Fallen Mage Regressor

The rest of Mal's week was spent in recovery. Philo was the worst affected. His internal organs had been scrambled, fried, and were generally in a miserable state. Thankfully, his natural draconid physiology was ridiculously hardy, so he managed to avoid the worst of it. Rolam was the second worst off, his arm injury requiring expensive magical materials to fix in a timely manner. Thankfully, Holam's pockets were exceptionally deep, so they were able to bring out the best magical doctors in the city to take care of him. Rolam was advised, however, not to put too much strain on his arm for at least a few weeks. Mal and Holam were also attended to, as their experience with withering-type mana had, of course, affected them.

Mal, oddly, was a little bit better off, although the doctors were more than a little concerned. They said the reason why he'd not been as badly affected was because he had a "hidden" alignment with withering-type mana, whatever that meant. However, they were concerned because he also had blood-type mana. Having two contradictory mana types existing in his body was apparently a bit of a health risk in the long term, though they were expecting that the withering-type mana would eventually disappear in the long run.

Apparently, he had an unusual sensitivity and adaptability to foreign mana types, allowing them to remain in his system for significantly longer than usual. One of them had asked Mal to participate in a research study, which Mal had, of course, immediately denied.

Mal supposed that a core also functioned as something of an immune system for magic. It expelled foreign influences using his body's systems, but without a core, anything from the outside was able to worm its way into him and stay for quite a while.

Mal would have to look into more protection against mind control. If something was able to get into his body by accident, what would happen if somebody earnestly applied themselves against his mind? Would his normal techniques of fighting off this foreign influence work? He didn't know, and that did give him a small amount of fear.

He also had a chance to speak to Hortensia. He'd told her parts of the story, seeing no reason to hide the truth. When he got to the part with the nosebleed, however, her eyebrows had perked up.

"In cases of particularly talented witches with high amounts of sensitivity," she said. "They can experience intense backlash. Sympathy is a two-way street, after all. To make a connection with the world, the world must be able to affect you in turn."

She'd smirked, like she knew something that he didn't.

"For you to experience such a thing means that your potential is truly vast," she'd said. "I can see why your teacher decided you were worthy of learning Earth-speaking."

She'd then paused.

"And do keep in mind that your status is unusual, to say the least. The other witches will take interest in you—your teacher can't hide you forever."

Mal had been somewhat disturbed by her gaze. He'd been half worried that she'd manage to figure out what he truly was, that she wasn't talking about his status as a . However, she hadn't said a word to him about it after the fact.

As a gift, she'd given him more Fireglove seeds, and had also given him instructions for his new withering-type seeds. She'd said that he'd almost certainly need to use rotting plant matter, though animal matter would likely work better. She also said he'd need to come up with a name for them, as she didn't recognize the seeds and they were likely a new species.

Before long, they were all more or less ready to leave, though they were all certainly still sore. Mal and co. got on an airship, and this time, there was no sudden disaster.

The first thing that Mal set about doing was planting his new seeds. The Firegloves required heat. He set up a furnace on the inside of his room and put together a ramshackle vent made of scrap metal leading to his window. The Fireglove couldn't be put directly on the heat source—they were still plants, and would burn up. Instead, what Mal had to do was warm up some rocks inside of the furnace, then place them next to the Fireglove seeds—just close enough to transfer heat, but not so close that they would light the seeds on fire.

His other plants were doing exceptionally well. His Airgrass had created another batch, which he'd dried up and stored away in a corner of his room. He'd had to change out the water for his water-roses, but they were well on their way to being fully grown. His Elderroot had continued as usual, along with his Sleepleaf and a few vegetable seedlings.

He stared down at his "garden."

They were all in pots, scattered around the back half of his room next to his window. He took a step and barely missed stepping on one of his plants—only to feel a crunch when he realized he'd destroyed some soil cubes. Tomato seeds, it looked like?

He stared down at the dirt on his floor.

This is not sustainable in the long run.

Mal needed to figure out what he was going to do. Surely they'd be getting a new dormitory soon for their performance as a circle?

He'd planted the wither-type plant seeds, and, as instructed, had found some rotten meat in the city to use as fertilizer. Mal wasn't sure what he would use the grown plant for, but he was sure he'd be able to find something.

The final thing he did was set up a bunch of pots for Cokane, his future money-maker herb. He made it a point to hide it in a corner of his room, still where it could get some sun, but still a little hidden.

He double-checked his schedule.

It was almost the end of the day, and Summer Solstice would be coming up within the next month. Hortensia had advised him to take steps leading up to that day in order to maximize his connection to the sun.

He double-checked his new notebook and checked through the notes on the ritual. He stepped outside as the sun was setting and gathered up and sat down on the dirt outside, facing the sun. He sat in a cross-legged position, shut his eyes, then breathed deep.

It was a relatively simple ritual. He was supposed to focus on the energy of the soil. What exactly the energy of the soil was, or how any of this made any sense, he wasn't sure, but Hortensia had said that it would work, and that when he did his summer ritual, it would work exceptionally well.

