I walked slowly through the crowded market filled with the smell of baked bread, wet earth, and the voices of vendors competing to offer their wares. My tired feet stepped on the uneven cobblestone road, while people passed by, busy with their own affairs. The sun hung low in the sky, showering its soft rays onto the sloping, tall, and weathered roofs of the houses. Hmm, it was unusual for the sun to shine this month.
I walked down the narrow streets lined with wooden stalls that were probably older than half the market itself. To my left and right, merchants shouted out their wares like an orchestra that had lost its conductor.
"Fresh spices! Straight from the fields of Floris!"
"Woven fabrics! For your wife, for your concubine, or for a shield from your own mother!"
Charming.
Amidst the hustle and bustle of the market, I stop at a small stall owned by an old woman selling vegetables and spices. Her face was wrinkled, her eyes sharp but tired, her lips tightly closed as if hiding something.
"You're early today, Joule," she said in a hoarse voice. Her hands were busy tying a bunch of onions with coarse string.
Here, I am known as Joule. A stage name I chose myself, simple enough but often arousing curiosity.
"I'm better off early, it's not too late in the morning yet," I replied casually, taking the apple and looking at it for a moment before handing it to her.
The old woman frowned. "Girls your age should already be married, not wandering around alone like this. I hear the church is starting to interfere in marriage matters. They don't like women who don't submit, saying it's a bad omen."
Ah, here it is. The piece of information I've been waiting for.
I pretended to chuckle, "Submissive? I prefer the term 'principled.' But I don't think the church is interested in semantics."
"Don't mess with them, Joule. They've started investigating homes. A few weeks ago, they visited the village chief. I hope the elders can handle this."
I bit my tongue to keep from laughing. Since the church arrived, the internal situation in the village seemed troubling. They offered something new that went against the old customs. Heh, attracting young people?
"There's news that someone caused a disturbance at the bar last night," the old woman continued. "They say someone lost their mind after a terrifying magic show."
I smiled faintly, took a small bag from my pocket, and handed over some coins. "It's just entertainment, nothing more," I said flatly, before picking up my groceries and walking away.
"In that case, I hope I'm normal enough to pass their investigation. Or... interesting enough to be an exception."
I walked away, leaving the old woman confused between worrying about me or talking about me more.
In my heart, I laughed. The world was in turmoil, and me? I was probably just a cat walking between lit candles, curious to see who would burn first.
I returned to my simple house on the outskirts of the village. As soon as I slid open the heavy wooden door, I was greeted by a gloomy atmosphere. The air inside the house seemed to be thick with something invisible.
And of course... Rimia's sour face.
But it wasn't just a normal sour face. Her face looked... broken. Like an old wall with fine cracks in many places.
Her sharp eyes were fixed on me, full of disappointment wrapped in acute frustration. "You're drawing too much attention," she said, coldly... in the tone I usually used to decline school party invitations.
I put my groceries on the table. "It's just a little trick. A few surprises. Nothing crazy."
"Nothing?" her voice rose, like a short fuse that had just been lit. "Some people are babbling in the street! They're talking about gold from their mouths, shadows crawling on the walls of rooms! That's more than just a 'surprise'!"
Her usually calm hands were now trembling slightly. I looked at her for a moment... there was something strange in the way she held her breath... like someone who had swallowed panic too many times.
I sat back in my chair. "Oh, Rima... so what? We can go to another village. After all, it's not the first time."
And at that point... she froze.
There was a pause.
A long pause that made me feel uncomfortable.
"We can't... keep doing this," she finally said. But her voice... was soft, heavy. Like a stone sinking into a muddy lake.
Her eyes were empty... but also full of memories that I... for some reason... didn't want to know.
He took a deep breath, then stared at the floor as if there were bloodstains there he couldn't clean off. "I... lost a student because of thinking like that."
Oh. A personal plot twist.
I thought about joking... but my instincts told me... don't.
And as usual... when things got too emotional... I changed the subject.
"Then why don't we just find allies? I mean... if lots of witches get together... we can back each other up, right?"
And boom. Wrong again.
Her body tensed. Her hands clenched into fists.
"No." That one word was like a whip.
