Chapter 23 — To Speak Is to Cast
"To demons, cruelty is not a sin but a virtue—
the foundation upon which their existence thrives.
Thus, any mortal who dares summon or worship such entities
will inevitably be crushed beneath the full weight
of human order and divine retribution.
The Book of Penitence warns us well:
those who revere the culture of demons never meet a good end…
unless, of course, they still possess some use."
Closing the book titled The Devil Belongs in Hell, Charles exhaled softly, eyes lingering on the page as if the ink itself still whispered to him.
A week had passed since he sold the dragon bones.
In that time, he'd done little else besides secretly practicing the strange sigils of the Curse of Agony and studying the three books he'd bought from the clockmaker's hidden shop:
The Tragedy of Arkavia
The Devil Belongs in Hell
Carol's Thirteen Principles of Spellcraft
By now, he'd devoured them cover to cover — and what he'd learned had changed his entire understanding of the world he was living in.
This wasn't merely a land of nobles and castles.
This was a world with gods, with spirits, with demons, with the dead, and with monsters that walked between reality and nightmare.
Ordinary citizens might have dismissed such tales as superstition, but Charles — or rather, the noble-born body he now inhabited — had grown up close enough to power to know that these things were very real.
That was why the body's original owner had been so eager to experiment with forbidden magic.
He'd wanted to rise above mediocrity — to join the true elite, who wielded real power.
The result, of course, had been catastrophic.
But that failure had also paved the way for Charles's arrival — and the fragments of the original's life, combined with his own strange "afterlife" experience as a wandering soul, had given him enough clues to start piecing things together.
He had once believed this was a typical "sword-and-sorcery" world — one where mages channeled arcane energy, warriors trained their battle auras, and the devout invoked miracles of faith.
He couldn't have been more wrong.
Yes, this world was steeped in mystery. But mana didn't exist here. Neither did battle aura, or divine grace.
Magic, he learned, wasn't about power. It was about communication.
---
The book Carol's Thirteen Principles of Spellcraft described it in deliberately vague terms, but the essence was there:
"To understand why you are 'you,' and not something else — that is the first key to the spiritual realm."
In this world, the so-called "spirit" or "essence" wasn't an energy source like mana. It was spiritual awareness — intuition, inspiration, and soul.
It was the clarity that came from perceiving the world — and oneself — beyond the surface.
Only those who had awakened this inner awareness could ever perform magic.
Charles didn't quite understand the philosophy of it, but as he experimented — following the book's vague exercises for "spiritual perception" — he'd realized something startling.
He had already activated his "spirit."
Somehow, without knowing it, he'd done what the body's previous owner never could.
That was why the original had failed to cast spells… and why Charles had succeeded almost effortlessly.
But that revelation raised another question — one that gnawed at him the more he thought about it.
If the previous owner couldn't awaken his spirit… then how did his body end up binding mine?
"Coincidence?" Charles murmured. Then his lips curled in skepticism. "No. I don't believe in coincidence."
His gaze drifted toward the desk drawer, where his missing black notebook should have been.
If everything started from that book… then it must contain answers.
But that investigation would have to wait.
---
For now, his focus was on understanding the art of spellcraft.
"If communication itself is the foundation of magic…" he muttered, tracing the air with his finger, "then what if a master negotiator were born into this world? Wouldn't he be a terrifying spellcaster?"
It wasn't an idle thought.
Because in Arkavia, to cast a spell is to communicate.
You speak — not to yourself, not to the air — but to something beyond.
The stronger your spirit, the clearer your "conversation" with the unseen, and the more powerful your spell.
The incantation isn't the source of power. It's merely the bridge — a linguistic construct that translates your intent into a form the world can understand.
Ordinary language carries no weight. You can recite a hundred syllables, but they'll be nothing more than sound.
Only when those words are transformed — filtered through one's awakened "spirit" into the mysterious Language of Essence — can they resonate with reality.
That, Charles realized, was why the "spells" he'd tried during his prison escape had behaved so inconsistently.
The Language of Essence wasn't universal. It was shaped by the language of the caster.
Each person's spiritual resonance was unique, which meant that every incantation sounded — and worked — differently.
If your "words" didn't reach the other side, the world simply wouldn't listen.
He leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly.
"So… spellcasting is just divine diplomacy."
He couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it — and yet, the logic felt flawless.
"Looks like," he said, half to himself, "I've been negotiating with the universe all along."
