**Chapter 18: Magic in the Modern World**
**Day 1,138.**
**Status: The God of Popcorn.**
**Chaos Level: Rising exponentially.**
There is a quote by Arthur C. Clarke that states, "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."
I have always hated that quote. It implies that magic is just science we haven't figured out yet—that if you strip away the mystery, a fireball is just a chemical reaction and a teleport is just quantum tunneling. It sanitizes the wonder. It makes the universe feel like a spreadsheet.
I prefer the inverse: *Any sufficiently advanced boredom is indistinguishable from divine intervention.*
I sat in the living quarters of the Atacama Facility. The wall of rock had been dissolved again, giving me a panoramic view of the Andes mountains bathed in moonlight. But I wasn't looking at the mountains. I was looking at the massive holographic array floating in the center of the room, split into a dozen news feeds from around the globe.
"Zero," I said, leaning back in my chair. "I'm hungry."
**[Nutrient block synthesis is ready, Architect.]**
"No," I grimaced. "I am tired of eating compressed sawdust. Today is a spectacle. Spectacles require snacks."
I reached out with my left hand. On the table sat a bowl of dried corn kernels I had confiscated from a seed bank in Norway during a Slipstream run.
I focused.
Heating corn is easy. Any microwave can do it. But popping corn perfectly—expanding the endosperm instantly without burning the pericarp, ensuring a 100% pop rate with zero unpopped maids—requires a level of thermal precision that defies standard physics.
I snapped my fingers.
*Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.*
The sound was rapid-fire, like a tiny machine gun. The kernels exploded into fluffy, white clouds in the bowl. I telekinetically dusted them with salt (harvested from the Pacific) and a drizzle of synthetic butter (rearranged carbon chains).
I tossed a kernel into my mouth. It was perfect.
"Now," I said, chewing. "Let's watch the monkeys play with matches."
Three days ago, I had released **System Update 2.1: The Age of Arcanum**.
Before this, the players were mostly physical. Vanguards hit things. Striders ran fast. Even the 'special' abilities were grounded in kinetic energy or biological enhancement.
But physical violence is limiting. It requires proximity. It requires cardio.
The *Mage* class changed the geometry of the war. I had unlocked the ability to manipulate external energy fields. Fire, ice, lightning, gravity.
"Report," I commanded.
Zero's avatar gestured to the central screen.
**[Update Saturation: 100%.]**
**[New Class Registrations: 12,000,000.]**
**[Global Property Damage: $400 Billion and climbing.]**
"Show me New York," I said.
The screen expanded.
New York City was no longer the city that never sleeps; it was the city that was currently on fire.
***
**The Real World: New York City**
**Times Square**
The traffic had been gridlocked for two hours. Usually, this resulted in honking horns and shouting matches.
Today, it resulted in a thermal event.
A taxi driver—a man named Sal, Level 12 *Pyromancer*—was screaming at a delivery truck that had cut him off.
"I said move!" Sal shouted, leaning out of his yellow cab.
"Make me, sparky!" the truck driver yelled back.
Sal didn't reach for a tire iron. He reached for his anger. He grasped the steering wheel, and the Silver Visor on his head pulsed with an angry red light.
The air around the taxi began to shimmer. The temperature spiked by forty degrees in a second.
**[Skill Activated: Fireball.]**
It wasn't a metaphor. A ball of swirling, orange plasma the size of a basketball materialized above the hood of the taxi.
Sal looked at it, his eyes wide. He had practiced this in the game, killing goblins. He hadn't meant to cast it here. But the connection between the System and his emotional state was raw, unfiltered.
"Whoa," Sal whispered.
The fireball didn't wait for permission. It launched.
It streaked across the ten feet separating the taxi from the truck.
*BOOM.*
The truck's rear doors evaporated. The cargo—crates of frozen fish—flash-steamed, creating a massive explosion of white fog and flying tilapia. The shockwave blew out the windows of the nearest Starbucks.
Panic erupted.
