Marc stood about a hundred meters from the cabin, a prudent distance dictated by his logical mind to avoid turning his new home into an accidental pyre. The midday sun beat down on the field. He had woken up several hours later than planned, a victim of the almost supernatural comfort of his new bed.
That damn bed is a trap; maintaining discipline is going to be a nightmare. On Earth, the five-in-the-morning alarm was a vital obligation to survive work, but here... knowing I have a century ahead of me might be my worst enemy.
With one hand he held the grimoire open, while the other pointed at the void, channeling energy. He had spent hours repeating the fire spell he discovered the day before, but his true victory of the morning was something else: after reciting the basic water incantation, a crystal-clear stream burst from nowhere, soaking the grass at his feet.
I have affinity for two elements. Good. Halfway there, let's go for the remaining two.
Before heading out, Marc had devoured a few more pages of Zylos's diary, but the complexity of its content had forced him back to the safety of verbal spells. The difference between the two books was vast.
Zylos doesn't teach magic; he recounts sensations. It's like trying to explain the taste of an exotic dish to someone who has never tried it: you can describe the ingredients and the texture, but the other person won't know what it tastes like until they take a bite. For Zylos, the key is not the word, but "sensory memory." You have to feel the magic in your own flesh to be able to replicate it later without opening your mouth.
Marc had mapped out a rigorous training plan: he would use the manual's spells as "training wheels" to experience the internal sensation of each element. Once his body memorized the flow of Mana, he would try to discard the words, following Zylos's trail. He wanted to turn magic into a reflex, into pure muscle memory.
However, there was another discrepancy that troubled him. The cabin's official grimoire treated Magic Power like a biological muscle: you are born with it and must train it to grow. But for Zylos, that "power" was a fallacy, a mere mental limitation. According to the first mage, anyone could create a fireball the size of a house on their first try if their will were absolute enough. The problem is that no one believes they can do it, and that doubt acts as a safety limiter.
If the genius who invented magic took decades to tear down his own mental walls, I don't think I'll be the exception, Marc reflected, frowning. But this contradicts what Amir said. He promised me superior Magic Power that I had to "train" to increase. Zylos says the power is already there, that it's only me holding it back. There are too many pieces that don't fit in this puzzle.
The discrepancies regarding Mana were perhaps the most dangerous. According to the grimoire, Mana was a finite fuel: you use it, it runs out, and you must wait for the "tank" to refill. But Zylos had a rawer, more biological vision. He argued that Mana doesn't run out—since it is life force itself—but rather, the body collapses.
Zylos compared using verbal spells to a drug that numbs pain. You can run for miles without feeling tired, but your muscles are tearing in silence. In the end, you collapse because the body cannot keep up with a mind that doesn't feel its own limits. For Zylos, the key was active meditation: feeling how magic flows through the nerves and training physical resistance to power, so that one day, using magic becomes as natural as breathing.
Continuous magic without exhaustion? Marc smiled with ambition. If someone achieved that, they would be a god among men. I like it.
After lunch and practicing the Water element until the flow felt familiar, Marc decided it was time to claim Earth. He looked for the most basic spell: the creation of a small wall. The manual warned that a beginner would barely manage to raise a barrier fifteen centimeters high.
Marc closed his eyes, inhaled the scent of grass and fertile soil, and sought that deep connection.
"Oh, silent spirit of the Earth that supports the world. Petra, form my shield!"
He felt a violent yank at the base of his spine, and a mound of dark earth erupted from the ground, reaching fifty centimeters in height.
"Oh, hell yes!" Marc exclaimed, triumphant. "Three elements in a row! Suck on that, you stupid beginner's manual."
Adrenaline was a potent drug. He wanted more. He focused on that "yank" he had felt, trying to replicate it with triple the force, visualizing a wall instead of a mound.
—"Oh, silent spirit of the Earth that supports the world. Petra, form my shield!"
The ground roared. A barrier of a meter and a half of stone and compacted earth exploded upward, solid and firm. Marc felt a jolt of electricity racing through his bones, a euphoria that made him feel invincible.
—"Ha! And this is only the first day! This is way too easy, why don't they give me a real chall—"
He didn't finish the sentence. Reality collected the debt all at once. The world flipped violently, the sunlight extinguished in an instant fade-to-black, and his legs turned to jelly. Marc collapsed heavily, hitting the ground before his mind could even process that he had blacked out.
