The air inside Lyson's cabin was a balm for the senses, a silent reprieve after hours of sweat and self-flagellation. It wasn't an unfamiliar place for Tsumiya; he had already crossed this threshold on a couple of occasions, the most memorable being when his skin, besieged by the relentless fauna of this new world, had cried out for the relief that only Lyson's hands could offer. The mosquitoes, or whatever local version of them existed here, had stamped their welcome on Tsumiya's second day with an infernal itch — yet another reminder that the life of an isekai protagonist was far removed from the placid beginnings promised by manga.
The cabin, however, preserved a kind of near-zen order, a palpable antithesis to the organized chaos Tsumiya had imposed upon his own improvised refuge. Every object in its place, every surface clean — it spoke of a discipline that the village leader, with his calm gaze and modest tunic, embodied to perfection. The subtle scent of medicinal herbs, a complex blend of damp earth and botanical sweetness, permeated every corner, a fragrance that Tsumiya, with his freshly acquired "hero complex," had come to associate irremediably with the quintessential supporting character: Lyson, the village healer, the wise elder, the "NPC leader" who, without knowing it, wove the threads of his own adventure.
(«Training Iaido for two years… wasn't entirely useless, after all.»)
The thought slipped through his mind with a note of surprise, almost gratitude. That basic, nearly forgotten experience — that fleeting pursuit of individual perfection that had been more a refuge than a triumph in his previous life — had found its unexpected purpose. Not to defeat a dark lord or a demon of epic proportions, but for something more mundane, more immediate, and, in retrospect, slightly comedic. His most recent victory with his rudimentary sword skill had been against a spider — of considerable size and an appearance that in his home world would have guaranteed a professional exterminator — that had dared to invade his cabin. A brief but decisive battle, fought with the nearest stick and the agility that Iaido, however little, had granted him. A minor trophy, yes, but a trophy nonetheless, and a confirmation that even the most trivial skills could find a purpose in this new world.
Now, as the afternoon began to languish and golden light filtered through the window, his attention was fixed on a different expectation. He had spent nearly the entire day training, pushing his physical limits under the relentless sun, driven by the image of snow-white hair and storm-grey eyes. It was a titanic effort, born not of innate conviction, but of that redirected greed now consuming him. And the next step in his plan to "surpass" the elusive Irene — the next link in the chain of his self-improvement — awaited Lyson's arrival with the polishing tools. Those same tools that Varzgax and Matthew, with their rough but effective help, had brought along with Tsumiya. Tools that, he hoped, would transform ordinary metal into something worthy of a protagonist, something that would reflect his ascent, his destiny.
— Or at least, the attempt to do so...
Tsumiya sat in a wooden chair, its simplicity contrasting with the intricate labyrinths weaving through his mind. Beside a small circular table of the same rustic material, his figure radiated a calm that, to anyone who had known him in his past life, would have been disconcerting. That gaze which in Japan could have been read as a frown or a sign of disinterest now softened inside Lyson's cabin, turning pensive, almost dreamy. His eyes, once so quick to search for flaws or analyze the children's training patterns, drifted toward his arm — the same one that had taken the impact of the strange magic stone just three days ago.
He felt no pain, not even a residual twinge to remind him of the incident. It was a strange, almost unnatural absence that left him floating in a kind of sensory limbo. A void that, rather than unsettling him, invited introspection. That blow, in a world where the rules of physics and biology seemed rewritten at will, had been his baptism of fire, his confirmation that he had truly crossed the threshold into a fantasy existence. And in that existence, he could be nothing less than the protagonist.
Tsumiya: [— After I get Irene to join my party... I think the natural next step will be heading to the capital. There, I'll look for an adventurer's guild to join.]
Tsumiya's words, barely audible even to himself, dissolved into the perfumed air of the cabin. Yet for Tsumiya, they were not mere words — they were the foundation of a roadmap, a joyful anticipation of events that, in his mind, were destined to unfold. As he lightly traced the fabric of his hoodie over the arm the children had, unwittingly, marked with their peculiar welcome, his thoughts soared far beyond physical well-being. It was no longer pain that occupied him, but an expansive vision, a detailed mental blueprint of how this world would be — molded in the image of his most cherished fantasies.
An adventurer's guild, yes. In the style of a high-level LitRPG, with stats that would grow exponentially with every creature defeated, every mission completed, every quest that led him into the depths of some forgotten dungeon or to the peaks of unexplored mountains. A world as vast as a next-generation MMORPG, where every village was a starting point, every road a potential adventure, and every person a character with their own story, waiting to interact with the hero.
— What will my stats be?
