Dirty Rotten Magic

Waking up the following morning was at least more pleasant than how I had started the previous day. The soft glow of dawn filtered through the window, caressing a bed that, unlike the previous night's grimy sheets, now shone with a crisp cleanliness. Last night, as candlelight danced along the rough surfaces of the small bedroom, I'd noticed the unsettling presence of tiny bugs hidden among the tangled bedding. The last inn had been simple but spotless—this room, by contrast, reeked of damp neglect and stale sweat, its grimy textures and faint odor of mildew serving as grim reminders that I was far from staying at the town's finest establishment. I had already guessed this was not the best inn in town. I'd had enough of being dirty in my life, and the thought of returning to that squalor made my skin crawl.

Even though exhaustion clung to me like a heavy fog, I spent an hour poring over ancient magical tomes in the dim light, the scent of old parchment mingling with the faint aroma of burning tallow from the candle beside me. I searched for a cleaning spell with focused determination, my mind tracing intricate patterns of energy as I committed the arcane incantation to memory. Each graceful movement of my hands, synchronized with the resonant echo of my voice, summoned shimmering waves of magical power. The energy rippled across the room like a tide of light, banishing the grime and dark stains that had clung to every surface. I guessed I was merely scratching the superficial layer of the enchantment, and though much more complexity lurked beneath the surface, I was elated that the spell worked so well—I no longer had to sleep in filth. In my opinion, what was the use of magic if you didn't wield it? And besides, I certainly needed the practice, so I persisted until the room gleamed with spotless brilliance.

As I lay back, letting the soothing silence of the early morning mingle with the distant hum of the waking city, my thoughts wandered. I began pondering the oddities of this world: why did I not see magic in everyday use? It was a tool so potent, yet here, in the soft clatter of oil lamps and the warm scent of burning oil, magic seemed almost secondary. I had once read spells for creating magical light—why then, in this modest inn, were they not employed? Perhaps it was too expensive, or maybe magic was a scarce resource in these parts. If I had access to it, which I did, I would be using it as often as possible. I suspected that my own skill was embarrassingly rudimentary, placing me at the bottom rung of a ladder that everyone else seemed to ascend with ease. But not everyone was a master magician, and that thought only deepened my curiosity. I needed more information about this enigmatic world—I detested feeling like a clueless tourist adrift in a sea of arcane secrets.

My needs were many—information, proper clothing, and an assortment of essential items—but first, I decided that knowledge must come before all else. Sitting up in bed, I listened to the bustling sounds of the city awakening—distant clamor, the occasional clang of metal, and the gentle murmur of early conversations—and began practicing my shield spell. With measured repetition, I chanted the incantation, the ambient magic weaving around me as I glanced down at my skill stats:

Skill Table

Name           Major   Level XP to the next level XP   Comment

Unarmed combat    Strength/Agility 0   100  11   Any fighting without weapons

Blunt weapon use   Strength/Agility 1   200  120  Use of a blunt weapon in combat

Trading        Charisma  0   100  16   Buying and selling items

Romantic       Charisma  0   100  48   -

Gambling        Charisma  1   200  84   

Shield Magic      Intelligence 1   200  150  Any type of shield magic

Domestic Magic    Intelligence 0   100  15   Useful for all types of work around the house

Fire magic      Intelligence 1   200  115  Any heat energy magic

Even though I had reached only level one in shield magic, I was determined to ascend to level two before the day was out and invest every precious stat point wisely. With renewed resolve, I decided it was time to explore the town, to gather the information that might guide me to a trainer capable of sharpening my burgeoning skills.

Standing on creaking wooden floorboards that groaned under my weight, I cast a sidelong glance at my patched, dirty clothes. I wondered, with a mix of amusement and bemusement, why the denizens of the gambling halls had even spared me a second look. Perhaps my unusual attire—a motley of torn fabrics—and my towering height lent me an exotic, albeit outlandish, air. Still, I knew I needed new outfits that would allow me to blend in with the locals. After a quick wash and a touch more magical cleaning that left a faint, fresh scent in the air, I was ready to set out on the day's adventure.

By the time I stepped out of the inn, the town square was already alive with activity. Market stalls, bursting with color and the rich aroma of fresh produce and spices, lined the cobbled pathways. I must have been a late riser—the previous day had stretched into a long, exhausting ordeal—so I ambled into the square under a radiant sun that bathed everything in a warm, golden light. A few wispy clouds drifted lazily overhead, hinting at a clear day free from rain. I even wondered aloud what season graced this town, the gentle warmth and light teasing my senses.

