Lunch itself was… predictable.
Someone else had cooked—apparently under my mother’s instructions—and judging by the spread, the kingdom had a deeply committed relationship with roasted meat. Crackling pork with skin blistered to perfection. Roasted chicken glazed until it shone.
I stared at the table, fork hovering.
…Yeah. I’m going to have to fix this at some point.
A world with magic, gods, and system plates, and their culinary imagination stopped at apply fire until done. It’s tragic.
I sat down beside Celestia, mostly because proximity to the source of information felt strategically sound. Unfortunately, Reika—being Reika, and apparently fueled by pure contrarian energy—slid neatly into the space between us without so much as a pause.
Celestia had a wry smile plastered on her face.
Reika just smiled. Victorious. Serene. Unrepentant.
“Sorry about her,” I said, leaning forward and apologizing on behalf of the person who absolutely would not. “She’s… touched in the head.”
An elbow drove into my ribs. I hissed but didn’t retract the statement.
“It is no problem at all, Lord Vi,” Celestia said, amusement threading her voice. “Did you wish to talk to me about something?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” I replied, lowering my voice slightly. “Cra—Lady Celestia. I wanted to ask about the mages of this world.”
Her eyes lit up instantly, like I’d flipped a switch.
“Lord Vi is interested in becoming a mage?” she asked eagerly, leaning forward just a bit.
“Not becoming one,” I corrected. “Learning about them. What you do. How you function. Where you fit—in society, in war, in all of this.” I gestured vaguely, encompassing castles, systems, gods, and general nonsense. “And besides, it doesn’t look like I’m the only one interested.”
I tilted my head and pointed behind me.
Celestia and Reika both glanced back.
Arthur had gone suspiciously quiet. My brother was leaning forward, elbow on the table. Trayn was pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. Even Taka had slowed his chewing. The rest looked away but they had been listening.
Yeah. Totally subtle.
Celestia chuckled, clearly pleased. “Very well, Lord Vi. But you will have to answer a question of my own later.”
“That sounds ominous,” I said. “But fair.”
She straightened slightly, slipping into lecture mode without losing the warmth in her voice.
“Mages in this world,” she began, “are not defined merely by their ability to cast spells. That is a common misconception—especially among those raised on heroic tales.”
She explained that mages were, first and foremost, specialists. Scholars, engineers, strategists, healers, researchers. Magic was a tool, not an identity.
“In warfare,” she continued, “mages are force multipliers. We do not replace soldiers—we enable them. A single properly supported mage can change the flow of a battle. A dozen can end one.”
She spoke of battlefield roles, of artillery casters who shaped terrain while zooming across the battlefield riding chariots or horses. Support mages who managed casualties, stamina and morale, ward specialists who turned chaos into controlled corridors of death. Barrier specialist turning aside spells. They were also involved in magic formations for counter intelligence as well as logistics.
“In society,” she went on, “mages are infrastructure. We maintain wards, regulate enchanted goods, stabilize cities, patrol wide areas. A kingdom without mages collapses—not explosively, but implodes. Just imagine the waste that will pile up! No country can live like that!”
I listened, genuinely this time, the food forgotten.
They weren’t the robe-wearing fireball throwers of fantasy. Hells, they didn’t even wear robes.
In a warzone, mages wore armor like everyone else—plate, mail, layered leather—whatever kept them alive long enough to cast another spell. In civilian life, most mages came from all social classes, nobility chief among them, though Celestia explained that a good portion rose from merchant families, minor houses. But there are those that come from common backgrounds, and those are deemed lucky.
Their clothing followed fashion more than tradition. They were still people so they wore coats, fitted tunics, travel cloaks, boots, and overwhelmingly—pants.
The image of a mage only being allowed to wear robes was apparently so outdated that when Trayn mentioned it, Celestia laughed outright.
“Robes still exist,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “But they went out of fashion more than a thousand years ago. These days they’re mostly worn by penitent monks or historians who enjoy being uncomfortable.”
