Ryle stared at the floating screen.
"First Quest: Learn Magic."
His heart was still beating faster than normal.
Slowly, carefully, he raised his hand and reached toward the panel.
His fingers passed through it.
The moment he touched it—
The screen vanished.
"…Huh?"
Ryle blinked and waved his hand in front of his face.
Nothing.
No light. No message. No explanation.
"Seriously?" he muttered.
He waited a few seconds, half-expecting something else to appear.
Nothing happened.
"…Status," he said, testing the word.
Silence.
He frowned. "Inventory?"
Nothing.
"System?"
Still nothing.
Ryle let out a long breath. "So you're not one of those systems."
That somehow made him feel both relieved and uneasy.
Whatever that screen was, it wasn't eager to explain itself. It showed up once, gave him a goal, and disappeared like it had done its job.
Learn magic… he thought.
Was that all? No instructions? No reward listed?
He shook his head. "Guess I'll find out."
Turning back to the door, Ryle placed his hand on the handle and pushed it open.
The library greeted him with silence.
Tall shelves stretched across the room, filled with countless books. Some were old and worn. Others looked newer, but all of them carried weight—knowledge gathered over generations.
The air smelled faintly of dust and ink.
Ryle stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
So this is where it starts.
He walked slowly between the shelves, his eyes scanning the titles.
Basic Mana Theory Introduction to Elemental Affinity Mana Circuits and the Human Body
"…There's a lot," he murmured.
The quest echoed in his mind.
Learn Magic.
It didn't say cast magic. It didn't say master magic.
Just learn.
Ryle stopped walking.
"…Does that mean understanding comes first?"
If so, then this place was exactly where he needed to be.
Ryle moved slowly between the shelves, his fingers brushing past book spines.
There were too many.
Theory books. History records. Personal notes written by long-dead mages.
After a few minutes, he stopped and let out a quiet breath.
"…I'm not actually here to learn what magic is."
He already knew that.
He had read The Sovereign of Spell and Steel more times than he could count.
"I'm here to find out how it really works."
The novel explained magic well—but novels simplified things. They turned systems into rules that were easy to understand, easy to follow.
Reality was never that kind.
Ryle pulled a book from the shelf and opened it, skimming a few pages before closing it again.
Magic isn't created, he thought. It's drawn.
That was the core rule of this world.
Mages didn't make power out of nothing. They pulled mana from themselves, from the air, from the world—and filtered it through their bodies. That meant every spell had a price.
No exceptions.
First—Cost.
Mana. Stamina. Sometimes blood. Sometimes life itself. Something was always taken.
Second—Control.
The faster the spell, the harder it was to keep stable. Rush it, and it would backfire.
Third—Consequence.
Use magic carelessly, and the damage stayed. Burned mana paths. Scars inside the body. Even memories could fade.
No spell escaped all three.
Ryle leaned against a shelf, his expression serious.
So the question isn't "how do I cast magic"…
It's "how do I survive casting it."
He walked again, his thoughts lining up with what he remembered.
There were many ways to cast magic in this world.
The most common was magic circles.
Pre-drawn symbols. Fixed spells. Once activated, the effect happened instantly. They were safe and efficient, which was why nobles loved them. Knowledge mattered more than talent.
But they took time to draw. And once broken, they were useless.
Then there was chanting.
Speaking spells out loud. Powerful. Large Scale. Perfect for war.
Also slow. Easy to interrupt. And brutal on the body. Too much chanting could damage the lungs, the voice—or even the mind itself.
Ryle frowned.
That explains why so many battlefield mages burn out early.
The third method was the most dangerous.
Instant/Imaginative casting.
No chants. No circles. Just will.
Fast. Unpredictable. Deadly.
And unstable.
Only people with extreme mental discipline, focus, and talent can use it.
Then there was blood magic.
Ryle's jaw tightened.
Using life as fuel. Breaking limits. Forbidden for a reason. It corrupted the mind and attracted things that shouldn't exist.
Some noble families still practiced it in secret.
The Tharvaynes… probably know more about that than they admit.
Advanced mages used spell weaving—combining spells with fine mana control. Elegant. Efficient. Rare. A sign of true mastery.
And finally, artifact casting.
Using tools to stabilize spells. Safer, but limiting. Soldiers used it. Apprentices relied on it.
Ryle closed his eyes.
All of it matched the novel.
Too well.
