What is a transmigration? Opportunities. A new life. The realization of dreams or fantasies. Perhaps all of the above.
For me, transmigration is cleaning. A lot of cleaning.
"Continue, young lady. You are not going home until you finish."
Young lady. Yes, that is a separate point in my little problem.
"Yes, Magister..."
The man was a three-hundred-year-old Mage, sitting bored at a desk, while a quill, moved by magic, fluttered before his face, grading students' papers. Theory—how much weight that word carries. He has fewer than ten students; he could have worked with his hands. Honestly, it just pisses me off that I just arrived, and already work is piled on me. And not housework, but punishment through physical labor.
Apparently, my opinion on the matter was reflected on my face.
"You should have thought before you decided to use unidentified magical devices. Now, accept the consequences."
Yes, yes, yes! For the last month, I've been reminded of this joyous event about a hundred times. A day. And you know what the most unpleasant part is? I have absolutely nothing to do with what happened. Well, directly. I wasn't even here! Okay, where should I start?
It all began a month ago, with my death. Death is death; one moment I was there, the next I was smeared. I didn't even have time to feel anything. In the afterlife, I met an Entity. Said Entity offered me a job for the benefit of other worlds instead of a boring reincarnation with total amnesia. Working for her, basically. Social package, powers, stable work. Of course, sick leave or age-based retirement aren't provided, but otherwise, the benefits are excellent. Resurrection, powers, opportunities for career growth.
The Entity said plainly: she needed someone who would get the job done. I am predictable enough. Yes. That's a separate source of hemorrhoids, but that's for later.
"Don't sleep, young lady; no one has ever died from manual labor after classes."
Yes, I remember. Bore.
"Yes, Master..."
So, where was I. The person, or thing, that sent me here decided that I would perform the task in a fairly specific way with specific results. Well, I'm not against it.
Just give me powers; how much can an ordinary Human resolve in a universe where individuals like Khadgar, Medivh, or other Archmages and dragons exist? Joke. Or not. Especially when the Entity said:
"I need you to save certain individuals. I'm warning you now, the Bronze Dragonflight will not be pleased. And the further it goes, the more displeased they will be."
Naturally, the question arose:
"And what am I supposed to do against a crowd of lizards capable of putting time in a submissive position? They'll erase me before I even exist. Just by arriving at a point a second before."
But the Entity laughed.
"If only it were that simple. Don't worry about being erased the moment you appear. I will write you into causality, so erasing you would only be possible along with a solid chunk of events. The Bronze ones won't go for that. Another plus: you'll need contact with important individuals anyway, and this version of reality will help with that. But you'll still have to deal with the dragons and 'accidents' in the future. Sooner or later, they will notice the divergence and intervene. Think about what you'll need."
In short, to the "ask for whatever you want," I asked:
"I want to be as cool as the Fate version of Da Vinci. So I don't just cast fireballs, but create things for all occasions. A Servant is powerful. And the Universal Man is cool, but not quite as much as what they did with Saber."
And the Entity just went ahead and agreed.
"Not a bad choice. I thought you'd ask for someone more powerful."
I metaphorically shrugged, since I had no body.
"And what can an ordinary super-soldier do against a sentient time machine? Of course, if I could do it myself..."
"You'd run into the Bronze ones the exact moment you used chrono-abilities. And it wouldn't matter when they noticed the divergence point; they'd come and intervene. No, the foundation of your power must be local; that will make their job harder. We will play around their own rules. But don't worry, that's a matter for the far future."
Well, fine then.
"So, Da Vinci," a chuckle rang out, and my appearance changed. A mirror manifested before me. Khem, "I'm a girl, okay? A small one, not so okay."
The Entity, looking like a Nazgûl but white, laughed raspily.
"That is part of the concept. Enormous magical and analytical potential, but physical parameters are so-so. This local world has its own magic system, so you'll have to learn it yourself."
I raised a finger.
"But the potential is full?"
"Of course," the cloak nodded, "if you try hard enough, you'll reach the full capabilities of the original. Absolute memory, high analytical skills, a massive Mana reserve. In the society of Quel'Thalas, such things are valued. The Bronze ones will also have to act head-on, thanks to their stupid code of rules. A world without limits; go and take it."
I giggled.
"Sounds like a beautiful advertising brochure. What's the catch?"
"There isn't one, really," the Entity waved it off, "it's just that many can't handle it. You'll have friends there, loved ones. And then they will die or be left behind."
It hit me then. If this body is a High Elf, then...
"Magic addiction."
"With your current potential, it will be very, very painful. You will receive power, that is true. You already have. Had, heh. With power comes responsibility. You have the strength to handle it, but it won't be easy."
