Chapter 26 – Caller 

Curtis  had long felt it—a limit he could not ignore.

His gift for Aqua Manipulation, though powerful, was too dependent on environment. A dry battlefield, a scorched ruin, or a wind-blasted hill could render him impotent in a moment. He had always intended to overcome that weakness—by seeking another form of magic to walk beside his own.

His ambition had long been fixed on a grimoire—an arcane tome, forged with magic and sealed with knowledge. A well of forgotten sorcery, from which true power could be drawn.

But now, as he looked inward, something stirred.

Must magic always be learned from a grimoire?

Surely not. There were mages who had awakened without ever touching a scroll—self-born sorcerers, whose spells flowered from instinct or fate. Curtis  didn’t know how they did it. Perhaps no one did. But the fact remained—it was possible.

And, truth be told, Curtis ’s own path had never followed convention. His first spell hadn’t come from a mentor or text. He had touched a grimoire once—just once—and the magic had bloomed within him, like wildfire to dry grass. If every soul had such a path, then surely the world would be filled with mages. It wasn’t.

Which meant: his case was rare. Perhaps unnatural.

So perhaps it wasn’t strange that something just as improbable was happening again.

No, what truly shocked him was how soon it had happened.

[Spirit Creation]
Progress to first acquisition: 2%

The words had hovered before his eyes the moment his water met Redna’s flame.

This wasn’t merely from observing her magic—he’d seen high-tier mages before, watched spells burn through the air in cities and battlefields. He had served beside Zerion, a formidable mage in his own right, for years.

No—this wasn’t about watching. It was about collision. Something had occurred when his mana met hers. The elemental energies—the spirit’s flame and his water’s will—had clashed, and from that moment of contact, something had stirred inside him.

Was this the same principle as a grimoire? That strange sense of magical pressure I felt when I first touched Plagius’s tome… that, too, was like this.
I don’t know how the flame spirits are bound, but they’re clearly constructs of mana. Perhaps all I need is to make contact with enough raw magical force…

A plausible theory—but nothing certain. He needed more data. More duels. The only confirmed truth was this: when their spells met, something had awakened.

He would need to test it again.

“Sir, we’ve arrived.”

The carriage came to a soft halt, and the voice of the driver pulled Curtis  back from the sea of thought. The reins creaked once, then stilled.

“Let’s disembark,” said Terty, who had been quietly watching his companion spiral through thought. He opened the door with the ease of one who had done it a thousand times.

Curtis  shook off the last of his trance and followed.

Soon after Redna’s departure, the two had wasted no time—they summoned a carriage and made directly for the seat of House Narok.

It stood like a fortress carved from duskstone—imposing, resolute, stained by shadow. Guards at the gate stood tall, their expressions taut with tension, swords half-drawn even as the guests approached.

The city had grown raw with fear.

“Halt.”

“State your business.”

Terty held no patience for preamble.

“We bear an invitation.”

He raised a sealed envelope, stamped with the proud sigil of House Narok.

“Ah—!”

“P-Please wait just a moment!”

Their hostility vanished as if snuffed by a sudden breeze. One guard froze at attention while the other dashed into the compound.

Moments later, a steward arrived, bowing with haste.

Though the invitation had been addressed to Curtis , a single word about Terty’s presence earned them both entrance. The name carried weight. A former Gold-in-Waiting could not be ignored.

They were escorted without delay through the halls of the Narok estate and brought before the lord himself.

“Thank you for receiving us. I am Curtis .”

“Well met,” replied the man who stood to greet them. “I am Bruno, current head of House Narok.”

He extended a hand.

A large man—muscle-packed like a boulder, though his face bore the shadows of sleepless nights and too many burdens. His eyes were sharp, but rimmed in exhaustion.

“And you… I recognize. Sir Terty, yes? The rising sword of Nizertere?”

“You remember correctly.”

“Hah! My steward must be blind not to recognize you. My apologies.”

“Think nothing of it. We’ve never crossed paths before—no reason he would know my face.”

Tea arrived as introductions concluded. Bruno dismissed the steward with a brief scolding and turned back, wetting his parched lips before speaking with intent.

“Forgive me if I speak directly. I only wish to verify the rumors. Curtis —you are the mage who commands water?”

“I am. Though I assure you, I do more than command beer.”

Bruno blinked, then laughed.

“Had to ask. Some assumed you might be a telekinetic or illusionist. I don’t pretend to understand the finer points of magic.”

“Nor do I. I just know how to drown people.”

“Well said.” Bruno smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And if I may—does your arrival here mean you’ve chosen our side?”

“Not yet,” Terty interjected. “We’ve had… conflict with Gaude. Redna, in particular. But this visit is not a confirmation—it’s investigation. We’re mercenaries. We only lend our swords where we believe in the cause—and in the chances of survival.”

Bruno nodded, grimacing.

“I understand. That’s why it’s been so hard to hire skilled blades lately.”

“So,” said Terty, voice sharp, “we’d like the truth. No illusions. What’s the state of things?”

“Not much worse than what the streets whisper,” Bruno admitted, sighing.

And so he told them.

He didn’t lie. In war, lying to mercenaries was foolish—a contract built on lies was no contract at all. If they sensed deception, they’d walk. Or worse, turn.

Terty listened closely, then repeated back what he’d gleaned.

“So—yes, there have been casualties. Dozens. But most were Bronze-ranked—ten or so dead. Wounded were healed. Your core Silver warriors remain intact. That correct?”

“It is.”

“You’ve held the line, but barely. You’ve been surviving, not pushing back.”

“That, too, is true.”

Bruno’s voice lowered, dark and bitter.

“The enemy has a Spiritcaller. We’ve learned how terrifying that truly is.”

He clenched his fists.