Baston woke before the bell rang. It was not hunger that dragged him out of sleep, nor the dull anxiety that usually accompanied his
mornings. Instead, it was a sensation so unfamiliar that his body reacted before his mind could name this phenomenon. It was cold.
Not the biting cold of winter air, nor the numb chill of stone floors. This cold was quiet, refined, and intimate. It was like something
that had settled inside him and made itself at home. He lay still on the narrow bed with opened eyes and slow breathing.
The room was unchanged. The cracked ceiling, the thin blanket, and the faint smell of dust and old wood. Nothing about his living
space looked different. Yet, everything changed. The sensation he felt upon looking inside his body couldn't be a lie. Baston lifted his hand. The moment he did, the cold responded.
It gathered, not in the air, but beneath his skin. It was threading through veins and nerves with eerie familiarity. There was no resistance, no confusion, and no need to concentrate. The cold magic obeyed. A thin film of frost bloomed across his palm, forming intricate patterns before he could even think to stop it. Baston sucked in a breath and clenched his fist. The frost
vanished instantly. His heart began to pound.
"So, it wasn't a dream…"
The old book lay beside him on the bed, closed and silent. Its surface looked no different than before. No glow, no markings, and no sense of triumph. If not for the lingering chill in his chest, Baston might have believed he imagined everything. All of this was just a dream and he was still
sleeping soundly. Slowly and cautiously, he reached for it.
The moment his fingers touched the cover, other memories surfaced unbidden. It wasn't images but it was about his past performance. The book had never praised him. It had never comforted him because it had merely observed its participant.
It remembered the shove in the corridor. His hesitation, his decision to speak, and his lie which was wrapped in truth. The way Panto's eyes had widened. Not in anger but fear. The feeling he evoked by a blatant lie, yet in the end, he succeeded on his performance.
Baston opened the old book. The last page was no longer empty. There were no words written plainly and no explanations meant for
beginners. Instead, faint traces like impressions left behind after ink had been wiped away which still lingered on the paper.
Somehow, he understood. The old book had weighed his actions. It didn't judge whether he was right or wrong. It didn't judge whether
he was cruel or kind. It only judged for effectiveness. When he first crossed paths with Panto, the old book had stirred faintly and unimpressed. That encounter alone would have earned him little more than acknowledgment. Fear born from coincidence faded quickly.
However, Baston had stayed. He had pushed again. Not with strength but with timing. The shove in class, the whisper afterward, and the implication left deliberately unfinished. He had not chased Panto. He had let Panto chase himself. He let Panto believed his words. In the end, the timid boy chose him. His perception had changed completely because of his bizarre action.
Baston swallowed. The old book valued his performance and understanding. And most of all, it rewarded those who learned how performance worked in this world. When he had finally closed the book the night before, the page had changed. Something inside him had been unlocked. Baston took a look at the old book once again with his hands trembled faintly.
"So that's what it meant," he whispered.
The old book had evaluated him. His performance was excellent. At the same time, the cold stirred in response as if pleased by the recognition. Mana moved differently now in his body. In just one night, he drastically transformed himself from nobody into somebody.
Before, it had been something distant, an abstract concept discussed in classrooms and demonstrations. Students spoke of it as though it were air or water, something abundant but difficult to gather. For Baston, it
had been worse. Mana had always felt like a locked door. He could sense it and touch it faintly. But no matter how hard he tried, it slipped away and it refused to obey. Now, it changed completely. Now, it flowed. Not wildly and violently but cleanly.
He sat on the edge of the bed. With his eyes closed, he tested it again. The mana did not surge. It was waiting to be processed. That
realization sent a chill deeper than the frost ever could. He finally could control magic. His power neither borrowed nor forced. It was granted to him as a reward for his excellent performance on the quest.
Most students spent years learning how to circulate mana without harming themselves. Even nobles who was blessed with resources and tutors had been struggling to refine their control beyond crude manifestations. Baston eventually needed no such effort.
Knowledge unfolded in his mind like a map he had once studied long ago. Where to compress and where to release. How to prevent waste and how to maintain form. It wasn't memorized since it was remembered. As if the ice element itself had accepted him and whispered its secrets directly into his heart.
"This is possibly dangerous…" he muttered.
Power gained too quickly was never free. The book had not told him the price and that worried him more than anything else. After all, he believed in logic. There should be a balance. At the moment, he was rewarded
with minimal effort. He wished to gain more strength, but at the same time, he was afraid of the price. The old book he held looked very kind, but once he depended too much on it, the consequence might rush into him unexpectedly. Though his hesitation, he tried to forget the matter. After all, his poor status couldn't guarantee what would happen to him.
*****
The morning passed quietly. Baston dressed, his movements were careful, and his thoughts were quite restless. His stomach reminded him of reality soon enough that newfound power did not fill empty bellies. He still lacked the money to buy even a simple breakfast.
As he stepped into the corridor, students streamed past him. Their voices were loud and careless. Nothing had changed for them. But for him, something had changed. Halfway down the hall, he saw Panto. The boy's posture had changed overnight.
The boy didn't become the careless swagger. Also, the boy didn't utter the loud laughs and cruel jabs. Panto moved like someone who was afraid of shadows. His eyes were darting constantly as if expecting something to emerge from behind every corner. When he noticed Baston ahead, something unexpected crossed his face. It was relief. Inside his mind, his savior was
here. Finally, someone who would protect him from any harm came to see. Panto then
quickened his pace.