Which meant—
"If Lucien failed," he whispered, "it wasn't because he didn't try."
It had to be something deeper.
Something's wrong with his mana. His control. His body.
Ryle stood still for a moment, thinking.
Before I try anything… I need to be sure.
If Lucien had failed before, there had to be a reason. Weak mana. Broken circuits. Some hidden flaw no one bothered to explain.
He turned back to the shelves and searched more carefully.
After a few minutes, he found what he was looking for.
Foundations of Mana Meditation
"That'll do," he said quietly.
Ryle sat down at one of the tables, opened the book, and read slowly. Mana meditation was the most basic practice in this world. It didn't cast spells. It didn't move mana outside the body.
It only did one thing.
Feel it.
According to the book, all mana began as thought and intent. Mages learned to sense it by calming the mind and letting awareness turn inward. No force. No imagination. Just observation.
Ryle closed the book and straightened his posture.
"Alright," he whispered.
He closed his eyes.
Breathing in.Breathing out.
At first, there was nothing. Just silence. Darkness.
Then—
Something faint.
Warm.
Like a slow current moving deep inside him.
Ryle's breath steadied.
There it is.
The sensation wasn't violent. It didn't resist him. Mana flowed naturally, spreading through his body in thin, steady paths. No pain. No blockage. No instability.
He focused harder.
The flow responded.
Clean. Smooth.
"…That's strange," he murmured.
He opened his eyes slowly.
There was nothing wrong.
Lucien's mana circuits were intact. His personal mana wasn't weak. If anything, it felt normal—maybe even better than average.
"No damage. No scars," Ryle thought. "So it's not the body."
That meant Lucien's failure wasn't physical.
Then it's something else.
Control? Fear? Mental resistance? Or maybe—
Ryle leaned back in his chair.
"I'll deal with that later."
There was no point digging too deep without more information. Right now, the quest wasn't asking him to solve Lucien's past.
It was asking him to move forward.
Learn Magic.
Ryle stood up and returned the book to the shelf.
He already understood the rules of this world. Magic was drawn from a world, not created. Every spell obeyed cost, control, and consequence. Mana was shaped by knowledge, not desire.
Ryle skimmed through several books, his fingers moving faster now.
Most of them were about spell chanting.
He picked one up and flipped through the pages.
Short chants.Basic spells.Carefully structured words.
"…So you have to say everything clearly," he muttered.
Spell chanting wasn't just about memorizing words. The book made that clear. Every word shaped mana. A single mistake could ruin the spell—or hurt the caster.
"Alright," Ryle said. "Let's try."
He cleared his throat and read from the page.
"By the law of—uh—elemental flow, I call—no, wait—"
He stopped.
"…That's harder than it looks."
He tried again.
"By the law of flame and—ah—damn it."
The words tangled in his mouth. His timing was off. His breathing broke the rhythm. Mana stirred slightly, then faded.
Ryle sighed.
"So chanting needs fluency," he said. "Not just knowledge."
That explained a lot. On the battlefield, hesitation meant death. Chanting wasn't forgiving.
He placed the book back on the shelf.
"Not my style," he decided.
His eyes drifted to another section.
Imaginative Casting.
Ryle paused.
"…Right."
This method didn't rely on words or symbols. It came from the mind. From how well the caster understood what they wanted to create.
That might actually work for me.
Ryle had read countless stories. Watched shows. Read comics filled with powers, elements, and magic systems. He knew how fire was usually described—not just as heat, but as movement, reaction, and release.
More importantly—
The Tharvayne family specialized in destructive magic.
Mostly fire.
"If this body really has good mana," Ryle thought, "then I should be able to manage something."
He stepped away from the shelves and stood in an open space between tables.
"Okay," he whispered. "Slow and careful."
He raised his hand.
Fire wasn't just heat.
It was fuel meeting energy.It was air feeding motion.It was release.
Ryle focused.
He imagined mana gathering in his palm—not rushing, not forcing. Then he pictured it changing. Thinning. Heating. Reacting.
Mana shifted.
Pain flared suddenly.
"—Ah!"
Ryle jerked his hand back, heart pounding.
A tiny flame flickered in his palm before dying out.
It wasn't much.
But it was real.
His skin stung, a small burn forming where the flame had touched.
"…I did it," he whispered.
Fear followed right after excitement.
"Wait—no, no, no."
He looked around quickly.
Books. Wood. Old shelves.
