Isolde sat nearby, cross-legged and watching him like a cat about to witness sothing hilarious.
"Rember what I taught you — keep the flow steady, don’t force it, and visualize the rune clearly before you start."
"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Oliver muttered
He picked up the Runic Pen they’d bought earlier. The thing looked like a cross between a calligraphy tool and a soldering iron, its tip faintly glowing with magic. Oliver focused, channeling a trickle of mana into it. The tip lit up brighter.
"Alright... here goes nothing."
He began carving the simple shape of a Basic Wind Rune, tongue poking slightly out of the corner of his mouth in concentration.
The pen hissed softly as it cut glowing lines into the tal. Sparks flew — and for a mont, Oliver thought he was doing well.
Then the entire blade gave a loud crack — and exploded into a puff of smoke.
BANG!
Oliver yelped, falling backward onto his ass as the now-ruined sword clattered across the floor.
"Pfft—" Isolde covered her mouth, failing to hide her laugh. "I told you not to force the mana."
Oliver coughed, waving away the smoke. "I didn’t! That thing just—just combusted!"
"That thing just told us you have terrible control," she said, still smiling. "Try again. Slowly."
Grumbling, Oliver grabbed another sword from the pile and set it on his lap.
Attempt two went better. At least, this ti the blade didn’t explode — but when he finished, the rune was crooked and jagged.
He tried swinging it experintally. Nothing happened.
Isolde leaned over to inspect his work and shook her head. "That’s not a Wind Rune. That’s a... doodle. Congratulations, you invented the Rune of ’Useless Scribble.’"
Oliver threw his head back and groaned. "This is hopeless!"
"You’ve barely tried twice." She flicked his forehead. "Again."
And so the cycle continued.
—One rune sputtered and fizzled out.
—Another flared briefly, then burned the tip of the sword.
—One attempt even sent a shockwave through the room, knocking Oliver flat on his back.
By the ti they were halfway through their pile of practice weapons, Oliver’s hair was a ss, his face smudged with soot, and his patience was hanging by a thread.
"Gahhh! This is worse than your lectures!" he yelled, tossing the latest failed sword aside.
"Stop whining and focus," Isolde said, though she was clearly enjoying his suffering. "Close your eyes. Visualize the rune. Feel the mana flow before you carve. Don’t just rush it."
Oliver glared but obeyed.
He inhaled deeply, picturing the rune’s design in his mind — a simple curve with a central line, a basic rune for Wind Edge.
He let the mana flow slowly, guiding it into the Runic Pen until the glow was steady.
Then, with careful, deliberate motions, he began to carve.
This ti, the lines ca out clean, glowing faintly but evenly.
When he was done, he held his breath and gave the sword a testing swing.
WHSSSH!
A faint crescent of wind shot out from the blade, slicing a small line in the wooden practice dummy across the room.
Oliver blinked. "...Holy shit. It worked."
Isolde smiled proudly. "See? I told you you could do it."
Oliver grinned, spinning the sword once before pointing it at the dummy again. "Wind Edge!"
Another slash of air shot forward, this one stronger, leaving a much deeper cut.
Oliver laughed, unable to help himself. "Yes! Finally! I made sothing that didn’t explode!"
Isolde stood, brushing off her skirt, and patted his head with a little smirk. "Good job, Master Rune Carver. Keep at it, and maybe one day you’ll manage sothing more complex than a basic wind slash."
"Hey, I’ll take it," Oliver said, still grinning as he admired the glowing rune on the blade.
For the first ti that day, he felt genuinely proud — and just a little excited for tomorrow’s lesson.
Oliver was still grinning like an idiot when Isolde plucked the sword from his hands and placed it back with the others.
"Alright, genius," she said, stretching her arms overhead until her back popped. "Lesson’s over for today."
Oliver flopped backward on the bed with a sigh of relief. "Finally. If I had to carve one more rune, I think my brain would have lted out of my ears."
Isolde sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at him with a teasing smile. "You act like you just fought a dragon. It was one little Wind Edge rune."
"It was a perfectly carved Wind Edge rune," Oliver said, pointing at her like a man defending his honor.