He hadn't finished pronouncing those words when everything went black, and his body slumped onto the ground face down.
A few hours later, consciousness returned in fits and starts. His head throbbed with a dull, sharp ache, a rhythmic echo that made it difficult to even remember his own name. Against his cheek, he felt the damp, cold caress of the grass; when he opened his eyes, the sun was gone. The world was now a blur of shadows.
"Oh, shit..." he muttered through gritted teeth. "I think I blew it."
He pressed his palms into the dirt and forced himself up inch by inch. Every muscular fiber protested with an unknown intensity, and a lingering dizziness made him stagger. He felt empty, drained, as if he had run a marathon on an empty stomach.
Train the mind and the body, huh? Marc thought, resigned. It seems old Zylos was right after all.
He walked slowly back to the cabin, feeling the weight of his own defeat in every step. That night, sleep was not a pleasure, but a biological necessity for repair.
The next day, Marc rose with the first ray of light. There was no trace of discouragement; instead, a cold, analytical motivation had taken control. He wouldn't let a physical collapse stop him. He grabbed Zylos's diary and went straight to the section on magical meditation and bodily resistance.
Zylos described a state of "magical trance." It wasn't about passive relaxation, but active introspection: inducing the body to feel magic as an extension of the nervous system. Sitting on the floor, the user had to visualize the flow of energy connecting with the summoned element until the flame and the flesh were a single entity.
Sounds like cheap self-help philosophy, Marc reflected, crossing his legs on the wooden floor, but I have nothing to lose by trying.
He closed his eyes and summoned a small flame. At first, it was just heat in his palm. But after half an hour of absolute silence, he began to perceive it: an invisible river that started at the tips of his fingers, traveled down his spine, and ended at the soles of his feet. It was a closed circuit of power.
I managed to feel the flow, but the connection with the flame is still elusive. I need more flight hours. Onto the next thing.
The second pillar was resistance. According to Zylos, magic had to be "braced" with the muscles. The exercise consisted of summoning the maximum intensity of flow possible during five seconds of agonizing effort, followed by five seconds of rest, repeating the cycle until controlled exhaustion.
Basically, lifting weights with the soul, Marc concluded.
He stood up, fixed his gaze on the horizon, and began his magical "strength training." For the rest of the day, there were no more experiments with new elements; there was only meditation, sweat, and the relentless search for a body capable of bearing the weight of a god.
As evening fell, Marc began preparations for dinner. From the garden, he selected potatoes, carrots, onions, and a couple of garlic cloves; from the grain sacks, he took a handful of dried beans.
He placed the clay pot over the grill and added water, incorporating the vegetables with a patience he had never possessed in his other life. To season it, he used a mysterious spice from an unlabeled jar; he didn't know its name, but its earthy, pungent aroma pleased him immediately. He sat on the oak bench, holding the warm bowl between his hands and accompanying the stew with a glass of the dark wine from the barrel.
It's not a luxury banquet, he reflected as the steam brushed his face, but it's a thousand times better than the frozen dinners I used to swallow in front of a monitor after work.
Memories of his former life surfaced like distant shadows: days of chronic mental exhaustion, the void of coming home only to anesthetize himself with series or video games to clear his mind of the corporate noise.
Solitude never bothered me; I was always a recluse by choice, comfortable in my own world. What was killing me was the monotony of that shit job. I always knew there had to be something more for me... and now, this is my chance for a true adventure.
He took a sip of wine, letting the alcohol warm his throat.
Amir said I could return after defeating the Hero, but I'm not so sure I want to. Maybe staying in this world isn't such a bad plan.
The combination of the hot stew and the strong wine sent a wave of comfort through his aching muscles. It was delicious, but his instincts were beginning to crave something heartier.
I need meat. A good steak. Tomorrow I'll look through the grimoire for a spell that can help me hunt; I don't have a bow, but I have magic. That should be enough.
Satisfied and with a full stomach, Marc collapsed into bed. As soon as his head hit the pillow, the weight of physical exhaustion and magical fatigue claimed his body. The mattress absorbed him completely, and he sank into a deep, dark, and uninterrupted sleep.