"If I mess this up, I'll burn the whole place down."
Ryle clenched his hand and let the mana fade completely.
His heart was still racing.
"That was way too close."
He glanced at the windows. Darkness pressed against the glass.
"…It's already late."
Trying again now would be reckless. Worse—stupid.
Ryle exhaled slowly.
"Tomorrow," he said to himself. "I'll do it properly tomorrow."
He turned and headed toward the exit of the library, his palm still tingling.
He hadn't mastered magic.
He hadn't even learned it properly yet.
But—
He had taken his first real step.
And this time, the fire responded.
-------
Ryle walked through the quiet halls of the Tharvayne estate.
The candles along the walls burned low, their light flickering softly. No one stopped him. No one questioned where he was going.
As if Lucien disappearing and reappearing was normal.
"…I guess I should be more freaked out," Ryle muttered.
He thought about it as he walked.
Being dragged into another world should have terrified him. Anyone else would be panicking, screaming, losing their mind.
But he wasn't.
Not really.
Why am I this calm?
The answer came easier than he expected.
He had no one waiting for him back on Earth.
No parents.No family.No one who depended on him.
He was a fresh college graduate with no job, no clear future, and only a few friends he barely talked to anymore. If he vanished tomorrow, people would be confused for a while—
Then life would move on.
"No one's going to file a missing person report," he said quietly.
That thought didn't make him sad.
Just… empty.
Getting transported here was shocking, sure. But after that first moment, he didn't know what he was supposed to feel.
Angry?Afraid?Excited?
"…I guess I'll figure that out later."
What he did know was this—
This world was harsh, but it was honest. Power mattered. Effort showed results. Survival had rules.
Back on Earth, nothing felt that clear.
Ryle reached Lucien's room and opened the door quietly.
The room was just as neat as he left it. The bed looked inviting after everything that happened.
He sat down and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow…
Tomorrow, he'd try again.
Fire. Control. Understanding.
He lay down and closed his eyes.
Sleep came faster than he expected.
The next morning—
Ryle stood in the backyard of the Tharvayne estate.
Open space. Stone ground. No books. No shelves.
Perfect.
He raised his hand slowly.
"Alright," he said, exhaling.
"Let's try this again."
Ryle stood alone in the backyard, far from the main building. Stone tiles covered the ground, and a few old trees stood near the edge of the estate.
"This should be safe enough," he muttered.
He raised his hand again.
Fire.
He focused the same way he did last night. Mana gathered, shifted, and reacted.
A small flame appeared—
"—Tch!"
Ryle pulled his hand back immediately.
It burned.
Not badly, but enough to sting.
"…Seriously?"
He shook his hand and tried again.
Another small flame.
Another sharp burn.
"Okay, that's just annoying," he said, irritation creeping into his voice. "How do other mages do this without frying their hands?"
Fire magic was common in this world. If every mage burned themselves like this, no one would use it.
Ryle paused.
Then a thought crossed his mind.
"…What if the problem isn't the fire?"
What if it was his hand?
He lowered his arm and closed his eyes.
Mana wasn't just for casting spells. It flowed through the body first. If he could move it—
Ryle focused on his palm.
Instead of turning mana into fire, he gathered it there. Layered it. Let it spread like a thin shield.
His hand felt warm. Heavy.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Now—fire."
The flame appeared again.
This time—
No pain.
Ryle's eyes widened.
"…It worked."
The heat was still there, but it didn't burn him. The mana around his palm absorbed it, protecting his skin.
A grin slowly formed on his face.
"So that's how," he said. "You don't just cast fire. You prepare for it."
Encouraged, Ryle pushed further.
"Let's try something bigger."
He gathered more mana, shaping it into fire again. The flame grew larger—about the size of his hand.
It wobbled.
Violently.
"Whoa—!"
The fire collapsed, dispersing into sparks.
"…Too unstable."
He tried again.
And again.
Sometimes the fire fizzled out. Sometimes it flared too wildly. Once, it almost blew back into his face, forcing him to stop immediately.
Sweat ran down his back.
Hours passed.
Ryle's breathing grew heavy, his control slowly improving through repetition. Little by little, he learned how much mana was too much—and how little was too weak.
Finally—
He gathered mana. Shielded his hand. Shaped the fire.
Then he pushed.
The fireball shot forward.
"—!"
It flew straight.
And smashed into a tree at the edge of the yard.
