"Delmei, Thomast," the young girl spoke. Her cadence laced with such contempt, it was palpable.

Did she know them? Who were they?

He took another look at their clothing. Yes, it was the same as the guard uniform, but instead of the blank one he remembered, theirs have this emblazoned insignia, stylized 'H' carved in their chest part.

He turned his head again toward the girl, and found her... sighing? Her arm folded. The men, however, were the opposite. Grinning, bubbly. Excited.

So not terrorists. If they were, she’d be afraid instead of ...annoyed. What were they, then? Gang members? But not even gang members should dare to throw chaos that openly. Wait! Their uniforms! They must be some private guards attached to a local bigshot. Sigh. Corrupt politicians. Every world had them, huh?

Still, it wasn't like his response going to differ whether they were terrorists or local bullies.

He'd just as always, needed to prepare for the worst.

"Status," he whispered under his breath. His eyes still maintained an unbroken eye contact toward the men. Just enough to avail suspicion that he might try to commit something. Which he was of course. The back of his hand was scrolling the spell list.

"Hello, miss Restia. You're this week's last-ers!" One of the men, the auburn-haired one, remarked. He flashed a grin to his companion, the black-haired man. The latter was holding a sheaves-filled clipboard.

So she was called Restia, he filled that information down. Meanwhile his eyes' peripheral was still locked on the spell list. One of them particularly was glowing. Inviting. Called to him.

Invisibility.

He paused for a moment, which of course he did. He didn’t know what activating the skill would bring. Would it come at a cost? Probably. In [Chronicle] they used mana to activate a spell. But he didn’t even know if he even had mana.

Still, this wasn't a time to be hesitant. Swallowing his breath, he let his fear of his own safety pushed his fear of the unknown. So behind both of the local bullies and his impromptu savior, his trembling palms, the index finger, pressed the word.

 

The world stopped.

 

It just stopped. Dimmed. Everything and everyone froze as if they were inside some kind of old-timey picture. A layer of grey, a monochrome sheen, had been painted to the world in the span of a blink — his blink. Leaving himself as the only thing that was still in color. In movement.

Shock would not even begin to describe his feeling. Not even close. And although he wasn't affected, as proven by how he was still breathing, he too was frozen. Not by the whatever causing this—this calamity. But simply because he was too afraid — too scared. Like a deer in the front of a headlight, he was too horrified to move for even a step. The torture didn't last long however, as if his answering his unspoken, unuttered plea, a change struck.

The world, the space, moved. Not as people or cars or any kind of vehicle or any — anything moved. The space itself moved. Every people, every garments attached to their body, every stones scattered or placed on the road, every walls and buildings, even the sun and the sky itself, stretched. Stretched in a horizontal plane. Splitting. Warping. Then in the center, the nucleus of it all, a spot, a dot was growing. A dot of dark, infinite.

By the seconds, it grew to an apple size, by the minutes, building. He braved himself to peer inside and found... nothing. Nothing.

The next moment, just a blink after he peered to the dot, it bared its gaping maw. Swallowing even the space to itself, plunging, sucking everything to blackness. He screamed. Screamed as it reached him. Reaching his body. But to his surprise, to his still heaving breath, he didn't disappear.

He didn't ...die.

Instead, it was as if the world had simply been turned off. Painted black.

W—what was happening?

He was not in the Ar’endal street anymore, that—that was beyond certain. He still could move, yes. He could walk, okay. Also he—he could flap his arm,he could turn his head. But it just—just that. All that left was him. Only him. Alone. In the dark. In the cold.

He was this close to having another breakdown when at the corner of his eyes, a light, mote, fleeting, shone.

A thing, a something, a something was flying — a person. A person who was staring at him. Looking at him.

He staggered. Five steps to the back and landed on his rear. Yet the thing didn't stop. It moved, meter by meter, getting closer, getting nearer. Three meters. Two by the next second. One, it almost reached him.

Breath stuck on his throat.

It—it was ...himself?

