Arcane Exfil

Three weeks into their new life in Celdorne, and it had been nothing but acclimating – the fantasy dream curdled into pure tedium. No adventures, no elf waifus, and definitely no freedom. Hell, they couldn’t even get time to leave the castle and explore!

All those grand expectations, subverted to hell and back. And here they were, getting steamrolled under the weight of cram sessions, like it was finals week all over again. If this wasn’t disillusionment, what was?

But finally, they’d been blessed with a glimmer of hope: an intermediate evaluation from a Slayer, dropping by unannounced. Cole hadn’t heard news until now, but apparently OTAC had finished their internal review and cleared them for integration. About damn time.

Word around the castle was that OTAC had found more mimics than expected during their sweep. Most happened to be in the lower ranks and the relatively unimportant logistics roles – no offense to anyone in that field. Recruits, maintenance crews, haulers – predictable targets: easy to infiltrate and often overlooked.

But some had wormed their way up the ladder. Some had served as Slayers for a few years now, and one had even managed to secure a Captain’s role. Nothing higher up, thank God, but still… No wonder the review had taken forever.

Their evaluator was even more proof of just how serious OTAC was taking this. Built like the damn Hulk, there was something about the man that Cole couldn’t put his finger on. Most operators he knew carried a certain weight – the shit they’d seen, the shit they’d done – like a shadow that never left. But not this guy.

He didn’t seem weighed down by anything. His eyes weren’t hard or haunted, but steady. Like he’d made peace with it all. Like a pastor who’d traded his Bible for a sword and never looked back. No, that wasn’t right. More like… a pastor who carried both Bible and sword – and wielded them with the same conviction.

“Sir Warren Graves,” he introduced himself as he walked into the library, “Slayer Elite of the Office of Threat Assessment and Control. However, you may simply call me Graves. The Crown has chosen to place its faith in you. I am here to see that faith justified.”

Graves… an interesting name, Cole had to admit. They stood up.

“That’s us,” Cole said. Of course, their actual ranks – Sergeant First Class, Sergeant Major, and Master Sergeant respectively – meant something to them even if they’d taken to simplifying it for the locals.

Warren gave a simple nod. “Please, be seated.”

As they sat back down, he walked over to a shelf and picked out a book. “Lady Verna has prepared you as best she can,” Warren said, returning to them. “I shall witness your progress ere your induction among our number. We shall begin here before proceeding to the training hall.”

He opened to a marked page and set it before Miles. “Sergeant Garrett. If you would read aloud the account of our kingdom’s founding.”

Miles took the book with a grimace. Cole fought back a smirk. All that bragging about editorials was about to bite him in the ass. Time to see if he was simply bullshitting, or if he was actually legit about his progress.

Miles cleared his throat and started reading. His Texan drawl did interesting things to the stuffy historical language:

“Thus did Alexander Celdor, in the Year Three Hundred and Three of the… Sundered Era, having driven back the demons at great cost, establish our sovereign realm upon these…” His eyes narrowed slightly, “...verdant shores. For in his wisdom, gained through bitter contest against the infernal legions, he foresaw that the Istraynian Wastes would ever remain a wellspring of demonic corruption, from whence fresh horrors might emerge to plague mankind anew.”

Cole had to raise an eyebrow, reading over Miles’ shoulder. So it seems he wasn’t just talking shit after all. He did have a couple rough patches here and there, but nothing that simple context clues couldn’t solve.

Then came his turn. Cole picked up where Miles left off. “Whereupon he gathered his most steadfast soldiers, those who had proven their worth against the Fourth Tide, and there upon the cliffs overlooking what would become Alexandria, he laid the foundation of our kingdom. ‘Let this land,’ spoke he, ‘stand as an eternal… vigilance against the darkness. Not by strength of arms alone shall we prevail, but by the steadfast resolve of common men who choose to stand their ground.’”

Warren’s congratulation came in the form of just a nod – passable. Not much, but it’d do. After just a day of Miles’ smug ass waving those newspapers around while the rest of them were still stuck on kids’ fairy tales, Cole had practically lived in the library. It was worth every minute of it now.

Ethan hadn't done too bad either. Probably got just as sick of Miles’ newspaper routine as he had.