His tone shifted subtly, from quiet reflection to a vibrant, almost childlike curiosity. His fingers, with an unconscious tic, drummed softly against the polished surface of the wooden table, as if the rhythm could conjure answers to his most pressing questions. What kind of skills awaited him? Would he be an unparalleled swordsman, an elemental mage, a legendary archer? And the guild ranks — from the humble F-rank to the mythical S-class — each ascent would be a ladder toward the recognition he had always craved. The missions, each one promising glory and treasure, stretched before him like an infinite scroll. And above all, his stats. Those masterful numbers that, though they currently reflected little more than an average inhabitant of this world, would grow, multiply. Because he was a walking "Deus ex Machina," a protagonist with an inescapable destiny. Even if his power was still a mystery, a latent promise, he was convinced that with minimal effort — barely an echo of the diligence he had shown so far — he would transform into an unstoppable force. Greatness, transcendence, was not a possibility. It was a certainty. After all, the protagonist always wins.
Just as Tsumiya was losing himself in that labyrinth of imaginary stats and glorious futures, the unmistakable sound of a door opening yanked him back to the reality of the cabin. The soft creak of hinges, followed by the slow groan of wood under considerable weight, announced Lyson's arrival. There was the elder, framed in the doorway, carrying not one but two sturdy wooden boxes under each arm. His movements, though lacking the feverish agility of youth, possessed a surprising ease — an efficiency rooted in decades of experience.
Tsumiya watched, not without a pang of self-analysis, as Lyson handled the load with a complete absence of apparent effort. Each box was of considerable size, and Tsumiya quickly calculated that in his current physical state, he could barely drag one with difficulty — carrying two would be an act of pure physical comedy. The difference in strength was glaring, undeniable, a silent reminder of the vast gap between his current self and the "invincible hero" his mind projected. A small flicker of frustration, as fleeting as a breeze, passed through him, only to be quickly suppressed.
(«Not yet.»)
The thought went straight to Tsumiya's point of focus: the weakness he felt now, so palpable and tangible, before the old man. It wasn't a weakness that overwhelmed him or made him doubt his path — it was more of a starting point, a clear reference for where he stood on his own heroic trajectory. Lyson, with his quiet strength and his ability to move heavy loads with the same ease Tsumiya drummed his fingers, became another rung to surpass, another standard to reach on his personal character sheet.
Tsumiya: [— But soon. Very soon... I'll get there.]
The words, barely a whisper, dissolved into the cabin air, but for Tsumiya they resonated with the force of an oath. There was no doubt in his inner voice, only an iron conviction, the unshakable certainty of his destiny. Because in his mental universe, his current limitations were nothing more than temporary obstacles — small challenges the protagonist was destined to overcome with an ease that was almost... magical.
(«Deus ex Machina...»)
A barely perceptible smile curved his lips, one that promised the universe would, sooner or later, conspire in his favor, delivering the power and strength he now saw in Lyson and craved for himself. Inside those boxes, Tsumiya knew, were the tools Lyson had promised: stiff-bristle brushes, files of varying coarseness, polishing cloths, and perhaps some special compound that would restore the metal's shine. The tools brought by Varzgax and Matthew, his unexpected rescue companions, now awaiting their transformation under the care of the peculiar elder and the aspiring hero.
Tsumiya: [— Oh... I see you're back with the equipment, Lord Lyson.]
Tsumiya's voice emerged with a warm tone, attempting to project the gratitude and respect he felt for the elder — and perhaps a flash of the professionalism a future guild leader ought to possess. A subtle smile formed on his lips, a well-rehearsed mask of his "hero self." Lyson, with his customary deliberateness, simply nodded, his blue eyes gleaming with an indecipherable expression as he approached. With the same ease with which he had carried them, he set the four boxes down with a soft thud beside a massive iron anvil — an ancient, heavy base that, in Tsumiya's mind, would serve as the altar where ordinary metal would be transmuted into an emblem worthy of his status. The elder prepared for the task, and Tsumiya, with renewed anticipation, readied himself to learn, to observe, to absorb every detail of this new ritual on his path to greatness.
Lyson, with the patience and precision of a craftsman, began opening the boxes. His hands, gnarled and marked by the years, moved with an almost hypnotic efficiency, untying the cords securing the lids with a dexterity that betrayed decades of practice. It wasn't the brute force of youth, but a manual wisdom — an intimate knowledge of how knots behaved under tension. Watching him was like witnessing a silent choreography, each movement measured and without a trace of wasted energy, as if his wrinkled fingers held their own memory for these familiar tasks. The first box revealed an assortment of well-maintained axes, with heads of dull metal and sturdy wooden handles, destined for the local woodcutters who ventured daily into the surrounding forest — a vital line of defense against nature's advance.
Then, with the same quiet cadence, Lyson untied the second box. Upon opening it, a dull gleam of unpolished metal came into Tsumiya's view. Inside, a series of training swords were stacked, their blunt blades and unfinished pommels waiting to be sharpened and polished to serve a specific trio — by now, an inevitable trio of budding little warriors.
