I gawked at the pen I had set down, as if will alone was enough to move it towards me. But no amount of half-hearted, fragmented intent could do so. Even after I roused the notion of magic, stirred my thoughts to accept it, and galvanised my soul while I plunged deep into the depths of disbelief.
It was not enough.
"Does it need physical input?" I muttered, tugging my head back and stretching my neck until it popped, then flexing my fingers till they balled into a claw-like grip. "Come on."
The pen didn't budge an inch.
I let out a sharp exhale and relaxed my hand.
"Right. Guess that won't work." I pondered the methods written in the book.
I lifted my palm over the pen, careful not to touch it, and tried to follow what the book described with such infuriating certainty. "Alright, let's see."
Visualise the connection. Hold the image steady. Apply force with intent, not muscles.
It sounded really elegant on paper. In practice, it fell flat.
"What the hell does applying force with intent even mean?"
Before I'd realised it, my shoulders crept upward, and my jaw clenched as I pushed the soles of my feet into the carpet. I found myself holding my breath, afraid that the tiniest action might disrupt my concentration.
Nothing moved.
I leaned closer anyway, elbow hovering, fingers splayed as though my hand could somehow convince the pen to cooperate. I repeated the idea of motion until my thoughts dulled, like trying to push against a wall and expecting it to move.
"Come on," I muttered, irritation slipping out before I could catch it.
"Just, come on."
Frustrated, my hands dropped back, and my eyes peevishly flicked to the book. I felt aggrieved. I had followed everything exactly as it was written and tried multiple times with different logical approaches.
"So what's missing?" I poured over the book again, scouring for a word that I had possibly missed, a phrase I had misinterpreted. Yet even after I restlessly hounded its pages, there was simply nothing to be found.
That was when I finally realized the answer.
I wasn't missing any information, the technique was flawless, the visualisation was vivid and my intent was clear. What I lacked was something far more fundamental.
"Belief."
Did I believe in magic?
If someone had asked me that question just a few weeks ago, my answer would be completely different. Now? I had no choice but to believe in magic. I had seen and felt its effects throughout my time in this world.
However, it seemed that my feeble belief still hadn't cemented.
Perhaps it wasn't my belief in magic that my subconscious questioned, but my ability to perform it.
Who was I?
Nothing but a stranger to this world.
Just because I had somehow drifted here didn't mean that I was subject to this place and its principles.
So what if magic existed? So what if it was real?
If, at the very core of my being, I wasn't sure that I could do it, there was no solution. Perhaps to fully accept that belief, I needed more time.
"Unless." My thoughts spiralled, "What if I didn't approach it with that belief in mind?"
"What if there's another belief that fulfils the existence of magic, but doesn't entirely require it to be real. A belief unique only to me?"
I raised my hand again and followed the techniques. Just this time, imagining that I was simply using a skill in a game.
It felt like my awareness had caught on something taut, a thin line of tension that hadn't existed a moment before. The closest comparison was a rope going tight in your hands, except the rope existed in my mind, stretching between me and the pen.
My pulse jumped. Instinctively, I tried to pull.
The invisible connection contracted, and the pen rolled toward me across the wood with a soft scrape. It moved barely an inch before the tension dissolved like a wet thread snapping.
I sat frozen, staring at that tiny shift in position as if witnessing something impossible.
Then the headache hit, a sharp bloom of pressure behind my eyes that made me grit my teeth.
"So that's what it feels like," I whispered. "But, it worked."
I picked up the pen, rolled it between my fingers to steady myself, then placed it upright in my palm and lowered my expectations. Sliding it across the wood was too ambitious; The sharp headache was proof of that.
Maybe it was better I start with something that demanded finesse over power.
I pictured the pen as a balanced top and shaped my intent into a twist rather than a shove.
The pen nudged slightly, then stilled.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders down. I had now ticked all the boxes. My intent was clear. My visualisation was sharp, and my belief was fulfilled. What I lacked was familiarity—the kind earned only through repetition until it became natural.
I tried again, but this time I gave my brain something concrete to anchor on.
"Spin," I murmured, letting the word carry the shape of the motion.
The taut line returned, faint but unmistakable.
The pen turned once on my palm and then settled with a slight wobble.
For a heartbeat, I stared at that ordinary pen as if it had become the most significant object in existence. My head still throbbed, but there was an unfamiliar satisfaction coursing through me and excitement that bubbled in my chest.
Hours dissolved without notice. I had immersed myself in my training.
When I finally snapped out of my trance, my shoulders were stiff, my palms warm from friction and focus, beads of sweat slowly trickled down my forehead, pain pulsed through my temple, radiating to the back of my head, and a fervent heat flowed to my eyes.
"Spin."
The pen twitched and snapped into a counterclockwise movement, spinning atop my palm.
"Again"
It jerked back and flipped to a clockwise movement.
