The inn's backyard was no mage's tower. It was a scruffy patch of dirt, framed by a rickety fence and cluttered with barrels that reeked of last week's soup. A stray chicken, probably dodging Martha's cleaver, clucked at me like I'd personally offended it. Yet here I was, facing Linze, about to attempt a Light spell called [Light Sphere] without, ideally, vaporizing the fence or summoning a UFO.
Come forth, Light! Tiny Illumination: [Light Sphere]. That was the chant.
"Focus, Ishant," Linze said, her voice calm but firm, like a tutor coaxing a kid through multiplication. "Picture a soft light, like a candle. Not… whatever you're thinking."
"Yeah, no pressure," I muttered, shaking out my hands. "Just trying not to turn into a human lighthouse." Yesterday's Affinity Crystal test had rated me for Light magic affinity and Linze reveal a ridiculous bombshell for a news of my affinity being 8 or 9—10 being straight-up divine. I was basically a walking solar flare, but with zero clue how to aim it. Practice was the goal, but how do you practice when your spells could outshine the sun?
I closed my eyes, imagining a candle's flicker. "[Come forth, Light! Tiny—" I started, but before I could finish, my palm erupted in a blinding white blaze, like I'd cracked open a star. The light flooded the yard, turning the chicken into a feathered missile and making Linze yelp, shielding her eyes. From the inn's back door, Micah—lounging with a mug of definitely-not-tea—dropped her drink and howled with laughter.
"Gods, Ishant!" Micah cackled. "You trying to burn my eyes or signal the next town over?"
I squinted, waving my hand like it was possessed. The light dimmed, barely, leaving my vision speckled. "Shut it Micah! You're not the only one at the risk of blindness" I said, blinking furiously. "This is why I need practice. It would have been far easier if I sunglasses with anti-glar—" I caught myself, but not fast enough.
Linze tilted her head, her glasses catching the fading glow. "Sun… glasses?"
"Uh, sun… chants," I blurted, my brain scrambling like a crashed hard drive. "You know, old… light-dimming rituals. From way, way far away." Another cultural fumble. I was one "Netflix" away from convincing everyone I was a prophet of a gadget-worshipping cult.
Linze's frown deepened, but she let it slide. Micah, however, grinned like she'd just found blackmail material. "Sure, Sir Glows-a-Lot. Next you'll say you can heal the stew pot's broken dreams."
I groaned, rubbing my temples. "I'm not a magic Roomba, Micah." Her eyebrows shot up, and I mentally slapped myself. Roomba? Really, Ishant? My vocabulary was a time bomb, and I was juggling the detonator.
Linze stepped in, saving me from Micah's inquisition. "Healing magic's trickier," she said, brushing a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. "You need real injuries to practice, but Reflet's too quiet. Nobody's out here breaking bones or sword-fighting in the market."
"Tell me about it," I muttered, thinking of my own cosmic accident. A lightening bolt, a careless god and here I was surviving this medieval fantasy but even my Light magic couldn't undo that. A pang hit me—my family, back on Earth. If I'd had this power then, could I have helped more? The thought burned, and I shoved it down, but it left a bitter aftertaste.
Micah, blissfully unaware of my mood, kept poking. "What's your plan, glowy boy? Gonna beg for stubbed toes? Or maybe you'll heal the chicken's wounded pride?"
With a sigh I dropped my hands down and sat on the nearby table. This is going to be tricky.
"Slacking off? Are we Micah?" As I relaxed on the table. Martha appeared behind Micah like a ghost. Micah in return was so shocked that she knocked over the kettle, spilling tea all over the table and herself.
"A-aunt!" She stuttered.
"Yes, aunt. Now, what can I help you with Micah?" Martha asked with a calm voice, who am I kidding she definitely not calm on the contrary she is pissed. Her voice was not calm it was low. "Do you want help with the chores? Like clean up the tables? Or washing the dishes? Or sweeping the floor? Tell me which me is it? I'll gladly help out."
See. She is absolutely furious. And I for all my strength couldn't withhold a snicker at Micah's predicament. It was divine retribution for yesterday's salt water she called dinner.
"And you brat! What are you laughing about? Huh? Get off the table and move it. Your light show will make me blind before my age does." Here I go catching strays again.
"Hey, hey. Chill I am going. No need to blow my ears off." I got off the table and gestured for Linze to follow. "Lets go, Linze."
"..."
"Linze?" Getting no response I looked back. "Where is she?"