The third and fourth boxes had been left sealed and set aside in a corner of the cabin, likely containing something other than swords or axes — perhaps a special herb Lyson would use in the future to treat other patients, or some reactive mineral like the one Archimedes had used when he attacked Tsumiya: in that case, a stone with explosive capacity.
Lyson: [— Come closer, young Tsumiya. It's time to get to work.]
Lyson's voice, a peaceful murmur that barely broke the cabin's silence, came accompanied by a gesture of his hand — a slight movement that nonetheless carried an unshakable authority. Tsumiya, who had been lost in contemplation, felt a mild start. His mind, adrift between virtual stats and the glow of a distant future, took a moment to register that those words were directed at him.
Tsumiya: [— Me?]
He asked in a low voice, with barely concealed confusion, his eyes revealing for a moment genuine ignorance. The expectation that Lyson would simply clean the tools himself, or involve him in a less direct way, crumbled. But surprise quickly gave way to epiphany. Of course! How hadn't he thought of it? This was his opportunity — his "side quest" to cement his position as the hero. His posture straightened at once, an exaggerated, almost nervous smile spreading across his face.
Tsumiya: [— Uh... I mean... Of course! I'm the one who came to help you, Lord Lyson. My... my purpose is to serve, after all.]
Rising from the wooden chair with a speed that masked his day's exhaustion, Tsumiya approached the spot where Lyson was already positioning himself beside the anvil, which would serve as an improvised base for sharpening and sanding the metal. Along the way, however, his gaze drifted subtly, almost by reflex, to a corner of the cabin. There, folded upon itself, rested the white mattress on which he had lain sick and unconscious just three days ago. It was the place where he had heard for the first time the voice of the entity — the one that had taken the form of a "green marble" in his personal affection, or the more formal "emerald orb." A silent reminder of his initial vulnerability, and at the same time, of his connection to a power he still didn't fully understand, but which promised to make him the "Deus ex Machina" of his own story. The irony was palpable: a hero under construction, preparing to polish the weapons of others, while his own most formidable weapon remained a mystery.
The distraction lasted only an instant, a blink of consciousness before pragmatism — or rather, his sense of self-imposed mission — reclaimed his attention. Tsumiya turned his gaze back to the gleaming — or rather, not-so-gleaming — array of swords and axes spread before him, each one waiting for his touch to begin its transformation. This was his task, his first tangible assignment in this new world beyond surviving and training, a mission bestowed by the enigmatic Lyson. To the side, on a rough but sturdy wooden shelf, a can of oil gleamed. It was a lubricant that, Lyson had implied, Tsumiya should apply meticulously, preparing the tools for the final phase of the process: the master sharpening the elder would perform with his own precious special stones.
Sitting beside Lyson on the wooden floor, with the swords and axes arranged between them like a map of their budding collaboration, Tsumiya's hand couldn't help but reach out. His fingers slid with an almost unconscious reverence over the cold blade of one of the training swords. It wasn't an exquisite piece of craftsmanship — it was functional, unadorned — but in his hands, under the influence of his overflowing imagination, it became something more. With a touch of subtle, almost childlike admiration, Tsumiya weighed it, feeling the balance, the promise of latent strength.
In his mind, that blade was a canvas, and he was the artist of a future not yet written. He wondered what his sword would be like. Not a replica, not a generic tool, but the hero's sword. The future sword of Tsumiya Higeri. Would it be bright steel, forged from the essence of a fallen star? Would it have an ornate hilt, set with gems that glowed with the light of his deeds? Or perhaps it would be simpler — elegant in its lethality, with a history etched into every nick and scar from countless battles? The image of a katana, his "ultimate katana," the one he had dreamed of from the very beginning, with an edge capable of cutting the wind and a soul that resonated with his own, materialized vividly in his imagination. This training sword, so mundane, was merely a glimpse — a humble premonition of the legend waiting to be forged.
Lyson: [— Do you like swords, young Tsumiya?]
Lyson's voice, soft and laden with a quiet, non-judgmental curiosity, resonated through the cabin, breaking Tsumiya's fantasy bubble. It was like a gentle "bucket of cold water" that brought him back to reality, just as his fingers traced the outline of an unpolished steel blade. The elder's question — "Do you like swords, young Tsumiya?" — contained not a trace of reproach, only an invitation to conversation, an acknowledgment of his silent interest. That warm tone, so unlike the rigidity Tsumiya had known in his previous life, instilled in him an unexpected confidence. Despite his well-defined goal — that grand destiny with Irene as its centerpiece — the truth was that Tsumiya still navigated the uncertain waters of his own purpose in this new world. He wanted to be a hero, yes, but he didn't know what he could do to prove his heroism right now. The doubt about which exact direction to take persisted, though the image of storm-grey eyes and snow-white hair served as his compass.
Tsumiya: [— I don't know much about swords... Lord Lyson.]
