Lesson About Scrolls

  Northern Frost. Morning.

  The sun shone through the frosty patterns on the window, casting golden highlights across the cabin. Hiro yawned, rubbed his eyes, and reached for the coffeepot. Fragrant steam rose from the cup as he clumsily bumped a shelf.

  Thud.

  One of the books slipped and landed on the floor with a slap.

  "Ugh..."

  He bent down to pick it up, but a rolled-up sheet fell from the binding.

  A scroll.

  Behind him, a voice spoke.

  "Hiro."

  The God of the Void sat by the window, his transparent figure bending the sunlight like a warped mirror.

  "Time for another lesson about the rules of this world."

  Hiro blinked and took another sip of coffee.

  "Go on."

  The God of the Void stood up, approached the scroll, and picked it up. Just like with other objects, the real scroll remained on the floor, while a ghostly copy appeared in his hands.

  "Look." He unrolled the scroll. "This is an item used to store a spell, then cast it later."

  Hiro raised an eyebrow.

  "The higher the quality of the paper, the more mana it can absorb. And that means — the stronger the spell that can be written on it."

  "And how does it work?"

  "Very simple." The God of the Void traced a symbol with his finger. "A mage takes a special blank piece of paper, casts a spell — but instead of releasing it, the magic is sealed into the sheet. The activation words appear automatically."

  "So even a weakling can use magic just by reading the scroll?"

  "Exactly." The God of the Void smirked. "A pathetic imitation of real power. But…" He turned the scroll over. "They’re useful to us too."

  "How?"

  "We can learn spells from them. Read them, understand the structure — and then use them without the paper."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Hiro took the scroll, studying the intricate symbols.

  "And this one?"

  "Only a second-level spell. Fireball. The truly interesting ones begin at level six." The God of the Void tilted his head. "But remember: scrolls are crutches. Real strength is in feeling magic — not reading it off a page."

  Hiro nodded and set the scroll aside.

  ---

  Scene: Memory of Duty

  Northern Frost. Evening.

  Hiro sat by the fireplace with a cup of tea in his hands. The fire crackled, casting long shadows on the walls of the cabin.

  "Damn... I think I forgot something."

  He closed his eyes, remembering the conversation with Katsu at the guild.

  "People are in danger… We, the strong, must help them."

  It had already been two weeks.

  ---

  Teleportation to Pyron

  Hiro stood and brushed off his knees. Around him, a violet cloud appeared.

  Teleportation.

  In the next instant, he was already standing in his room at the "Blazing Lion" guild. As soon as he appeared, the candles lit up on their own, and he stepped out of the same violet mist.

  The room was spacious, but simple: a wooden bed, a table, a few bookshelves. On the table lay a single sheet of paper.

  Hiro approached and picked it up.

  ---

  Letter from Katsu

  "Hello, Hiro. It’s me, Katsu.

  I want to let you know that it’s time to officially announce your joining our group. I also want to introduce you to a friend of mine.

  The meeting is in the Kingdom of Arcanum, near the Magic Academy. The guild there has given us a basement space where we gather.

  Drop by when you can. I might not be there, but one of us will be. Considering it would take you about two years to get here… But if you show up sooner, I’d be glad.

  — From Katsu."

  Hiro chuckled.

  "Two years... Well, if we don’t count the fact that my cabin is a week’s walk from Arcanum, then yes, it would be two years from Pyron."

  ---

  Plans

  He put the letter back on the table and glanced around the room.

  "So… the basement of the guild in Arcanum."

  "I wonder who this ‘friend’ of Katsu’s is..."

  Dusk was already falling outside the window.

  Hiro snapped his fingers — and all the candles in the room went out.

  "I’ll head out tomorrow."

  By the time those words echoed, the room was already empty.

  ---

  The Council of the Strongest

  The Grand Council Hall

  Tall arched ceilings, decorated with frescoes of ancient battles, loomed over a massive oval table made of black marble. Around it, in chairs engraved with runes, sat ten figures — those the world knew as the Strongest.

  Shadows from the torches danced across their faces, highlighting scars, cold gazes, and the mark of absolute authority.

  The door slammed open.

  Torggrim entered, his cloak billowing behind him. Lara followed like a shadow. He dropped heavily into his chair.

  "You're late," someone on the right grumbled.

  Torggrim just smirked.

  At that moment, Ilmira entered the room.

  Her presence made even the air freeze.

  ---

  The Eleventh Strongest

  Ilmira scanned the room, a faint smile on her lips.

  "So, children of chaos. Glad to see you again."

  She ran her hand over the table's surface — and in the center, a holographic image of the number "11" flared to life.

  "Today's topic — is him."

  Whispers exploded through the silence:

  "Eleventh?"

  "What do you mean, the eleventh?"

  "Is this a joke?"

  Ilmira struck her staff on the floor. The deep vibration silenced everyone.

  "Five years." Her voice turned firm. "For five years, messengers have searched for his trail. And now we have data."

  She snapped her fingers — the hologram changed to a blurry silhouette:

  "Male. Very young, not even of age yet."

  "Master of both sword and magic at an unbelievable level."

  "Destroys monsters and bandits, but avoids people."

  Then, more details emerged:

  "Black coat with violet shimmer. Hair — two-colored (violet tips, the other shade unknown)."

  The whispers grew louder.

  "Two-colored hair?"

  "Impossible."

  Ilmira continued:

  "But the most interesting part — his eyes."

  The hologram revealed pink-violet irises glowing in the dark.

  "A survivor he saved described it like this: ‘When he looked at me, I was paralyzed. I realized he could’ve easily killed me. It felt like his sword was already at my throat.’"

  Silence.

  The moment Torggrim heard about the eyes, he knew who the new Strongest was...

  "And one more thing." Ilmira paused. "He doesn’t speak when casting spells."

  "What?" burst out Kardel, the mage-archivist.

  "All witnesses confirm — he casts silently. Just a gesture, and the magic obeys."

  Torggrim’s eyes widened, his pupils narrowing.

  "You know something, old man?" asked Rayzis, the strongest spearman.

  But it was Ilmira who answered:

  "His exact location is unknown. But he was last seen at the guild in Pyron."

  "So we wait for him there?" whispered Eskander, the strongest assassin, master of dual daggers.

  "No," Ilmira shook her head. "He never stays in one place long. But…"

  She struck her staff again.

  "Prepare a seat on the Council."

  ---

  Torggrim clenched his fists so tightly his veins bulged.

  Kardel feverishly scribbled in his scroll, muttering, "Silent casting… This is…"

  Rayzis crossed his arms: "Let’s see if he can survive one strike from my spear."

  Ilmira turned toward the exit.

  "The Council of the Strongest is adjourned."