I looked in the mirror again. Indeed, the body was elven, one of the High Elves of Quel'Thalas, so I certainly couldn't complain about age, appearance, or magical potential. Not at all. Except for the height. Five feet tall including the hat, seriously. But no one was going to change anything, because a potential Servant was already a huge bonus.
There were some difficulties describing the appearance. I haven't the foggiest idea what three-quarters of these clothes are called. Well, yeah, small, pretty, but the look is more teenage than adult. Shoulder-length chestnut hair, blue eyes, blue gloves and stockings, reddish-brown... everything else is quite cute; you just want to pat her on the head. But the gear is worse. No staff or gauntlet.
"Where is it?"
"And where would an Elf apprentice get such artifacts? You'll grow up and make them if you need to."
Well, okay. And how do I explain that I don't remember or know how to do anything? Well, the Entity replied:
"Don't worry, you'll figure it out on the spot. Everything is ready. Don't die out there!"
And the world blurred. Hello, new life! And immediately a weight pressed down, and weakness. What hit the owner of this body so hard? I feel nauseous. Feels like I took a blow to the head. Ughhhh.
"Easy, easy. Don't move; the regeneration and potions are already working. It'll get easier now."
It did. The world began to clear quickly; the negative effects faded. Where am I? A spacious, bright room. I'm lying on something soft; by the wall stands a table with some papers, cabinets with jars, flasks, and multicolored liquids. Two Elves are looming over me—that much is clear from the very long Pointy-Ears. A man and a woman. The man looks about thirty, in a white-and-blue robe. No beard, fair hair. The woman... a hot elven milf. Curvy. And while the healer looks on with curiosity, the woman is VERY displeased about something. And the source of the displeasure is definitely lying right in front of her. Something tells me I'm looking at the mother of this organism.
"Who are you? And what did I do?"
And it began... Taking advantage of my position, this lady expressed everything she thought about underage experimenters. Not holding back her language, loudly, short of swearing. For forty minutes straight, the healer barely pulled her away. I won't retell it; I simply didn't remember many of the turns of phrase—national flavor, so to speak. And the world felt very... unusual, yes. Actually, I wasn't listening to the parent anymore; I was listening to my sensations, trying to get used to the parts of the organism that weren't there before.
I'm talking about magic, you perverts. It's like a river; it flows through me like a warm spring wind and fresh air. Pleasant and responsive. A stunning sense of flow, magnificent. I'm in total awe, and at the shouting that promised heavenly punishments, I just smile foolishly, plucking the strings of power. Aimlessly, just poking around and seeing what happens. Very cool.
I understand now why the Elves felt so bad without the Sunwell, their Source of Magic. As a former Human, the difference feels absolutely colossal. It's like pleasant sunlight washing over you. Constantly. A warm, gentle sun shining on your face and warming you pleasantly. Except unlike the sun, this "light" can also be manipulated in various ways, just instinctively.
By the way, that's how all the magical utensils work, like our teacher's quill. It seems like he's just sitting there, but actually, he's moving this "light," showing the quill what it needs to write. Cool! But that came later, when the elders realized exactly what was wrong with me.
So there I am lying, the bunk is soft, the light is warming, I'm moving things, marveling, and above me screams a yet-unknown but very beautiful Elf. Screaming with enthusiasm. The healer standing nearby was the first to sense the catch. He silenced my—as it turned out—mama and asked how I was feeling.
"I don't remember anything. Who am I? And what is this pleasant feeling?"
Everyone was floored.
As it turned out, the owner of this body, in the company of other such student idiots, had brought back an unknown Troll tablet from a practical lesson outside the city. And they fed magic into it. Now the soul of the owner of this body had been ousted by an unknown Troll Loa, one of their spirit guardians. And in her place—me.
Cleverly thought out by that guy in the cloak; now try to prove I'm not me. I don't know anything, I don't remember anything, I was hit by a strange artifact. Magic! Anyway, I asked:
"Who are the Trolls?"
The healer sighed; he seemed genuinely bewildered.
"This is, hmmm, an unexpected side effect of the impact. Externally everything is normal, no physical damage, the spell worked as it should, hmmm. I didn't expect this. Likely, the impact of the tablet blocked part of the memories. Perhaps if you take your daughter to familiar places and show her everything, she might remember... There are no curses; I simply have nothing to latch onto."
The Elf immediately stopped raging.
"You think it will help?"
The healer spread his hands.
"I don't know; it's the first time I've encountered such an effect that isn't a curse. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. In any case, your daughter is physically healthy. And the mind... Love heals all."
Mama immediately deflated, and instead of trying to scream, she led me to show me where I live now. Convenient.
