They turned off the wide street and made their way toward the Circle Line sigil—etched above the narrow stone doorway that led to Ed’s shop.
The smell hit first—metal, heat, and old chalk dust—followed by the low ambient hum of stored energy. Ethan stepped through the reinforced doorway, Moose at his side.
Ed was bent over his central workbench, adjusting something with small pliers. His movements were precise, methodical—the kind of focus that didn't like interruptions.
Sam worked at the far end of the shop, elbow-deep in a crystal charging array. His sleeves were rolled past his elbows, and copper dust streaked his forearms. He was muttering to himself, something about "discharge ratios" and "temperamental cores."
Ed glanced up as the door closed behind them, his pale eyes taking in Ethan and then Moose. He set down his pliers. “Back already? It didn’t take you long to decide to come back.”
Ethan stepped further inside. “You said to come back if I was ready to learn.”
Sam looked up from his charging rack and grinned. “He’s ready? Oh good! I’ve got like three half-charged arrays he can try—if they only explode a little, it still counts as progress.”
He was already walking over, half-wiping his hands on a rag, clearly ready to hover.
“Wait, have you ever seen a stabilizer glyph up close? Or done precision layout on a live crystal? I can show you—here, just—”
“Sam,” Ed said.
Sam froze mid-step. “Yes?”
Ed pointed toward the stairs. “Supplies need sorting.”
Sam blinked. “I did that yesterday.”
“Then do it better.”
Sam hesitated. Then he sighed—loudly—and headed upstairs, still muttering about missed opportunities.
When the shop quieted, Ed motioned Ethan toward the workbench at the center of the room. "You're serious about learning."
"I am," Ethan replied.
Ed gave a brief nod, then reached beneath the counter and pulled out a worn wooden box. When he opened it, Ethan saw a collection of simple tools: carving styluses of various sizes, a small mallet, several curved blades, and a set of needle-fine scribers.
“Most people your age already have a trade class,” Ed said. “System usually doesn’t hand out second class prompts past a certain point unless it sees something unusual.”
Ethan didn’t answer.
“Some folks get lucky. The trade slot opens. Others... if there's enough overlap with what they already have, sometimes the system merges it. Doesn’t ask. Just happens.”
Ethan kept his expression neutral, but inside, he reached for the bond. Did you know trade class options were a thing? That people could have more than one class?
Moose responded after a moment. No. First I’ve heard of it. There’s so much we don’t know about this world. It’s probably best not to tell anyone we’re from a different world until we really trust them. Or unless they’re willing to take a system oath of non-disclosure. That would work too.
Ethan didn’t reply, but the weight of it sat behind his eyes as he stepped forward.
Ed began laying the tools out in a neat row. “Enchanting isn’t pretty. It’s not fireballs or floating cities. It’s work. Precision. Attention.”
He reached into a drawer and pulled out three small stones—one gray, one with blue veins, one nearly black—and set them on the bench between them. “First lesson. Every material holds mana. Some better than others.” He tapped the gray stone. “Basic slate. Poor retention. Releases fast.” He tapped the blue-veined one. “Lazurite. Decent holding capacity. Good for short-term work.” Finally, the black one. “Obsidian. Strong grip. Holds shape and intent.”
Ethan picked up the black stone, turning it over in his hand.
“So different materials are like... different storage mediums?” he asked.
“If that makes sense to you, sure,” Ed said. “Think of it like water. Some stones are buckets—hold plenty but spill easy. Some are cups—less capacity, but more control. Some are sieves—useless for most purposes.”
Ethan nodded, mentally translating. Storage capacity versus access speed. Like RAM versus hard drives.
“We mine raw stones because the earth’s already soaked them in ambient mana for centuries. That makes them receptive. Prepared.” He gestured toward a shelf lined with uncut gems and rough crystals. “The better ones—those with natural formations that align with mana flow—those are worth high-tier Bits.”
He picked up the slate stone and a fine-tipped stylus. “But a stone alone does nothing. You need to tell it what to do.” With practiced precision, he began etching a symbol into the surface—a curved line that hooked at one end, followed by three short marks.
Just like programming, Ethan thought. The hardware needs software to function.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“This is Arctan. Old language. Predates the guilds. This mark means ‘contain.’ Basic, but foundational.” Ed said. He continued etching, adding a circle around the symbol, then two more marks outside it.
“A mark alone won’t hold. Need structure. Containment. Flow paths.” He drew two curved lines connecting the outer marks to the circle. “This tells the mana where to go. How to cycle. Without proper structure, it just... leaks.”
Ethan leaned closer. In his mind, the pattern clicked into place: input, process, output. Like a circuit. The lines acted like function calls.
“What happens if the structure’s incomplete?” he asked.
“Depends,” Ed said. “Minor structures—maybe nothing. Maybe a small discharge. Complex ones?” He made a sharp gesture with one hand. “Backfire. Mana release. Potentially dangerous.”
Error handling, Ethan thought. The system throws exceptions when the syntax is invalid.
Ed handed him the stylus and pushed forward the blue-veined stone. “Your turn. Simple containment structure. Three-part boundary. Don’t connect the inner mark yet.”
