Ethan had never considered himself a genius back on Earth. Sure, he had a Ph.D. in theoretical physics, dabbled in mana circuitry, and occasionally made his colleagues question their career choices, but he was still a man of science. A rational thinker. A logical problem-solver. A man who believed in the supremacy of intelligence over superstition.
And now?
Now he was a half-starved, illiterate orphan scrubbing mold off old book covers in a shop that smelled like damp parchment and crushed dreams.
Life had taken an interesting turn.
"Faster, boy," croaked Old Man Raymond, the owner of Raymond's Rare Books—which, after a day of working here, Ethan could confirm contained neither rare nor particularly valuable books.
Raymond had a face that looked like it had been carved out of tree bark, complete with permanent wrinkles and the overall cheerfulness of a man who had seen too much and regretted every moment of it. He ran his shop with the same enthusiasm as a corpse running a marathon, which made sense considering how empty the place was.
Ethan wiped a shelf, watching dust swirl in the candlelight. "What's the rush? We've had exactly zero customers since I walked in."
"The rush is so I can stop lookin' at ya standin' around like a damned noble," Raymond grumbled, scratching his bald head. "Besides, you work, you eat. You lazy, you starve."
Fair. Ethan wasn't exactly in a position to argue with free food, even if "food" meant a half-burnt piece of bread and watery soup that smelled suspiciously like regret.
He sighed and got back to cleaning. At least this job gave him access to books—which was the real prize. If he wanted to survive in a world where magic was monopolized by the elite, he had to learn.
There was just one problem.
He couldn't read.
Which was absolutely infuriating.
Ethan Holmes, former scientist, former researcher of mana applications, a man who had once lectured on quantum instability, was now staring at squiggly letters like they were arcane runes crafted by an insane chicken.
"Hey, Old Man."
Raymond didn't even look up. "What?"
"How does one… hypothetically speaking, of course, go about learning to read in this glorious, enlightened society?"
Raymond snorted. "You serious?"
"No, I just enjoy asking obvious questions for fun."
"You wanna learn to read?" The old man cackled. "A slum rat? What, you plannin' on joinin' the nobility?"
"Absolutely," Ethan deadpanned. "First thing I'll do after my grand ascension is outlaw people named Raymond."
Raymond wheezed a laugh, then coughed violently for a solid ten seconds. Ethan briefly wondered if he should be concerned about this man's mortality before realizing that if this guy hadn't died of lung failure yet, he was probably immortal.
"Listen, boy," Raymond rasped, wiping his mouth. "Ain't no one teachin' a street rat how to read. Even if ya had the coin, which ya don't, schools don't take your kind."
Ethan wasn't surprised. Knowledge was power, and the Holy Empire loved keeping power to itself.
But he had one advantage.
He had himself.
And if no one would teach him?
He'd teach himself.
That night, Ethan sat in a cramped corner of the shop, a single candle flickering beside him. In his hands was "The Merchant's Guide to Simple Numbers," a book so painfully basic that he felt his IQ lowering just by touching it.
But this was step one.
The letters were strange, but he wasn't completely clueless. He recognized patterns, just like he did with equations. He compared symbols to words Raymond had said earlier in the day, matching sounds to letters, building connections in his mind.
Language is just a code. A system. And I'm good at breaking systems.
Unfortunately, Ethan had the patience of a caffeinated squirrel.
After what felt like hours of intense study (which, in reality, was twenty minutes), he slammed the book shut.
"This is stupid," he grumbled. "Why does 'E' make three different sounds? Who designed this garbage?"
"You talkin' to yerself now?"
Ethan nearly jumped out of his skin as Raymond appeared from the shadows like some ancient cryptkeeper.
"Gods, don't do that!" Ethan clutched his chest. "Are you part ghost?"
Raymond smirked. "Just checkin' if yer robbin' me."
"Yes, because clearly, I'm going to steal this priceless copy of 'Simple Numbers' and sell it for all the nothing it's worth."
The old man grunted and sat across from him. "Ya really wanna learn?"
Ethan hesitated. "What if I said yes?"
Raymond studied him for a long moment, then reached for something behind the counter. He tossed a thin, leather-bound book onto the table.
Ethan squinted at the cover. "Basic Letters & Words."
Raymond shrugged. "Don't got a teacher. But I can tell ya which words are right or wrong."
Ethan blinked. "…You can read?"
Raymond rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out. "What, ya thought I just sat here starin' at pages all day?"
"Frankly? Yes."
Raymond whacked him upside the head. "Smartass."
Ethan grinned. "Thanks, Old Man."
The old shopkeeper just grunted and waddled away.
And so began Ethan's infuriating, mind-numbing, but absolutely essential journey into literacy.
Three days later, Ethan had made significant progress.
He could now recognize basic words, read numbers, and form simple sentences. More importantly, he understood how written spells worked.
The symbols weren't random. They were structured. They followed patterns—rules.
And if something had rules? It could be broken down, studied, and improved.
One evening, as he sat studying by candlelight, the shop's bell rang.
A customer.
Which was insane, because Raymond's shop hadn't seen business since the Dark Ages.
Ethan looked up—and immediately regretted it.
A man in chainmail strode in, his holy emblem gleaming under the candlelight. A knight of the Holy Church.
Ethan's stomach dropped. Did they find out he was studying?
The knight looked around before his gaze settled on Raymond. "Old man. We're looking for a heretic."
Raymond scratched his nose. "That so?"
"A slum rat has been seen meddling with forbidden knowledge. We've been ordered to investigate."
Ethan kept his head down, forcing himself to breathe. Stay calm. Stay quiet.
The knight's eyes flickered toward him.
"You," he said.
Ethan smiled politely. "Me."
"You look like a rat. Know anything?"
"Oh, absolutely," Ethan nodded. "Heretics, magic, general blasphemy—I spend most of my days rolling in them."
Raymond choked on his drink.
The knight scowled. "Are you mocking the Church?"
Ethan put on his most innocent expression. "Mocking? No, sir. That would be wrong. I'm insulting you directly."
A tense silence filled the shop.
Raymond let out a wheezing laugh while the knight's face turned red.
"…Watch yourself, rat."
With a final glare, the knight stormed out.
Raymond looked at Ethan, shaking his head.
"You're gonna die in the dumbest way possible, ain't ya?"
Ethan grinned.
"Only if they catch me first."