Linze was absent. As if she was whisked away by a ghost. Don't tell me she slipped away fearing Martha. What a betrayal!
Sigh. God why are the woman in my life so difficult. Dejected I went in my room to continue practicing my reading and writing.
********
My room at the inn was less a sanctuary and more a glorified closet, with a lumpy bed, a table, and a candle that smelled like regret. I flopped onto the chair, staring at the parchment Linze had given me—a list of basic words in this world's curly, headache-inducing script. "Bread," I muttered, tracing the loops. "Inn." Progress, sure, but I was still miles from reading a street sign, let alone a magic tome. My divine luck hadn't helped me crack literacy yet, unless you counted not stabbing myself with the quill.
I sighed, rubbing my eyes. That [Light Sphere] fiasco proved my affinity was a beast—8 or 9, practically a demigod's. But without control, I was a walking light hazard. Healing magic sounded worse. Linze said it needed real injuries, but who'd volunteer to get stabbed just so I could practice? I pictured myself wandering Reflet, begging for scraped knees like a creepy street healer. Yeah, hard pass.
A knock at the door jolted me. Martha loomed in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour and her glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Still moping, brat?" she said, tossing a scrap of parchment onto the table. "If you're serious about that light magic and healing nonsense, go to the Unity Guild. Adventurers there are always limping in—cuts, bruises, the works. Perfect for your glowing hands."
I blinked, picking up the parchment—a crude map, scrawled with lines and symbols I couldn't read. "Unity Guild?" It sounded like a fantasy MMO hub, complete with quest logs and epic loot. My herbalist side perked up—guilds probably needed herbs, right? But my modern brain screamed red flag. Back home, my biggest risk was a bad paper cut, an occasionally rowdy scissors or a needle's temper tantrums. Here, "adventuring" might mean wrestling trolls.
Martha crossed her arms. "Don't gawk at me like a lost pup. Guild's down Market Street, big sign with a sword and crystal. Can't miss it, even with your sorry reading skills."
"Thanks," I said, squinting at the map like it held the secrets of the cosmos. The script was a tangle of curls and dots, like a drunk artist's doodle. Martha snorted, clearly unimpressed.
"Oh, and Micah's scrubbing pots for her little stunt," she added, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Keep glowing like that, and you'll be next."
I shuddered. Pots were scarier than monsters. "I'm going, I'm going."
*******
Reflet's streets were a chaotic symphony—cobblestones clacking under boots, vendors hawking spiced skewers, and kids weaving through the crowd like sugar-fueled missiles. The air smelled of roasted nuts and, faintly, medieval plumbing. I dodged a cart piled with cabbages, my eyes catching a vendor flicking his fingers to spark a tiny fire spell, lighting his stall's lamp. Magic was as common here as smartphones back home, woven into life like it was no big deal. It made my own glowing disaster feel both pathetic and terrifyingly overpowered.
My divine luck kicked in when I felt a tug at my coin pouch. I swerved on instinct, and a scrawny kid—pickpocket, no doubt—tripped into a fruit stall, sending pears tumbling. He bolted, cursing, as the vendor roared. I exhaled, heart pounding. "Thanks, cosmic dice roll," I muttered.
My mouth, however, was less lucky. "Stupid delivery truck," I grumbled, glaring at the cabbage cart blocking my path. A passing man in a wool cap gave me a puzzled look.
"Delivery… what?" he asked, scratching his beard.
"Donkey cart," I said quickly, gesturing at the cart. He looked at me a for a second and got back to his work.
The Unity Guild's Reflet branch was impossible to miss, even with my map-reading skills stuck at toddler level. A carved sign—a shield crossed with a sword and a glowing crystal—hung over a sturdy stone building, its double doors open to spill out laughter, clinking mugs, and the occasional groan. A faint magical hum pulsed from the place, like a mystical Wi-Fi router. I hesitated, clutching Martha's unreadable map.
Entering the building showed me a chaotic symphony of bravado and bureaucracy, like a medieval job fair with extra swords. The stone hall smelled of leather, ale, and a faint metallic tang—blood or rusty armor, I couldn't tell. A massive job board plastered with shimmering parchments dominated one wall, its magical ink glowing like a fantasy spreadsheet. Adventurers in patched cloaks and gleaming mail swapped boasts or nursed wounds at long tables. A grizzled woman sparked a fire spell to light her pipe, while a teenage boy's wind affinity sent napkins fluttering. Magic was as common here as streetlights back home, but the way heads turned at stronger displays—like a mage conjuring a water orb to cool a drink—hinted that real power was rare.