“‘I must here set down a truth most remarkable,’” Ethan read, “‘for I have witnessed what learned men would scarce credit – that our greatest victories were not won by those blessed with heaven’s gift, but by common men, who, when confronted with horrors beyond mortal ken, chose to stand fast though every fiber of their being cried out for flight.’”

Mack had shown them all up though – caught up completely. Guess there wasn’t much else to do stuck in that infirmary bed besides read. He wrapped up the account from Alexander Celdor, even tossing in a bit of regal voice acting. “‘Though a hero’s might may fell demons, it is the common soldier’s resolve – to stand steadfast before terrors that should shatter any mortal’s spirit – that truly turns the tide. For what demon can fathom such conviction? What force of hell can break the will of men who stand not for glory nor reward, nor even for their own survival, but because they know that if they do not, none shall?’”

If Warren was impressed, he didn’t show it. He simply moved on and pulled out several sheets of paper and placed them on the table. “Simple phrases. Market prices, travel directions, and the like. The essentials.”

Cole couldn’t be more ready. Neither could the others; even if they didn’t know the words, the language was essentially just English but with different letters. They’d gotten the sounds down, so they could pretty much write whatever Warren dictated.

“A loaf of bread, twenty-five pence,” Warren began. “The butcher’s rates for fresh mutton. One hundred fifty pence per pound.”

The quill felt awkward in Cole’s hand – definitely hadn’t gotten used to that yet, but their pens wouldn’t last forever. Hadn’t gotten used to hearing shillings and pence either. Still, at least the currency was as intuitive as the quills. Simple, logical, easy to remember. A hundred pence made a shilling, and a hundred shillings made a crown.

Cole could’ve sworn the British system used different ratios, but apparently Alexander Celdor had the right idea when he set things up. Would’ve been easier if he’d just called them dollars and pennies, but hey, he’d take what he could get. Made a lot more sense than whatever the hell the Victorians did back then, anyway.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

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“Proceed from the Northern Gate, travel east along the river’s course until arriving at the mill. Cross at the stone bridge…”

Easy enough.

“Incident report,” Warren continued. “Time: 3PM. Location: Office of Threat Assessment and Control, Artifact Research. Nature of Report: Suspicious Persons. Details: Two subjects observed. One is male, approximately six feet, wearing dark cloak…”

Finally, Cole was done. He glanced at the others, who’d also finished, then back down at his paper. No spelling errors, hopefully.

Warren scanned their work in about thirty seconds. Sure enough, no issues. “A proper grasp of our written word in mere weeks. Hm. Let us now see what progress Lady Verna’s instruction has wrought.”

Verna was already there when they walked in, and for once she wasn’t radiating sunshine and rainbows. She curtsied. “Good morning, Sir Warren.”

“Lady Verna,” he replied with a bow. “Shall we begin?”

They ran through the whole curriculum: basic elements, barriers, strengthening magic, all topped off with simple spell combos. Nothing they hadn’t covered extensively over the past weeks.

Warren just watched. Didn’t say a word through any of it. When they finished, his attention shifted to Mack, who’d been standing off to the side.

“Sergeant MacPherson. Have you had the opportunity to study during your recovery?”

Cole frowned. Warren had to know Mack wasn’t completely stable yet. But here he was, prodding for a demonstration anyway.

“Just theory, Sir Warren. But I wouldn’t mind putting on a show.” Mack read him like an open book, and apparently didn’t give a shit about intent. He readily accepted the unspoken challenge. “These basic spells barely use any mana anyways.”

The surprise on Warren’s face lasted maybe half a second before morphing into amusement. “Very well. You may grace us with this ‘show’ of yours.”

Mack stepped up as Verna raised an earthen dummy. This should be interesting; unlike the rest of them, he’d apparently been experimenting on his own time – decided that their training sessions were just a starting point rather than a script to follow.

The mud formed exactly where he needed it, right under the target. Took them damn near half a day of drilling to get that kind of precision, and here was Mack pulling it off after what, maybe a cumulative hour of practice? The consistency shifted in real time too. It started liquid enough to move fast, thickening as it wrapped the target.

Mack must’ve seen a shit ton of Animal Planet, because that mud shot up and struck like a boa constrictor going for the kill. Then, as soon as it wrapped around the target, it hardened. But for it to harden that fast? It couldn’t just be earth and water magic. No, he was channeling every traditional element they’d learned simultaneously – fire, air, topped off with expert temperature control to transform that soft clay into something closer to ceramic in a split second.