His eyes locked. Skimming to its hair curl, its jawline, its built, its everything. It was him! Or at least a mirror image of him. Complete with all of his clothes and everything. Shook with questions, and trying his best not to have a heart attack, he pulled himself up ...closer. First a step. Then a next. His hand ...lifted, moved, and touched. Touched the thing face. He burned his eyes to it. To his mirror self. Feeling the smooth of its skin. The glide of its hair. What was this, he heard himself asked. It—it felt so real.

Then it opened its thing eyes.

Staring.

At.

HIM.

He staggered — heaved. But in the split before his feet manage to distance himself, something filled him. In the back of his head, he could feel a wiggle, a swam. A shimmying, squirming, writhe. A slime that both cold and hot. Penetrating, encroaching on his head. The thing whatever it was, was barging the door of his mind. It slithered. Sloshed and throbbed. Grew. His eyes widen; his body, his arms, slackened. Then in a moment, a single impossible moment, he felt it — he knew it. Knew that in his beating heart, in his immortal soul, that the thing — the something in front of him was not something devious or evil. No. The thing was ...him. A part of his mind which all of magical knowledge found vessel.

Not letting him a second to process the craziness, the unbelievability of that concept, behind his vessel thing, by the center of the darkness, a fountain appeared out of thin air. Like appeared, appeared. Not with a pop. Not with a rumble. Just it wasn't there one second and was there the next.

Then like with everything else at this point, it was moving. Thrumming. With a slight gargle, it spurted water, water, and water. Again, again, and again until the entire basin chock of blue crystalline liquid. And when he thought the fountain was done, it came. A final spurt. Spilling the liquid all over the floor.

He stumbled.

The floor blazed with color. Blue. White. Purple. Pink. It shone, shone, shone. Bright as the brightest day; piercing as if it was sun escaping from the moon's umbra. The ground trembled. Shaking. Up and down, he saw his mirror self, his shadow self fell — meld to the color. Disappeared.

Then silence.

Then dark.

Then he stumbled.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Suddenly, like the first time he knew about his shadow, a knowledge popped. Boring into his thought.

The knowing of weave…

...the meaning of patterns.

The spark of intent, of will, of thought. The price of mana. The bend of reality, of light.

It seeped through his mind, bypassing nothing and everything. Then as he almost screamed. A jolt of tingling buzz, electricity stung, held his tongue hostage.

"Now wait a minute,"

"I'm helping this young man getting up, Thomast,"

He blinked. Once. Twice. Thrice. In front of him was the same young girl. The same two men. The same Ar’endal streets with none of the darkness. None.

...dream?

That was all he managed to utter. But the experience was so vivid. So lifelike. How could it be fake?

“Sir?”

“T—”

AH! His tongue! He felt the buzzing, sparking spell still active. Waiting to be unleashed for just but one simple word of command. So it was real! Was that place a prequisite for activating a spell? He knew this was a world of magic and all but — he shuddered. The explosion, the earthquake, it. All of those were just too much. Reverently and almost with his soul, he swore;if it wasn't in a life threatening thing he would not use this — this spell. Any spell.

"Sir?"

The girl was staring at him, waiting for his answer.

Jolted, he realized that he had been staring blankly at them for a minute now. He broke a sweat; he couldn't speak. The spell still waiting to be released from his tongue. How could he cancel this?

Then, uninvited, an answer came. A technique of loosening, dispersing the circling buzz of mana, letting the pattern slack, reversing the intent. All of those popped inside his mind.

“Sir? Are you okay?”

Right. The question. He nodded to the young girl. Hoping that it was enough.

“Could you confirm that I was helping you getting up?”

He nodded again.

“Also....” she said. Trailing for a bit —and letting her smile did the talking. "Mr. Pol here witnessed me do it,"

She dipped her head in a slight bow. Toward a pudgy man who’s still rearranging his... fruit? Vegetable? The spiky red-orange rind is unlike anything he familiar with.

The man turned hearing his name called. Euca recognized him. It was the peddler who got his stall knocked down.

Looking at the girl, the peddler took a brief pause, putting down his wares —rummaging his left pocket and taking a brown cloth, he wiped his face three times before squinting at the young woman. As if giving her and the group a long look.

He laughed.