Ethan took the stylus, feeling its weight. It reminded him of the tools he used to mod hardware back home. He began etching a circle into the stone’s surface, hand steady.
“Most enchanters use ancient languages. Old Velari. High Draconic. Sylvan Root-Tongue. The more obscure, the better,” Ed said.
“Why obscure?” Ethan asked.
“Many reasons. The best known is security. If everyone can read your work, anyone can modify it. Break it. Corrupt it. An enchantment written in Common is like leaving your front door open with a sign pointing to your valuables.”
That makes perfect sense, Ethan thought. It’s encryption. Obfuscation. Keep your code unreadable—protect the system.
Ed continued. “But there’s more to it than hiding what a glyph does. Language carries weight—intent, culture, purpose. Ancient tongues hold meanings that don’t drift. Modern ones change. Words shift. Intent gets lost. And when intent breaks, enchantments fail.”
He added a second ring, then a third. “What language do you use?”
“Not telling you that,” Ed said. “But it’s not one you’d recognize.”
“So I need to learn one of these ancient languages?”
“Eventually. For now, we use basic marks. Later? Pick something obscure. Something you know that others don’t.”
He paused, then added, “Some enchanters have even tried to make up their own languages. But without structure—or without the system recognizing it as a real language—it doesn’t hold. The system has to understand it, or at least accept the pattern. Otherwise, it just fails silently.”
Ethan tucked that away. Structured syntax. Known to the system. That explains a lot.
I already know languages no one here would recognize, Ethan thought. C++. Python. JavaScript. If the system accepts any structured syntax…
He felt himself grin.
“What?” Ed asked.
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
Ed picked up a stylus with a reservoir of dark ink built into the handle. “This is binding ink. It stabilizes the pattern. Makes it receptive.” He let the liquid soak into the etched lines, turning them blue-black. “Now add your central mark. Something simple. ‘Hold’ or ‘Contain’ if you know it.”
Ethan hesitated—then carefully etched a symbol Ed wouldn’t recognize: a JavaScript assignment operator. var x = 0;
“What language is that?” Ed asked.
“Something from home. You said to use what others don’t know, right?”
“Your enchantment. Your risk. Now connect the center to the rings. Three pathways. Even spacing.”
Ethan drew the lines from center to outer ring, picturing them like function calls. When he finished the last connection, the stone vibrated gently under his fingertips.
“Good. Now the hard part. Mana infusion. Too little, nothing happens. Too much, structure breaks,” Ed said.
He demonstrated on a slate stone—light pressure, steady flow. A dim amber glow spread through the etching.
“Control it. Keep the flow steady and contained.”
Ethan pressed his palm to the stone. It was cool. He tried pushing mana slowly—just a trickle.
It surged. Too fast.
He pulled back.
“Less,” Ed said.
Ethan re-focused, imagining a thread, not a stream. He guided it in slowly.
The lines glowed. Not amber—bright, clear blue.
“Enough,” Ed warned.
But Ethan didn’t stop. The glow sharpened. The structure solidified.
“Ethan—” Ed took a half-step forward, but it was already too late.
The stone vibrated hard, then stabilized. The glyphs locked into place, glowing steady.
“That should’ve shattered,” Ed muttered.
“Did I do it wrong?” Ethan asked.
“No. You did it differently.” He picked up the stone, turning it in his hands. “Lazurite shouldn’t hold that much. You made it behave like something stronger,” Ed said.
Ethan felt pride push into his chest. “So it worked?”
“It more than worked. You’ve created a basic mana reservoir. Could power a small ward for weeks.” He set the stone down carefully. “Most first attempts barely hold a charge overnight.”
“So, it did work. My first enchantment.” Ethan said.
As if the system also recognized the achievement, a prompt flickered into place.
[System Notice: Crafting Resonance Detected]
[New Class Option Available: Enchanter]
[Confirm Class Selection?]
The prompt appeared silently at the edge of his vision.
Ethan stared at it.
“You got offered the class, didn’t you?” Ed asked.
Ethan nodded. “Enchanter.”
He hesitated. “I’m not picking anything yet. I want to go talk to my family.”
“Good,” Ed said. “Don’t rush it. System doesn’t take questions back—and it’ll still be there when you’re ready.”
“I’ll be right back. Thanks for the lesson.”
Ed returned to his tools with a grunt of acknowledgment.
Ethan stepped out into the street. The prompt was still there, dim and persistent—waiting.
The afternoon crowd had thickened. He moved slowly through the edge of the market district, not in a hurry, just thinking.
A centaur trotted past in the opposite lane, hooves ringing sharp against the stone. His upper half was armored, expression unreadable. Ethan tried not to stare.
Two blocks later, a Minotaur hauled a crate out of a loading stall, shoulders nearly brushing the arch above him. The man grunted once and moved on. No one seemed to care.
Ethan did. Even now—days into this world or maybe weeks now, system prompt in his eye—he still noticed. The way the centaur moved. The raw size of the Minotaur. Every time he thought he’d gotten used to this place, something reminded him that he hadn’t.
What programming language do you think i should have used?