She rolled her eyes, then leaned down and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "Fine. You did well."
Oliver blinked. "...Wait, was that my reward?"
"Yes."
"That’s it?!"
"You’ll get a better one when you stop blowing up swords," she said smugly, standing up and heading toward the door.
Oliver threw his hands up. "You’re impossible!"
Isolde just laughed, grabbing her cloak from the chair. "Relax, Master Rune Carver. I’m going to grab sothing from the inn’s diner. Try not to set the room on fire while I’m gone."
"Ha ha, very funny."
She paused at the door and glanced back over her shoulder, her smirk softening just slightly. "For what it’s worth... you really did do well today. But teaching a fool like you is exhausting."
Oliver sat up, indignant. "Hey—!"
She waved lazily as she walked out, clearly satisfied with her jab.
Oliver snarled under his breath and muttered, "One of these days I’m gonna..." He trailed off, grabbed his own cloak, and headed outside to get so fresh air before he said sothing that would make her tease him even more.
The cool night air hit his face, and he exhaled slowly, feeling so of the tension of the day leave his shoulders.
~~~~~
By the ti Oliver left the inn, it was late enough that most of the crowd had thinned out. He’d eaten a quick dinner first — nothing fancy, just so roasted at and warm bread with a mug of ale — before setting out to clear his head.
The streets were quieter now, the glow of mana lamps casting warm pools of light over the cobblestones. A few rchants were still closing their stalls, stacking crates and locking shutters, while stray cats prowled for scraps under the tables.
Oliver walked slowly, hands in his pockets, letting his thoughts drift.
Man... it’s been months now.
For so reason, tonight of all nights, he rembered his old routine back on Earth. Staying out late at PC cafés, scarfing down instant noodles, sipping cheap cola, walking ho well past midnight while trying not to wake anyone — only to be caught by his parents waiting at the door.
He chuckled to himself bitterly. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, nagging about "wasting his youth" or "rotting his brain" — and for once, he missed it. He missed them. He missed ho.
Before he realized it, hot tears had started to roll down his cheeks.
"Tch..." He rubbed at his face quickly, annoyed at himself. "Get it together, Oliver..."
And then—
BAM!
Sothing — no, soone — slamd into him from the side, sending him stumbling back onto the damp stones.
"What the—"
He looked down.
A small figure, no taller than his chest, was sprawled across him. A dark hood obscured most of their face, but he could hear the ragged sound of panting.
Before Oliver could say anything, voices echoed from deeper in the alley.
"There! Don’t let her get away!"
"She’s worth a fortune — catch her alive!"
Heavy boots pounded against the stones, growing louder by the second.
Oliver blinked, disoriented, and only then realized where he was.
The narrow street around him was grimy, littered with broken barrels and trash, barely lit by a single cracked mana lantern. The warm bustle of the main market was long gone — sohow, he’d wandered into one of the shady backstreets of Valebridge without even noticing.
The hooded figure on top of him tried to get up, only to stumble again, clearly exhausted.
Oliver’s jaw tightened.
Shit. This looks bad. And I don’t think these guys are coming over for a friendly chat.
The pounding footsteps drew nearer. The shadows at the far end of the alley grew thicker as several burly silhouettes erged, their weapons glinting in the lamplight.
Oliver slowly rose to his feet, brushing the dirt off his cloak.
Dirty... narrow... dark... too damn dark.
He glanced around, heart pounding. The cheerful glow of the market was nowhere to be seen — sohow, he’d wandered into one of the back alleys of Valebridge.
"When the hell did I walk this far?" he muttered under his breath. "I really was out of it..."
His gaze dropped to the small figure still kneeling at his feet. Hood pulled low, shoulders heaving with ragged breaths.
Then the voices ca again.
"She had caught the eye of a big noble!"
"How dare she run away!"
"We will have to disciple her before handing her over!"
Oliver’s gut twisted.
Worth a fortune?
He didn’t need a genius IQ to put the pieces together. This was a fantasy world — and the tone of those voices was unmistakable.
Slave traders.
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