The week passed in a blur, dense with new lessons and specialized lectures that left little room for rest. Each day offered something different, and each subject peeled back another layer of what it meant to wield mana in this world.
Tuesday – Magitech
Wednesday – Blacksmithing
Thursday – Artifacting and Enchanting
Friday – Origin of Incantations
Magitech
Our first lecture opened with an almost casual question from the instructor:
"How many of you use magitech daily?"
Nearly every hand went up.
He smiled knowingly. "Then you already rely on the remnants of an era we barely understand."
We learned that most modern conveniences—mana lamps, heating arrays, transport lifts—were powered by Manalyte and Arcanol.
These are alchemical compounds, known collectively as mana-electro reactives, they possess the rare ability to generate electricity directly from mana through various processes. Some, like Arcanol, ignite volatile mana in controlled bursts to produce high-voltage energy, while others, such as Manalyte, convert mana flow into steady electrical currents through resonance. Together, they form the foundation of modern Magitech—bridging the gap between sorcery and science, and powering everything from handheld devices to large-scale arcane reactors.
Some of the more advanced devices, such as teleportation gates and mana dampeners, were built from technologies reverse-engineered after the Enlightenment. The thought that every glowing streetlamp or projection screen might be a reawakened relic of the past fascinated me.
Even magic here had circuitry—order built atop chaos.
Blacksmithing
The clang of hammer on steel echoed through the workshop as we learned the craft of merging mana cores with newly discovered mana ores—metals born after the Awakening.
Two names stood out: Blacksteel and Whitesteel.
Blacksteel was denser, darker, and far more durable than its mundane counterpart, though it destabilized after three enchantments. Perfect for weapon frames and armor cores.
Whitesteel, in contrast, gleamed like polished ivory. It was impossibly light and an excellent mana conductor, It could withstand multiple enchantments without fracturing its mana lattice. Ideal for agility users or those who prioritized speed over resilience.
"Every metal has a will," the instructor said as he struck the anvil. "Learn its temperament, or it'll reject your mana outright."
That idea lingered with me—metals with temperament. As if even the inanimate obeyed the laws of affinity.
Artifacting and Enchanting
Artifacts were another kind of magic entirely—less about brute strength and more about finesse.
Rings, pendants, and charms embedded with mana crystals; conduits for permanent spells. Whitesteel was favored for its conductivity, but the truly advanced artifacts used Platinum Gem—a shimmering crystalline metal too brittle for combat, yet perfect for layered enchantments.
Once forged, the mana crystal would be sealed with a binding rune. Then, an enchanter would inscribe the spell into its core, fusing magic and matter into one.
Most students struggled to grasp the patience needed for this art. I didn't. It reminded me of something familiar—programming logic and syntax. Each rune line was a command; each crystal, a processor.
Different world. Same precision.
Origin of Incantations
Friday's lecture struck deeper than I expected.
Our instructor dimmed the lights, his voice carrying a quiet reverence.
"This," he began, "is the origin of our words."
After the Enlightenment, mana surged through the world, but control was primitive. Awakeners relied solely on body reinforcement—raw, unrefined strength. Magic, as we know it, was unheard of.
Then came a story passed down from the earliest awakeners:
> "Amid the ruins of a fallen city, an awakener lay dying beneath the rubble. Broken, cold, desperate. He prayed—not in structured words, but in raw emotion:
I have stumbled, I have strayed—yet let this pain fade, let these wounds mend, that I may stand once more.
And mana answered."
From that plea, the first healing spell—Rejuvenate—was born.
The weaker derivative, Refresh, is what we now use today.
That discovery changed everything. Desperation shaped the first incantations, and emotion etched meaning into mana. Need became language. Language became power.
Each spell that followed was not invented—it was remembered by the soul.
With practice, repetition replaced desperation. The soul remembered the pattern. That was the birth of chantless casting.
Our instructor ended with another story—of a betrayed awakener, gagged and bound, who unleashed lightning from within himself through sheer will alone.
"He burned everything—his captors, his restraints, his mana. It cost him his life, but he left behind proof that the soul itself could speak."
Silence filled the hall.
Magic wasn't just energy manipulation—it was emotion given structure.
It made me wonder… If words could reshape reality, what were mine shaping?
Later that day, during my evening shift at the library, Lina joined me again. Between shelving books, we talked about the day's lectures.
"We learned about the origin of incantations today," I said.
She hummed softly. "So you heard about the first case of chantless casting? Tragic, isn't it? Must we always put ourselves through pain just to move forward?"
I chuckled. "That's one way to see it. Life's full of challenges—each one forces us to grow stronger if we keep moving forward."
Lina tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. "And you? Still chasing that Veiled Stride technique?"
"Always," I sighed. "At this point, I think it's mocking me."
She laughed quietly, that familiar, restrained sound. "You're relentless. I almost regret telling you about it."
"Don't," I said with a grin. "Some things are worth earning the hard way."
Her expression softened, her eyes catching the soft light filtering through the tall windows. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air—a smoky sweetness I'd come to associate with her.
We worked in silence for a while, the hush of turning pages and the faint rustle of parchment filling the space between us. Then I said, "I finally mastered Illumination."
Her head turned sharply. "You did? What name did it receive?"
In Astra, every spell received its name through its caster. A spell born from imitation carried its creator's name—but an original incantation, shaped by will and instinct, became something uniquely yours.
"Lux," I said.
She blinked. "I've never heard that word before."
I hesitated, realizing why. Latin didn't exist here. Not like on Earth.
"Just… something that came to me," I said quietly.
But deep down, something stirred.
Light Spears — Lux Hastae.
Healing Light — Lux Particulae.
Was I shaping these incantations from instinct—or from memories that had followed me across worlds?
Next week would bring assessments.
No more lectures. No more theories.
It was time to prove what we'd learned.