The inaugural year of the magical computer's arrival was one of chaos. As soon as the summit ended, couriers had minuscule duplicates and crystal data cores delivered to all corners of the empires. Cities hummed with excitement, towns set aside classrooms, and even rural villages got bewitched projectors to project the computer's interface. Scholars, engineers, and mages flocked into halls to learn about a device that combined arcane power with machine precision.
Teachers at the Darsha University arranged classrooms with the initial version of the mystical computer. The machine, though breathtaking, needed to be handled gently: runes softly glowed to signal functioning circuits, and the slightest miscalculation of a crystal pipe could lead to misfired data or harmless—though shocking—spasms of sparks. Students hunched over glowing interfaces, fingers tracing floating holographic runes, as they mastered "typing" commands in a blend of gestures, runes, and vocal incantations.
"Imagine instructing a newborn mind," Sharath explained during one demonstration, his hands above the controls. "It follows accurate instructions but can increase its intelligence as you provide it with knowledge."
Libraries were revolutionized into hotbeds of curiosity. Archivists scanned ancient scrolls and books, employing the magical computer to project interactive comments. Students might question texts by reading questions out loud, and the machine would underline passages, compute relationships, and even recommend supplementing scrolls in nearby repositories. The curve was steep: scribes at first had a hard time juggling magical accuracy with technical instructions. Misentered runes might make a projected book fly across the room or bring floating letters hovering in muddling patterns.
Schools started incorporating the enchanted computer in regular classes. Simple math problems turned interactive: kids touched floating numeric runes, saw cause-and-effect with enchanted simulations, and practiced coding logic through gameified spell sequences. By half-year, students of the first generation were able to conduct advanced math calculations, send letters, and even design simple automated contraptions using the computer's primitive capabilities.
Universities struggled the most. The first interface of the magical computer demanded arcane wisdom and mechanical savvy, compelling scholars to work together across departments. Mages who had never written papers on engineering were learning about gear ratios and harmonics of crystals. Engineers who knew nothing about runes were discovering how to translate magical incantations into mechanical code. The initial months were a time of experimentation and error: misaligned crystal conduits, errant rune interactions, and data loops producing small magical storms in lab rooms.
But there was no standing still. By the end of the first year, well nigh every significant institute had learned to execute simple tasks. Libraries now communicated between empires, passing and receiving information instantaneously. Schools instructed coding and rune logic as part of regular coursework, teaching discipline and creativity to the young. Universities launched research initiatives, trying their hand at multi-computer systems and magical data encryption.
The second year was spent on scaling and optimization. Sharath went back and forth between empires, visiting classrooms and labs, recommending best practices, and fiddling with the design of the computers. Crystals were standardized to minimize magical interference, interfaces were polished to support different languages and scripts, and safety runes were embedded to avoid surges by accident. A "magical programming" culture developed: students and academics not only learned to use the computers, but to think in terms of spells, sequences of logic, and automated interactions.
Despite improvements, the learning curve was still steep. Early adopters wasted hours debugging mundane tasks: a misplaced word could jumble a data projection, a missed gesture could freeze a calculation in mid-air, and connecting multi-computer networks needed to be carefully synchronized in terms of runes and magical frequencies. But these difficulties called for ingenuity. Children came up with mnemonic spells to recall command strings. Professors established cooperative workshops in which engineers and mages learned from one another. The empires learned that failure was not defeat but opportunity: each misstep unveiled new means of doing better interface and infrastructure.
By the conclusion of the two-year process, the initial version of the enchanted computer had spread to all great institutions, libraries, schools, and universities. Peoples were amazed as information, communication, and automation swept across cities and empires. Children learned to "talk" in runic commands before acquiring normal writing, academicians argued best algorithms for magical data, and authorities arranged trade, logistics, and research in ways that had been only fanciful before.
Sharath observed the metamorphosis in silence, pride mixed with relief. The enchanted computer had begun as a thought, a spark of ingenuity, and through two years of perseverance, it had developed into a common engine of advancement. The curve of learning had been arduous, with sparks, humor, anger, and revelation—but it had created a generation able to integrate magic and technology in ways that would define the coming century.
And in some lab in the Darshas, the first magical computer whirred quietly, a potentiality in a bottle, waiting for the next set of adventurous minds to stretch it yet another step further