And it was not with a bellow you'd expect from a man of his built. Instead, it was a chuckle that seemed to barely restrain higher part of his pitch. Nodding, the man waved his hand to the group, smiling.

“Yes, yes! That’s true, Sirs! I did see the miss help the young man.”

Bowing her head again, the young girl, the young miss, blossomed. Smiling a vulpine, toothy smile that cause the black-haired man to grimace.

"That means I'm not a laster, " she said. "But a hearth."

Laster? Hearth? He arced his eyebrow. The term was ...unfamiliar. Well, same with the rest of the world he supposed. Still, those words must be something good since the auburn-haired man's face fell. He filed the information for later. For now his mind was whirring — processing how to undo the spell that still on his mouth.

"Oh come on miss Res, we just short two! You guys..."

Almost.

"Yeah, technically you're still last miss, so let me just write it dow—"

"Would you like me to bring it up to your adjudicator?" The young girl shrug, opening both of her hands.

"No!"

"Don't! Sir Yon will make us do latrine again!" the auburn-haired man screeched, his arms flailing around.

Done! And just in time. Relieved, he felt the mana disperse, rolling down and up from his now stiff tongue.

"Wait! The boy still a laster though!" the black-haired man exclaimed. Staring at his poor self as if he wanted to pounce him to shred.

He spoke too soon...

"Yes! That's right!" Sweats were pouring through his back. "Good job, Del!"

"Hold on..."

The young girl walked between her and the men. Her finger pointing upward. Del, the black-haired man paid her no heed however. Brandishing his quill, the man was furiously scribbling.

Closing his eyes, exhaling his breath, he tried to calm down the piping, buzzing panic. Let consider this situation rationally.

First there was the young woman replies, then the supposed guards-slash-local bullies banter, and lastly, the fruit seller's laugh. All of these ...clues were pointing to one thing: he wasn't arrested or threatened to be arrested. At least not with a criminal charge.

They wouldn't be this jovial if that was the case. He was sure. Eighty-eighty five percent at least. The worst thing that could happen, considering what had and currently happening was that he'd be fined due to some kind of a nebulous town's ordinance. He had coins if nothing else. Nodded, he was confident that he could get through this. Despite that however, his voice was still ironically stuck on his throat.

Came on Euca, grew some spine! You were almost dead before. What this interlude count for?

"Eermm, s-sorry." he squeaked. Great opening there, he cursed. Still, it worked. Kinda. The supposed guards and the young woman now turned their heads toward him. "...what is a laster?"

"What? You don't know laster? Is that even possible, Del?"

"No. He's lying." The one who called Del replied. His quavering voice betrayed him.

Great. Another local-must-know thing, he bemoaned with exasperation. Just when he thought he started to get a hang of this place.

"I just came here a day ago, so..."

"Wait. Are you new to the town?"

"Yes, miss,"

"Thank your help, by the way. I just came here yesterday, and I don't really know anything about this ...laster thing?"

"Impossible!"

"I don't believe it! We just need two more!"

"Your paper! Show me your paper!" the young woman said, beckoning her hand twice in rapid succession.

"M-my paper?"

"The one that they give you at the gate, hurry!"

Rummaging his cloak's inner pocket, Euca took a bundle. His day pass; the name of the inn where Mr. Terence stayed; lists of all items he bought and their price; and a square sheaf, stamped with a red-colored seal that given to him when he entered the town.

Handing the paper to the young woman, she immediately pointed her finger at the top left writing.

"Five-four. Look at this! He did come yesterday." Flipping it for the black-haired man to see.

"...a new-er," the black-haired man said. His head hung.

"Oh... well, good luck teaching him, Del!" Beside him his partner already took three steps back.

Del whirled. Pointing his hand to his partner’s chest. "Wait, wait, wait... Why is it me? Why it's not you!"

"Because you do it much better?"

"That's not a reason! You just need to give him a pam—"

"Boys, boys."

"How about I take this new-er out of your hand?"

"You'll do that Ms. Res?" The auburn-haired man's face shone, a smile blossoming on his face.

"What do you mean you'll do that!" Del whispered, stepping hard on his partner's foot.

"Yes. yes. Please! Thank you Miss Restia!"