I'd wandered in, clutching a scrap of parchment Martha had called a map, though it might as well have been abstract art. My reading skills were stuck at "recognize 'bread' on a good day," thanks to this world's curly, headache-inducing script. Linze's literacy lessons were helping, but I was still a long way from decoding street signs, let alone guild notices. My goal? Find someone with a minor injury to practice my Light magic. Yesterday's Affinity Crystal test had pegged my affinity at 8 or 9—10 being divine. I was a walking solar flare, but with zero control. Healing magic needed real wounds, and Reflet's peaceful streets weren't exactly a war zone.
I scanned the hall, feeling like a fish in a shark tank. The job board was a lost cause—its notices a sea of unreadable symbols, with only "wolf" or "silver" vaguely familiar. I squinted, pretending I wasn't illiterate, when a groan caught my ear. A lanky rookie, maybe eighteen, sat on a bench, clutching a bandaged arm, a fresh cut seeping through. Nearby, a burly woman winced, rubbing a bruised shoulder, and a kid nursed a scraped knee. Jackpot. Time to play healer.
"Hey," I said, approaching the rookie. "Mind if I try fixing that?"
He raised an eyebrow but shrugged. "Knock yourself out, newbie."
I hovered my hand over his cut, picturing a soothing warmth. Come forth, Light! Gentle Restoration: [Minor Heal], I thought, starting the chant. "[Come forth, L—" Before I could finish, my palm blazed with white light, like I'd flipped a cosmic switch. The glow pulsed, spreading like a supernova, bathing the entire hall in radiance. The rookie's cut vanished. The woman's bruise faded, her shoulder easing. The kid's scraped knee smoothed over, and across the room, a guy touched a healed nick on his cheek. Even a limping adventurer by the job board straightened, his sprained ankle suddenly fine.
The hall went dead silent, every eye on me. The rookie gaped. "What in the gods' name was that?"
I stared at my hand, still faintly glowing. "Uh… oops?"
My affinity was a beast, turning a beginner spell into a mass-healing nuke. Controlling it? Like steering a rocket with a toothpick. Before I could process, adventurers surged toward me, their wounds ranging from scratches to black eyes. "Hey, fix my hand!" a swordsman shouted, waving a bandaged finger. "My back's killing me!" a mage added, shoving forward. A dwarf with a limp elbowed his way in, yelling, "Me next, kid!" The crowd pressed closer, their voices a chaotic roar.
I backed up, heart pounding. "Whoa, whoa, one at a time! I'm not a vending machine!" Big mistake. The word "vending" earned puzzled looks, and I cursed my mouth. Another cultural slip-up. I was one "Wi-Fi" away from being burned as a tech witch.
The mob tightened, and I was about to glow my way into a panic when a sharp voice cut through. "Back off, you vultures!" Elze stormed in, her sandy hair bouncing as she shoved through the crowd. Her presence was like a thunderclap—adventurers parted, some muttering, others backing away. She grabbed my arm, glaring daggers. "You trying to start a riot, glowy boy?"
"Elze! Thank the gods," I gasped. "I just… healed a guy. And then… this."
She snorted, planting herself between me and the crowd. "Show's over, folks. Go beg a real healer or limp it off." Her tone brooked no argument, and her reputation clearly carried weight—Blue rank, I'd later learn, one step below Red in the Unity Guild's Black-to-Platinum scale. The adventurers grumbled but dispersed, some shooting me curious glances.
Just then, Linze slipped through the guild's double doors, her glasses glinting in the lantern light. She hurried over, silver hair bouncing, her expression a mix of worry and amusement. "Ishant? Elze? What happened? I heard a commotion from the market."
Elze jerked a thumb at me. "This idiot cast [Minor Heal] and fixed half the guild. Nearly got trampled for it."
Linze's eyes widened, then softened with a giggle. "Ishant, that spell's for small cuts! Your affinity's… incredible." She paused, glancing at the lingering adventurers. "And a bit dangerous."
I rubbed my neck, cheeks heating. "Yeah, I'm a walking light show with no off switch."
Elze smirked, but her eyes scanned the room, wary. "You're lucky we're known around here. Blue rank means people listen when we talk. Mostly." She leaned in, lowering her voice. "You keep glowing like that, and the Guild master'll be knocking. Or worse, every broke adventurer in Reflet."
