Chapter 3
The Boss
IAM went silent.
"What?... Yer gone mute now?" the bald man asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
"IAM is such a white ass name," I muttered under my breath.
The man kissed his teeth in annoyance and spat on the ground. "Alright, you little shit. Get outta there. The boss needs you."
"That's racist..."
"..."
"Can I at least put on some clothes?"
"..."
I stared at him. He stared at me.
"DUDE."
He rolled his eyes and waved me off. "Fine, hurry up. Ain't got all day to watch your wrinkled balls float around."
"…That was entirely unnecessary."
After getting dressed, I was led out of the depressing forest and back toward the grimy slums.
Every attempt I made to ask questions—"Who's the boss?", "Why me?", "Are we walking toward my public execution?"—was met with cold, dead silence.
When we turned into a narrow alley, I let out an involuntary gasp—eyes wide, mouth open in dramatic betrayal.
I was promptly smacked on the back of the head.
"Quit that," Baldy muttered.
At the end of the alley stood a solid black metal door—no handle, no markings, nothing. Just vibes.
Baldy stepped up and knocked in some weird, rhythmic sequence like he was about to drop a beat.
KNOCK. Knock-knock. … Knock. … Knock-knock.
The door creaked open.
Behind it stood a grumpy-looking middle-aged man with deep frown lines and an overall aura of 'I'm too old for this shit.'
He glanced at me. Then the group. Then back at me.
And shook his head slowly, like even he was disappointed in my existence.
We descended a crooked, ancient staircase that creaked with every step, groaning like it hated its job as much as I hated walking down it.
At the bottom was… well, I think it was supposed to be a library.
If you could call it that.
The floor was leaking some sort of brown liquid—I didn't look too closely.
The ceiling? Dripping something dark green that smelled like mold and regret.
Actually, the whole room was just… leaking. From places that should not be leaking.
And at the center of it all was a single, lonely bookcase with a grand total of seven books. Each one looked like it would crumble into dust if I so much as breathed near it.
In front of the bookshelf stood another middle-aged man. Blonde hair barely hanging onto his scalp, one brown eye squinting at us… and his other eye? Completely missing.
No patch. No bandage. Just an empty, gaping hole like he wanted the world to suffer the same trauma he did.
I tried not to gag. Not just from the sight—but also from the stench of mildew and lost dreams.
Then he spoke.
His voice was like sandpaper dragged across metal: grating, dry, and very much unwelcome in my ears.
"Yer boys ready for war?"
Then he let out a sound that was either a laugh or a violent death rattle. Maybe both.
I stood there, lips parted in stunned confusion.
???????????
Was this hell? Was this man my devil? Did I just get isekai'd straight into budget Mordor?
"Say wah?" I blurted out, blinking rapidly like I was trying to reboot my brain.
Nobody else seemed as surprised as I was.
But they all looked tense. As you'd expect when someone casually drops the word WAR!!!??
"Why the fuck would I do that?" I asked, eyes darting around like I was looking for the hidden camera in this reality prank show.
The grimy, eye-deficient man—who I now assumed was the 'boss'—tilted his head at me like I was the one acting weird.
"IAM, you was in fact one of the first to volunteer for this," he said slowly, as if I were the idiot here.
WHO. ME.
I stood there, blinking in disbelief. Was he serious? Did he have me confused with another dude with a terrible name?
Over the next ten minutes, the boss explained everything to me—and by "explained," I mean he dumped the plot of a tragic war drama on me while I mentally checked out like a man being told his own funeral schedule.
Apparently:
The other four guys were also volunteers.
There's a war going on—some kind of political mess between Hope and another kingdom.
The boss had a backdoor into military enlistment. Very shady. Zero official approval. Definitely illegal.
We just had to pay 1 silver to get registered.
And IF we managed to survive—big "if"—we'd get "great benefits" from the government.
What benefits? He didn't say. Healthcare? A house? One edible meal a day?
I stared at the wall as this all sunk in. Or more accurately, bounced off my brain like a brick hitting another brick.
Benefits can't be worth my life, I thought bitterly.
And that's when I realized:
I wasn't just isekai'd into a new world.
I was isekai'd into a recruitment scam.
But then the boss said something that made me perk up like a meerkat on Red Bull.
"You can learn one of the Paths to Ascension too, you know."
"Ascension?" I echoed, cautiously intrigued.
The boss squinted at me like I was extra stupid today. "Ah, right... forgot you're all street rats." He clicked his tongue in disgust. "So listen up, and listen properly, 'cause I'm only saying this once."
That got everyone's attention.
IAM and the rest of the poor, soon-to-be-war-criminals straightened their backs like schoolkids about to get scolded by a principal with a god complex.
The boss cleared his throat—more like hacked up a lung—and continued.
"Since as far back as anyone remembers, there have always been the Paths of Ascension. And what is a Path of Ascension, you ask?" He raised a brow, clearly enjoying the dramatic pause.