The bark blackened instantly. Flames spread across the surface, forcing Ryle to stop the spell before it got worse.
He stood there, staring.
"…I did it."
His chest rose and fell rapidly.
Before he could celebrate—
A familiar black panel appeared in front of him.
Golden borders. Glowing letters.
Ryle stiffened.
"What—?"
The message formed clearly.
[New Ability Acquired: Pyrokinesis]
Ryle took a step back.
"Pyrokinesis…?" he muttered.
Fire manipulation?
Not just spellcasting—but control?
He hesitated, then slowly reached out and touched the screen.
This time—
It didn't disappear.
The panel shifted.
Another window opened beneath it, darker and larger, laid out like branches spreading from a single point.
A skill tree.
At the very top, glowing faintly, were the words:
Pyrokinesis
And beneath it—
• Basic Fire Ball
Ryle stared at it, his heart pounding.
Before Ryle could say anything else, the screen shifted again.
A new line appeared.
[First Quest Completed]
Ryle blinked.
"…That's it?"
He stared at the words for a few seconds, then let out a short laugh.
"So I really do need to learn magic," he said. "Not just throw spells around."
That explained a lot.
Understanding first. Power second.
"Alright," he muttered. "So what's next?"
The screen stayed there for half a second longer—
Then vanished.
"…Oi."
Ryle stared at the empty air.
"You can't just disappear like that," he said, clearly annoyed. "At least tell me what—"
Nothing.
The system was gone again.
He clicked his tongue. "Unbelievable."
Then he remembered something.
"…Wait."
He straightened and spoke clearly.
"Ability Tree."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
The black panel appeared again.
Golden border. Clean layout.
Ryle let out a long breath of relief.
"Oh thank god," he said. "That works."
The panel showed what little he had so far.
[Pyrokinesis]
-Basic Fire Ball
That was it.
No stats. No levels. No unnecessary clutter.
"…Simple," Ryle said. "I can work with that."
He dismissed the panel and looked back at the yard.
"Guess I keep practicing."
And he did.
Again and again, Ryle practiced forming fire. Smaller flames. Controlled flames. Short bursts. He focused on keeping mana steady, protecting his hand, and not letting excitement ruin his control.
Sometimes the fire flickered out. Sometimes it flared too much.
But each time, it got a little better.
By the time the sun started to lower, his arms were tired and his mana felt heavy.
"…That's probably enough for today," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead.
As he headed back inside, a familiar voice called out.
"Young Master Lucien."
A maid stood near the entrance. "Dinner is ready."
"…Already?" Ryle muttered.
Time had passed faster than he expected.
He nodded. "I'll be there."
Walking back toward the dining hall, his thoughts slowed.
So this is my routine now.
Train. Learn. Repeat.
When he entered the dining room, the same faces were already seated.
Lord Severin. Lady Maerith. Valen. Elyndra. Kael.
The same silence greeted him.
Ryle took his seat at the end of the table, just like before.
He ate quietly, listening to the soft clink of utensils.
Nothing had changed.
Lucien was still treated normally—served food, given a seat, spoken to when needed. But at the same time, it felt like he wasn't really there.
No anger. No insults. No cold words.
Just… absence.
Ryle lowered his gaze.
They don't hate him, he thought. And they're not holding a grudge either.
That was the strange part.
It felt like the Tharvayne family had simply accepted that Lucien wasn't part of their future. Not worth investing in. Not worth pushing away.
As if he had already been removed—from their expectations.
"…That's rough," Ryle thought.
He pushed the feeling aside.
There was no point dwelling on it now.
Earlier that day, while passing through the hall, he had noticed the date written on a document.
June 10, 1670.
Ryle remembered that year clearly.
Ten years, he thought.
Ten years until the next Great War.
Ten years before the world of The Sovereign of Spell and Steel would start moving toward chaos again.
A lot of time.
More than enough.
If I use it properly.
Ryle clenched his fork slightly.
He would need power. Knowledge. Connections.
And that meant one thing.
The Academy.
The place where talents gathered. Where future heroes were shaped. Where the main story truly began.
If he wanted to survive the coming war—and change anything at all—he needed to be there.
Which meant he needed to ask his father for something else.
Not today, he decided. But soon.
Dinner ended quietly, just like before.
As Ryle stood and left the dining hall, his thoughts focused forward.
On the future.
On the story.
And on the person at its center.
"…I think I need to meet the main character of this world."