The cooking automaton brought out lunch with mechanical precision, brass arms moving in smooth, preprogrammed arcs. Steam rose from ceramic dishes as the construct set them on the table with careful deliberation—never spilling, never hesitating.
Valen's guests watched with obvious fascination.
Automaton magic is still barely a decade old, Valen reflected, observing their reactions. To them, this is cutting-edge sorcery.
The field had exploded in recent years. Where traditional artificers had spent centuries perfecting static enchantments—self-heating cookware, ever-sharp blades, luminous crystals—the new generation pursued something far more ambitious: true autonomous constructs capable of independent action.
Maybe it's not far away when they'll stumble upon cars, Valen mused.
The breakthrough had come from reconceptualizing ancient golem research. Traditional golems required constant magical input from their creator, functioning essentially as remote-controlled puppets animated by raw mana. They were powerful but inflexible, capable only of following direct commands in real-time.
Automatons took a different approach entirely. Instead of channeling mana through the construct, artificers first taught them like golems, then burned the movements directly into enchanted circuitry using Ancient Praxian runes. The result was machines that could execute complex sequences independently, adapting to their environment within predefined parameters.
Last year, the Academy had officially established the Automaton Division within the Artificer Department. Rock was among the first generation of specialized researchers, according to him.
And his cooking construct is already more sophisticated than most I saw in the market, Valen noted, watching the automaton return to the kitchen with empty serving trays. The movement optimization alone represents months of refinement work.
"This is incredible," Marcus said, examining the dishes with obvious interest. "How does it remember what to do? Does it have memory like us?"
"Runescript burned into its control core," Valen explained. "The runes pulse mana in calculated intervals based on ambient feedback, and the next action is decided by the control core." It was easy for him to understand the automaton's workings at a glance, given his engineering background.
Raylan said nothing, but Valen caught the protagonist studying the kitchen doorway where the automaton had disappeared. Observant, Valen cataloged. Already thinking of how he'll build one. He's smarter than the novel's narration sometimes suggests.
Amber broke the analytical silence with characteristic directness. "So are we eating or conducting an artificer class?"
That earned scattered laughter, and the tension dissolved.
Strange, Valen thought as the conversation flowed around him, how quickly young people bond over shared experiences.
The dynamic had established itself naturally. Amber led with sharp wit and challenging questions. She's like the ones who carry the group through confidence and charisma. Elara responded with thoughtful observations that revealed surprising depth beneath her quiet demeanor. Marcus played diplomat, steering conversations away from potential conflicts while advancing his own subtle information gathering. He's like the one who has all the answers, keeps notes and tabs when needed.
And Raylan... Raylan spoke only when directly addressed, answering with careful precision. Like the ones who are good at what they do and drop the correct solution at the exact moment when it's required. Not just calculating, Valen noted. Watching everyone the way I watch them. The novel never mentioned this side of him—but then, novels rarely capture the full complexity of their protagonists.
And here I am, Valen thought wryly, reverting to my old patterns. The stoic observer. Some habits transcend lifetimes.
Still, despite his natural reserve, the conversation held genuine warmth. These were people finding common ground after conflict—tentative, but real. I can't imagine the situation if this had gone otherwise.
The moment of revelation came halfway through the meal.
"By the way," Amber said casually, reaching for another serving, "you guys seem not to recognize me—I'm Princess Amber Lumis. Fifteenth princess, technically, though the title means less than you'd think."
Three sets of spoons froze mid-air.
"You—you're a princess?" Elara's voice climbed half an octave.
"The fifteenth one," Amber repeated, as if that somehow made it less significant. "Far enough from succession that I might as well be common nobility. But yes."
She paused, expression turning more serious. "The reason I mention this is because the one you defeated today is Cassian Lumis, the twelfth prince. He and Prince Alex are in the succession line. They're not like me. Maybe one day you'll wake up and hear that Alex—Alexander Von Lumis—has become the new Emperor."
Raylan's expression cycled through surprise, calculation, and careful neutrality in rapid succession. Politics, Valen interpreted. He's recategorizing the entire confrontation through a different lens now.
"I should introduce myself properly as well," Valen added mildly, clearing his throat. "Valentine Ashford, though most call me Valen. Cousin to Marcus, grandson of Duke Ashford."
The revelation landed with considerably less impact.
Marcus offered a slight shrug, dripping with sarcasm. "Ashford family isn't exactly rare around here. Grandfather has... ahem... many grandchildren. Our elder cousins have already made names for themselves in the chaotic south."
Side characters don't command attention, Valen thought without bitterness. The protagonist trio already has their Ashford connection through Marcus. I'm redundant in the narrative.
