The day started too noisy for Roland's taste. He was at the lake, rod in hand, half-asleep, when the ground rumbled faintly.
Horses. Wheels. Shouting.
He cracked one eye open.
Across the distant dirt road, a carriage rolled into sight; big-polished wood with banners fluttering. Definitely not village style. Way too fancy.
"Great," he muttered. "Here come the patch notes nobody asked for."
The horses slowed, stumbling. Something hissed near the wheel. One of the runes etched into the frame flickered, then sputtered out like a dying candle.
"Ah. Of course." Roland snorted. "Bugged transport system."
He stayed put, not his problem. Except the carriage lurched sideways, throwing a cloud of dust over the road.
Guards jumped down, shouting commands.
Villagers peeked from behind fences. And before long, Village Chief waddled over to "help."
Roland sighed. "Well, looks like we've got guests."
***
Inside the carriage sat a girl who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else in the world.
Elena von Arclight.
She pressed her forehead to the window, watching villagers whisper and point. Her hands curled tight in her lap. She is a fifteen years old noble lady, her robes too stiff for her skinny frame, her hair pinned so perfectly it felt like a cage around her head.
The whole trip had been suffocating.
Guards talking over her, attendants fussing with her sleeves, her father riding ahead like a shadow she could never catch.
Always watching.
Always judging.
And the worst part?
When the wheel rune sputtered out, when everyone rushed to check it, she hadn't done a damn thing.
She knew the basics of runes. She studied them since childhood. She practiced spells until her head pounded. And still, when the moment came, she froze. Her magic fizzled out like smoke between her fingers.
Her chest burned with the memory of it.
"Lady Elena, please remain inside," one knight had said, barring her from even looking at the rune.
Her father hadn't scolded. He hadn't even spoken. Just that same heavy silence, like disappointment was carved into his bones.
Useless. Again.
That night, the carriage stayed grounded in the village square.
Servants bustled, knights patrolled, villagers stared.
Elena sat on the edge of her seat, biting her lip. If she stayed, she would suffocate. If she did nothing, she prove them right.
So she slipped out. Quiet. Careful. Her robes snagged on a fence post, nearly tearing, but she yanked them free. Nobody noticed. Nobody ever noticed unless she failed.
She had to practice. Had to prove — if not to them, then at least to herself — that she wasn't a total waste.
***
Meanwhile, Roland was still at the lake, fishing line dangling uselessly in the dark water.
"Nothing bites today," he muttered, scratching his stubble. "Figures. The lake's as dead as a release build."
He yawned, leaned his body back and try to close his eyes. That was when he heard it:
Fwoosh.
A tiny burst of flame lit the trees nearby, followed by a sharp, frustrated voice.
"Why won't you work!?"
Roland cracked an eye open again.
Through the trees, a small flicker danced, barely larger than a candle flame, sputtering out after seconds.
Then another attempt.
A weak pop, like a firecracker.
He groaned.
"…Can't even fish in peace."
Still, curiosity dragged him up. He shuffled closer, pushing through the grass until he found the culprit.
A girl — fifteen, maybe sixteen — stood with both arms outstretched, sweat beading her forehead. Fire sputtered from her palm, no bigger than a kitchen spark. Each time it died, she stomped her foot.
Roland scratched his head.
"Kid's spell is crashing on startup."
He thought about walking away. It's not his business. But the way she glared at her own hand, biting her lip so hard it might bleed… yeah. He knew that look. He had seen it on junior devs who couldn't fix their first bug.
He sighed.
"Guess my nap's over."
Roland stood behind a tree for a moment, just watching. The girl — Elena, though he didn't know her name yet — was sweating bullets.
Every time she chanted, a spark jumped, fizzled, and puffed out.
Finally he muttered, loud enough:
"Your spell flow's a mess."
The girl startled so hard the flame in her hand popped like wet wood. She spun, her eyes wide. "W-who—?!"
Roland stepped out from the shadow, fishing rod still slung over his shoulder. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair stuck in every direction, and his face carried the bored expression of a man dragged out of bed too early.
"You're dumping too much mana into the open channel," he said flatly, pointing at her hand. "Half of it leaks before ignition. That's why you're getting sparks instead of a stable fireball."
Elena blinked at him, stunned. Then scowled.
"What do you know about it? Are you a tutor?"
