The Kingdom of Fiore, a learning institution under the Magic Council—the Grand Magic Academy!
On the vast testing grounds stood a black-haired young man, watched by a scattered crowd of students.
"Requip!" the black-haired young man yelled, straightening his arms and straining to muster the meager magical power within him. Yet, frustratingly, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't summon the weapon stored in his pocket dimension!
This summoning attempt had already lasted for over half an hour!
"Haha! I knew it! How could that idiot, Archille, possibly succeed?!"
"Exactly! For the Headmaster's disciple, he can't even complete a basic Requip magic! What an embarrassment to the old man…"
"If you ask me, a waste like that should be immediately expelled from the Academy! He's just tarnishing our reputation here!"
Seeing that the young man couldn't summon his magical weapon, the students below burst into laughter. A torrent of sarcasm and disdain filled the air.
"…" The young man bit his lip hard, staring blankly at his hands, seemingly heartbroken by his own incompetence. Finally, he lifted his head again, channeling the last bit of his remaining magic into his hands. With a hoarse voice, he roared, "Requip!!!"
Just as the young man's voice faded, the air suddenly rippled. A flash of light appeared, and a slender magic longsword materialized in his hands.
"Phew…" Seeing this, the young man finally let out a heavy breath, happily thinking, I finally succeeded this time!
"Tch… So what if he was lucky enough to succeed? That kind of Requip speed would get you killed in a real fight before you even had time to draw your weapon!" After a momentary pause, the onlookers immediately resumed their mockery.
"Haha, exactly! If it takes half an hour to Requip, how is he supposed to fight?! Is he going to walk around with his weapon on him all the time?" A student sneered with a look of disdain.
"That's right! Don't forget, his Requip magic success rate is less than twenty percent!" a student with a sharp, monkey-like face commented with cutting sarcasm.
"HAHAHAHA—" Hearing this, everyone burst into laughter.
The young man, who had been momentarily excited by his successful Requip, felt as though a bucket of cold water had been poured over his head. His heart grew bitter again. It's true, he thought. My Requip magic success rate is indeed less than twenty percent…
The black-haired young man's full name was Archille Augstines. He was twelve years old and an utterly ordinary student at the Grand Magic Academy. His only distinguishing feature was that his magical ability was—to put it lightly—terrible!
Archille's chosen profession was the Magic Swordsman, a type of Mage who uses Requip magic. However, his talent was far too poor! It was common knowledge that Requip magic was not particularly advanced; it didn't require profound talent. Anyone who studied diligently could generally master it. While those with greater talent could achieve lightning-fast Requip speeds, even the least skilled, with poor proficiency, were only slow in comparison to the masters. In reality, their speed was still acceptable.
But a situation like Archille's, where a single Requip took over half an hour, had simply never happened before! Strictly speaking, the word 'slow' couldn't even describe this! This was utterly, ridiculously snail-like! No, a snail would probably be faster! After all, half an hour is enough time for a snail to travel a decent distance.
And that wasn't all. The most infuriating part of Archille's Requip magic was that his success rate was less than twenty percent! It was, frankly, completely unacceptable.
Archille returned the magic longsword to his pocket dimension. Defeated, he stepped down from the platform. His legs were shaky as he walked, his meager magical energy completely spent from the attempt. With his head hung low, he walked in silence, listening to the various jeers and mocking laughter from behind. His hands involuntarily clenched into fists, his fingernails digging deep into his palms.
"Don't lose heart, Archille!" A figure flashed beside him. A young man with a black crew cut and several scars on his left cheek appeared next to Archille and patted his shoulder, whispering an encouragement. "Just keep trying, and you'll get stronger eventually!"
"You don't have to comfort me, Doranbolt…" Archille forced a bitter smile and sighed. "I know my own limitations." His voice was laced with an undeniable sorrow.
"Perhaps…" Archille gazed up at the overcast sky and murmured to himself, "I was never meant to be a Mage."
Without another word to Doranbolt, he turned and walked toward his living quarters.
"Archille…" Doranbolt opened his mouth, as if to say something else, but was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder from behind.
Turning around, he saw a white-clothed, bespectacled young man about the same age, with long side-locks and a ponytail, pressing on his shoulder. When Doranbolt looked at him, the young man gently shook his head and softly explained, "Just let him be alone for a while…"
"Sigh…" Hearing this, Doranbolt reluctantly gave up his intention to follow.
