Haruma was hooked.
The moment Elya told him magic came at a price, something in him wouldn't let the idea go.
He wanted to know more.
No, he needed to know more.
Everything about this world was different — the way people spoke about magic, the way the Church dictated what was 'forbidden,' the way the Arcanum studied magic as if it was a science.
If he was going to live here, he needed to know it.
So the following day, his question was.
"Teach me magic."
Elya, honing a dagger beside the hearth, didn't even glance up.
"No."
Haruma scowled. "Why not?"
"Because it's not something you pick up overnight." She turned the blade over in her hands. "And because I don't want to waste my time."
Haruma crossed his arms.
"I don't think I'll learn it overnight. I just want to know how it works — how people use it."
Elya put the dagger down with an exasperated sigh.
"What did you not understand about 'I don't want to waste my time'?"
"What if I can show I have it in me to be taught?"
Elya raised an eyebrow. Now that got her attention.
"Oh?"
Haruma sat back tall, willing himself to appear more confident than he felt.
"Give me a test. If I pass, you teach me."
Silence.
Elya observed him for a long moment.
Then without a word, she got to her feet and walked to the corner of the cabin.
Haruma turned and saw her make a look toward something resting against the wall — a weapon stand.
Then a moment later she turned, carrying a great sword.
His stomach dropped.
"Lift this."
Haruma blinked. "What?"
Elya didn't repeat herself. She just walked in, placed the huge sword down in front of him, and stepped back.
"If you can lift it, I will grant your request."
Haruma looked at the weapon.
The blade was enormous, a good deal longer than his arm, and the face bit chipped and cracked from that semblance of use. The hilt was bound in dark leather, easy enough in Elya's hand but far too big for his own.
He hesitated. She had to be joking.
But a single glance at her told him she wasn't.
Haruma exhaled sharply.
Fine. If this were the test, he'd give it a go.
...
And the instant his hands encircled the hilt, he did.
It was too heavy.
But he refused to admit it.
Haruma pulled with a sharp inhale.
Nothing.
He set his teeth, shifted his grip, and tried again.
[The sword moved ever so slightly—but as soon as he tried to raise it, pain lanced through his arms. His muscles burned, his ribcage ached, and his legs trembled from the stress.
Still, he tried.
He squared his feet, gritted his teeth, and pulled with all he had.
The sword came up an inch off the floor for the swiftest of seconds.
Then—his strength gave out.
The weapon slammed back down with a heavy thud, jolting his arms.
Haruma gasped, half staggering back. His body ached all over.
Elya didn't move.
She didn't laugh, didn't deride him. She simply watched.
Haruma looked at the blade. Then back at her.
This is not fair he muttered.
"Why?"
"Since that's not even how I know to fight."
"And you think you can learn magic?
Haruma hesitated.
Elya's voice was even, but there was an edge under it.
"You believe that magic is just fire throwing or moving stuff with your mind?" she asked.
"It's not?"
She scoffed. "Magic is power. And you can't do anything with a power you don't have the strength to use.
Haruma clenched his fists.
"I figured magic was about the Arcane Veil, right?
"It is."
"Well, then what does strength matter?"
Elya's gaze darkened.
"Magic is costly," she said. "And not only as I told you before."
She gestured at the sword.
"What do you do when the magic is gone? What do you do when you're tired, bleeding, and can't cast another spell?"
Haruma didn't answer.
"If you're weak, you die."
Her words hit like a hammer.
"You want to learn magic? Then first, live without it.'"
Haruma swallowed.
For the first time since meeting her, he truly understood.
Elya wasn't blowing him off out of pride.
She was teaching him something.
Magic wasn't a shortcut. It was not some kind of cheat code that allowed people to bend reality easily. It was power — and power had its rules.
And the first rule?
Strength is all that exists; without it, power is nothing.
Haruma exhaled slowly.
He gazed down at the great sword.
He still couldn't lift it.