Tsumiya said in a low voice, barely above a shy whisper, returning his gaze to the elder who watched him from the other side of the anvil — the sturdy iron mass that separated them, physically and symbolically alike.
— But I'd like to learn how to handle one.
His voice, initially tinged with a hint of shyness at having been caught daydreaming, took on a more direct tone. There was genuine desire in his words, an aspiration that resonated with the search for his own idealized self. The desire to be not just a spectator of his own adventure, but an active protagonist.
— But I did train Iaido for two years...
The clarification sprang from his lips with renewed confidence, an echo of pride in a skill that, though rudimentary, was his own. He remembered the dojos, the smell of wood and sweat, the repetitive discipline of the katas, the zanshin and the nukiuchi. That part of his past, which in his home world had felt disconnected and purposeless, now acquired meaning, potential. It was a foundation, a seed from which something greater might grow.
Lyson: [— laido?]
Lyson's question, posed with a subtle confusion, was a small tremor in Tsumiya's bubble of self-affirmation. The elder tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes narrowing for an instant as his mind traveled through the recesses of his own memories. In his vast experience, Lyson had encountered countless fighting styles, but "Iaido" held no familiar ring in the context of his kingdom. The only thing that came to mind was an ancient and esoteric training rumored to be practiced by the elite warriors of a neighboring empire, beyond the Hyulkran Forest, beyond the borders he himself had once crossed. The possibility — fleeting but real — crossed his mind: could Tsumiya, despite his appearance and manner, be someone who had received education from that distant place, from that civilization beyond what he knew? A small piece of a strange and rather enthusiastic puzzle — a puzzle that bore the name "Tsumiya."
Lyson: [— Then... could you show me your technique, young Tsumiya?]
Lyson's voice, tinged with a genuine curiosity that went beyond mere courtesy, resonated through the cabin. The elder, with that characteristic calm of his, seemed to await a demonstration. Tsumiya, who until that moment had been sitting in a relaxed posture, his muscles still mildly protesting from the morning's exertion, felt Lyson's question ignite a spark within him. His gaze, sharpened by a sudden desire for validation, instinctively moved toward the training sword he had been caressing moments before.
He hesitated only for an instant — a fraction of a second in which the voice of insecurity whispered to him about his lack of natural talent and the brevity of his training. But in the next instant, that doubt was crushed by determination. With a resolute movement, his hand reached out and took the sword's hilt, a wave of memories and purpose flooding his mind. It wasn't just for Lyson, nor entirely for Irene. It was for himself — for the chance to prove he wasn't a nobody in this world either, that his past hadn't been a complete failure.
He rose to his feet with a fluidity that surprised even his own muscles, which had been pleading for a truce. The training sword, light but with real weight, felt familiar in his hand — an extension of his will. Something Tsumiya had come to understand thanks to his father's pragmatic outlook. In addition to enrolling him in the Iaido club, his father — a man of few words but great foresight — had made sure to instill in him the basic disciplines of martial arts. "So you know how to defend yourself in life, son," he used to say, convinced that the real world was an unpredictable place. And now, in this world beyond his comprehension, that training served not only for self-defense, but for this precise moment: impressing the elder, demonstrating his combat capabilities and technique.
From his mother — of non-Japanese origin but with an iron conviction in the value of consistency — he had inherited an unshakable discipline. She had taught him that even without natural talent, perseverance and hard work could forge a will of steel. Those two years of Iaido, which at the time had felt more like an obligation than a passion, now revealed themselves as the foundation of his identity on this new canvas. The absence of innate talent, which in another context might have been a condemnation, here transformed into proof of his commitment.
Tsumiya stepped a few paces away from the anvil and the table, searching for an appropriate space in the center of the cabin. His eyes scanned the terrain, assessing the available space, the ceiling height, the position of the furniture, looking for any obstacle that might interfere with his exhibition. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes for an instant. He exhaled slowly, concentrating.
(«I hope I haven't gotten too rusty.»)
The thought crossed his mind — a blend of nervousness and anticipation. Lyson's cabin, previously a place of calm and conversation, had now transformed into his improvised dojo. The silence grew dense, broken only by the sound of his own breathing and the faint creak of his muscles tensing. The performance was about to begin.
Tsumiya tightened his grip on the sword's hilt with sudden force — a determination forged from the desire for validation and the memory of countless hours of practice. With a swift and precise movement, the steel cut through the air, producing a subtle "shwing" that resonated through the cabin. It was not a simple cut; it was the sound of force applied at an exact point, the result of two full years of repetition in pursuit of perfection. The next three movements were identical to the first — each an exact replica in speed and form, a controlled burst that evidenced the discipline of Iaido. The final movement, however, was different: a lateral arc cut, a subtle farewell more artistic than lethal, that culminated with Tsumiya kneeling on the floor, the sword pointing elegantly toward the ceiling, his final pose in what he considered his "performance" for the elder.
