Heaven-Shattering Magic

["Demonic Power, stage three!"]

[Sean stared at the glaring words on the Magic Stone Tablet and clenched his fists, his nails digging deep into his palms...]

["Stage three? Just as expected. Our 'genius' hasn't made any progress this year."]

["That good-for-nothing has disgraced the whole family!"]

[...]

The notebook slowly lowered, revealing the eyes above it.

"Well?"

Annan stood beside the bard, hoping the well-traveled man would have some advice.

"Did you write this?" The bard glanced back at the opening. "What are 'Demonic Power, stage three' and the Magic Stone Tablet?"

"I don't know much about how magic works..." Annan had asked Mr. Victor, but he had refused to answer such a stupid question and told Annan to look it up in the Library. Annan hadn't found the answer, so he had written something down to revise later.

"So are those supposed to be a mage's rank and affinity? And why would a mage be considered worthless? Is this Sean very old?"

"Sean's young... What's affinity?"

"It's how magical aptitude is graded. You don't even know that?"

For Annan's sake, the bard explained it from the beginning:

An aptitude test required a magic stone engraved with the third-circle Sense Spell. The stone glowed when it came into contact with Magic Power. To become a mage, a person had to make it light up.

Affinity measured how closely someone was attuned to magic. In practical terms, it was the brightness of the stone's glow. Ordinary people had the lowest grade, zero; grade one meant a person had the talent to cast spells.

A tiny number of ordinary people could make the stone glow faintly in a dark room, but that usually didn't mean they could cast spells. At most, they could become Mage Apprentices. Even if they meditated into old age, they would only ever manage a few Zero-Circle Cantrips—Mr. Victor was one of those unlucky souls.

As for rank, it was the same for all spellcasters: ordinary professionals came first, followed by the Elite Level represented by Mr. Faster. Above that were master, epic, and legendary... and beyond those came demigods.

Levels, on the other hand, were an informal measure. Michael being a level-three mage only indicated how far he was from the Elite Level, which began at level five.

Annan remembered that the biography of the legendary mage had only said the protagonist's aptitude was very high when tested. It hadn't mentioned grades of "affinity"—perhaps because it had been written in the year 338 of the Saint Laurent Calendar, while the current year was 998.

"Then how about changing it to 'Affinity, grade three!'?"

"That's still rather high. Michael's affinity was supposedly only grade three back then." Mr. Faster, standing behind the bard, took the notebook and turned to the second page. "If you want to write about a poor young man with no talent, wouldn't grade one be better?"

Annan shook his head.

Pick ten popular novels at random and six would have protagonists with no talent. The other four would have geniuses.

Besides, this book wasn't about the difference between genius and mediocrity. It was about the simple thrill of growing stronger. Hadn't Mr. Faster already reached the third page?

"What do you think?" Annan asked.

The bard thought the story felt like a story—and he meant that as praise. Stories these days were all ordinary tales of things happening nearby, with nothing special about them. This book had given him a sense of novelty he hadn't felt in a long time.

And those foolish antagonists certainly stirred up emotion.

"Now I'm curious about where you come from." The bard studied Annan's black hair and dark eyes. "How would you like me to help? Get it published?"

"That would be best, but how long would it take?"

"I don't know. I'd have to visit some friends in Breeze City." The bard told Annan he could give him an answer in about two weeks. After all, the round trip to Breeze City alone took a week.

But even if it was published, the first payment wouldn't arrive for another two or three months—

Annan could barely wait that long. Tasia couldn't.

Besides, Mr. Faster wouldn't let the bard leave the tavern. "You'd be taking away the tavern's only bard. What am I supposed to do, have Martin fill in?"

A head poked over. "I could do it."

"Get back to work."

"Oh."

"What if it became a story told by a bard?" Annan went on.

"Hmm... For a story told aloud, I think it's too long."

The bard snatched back the notebook and returned to the first page. "There's too much dialogue. I'd have to cut some of it to draw the customers in."

Reading silently was faster than listening to a recitation. A long-winded story would only put customers to sleep.

Then the bard realized what Annan had in mind. "You want to sell it to me?"

"Could I?"

The bard shook his head and told Annan no one did that... Anyone who heard a story could remember it and tell it themselves.

There was no point paying to own it.

"What if you just told it here? A fresh, ongoing story should bring more customers to the tavern."

"We could try." Mr. Faster folded his arms, looking interested, and took back the notebook. "You need money? I can give you a share of the extra drinks we sell while he's telling your story."

That, too, was an investment. Mr. Faster saw potential in Annan. If Martin had made the same suggestion, he would have raised his weekly wage of seventy copper coins to seventy-one at most.

"I don't want to tell this story."

To Annan's surprise, it was the bard who objected.

It had to do with advancing in his profession. Bards gathered stories, poems, and songs from all over, spread them, and drew nourishment from them to advance.

Simply repeating a story from a book would do nothing to help a bard grow.

"A story from a book? No..." Annan's voice softened. "It hasn't been published. You merely heard a story about a man named Sean from me. Nobody else even knows it. It's no different from the stories you gather elsewhere."

Under Mr. Fast's peculiar gaze, Annan kept tempting him. "You're almost level three, aren't you? This is a perfect opportunity..."

The bard was persuaded and reached out to Mr. Faster for the notebook.

"Once I've finished reading it."

Mr. Fast became Annan's first reader in this world.

That evening, the bard took the notebook away. The next day, he began telling his revised version of "Heaven-Shattering Magic" in the tavern.

At first, the customers noticed nothing different about the story. Then a drunken patron shouted, "Thirty years on the east bank of the Ploney River, thirty years on the west!" Only then did they realize how entertaining it was.

Customers who usually started heading home after ten stayed until closing time, near midnight, and left reluctantly.

Annan received about twenty copper coins on the first night, and that was only the beginning. He also suggested letting customers choose which scenes they wanted to hear: for the price of a beer, they could request any part already told. It gave those who had missed a night a chance to catch up.

Judging by the requests, Annan found that everyone was especially interested in the parts where Sean slipped into Hill's room to nourish his body, and in his amorous encounter in the cave with Cici, the head of Roland Academy. Cici's story even set a record with five requests in a row.

In any case, counting his regular weekly wage, Annan should earn three silver coins that week.