The Mage Who Went to High School: Chapter 2
A cold morning breeze stirred through the alley, carrying the faint, sweet smell of something baking in the distance. My makeshift bed—a pile of wet cardboard and old newspapers—felt like a block of ice. I shivered, the cold seeping into my very bones, and a low groan escaped my lips.
My body was a disaster. Every muscle ached with a deep, grinding pain, and the wound from Belloc's curse burned like a live coal. I could feel the damage, the shattered remnants of my magical circuits like a network of broken wires inside me. Belloc's final strike had hit its mark, leaving me a mere shadow of my former self.
My fingers, once capable of weaving intricate spells of unimaginable power, trembled as I tried to lift my hand. It was a pathetic, humiliating display. Five hundred years of power, of being the Archmage, reduced to this.
As the sun began to rise, painting the grimy walls of the alley in shades of orange and pink, the familiar rumble of my stomach began. It was a monstrous, all-consuming hunger that overshadowed the pain and humiliation. A raw, animal need that had nothing to do with magic or power. It was the hunger of a mortal.
I was contemplating whether I could summon enough energy to stand and search for food when I heard it. A rhythmic sound, getting closer. Swish... swish... swish. It was the sound of a broom sweeping the pavement.
A tall figure appeared at the mouth of the alley. It was an old man in a gray uniform, his face wrinkled and his hands calloused. He moved with a practiced ease, methodically sweeping the street. He was singing a tune I didn't recognize, his voice low and raspy.
My heart pounded with a mix of fear and curiosity. Was he a Guardian of this realm? Or perhaps some new type of mage? As he swept closer, his eyes, dark and intelligent, landed on me.
He stopped, his broom handle resting on the ground, and stared. I prepared myself for an attack, for an interrogation, for anything. But all he said was, "Tough night, kid?"
His voice was gruff, but not unkind. It was the voice of a man who had seen a lot and wasn't easily rattled. I said nothing, my mind racing, trying to figure out how to respond. The archaic language of my world felt wrong here.
He sighed, shaking his head. "Well, you can't just lie there." He walked over to me, picked up the discarded newspaper, and tossed it into a nearby trash can with a clang. "Got a name?"
"I... I don't remember," I said, the lie slipping out easily. It wasn't entirely a lie. My real name, the one I had before I became the Archmage, was lost to me. And "Arcane" was a title, not a name.
He gave me a long, hard look, as if trying to see through my words. "Huh. Alright. Well, you've got to be hungry. Let's get you something to eat."
He offered a hand, a surprisingly strong and steady hand for an old man. I hesitated for a moment, then took it. His grip was firm, a stark contrast to my own weak, trembling hand. He pulled me to my feet, and for a moment, the world spun.
I leaned against the brick wall, my head throbbing. "Where are we?" I asked, the words feeling foreign and clumsy in my mouth.
The old man chuckled, a deep, rattling sound. "Where are you? You're in Chicago, kid. And this here..." He gestured with his broom towards a large, glass-fronted building across the street. "This is my place. The Lucky Griddle."
I looked at the building he pointed to. It was a strange, brightly lit place with a sign that had a peculiar shape—a coffee cup with steam rising from it. It smelled... delicious. Warm, sweet, savory. A scent that made my stomach roar with renewed hunger.
"Come on," he said, and began walking towards the street. "We've got pancakes. Best in the city."
I followed him, my legs feeling like lead. He walked into the building, and a bell jingled as the door closed behind us. The air inside was warm and smelled of coffee and sugar. My eyes widened. It was a magical sight. People sat at small tables, laughing and talking, plates piled high with golden-brown discs covered in syrup.
He led me to a small booth in the corner, far away from the other patrons. "Sit. I'll get you some grub."
He left, and I sank into the soft seat, my body grateful for the rest. I took in my surroundings. The walls were painted a cheerful yellow, and there were pictures of smiling people on the walls. It was a simple place, but it was filled with a sense of warmth and comfort that I hadn't felt in centuries.
The old man returned with a plate piled high with food. Golden pancakes, a mound of fried eggs, and a small, perfectly browned sausage link. The smell alone was enough to make my head swim.
I stared at the food, my mind a blank. "Eat," he said, handing me a fork. "Don't just look at it."
I picked up the fork, my hands still shaking. I took a bite of the pancake. It was warm, soft, and unbelievably sweet. The syrup was like pure liquid mana, coursing through my body and giving me a jolt of energy. I took another bite, then another, then another. The pain, the hunger, the humiliation—it all faded away, replaced by the simple, overwhelming joy of eating.
I ate until the plate was clean, until my stomach was full, and a feeling of warmth spread through my body. The old man watched me eat, a small smile on his face. He didn't ask me any more questions. He just let me eat.
When I was finished, he handed me a cup of hot coffee. "So," he said, his voice softer now. "My name's Joe. What should I call you?"
I thought about it for a moment. Arcane. It was a title, a reminder of a life that was now lost to me. But it was also the only part of myself that I had left.
"Arcane," I said. "My name is Arcane."
Joe's eyebrows went up. "Arcane. That's a new one. All right, Arcane. My daughter, she's a junior at Lincoln High. She's got some old clothes you can wear. And you can crash here for a bit. Just until you get on your feet."
I looked at him, surprised. "Why?" I asked. "Why are you helping me?"
He shrugged. "Kid, you look like you need it. And sometimes, that's reason enough."
His words struck me. In my world, everything had a reason. There was a spell for every action, a purpose for every magic. Kindness was a transaction, a way to gain favor or to get something in return. But here, it seemed, kindness could just… exist.
That night, I lay in the cot Joe had set up for me in the back room of the diner. The scent of pancakes and coffee filled the air, and the gentle hum of the refrigerator was a strange, comforting lullaby. I reached into my pocket and touched the cold orb of the Cosmic Heart. The faint pulse was still there, a reminder of the world I had lost.
I was no longer the most powerful mage in the Magic Kingdom. I was a lost teenager with a fractured soul and a broken body. But I was alive. And I had a name, a bed to sleep in, and a full stomach. And I had a new task, a new mission. To survive. To adapt. To learn the secrets of this bizarre world. And to one day return and make Belloc pay for what he had done.