Pebbles rained around my head.
I stood completely still.
My jaw hung open.
I am never, ever making her angry.
I made a mental note.
Write that down.
Scáthach raised her hand.
The runes still glimmered faintly.
"That was Ehwaz."
She looked at me.
"One of the twenty-four."
"Strength. Endurance. Protection."
I narrowed my eyes.
"Teacher..."
I pointed at her hand.
"There are three marks."
"Exactly."
A faint smirk appeared.
"Which is why I told you to master all twenty-four."
She turned the hand slightly so I could see the markings.
"Runes do not exist in isolation."
She picked up a loose pebble.
"They lean upon one another."
She carved a single symbol into it.
The stone immediately began to glow.
She flicked it toward a nearby wall.
Thud.
The pebble struck.
A tiny crack appeared.
"One rune," she said.
Then she picked up another.
Her fingers moved.
One symbol.
Then another.
Then a third.
Three runes appeared before my eyes could properly follow her hand.
She tossed the pebble.
CRACK—BOOM!
The wall collapsed.
I stared.
Scáthach brushed dust from her gloves.
"Ehwaz," she said, "joined with Raidho, the rune of travel, and Algiz, the rune of defense."
She looked toward the ruins.
"The result is not merely stronger."
Her crimson eyes turned toward me.
"It is more precise."
She paused.
"And more destructive."
Silence settled over the field.
I replayed the demonstration in my head.
One rune.
Then three.
The difference wasn't simple addition.
The runes interacted.
Modified one another.
Changed the behavior of the spell.
Then something old inside my brain began to turn.
The same part of me that had once spent countless hours analyzing game mechanics.
Building strategies.
Optimizing combinations.
A grin slowly spread across my face.
"It's like my Stone Bullet."
Scáthach raised an eyebrow.
"A normal stone doesn't do much."
I pointed toward the collapsed wall.
"But sharpen it. Give it spin. Increase the speed. Alter the weight."
My eyes narrowed.
"Suddenly it's much more lethal than normal Stone Bullet."
I looked at the runes.
"Each rune is a modifier."
I snapped my fingers.
"They stack."
Scáthach stared at me.
I nodded.
"It's a build."
She blinked.
"A... what?"
"Nothing, Teacher."
Her smile became increasingly suspicious.
I ignored it.
Scáthach expression softened into something almost amused.
Perhaps she had remembered our first battle.
The stubborn boy who had once thought throwing rocks at her was a reasonable survival strategy.
"An accurate comparison, my student."
She gestured toward the ruined field.
"Now stop staring."
I straightened.
"Prepare the vessel."
I slapped my fist against my chest.
For the first time since arriving in this cursed realm, something inside me felt lighter.
The future was still there.
The gods were still there.
The fear hadn't magically vanished.
But for once...
I wasn't running from it.
I was preparing for it.
"Understood, Teacher."
(END)
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