After about ten minutes of this, he clambered back in through his window and dropped onto his bed with a thud. He shut his eyes and the world of dreams appeared to him.

He opened his eyes, and realized he was somewhere different.

Mal was in a forest.

A piece of snow fell off a branch and hit the ground with a thud. He looked up at the tree limbs and looked back down at his hands. There was something fuzzy about them, something fuzzy about the branches, about his fingers, about the whole situation.

The wind whistled through another tree. He instinctively turned to face it.

The tree was bigger than the others, the trunk doubly thick than any surrounding it. It stood head and shoulders above the rest. For some reason, he got a strange feeling from it.

He frowned in confusion and glanced around himself in a circle.

There was a carriage heading over a hill in the distance. He shoved himself behind a fallen log and waited for it to pass.

What was it that Hortensia had told him? That strange things could occur when doing the Elven style of witchcraft?

This was a pretty damn strange thing.

The carriage passed by the tree and he peeked out just to get a quick glance. There was a driver in front and someone sitting in the rear. A young man with white hair—

He blinked. No, the hair was black. Why did he think it was white...?

He had green eyes and brown skin, but Mal placed the face immediately.

Nima.

Mal's fists clenched.

He wanted to jump out and throttle him, but something was telling him to watch and see what was going on. He trailed after the carriage for a little bit before some sounds in the brush stopped him cold. The horse, spooked, came to a stop.

"What seems to be the issue?" Nima popped his head out of the window.

"Not sure," the driver said back. "I'm getting a strange feeling about this, sir."

At that instant, a group of bandits jumped out of the brush. For a moment, Mal's lips cracked into a smirk as he thought about the same thing having happened to his own carriage. It seemed that the road to Exodi was particularly perilous this year.

This year.

Right, how did he know that? It had been more of an instinctual thing. Technically, Mal had no proof that these events were taking place in this year. It could have been years ago—

The sound of a spray. Blood gushed out of the driver's open throat.

Nima backed up into the corner of the carriage.

The bandits didn't care.

One of them grabbed him by the collar and dug the knife deep into Nima's chest.

Nima let out a pained gasp and dropped backward, accidentally opening the other door of the carriage and falling onto the ground in front of—

That same tree. The large one, taller than the others.

Mal watched this with no expression. On the inside, his mind whirred. How had Nima died, here? That didn't make any sense. What was happening?

The bandits dug through Nima's items on the chair opposite to him. One of them grunted.

"We picked well this year—he was pretty well-off."

"But not well-off enough to afford a proper contingent of guards, the fool," another one said.

They opened up a lockbox underneath Nima's seat and pulled out a few bundles of coins.

In that instant, there was a sound of a pop. A wave of air blasted out from the sky. There was an opening, a brief flash, so quick that Mal almost thought that he'd seen things, that it had just been in his head. Then a wave of air blasted into the carriage and nearly threw it over.

"What was that?" one of them said.

"Stronger gust of wind. The Wolf Moon is known for weather like this. Wild time, not far off from the winter solstice, when the barrier between spirit and earth—"

"Stop it with your mumbo-jumbo," the other bandit said. "You know that we don't believe in those sorts of things."

Mal agreed with the second. Or at least, he would have, had he not seen some of the miracles witchcraft had brought about.

But even so, what even was a spirit world? And was it what one would expect based off of the secular wizards' understanding of the term?

In that moment, a thud.

"What was that?" The bandits stopped.

Mal looked back over at where Nima's corpse had fallen.

He'd gotten up.

He'd rolled up next to the carriage and was just underneath the bandits' view. His hair color had changed, from a soft black to a striking, natural white. He gripped his chest and gasped for air.

His eye color shifted.

Mal wasn't sure what happened next. He blinked, and then there was nothing but corpses. Corpses everywhere. The bandits had been strung up on the trees, parts of their bodies swung around all over the ground. Nima looked at it, then looked at the road to Exodi. His eyes were glazed and confused. He stumbled toward the academy, hand pressed into his forehead.

Mal's eyes opened. He was no longer in the forest, no longer in the late winter. He was on his bed, in his dormitory.

He reached up and rubbed his forehead. His brain hurt, like somebody had taken a hammer and hit his skull multiple times in a row.

He slowly took his hands off and stared at the floor.

What in the name of Eternus had he just seen?

Seriously, what the hell?

Was that real? Was that just a dream? Or was that one of those strange events that Hortensia had said might happen? Eternus trying to communicate something to him?

If it was real, then that raised the question as to what exactly had occurred. One second Nima had been dying or dead. The next, his hair had turned white and he'd awoken from sleep and somehow managed to massacre an entire group of bandits on his own.

Mal burrowed his knuckles into his temples. No matter what he attempted to think of to explain, none of the explanations came out right.

Knock.

"Mal—uh, Mal?" Rolam said from the other side of the door. "There's someone here to see you."

Mal furrowed his eyebrows. Who could be there to see him?

He got out of bed and walked over to the front door. He swung it open and his breath hitched.

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