(«You definitely impressed him... You're very clever, Tsumiya.»)
Tsumiya, eyes closed to maximize the dramatic effect of his finale, felt a wave of satisfaction. The thought went straight to the idea of having captivated the elder who had asked for a demonstration of his abilities. A subtle smile curved his lips — an external manifestation of his internal confidence, the conviction that he had achieved the desired impact on his audience.
Lyson: [———]
Lyson remained silent, his blue eyes fixed on Tsumiya's kneeling figure, the sword pointing at the ceiling. It was not a silence of admiration, nor of surprise at a hidden talent. It was the silence of a man who had seen a thousand swords, a thousand styles, a thousand warriors. A silence that, for the elder, was born not of impression, but of cold and analytical observation. His mind processed every detail: the slight hesitation in the grip, the speed that — though fast — lacked efficiency, the posture that, while aesthetically finalized, lacked the solidity and balance of a true master. By his estimation, Tsumiya, with all his "technique" and his "art," sat at the level of a basic apprentice — perhaps a beginner with potential, if Lyson allowed himself to be very optimistic.
Lyson: [— I think you have good potential for your age...]
Lyson's voice, low and reflective, resonated through the cabin, breaking the tense silence that had followed Tsumiya's demonstration. The elder observed for a moment the technique the young man had applied with the sword, evaluating every detail. For Lyson, Tsumiya's "Iaido" was, at best, the reflection of basic training — a level a knight apprentice might reach after a couple of months of consistent dedication. However, there was a crucial difference: Tsumiya was neither a child nor a teenager like most of the apprentices Lyson had known in his youth. He was a young adult, with the appearance and attitude of someone who had already left adolescence behind. That contrast — that apparent dissonance between age and level — was what Lyson considered "potential."
Lyson: [— Come, start lubricating the swords. We'll begin the work.]
Lyson spoke again, his tone now more direct but without losing that quiet warmth already a hallmark of his person. The cabin, clean and organized, with its subtle scent of medicinal herbs, seemed a reflection of his own inner peace — a sanctuary amid the outside world.
(«I think he loved it. It's pretty amazing, it really is.»)
The thought formed in Tsumiya's mind like sweet nectar. He opened his eyes, a gleam of satisfaction replacing any trace of nervousness. His gaze, which before could have been interpreted as threatening, had softened considerably; the habitual bitterness that sometimes clouded his features had given way to an expression of genuine pleasure. With an agile movement, he rose from the floor using the sword he still held, recovering his normal posture. He looked back at Lyson, who waited patiently — like a teacher contemplating a disciple.
(«But right now, it's time to work.»)
With the feeling of having passed a small test, Tsumiya approached the anvil. He set the training sword carefully to one side and, with a mix of curiosity and enthusiasm, sat back down on the floor, this time in front of the tool boxes and beside Lyson. He extended a hand toward the oil can he had spotted earlier — a simple but sturdy metal container. Upon opening it, the faint scent of metal lubricant filled the air. With a cloth that Lyson handed him, he began applying a thin layer of oil over the first sword, his movements at first somewhat clumsy, gaining confidence as the dull metal began to acquire a subtle sheen. As his fingers worked, a new wave of images filled his mind: not just polished swords, but his own figure — strong and capable — wielding the ultimate blade, earning respect in this new world. The satisfaction of Lyson's approval was a powerful engine, a validation that fed his idealized vision of himself and his role as a hero.
The sun, which had painted the cabin in orange and golden hues, now lazily inclined toward the horizon, tinting the air with the last vestiges of the afternoon. An hour and a half had quietly slipped by since Tsumiya began his task, like water through fingers — a rhythmic dance of movements that had anchored him entirely in the present. Time had glided through the cabin with unexpected fluidity, marked by the rhythmic scraping of files and the soft brush of cloths against metal. Tsumiya had lost track of the hands of the clock, absorbed in the task of polishing and lubricating — a methodical dance that kept him tethered to the present. The pile of swords and axes to his left, once a heap of dull, neglected metal, now gleamed with a satin sheen, ready for Lyson's master touch.
The elder, for his part, moved with a familiarity that transcended mere skill. His hands, expert and calloused, danced over the whetstones, drawing an edge that Tsumiya, for all his ambition, knew he couldn't replicate even with years of practice. Each axe, each sword, was treated with an almost reverential respect, its blade transformed beneath Lyson's attentive gaze. It was work that most blacksmiths would take decades to master — an alchemy of the forge that the elder executed with the calm of someone born to it.
(«I should take note of this»),
Tsumiya thought, glancing sideways at Lyson's work while his own hands busied themselves with the last box of metal pieces. Lyson was, without a doubt, one of those "secondary characters" that, in his mental narrative, had been providentially placed along his path to help him. He was the village healer, the wise elder, the provider of the first "equipment refinement quest." His importance, Tsumiya sensed instinctively, went far beyond a mere NPC. Lyson was a key piece — a mentor, a point of reference in this new world.
