By the time they reached the South Gate, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in deep hues of orange and crimson. Alaric stepped from the carriage with an almost effortless grace, his cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto Fort's with a piercing intensity.
"You carry a firearm, don't you?" The words were sharp, unexpected, cutting through the calm evening air.
Fort tensed. His revolver was concealed beneath his coat, but somehow, Alaric knew. The tension in his chest grew. "Yes," he replied, his voice guarded.
"Good," Alaric said, his voice low but filled with a quiet authority. "Then shoot me."
Fort blinked, his mind scrambling to understand what he was hearing. "What?"
Alaric stood tall and unwavering, his gaze unyielding, as if he were daring Fort to test his will. "Shoot me. Right now."
The air seemed to thicken around them, the world holding its breath. Fort's heart skipped a beat. This was madness. "Are you serious?" he asked, his voice cracking with disbelief.
Alaric's expression remained unchanged—calm, composed, and dispassionate. "Of course I'm serious," he replied, his tone never faltering. "Fire."
Fort's mind raced. There had to be a reason for this. But all he saw in Alaric's eyes was certainty, unshakable resolve.
"Why would you want me to do that?" Fort asked, his voice strained, unsure of the man's motive.
Alaric stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his presence commanding. "To test you. To see if you can follow through when it matters. Hesitation is your enemy. In battle, hesitation is death."
Fort's gaze shifted to the revolver at his side. His fingers twitched, but his mind was a whirl of confusion. He didn't want to pull the trigger. But the weight of Alaric's words hung heavy in the air. One mistake. One moment of indecision, and everything could change.
"You hesitate now," Alaric continued, his voice growing harder, like the edge of a blade, "but when your life depends on it, hesitation will cost you everything."
Fort's breath caught in his throat, his pulse hammering in his ears. His hand was trembling, but the fire in Alaric's gaze held him in place. This wasn't a choice anymore. It was a lesson.
"Do it," Alaric ordered, his voice cutting through the tension. "Aim, and fire."
Fort's fingers clenched around the revolver. His hand was unsteady, but the gun felt like it belonged there, in his grasp. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his mind screamed to stop, to question this madness—but Alaric's gaze, steady and sure, pushed him forward.
"Fire," Alaric said once more, his tone as cold and unyielding as the steel of his sword.
Still hesitant, Fort drew his revolver and pointed it at Alaric. "Are you sure about this?" he asked again, his voice trembling slightly.
Alaric smirked. "Do not hesitate. Control your thoughts. Control your weapon. Fear is the enemy of precision."
Fort hesitated, his finger hovering over the trigger. "You're serious about this?"
Alaric's gaze sharpened, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "mysticism isn't learned through doubt. Fire."
The sound of the shot echoed like a thunderclap in the still dawn. Fort's breath caught in his throat. The crisp sound of a bullet striking glass echoed from Alaric's hand.
Alaric was holding a card—glowing faintly, with a scorch mark where the bullet had grazed its surface.
"What… what is that?" Fort stammered, lowering the revolver.
Alaric's smile was faint, a flicker of something far too cryptic. "A tool can be a shield, or a dagger. It's all in how it's used."
He handed the card to Fort, who inspected it with wary curiosity.
"This," Alaric continued, "is an spell Card. It is not a weapon in itself, though it may appear so. At its core, it is a conduit—an intermediary between the physical world and the spiritual one."
(a Spell? is it like what I heard)
Fort looked back at him, confusion lining his features. "A magician's tool?"
Alaric chuckled, a low sound, almost amused. "If only it were that simple."
His expression darkened slightly, his voice taking on a more somber tone as he explained. "The energy within the card is not something to be taken lightly. It is a force—spiritual in nature—that must be carefully controlled. If you are not cautious, it will consume you."
"The spell card was etched with intricate runes, radiating an aura of ancient power. The symbols whispered of a lost language, a relic of an era buried deep in forgotten history."
"Its purpose was simple, to condense complex spellcasting rituals into an instant, effortless act."
"In truth, the spells of the past were far more demanding. To wield even the simplest of supernatural powers required elaborate ceremonies, precise incantations, and unwavering concentration. The arcane arts were once a labyrinth of complications, where the slightest misstep could spell catastrophe."
"Now, through the distillation of centuries of knowledge, such complexities have been compressed into these cards—tools of convenience, yet also stark reminders of the towering achievements and perilous depths explored by those who came before. "
Fort thought to himself, his expression growing awkward as he tried to keep up with Alaric's explanation.
"Understand?" Alaric asked, his tone low and deliberate, his piercing gaze fixed on Fort.