After lunch, the guests politely excused themselves—schedules to keep, preparations to make, the social dance of new acquaintances testing boundaries.
Amber lingered at the doorway, her amber eyes carrying that telltale golden gleam as she studied Valen one last time.
She'd dropped her bossy attitude after hearing from Marcus how Valen had defeated almost all the Ashfords using continuous Air Bullets.
"Maybe I'm not your opponent today." Her smile carried equal parts challenge and respect. "But I'll learn some new spells first before I challenge you properly."
Valen smiled. She's not someone who acts on emotions. She recognizes the strategic disadvantage and chooses to address it rather than charge ahead on pride alone.
"I look forward to it," he said, and meant it.
When the door finally closed behind his guests, Valen allowed himself a long exhale.
"That was exhausting," he muttered.
"But successful, Master!" Iris's cheerful voice chimed in his mind. "You've established friendly relations with the main protagonist's party. That's valuable insurance."
"Insurance that nearly gave me a heart attack when I realized I'd walked into a canonical scene on the wrong side."
"Hehehe. But you handled it beautifully. Neutral mediator is much safer than 'antagonist noble who gets face-slapped in chapter fifteen.'"
Despite himself, Valen smiled. "Fair point. Now—let's collect those textbooks before the tower closes."
"Yes! I cannot wait to analyze Ancient Praxian runes properly. The encoding patterns, the grammatical structures, the compound formation rules—"
"You're enjoying this."
"Of course! Knowledge is delicious, Master."
She's changed, Valen realized, not for the first time. Sixteen years of continuous learning, adapting, growing. The Iris from my previous life was sophisticated software. This Iris... displays something approaching genuine personality. Pseudo-consciousness emerging from complexity, maybe. Or perhaps something more.
Good for her, he thought warmly. She carried me through the darkest years of my past life. If she's evolving toward true sentience, I'd count that a blessing, not a curse.
The afternoon sun had mellowed to golden amber when Valen entered the tower. The morning's crowds had thinned significantly—most new students had already collected their required texts.
The first floor presented a stark contrast to the grand hall below.
Where the ground level spoke of bureaucratic efficiency—high ceilings, organized counters, clear signage—the library proper embraced controlled chaos. The ceiling dropped low enough that taller visitors might brush the aged beams. Bookshelves packed the space in dense configurations that suggested organic growth rather than deliberate planning. Some were sealed behind glass panels. Others stood open, their contents accessible to any curious hand.
The air itself carried weight—dry paper and aged leather, certainly, but also something less tangible. A thickness to the atmosphere, like walking through concentrated time.
Dust motes drifted through slanted light from narrow windows, each particle carrying the golden glow of late afternoon. The floorboards creaked with the particular voice of century-old wood, announcing each footstep to the silent shelves.
This place remembers, Valen thought, running his fingers along a shelf's edge. Every spell researched here, every discovery recorded, every student who walked these aisles. It's all soaked into the walls.
Ancient preservation runes glowed faintly along the ceiling beams—maintenance enchantments keeping the books from decay while somehow preserving the atmosphere of age. The magic here predated the Academy itself, layered protection built on protection, runes carved over runes in archaeological strata of scholarly obsession.
"Master," Iris whispered, her voice carrying unusual reverence. "According to the novel, Raylan discovers his lifespan-stealing spell hidden somewhere in these shelves. A book of shamanic magic from the eastern territories."
"Which means it's not protagonist-exclusive," Valen replied softly, navigating between two shelf units. "If it's just a book, we can read it too."
A line of students still waited at the front desk—the sign-out process for borrowing books from the library. Valen registered mentally that he'd need to queue eventually, but first... reconnaissance.
He drifted toward the rear of the space where fewer students ventured. The books here were older, their spines cracked and faded. Antiquated spell theories that modern mages dismissed as inefficient. Historical curiosities rather than practical resources.
Perfect, Valen thought. This is exactly where you'd hide something valuable in plain sight.
"Master, we should copy everything eventually," Iris said, excitement bleeding through her usual composure. "Build a complete repository of magical knowledge. Then we can cross-reference, identify patterns, maybe even develop new applications that traditional mages overlook."
"Ambitious. But I like it." Valen pulled a particularly ancient tome from a shelf, examining the spine. "Start with foundations, expand systematically. Then master everything."
"Hehehe. Exactly!"
After several minutes of searching, Valen's fingers closed on a book with a decaying leather cover, its title barely legible: Collections of Shamanic Magic from the Eastern Territories.
"This is it," Iris confirmed. "The lifespan-stealing spell is documented on page forty-seven, hidden among fertility rituals, harvest blessings, and other sacrificial ritual magic."