People weren't running away from a gunman. They were running away from *magic*.
But amidst the chaos, something else happened.
A woman in a business suit stepped out of a nearby office building. She saw the falling debris—glass shards raining down on a crowd of tourists.
She raised her hand. Her Silver Visor glowed pale blue.
**[Skill Activated: Telekinetic Umbrella.]**
The glass shards stopped in mid-air, caught in a invisible net of force. She swiped her hand to the side, and the lethal rain was harmlessly deposited into a dumpster.
She looked at her hand, trembling. Then she looked at Sal, who was staring in horror at the burning truck.
"You idiot!" she screamed, her voice amplified by a *Thaumaturgy* cantrip. "You have to toggle the safety on!"
In the Atacama, I chuckled and threw another piece of popcorn into my mouth.
"Safety toggles," I mused. "I should probably add those. Nah. Learning curve."
***
**Tokyo, Japan**
**Shinjuku District**
Ren sat on the edge of a billboard overlooking the neon canyon of Shinjuku. The night air was cool, but it crackled with a new kind of static—the residue of thousands of people passively channeling mana.
Ren wasn't playing. He was hunting.
Since the update, the crime rate in Tokyo had shifted. Petty theft was down. Magical assault was up. The Yakuza had begun recruiting "Warlocks"—players who specialized in curses and DoT (Damage over Time) spells.
Ren adjusted his collar. The Black Box, now fused to his skin, hummed against his throat.
**[Mana Sense: Active.]**
The world looked different through the eyes of a Level 32 Void Walker. He didn't just see buildings; he saw the energy grid. He saw the ley lines pulsing beneath the asphalt.
And he saw the anomalies.
Below him, in an alleyway behind a Pachinko parlor, three men were cornering a young woman.
Standard mugging scenario. Except the muggers weren't holding knives.
The leader, a brute with a Silver Visor, held a ball of crackling electricity in his hand.
"Hand over the purse," the thug sneered. "And the Visor. Or I fry you."
The woman was crying, backing against the wall.
Ren sighed. "Predictable."
He stood up.
He didn't jump. Jumping was for Striders.
Ren *stepped*.
He triggered **[Void Step]**.
Space folded. One moment he was on the roof, twenty stories up. The next instant, he was standing directly between the thug and the woman. There was no sound of impact, no rush of wind. Just a sudden displacement of air that popped the thug's ears.
The thug stumbled back, the lightning ball fizzling in his surprise. "What the—where did you come from?"
Ren looked at the lightning. "Your form is terrible. You're leaking mana everywhere."
"Who are you?" the thug shouted, trying to rekindle the spell. "Get lost, hero, or I'll—"
Ren didn't let him finish.
**[Skill: Gravity Well.]**
Ren didn't raise a hand. He simply looked at the three men and exerted his will.
A sphere of distorted gravity, the size of a grapefruit, materialized in the center of the group.
It pulled.
The three men slammed together with a violent *thud*, their heads cracking against each other like coconuts. They stuck there, pinned by the localized singularity, groaning in a heap of limbs.
Ren turned to the woman.
"Go home," he said gently.
The woman stared at him—at the glowing violet lines on his neck, the twin daggers at his hip, the way the shadows seemed to cling to his coat.
"Are you... are you with the Order?" she stammered.
"We're all with the Order now," Ren said.
He looked up at the sky. The Myriad countdown was hovering there, a faint red watermark on the universe. *38 Days.*
"But some of us actually read the quest log."
He vanished again, stepping into the void, leaving the thugs groaning in the alley as the gravity spell slowly dissipated.
***
**Los Angeles, California**
**The Crimson Citadel**
If Tokyo was the land of the vigilant shadow, Los Angeles was the land of the Iron Fist.
Damon—*BloodLetter*—walked through the streets of downtown L.A. He was flanked by ten of his elites. They didn't wear civilian clothes. They wore their full raid gear, manifested into reality through the high-density mana atmosphere.