Breaking out of my reverie, I listened as boisterous vendors called out their wares, their voices echoing off stone walls and mingling with the clatter of wooden carts. Horses and donkeys trotted along the narrow lanes, their hooves pounding a steady rhythm on the dry dirt and creaking wooden plank sections that formed the roads. The animals spoke in their own language: donkeys braying in protest, horses stamping and leaving behind small piles of dung that some scruffy folk hastily collected. Women filled woven baskets with vibrant, raw ingredients—bright red tomatoes, pungent herbs, and fresh loaves of bread—while their laughter and chatter interwove with the sizzling sounds of nearby food stalls. Market sellers, predominantly women clad in practical attire and adorned with colorful scarves, animatedly negotiated with passersby. A few men manned stalls displaying meticulously crafted goods, and even weapon shops lined the square with arms that looked as if they had once been prized before time had left them battered and worn.

The market, bustling and vivid, stirred an excitement within me as I anticipated the hidden wonders of this new world. Yet, information was paramount; I could not afford another misstep like the one that had left me dirty and disoriented the previous day. I marveled at how, despite my constant wonder, I still questioned my very existence. With a gentle smile tugging at the corners of my lips, I ambled through the throng, trying to make eye contact with as many faces as possible. Curious glances met my gaze—half in wonder, half in dismissal—as the locals hurried by with important business to attend to. From a lively food vendor whose stall exuded the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread and sizzling meat, I bought provisions for breakfast. The transaction was as quaint as it was precise: one-tenth of a copper coin exchanged for a morsel of sustenance, with the vendor offering small, stamped copper strips as change.

At last, fortune smiled upon me when I found a modest clothes store tucked away in a quiet corner of the market. The establishment, its wooden sign creaking in the mild breeze, offered plain brown shirts and trousers. I managed to acquire a shirt that just about fit, although the trousers, unfortunately, only reached my mid-calf—an imperfection I accepted with a shrug, for practicality outweighed perfection in this moment.

Now somewhat prepared for the day's rigors, I set a determined course toward the town center. I strode along the winding streets with long, confident steps, my feet stirring up puffs of dry dust from roads composed of compacted dirt and occasional polished wooden planks. These elegant planks lay before the entrance to more upscale establishments, where finely dressed men and women moved with an air of quiet superiority, seemingly immune to the commoners' respectful bows—a subtle but unmistakable sign of class and refinement that I guessed was universal.

Barefoot, like many of the ordinary townsfolk, I observed that few wore shoes, though many carried armor and weapons. Daggers, maces, and even chainmail glinted under the sun, and a few individuals hefted the carcasses of strange, formidable creatures that sent a shiver down my spine at the mere thought of encountering them. I wondered why the streets teemed with such armaments; perhaps it was the nature of life in this world, where danger lurked at every shadow. The idea of arming myself—and possibly mastering battle magic—added another item to my ever-growing list of tasks.

I paused before a cluster of magic stores, peering through their glass windows as if looking into another realm. These shops, larger and more inviting than the one I'd visited in the village, featured shelves laden with ancient, leather-bound books secured by heavy chains. Yet, despite the mystical allure, most patrons inside seemed more interested in purchasing trinkets and enchanted items than in delving into the wisdom of the tomes. Even the richly dressed clientele paid no heed to the potential knowledge the books might offer.

As I meandered through the city, my senses absorbing the myriad details of this vibrant town, I found myself approaching the heart of the town center. Here, stone buildings stood tall and dignified, their facades marred by time yet imbued with character, while a few vendors spread out their goods on colorful cloths laid upon the cobblestones. One imposing structure on the left bore a carved inscription: 'The Guild of Adventures,' beneath which a carefully painted emblem—a shield crossed with a sword encircled by intricate designs—gleamed in the morning light. Across the square, a religious building crowned with a stately dome beckoned worshippers, its entrance a steady stream of cloaked figures, and I noted that the women donned delicate veils as they entered.

Compelled by curiosity, I made my way toward the Guild of Adventures. Ascending several wide, worn stone steps into a cavernous entrance hall, I nearly collided with a woman clad in supple leather armor. A graceful bow was slung over her shoulder, and she halted abruptly, her eyes widening in surprise. It was then that I noticed the subtle, elegant point of her elven ears peeking out from beneath cascades of dark brown hair. For a fleeting moment, I was struck by the harmonious blend of power and beauty she embodied—her armor accentuating her lithe, agile form, and her gaze as sharp as the blade at her hip.

"What kind of creature are you?" she demanded, her voice cool and laced with an arrogant disdain that cut through the ambient hum of the hall. Her tone was a harsh contrast to the alluring beauty that lingered in the air around her, and though her words stung, I managed a disarming smile that did little to soften her scowl. "The last time I checked, I was a man," I replied cheekily.