"Baston," he said quietly, stepping closer than usual.
Baston frowned, "What?"
"Is… Is someone still watching me?"
The question was whispered, barely audible over the noise of the corridor. Baston felt strange over what the boy was asking. He studied him to see what had happened in one day. Dark circles framed Panto's eyes. His hands twitched slightly at his sides. He looked like someone who had spent the
entire night convincing himself that sleep was a trap.
"No," Baston answered truthfully, "There's no one."
Panto hesitated, "Are you sure?"
"Yes…"
"How can you be so sure?"
That question made Baston pause. He could have laughed it off. He could have brushed him aside. However, something in Panto's expression explained everything. It was raw and fragile fear, making the boy looked weak
and meek in front of him.
Without thinking, Baston lifted his hand. The cold answered instantly. A faint shimmer of frost formed along his fingers, subtle enough
that no one else had noticed. It soon vanished just as quickly as he manifested.
Panto saw it and such blue and white color had caught his breath.
"You're…" his voice cracked, "You're a wizard?"
Baston lowered his hand, "Don't tell anyone…"
That single sentence sealed it. Panto's imagination soon ignited. His fear did the rest. Everything that Baston had endured with every insult, every shove, and other else were rewritten in Panto's mind as deliberate patience. Strength hidden beneath layers of restraint. Power held back for reasons beyond his understanding. The possibility that Baston had only just gained this power never even occurred to him. People like that didn't suddenly awaken. He believed the fat boy had endured injustice for a reason.
Baston's first impression successfully fooled everyone, including him.
"Are you connected to my father?" Panto asked slowly, choosing each word with care.
Baston blinked, "I don't know your father."
That answer only deepened the mystery. By the time they reached the classroom, Panto had already decided something important. Baston was dangerous. Standing beside him was safer than standing against him.
Mana manipulation class unfolded as usual. Nobles filled the front rows, their confidence was loud and unashamed. Merchants occupied the center, competent but cautious. The back seats, however, where Baston sat were left to the poor and the commoners. Once again, he was forced to be invisible just because of his poor status. There was no other way since it was a hard
truth. He had to accept this situation whether he liked it or not.
Miss Pashan stood at the front, her voice was calm as she explained the lesson. She demonstrated magic control effortlessly, shaping mana with elegance born from years of practice. Students followed her example. Orbs of light formed across the room. Some were bright, some were unstable, and some were barely visible.
Baston on the other hand didn't move. Not because he didn't have any magic but because he wanted to stick toward his role. Even though he had already finished the quest and Panto had believed him, he still wanted to convince the boy. His magic should be hidden for now, signaling Panto to follow with this fake truth. It would be fine if everyone ignored him yet Miss Pashan
noticed his stillness.
"Why aren't you practicing?" she asked.
Baston bowed his head slightly, "I lack talent, teacher. Because of this, I thought it was better for me to observe others first."
She studied him briefly. Then, as expected, she nodded and moved on. Once again, he was invisible. Relief washed through Baston silently. From his seat, Panto watched silently. He alone knew the truth. Baston's restraint only confirmed his suspicions. The fat boy was hiding it.
As the lesson continued, Baston leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded and his thoughts were drifting. The book had rewarded him. Not with gold and status but with possibility. He suspected that possibility might be quite dangerous. After all, it was to easy to earn. When the bell rang, signaling the end of class, Baston closed his eyes briefly. Somewhere, deep within the old book, another judgment was already forming.
Meanwhile, his thought lingered on the old book longer than it should have. Baston had never been unfamiliar with it. Poverty itself was a quiet, patient, and kind of danger. It was one that starved slowly, pressed gently, and left no visible wounds. Every day in the academy, he walked among students who never worried about their next meal, their next robe, or their next mistake. For them, the world was forgiving. For him, it had never been.
The old book frightened him not because it was cruel but because it was honest. It did not pretend to be kind. It did not disguise its
intentions behind encouragement or false hope. It watched, it judged, and it rewarded his performance. Nothing more and nothing less. That alone made it so mysterious yet Baston knew something just as clearly. Without the old book, he had nothing. No family influence, no wealth, and no talent worth noticing.
If he waited patiently like everyone had told him to, he would remain invisible until the day he was quietly discarded. The academy did not care about effort since it cared about outcomes. The outcomes unfortunately
favored those who already had everything.
The book, at least, offered him choices. Even if those choices were sharp-edged. Even if every step forward felt like walking deeper into fog, unsure of what waited ahead. Baston tightened his fingers against the desk. He did not trust the old book completely. He doubted he ever would. But
turning away from it now would mean returning to a path he already knew too
well which was a slow decline. The given possibility was dangerous but stagnation was certain if he did nothing.
Around him, students laughed, complained, and gathered their belongings. They were unaware of how narrowly their futures were already defined. He rose with them, moved quietly, and forgotten once more.
As he stepped into the corridor, the faint cold stirred within his chest. Whether the book was a guide or a trap no longer mattered. As
long as it continued to open doors, Baston would keep walking through them. Even if one day, the price it demanded could no longer be ignored.