He snorted. "Tutor? Hell no. I retired. Early. Very early."
She tightened her fists.
"Then don't act like you understand!"
Roland rubbed his temple.
"Kid, I've seen bad code. Your spell is bad code."
"E-excuse me!?" Her jaw dropped.
"Unoptimized trash," he added. "You're looping a three-step ignition through a seven-step chant. Of course it stalls."
She gaped, her cheeks turn red.
"That's the proper way! It's how everyone does it!"
"Yeah, and everyone complains about mana burn afterward. Tradition doesn't make garbage less garbage."
Her teeth clenched. She wanted to scream at him, slap him, something, but his tone wasn't mocking. Just tired. Like he'd debugged a thousand broken systems before breakfast.
Roland sighed.
"Fine. Lemme see your flow."
Before she could protest, he reached out and tapped her wrist. His fingers brushed the faint mana circuit under her skin. He closed his eyes, humming low.
"Yep. Just as I thought. Energy leaks on the bridge. Stabilizer missing. Honestly, whoever taught you should be fined for shipping this trash build."
She sputtered.
"Y-you… you can see that?"
"Not see. Feel. Like tracing spaghetti code with your finger." He flicked her hand upward. "Now. Try again, but shut up and let me handle the routing."
Still flustered, Elena hesitated. But her pride — the same pride that made her sneak out — forced her forward. She whispered the incantation.
Mana flared, shaky, wild.
Roland grunted.
"Yep, unstable."
Then, with his other hand, he traced a simple correction circle in the dirt at her feet, overlapping her flow. A few crude strokes. Nothing elegant. Just a patch.
The flame surged, then snapped into shape.
A proper fireball, crackling orange, stable and humming in her palm.
Her eyes widened. Her breath caught. For the first time in her life, the fire didn't sputter. It lived.
"I… I did it," she whispered.
Roland stretched his back like it was nothing. "Nah. I did. You just pressed the run button."
Her head whipped toward him.
"Who are you!?"
He yawned.
"Just a retired dev — uh, magician. Don't worry about it."
The fireball hung in the girl's hand for a solid five seconds before dissolving into harmless sparks. She stood frozen, her chest heaving and her eyes still wide.
Roland dusted his hands.
"There. Hotfix applied. Don't ask me for patch notes."
"Wait!" Elena stepped forward, gripping his sleeve. Her pride battled against the rush in her chest, the thrill of finally, finally casting properly. "You — you fixed it like it was nothing. How? Who are you really!?"
Roland scratched his cheek, uncomfortable under the intensity of her stare.
"Told you. Retired magician. Nothing more. Go back to your… castle, academy, whatever. Keep practicing. Or don't. I don't care."
Before Elena could fire back, voices cut through the trees.
"Lady Elena!"
"Where are you?!"
She flinched, panic flashing across her face. "Oh no—"
Branches snapped. Two armored knights burst into the clearing with their swords half-drawn. The moment they saw her, they hurried forward, relief plastered across their faces.
"Milady! You mustn't wander off at night—" One knight stopped mid-sentence, eyes narrowing at Roland. "And who is this?"
Roland raised both hands lazily.
"Relax. Not kidnapping anyone. Just fishing."
The knight's glare sharpened.
"Fishing. At night. In the woods."
"The fish don't care what time it is."
The second knight stepped closer, hand on hilt.
"Stay away from the young lady."
Elena bit her lip. She wanted to say something, anything, but her father's knights towered, their presence is suffocate her. Against them, she felt small again. Weak.
Roland, meanwhile, just scratched the back of his neck.
"Yep. This is why I don't help people. Always ends with guards pointing sharp things at me."
He turned, slinging his fishing rod back over his shoulder.
"Anyway. I'm out. Nap time."
The first knight moved as if to block him — until a deeper voice cut across the clearing.
"Let him pass."
The knights froze.
From behind them, a tall man stepped into view. Cloak draped across his broad shoulders. There's silver crest glinting faintly in the moonlight.
His eyes, sharp and calculating, landed not on Elena but on Roland.
Lord Reinhardt von Arclight.
For a long, quiet moment, he studied the shabby, unshaven man with the fishing rod.
Roland stopped mid-step, feeling the weight of that gaze.
He sighed, muttering under his breath.
"Ah, crap. Flag raised."