Valen carefully opened the tome, mindful of its fragility. The pages inside were surprisingly well-preserved—more protective runework, probably.
"Shamanic magic requires a patron deity," he murmured, reading the introduction. "The practitioner channels power through a divine intermediary rather than directly manipulating mana. That's the fundamental difference from traditional spellcasting."
"Correct. But Raylan will exploit a loophole—using his special Soul Crystal as the conduit and redirecting the 'offering' to himself as the deity. It's technically heretical, but functionally brilliant."
"And we can improve on this," Valen said slowly, ideas already forming. "If we develop proper control over soul channel mechanics, we could potentially adapt shamanic frameworks without the usual limitations. But that requires..."
"Ancient Praxian runes," Iris finished. "We need to understand the fundamental encoding first. Which brings us to—"
"The dictionary."
Valen replaced the shamanic text carefully and moved deeper into the stacks. The book Iris described would be hard to miss—a massive compilation of runework that few students bothered with.
He found it three shelves back: Master Aelindra's Compilation of Ancient Praxian Runes, standing on a large pedestal of its own.
The tome was enormous, easily hand-width thick and bound in dark leather that had somehow resisted centuries of handling. Gold leaf decorated the spine, though age had flaked much of it away.
"Master Aelindra," Valen read aloud. "Isn't that the elf instructor teaching fundamentals tomorrow?"
"Yes! In the novel, this becomes the connection point. Raylan demonstrates unusual competence in Ancient Praxian runes, impresses her with intelligent questions during the lecture, and eventually becomes her personal student."
"Which gives him access to advanced spells years ahead of the standard curriculum." Valen hefted the heavy book, feeling its weight. "Knowledge is power, and privileged access to knowledge is exponential power."
He found an empty reading desk and opened the compilation.
The first page alone made his breath catch.
One hundred and eight fundamental runes, each meticulously illustrated with stroke order, pronunciation guides, and semantic fields. Below that, compound runes—one thousand and twenty-four documented variations formed by combining basic elements according to specific grammatical rules.
This is the alphabet of reality manipulation, Valen thought, awe cutting through his usual analytical distance. The language that tells mana how to behave. Every spell, every enchantment, every magical construct ultimately reduces to these symbols.
"Iris, how long to record the entire thing?"
"At optimal scanning speed? Approximately twenty-seven minutes for complete visual recording, plus additional processing time for analysis. But Master, we can't remove this book—it's restricted to library use only according to the front desk rules I overheard."
Valen glanced toward the front of the library. The student queue had shortened considerably.
"Estimate time until the line clears completely?"
"Based on current processing speed... thirty-two minutes until the last student finishes."
"Perfect. We have time." Valen began carefully turning pages, exposing each one to his field of vision for exactly three seconds—enough for Iris to capture complete visual data. "Start recording. We'll copy this entire compilation, then return it to the shelf. No one needs to know we've acquired a complete mental copy."
"Recording initiated! Oh Master, this is wonderful! Look at rune forty-three—"
"Pace yourself. We have over a thousand runes to document."
They fell into comfortable rhythm—turn page, pause, turn page. To any casual observer, Valen simply appeared to be a diligent student conducting research.
This is the advantage Iris provides, Valen reflected as rune after rune burned into permanent digital memory. Perfect recall. Instant cross-referencing. Pattern recognition across data sets too large for human cognition. The original novel's protagonist had to painstakingly memorize this information through conventional study. I'm building a searchable database in under an hour.
The afternoon light shifted toward evening gold by the time they finished.
"Recording complete!" Iris announced triumphantly. "All one thousand one hundred thirty-two runes documented with complete notation. Cross-referencing has already begun—I'm identifying at least seventeen compound patterns that seem simple at a glance but can be exploited."
"Excellent." Valen closed the massive tome and hefted it back to its shelf. "That gives us a significant head start. We can begin Dream Learning sessions tonight, build foundational fluency before the first lecture even begins."
"Should we also copy the shamanic magic text?"
"Yes. And..." Valen scanned the surrounding shelves with new appreciation. "As many of these 'obsolete' texts as possible. Modern mages dismiss them as inefficient, but that just means they consume more mana. And when have we ever lacked that?"
Mana capacity is the most important factor during battles between mages, Valen reflected. Although potions that restore mana exist, they don't work instantly. And in a real battle, an instant can be deadly.
The library had nearly emptied by the time he made his way to the front desk. The queue was gone, leaving only a tired-looking administrator sorting through paperwork.
Time to officially collect his textbooks and join the ranks of proper Academy students.