In his not-so-long life, Euca had accomplished several of what he thematically termed as ‘personal projects’. These were little things, small things his more capricious younger self developed, observed, or did in passing because well, it interesting. Such was the case he remembered when he was sixteen.

It was fifteen minutes before the lunch hour finished, and he just had finished his meal; two plates worth of white rice, sauteed mushroom and beef slice with oyster sauce, and a smack dab of venti-high oreo milkshake, you knew a calorically appropriate meal for a growing boy.

Yet, his self-proclaimed rational self thought it otherwise. With judgment swiftly rendered, it renounced his choice as being unhealthy. That it somehow would grow him sideways instead of ‘the proper’ upways. Which was absurd. After all, his saute had bell pepper slice, multiple bell pepper slices —red, green, yellow, all those colors. Which meant, he retorted his nonsensical brain, his meal was healthy. After all, there were vegetables in it, right?

Thus as what his current self termed as rationalizing the heck of it, his food-hazed younger self was leaving the cafeteria premise —walking toward his fourth class in denial. That when the sun, and probably the universe, struck his poor eye in the pupil. Flashing a reminding, a call-out reflection that so bright he needed to rub his eyes for at least a half minute to adjust.

Which was when he saw it again; the poster. Its white lettering, pasted in jeans blue background was clamped by twin, glass-clear, acrylic sheets —displaying what his school insisted to be part of their interior design; one-liner ‘inspiring’ motivational quote.

It read like this ‘Tomorrow is a mystery. Yesterday is history. Today is a gift, that why they call it present’. Which he admitted was quite a wordplay; wisdom and lyric blended together. However ‘the inspiring’ part where the ‘present’ supposedly represents was lost on him. Not the meaning, no. He was acutely aware of the intended elaboration: that one should do what one could in their limited time frame that was their own life. That to each we should seize the day —for time waited for no one and there were no moments to lose.

Instead, what he missed was the depth. The spark that moved and stirred his heart —the inspiration itself. He felt nothing when he should have. There were nothing —nothing that moved his heart or put a race to his feet. Nothing.

He even recounted against possible confounding bias. Because as all things went, perhaps he simply wasn’t in the mood. Perhaps getting your eyes lighted up when your belt feeling kind of restrictive from all the bloating was not really conducive. He recounted, remembered, and re-remembered the other instances when he saw this particular poster. Also the other instances when he saw other similar posters —the one with different ‘inspiring quotes’, cross-referencing them. After all, he would be the first one to accede that sleepy disposition was not made for wisdom appreciation.

And asking his friends later on the evening; Len, Derek, Mellisa, Niel, and even Lyn; he found that was the case for most of his peers including himself. Besides sounding cool, and probably scoring those sweet, sweet likes when posting their status, none of his limited pool of peers (which he insisted to be brutally honest) gave the quotes, the supposedly inspiring quotes, more than a brief glance. Which told him that the poster, like many things in his school, was a generational misperception of demographic.

It was case of wrong interior design enforced again and again. It was a well-meaning, unexamined idea that its evaluators —the principles, the teachers, the committee, and their helicoptering parents— put on high because it just that; made sense. After all, who would have thought that coming of age teenagers could not appreciate the depth of poetic evocative wisdom since they themselves, by their vicissitudes that their own life, obviously could?

Which of course a very example of not putting yourself in someone’s shoes. Like saying a girl born in underprivileged background should spend their evening in public library to enrich her knowledge to be more successful. Of course she couldn’t have known. That why they called it projecting and not empathizing. The latter was denoted by honest acknowledgment of limitation that came from being less-have while the former was simply telling. Telling how the projectors with all his life experience, with all his years of privileged knowledge, might behave if they themselves put in those situations. Which was impossible for the said girl. For the said teenagers. Since by definition alone, the teenagers themselves lack those vicissitudes, the moment-emotion in their long term memories that they could nod on and nostalgize about. Quotes, he concluded, were inspiring because the inspired had something to mirror themselves by. It was gestalt of experience, presented in a platter.

And that had been and still the theme of his youth. Seeing patterns and answers. Sometimes unasked. Sometimes unanswered. He answered them anyway, because, well, as he said before, it was fun. Of course as the nature of the beast, some was inevitably ludicrous. Such as when he concluded that overpopulation and poverty could be solved together if a tenth of the world population, barring the logistic involved, sent to space forming another human colony. Which while technically correct was impossible for at least two more centuries and either great political willingness or severe violation of human rights. So yeah...