The white-clothed, bespectacled young man's name was Laharl. Like Doranbolt, he was one of the few friends Archille had at the Grand Magic Academy. Since Archille's magical talent was so poor, most of the other students despised him and refused to befriend him. Doranbolt and Laharl, however, had grown up with Archille, and the three of them were naturally very close friends. In fact, Doranbolt and Laharl were Archille's only two close friends…
Walking back to his dwelling in silence, Archille stared at the wooden door before him, momentarily hesitant to enter. After a moment of indecision, he gently pushed the door open.
"Creak—" With a soft sound, the wooden door slowly swung open. Archille tiptoed into the room.
"You're back…" Just as he entered, a warm yet slightly raspy voice reached his ears. He looked up to see an elderly man with long white hair leaning against the headboard of a bed by the window. His ancient face was filled with a loving tenderness as he looked at Archille, a pale, sickly complexion marking his features.
"Grandfather…" Seeing the old man's kind face, Archille's head immediately dropped in shame, unable to meet the old man's eyes.
"Come here…" Seeing Archille's distress, the old man knew exactly why he felt that way, but he didn't show any trace of reproach. Instead, he waved Archille over to his bedside. Gently stroking Archille's head, the old man smiled lovingly, "Just work harder in the future, that's all. There's no need to be so upset. Grandfather believes you will become a great Mage one day!"
Hearing this, Archille felt even more ashamed and lowered his head further. He knew his grandfather was only trying to comfort him, as he had said these words many times before.
"Sigh…" Realizing his comfort was having no effect, the old man sighed softly and said no more. After all, this was something he couldn't help with.
The old man's full name was Albert Augstines, the current Headmaster of the Grand Magic Academy. The old man had no children of his own, so Archille was not his biological grandson. Ten years ago, during an external trip, he had rescued Archille as the sole survivor from a group of bandits who were slaughtering a village.
Albert found that there were no other survivors in Archille's village and, after inquiring, learned that Archille had no other relatives in the world. Considering that he himself was a lonely bachelor, he decided to adopt the young Archille as his grandson and disciple, naming him Archille Augstines…
Truthfully, Albert felt a deep regret and helplessness regarding Archille's magical talent. It couldn't simply be described as 'poor.' To put it more harshly, Archille simply had no talent for being a Mage!
Though Archille could use Requip magic, what difference was there between his Requip magic and having no magic at all?!
Whenever he thought about this, Albert couldn't help but sigh deeply.
Life continued on. Archille's days were monotonous: either desperately practicing his Requip magic or listening to his grandfather's teachings. Doranbolt and Laharl, however, would frequently visit him and occasionally drag him out to play. In their opinion, practicing magic required a balance of work and rest; pure, isolated, hard practice wouldn't yield much result.
But fate is often fickle and cruel. After only a little more than a month of this routine, a sudden tragedy struck: Albert, the long-ill Headmaster of the Grand Magic Academy, passed away…
This event was a massive blow to Archille. When he saw his beloved grandfather lying silently on the white deathbed, his eyes closed forever, Archille ran out as if he had gone mad!
"Archille—!" Doranbolt and Laharl immediately chased after him. They were afraid that Archille, suffering from such a shock and temporary mental instability, might do something foolish! They had good reason to worry, as they knew how important Headmaster Albert was to Archille.
However, they underestimated Archille's frenzy. In his state of extreme grief, Archille unleashed a speed and strength far surpassing a normal person. Even with Doranbolt's Teleportation Magic assisting them, Archille's irrational, haphazard running made it easy for them to lose track of him.
It was inevitable they would lose him, due to three disadvantages: one, Doranbolt's Teleportation Magic was not yet fully proficient; two, he was carrying another person (Laharl); and three, Archille's running path was completely random and without any pattern.
Despite losing him, they continued their search, relying on sparse answers from passersby, hoping to pick up Archille's trail again.
As they searched frantically, the sky inappropriately opened up with a torrential downpour. The phrase 'the heavens are not smiling' perfectly described the current situation.
But Doranbolt and Laharl did not give up the search. Archille was, after all, their best friend. Now that their best friend was suffering a severe psychological blow and was in an unstable state, their concern for his well-being alone was enough reason for them never to quit the search!
On the other side, the heartbroken Archille was running wildly along an unknown riverbank. The pouring rain had completely soaked his clothes, but he seemed not to notice, continuing his frantic, reckless run.
"It's a lie! A lie! Grand—Grandfather…" Archille screamed in pain, clear liquid—whether it was rain or tears—flying backward from his eyes as he ran. "He can't just leave me like this!!!"
"Ah—" Suddenly, his foot slipped. Archille instinctively let out a cry, and his body spun out of control.