Hmm. This is definitely not Silvermoon. A village in the wilderness, with an elven Technomagical flavor. White walls, scarlet patterns and roof tiles, blue magic crystals. At the exits—Magic Turrets. The settlement is small, fewer than a thousand residents; I'd say three or five hundred. And all those five hundred, thanks to magic, live in comfort. Golems, magical devices performing heavy and routine work. Friendly residents, every single one of them quite handsome, at the very least. I won't say paradise, but it's definitely the kind of place you'd want to live. A village from fairy tales about villages.
And it's all thanks to magic. It's everywhere here. Golems till the land, flying brooms and brushes clean up dirt, small brushes flick away dust, in the evening the streets are lit with magical light, and turrets protect against intruders. All amenities, like hot water, are also provided by magic. If something can be automated with magic, it will be. Even the blacksmith performs only the finest work by hand; the rest is magic.
Which allows the locals to live in comfort. The Middle Ages? No, never heard of it. I'm in total awe, feeling like Harry Potter entering Diagon Alley for the first time. What a mess we'll be in when the Sunwell goes down...
I was shown the Trolls, told about them, and until I memorize the theory, I was strictly forbidden from leaving our town. As it turned out (I knew, but I have to play out the amnesia), once upon a time, these muscular, hunched, seven-foot-tall (with large tusks) brutes had an empire. The Elves wiped them out; now the remaining Trolls hide in the forests, representing stereotypical aborigines with Mayan-like tendencies. These citizens practice Blood Magic, eating their neighbors, and bloody sacrifices. And it has nothing to do with classical magic, so a healer can't always tell exactly what kind of tricky curse you've been hit with. That's already a jab at the previous owner of the body. Deservedly so, I suppose.
"Don't get distracted, young lady. Thoughts of boys can be indulged outside of my classes."
And yes, I'm continuing the cleaning. I was punished with a month of manual labor with materials. It's a bit insulting; she messed up, but I'm the one taking the heat.
"I'm not thinking about boys, Magister. I'm trying to organize the knowledge in my head that I don't remember."
The man chuckled.
"Well, since you don't remember, then I will give you a list of additional literature. Now work the broom, work it. I wouldn't want to sit here instead of having dinner."
Gods, for what??? He won't just give it; he'll test me on it later!!! Okay, I need to finish up faster.
In general, Trolls are dangerous, especially when they attack suddenly. They're like guerillas; in a direct fight, they get wrecked by magic, but when they're in the trees, you can die without even understanding how. And touching unidentified ritual items is not the smartest idea. My predecessor quite deservedly won a Darwin Award. Thanks for that, and for the body too. It's great. And the Master speaks more than positively about the magical potential; the Entity didn't lie. I suppose in the original universe, this magical gigachad suffered the fate of ninety percent of the High Elves—death by the Scourge Army. Maybe she even became one of Arthas's liches. Well, that's a history that won't happen, I hope. I like being me. I like this town. It's cool here.
Amnesia closed all questions. The curse ate the memory; shouldn't have touched what she shouldn't have. And the fact that I now have to get to know everyone from scratch doesn't cause unnecessary questions.
Moreover, the teacher agreed for a small fee to teach me quickly and from scratch, since possessing the potential of a Universal Man, I memorize information with almost photographic accuracy. Very fast. But first—the punishment.
"The fact that you, young lady, do not remember is no reason to slack off. You did this, which means you will be punished. And not otherwise."
So that's how we live. I suppose I should be happy. Model looks. Magical potential so high it'll make your head spin. Of course, physical parameters are at the level of almost a child, but I'm a Mage; I can levitate above the floor with telekinesis without any effort at all, like half the local female Mages do. And that was the first thing I learned, since being five-foot-nothing and weighing ninety pounds doesn't suggest the presence of hips, chest, or physical mass. Strength either. Learning isn't hard when there's so much magic around; making a simple "hover" effect that doesn't cost effort is easy.
So why am I angry? Because the teacher, with the full approval of my parents, approached the matter of rehabilitation thoroughly. Complete history of Silvermoon since the time of the Exodus, exact sciences, magical manipulations ranging from household to quite delicate ones which "you demonstrated at a very decent level before your memory loss." Four languages. Native Elven, the Lordaeron and Stormwind dialects of Humans, Gnomish, Dwarvish. Because they are Alliance colleagues. Writing, culture, norms of behavior, and traditions in society. Mechanics, flight, and handling magical creatures, safety protocols, Artifactоrics. Etiquette. There will be not just theory, but practice too!
And that's just what needs to be reviewed. When the holidays end, practical classes will begin, which not only need to be reviewed but new ones studied. Yes, with the help of ideal memory and fast learning (thanks, guy, wherever you are), I can remember everything, I can do it fast and a lot. But every evening my head thumps, my brains boil, and I really want to lie down and die. I'm not used to this kind of crap in such quantities! Against this background, the fact that I mix up my own gender is such a minor thing! Because I simply don't remember who I was! There is such a little problem; part of the memory was still erased in the process of death, yes.
