Rowan flew until the grid of lights beneath him sharpened into Manhattan. He settled on the roof of the tallest building nearby, where four massive metal eagles stood guard at the corners like sentinels frozen mid-screech.
It was past midnight. No one noticed a flying panda slicing through the sky. In daylight, this would have been a nightmare.
He glanced across the street at a massive digital screen cycling advertisements. The timestamp confirmed it.
"Still 2010."
Time and place alone weren't enough. That narrowed nothing down.
He circled the area twice more, scanning, listening, feeling for anything unusual. Nothing surfaced.
"This isn't working," he decided. "I need information."
Marching into an internet café as a panda wasn't an option, so he did the next best thing. He found a quiet residential area on the outskirts of the city and picked a large, isolated house.
He landed silently on the balcony, unlocked the door with a gesture, and stepped inside.
Telepathy confirmed it. One occupant. Big house. Neighbors far enough away not to matter.
"Oh my God…"
In the living room, a balding middle-aged man froze mid-sip of red wine, music still playing softly behind him. He stared as a panda walked in upright through his balcony door.
For a split second, he wondered if he'd finally lost it.
Rowan didn't give him time to recover.
With a sharp gesture, he seized the man's mind. The shock melted into blissful compliance.
"Turn on the computer," Rowan commanded silently.
The man obeyed at once, walking to the bedroom and booting it up.
Rowan followed and stood behind him.
"Search for magic-related news."
For half an hour, results scrolled by. Most were nonsense. Stage tricks. Urban myths.
Then a few headlines stood out.
"The World's Greatest Illusionist: Drake Stone."
"Claims to be the inheritor of ancient dark magic."
"Winner of the 2009 Global Illusionist Award."
Rowan clicked on several videos.
Within minutes, his eyes lit up.
"That's not stage magic," he realized. "That's the real thing."
The spellwork was masked as illusion, but the fundamentals were unmistakable. No wires. No sleight of hand. Actual magic shaped to deceive an audience.
"Drake Stone…" Rowan muttered. "Why does that name ring a bell?"
He sat on the edge of the bed and searched his memory. He loved fantasy films. He knew this wasn't random.
Twenty minutes later, it hit him.
"The Sorcerer's Apprentice."
This world.
The pieces snapped together instantly.
A hidden magical war stretching back to the year 740. Two factions. One founded by Merlin, devoted to balance and protection. The other led by Morgana, obsessed with necromancy and domination.
Morgana's plan had been simple and horrific. Revive ancient sorcerers. Build an undead army. Rule the world.
Merlin had opposed her and nearly won, only to be betrayed by his own disciple. He died, leaving behind one final hope: his ring, and the prophecy of his reincarnation.
Balthazar had carried that burden for over a thousand years. Fighting. Sealing enemies away one by one. Waiting.
Drake Stone was one of Morgana's modern inheritors.
Rowan straightened, heart racing.
"So this is that kind of world."
Not because the magic was stronger than what he already knew. It wasn't. Compared to other worlds he'd touched, this one sat somewhere in the middle.
But it had something none of the others did.
Immortality.
In this world, mages didn't age as long as they weren't killed. Morgana. Balthazar. Veronica. Even the traitor. All of them had survived for more than a millennium without their bodies decaying.
That alone made this place priceless.
In one world, eternal life came with decay. In another, it didn't exist at all.
Here, it was natural.
Rowan let out a slow breath, excitement coiling tightly in his chest.
"So this is the answer."
No ghosts. No half-measures. No bargaining with death.
If he mastered this world's magic, mortality would no longer be a concern.
And that changed everything.