Fort hesitated for a moment before nodding stiffly. "Yes, I think so," he replied, though the doubt lingering in his voice betrayed his uncertainty.
Fort turned the card in his hands, feeling an odd weight in it that had nothing to do with its physical mass. "Now.. how do I control it?"
Alaric raised an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. "That is your first lesson. You must learn to channel your spirituality. To attune your mind and spirit to the flow of energy that surrounds you."
Fort listened intently, still turning the card over in his hands. Alaric's words seemed to ripple through the space between them, like the stillness before a storm.
Alaric's voice softened as he spoke again. "Imagine the air around you, Fort. It is not simply air. It is filled with energy—an invisible current. Spiritual energy flows through everything: the earth, the wind, even the thoughts in your mind. That energy is what you must learn to control."
He paused, his gaze unwavering, focusing now entirely on Fort.
"The first step is to silence your mind," Alaric continued. "To rid yourself of distractions. Only then will you begin to feel it—the flow of energy, moving through you, not against you. If you try to grasp it forcefully, it will slip through your fingers. The key is to guide it, to become one with it."
Fort nodded, the concept difficult but strangely compelling.
Alaric's gaze sharpened. "And once you've learned to feel it, you must channel it into your weapon. The revolver, the sword, the Spell Card—they are not the source of your power. You are."
The words hung in the air, both a warning and a promise.
Fort's mind raced. This was more than simple training—it was a path to something deeper, something far more dangerous.
Alaric raised his own hand slowly, as if demonstrating something. Without another word, he closed his eyes, took Fort's revolver, and fired.
The shot rang out. The target—no, the very air—shattered with an impossible precision. What remained of the target was obliterated, leaving no trace of its former shape.
Fort stared in stunned silence.
"That," Alaric said quietly, "is enhancement."
Fort blinked, his jaw dropped. "That was... incredible."
Alaric gave him a knowing look. "When you channel spirituality into your weapon, you amplify its power. The same principle applies to all weapon. But there are limits. Larger weapons, like cannons, require more power than one person can provide."
Fort absorbed the information in silence, the weight of the lesson settling into his chest.
"You'll need to learn many things," Alaric added, his voice softer, more contemplative. "Too much power, and it will kill you."
He handed the revolver back to Fort. "Learn control. Learn patience. And above all, learn history. If you don't understand the foundation of power, you will never master it."
Fort frowned, his confusion evident. Alaric remained silent for a moment, his gaze distant, as if lost in thought.
(Learn the history of Spell Cards?) Fort muttered to himself, his thoughts tinged with skepticism. (Perhaps... it might prove useful in the future.)
At last, Alaric broke the silence. "There's a book in the office library that may serve as a decent starting point. It will provide you with a basic understanding of spell cards. I'll bring it tomorrow."
Fort hesitated, then nodded. "Alright," he replied, though a flicker of reluctance crossed his face.
Fort's thoughts revealed his resolve, the clarity of his goal solidifying his decision. He would agree—he would learn the history of Spell Cards–– A beat of silence passed before Alaric dismissed him.
"Go meet Ignis, he's been waiting for you."
"We'll meet here again tomorrow at 9:30 and will–––."
As Alaric explained their activities for tomorrow, Fort found himself lost in thought. he's not what I expected… but perhaps that's a good thing. A man like him isn't the type to waste time on petty games, Fort thought, his tension easing slightly. Still, that presence of his… He shook his head subtly, as if to clear the thought.
When Alaric slowed his pace to match his and glanced back, Fort straightened instinctively, meeting the man's gaze with a polite nod.
"You're quiet, Fortis," Alaric said evenly, his tone devoid of judgment.
"I'm listening," Fort replied. A pause hung between them before he added, cautiously, "You seem like someone worth listening to."
A faint smile flickered across Alaric's face, subtle enough that Fort wondered if he'd imagined it. "We'll see if you still think so by the end of the month."
Fort nodded, watching as Alaric turned his gaze forward again. There's something strange about him, no doubt. But as a mentor… he might just be the right kind of strange.
As Alaric walked away, Fort shook his head, trying to make sense of everything he had just learned.
With a deep breath, he flagged down a passing carriage and headed back toward the cathedral.
in the carriage.
Fort thought to himself, his mind lingering on the intricate runes etched into the Spell Card.
(Ignorance... that was my greatest enemy.... For now,
Arming myself with the history of spells may grant me some clarity I need to navigate this strange world.)
He leaned back into the carriage seat, his gaze fixed on the setting sun outside the window.
His thoughts drifted to the events that had transpired. "History, huh..." He muttered under his breath. "The history of another world... Perhaps my title will serve me in this case. "