And not studying isn't an option; this jerk holds exams. You see, he's a friend of my father's, he sympathizes with me greatly and wants me to return to their society. Thanks a lot, what would I do without you???
"Kill me..."
The man looked across the table, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
"Don't overact; everything isn't as bad as you're trying to make it seem. You should have thought before you grabbed that tablet."
I sighed. Very heavily.
"Does the fact that I don't remember doing it not bother you?"
But the Master was unfazed.
"No. You have no idea how many students I've seen in my life who 'didn't remember.' A little physical exertion will help reinforce this knowledge and avoid a repeat," noticing my sour expression, he added, "don't think I don't believe the healer. He is not mistaken; you truly remember nothing. But it is also a fact that before your memory loss, you were an exemplary student and knew everything I'm assigning you well. Our society is built on many rules and practices. And sending you into the wide world without knowing them is simply dangerous for you. Even if it looks like despotic tyranny and the imposition of my will to you, am I right? You can answer honestly; there will be no consequences."
Well, what can I do. Only nod.
"It's a lot of information, Master."
The Elf smiled. God, they're all so beautiful, the bastards. Even though I'm one of them now. How did Da Vinci even live with this? Oh, right, he's a character. Though, considering I'm here, maybe he did live, or even is living. Interesting how that works. Now there was someone who truly didn't care what people thought of him. But I can't do that, at least not yet.
The Elf tapped his fingers on a stack of books, which, while he meditated on a document, levitated by itself from the shelves into the stack.
"Our society is multifaceted and built on all this knowledge. The wisdom of many, traditions, and order. Not just magic, but rules. You are quite capable, my student, and you will definitely find everything you study useful. You will understand this when the time comes."
I don't doubt it. Except it's not about traditions. It's about the fact that the Kingdom of Quel'Thalas is in the north of the continent, and south of us is the Kingdom of Lordaeron. Ruling that Human kingdom is King Terenas Menethil, whose son is who? "The very forests of Lordaeron whispered the name," damn him, Arthas. Who has already been born, has an age unknown to me, and I haven't the foggiest idea what year and at what age Stratholme happened. It seems the plague hasn't started yet; that's all I know.
No, as a character, Arthas is cool. A thoroughly positive Paladin, fallen because of the excessive indecisiveness of those around him, who left a young guy alone with problems and difficult decisions. Persistent, stubborn even. In a critical moment, pride took over, and he didn't want to stop; he went for deception and betrayal, trying to reach his goal. He got the cursed blade Frostmourne and became first a Death Knight, then the Lich King.
Except it's one thing to see him on a monitor screen, and quite another to be between him and the Sunwell, the most powerful Source of Magic on the entire continent. And I have no idea when. Maybe tomorrow, or maybe in ten years. The world is medieval, after all. Finding out how the foreign prince is doing isn't that easy.
Not to mention that I'll just be misunderstood. Elves, they are a little bit, a lot very xenophobic. No, a Human comrade is like a dog. Skilled, brave, loyal, and all that. But if you desire such a friend in another sense—you're a pervert and a zoophile. Gross. The Windrunner sisters are an example; all three hooked up with Humans. By the way, I wonder how they are here. Maybe I can at least find out through them how much longer we have to wait for the Army of Undead to visit.
So the teacher is right, actually. I need to get as much knowledge as possible so that when push comes to shove, I have options. Da Vinci isn't just a Caster and a Mage. But also an inventor, capable of pushing boundaries and building things. For example, an airship on which one could quickly fly away where needed. Not on magic crystals, which still need to be charged without a Source of Magic at hand, but like the Goblins. What, I can't design a steam engine? In theory, I should.
And yes, it's time.
"I'm finished, Master."
He nodded.
"Good. Now rest a bit, sit down and read. I'll test you the day after tomorrow. In a week, we'll start practical lessons. We need to restore your reflexes."
I. Want. To. Howl. I'm not even allowed anywhere outside the educational institution and home. They're afraid I'll get lost or run into trouble. Life is pain, basically.
And after all, to build a machine, knowledge isn't enough; parts are needed. Which are hard to get, since everything here works on mana crystals and spells. Perhaps if I prove to an Artificer that I have talent, I'll be able to get access to workshops through him. And a team is needed. In short, for now, the main task: gather knowledge and prepare for the arrival of the Army of Undead, so as not to be left in this world with nothing and no knowledge. Materials, transport, and a team are needed. And connections.
Okay, where is that "History of Silvermoon"...
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