"No man is taller than the elven races," she retorted, her voice dripping with contempt.

"Well, here I am," I replied with a playful grin that bordered on impudence.

She snorted in disbelief, as if my very existence was a whimsical jest. "I will find out more about you and then pass judgment on what you are."

"Would you please let me know when you find out so that I can know? It certainly would be useful, as I have been wondering for my whole life," I answered sweetly, my tone light despite the tension.

For a moment, her eyes flickered with genuine confusion—as if a joke were as foreign to her as silence is to sound—yet she murmured, "I certainly will." Her sincerity, however brief, caused me to wonder if she truly meant it. In the end, I convinced myself it was mere sarcasm. As she turned and glided away with a graceful swiftness, I couldn't help but hope that fate would conspire to reveal my true nature to her once again—perhaps making it fun to tease her serious demeanor.

I stepped into the hall proper, where an otherworldly glow emanated from strange, floating lights embedded in the ceiling—a silent testament to the ubiquitous magic of this world. The room was alive with wooden noticeboards, each plastered with vibrant, colored papers adorned with cartoonish pictograms. Approaching the nearest board, I examined one pictogram closely. The first box depicted a detailed map of the town with a conspicuous red cross marking an unknown location deep within the forest, while subsequent boxes illustrated five types of pig beasts with arrows directing back toward the city. "What the hell?" I thought. "Why not simply write it out?" Flipping the paper over, I discovered neatly scrawled instructions for a quest: a job to retrieve five wild boars from the forest for a local butcher. The combination of visual aids and text seemed perplexing, yet practical.

At the back of the room, a large wooden counter served as the hub of guild activity. Behind it sat officials conversing with an assortment of would-be adventurers clad in mismatched armor reminiscent of costumes from a fantastical pageant. They lined up with sheets of paper clutched in their hands, exchanging murmured words and stamped approvals as money changed hands with the air of a well-rehearsed ritual. A sense of anticipation filled the space, as smiles hinted at payday. I joined the queue and soon found myself face-to-face with an irate-looking man who brusquely demanded, "Hand me the quest, please." He barely spared me a glance.

Clearing my throat, I attempted a disarming smile, but it was met with a sharp, penetrating look. "I need to talk to somebody about training," I said.

"Are you a guild member?" he barked.

"No, does it matter?" I retorted, my tone calm despite my mounting irritation.

The man offered no reply but shouted towards a door behind him, "I've got one for an assessment."

Moments later, a large man with a full, unruly beard—interwoven with crumbs that hinted at a recent indulgence in pie—emerged. His eyes widened in surprise as he took in my towering figure. "Boy, you're a big one! Follow me to the assessment area," he declared, his voice booming in the cavernous space as he strode off in thick leather armor. As he passed, fellow warriors nodded their greetings with the familiarity of old comrades, and I hastened after him, eager for answers about this strange and dangerous world.

He led me down a corridor lined with dark wooden panels that exuded an aura of age and mystery, until we reached a modest room behind a heavy door. Inside, whitewashed walls and a sturdy wooden desk gave the space a quiet dignity. An older man, whose weathered face spoke of countless years poring over ancient texts, sat behind the desk reading a leather-bound book. Shelves crammed with similarly bound tomes, all secured behind thick metal bars, lined the wall behind him.

Looking up, the older man greeted me warmly, "Good morning, Acul. What can I do for you?"

The bearded man interjected respectfully, "I've got somebody that needs a reading, guild master. Do you have some time, sir?"

"Yes. Come here, young man, and let's do the reading," replied the guild master as he gestured for me to take a seat on a creaking wooden chair. He then unlocked a drawer with a deliberate motion and produced what appeared to be a crystal ball. A faint, electric anticipation filled the air as I suppressed a snigger—though I remembered all too well the tricks of con artists in less magical realms. Yet, in this world where magic was undeniably real, I kept my amusement in check, conscious that my skepticism could prove dangerous.

The older man beckoned me to place my hand on the crystal ball. The moment my skin made contact, the orb burst into a blue, misty light, as if a gentle searchlight were scanning the depths of my soul. In that luminous moment, I felt as though my very essence was being laid bare, my life's story unfurling before his eyes. His expression shifted from studious concentration to astonishment as he blurted out, "It's like you were born yesterday. Where is your personal shield stat?"

Peering deeper into the swirling blue mist, he then exclaimed, "How in all Hades did you get magic when you can't even read?"

"I can read!" I protested, the taste of indignation mingling with the cool air.