"Splash—" Archille fell entirely into the rushing river. The icy water instantly engulfed him. The frigid shock momentarily cleared his mind, but he didn't struggle. Instead, he allowed the swift current to consume him. With his grandfather gone, life no longer held any meaning for him, and he thought with self-deprecation: A failure like me probably deserves to die like this…
I'm sorry, Doranbolt, Laharl. Let's be friends again in the next life…
Archille's consciousness grew increasingly hazy, until finally, it faded into complete darkness.
Meanwhile, in an apartment on Earth, a certain otaku sat in front of his computer, staring intently at a catalog of Zanpakutō (Soul-Slayer Swords) on the screen. Looking at the various styles of swords, a few drops of drool escaped the corner of his mouth.
"Sigh… If only I could transmigrate," the otaku couldn't help but chuckle lewdly, looking at a few popular fan-fiction recommendations on a Chinese website. "Mmm. If I could transmigrate into the world of Bleach, that would be perfect. Heh-heh-heh, I would immediately and without hesitation conquer all the beautiful women—Yoruichi, Hinamori, Rangiku, Orihime, Nel, and Halibel, too, and everyone else!!! Then we could all sleep together in a big pile! Gagagagaga…" As he thought about it, a mental image of this 'orgy' seemed to appear before his eyes. Drool flowed again, even wetting his keyboard.
His name was Calvin Unknown, twenty years old, a typical otaku and a hardcore Bleach fan. His love for Bleach was almost obsessive. He didn't read any other manga, and he didn't care about anything else, such as national events. Of course, even if he wanted to care, he didn't exactly have the qualifications.
In Bleach, besides the eye-catching, well-endowed beauties, the thing that captivated him most was the Zanpakutō! Especially the Captain-level ones—each one was undeniably cool! He wished he could have one, too! Wouldn't that be awesome to pull out in public? But this was only a fantasy that existed in his dreams and in his mind. Although there were many toy Zanpakutō modeled after the real ones on the market, he wasn't so idiotic as to buy one to play with.
Maybe a decade or so ago he might have. It wasn't that he was bitter, it was just that the models available were totally screwed up! They were just toys for kids to play make-believe!
Thinking about this, Calvin couldn't help but feel a wave of resentment. Why the hell can't these unscrupulous manufacturers make the swords look more accurate?! It's not going to cost them their asses! Why do they have to make them look like some kind of baby's learning toy? And spending a little more on production costs wouldn't kill them… Seriously, how cheap can they be?!
"Sigh. When will a guy like me finally get to transmigrate?" He sighed, grabbed a bottle of cheap liquor—a bottle of Erguotou—from his computer desk, and started guzzling it down. In the past, he had emulated scenes described in various novels, attempting several transmigration experiments: getting struck by lightning (touching a high-voltage wire), getting into a car accident (on a bicycle), and even masturbating to death (what?!).
The results proved that transmigration was completely bogus! Especially the methods described in those novels—they were utterly unreliable! So far, he hadn't had a single successful attempt (obviously!), and he had almost cost himself his life several times trying…
"If transmigration really exists in the world, if it really is possible anywhere, then fine, let me just choke on this liquor and transmigrate!" Thinking of his previous, ridiculous attempts at 'transmigration,' Calvin couldn't help but mock himself, "The facts show this is impossible! Therefore, transmigration doesn't exist at all!" He then raised the bottle and continued to guzzle the liquor.
"Gulp, gulp… Hmm?" Just as he was chugging, the cell phone on his desk suddenly buzzed. Calvin eyed it, reached for it with one hand while continuing to drink, and then disaster struck—the chair under him suddenly lost its balance, and Calvin fell headfirst to the floor! That wasn't the worst part! The worst part was that he choked on the liquor!
"Cough, cough, cough—" Lying on the floor, Calvin desperately clutched his throat and coughed violently. Liquor is strong stuff! Even if you have a high alcohol tolerance, you should never consume too much at once! Otherwise, you'll end up like Calvin, easily choking.
It was clear that Calvin had choked severely this time. His face was beet-red, like a pig's liver! The worst of it was—the liquor seemed to have blocked his windpipe. He couldn't breathe!!!
Before losing consciousness, Calvin's only thought was, Holy fck! Did I really just choke to death on liquor?!!*
By the time someone discovered what had happened, Calvin's soul had already departed. As a result, Calvin became famous! He successfully provided the general public with a negative case study. He was even written into textbooks by educational departments all over the world, to constantly warn those who enjoyed drinking: This guy was an idiot! Let's all make sure not to be like him!
If Calvin's soul was still watching, would he boast, "I'm a big celebrity now?" After all, while his life sounded a bit embarrassing, in a sense, he had indeed become a figure recorded in history! And in world history at that… even if it was as a cautionary tale.
However, was it truly the end? Did Calvin really just kick the bucket like that?! The answer—who knows?