Yet sometimes. Just sometimes, when the light particularly bright, when all the stars and the planets and their galaxies (metaphorically) coincide, he would found something practical, something that he could apply in those rare instances of day to day practicalities.

“Answer!”

Like now.

“Hmph!”

The man, the tall man, stood ten steps in front of Clar and almost four meters apart across from him. His eyes were piercing; his feet, a shoulder apart. Euca felt the room almost rumbled when the man asked —demanded her to answer the question once more. He felt his voice, deep, and by how Barna winced, ran through everyone ears.

He observed his choice of attire, and couldn’t help but nod. It was a polished iron cuirass. The metal gleamed not with the clarity of silver mirror, but with dispersed —diffused opaque sheen as if was the asphalt road after a spring rain. Indicating that it had been well cared.

Yet all those shone, those deliberate polish —those maintained cares could not hide the wear and tear that was age —that was story. A ray streaming through the room’s repeating window shutters, revealed the intermittent scratches —the marks. Weapon dent, almost a third of finger deep pervaded his breastplate front; over his sternum, under the clavicle, left and right. It was on every perceivable centimeter that if one should only take a look for a single glance, might perceive it as an intentional exotic-ish design of the blacksmith. It wasn't.

It just was.

And if that wasn't enough, underneath the ‘must weigh more than ten kilo cuirass’, was a set of leather armor. Which with the way it shone, even he, a modern-day amateur, knew for a fact that in no way it adsorbent. And even with the growingly seldom rain, must be a torture to wear.

“Girl, don’t test my patience! Answer!”

That how he knew for a fact that the man in front of him was an expert. True expert. Not a poser, not a know-it-all. He was just that; a voice almost breaking, almost high pitch. A voice in concerned knowing tone. A knowing tone from a knowing man.

And Euca smiled both in his heart and in his face. Knowing that Clar in a good hand.

“What to answer! Clar told you, stupid big man! Clar can fight!” Euca shook his head. Well, there no point correcting her, he supposed. Even though out of respect he should. However intervening now, more likely hinderng than helping him. After all, the man, Sir Tellin was the expert

“Fine.” Sir Tellin replied. Then with one swift motion, he stomped the stone floor —twisting his right feet 90-degree sharp. Euca, his eyes trained from all the potion making, sense mana sparked, flowing from his feet and to the stone floors. The latter pulled themselves apart, revealing a slowly climbing rack packed with weapons —swords, short and long; daggers, twisted, serrated; axes and hammers, towering, throwing; spears; lances; javelins; even bows with its quivers set; all made from wood.

“Take it.”

TAK.

Sir Tellin threw the wooden long sword at Clar who after another hmph, picked it up and fell immediately into her battle stance.

“Ooca…” Barna approached him, he could hear the worried tone on his whisper. “Aye knew aye saw lil Cla’. But are ye sure ye wanna let her do skippa’ test? Tellin’ is merciless.”

“...well, I mean I worried but,” —he bit his lips for dramatic— “she wanted this chance since she was a little. Damn uncle Derek and his stupid story. But it's her dream. And as her brother, how can I stand in front of her dream.” he threw a smile. ”I just can’t help but wish her the best you know…”

“...aye unnerstand.”

The fight began. He saw Clar leaped, from crouching to lunging to a screaming death. She brandished her sword in a right diagonal down arc which the man not just parried but redirect it so bad that it was struck down to the ground, locking it in place. Then just before what he guessed as an impending knee-kick landing on her chest, Clar decisively chose to abandon her sword and leaped back.

“Good! But how would you fight without a sword now, girl?” Euca clenched his hand seeing him kicked the sword back, at least five meters away from her.

“Hmph!”

Euca felt a tug, a request, trying to siphon his mana pool. In instant, an unraveling knowhow told him that it was Clar asking his permission to use his mana alongside queries whether he want to automatically accepted if it fulfilled certain preconditions in the future. Preconditions such as if it were done in pre-approved timing, used to defend him and/or herself from harm, and whether it’d be a freeflow or would he put a cap on the amount of the mana he allowed her to siphon.

Looking at her, running —leaping left and right, trying to reach her sword but couldn’t, he blinked to the knowhow. Telling it to allow her to access his mana pool until three quarters of his mana depleted —and only for today. He’d set the other conditions later.

“Got you now, stupid big man! [Light on my Feet!]”

“Skill, girl? [Warrior’s Footwork!]”