She lowered her head, her voice lower... more... cracked. "The more of us gather... the greater the chance they'll find us."
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. I knew my expression... was probably too relaxed for a situation like this.
In my mind, I began to sort through all the tragedies of European witch hunts I had read about on the internet—Malleus Maleficarum, Salem Witch Trials... all of it.
And somehow... it all felt like a distant, dark fairy tale... not something real.
The problem was... I still saw this place as a fantasy world. A world with two strange moons in the sky and time that runs almost 30 hours a day, but somehow... my body has grown too comfortable, as if this were Earth.
And maybe... that's my mistake.
In my heart, I thought... "Well... if there's a cruel church... there should also be a social revolution like in world history. Or... a badass group of rebel witches. Or... even if there were massacres... well... they'd probably be like Europe's dark ages. Which eventually fade away over time."
But... the more rational part of me knows: This isn't Earth.
This isn't textbook history. This is a world where blood has never stopped flowing.
But still... I'm too stubborn to truly feel afraid.
"So besides the church... who else is there? Secret monsters? A shadow government? Or... a human experimentation organization?" I said it on purpose... half-jokingly.
Rima's expression immediately changed... darker than before.
She glanced toward the window, as if something was lurking outside. "You don't want to know, Shinna."
And from the way she said it... I knew... I really didn't want to know.
She rubbed her face, as if to wipe away the shadows under her eyes. Then she said bitterly, "Never talk about joining other witches... Not in front of me."
I was silent for a moment as I looked at her gloomy expression, "Rima, are you afraid because of... the investigator? Or because of other witches?"
She didn't answer right away.
"...Both."
"What do you mean? You've never talked about that before."
"Because this world doesn't need any more scary stories. But if the church starts to move, then the factions will stir. And they... not all of them are like us."
I chuckled. "You talk like we're a major faction. We're just two people in a dilapidated house with a leaky teapot."
"That's why we can't be the center of attention."
And with that, the conversation ended. Or at least, she thought so.
"By the way... I've been formulating my own principles of magic."
His eyes glanced at me, faintly. There was a hint of curiosity... but more... wariness. "What is it?"
I smiled slightly, trying to appear mysterious. "It's a secret. Besides... I've never known your principles of magic either."
She snorted. "Good... at least you've learned one thing."
She stood up, walked to an old bookshelf, and pulled out a worn book.
"Read this. It's about the basic principles of magic."
I stared at the book as if it were a script of international law. "Ugh. Theory. I prefer hands-on practice. You yourself said I can control my magic now."
"Yes," she said, sitting back down, "but I never said you understood what you were controlling."
Silence. Full of meaning.
I stared at the book, flipping through it like a gift without intention. Without saying much else, I walked away, and as I climbed the stairs... I could still feel that heavy gaze... piercing my back.
As soon as I entered the room, I immediately removed the veil of deception that clung to my face. The magical makeup I had applied with a small spell—more accurately, a shallow illusion of light—scattered like fine dust particles. I stared at the faint reflection of myself in the blurry mirror near the wall.
My black hair is fading, slowly turning white and then silver. My skin is regaining its pale color with the strange sheen characteristic of albinos. My face—which used to be thin and mature—is swelling slightly, becoming rounder, younger... too young for all the lies I've told.
I take a deep breath. Someone else's breath. Filling lungs that once weren't mine.
This body...
It always feels like borrowed clothing that never quite fits my shoulders. There are days when I can deceive myself... pretending that this has become "me"... but on the quietest nights, when the lights are out and the world is silent... I still know: I am an intruder.
I walk to the wooden table near the window. That table... like my own little battlefield.
There are piles of worn books on the language of magic, several sheets of paper covered in spell scribbles, a roll of silver thread for rituals, a piece of black ribbon that I often wear in my hair, a small cracked pocket mirror in the corner, two or three old lipsticks that I keep for some reason, and... a headless cloth rabbit doll.
I don't even remember why I still keep it.
I pulled out the chair that had been waiting, placing the faded book Rima had given me earlier. The writing was almost as if it had been scrawled by someone in a trance. Scribbles everywhere. Smudged ink. Sentences that sometimes sounded like cheap existential musings from a high schooler who'd just gone through a breakup.