Damon wore his *Blood-Iron Plate*. It was heavy, spiked, and terrifying.
Since the update, L.A. had descended into anarchy for exactly six hours. Then, the Crimson Blades had stepped in.
They established "Mana Checkpoints."
"Hold it," a Blade lieutenant barked, stopping a teenager in a hoodie who was trying to cross Figueroa Street. "Scan him."
Another Blade raised a wand—a looted item that detected magical potential.
**[Class: Frost Mage. Level: 8.]**
"Unregistered caster," the lieutenant said. "You know the rules. No casting within city limits without a Blade Permit."
"I wasn't casting!" the kid protested. "I just unlocked the class!"
"You're walking around with a loaded gun, kid," Damon rumbled, stepping forward.
Damon was huge. The *Blood Reaver* ascension had increased his physical mass. He loomed over the kid.
"We're protecting this city," Damon said. "Wild magic attracts dungeon spawns. If you lose control of a frost bolt, you could freeze a city block."
"I can control it!" the kid insisted. To prove his point—a foolish mistake—he summoned a small icicle in his hand.
Damon moved.
He didn't draw his sword. He simply reached out and grabbed the icicle with his bare, armored hand.
*Crunch.*
He crushed the ice.
Then, his hand began to glow with a dark, crimson aura. **[Skill: Sanguine Grip.]**
He grabbed the kid by the collar.
The kid screamed as he felt his vitality—his HP—being drained. Not enough to kill, but enough to terrify. The red energy flowed from the kid into Damon, making the Guild Leader's armor pulse.
"Control," Damon whispered, leaning close. "This is control. You are a battery, kid. Join the Blades, learn discipline, or get out of my city."
He dropped the kid.
The teenager scrambled back, terrified, clutching his chest. "I... I'll join. I'll join."
Damon nodded to his lieutenant. "Get him a tabard. Put him in the reserve unit. We need more ice mages for the cooling systems in the Citadel."
Damon walked on, surveying his kingdom.
He looked up at the sky.
"Let the aliens come," Damon growled. "I'm turning this whole city into a fortress."
***
**London, United Kingdom**
**Sanctuary Headquarters**
Elena sat in the center of a large park, surrounded by hundreds of people.
It wasn't a raid. It was a class.
"Focus," Elena said, her voice projected by magic to the crowd. "Magic isn't just output. It's internal flow. If you push too hard, you burn out your neural pathways."
The people sitting on the grass weren't gamers. They were grandmothers, teachers, nurses, construction workers. They were the people who had chosen the *Support* and *Weaver* classes.
"Feel the pulse," Elena instructed. "Don't force the mana. Guide it. Like water."
A young girl in the front row, maybe seven years old, held out a flower with a broken stem. Her small Silver Visor slipped down her nose.
She concentrated. A soft, green light enveloped her hands.
**[Skill: Mending.]**
The stem knit itself back together. The flower stood up straight.
The girl giggled. "I did it!"
Elena smiled. It was a tired smile—she hadn't slept in two days—but it was genuine.
"Good job, Lily," Elena said.
But the peace was fragile.
A man in the back row suddenly screamed. He dropped to his knees, clutching his head. His Visor was sparking.
"Mana Burn!" someone shouted.
Elena was moving before the shout ended. She triggered her *Celestial Oracle* speed boost.
She reached the man. He was convulsing. He had tried to cast a Level 20 lightning spell with a Level 5 intellect stat. His brain was frying.
"Clear back!" Elena ordered.
She placed her hands on his temples.
**[Skill: Divine Intervention.]**
White light flooded from her palms. She didn't just heal the damage; she absorbed the excess mana he couldn't control.
It hurt. It felt like sticking her hands into a fire.
Elena gritted her teeth, taking the pain into herself. The man stopped convulsing. His breathing steadied.
Elena slumped back, panting. Her hands were trembling.
"Saintess!" Marcus, her lieutenant, rushed over. "You can't keep doing that. You're absorbing too much feedback. Your own stats will degrade."