Then it was a blur. First, he saw a crack formed on the floor — stones flying all around. Next, Clar’s fallen sword disappeared, a shadow jumped and followed by another shadow, it clashed, leap backward, and clashed again, circling, lunging, left and right, to the room sides, to the room fronts and back. The only things constant he saw was the rune post shimmering, their translucent barrier left untouched.

“Barna…”

“Yes, Ooca?”

“What happens?”

“...Tellin used his skill. His skill, Ooca. His skill! He neva’ did that! And yer sista what? Fifteen?”

“Fourteen… Will she passed?”

“Tha stairs’ timba’ she’ll pass! Even thar foolish man opposed, aye bet Mira already pr’pared yer sister guild card.”

And true to his word, less than two minutes later, with just a third of his mana remaining, he saw them stop to a screeching halt —both of their sword had been cleaved in twain.

“Not bad.”

“See, *huft*, Clar can *huft* fight!” he saw her heaving. Sweat pouring from his back.

“But not good either.” Euca face fell, almost surprised. She was exhausted! ”Let see how you do it again. Here!” the man threw another sword at Clar. But just as Clar half-jumped to took it, just before he shout to stop the fighting, he heard a loud clap echoing.

“Thar enough! She passed, Tellin.”

“Passed? Passed?!! Her footwork is sloppy, she lost her weapon on the first bout! She wouldn’t even pass three rusts this way.”

“She dinnae hafta ye… If she wanna ta fight rusts, she’d be in a party!” The [Minder] rolling up his eyes. “Yer standard is always impossible…. By the guild rules, aye [‘ereby Declared] she passed!”

Euca saw mana flared from Barna, at once the room seemed to dim, the weapon racks were slowly sliding back down to the floor.

“Barna!”

The man shouted, but threw his weapon to the rack and prompting Clar to did the same.

“Take it ta the [Guildmistress] ye. Come on Ooca, Clar’, let get yer sista’ her card.”

“Fine.” He heard the man grumbled. “But you better came to my class next week. No delving before that.”

 

 

“And here we are!”

“Wow, Clar would work here?” She ran to the countertop, rubbing her cheek, feeling her finger on the polished wood. Which was weird. But to each their own, he supposed.

“Right!” he replied. Beckoning her to follow him toward the back corridor. “Now, my laboratory would be down here.” He pushed the unassuming stack of tarps by the corner to reveal a hidden basement door. The floorboard was latched closed with an almost unseen lock.

“And here where you could pick up the new potions if the one on the counter ran out,” he said, pointing to the row of bottles located on the topmost rack of stone shelves, bolted —well, melded to the wall. Although… he looked at Clar, her beret as high as his chest, he better moved them to the third row.

“Now, I’ll be putting the newest one behind the old one, so remember to take from the frontmost right then work your way back to the left.” Which she replied by furious nodding.

“Okay, that’s about it! We’ll try opening tomorrow and the day after then we’ll see how we go from there!”

“Now let went back and have dinner. I told Mrs. Crombe to make a lot of food today!”

“Yay, dinner! Clar wants another roast!”

“Alright! But we’ll have Erwee roast today!”

“Is it delicious?”

“Well, do you believe in Mrs. Crombe’s cooking?”

“Mm-hmm.” she nodded furiously. “Clar believe Mrs. Crombe!”

Then closing the store and ushering her back to the carriage, he sat, letting all his sigh waft. He spared a glance to Rod, driving the carriage and to Clar busy munching her leftover steak before allowing himself a shut eye —letting the experience of the long day swept over him.

He knew in his heart that he shouldn’t do this… Fourteen years old working a day job was the definition of child labor. But who else could he trust? And the girl was not your everyday children... she could protect herself and ...him, he almost ashamed to accept the last one, he was not a fighter, not a soldier, this world was dangerous, but still... she just a child.

He’d accompany her of course, he reasoned —bargained. Just not in the front, he still needed to continue his research after all. He’d check her often, hourly. Well, first half-hourly then if all went swimmingly, hourly.

And in the unlikely case that things really, really turned sour, there always [Invisibility], [Ray of Frost], perhaps that [Lightning Blast] if he could steel himself to learn something that potentially electrocute himself. Coupled those with what Barna termed as her ‘almost B-rank’ power should be enough to get them to relative safety.

Still, it’d be better if he —if she had another companion, another friend.

Flicking his finger, he opened the inventory window. Taking from it depth the other scroll —feeling its vellum leather skin rubbed against his palm.

He looked at its glow, at its unbroken seal, and left wondering...