But behind all that... there was something.
Magic.
Magic.
"Principles... Concepts... Spiritual bodies... Resonance..." I muttered as I scribbled on the margins of the page. On the other side of the paper, I wrote: "Note: This is like psychology married to quantum physics, then stabbed by philosophy."
Honestly, if I had found this half a year ago, I would have closed the book, thrown it into the corner of the room, and switched to watching mukbang streaming videos. But now?
Now I'm curious.
This book is a kind of legacy from the previous wizard—or what appears to be a collection of notes from various wizards trying to decipher their 'concepts'.
They don't mention where, there are no magic calculations, no magic stones, no "skill trees". Just... feelings. Emotions. Spiritual bodies. And something they call a trigger moment.
I flipped through the crumpled pages and found a sentence that I had underlined:
"A concept is not something you learn, but something that comes to you. It pierces you. It shakes you. It takes your breath away and gives it meaning. If you're lucky, you survive. If not... you're just a broken vessel."
So romantic. But also terrifying.
I lay on my side, my chin resting on the pillow, my eyes staring out the window. The Lunara moon wasn't full yet, but its soft light slipped through the curtains.
"Survive," I murmured softly, "yes, that's the right word for the past six months..."
I still remember my first days in this world—I didn't wake up as a hero with a sword on my back and a treasure map in my pocket. I woke up confused, in a strange time, with the sun rising too long and the night never ending. 27 hours... Damn, even my biological clock broke down in the first week.
This body—this new body—is supposedly that of a 17-year-old girl, but they measure time based on a planet that spins far too diligently. For my brain, accustomed to a 24-hour system, this feels like unpaid overtime.
However, the people of this world divide their day into 18 'cycles,' as if time were a snack that could be neatly sliced into equal pieces.
Morning? Six cycles. Nine hours. The sun rises, people pretend to be productive.
Afternoon? Another six cycles. Nine hours. Bright light, sweat, and reality.
Night? Of course, six cycles too. Because this world likes symmetry.
Then there was one thing called a 'pulse', only about five minutes long—or one-eighteenth of a cycle. This pulse was used for rituals or precision tasks, Rima said. But for me, the pulse was just a small gap in time that was perfect for... complaining. Or daydreaming. Or burning bread, if I was unlucky.
"I'm starting to suspect whoever created this system is someone who really hates inflexibility."
So, I created my own system. Sleep for six cycles. Wake up for six cycles. Drink coffee for two cycles. Pray twice to the universe so I don't go crazy. And the rest? For absurd things like... understanding magical powers governed by emotional vibrations.
Pretty modern, isn't it?
Back to the book. I found a chapter that was a bit different. Neater. The writing was calm. As if the author was at peace with himself when he wrote this.
"You don't choose the concept. The concept chooses you. It touches your deepest wounds, or your brightest dreams. It's not logic. It's... resonance."
Interestingly, I don't know what my "concept" is. I don't have horrific trauma like being burned by the church. I don't have bloody grudges or a desire to avenge my parents' deaths. But the first time I did magic—I did it because... I wanted to perform.
Seriously. I only wanted one thing: attention.
At that moment, I stood on an old apple crate, creating a small illusion of light in the palm of my hand. The village children gathered around me like I was a circus clown. And when I saw their amazed faces—the magic shot out of my hand without any plan. As if my body knew what to do. As if the world... welcomed my lie with joy.
Maybe that's my principle. Maybe my magic grows when I perform.
I scratched my head slowly. "So, I'm a magician... on stage?"
Silly. But fun. And honestly, I can't deny it: there's power in making people amazed. In creating moments that make them fall silent, hold their breath, and think, "What just happened?"
I closed the book and stared at the attic ceiling.
I don't know where to go with all this. But one thing is certain—my magic doesn't come from hatred, or love, or noble purposes. My magic comes from... the audience's reaction.
You laugh, you cry, you're amazed—and my magic resonates.
And tonight, I know one thing: I don't understand everything yet. Maybe I don't even know 10% of this crazy system. But I understand one small thing, and that's enough for now.
I live in a world where the concept isn't about who is the strongest, but who can tame the chaos within themselves the best.
And me?
Maybe I am a miracle.