She went on to explain—still smiling—that the belief mages couldn’t wear metal or heavy clothing was nonsense.
“That’s not fantasy,” I said lightly. “That’s a game mechanic.”
Another illusion shattered. Sorry, Gandalf.
“Think about this for a bit,” I added between bites, “in a place where horrible things are actively trying to kill you, wearing armor becomes surprisingly important.”
Celestia chuckled, approving.
“And socially?” Arthur asked from behind us. “If some mages are nobles, they’re respected, right?”
“Yes,” Celestia said. “But with caveats.” Her smile thinned just slightly. “Feared, mostly. Occasionally resented. And sometimes… disliked. There are mages who do not behave in ways befitting their status.”
I snorted softly. “Sounds about right.”
And somewhere in the middle of it all—
<
—Retort-o-9000 was still very much active.
I sat there with a Knowledge Core I hadn’t asked for, surrounded by people who were still learning the rules of this world, and the creeping realization that I wasn’t meant to stay on the sidelines. Observers didn’t get systems that talked back.
“You mentioned mage circles before,” I said, cutting in before my thoughts spiraled further.
Celestia nodded. “Yes. There are seven across the continent.”
She paused. “Or rather… there were.”
A faint, sad smile crossed her face. “Thanks to the demons, only five remain.”
A chill moved through the table—not magical, just human. Conversations around us softened. Forks slowed. Even the laughter from earlier felt suddenly distant. I could see it in their eyes: uncertainty, the dawning realization that this world wasn’t just dangerous in theory.
“There are two circles in this country,” Celestia continued, clearly aware of the shift and gently steering us through it. “Two more within the Dalmaran Empire, and one in the Bishopric. All are located in the north.”
“Do they specialize?” Trayn asked. “Like one circle only uses fire magic or something?”
Celestia laughed again, this time more warmly. “Of course not, Lord Trayn. Individual mages may favor certain elements or skills, but the circles themselves are political constructs.”
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She shrugged. “They form because people disagree. On methods. On philosophy. On authority. And when disagreements grow large enough, they split—and form their own circle.”
I leaned back slightly, absorbing that.
So even magic academies couldn’t escape politics.
Figures.
<
…Yeah. That tracked a little too well.
Celestia’s reply seemed to take the wind clean out of Trayn’s curiosity. Whatever questions he’d been lining up about mage politics quietly withered, replaced by a thoughtful frown and a slow chew of his food.
“What about ranks?” Arthur asked instead. “Is each circle headed by an Archmage?”
“Archmage, no,” Celestia replied, shaking her head. “The circles operate more like councils. Leadership isn’t absolute. How many presiding members there are depends on the circle itself, and they’re elected as needed.”
She folded her hands on the table, posture straightening as she slipped naturally into lecturer mode.
“As for ranks, the lowest is Scribe. Children usually begin around the age of seven. This stage lasts five years. Their duties are… modest. Copying texts. Cleaning halls. Organizing archives. Mostly menial work, meant to instill discipline and familiarity with magical theory.”
Seven. I felt a flicker of something at that as a vivid image of Ink-stained fingers and sweeping floors instead of playgrounds.
“It’s not for the whole cycle, it’s two five-months, with a rest month in between to see their families and report their progress,” Celestia added.
“After that comes Initiate,” Celestia continued. “Initiates learn in groups—usually classes of around thirty. There is no strict time limit for this phase. Many fail, as the subjects grow more complex. Some drop out entirely. Those who do may still call themselves mages, but only under the free-blade system.”
Ah. So, it’s like convent college, except younger. Boring.
Her tone softened slightly.
“However, those who finish are taken under the tutelage of a full mage as an apprentice. Though,” she added, “exceptions exist of course. Some are apprenticed much earlier if their talent demands it, or some mage takes an interest.”
That earned a few raised brows.