"Then why do you not have any academic skills? If you could read, then you would," he insisted with fervent conviction. Rising from his seat, he moved to the bookshelves; his fingertips shimmered with a subtle magical glow as he performed a twisting motion and muttered incantations. The satisfying click of a lock echoed through the room as he unlatched the iron bars that safeguarded the ancient texts. Retrieving a dusty volume from the top shelf, he brought it to the table and slid it open before me. "Here, read the first chapter," he instructed, pointing to pages laden with theories of magic.

I scanned the page, the words detailing arcane magical theory as my eyes adjusted to the soft scratch of quill on paper. The guild master peered over my shoulder, occasionally scratching his head in perplexity, yet allowing me to finish the passage. "My goodness, you read better than me," he marveled. "Why do your stats not show this?"

I offered a wry smile and shrugged, "You're the one doing the assessment. But doesn't everybody read?"

The men in the room exchanged astonished looks before erupting into laughter. "I certainly don't, and I don't know many people that do. Some of the clerks and all of the magicians, but that's about it," he admitted.

No wonder, I mused, that most quests were depicted in pictures rather than written out. "How much of the population reads and writes?" I inquired, my curiosity piqued further.

"Oh, I guess about one in a hundred has some level of reading, but it's certainly rare to see somebody your age reading so well," he replied.

"I suppose that not many study mathematics and the sciences then," I continued, reminiscing about my own fondness for numbers—a passion born from a desire to master the probabilities of gambling. Social science, too, fascinated me, especially in its power to predict human behavior. The city's university library had been a clandestine haven for my self-education, a place where I could slip in with a borrowed student card and attend lectures in secret. In many ways, I felt as though I already possessed a degree, albeit without the formal paperwork.

The older man's eyes twinkled with feigned ignorance as he said, "No idea what you are talking about, my boy." Nearby, a pot of ink, loose note sheets, and a quill paired with a sharp knife lay arranged on the table. "Do you mind if I show you?" I asked, my voice laced with excitement and a hint of mischief.

Nodding with interest, the man watched as I picked up the quill and began to transcribe a series of basic mathematical equations along with their explanations. When I reached the intricacies of binomials theory, I glanced up to find the man's face etched with confusion. "None of this I understand. But please, write some more for me," he urged.

Drawing upon my near-photographic memory—a skill honed during my years of mentalist work—I continued to fill several pages with proofs and calculations, the scratch of the quill a steady counterpoint to the silent awe in the room. When I finished, the older man carefully gathered the papers, drying the wet ink with a scattering of fine sand before locking them away in a drawer with a flick of his magical touch. Pressing his hands together, he looked at me intently and remarked, "Boy, you're one big mystery."

I could only agree inwardly, though my thoughts were fixed on unraveling some of these mysteries. Despite the advantage of being literate in a world where it was rare, I was acutely aware that nearly everyone else seemed armed and ready to kill. Perhaps my ability to read would prove valuable someday, but for now, I had to prioritize self-defense.

Mulling over the connections between literacy and magical prowess, I asked, "Do you need to be able to read to practice magic?"

"Of course. How are you going to read the magical spells?" the older man countered, then glancing back at his crystal sphere, he added, "Guild membership requires that you are at least a level twenty in a combat skill before you can enter. You certainly do not meet this requirement. I want Acul to check out your practical combat skills if you're willing."

I knew in my heart that I would fare poorly in combat compared to the seasoned warriors of this realm—everyone seemed to possess expertly honed skills and a well-armed edge. Yet, I was here to learn, to measure my limitations against this world's standards. I nodded my head as I looked up at the large frame of Acul, a man whose very presence exuded strength and authority, and wondered silently what punishment he might inflict on me. I sincerely hoped, however, that he would prove to be a kind soul in this perplexing world.

--

The padded tunic I was wearing strained against my long, lean frame, its fabric stretched to its limits while a padded girdle cinched around my waist kept the vulnerable areas modestly concealed. In stark contrast, the large man opposite me wore no such protective garb—his bare chest and rugged arms gleaming with confidence as if daring me to cause him harm. We both gripped wooden practice swords; he wielded his with the ease and familiarity of a seasoned fighter, while I fumbled awkwardly, my hands betraying my lack of expertise. Off to the side, a healer stood ready, his eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows, prepared to tend to any injuries that might befall me—or rather, to mend the wounds I was about to accumulate.

The first blow struck my wrist with a sharp crack that resonated in the silent training hall, forcing the sword from my grasp. Almost immediately, another strike collided with the side of my head, sending a jolt of pain and a rush of disorientation through my senses. For a fleeting moment, the world spun in a dizzy haze, yet miraculously, no further impacts followed. I managed to guess that the large man was not malicious after all. In a tone tinged with both incredulity and genuine admiration, he asked, "How are you still alive with so little skill?"