"If I don't do it, they die," Elena whispered. She looked at the crowd—terrified, hopeful, wielding power they didn't understand.
"The Architect gave them the gun," Elena said bitterly. "But he didn't give them the manual. We have to be the manual, Marcus."
***
**The Atacama Facility**
I watched Elena absorb the mana burn.
"She calls me irresponsible," I noted, chewing another piece of popcorn. "She's not wrong."
"The Mana Burn casualty rate is 2%," Zero reported. "High, but within acceptable evolutionary parameters. The weak are filtering themselves out."
"That's cold, Zero. Even for code."
"I am emulating your detachment, Architect."
I paused, a kernel halfway to my mouth.
"Touché."
I swiped the screen to a new feed.
This one wasn't a city. It was a military base in Nevada. Area 51. Or whatever they called it now.
Director Miller was standing on an observation deck, overlooking a testing ground.
Down below, a squad of soldiers wearing modified, government-issued tactical gear over their Silver Visors were lining up.
"Commence test," Miller ordered over the PA.
The soldiers raised their hands. They weren't holding rifles. They were holding... wands? No, they were holding focusing rods made of depleted uranium.
"Fire!"
The squad unleashed a coordinated volley of *Force Bolts*.
The impact decimated a tank target downrange. It crumpled like a soda can.
"Interesting," I murmured. "They're militarizing the casting. Standardizing the output using focus tools."
"The United States has formed the 'First Arcane Battalion'," Zero said. "They are drafting high-level players. Offering amnesty for past crimes in exchange for service."
"Of course they are."
I watched as Miller nodded, seemingly satisfied.
Then, Miller looked at a screen next to him. It showed the countdown.
*38 Days.*
Miller looked terrified.
"He knows," I said. "He knows his Arcane Battalion is a pea shooter compared to what's coming."
I stood up. The bowl of popcorn was empty.
"Zero, the Magic Update has served its purpose. The chaos is forcing them to adapt. The Guilds are governing, the Vigilantes are policing, and the Healers are... well, healing."
"What is the next phase?"
I walked to the edge of the room, looking out at the night sky.
"The Magic was the 'How'," I said. "Now they need the 'What'."
"I don't follow."
"They have the ability to shoot fireballs," I explained. "But fireballs won't stop a Myriad Void-Eater. The Myriad have shields that absorb energy. Pure magic will just feed them."
I clenched my fist.
"They need to learn *Fusion*."
"Fusion?"
"Combining the physical and the magical. The *Spellblade*. The *Magitech*. They need to enchant their Star Metal. They need to build weapons that strike on both planes of existence simultaneously."
I turned back to the console.
"But I can't just give them the update. They have to earn it. They have to discover it."
I brought up the map of the *Tower of Eternity*.
"Ren unlocked the Tower for everyone. Let's see if they can reach Floor 50."
"What is on Floor 50?" Zero asked.
"The Forge of the Star-God," I smiled. "And the recipe for the *God-Slayer* cannon."
I sat back down.
"But first... I think I'll send a little motivation."
I typed a command into the global server.
**[Global Event: The Scout.]**
**[A Myriad Vanguard Scout has entered the Solar System.]**
**[Projected Impact: The Moon.]**
"Let's see if my landscaping on the moon comes in handy," I whispered.
On the screen, a single red dot detached from the massive swarm beyond Jupiter. It was moving fast. Much faster than the fleet.
It was a biological missile the size of Manhattan.
"Zero, alert the Guild Leaders. Tell them the Moon is now a PvP zone."
"PvP?"
"Player vs. Predator," I corrected. "Tell Ren to pack his space suit. We're going to the moon."
My power increases without limits. And now, I was about to host the first interplanetary raid in human history.
I looked at the empty popcorn bowl.
"Refill," I commanded.
The kernels popped. The show must go on.
**[Day 1,138 Ends.]**
**[Daily Growth: +10%.]**
**[Entertainment Value: Absolute.]**