In other words —
when a spell written in the Dorin tongue was translated into the Language of Spirit, the beings from beyond the Gate — those long-dead natives of that other world — simply couldn't understand it.
If they couldn't comprehend his words, they couldn't respond… and without a response, no spell could ever take form.
"So that means," Charles murmured, flipping through the dense notes from The Thirteen Principles of Spellcraft,
"to perform a sacrificial ritual, you first have to learn the language of the entity you're offering the sacrifice to… then negotiate, bargain, or plead until it agrees to respond?"
He frowned deeper. "And for elemental magic, the communication happens with the world's own elements — wind, fire, water, earth… commanding them through resonance?"
The logic seemed sound, but something about it refused to settle.
"What kind of 'conversation' could possibly persuade mindless forces of nature to organize themselves into a spell? Do I give a speech? Hold a debate?"
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.
"And if language comprehension matters this much — how come the elements in the Game of Thrones world understood me perfectly when I used spells there? Shouldn't communication barriers exist between worlds too?"
He let out a slow sigh, his thoughts looping into a spiral of questions.
"And if communication alone can shape magic," he muttered, glancing at the pages covered in sigils, "then why do these strange symbols even exist at all?"
The more he learned, the less he understood.
"Maybe I've been thinking about this the wrong way…"
Unfortunately, the clockmaker had been clear — those three books were only the foundation.
Anything deeper than that, he would have to discover on his own.
---
He turned another page, eyes falling on a line about necromancy.
"So the spell Bone Resurrection isn't part of the Infernal category after all… it's a branch of Death magic?"
"Then what's the difference between Death and Hell?" he wondered aloud, staring blankly at the parchment in front of him.
No answer came. Just more questions.
Eventually, Charles gave up chasing theories and began tidying the mess on his desk. He stacked his notes, capped his ink, and forced his mind to empty itself in preparation for his next journey.
As he swept a loose page aside, the title The Thorn's Enemy caught his eye — the Church's so-called purification spellbook.
He froze for a moment, grimacing.
He'd tried practicing the spell a few times over the past week. After all, the Church still watched him closely, and pretending to cooperate was safer than defiance.
But every attempt ended the same way — with pain, dizziness, and an overwhelming surge of alien noise in his head.
Once, he'd tried to push through it.
He'd nearly blacked out.
After that, the nightmares began — visions of radiant crusaders burning demons, sermons echoing in his sleep, their voices dripping with piety and judgment until it felt as though his very thoughts were being washed clean.
It wasn't just training. It was indoctrination.
It was as if the spell itself refused to function unless he believed.
Unless his heart aligned with the Church's faith, the power would never accept him.
"So that's how they do it," he muttered bitterly.
Without a pure, righteous soul, no ordinary person could ever master their miracles.
And those who did… inevitably became the very thing the Church wanted — holy, obedient, unquestioning.
He couldn't decide if that was genius or horrifying.
Either way, it explained something crucial.
The Church might be rigid — even fanatical — but it was never corrupt.
Its hierarchy filtered itself. Only the faithful could ascend.
"High-minded zealots," Charles murmured. "But not liars."
At least, not in the parts he could see.
---
Despite how maddening his official "sentence" had been, it came with a few quiet benefits.
The city watch stopped harassing him.
The shadow that once loomed over the Cranston family conspiracy vanished without a trace.
He'd paid off the rest of his debts — the cost of the books, the private investigator's retainer — and still had more than two hundred gold sovereigns left in savings.
He'd hired a full household staff: a cleaning maid, a cook, a kitchen hand, a general maid, and most importantly, a butler.
Counting food, upkeep, and maintenance, the monthly cost came to about twenty gold — comfortable enough for a young noble in exile.
"At least I won't starve anytime soon," he mused. "Though castle maintenance will bleed me dry eventually…"
His mind drifted briefly to his territory — the estate that once belonged to his family. The detective's report hadn't arrived yet, but he'd already begun preparing for whatever came next.
Because more pressing than finances or politics… was the Gate.
The portal had been silent since his return, but as he looked down, the familiar lines of information shimmered across his vision like a system message written on glass:
---
[Name]: Charles Cranston
[Age]: 16
[Condition]: Healthy
[Skills Acquired]:
Eye of True Sight (Passive)
Bone Resurrection (6%)
Curse of Agony (0%)
[Dimensional Gate Recharged: 243.11.24.01]
---
Charles smiled faintly, heart quickening with anticipation.
"Looks like it's ready again," he whispered. "Time to see what waits on the other side."