But now, he realized why she had him try.
Elya looked him over for a moment, then nodded — just a little.
"Good."
She looked away, moving back toward the hearth.
"Eat something," she said, without turning around. "If you are going to be useless, at least don't be useless on an empty stomach."
Haruma let out a breath.
This time, he didn't argue.
...
Haruma knelt by the hearth, staring at his hands.
His fingers remained chafed and torn from where he clutched the sword. His arms throbbed still from the botched effort.
Even after resting and eating, the ache didn't go away — an echo of his own weakness.
Elya's words had stayed with him.
"Magic is power. And power is meaningless without the muscle to use it."
He breathed out and tilted his head back against the slouch chair.
Strength before magic.
Could he even get strong?
He had never fought before — not really.
And for the first time, he sensed the heft of that truth.
...
Glowing embers smoldered in the fires.
The drift of Haruma's thoughts surfaced for a moment.
A classroom. Low light, a teacher's voice droning on.
"Combat history can be broken into three major eras—"
His younger self, more or less ignoring this, with his head propped on his arm.
"—the age of the blade, the age of gunpowder, and the age of modern warfare."
Gunpowder.
Not swords. Not magic.
"There weren't people in his world who fought with steel.
They fought with guns.
Haruma took a sharp breath, shaking his head.
The memory faded, leaving a peculiar hollowness in its wake.
No swords. No training. No experience.
He'd never even touched a weapon before coming here."
And now, he found himself in a world where such knowledge counted for nothing.
Where magic was a thing, but only the strong need apply.
......
Elya came back later in the morning with a wooden bucket in one hand and a rag in the other.
She hardly glanced at him but placed both by the hearth.
"Get up."
Haruma blinked. "What?"
"You want to learn magic?" she said. "Then you go with strength. Get up."
Haruma shrank a little, but her glare offered no space for argument.
The muscles within him still ached as he forced himself to his feet.
Elya grabbed the bucket and went out the door, gesturing for him to follow.
.......
He knew the moment he saw the water barrels behind the cabin.
He wasn't going to like this.
"Your first task is a simple one," Elya said. "Get this bucket filled from the stream. Carry it back. Do it again."
Haruma frowned. "That's it?"
"That's it."
He exhaled. This was fundamental labor — chores, not training.
Yet he picked up the bucket and headed to the stream.
It wasn't much of a distance, but when he filled it up, he knew the weight wasn't a joke.
Water sloshed as he hoisted it, muscles complaining as he took slow, unsteady steps toward the cabin again.
By the time he arrived at the barrels, his arms were trembling.
Elya didn't comment. She simply gestured for him to repeat.
And again.
And again.
The sun rose higher. His breaths grew labored. His legs were on fire, his arms felt like chunks of lead, and his ribs were killing him from the effort.
On the tenth trip, he fell to the dirt, gasping for breath.
Elya looked on dispassionately.
"Pathetic," she muttered.
Haruma groaned. "I didn't sign up for this."
"You signed up for magic. This is magic training."
"This is torture."
"Same thing."
Haruma glared, but he was too tired to fight back.
She allowed him to rest for a minute, then threw him the cloth.
"Dry off. Then do ten more."
He almost cursed at her.
But instead, he gritted his teeth and pressed himself upright.
...
When Haruma completed the final round, his body was over.
His arms were useless, his legs barely moved and he crumpled near the barrels, sweat streaming down his face.
Elya, who was standing off to the side, finally nodded at him.
"So not entirely useless, then."
Haruma glared weakly. "Is that your way of congratulating us?"
She smirked slightly. "No."
Haruma exhaled. She was impossible.
But oddly… he wasn't upset.
She didn't flatter him, didn't indulge him, but she also didn't reject him outright.
It was a slight, readily imperceptible adjustment — but it was there.
With her, you didn't earn respect by virtue of a title.
But he had a morsel of it.
That was enough.