The moon was a thin slice of bone hanging over the rugged outline of the Sinks. The smell of stagnant water and the metallic taste of dried blood mingled thickly in the city's dark, narrow, and lightless veins. Aleric was in the middle of a deserted warehouse, a building that had been completely taken over by decay and silence. This was nothing like the Academy with its polished marble and buzzing spells. The only company at this place were the rats and the moving shadows of the rafters.
Aleric raised his hand to place the red mask of cloth over his nose and mouth. He used the clothe to conduct the concentration of his internal mana which was to release the suppression seals he was maintaining at the Academy. The alteration was of a physiological nature. His heart was now beating in a certain way that indicated a predator's pattern; his eyes, which were previously brown and unremarkable, changed color. The iris turned into a vibrant, splendid red that appeared to absorb all the light that was left in the room. This was his original shape, a shape he no longer had to keep up with while acting the part of a "failing student."
Before him on the floor was the carcass of an Iron-Claw Raptor he had slain on his way to this place—it was but low-ranking, but large enough to make a maiden kill.
He was silent. He was not singing. For Aleric, sorcery was neither verse nor supplication. It was a cognitive plan. With the same effort as in the lifting of weights, Aleric called upon his mental power in the deserted warehouse. Next, he recalled the internal arrangement of the summoning spell, which he had dissected in the library. To himself, he pictured the "code" of the world as a set of parameters.
He initiated the mental computation. He drew the distribution of raptor meat, its precise cubic volume, and the universal constant required for the bending of the space around it. Aleric orchestrated the flow of his mana, as a mechanic does to a superb engine, shedding all the "biological upkeep" routines that kept the summoned beast. He computed the optimal mana-pressure ratio that was the tiniest without a local implosion. This was a cold, noiseless process of geometric calculations, a set of invisible equations weighing the mass of matter against the pull of the void.
But at the moment when the variables balanced, he simply reached out.
The air did not sound, there was just an abrupt and brutal ripple. A dark, hole-like opening formed downwards raptor. There was no waste of energy due to the perfectness of the calculations—no light flash, no loud bang. The body of the bird of prey simply departed from the space. The Iron-Claw Raptor discreetly slithered into the nonexistent pocket like a coin softly dropping into deep water.
Aleric experienced a sharp and brief draining of his core—the "transaction fee" for the opening of the hole—but as soon as the item was implanted, the pressure disappeared. He stood still, his red eyes glued to the vacated ground.
Now it was the turn of the summoning. He lifted his hand and made the physical trigger, which is the classic one used by the summoners: he put the tip of his thumb to the
"Summoning," he whispered.
A ripple appeared in the air, identical to the one that had swallowed the beast. The space shimmered and distorted, promising the return of the matter. Aleric waited. The ripple pulsed, then faded. Nothing came out. The warehouse floor remained empty.
Aleric's brow furrowed slightly. He checked his internal mana flow; the connection to the pocket was there, but the "call" was being rejected by the world's physics. He attempted the process again, this time with a discarded iron beam leaning against the wall. He ran the calculations for the metal's density, opened the ripple, and sent the iron into the void.
Once more, he closed the circuit with his fingers and projected the intent.
Summoning.
The ripple was seen. It was opened for three seconds, showing a dark nothingness, yet the iron beam was still not seen. An observer would think he was not successful, but in fact, Aleric's brain was analyzing the universe's error log at the speed of a thousand cycles per second. He then got hold of a third heavy wooden crate making one final attempt. He sent it inside then tried to get it back. Again the ripple occurred but the physical objects were still missing in the void.
The items were, in fact, there but because they were not so-called "living" mana constructs, and hence lacked the internal signal that normal summoned beasts used to get back to the manifested world. They were inert. They had no "address."
Retrieval protocol has got a bug, he concluded. A beast is pulled back through the soul-link. These objects don't have souls. I am trying to open a door which will only greet a knock from the other side, but I have hidden things that cannot knock.
He shut his eyes and turned his back to the physical world. He directed his attention to the coordinate of the void where the objects were confined. He soon came to know that as the objects were not able to make their way out, he would have to come in and pull them out. He would have to use a specific command of "Summoning" and, instead, he would have to regard the retrieval as a reverse computation of the storage. He had to chart the exit trajectory with the exactness he used for the entry.
He again brought his thumb and middle finger together. This time, he not only uttered the word; he also matched the verbal anchor with a mental "grasp" on the particular mana signature of the wooden crate. He figured out the air displacement in the warehouse so that the crate could come back without causing a shockwave.
"Summoning."
This time, the ripple was different—sharper, more defined. In an instant, the wooden crate snapped back into reality, appearing exactly four inches above the floor before dropping with a solid thud.