"A Path to Ascension," he said, leaning forward with the gravitas of a greasy prophet, "is simply put… a method of understanding the world so deeply, so intimately, that you gain the power to control a concept or element to your will."
Blank stares. Confused frowns. Someone might've farted.
The boss sighed, already regretting trying to educate us.
"Alright, lemme give you a dumbed-down example," he growled. "Let's say: Fire. What is fire?"
"Hot," one guy muttered. The boss ignored him.
"Fire is a reaction caused by friction or combustion. It creates heat. But fire can also be metaphorical—like the fire of passion, or the fire of compassion for another person."
He gave us a look, like this is the part where your brains should start working.
"Now—imagine if you truly understood both those forms of fire. Not just what they do, but the why behind them—the process, the source, the beginning and the end. You could manipulate it. Not just light a flame in your hand—but maybe ignite the fire of rage inside someone. Or snuff it out. Or burn them alive... from the inside. Figuratively... or literally."
I stared at him, mind halfway blown.
So this world did have magic.
But not wands and sparkles.
It was magic based on understanding.
And suddenly… going to war didn't sound entirely like the dumbest idea ever.
Just… mostly.
Met with even more confused expressions, the boss grumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "dumbasses" and carried on.
"So, like I said—you can use fire literally, or as a concept. Everyone understands things differently, so there's no single way to use a Path. That's what makes 'em so damn powerful—and dangerous."
He paused, flicking a yellowed nail toward one of the guys who was still blinking slowly like the information was bouncing off his skull.
"Think about it: someone might use fire to burn your skin, yeah? Simple. Classic. But another person could use fire to burn your emotions, strip you of rage, grief, even love—turn you hollow inside. That's fire too."
Now that got our attention.
The boss smirked, seeing that the dumb bricks were finally starting to absorb the lesson.
"Your mastery of your understanding is what gives your Path its strength. Hell, some Paths get so deep, you can even mimic other abilities. Someone might use their fire like a poison, slow and creeping. Or use it to heal, cauterize wounds, stimulate life. If your understanding supports it, you can twist it however you want."
Then, like he was handing out bad news with a free punch to the face, he added, "But—once you pick a Path, that's it. No take-backs. No switching. You become that Path. For better or worse."
IAM leaned back, eyes wide, finally catching on.
So this world's magic wasn't about spellbooks and elemental typing. It was about philosophy. Comprehension. Abstract logic turned reality.
And that… was kinda mental.
After a few moments of thoughtful silence (well, mostly confused blinking and subtle nose-picking), the boss jerked his thumb at the sad, moldy bookshelf behind him.
"There. Seven beginner books. Seven starter Paths. Read whichever one you want. Just don't drool on 'em—they're already barely readable. Each one explains how to make a core, absorb mana, and start understanding your Path. You read it, you pick it, and you live with it. Got it?"
We nodded. Then, in true uncivilized rat-fashion, we charged the bookcase.
Pushing, shoving, stepping on toes—I'm pretty sure someone tried to bite me.
But in the chaos, my hand finally landed on a book.
Path of Thunder.
That sounds badass, he thought, a grin tugging at his lips as his fingers curled around the spine of the Path of Thunder.
But just as he was about to open it—his eyes caught something.
A flicker.
Something on the shelf had... presence. Not in a glowing-magical-treasure kind of way, but more like "I shouldn't be here but I am, and now you're cursed because you looked at me." kind of way.
Tucked half-behind the others was a thin, dust-covered book—older than the rest by at least a few centuries. The kind of old that smelled like regret and dead trees. The leather was cracked and flaking, like it had been through war—or maybe was a war.
Curious and slightly unnerved, IAM reached for it, brushing the dust away with a short gulp.
The faded, spidery writing on the cover read:
Path of Cursed and Blessed Speech.
"…Huh," he muttered.
Weird name. Definitely weirder than Thunder or Fire or Big Punch Path or whatever the others were reading.
Holding it up, he turned to the boss. "Hey, why's this one got such an abstract name?"
The boss glanced at the book, then shrugged like it was nothing special. "Eh, there's lots of Paths like that. Some are real specific, some are abstract. Depends on the understanding. Some folks use words to bless or curse reality itself. Speak and it becomes. Power in the tongue, y'know."
IAM blinked.
"…Wait. So how many Paths are there, exactly?"
That made the boss pause.
Then, with a grim look and a voice low like it carried the weight of countless lost minds, he replied:
"There are infinite Paths."
IAM just stared.
"Infinite?" he echoed.
"Anything you can understand—truly understand—can become a Path. A flicker of lightning. A sigh. A lie. A memory. Even silence."
IAM looked down at the book in his hands again, a chill crawling up his spine.
Path of Cursed and Blessed Speech.
Infinite Paths…
Anything could be a Path.