"Stop."
The pen rolled back and forth till the energy that compelled it to spin began to fade away, and it came to a gentle rest.
What I'd just achieved was the bare basics. Simple mana control. It still wasn't the refined control that the book had gone into great detail about, but it was a start that I could be proud of.
"Spending a few hours was worth it." I sighed and shifted my focus to another issue.
A pen was an awkward object. Too much length, too much leverage. It responded with compromises, rolling when I wanted lifting, wobbling when I demanded precision. I tapped the desk, eyes narrowing as an idea crystallised.
'Smaller object with less mass. Something more uniform'
A coin?
Though a coin's smaller size would demand more accuracy, it would definitely let me fine-tune my control instead of just relying on leverage.
I reached into my pocket and found fabric, lint, nothing useful.
'Of course.' I sighed and glanced at the books for inspiration.
But staring at the pile of books beside me just made my head throb. Worse, I was beginning to realise my legs had gone completely numb, and I'd lost all feeling in my ass. So I concluded that I was done studying.
I couldn't possibly bear this any longer.
Sharp pins and needles shot through my back as I slowly stood, pushing myself up by bracing against the table. I closed the books, but the moment my hands left the final cover, the air above the table shimmered. Light traced along their covers like a thread being drawn tight, and the books rose in silent, perfect formation. They hovered for a breath, then swept away in three separate arcs, flying between shelves as though following invisible tracks.
They vanished into their proper places without sound.
"Huh?" I muttered, working a knot from my lower back. "Guess the library handles its own sorting system."
I wobbled down the stairs, my boots muffled by thick carpet as I descended floor by floor. The boy on the first floor had disappeared, and by the time I reached the bottom, I realised the girl from earlier was gone too.
Their absence somehow made the library feel smaller than it was, as if space had shifted to adjust just for me. I tottered near the front counter, shifting from a stagger to a stride, looking for the librarian.
Nothing.
The silence was absolute, and it echoed against my eardrums. Even the building itself seemed to hold its breath. If I hadn't been greeted earlier, I'd have sworn the place was completely abandoned.
I hesitated, then cleared my throat. "Delkira?"
My voice reverberated into the distance, fading into a muffled echo. The quiet stretched until my skin began to crawl.
"Yes?" came a voice directly behind me.
I whirled around, nearly stumbling backwards into the counter.
He stood a step to my left, close enough that I could see individual auburn strands covering the sides of his eyes, and the gentle curve of a smile that suggested he'd witnessed and enjoyed this reaction countless times before. Delkira had moved in an eerily quiet manner. I had heard and seen nothing until somehow he was already behind me.
I forced my shoulders to unclench and tried to pretend I hadn't almost squeeled.
"You move quietly."
Delkira's smile widened a fraction. "Libraries do prefer quiet, after all."
I swallowed, keeping my tone steady. "Is there a way to reserve books? I'd like to keep reading a few regularly."
His expression shifted to something more official. "Certain volumes require reservations. Rare texts. Restricted collections. Anything that draws excessive attention. For general materials, there is no formal process. First come, first served."
"And if someone else takes them?"
"Then you choose different books. Or you arrive earlier."
I nodded. The rules seemed fair, if a bit annoying.
Delkira studied me briefly, then added, "If you intend to study frequently, I recommend making it a priority to come whenever you can."
"I'll keep that in mind."
His smile returned, soft and unreadable. "Good."
I turned and walked toward the entrance.
From the inside, the barrier between the pillars looked like gossamer stretched across a doorway, almost benign compared to its appearance from the street, translucent enough that crossing seemed trivial. The moment I stepped through, it seized me and shot me out to the other side with startling efficiency, nothing like the slow, probing passage I'd endured entering.
The afternoon sun hit my face immediately, its warmth spreading across my skin like a gentle embrace. After the library's cool interior and the lingering winter chill, the heat felt almost luxurious, and I couldn't help but pause to let it soak in.
I looked ahead, already dreading the walk down the winding pathway that sloped toward the Academy's hub, following a meandering set of stairs.
A low growl rolled through my gut.
I exhaled, and my eyes widened in horror as a new, terrifying realisation set in. I had seen every top-notch facility this place had to offer, yet I had never asked where the cafeteria was.
I'm screwed.
I started walking anyway, scanning the paths for signs, for crowds, for anything resembling a stream of students heading toward food. Nothing. The pathways were mostly empty, probably because anyone with sense was already eating somewhere.
My stomach growled again, more insistent this time.
This was ridiculous. I was at a school. There had to be food somewhere. Cafeterias, dining halls, anything. If I didn't know, then I just needed to find another person and ask instead of wandering around like an idiot.
Determined not to go hungry, I trudged down the steps and walked to the hub, glancing around hopefully, looking for anyone I could flag down and ask for directions.