But despite the manual task keeping him occupied, his mind never stopped weaving. The surface of the metal pieces passed under his fingers — smooth or rough — while a persistent doubt, a crack in his otherwise-perfect protagonist's vision, remained unresolved. A doubt that had nothing to do with his "cheat skill" or his "Deus ex Machina" status, but with something more fundamental: magic.
He knew the basic concept. In his previous life, he had devoured countless novels, anime, and games where mana flowed, prana accumulated, and spells were woven with words of power. He had an abstract grasp of elements, incantations, the mystical energy that infused this world. Yet he lacked a real, tangible sense of what magic meant for him. What elements might he control? Fire, water, earth, air, light, darkness? Would he be a devastating elemental mage, a miraculous healer, a summoner of legendary creatures?
His imagination was already carrying him into the depths of an unexplored dungeon, to the tallest tower in the capital, to the moment he would join the adventurers' guild — after, of course, convincing Irene to join his "party," the centerpiece of his future harem, his "main waifu." He visualized his character sheet, the lines where his magical abilities would be listed, the spells he would learn, the ranks he would ascend. The uncertainty about magic was not an obstacle, but a promise — another mystery to unravel on his path to greatness. The anticipation was a slow fire in his chest, fed by every piece of metal he polished, by every measured breath of Lyson's that signaled progress.
Just as Tsumiya was about to lubricate the last sword, his movements stopped, his hand suspended over the metal. A focused look appeared on his face — a subtle crease between his brows that denoted a recent decision. He had held the question back for days, but the impulse was now too strong to ignore. Lyson, the village healer, the wise elder who seemed to have an answer for nearly everything, must know the intricate secrets of magic. If he phrased it correctly, perhaps — just perhaps — he would have the chance to learn a spell in a couple of days, at least according to his own optimistic internal estimates as an "isekai protagonist."
Tsumiya: [— Lord Lyson... You know how magic works, right?]
Tsumiya's voice, unusually low and tentative, slipped through the air — a contrast to his usually more assertive tone. His eyes moved again to the elder's weathered face, searching for a sign, a confirmation. There was a hint of shyness in his demeanor, an almost childlike discomfort at having to admit his ignorance about something that, in the logic of his fantasy world, a "secondary character" like Lyson would probably take for granted. For Tsumiya, a newly arrived protagonist, this lack of knowledge was a weak point — a crack in his hero's armor.
Sensing that he had captured the elder's attention, Tsumiya's gaze drifted subtly to an undefined point on the floor, his body slightly tense. He wasn't sure how to articulate his true concern — the depth of his ignorance.
— It's just that you only explained to me how mana is produced...
His voice dropped further, almost to a murmur, as he avoided eye contact with Lyson, who, impassive, continued to observe him with that indifferent calm that seemed to be his natural state.
Lyson: [— I'm not that much of an expert, but I think I can help you, young ignorant...]
Lyson's tone remained unchanged — calm and warm — but with a veiled jest that Tsumiya recognized at once. It was a reference to his own words from a few days ago, when he had called himself "young ignorant" upon failing to understand the most basic customs of this new world. The mention of his "strange clothes" — a peculiarity that made him stand out — confirmed that Lyson remembered their first encounter vividly. The elder seemed to find a quiet irony in Tsumiya's situation: a young man seemingly arrived from nowhere, with ambitions of greatness, yet with fundamental gaps in his knowledge.
Lyson cleared his throat with a guttural sound — a gesture that in a man of his age often preceded a long and detailed explanation. And, just as Tsumiya expected, the elder caught his gaze again, indicating that the lesson was about to begin.
Lyson: [— You see, young one, in this world, magic is as fundamental as the air we breathe — but it is not a capricious gift. It is a science rooted in our very essence. Every being is born with a vital energy called Prana, which serves as the bridge between our soul and our body. It is finite, and if it runs out, the connection breaks and... well, the road ends there. This Prana is what generates Mana — the tangible magical energy. We all have it, but to use it, we need a Second Heart: a mystical organ of an ethereal sky-blue color that adheres to our physical heart. Its function is to pump that Mana throughout the body, like a magical pump. It is resistant to damage, but it disintegrates upon death, returning the Prana. If your Prana is weak, the Second Heart may attempt to draw vitality directly from your body to maintain the soul's connection, which exhausts you and can be dangerous.]
Lyson paused, subtly lowering his tone of voice as though searching for the right words to explain a more complicated part.
— Now, although we all have Mana, not everyone can perform magic. For that, one needs discipline and consistency. Animals have Mana — even insects — but they lack the intelligence to channel it. The key is to establish a conscious connection between your internal Mana and the environment through spells. Though it may seem difficult, even a beginner can achieve basic magic with practice. Elemental magic is the most common. Most souls are born with a natural affinity to one element, which facilitates learning. For example, Atmospheric Magic manipulates the temperature of oxygen, creating ice or fire. Wind Magic is a freer variant that requires no oxygen, common among demi-humans. Contact Magic allows you to influence solids such as earth or metal simply by touching them — very common among dwarves.
