Ficool

Chapter 3 - 3- The Story can finally Begin

"That was a nice fire, wasn't it?"

Anastasia's legs trembled.

"You... it was you who..." she stammered.

The boy shrugged, nonchalant.

"He was being loud. And breaking stuff." He spat out his mint candy and pulled out a new one from his pocket. "Mom says you shouldn't break other people's things."

Blackthorne began to stir, groaning softly. Anastasia helped him sit up, but her eyes never left the child.

"What's your name?" she asked gently.

"Solomon," the boy replied, crunching his candy. "Solomon Lane. And you're sorcerers, right? I saw your magic spells."

In the distance, sirens wailed closer. The flames had died down enough for rescue teams to return. Soon, the press would arrive. Questions would explode. The Manchester Incident would dominate every headline across the Empire.

Anastasia saw it before anyone else.

The appearance of a national treasure.

A child who destroyed the indestructible.

A prodigy who wielded flames purer than those of angels.

The one history would remember as The Final One.

---

[# ANASTASIA VOLKOV'S PERSONAL JOURNAL

November 17th, 2025 – 3:42 AM

St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London]

My hands are still shaking as I write these words.

Five days have passed since Manchester, and I still can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see those flames again.

The doctors say it's post-traumatic shock. They don't understand.

It's not fear that keeps me awake. It's awe.

I've spent twenty-three years studying magic. Twenty-three years refining my ice spells, pushing my limits, climbing the Association's ranks to Grade A. I thought I'd achieved something meaningful. I was proud of it.

Then I saw a ten-year-old child do what maybe one of the Eleven could've done… but never with such terrifying ease.

It's not the raw power that haunts me. Sure, an S-rank might have defeated that Nemesis Alpha.

But the ease… the absolute nonchalance with which that child erased the creature, as if snuffing out a candle… None of them could've done that. Not like he did.

Viktor and I used to joke about "prodigies" — those kids who could cast their first spell at ten instead of twelve. We'd call them "gifted" with that patronizing adult smile.

God, how naïve we were.

I reread my old journals these past few days. All those pages filled with "magical breakthroughs," my "revolutionary innovations" in ice manipulation. Such laughable pride. I feel like I'm reading a child's diary about learning to ride a bike.

How are we supposed to keep going after this?

How do I look my colleagues in the eye, knowing everything I worked for just got blown away by a mint candy?

The Association will surely try to recruit him, train him in our ways. What irony. Trying to teach a god how to light a candle.

I fear for him. That kind of power in a child's hands… But strangely, I feel the universe might have chosen right.

Maybe we — the so-called accomplished adults — have had it wrong from the start.

Maybe true magic isn't in complex formulas, but in the purity of intent children have before the world teaches them to doubt.

I don't know what the future holds. But one thing is certain: we've entered a new age.

An age where everything we thought we knew about magic must be rewritten.

And that age rests in the hands of a boy who loves mint candy.

God help us all.

A. Volkov

Former Magister Grade A

---

You're probably expecting me to start with something grand, right? "Once upon a time", or "In a world where magic…" Nope. Leave that to tavern bards and third-rate storytellers.

I'm Solomon Lane. And if you don't know that name yet, maybe it's time to question your sources.

At eight years old — yes, eight — I became the youngest and most powerful Mage and Magister in modern history. Not one of the most powerful. The most powerful. Big difference. One that a lot of people conveniently forget when they talk about me with that bitter little tone in their voice.

Today, I'll tell you how it all began.

How an eight-year-old kid managed to shake the world's highest magical institutions, humiliate their so-called "experts," and prove their dusty little system was nothing but—

— Oh, for heaven's sake, Sol. We agreed to let *** narrate this story.

I'm the best person to tell it! I mean, come on — it's MY story!

— It's not just your story.

Pretty sure it is. I mean, it's about me, isn't it?

— *It's about you because you threatened **! Where is he, by the way?

I shrug casually, munching my mint candy.

— No idea what you're talking about.

She glares at me and rushes off. A few minutes later, I hear her hurried footsteps returning.

— SOL! How could you — he's tied up and gagged in the supply closet!

— Really? How odd. He must've gotten lost.

— Solomon Lane! You are going to—

She stops and frees the poor narrator, whispering apologies. Moments later, she returns, cheeks flushed with anger.

— He'll resume now.

I open my mouth to protest, but her icy stare cuts me off.

— One more word, Sol, and I'll tell the readers the current state you're in.

— You wouldn't dare.

— Want to bet?

She would. Definitely. Some secrets are best kept buried. I stand up with dignity, straighten my jacket.

— Anyway, I just remembered I've got an important mission to handle. Heroes don't have time for… all this.

— *Good. You may continue, **. He won't bother you anymore… I hope.

Thank you for your intervention. I must admit, our hero has… unorthodox methods of persuasion.

I rub my still-sore wrists.

— Hopefully that little spoiler didn't ruin the story's future?

No worries. I activated auto-censorship at the start of this narration. The readers heard nothing compromising. Hopefully.

— Perfect. I'll leave you to it, then.

Thank you again.

I hear her footsteps fade away. Silence returns at last. I smooth my jacket, sit back in my chair.

Good. Now that the... interruptions are over, the story can finally begin.

More Chapters