Why contract magic? The answer is simple:because I must.
I carry a universe of knowledge within my mind. Its weight is immense, spanning ancient esoteric tricks, the principles of modern machinery, and designs for inventions that have not yet been conceived in this world. To reveal any fragment of this without the protection of a respected identity would be fatal. I would be condemned for witchcraft, or executed for inventor's fraud—a heretic daring to disrupt the established order. I have experienced betrayal before. I will not naively invite it again.
This is the role Baroness Vivian McCoy is destined to play.
Her utility is that of a classic noble: she possesses a name that opens doors and a fortune that purchases influence. My strategy is to provide her with a backward-plausible "invention"—perhaps a crude mechanical device, an improved furnace design, or a clever rune-binding that appears to be a clever tool rather than a miraculous revelation. She will claim the invention as her own. The world will applaud her genius. Wealth will flow to her coffers, and a share, discreetly, to mine. I will remain in the shadows, invisible. She will occupy the spotlight. In this arrangement, trust is not given; it is structurally engineered in exchange for safety.
But how can I ensure she will not eventually betray me? Innate trust is a luxury my history has burned out of me. I learned this harsh lesson when classmates turned on each other for scraps of advantage, and when members of my own bloodline set fire to everything I cherished simply to consolidate their power. The memory of that betrayal still tastes of ash.
Contract magic is the solution I have settled upon. It is not a noble or elegant choice, but it is profoundly practical. It is a system that binds promises in a manner respected by the Crown, the guilds, and the church. It forges oath and penalty onto the same sheet of parchment, making the cost of betrayal unacceptably high. That calculated cost is the only wall I can build against instant treachery.
From my research and the chip's cross-referencing, I understand that magical professions in Avyss are broadly divided into two categories.
The first category comprises what I term the body-strengtheners. These are the knights, berserkers, and warriors who use magic to temper their physical forms. They bind energy directly into their bones and tendons, enhancing longevity, speed, strength, and endurance. Their magic is internal, focused on transforming the body into a superior instrument.
The second category is the magic-casters. These are the elementalists and summoners; their art is external, a request sent out into the world for a response. They draw upon ambient currents, shaping air, fire, and water, or calling entities to their side. Their craft depends on precise timing, incantations, and gestures—a synchronization with the hidden layers of reality. They look outward.
All other applications appear to be hybrids or specializations of these two. A blacksmith might use a minor rune to temper metal—a form of object-based casting. A healer might strengthen their own hands for delicate work—a blend of body tempering and minor casting. The boundaries are often blurred, but the two foundational principles remain: fortify the self, or command the external.
Magic is interwoven into the very fabric of this society. It flows through city pipes, enriches crops, and keeps the harbor lights burning. Yet, the deeper, more potent forms of magic are deliberately scarce. This scarcity is not due to a lack of innate ability in the population, but because power is hoarded. It is a monopoly. Those who possess high magic guard it jealously. If blood rites, temporal manipulation, or true summoning became common knowledge, the existing power structures would collapse. The nobility would lose its divine right, the church its grip on fear, and the guilds their profitable tolls.
Therefore, they prevent its spread. They enact draconian rules. They make death the penalty for transgression. They enshrine secrecy into law. This is why public education only teaches the basics, and why the most powerful families in the kingdom keep their knowledge locked away.
The system is quantified into twelve public levels—measured, ranked, and catalogued. I do not know the exact metrics for these rankings; perhaps they are based on tradition, standardized tests, or pure politics. Rumors speak of powers beyond the twelfth level, but I do not chase rumors. They belong in tavern tales and marketplace wagers.
Baroness Vivian is officially recognized as a third-level earth magician. In Avyss, this is a significant achievement. The third level is rare enough that people nod respectfully and lower their voices when her name is mentioned. The highest publicly acknowledged level is the sixth, a rank held by no more than ten individuals in the entire kingdom—four of them belonging to the royal family, the rest scattered among the greatest houses. A level is not merely a measure of power; it is a social token, a key that unlocks doors.
What is my level? Zero. I am plain, empty, unregistered. I hold no license, no sigil, no rank. My power is a quantum chip in my skull and a mind overflowing with the inventions of dead worlds. This is my condition.
So how can a simple paper contract possibly bind a third-level magician? How can parchment hold against an individual who can summon a boulder from the earth with a whisper?
I conceptualize magic as a form of software—a practical, mechanical analogy from my life as Jason. On Earth, software was a set of routines. You call a function, and it executes. If you understand the underlying interfaces, you can make it perform beyond its original design. Magic operates on a similar principle. It is a program written into the operating system of reality. The magician acts as both the compiler and the runtime. The rune is the line of code; the ritual is the execution environment. If one comprehends the application programming interfaces, one can write a wrapper.
Contract magic is precisely such a wrapper. Historical contracts were brutally simple: break your word, and the magic would take your life as payment. The penalty was designed to match the fear. Over centuries, as magical scholarship advanced and usage became more widespread, the contracts evolved. Penalties became graduated and proportional. The magic itself was commodified: higher-value agreements carried greater penalties; smaller agreements, smaller consequences.
This evolution is what I intend to exploit. My goal is not to remove penalties but to optimize the gradient between a minor warning and a death sentence. To make punishment predictable and, crucially, survivable. To engineer redundancy—multiple triggers, multiple anchors—so that a single error does not end a life. If penalties are a staircase, I will smooth the steps, add landings, and install railings.
The chip is instrumental. It parses glyph grammars with the efficiency of a master librarian, revealing patterns my conscious mind would miss. It allows me to identify the common kernel in three or four canonical contract forms. I can redesign a single, lethal trigger into a multi-stage warning system. I can tether the contract's power to a physical anchor, like a ring, instead of directly to a person's heart. I can embed a severance rune that safely burns out the bond without physical harm.
I do not seek to unleash magic for all; I do not want an uprising of chaotic, infinite power. I desire a tool. This tool must be safe enough for someone like Vivian to accept and plausible enough for her to claim as her own innovation. She will receive public credit; I will retain hidden control.
If this succeeds, I will never stand before admiring crowds. I will never wear a crown. Instead, I will bind work to paper, and paper to people. These individuals will become the foundational stones of a structure I can slowly, quietly raise—a network of small, enforceable, non-lethal obligations. From this network, I will construct an organization with a heart of loyalty and a ledger of balanced power.
So why contract magic? Because it is socially tolerable. Because it operates in the shadows. Because it is the mechanism through which I can trade the risk of revealing knowledge for the safety of secrecy. Because it is the means to move forward from the abyss that consumed both Claus and Jason.
And because, perhaps, in the meticulous, dull work of drafting, sealing, and testing these agreements, I will finally learn what it means to be Clauson—not a failed prince, not an obsolete engineer, but something new: an architect of systems who will not be burned for the simple act of daring to exist.