Lyson paused again, a subtle smile of pride appearing on his lips, even beneath the beard that sometimes made such expressions difficult to see.
— Then there is Yang Magic, which I use. Unlike the others, it does not require the Second Heart. It allows you to connect your Prana to that of a target to influence their states — whether to heal, put to sleep, or even poison. It is very common among humans, but difficult to master. Yin Magic also requires no Second Heart, and it alters the perception of reality — creating illusions, weakening opponents, or corrupting the environment. It is very rare...
Just as Lyson was about to resume his explanation of the complexities of the Weave of Magic, a sound interrupted the cabin's serene atmosphere. A sharp, resonant knock at the door, vibrating through the aged wood, announced an outside presence. The concentration so delicately built between the elder and the young man dissolved into the air. Tsumiya, his mind still processing the concepts of Prana, Mana, and Second Hearts, was left with a distant look for a brief instant — the information spinning in his head before being abruptly displaced by this new stimulus.
Lyson, with his customary calm, rose from his seat. His staff, carved with rustic but functional designs, served as support, easing the movement of his tired joints. In just a few seconds, he approached the door, his bony hand reaching for the handle to give way to whoever waited on the other side.
As the door swung open with a faint creak, a silver thread of moonlight filtered into the cabin, cutting through the interior's dim light. In that threshold, framed against the star-speckled darkness outside, a slender silhouette took shape. Tsumiya, with a mix of anticipation and awe, recognized her instantly. In that same second, an electric shiver ran down his spine — not from cold, but from a strange familiarity that bordered on the predestined. It was as though a figure from his most cherished dreams had come to life, materializing right before his eyes. She embodied the very essence of virtue and perfection — the unattainable ideal that he, in his own raw reality, had yet to find within himself. She was the beacon, the irresistible pull that drew him forward, that drove him onward in this new and unknown world.
???: [— Master Lyson, I came to ask for your help with one of my training exercises... To show you my progress from the past month.]
That voice. Soft, melodious, yet laden with a stillness Tsumiya found magnetic. He had heard it beneath the moonlight just three nights ago, in an entirely different cabin, wrapped in an aura of mystery and beauty that had captivated him. It was that same light that, somehow, pushed him to keep moving forward in what this world offered — the promise of something grand.
It was Irene.
(«Her calm gaze, and perfect composure...»)
A subtle flush colored Tsumiya's cheeks as he glimpsed the shadow she cast, revealing a small portion of her snow-white hair with its silver undertones. The mystery surrounding her, the unshakable composure she emanated, made her even more striking in his eyes — though in that moment, Tsumiya had no grasp of the true depth of what he was seeing. His heart lurched, an accelerated rhythm that was not merely nervousness, but a blend of admiration and the sharp awareness of his own destiny intertwined with hers.
Irene: [— May I come in, master?]
Irene spoke again, her soft and steady tone unchanged — a melody that drifted through the night air and that Tsumiya felt as a balm against the cabin's tension. For him, it was the same voice that had brought him comfort and a strange sense of home on his second night in this world — a voice that promised calm and, at the same time, evoked the image of a legendary heroine. Each syllable seemed carefully measured, without a trace of the impatience or nervousness he himself so often felt.
Lyson: [— Of course, Irene.]
Lyson responded with his customary serene tone, though Tsumiya could detect a subtle hint of happiness in his voice — a warmth the elder reserved for those he held in deep regard.
As she stepped into the cabin, accompanied by the soft light of the moon, Tsumiya was able to see Irene in a detail that left him breathless. Her attire, peculiar and functional, was an ensemble he had not encountered in their previous meetings. Black trousers, neatly tucked into light brown leather boots with dark laces. A long-sleeved shirt, buttoned and of an immaculate white, fitted her slender figure thanks to a brown belt. From it hung a knife of simple but sharp appearance, and her magic staff, whose tip flickered with a dim gem. Over the shirt, an open black jacket that merged with a long black cape, its hood partially covering her head and casting an enigmatic shadow across her face. Black gloves, Tsumiya thought, to improve her grip.
The entire ensemble seemed designed with a clear purpose: to blend into the darkness of the night — a functional camouflage of shadowy colors that contrasted with the ethereal paleness of her hair and skin. In that moment, Tsumiya flushed even more deeply, the heat rising along his neck. He had fallen silent, dumbstruck. Until now, he had overlooked a stronger, more pragmatic, and undeniably more dangerous side of Irene — a facet that made her even more fascinating, more worthy of being the protagonist of her own story... and, of course, of his "party."