Linze nodded, adjusting her glasses. "We've been adventuring for years—monster hunts, escorts, the odd cursed spring. It's why we're… well, not famous, but respected. You might want to lay low until you control that magic."
I swallowed, the weight of their words sinking in. Elze and Linze weren't just skilled—they were guild heavyweights, Blue-rank veterans with a rep. My herbalist heart, used to brewing tea, felt wildly out of place. "Noted," I said. "Guess I'll stick to… not healing entire rooms."
The clerk at the counter, still scribbling on a guild card—a magical slab etched with glowing crystals—called out. "Oi, kid! Thinking of registering? One copper coin, and you get a card. Tracks missions, stores coin, even sends your earnings to kin if you… don't make it."
I winced. "Uh, I'll pass for now." Death clauses weren't my vibe.
Linze smiled, pointing to the job board. "If you do join, start with something safe. Like this—herb gathering, two silver, Black rank. Perfect for beginners."
I glanced at the board, its script a tangle of unreadable curls. "Yeah, if I could read it," I muttered, ears burning. My literacy was a work in progress, and the board might as well have been in Klingon.
Elze cackled. "Stick with us, glowy. We'll keep you alive long enough to learn." She crossed her arms, clearly not done lecturing. "Also, next time, try not to level up the local economy with a sneeze, alright?"
"Noted," I said, still squinting from the residual glow in my eyeballs.
Linze adjusted her glasses, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "But seriously, that was fascinating. The spell's output must've scaled with your emotional state. I'd wager you unconsciously linked it to a radial area effect based on need and proximity."
I blinked at her. "...I understood maybe three words in that sentence."
"It means you turned a single-target spell into a field-wide miracle because you didn't know how not to," Elze said, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Which is terrifying."
"Accidental divine intervention. Cool," I muttered. "Just what I needed on Day Three."
Before the sisters could retort, a sharp clearing of the throat echoed from behind. A man in a dark coat with a silver chain and a clipped mustache approached, flanked by two guild staff in uniformed sashes. His eyes were hawk-like, and he carried the air of someone who read terms and conditions for fun.
"Elze. Linze." His tone was polite, but tight. "And you must be the healer behind the, ah… incident."
I raised a cautious hand. "Ishant. Accidental healer. Occasional hazard."
The man didn't blink. "I'm Darnis. Assistant Guildmaster." He glanced around the still-glowing hall. "Normally, healing half a guild unprompted would warrant concern. Or promotion. Possibly both."
My throat dried instantly. "I wasn't trying to—"
He held up a hand. "Relax. No charges. But a request. The Guildmaster would like a word."
Elze groaned audibly. "Great. You tripped the Guildmaster radar. You've officially graduated from 'harmless stray' to 'brightly glowing liability.' Congrats."
"Please don't put that on my tombstone."
Darnis motioned toward the upper level, where a spiraling staircase led to the Guild's administration floor. "She's waiting."
Linze placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry. Just answer honestly. And try not to accidentally ascend."
"No promises," I whispered.
********
The Guild master's office looked exactly as intimidating as I feared: a wide oak desk stacked with scrolls, weapon racks lining the walls, and a monster skull mounted above the fireplace like it had lost a staring contest with fate.
Behind the desk sat the woman herself—silver-streaked hair, robes that whispered authority, and a scar down one cheek that suggested she'd once argued with a knife and won.
"Ishant, was it?" she asked, not rising. "Sit."
I did, cautiously.
She studied me in silence for a few seconds. Not the awkward kind—more like a hunter measuring how much meat was on a deer.
"I saw the light from the second floor," she said. "Thought someone had set off a [Purify Undead] ward."
"Honestly? I wasn't far from purifying the structural integrity of the building," I muttered.
Her lip twitched. Not quite a smile—more of a concession that my nonsense had registered.
"Linze tells me your Light affinity's absurd."
I nodded. "Eight or nine, apparently. Ten being divine. So… somewhere between 'walking flashlight' and 'blasphemous spotlight.'"
She leaned back. "Power like that with no training is a liability. To the Guild. To you. To the town."
"I'm aware," I said. "And I'm not trying to melt faces. Just… figure things out."
"Hm." She drummed her fingers on the desk. "And how exactly do you plan on doing that? Enlightenment by trial and error?"
I shrugged. "So far, it's been trial, error, panic, and the occasional existential crisis. But yes—self-teaching."