“When your teacher deems you fit,” she went on, “they grant you the official status of Mage. You receive a title marking both your rank and your school. For example, someone who passes their trials in Cloudtop earns the title [Mage of Cloudtop].”
She tapped the table lightly for emphasis.
“Once a mage manages to finish training their own apprentice, their title automatically advances to Senior Mage.”
“And after that?” Reika asked before drinking from her cup.
“The next rank is Maegos,” Celestia said. “Granted after ten years as a Senior Mage. And the final rank is Archmaegos—earned only by a Maegos who has fully mastered at least one skill of no lower than Tier Two or Rare, pushing it to its absolute maximum.”
There was a brief silence as everyone processed that climb. Decades of work. Talent layered atop obsession.
“Wait,” I said, something clicking into place. “Where does your title fit into that? Yours is Royal Mage, right?”
Celestia froze.
Then she scratched the back of her head, cheeks slowly turning pink.
“Uhm… yes. About that,” she said. “My grandfather apprenticed me early, but we—couldn’t finish properly. He passed away before I completed my trials.”
Her voice was steady, but there was a practiced carefulness there and as she spoke it got smaller.
“The title Royal Mage is conferred to the king’s mage adviser. It is… a job title, not a circle rank. By circle standards, I am still technically an apprentice.”
A ripple of understanding passed through the table as Celestia laughed while scratching the back of her neck nervously.
“It is also,” she added quietly, “the reason many scrutinize my actions so closely.”
“Wait—lady Celestia, are you okay now?” Reika asked, genuine concern creeping into her voice. “You managed the summoning. That has to count for something.”
“Oh, please don’t worry, Lady Reika,” Celestia replied, brightening immediately. “I am certain it will. I applied beforehand that, should the summoning succeed, the circles would review my status. They may grant me Senior Mage—or at the very least, Mage.”
I felt my lips curl into a grin. My cheeks warmed as the words slipped out before I could stop them.
“A bit of nepotism going on there, huh?”
<
“Lord Vi!” Celestia exclaimed, face burning red. “Please stop that at once! I do not appreciate that line of teasing!”
I chuckled, thoroughly unrepentant.
Reika’s elbow found my ribs again. I groaned, wheezing slightly as air left my lungs.
Then I noticed Shizuku, seated across from me, watching the whole exchange with a calm, peaceful smile.
<
Celestia pouted at me, her cheeks puffed slightly, before speedrunning the last bites of her meal with a grace that was almost comical. I couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes darted to every morsel, calculating each bite like a general strategizing a battle. And in that strange, fleeting moment, a thought bubbled in my head—I could swear she reminded me of something familiar.
<
“Okay, lord Vi,” she said, finally setting down her tableware with a small clink. Her eyes met mine, sharp and expectant. “Now that I’ve finished eating, I think it’s my turn to ask the questions.”
“Go ahead,” I said, keeping my voice calm, almost too calm for how panicked I felt inside.
She paused, tilting her head slightly, her brows knitting as if weighing her next words.
“Oh, and before I begin,” Celestia said carefully, “when you addressed me earlier, what was it you tried to say before you corrected yourself?”
Oh.
That.
I opened my mouth. “I—uhm…” I stalled, eyes darting to a random spot on the table. Of all the questions she could have asked, of course it had to be this one.
<
“Abizjizhubajen.”
Celestia blinked. “Pardon? I didn’t catch that.”
<
“He tends to insult everyone in his head,” Shizuku said casually, almost too casually, as if she were simply commenting on the weather. “He must have caught himself and corrected it.”
<
Celestia’s eyebrow quirked upward, sharp as a blade, but with a faint, amused curve.
“I will not answer that,” I said, trying to sound as innocently harmless as possible.
“And why not?” Celestia pressed. She leaned slightly forward, her grin fearless and wide, eyes gleaming with a mix of curiosity and challenge.
