Chapter 6 : The First Spell

It had been this.

It had always been this.

The First Spell

And then, Curtis  knew.

He knew what the cool, quiet energy within him could do—not because anyone told him, but because the knowledge bloomed in his mind as naturally as breath, as inevitable as a rising tide.

No lessons. No teacher.

Only instinct.

He carefully set the tome aside and reached into his pack, retrieving a leather-bound waterskin. He exhaled, a long, steady breath, and centered his thoughts.

Fwooooh.

He inhaled deeply. Closed his eyes. And focused.

Then, it began.

Like watching a fountain in reverse, the water burst from the mouth of the flask—slowly, deliberately, as if time itself had been tethered to his will.

The liquid rose, twisting skyward until it hovered before him—level with his gaze. It curled together in the air, forming a perfect sphere, no larger than a clenched fist.

It spun gently, weightless, held together by an invisible force.

It was difficult to describe, this sensation. The closest comparison Curtis  could summon was—

“…Like shaping clay with my mind.”

Like pressing fingers into soft mud at a pottery wheel, gently coaxing it into form. Only instead of touch, he wielded thought. His will was the wheel, his intent the sculptor’s hands.

He could push, pull, nudge, bind.

But this was no idle play.

Clay stayed still when left alone.

Water… flowed.

And no matter how he tried, controlling it demanded everything. His entire mind, every drop of concentration, poured into this tiny globe.

“Mm—!”

A sharp breath slipped from Curtis  as he faltered.

The sphere collapsed.

SPLASH.

The water dropped like a stone, bursting against his thigh. He was soaked instantly, his leg dripping with cold.

But Curtis  didn’t care.

He wouldn’t have cared if he were drenched head to toe.

Because—it worked.

It had truly worked.

His heart thundered in his chest. His limbs trembled not from cold, but from awe.

“I cast magic. I actually did it.”

Yes, it had failed in the end—but only because the cool energy within him, the power he’d been drawing on, had run dry.

It had trickled away with each moment of manipulation, until nothing remained.

That power… that chill…

Could it be… mana?

He’d heard tales: magi drew on an inner wellspring to shape their spells. This chill must be his reservoir, his well of magic.

Even now, he could feel it replenishing, slow but sure.

Once it returned, Curtis  tried again.

And once more, the water obeyed.

And this time, the spell held.

Even away from the tome, the magic remained.

Which meant—when he returned the heirloom to House Pelagius, he wouldn’t be powerless. He wouldn’t lose what he’d gained.

The tome was a key, not a chain.

But then… why had Zerion  carried it so diligently?

Was there more to it?

Perhaps.

But it no longer mattered.

Curtis  had no use for borrowed strength. What he needed was his own power.

He had seen Zerion  fight. Had watched him wield magic with precision and grandeur.

Curtis ’s little water trick couldn’t hold a candle to that.

He had a long, blood-soaked road ahead of him.

And he would walk it alone.

But how? How does one train without a mentor? Without scrolls, rituals, or spellbooks?

Zerion  had been taught by the elders of his house, raised in arcane halls and honed in private sanctums. Curtis , despite being his attendant, had never been allowed to glimpse that world.

The training grounds were forbidden.

The laboratories—sealed.

He had no maps. No guidance.

Still…

He had heard legends. Whispers of prodigies—rare as dragons—who carved their own paths. Self-taught mages who awakened through sheer will and instinct.

Maybe he could become one of them.

As he pondered, a shimmer flickered before his eyes.

[Waterflow Manipulation – Lv. 1]
[Progress to Next Level: 72%]

A level.

A phrase from a world long past flickered in his mind—games played in the forgotten world of Earth. Skill trees. Experience bars. Mastery earned through repetition.

Most had involved allocating points manually.

But some—some had skill proficiency.

The more you used a skill, the more it grew.

Was this like that?

Was magic something he could level… simply by doing?

Wait. Why is it already at 72%?

Then he remembered.

He had used the spell again.

And again.

Even in his awe, even as he focused, his subconscious had kept casting.

And somewhere in the middle of that trance-like concentration, he had felt something strange.

A moment of sharpness. Of clarity.

The water had suddenly felt lighter.

Less burdened.

Level 2 .[Waterflow Manipulation – Lv. 2]
[Progress to Next Level: 1%]

He stared at the glowing words.

The level had increased.

And… he could feel it.

The difference wasn’t imaginary. The spell responded better now. Smoother. Faster.

“So it’s real.”

And yet…

“Why is it rising so fast?”

He wasn’t complaining.

Not even close.

He just hoped the cap wasn’t some insane number like 9999.

With a grin tugging at his lips, Curtis raised the water once more.

He would keep going. Keep casting.

Not just to grow stronger.

But because it was fun.

Storms Beneath Still Waters

By the time Curtis  returned to Quinis, the night was deep—its sky thick with stars and silence. The gates had long since closed, but at Roxana’s command, they opened without question.

The soldiers dispersed, and Curtis  followed Roxana to her estate. It was not custom that guided them—it was caution. A second ambush could not be ruled out.

“You’ve done well today,” Roxana said as they entered the grounds.

“I’ve only done my duty, Lady Governor.”

“Rest well. And though it’s unlikely, do not step beyond this building under any circumstance.”

“I understand.”

The security around the guest annex was tripled. No rotation, no rest—every available guard was deployed under Roxana’s strict order. The perimeter was ironclad.

If any enemy could still breach it, then no preparation would have mattered anyway.

And so, Curtis  slept.

But Roxana did not.