His words, full of awe, did nothing to bolster the image of an awe-inspiring figure that I had hoped to project. Instead, they painted me as a hapless amateur amid a ballet of swinging wood and clashing practice steel. For the next half hour, the sparring continued in a maddening rhythm—I was pummeled repeatedly by a cascade of strikes from different angles, each blow delivered with the precision and confidence that I could only aspire to master someday.

Then came the final, fateful strike from Acul—a misdirected hit, perhaps—and it severed my consciousness with a brutal, bloody cut to my head. When I finally came to, the world had slowed to a quiet murmur. I found myself seated on a hard wooden chair, my vision clearing to reveal the healer hovering anxiously beside me. His hands shimmered with vibrant green magical energies as he worked feverishly, the room redolent with the sharp scent of medicinal herbs and a faint metallic tang of blood. I could hear him saying to Acul, "None of my healing spells work on him. They just will not do anything to his body. Would you get some bandages, and I'll wrap his head up, so at least he's not bleeding all over the place?"

Before long, my battered head was carefully wrapped, the coarse bandages binding the wound as if to tame the violent red that still seeped from it. Dressed now in a blood-stained shirt that testified to my recent ordeal, I sat quietly as Acul reentered the room. The healer, still visibly perturbed, had tried in vain to extract an explanation from me about why his potent spells had failed—a question to which I had no satisfying answers. His lingering look of disgust as he departed only deepened my feeling of vulnerability. Acul then cleared his throat, his deep voice breaking the uneasy silence.

"Do you want to know how bad you are at combat, or have you figured it out?" he inquired, his tone a blend of tough honesty and reluctant concern.

"I think I know that I suck," I admitted, the words heavy with both embarrassment and resolve.

Acul shook his head in amazement. "It's amazing that you're still alive. I told the boss that you could not be healed by magic, and he was perplexed—said he's never heard of that before."

Desperation mingled with hope as I asked, "How do I get better at fighting?"

"Practice," Acul replied decisively. "As you're a magician, I suggest that you concentrate on some battle magic. It's always better to practice in an actual combat situation by going on quests, but as you're not a guild member, you can't take any quests. Most groups will not want to have anything to do with you as you're such a liability. We do have practice facilities that are open to the guild members, but again, you're at too low a level to use them. My suggestion is to come back when you're level twenty or higher if you're still alive. Be careful in the meantime, and you may not want to let people know your level."

I extended my hand to his—thick, calloused, and scarred from years of combat—and shook it with all the firmness I could muster, though his grip crushed my fingers slightly, a reminder of the gulf between us. Leaving the guild, my mind swirled with more questions than answers. I now understood that in a world teeming with combat-ready citizens, I was dangerously exposed.

Seeking a moment of respite, I wandered toward one of the ornate fountains that adorned the town square. The cool mist from the water, mingled with the bright, invigorating sunshine, caressed my face as I settled onto a stone bench. Around me, the square bustled with life: the clamor of merchants, the rhythmic clip-clop of horses, and the distant hum of industry as the townsfolk went about their daily labors.

Lost in contemplation, I barely registered the approach of a small boy. He emerged from the crowd clad in the tattered rags reminiscent of the beggars I had often seen. Clutching a tiny wooden bowl, his outstretched hand trembled slightly—a silent plea that tugged at my heart. I smiled warmly at his shy, desperate demeanor. Out of habit, I performed a simple magic trick: with a subtle flick of my wrist, I produced a gleaming copper coin seemingly from thin air, carefully dropping it into his bowl. His eyes widened with wonder, and a bright giggle escaped him as he clutched the coin tightly before scampering away. The sight of his grubby, quicksilver figure running off stirred old, suppressed memories within me—memories I quickly banished with a resolute shake of my head.

Rising to my feet, I shook off the sudden wave of despondency and forced a confident smile onto my face. I had been in this position before—at the bottom of the pile—and I knew that survival in this brutal world depended on projecting strength and resilience. Just as I had done on previous nights, I resolved to fake competence until I could truly defend myself. My inherent mystery—this inexplicable aura of being an enigma—was an advantage; people naturally filled in the blanks with their own fantasies, often elevating a mystery to legendary status.

And so, with determination simmering beneath a veneer of feigned confidence, I set off into the throng of the square, ready to face the challenges that lay ahead, armed with nothing but my wits, my burgeoning magical abilities, and the hope that one day I would transform my weaknesses into strengths.