<
“I will not answer that either,” I countered smoothly, letting the pause hang in the air like a drawn bowstring. The weird tension hung in the air, thick, almost tangible, as if waiting to see which of us would blink first
Before she could open her mouth, an idea struck me. I leaned slightly forward, careful to meet her gaze, and spoke with deliberate solemnity.
“Instead,” I said, cutting her off, “as thanks for answering my questions, I will reward you.”
“Me?” Celestia said with a small laugh. Her disbelief was audible but melted somewhat and softened into curiosity. Her head tilted, lips parted slightly, eyes wide in that mix of incredulity and expectation that made her look almost childlike. “What could lord Vi possibly reward me with?”
I smiled just enough to seem mysterious. “This!” I said, digging a hand into my pocket and pulling out two small, unassuming cubes from my storage array. I held them out, palm open, presenting it like a treasure chest revealed after a quest. “Take one.”
Shizuku’s eyes went wide as she leaned closer. “Is that chocolate?” she asked, scrutinizing the cube as if it were a rare artifact. “Why do you have chocolate!? Where were you, no—never mind. At this point if you bring out a car from your pocket I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Celestia reached out, took a piece. She took it delicately between two fingers, inspecting the unfamiliar object. “Chocolate?” she said, her tone filled with tentative curiosity. “I think I’ve heard that name before. Can’t quite remember…”
Reika, of course, immediately wasn’t going to be left out. “Ae! Give me some!” she demanded, her voice sharp but playful, practically vibrating with impatience.
<
“No,” I said, pulling my hand slightly back, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “I only have so much to give. I still haven’t located a reliable supply here in this world, so rationing is necessary.”
Unsurprisingly, Reika wasn’t having it and ignored me entirely. She grabbed my hand and began shaking it up and down—vigorously. Shizuku watched silently, her expression calm but I can feel her amusement at my predicament. I had a sinking feeling, from the way her eyes lingered on the cube, that if I gave in, it wouldn’t be just one piece that would vanish from my stash.
<
Celestia popped the cube of chocolate into her mouth. Almost immediately, a faint pink dusted her cheeks, subtle but noticeable. Her eyes fluttered closed as she brought a hand to her cheek, a soft smile spreading across her face. For a moment, the room seemed to pause, caught in the serenity of that simple delight.
“This is… the best thing I have ever tasted,” she said brightly, her voice like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Thank you, lord Vi.”
That simple compliment was all it took for the person beside me to redouble her efforts. Reika’s grip on my hand tightened as though she were trying to squeeze every last molecule of chocolate out of me.
<
I felt my enthusiasm drain like water from a punctured barrel. Mentally, a few health points might have evaporated in that moment. With a long, resigned sigh, I unclenched my hand. Reika, triumphant, immediately scooped up the chocolate, a victorious gleam in her eyes. Someone kicked my shin from under the table and I fished out another cube for Shizuku, who accepted it with a smile, nodding just slightly before popping it into her mouth.
When did these two become so organized, I wonder.
<
Celestia, still savoring the chocolate, looked thoughtful. “Lord Vi,” she said, her eyes distant for a brief moment, “I remember now. Where I know the word chocolate from. It is mentioned in our legends. One of the past heroes was famous because she tried to find chocolate in our world.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but her wording caught my attention. Something subtle, almost like a trap in the phrasing, caught my brain in a pause.
“Tried?” I asked slowly, my voice calm, a bit high pitched, but wary.
“Yes,” Celestia said casually, as if mentioning the weather. “Unfortunately, she failed. The conclusion she came up with is that, there is no chocolate here in our world.”
I felt hollow. My vision was spiraling. My world went black.
<
Assessment: Mental stability unsalvageable.
Prognosis: Willpower fleeing at high velocity. Cat memes will now trigger existential dread.
Conclusion: Weak.
Recommendation: Collapse into couch. Request immediate deployment of snacks, blankets, and unsolicited life advice.>>