"That's dangerous."
"So is trusting the wrong mentor."
She paused, eyeing me with that same predator-hunting-for-subtext look. "Paranoid, are you?"
"Cautious," I corrected. "Paranoia is irrational. Mine has footnotes and citations."
That got the ghost of a smirk. "Fair. So. You don't want a handler. Fine. But you're still glowing in public like a divine beacon, and we can't afford divine beacons giving nosebleeds to half the adventurers in Reflet."
I spread my hands. "Suggestions?"
"Two," she said. "One: control that power before someone else decides to 'help' you do it. Two: use Guild facilities. You want to self-teach? Fine. I'll give you supervised access to the east practice yard—early mornings only. You'll also get scrolls. Basic control theory, magical stability, that sort of thing. You'll sign for every single one. Lose them and you're buying replacements."
I blinked. "You're offering support?"
"I'm investing," she replied, flatly. "People with power draw attention. But people with power and loyalty draw protection. You might not be ready to register, but you walked into this building. You healed half my lobby. You're already on the board, Ishant. This is me trying to keep you on our side of it."
I considered that. Weighed the risks. There was no small print here—she was telling me outright: "We're helping you because we want to keep you in arm's reach."
"I'd be foolish to say no," I said. "But I'm also not promising fealty because I got a training yard and some homework."
She nodded. "I wouldn't respect you if you did. You're a variable. I don't trust variables, but I do watch them closely."
"Agreed."
She picked up a small slip of parchment and scribbled something on it—a stamped authorization sigil and some quick notations. "Take this to the front desk. They'll log your access to the east yard. The scrolls will arrive tomorrow."
I accepted it, tucking the parchment into my satchel. "Anything else?"
"Yes. Keep your light magic on a leash. The next time you heal a roomful of people, someone important might be watching."
"Someone more important than you?"
"Someone interested," she clarified. "And interest can come with strings. Or knives."
I stood, giving her a polite nod. "Thanks for the resources. And the honesty."
She tilted her head. "Try not to explode."
"No promises," I said with a half-smile. "But I'll do my homework."
*******
The inn greeted me like an old friend—specifically, the kind who judges your life choices while offering tea. Martha raised an eyebrow as I stumbled in, reeking of ozone and existential dread.
"Well?" she asked.
"I'm officially on everyone's radar. Reflet's guildmaster scouted me, then scolded me. Oh, and I may have flash-healed a room full of adventurers."
She stared at me for a beat before nodding. "Sounds like a productive afternoon. Dinner's stew. Don't burn it with your holiness."
I saluted her with a weary hand. "Yes, General."
Micah popped out from the kitchen, apron dusted with flour and retribution. "Guess who scrubbed every pot this side of the kitchen because of someone's sun grenade?"
"I see the system works."
"Glad to be your cautionary tale, Ishant."
********
I sat on my bed, candlelight flickering like it was nervous about being in the same room as me. In my hands was the Guild master's slip—access to the training yard, scrolls incoming, and a quiet reminder scribbled between the lines: learn fast, or someone else will decide how you do it.
No mentors. No tutors. Just me.
"I'm really doing this solo, huh?" I muttered, staring at the parchment like it was supposed to come with a safety manual.
Across the table, my notebook sat open. The letters still looked like a calligrapher had a seizure and called it art. "Bread," I read aloud. "Market. Inn." Words I could barely read, let alone cast from. But it was progress.
Self-taught. Self-regulated. Self-destructing if I wasn't careful.
I leaned back, letting the parchment rest on my chest, the weight of it strangely heavy for something so small. No Royal Capital. No distant mentor in a tower. Just me, a scroll or two, and the daily risk of accidentally flash-banging the town square.
This wasn't a storybook rise to power. It was a grind. It was dirty boots, cheap ink, and waking up early to figure out if I could cast [Light Sphere] without summoning a second sun.
I sighed. "In too deep, and I haven't even hit tutorial level yet."
One day at a time, Ishant. One burn mark at a time.
I snuffed out the candle and lay back, staring at the ceiling—just in case it decided to collapse from residual spell trauma.
Tomorrow: more scrolls. More reading. Maybe another controlled flare that didn't double as a distress beacon.
Eventually… yeah. The Royal Capital was still out there. The politics, the nobles, the mess.
But not yet.
Not until I could control the sun in my hands.
Not until I knew I could burn only what I meant to.