He repeated the adjustment for the iron beam. Ripple. Manifestation. The heavy metal clattered onto the concrete.
Finally, he turned to the Iron-Claw Raptor. He synchronized his breathing with the flow of the void, reached into the non-space with his mind, and pulled.
The air tore open, and the massive carcass of the raptor slid out of the ripple like a ghost emerging from a mirror. It hit the floor with a heavy, wet sound, its scales still cold from the void.
"Retrieval logic corrected," Aleric muttered. "The address is not the object. The address is the coordinate of the storage."
He stood up, brushing the dust from his robes. The experiment was a success, though the learning curve had cost him more stamina than he had anticipated. He moved toward the warehouse doors, his Gaze-Detection already scanning the perimeter. He knew Kaelen was out there.
He stepped out into the alleyway. The girl was perched on a rusted fire escape three buildings down, her silhouette nearly invisible against the brick.
"You are consistent, Kaelen," Aleric said, his voice carrying through the still air without him needing to shout.
The girl jumped, startled by how easily he had located her. She scrambled down the ladder and landed softly in the muck of the alley. She approached him cautiously, her eyes fixed on the crimson glow of his. This was the first time she was seeing him fully as the "Masked One."
"I didn't think you'd actually be out here," she said, her voice a mix of awe and terror. "The rumors at the Guild... they're calling you the 'Crimson Ghost.' They say you killed a Stone-Hide Boar with a single strike. I saw you leave the Guild this morning, but seeing you like this... it's different. You're far beyond an F-Rank, aren't you?"
Aleric did not correct her. The truth was that the boar had taken far more effort than the rumors suggested; he had burned through a significant portion of his stamina reserves and utilized complex kinetic calculations just to find a weakness in its hide. But in a world of variables, a reputation for effortless lethality—an S-Rank feat performed by a phantom—was a useful deterrent. Let them believe it was a single strike.
"Rumors are often prone to exaggeration," Aleric replied, neither confirming nor denying the feat. "I am simply a practitioner of efficiency. You have the gold I gave you. Why have you returned?"
Kaelen hesitated, her hand drifting toward the pouch at her belt. "In the Sinks, gold buys you food for a month. But a connection to someone like you... that buys you a life. I've spent my whole time here running from the gangs and the noble scouts. I'm tired of running."
Aleric looked at her. He saw no grand destiny in her, no hidden power. He saw a tool that was currently under-utilized.
"I have an interest in the movements of the House of Valerius," Aleric said. "They have been shipping high-density mana crystals through the Southern docks. The Academy records show a discrepancy in their taxes, which means they are moving more than they report."
Kaelen's eyes widened, her curiosity momentarily overriding her fear. "The Valerius shipments? Those are guarded by C-Rank and even B-Rank mercenaries. But... how do you even know about what Valerius is doing? I've lived in the Sinks my whole life, and I haven't heard a whisper about their tax ledgers or their dock schedules. How does a student get eyes on the books of a Great House?"
Aleric did not turn to look at her. He did not offer an explanation or detail the weeks of data-mining he had performed in the Academy's restricted archives.
"The wind blowing in the Southern docks is changing," Aleric said, the coldness in his voice as he completely changed the subject. "Once the moisture in the air exceeds the value of twelve percent, the visibility in the alleyways will be reduced. That is when you should view the convoy. If you intend to be useful, you need to locate the particular wagon in the next convoy that contains the Unmarked boxes. If not, our business is through."
There were no direct commands; only a way was shown.
Kaelen looked at the dark, masked figure. He knew he had brushed aside her question with practiced indifference, yet the very presence of so much gravity made him see that the manner counted for little.
"The convoy leaves at midnight tomorrow," she said firmly. "They take the Old Gate to evade the royal guards. I will find your boxes."
Aleric nodded once. "The meeting point is unchanged."
Without another word, he turned and melted away into the darkness of the alley. His movements were so predatorily fluid that the darkness appeared to engulf him whole.
Back at the Academy, the process of rebuilding his mental seals was a chore. He did the inverted calculation, cutting off his mana currents and forcing his heart rate back down to the slow rate of a commoner. By the time he got back to his dorm, the red was gone from his eyes, replaced by the dull brown of Aleric Thorne, the F-ranked failure.
He settled onto the bunk bed and studied his hands—ordinary hands, thick from labor, with no sign of the strength he had just exercised. Come tomorrow, the House of Valerius would be missing a large part of its ill-gotten gains, and they would have no way of knowing that it was gone. They would be looking for a thief, perhaps a rival house or a gang. Never a student in the back of a History of Magic class, trying desperately to stay awake.