Irene's grey eyes — intense as a distant storm and calm as the surface of a frozen lake — settled on a figure that appeared almost motionless, petrified beside the anvil amid the gleam of freshly polished swords. The peculiarity of that young man's clothing, so unlike anything she had seen in the village, did not go unnoticed. His face, framed by the cabin's dim light and the flickering torchlight, wore an expression that, for a moment, reminded her of the description one of her brother's friends had given — who, with a shudder, had called him a "monster" due to the effect of the shadows on his gaze. Yet that same figure, so strange and distant, had somehow become the companion of the most important person in her life: her brother, Jorgen. The irony was not lost on Irene, though her expression remained imperturbable.
Irene: [— You're the one who's been helping my brother with his training, aren't you?]
Irene's question, delivered in her customary tone of serene calm, cut through the cabin air and settled around Tsumiya. She observed his somewhat strange expression — that "threatening" gaze that, in his case, seemed more a blend of awe, nervousness, and a hint of the flush that still refused to leave his cheeks. That reaction, so unusual, intrigued her for an instant. A faint flicker of curiosity surfaced through the veil of her usual composure, as she continued to watch the young man with an attention that went beyond the mere question — dwelling instead on the puzzle of how this person had managed to come across as someone fairly calm, optimistic, and above all, tremendously clumsy, according to the words of her brother, Jorgen.
Tsumiya blinked once. Then twice.
The question hung in the air between them, simple and direct, carrying none of the weight that Tsumiya's imagination had assigned to this moment across countless mental rehearsals. There was no dramatic recognition, no softening of her gaze, no subtle smile that said she had noticed him before he noticed her. Just a question. Practical. Neutral. Aimed at confirming a fact she had likely already verified through Jorgen.
(«Say something. Anything. You're the protagonist, for the love of—»)
Tsumiya: [— I... yes. That's me.]
The words came out quieter than intended, stripped of the confident cadence he had practiced in his head. His voice, usually capable of projecting that carefully constructed warmth he deployed with the villagers, had reduced itself to something considerably more human. He cleared his throat, attempting to recover some semblance of composure, his fingers instinctively straightening the edge of his hoodie in a gesture that had more to do with nervous habit than actual tidiness.
— Tsumiya Higeri. It's... it's a pleasure to meet you properly, Irene.
He added her name at the end almost carefully, as if testing whether saying it aloud in her presence felt different from the countless times he had turned it over in his mind. It did. Considerably.
Irene held his gaze for a moment longer than strictly necessary for a simple confirmation, her expression unchanged — that particular stillness that Tsumiya was beginning to understand was simply how she existed in the world, not coldness, not distance, just an economy of expression that said everything it needed to without excess. Then, with the same quiet efficiency that seemed to characterize her every movement, she turned toward Lyson.
Irene: [— I see you have company tonight, Master Lyson.]
It wasn't a complaint. It wasn't even an observation that particularly concerned her. It was the verbal equivalent of acknowledging a chair that had been moved slightly from its usual place — noted, filed, irrelevant to the actual purpose of her visit.
Lyson, for his part, responded with the particular brand of unhurried calm that Tsumiya had come to associate with someone who had seen enough of life to find very little of it surprising.
Lyson: [— Young Tsumiya has been helping me with the tools tonight. He has been... diligent.]
The pause before "diligent" was brief enough to be deniable and long enough to be deliberate. Tsumiya chose to interpret it as a compliment.
(«Diligent. He called me diligent. That's essentially "promising" in elder-speak. Practically a full endorsement.»)
Irene nodded once, the matter apparently settled to her satisfaction, and set her staff carefully against the wall beside the door — a gesture so practiced it suggested she had done it in this exact spot many times before. The glow of the gem at its tip dimmed slightly as it came to rest, as though exhaling.
And then, for just a moment, her gaze returned to Tsumiya.
Not with curiosity, not with warmth, not with any of the emotions his imagination had scripted for this encounter. Simply with the particular attention of someone cataloguing a detail they hadn't fully processed yet — the strange clothes, the flush that still hadn't entirely left his face, the polishing cloth still hanging forgotten from his left hand.
Then she looked away.
Tsumiya stood beside the anvil, surrounded by the gleam of freshly polished metal, holding a cloth he had forgotten he was holding, with the distinct and humbling sensation that he had just been assessed, categorized, and filed under a heading that had very little to do with "protagonist."
(«...That's fine. That's completely fine. Every great story starts somewhere.»)
He turned back to the remaining tools, resumed polishing with perhaps slightly more focus than the task strictly required, and said nothing else.
The cabin settled back into its quiet rhythms — Lyson's measured movements, the soft scrape of metal against stone, the distant sound of the night outside. And somewhere in that ordinary silence, without fanfare or acknowledgment, the first real conversation between Tsumiya Higeri and Irene had ended almost before it began.
He didn't look up again.
But he didn't stop smiling either.
Please sign in to leave a comment.