Miles whistled. “Damn. Now that’s some Avatar-level shit.”

Cole couldn’t agree more. Between Mack’s ability to pick up magic instantly and his willingness to actually experiment with it… man. While they’d been following Verna’s curriculum to the letter, Mack had said fuck it and started pushing boundaries. Combining elements, testing interactions, seeing what these basic spells could actually do. Hell, they could’ve done this too, if only they weren’t so stuck in training-wheels mode.

Having ensnared his target, Mack followed up with a basic fireball. He started just as Verna had taught: fire, air, and wrap it inside a barrier. So far, so standard. But then, he deviated from the script.

Rock fragments – pulled from the ground and pulverized into shrapnel – began orbiting the contained flame. A second barrier formed around them, larger than the first. The front of both shells curved inward into a cone-shaped depression, while a small hole opened in the back.

Son of a bitch. Cole could recognize that move anywhere. It was straight out of their late-night yap session about modernizing Verna’s spell! Mack had actually taken their shop talk and turned it into something real while the rest of them were still playing by the book.

When the spell launched, it didn’t travel like their normal fireballs. It blitzed forward like a rocket, but Mack’s control kept it dead on target. It crossed the distance in an instant, striking center mass.

Unlike the rapid expansion of Verna’s thermobaric design, this was pure directed violence. The barriers ruptured simultaneously, turning their contained energy into a focused blast. It hit like a canister shot, spraying superheated fragments in a concentrated cone through the target. When the dust settled, the dummy was just… gone. The stone wall behind it didn’t fare much better.

Even Warren’s stoic persona cracked a bit. His eyes widened just a fraction – the equivalent of another man’s jaw hitting the floor. Verna had both hands over her mouth.

Ethan summed it up perfectly: “Holy shit.”

“MacPherson, that is… quite a recovery you’ve made,” Warren said. “Take care not to overtax yourself.”

“Oh,” Mack laughed. He held up his hands, explaining himself in unparalleled humility. “Still healing. All that? Just basic spells; nothing Lady Verna hadn’t already taught us.”

Warren turned to Verna. “You’ve taught them advanced combinations?”

“No,” Verna shook her head, still staring at the wreckage. “Well, I did teach them the enhanced fireball – how to integrate air for added force and preserve its power within a barrier. However, I shan’t take credit for the fragmentation, nor the curious shaping. I’ve seen but hints of such designs in theoretical trials… It seems that these are Sergeant MacPherson’s own innovations.”

“I see.” Warren studied Mack again. “Tell me, Sergeant, has your mana capacity been assessed yet? There’s no record of it in your dossier.”

“Sir Warren,” Verna interjected before Mack could respond. “Though his recovery has been most remarkable, the manameter would invite undue strain. He should avoid such exertion.”

“A modest measurement shall suffice,” Warren pushed back. “Only such as the Sergeant’s constitution can safely endure.” He glanced at Mack then at Cole.

Of course, Cole could order Mack to do it. But this wasn’t his decision to make, nor was it his field of expertise. He raised his eyebrows at Mack – this was something for him to handle.

“Dr. Gracer and I discussed this, actually,” Mack said. “We’ve been planning to do a baseline reading anyway, some way to measure recovery progress.”

Verna hesitated, but it seemed she trusted Mack enough. Or at least, trusted Elina’s trust in Mack. “Very well,” she said with a sigh.

Warren led them to the testing chamber looking like some field commander who’d just been told his requisitions were finally coming through. Not quite smiling, but Cole could tell – the man had dropped that pastor-like serenity from earlier. What had him so intrigued?

As they arrived at the testing room, Verna began instructing Mack. “Stand at this line,” she said, gesturing to the 3-foot mark. “Simply form a barrier and direct only such measure of mana as you can safely control.”

The fluid in the manameter began to rise as soon as Mack started. Through the first bulb… second… fourth… fifth. The moment Mack winced, he cut it off clean. Warren almost exposed his disappointment with a sigh, but even this partial measurement was exciting enough.

Level 15. Hyperphantasia permitting a natural talent with magic was one thing, but that kind of raw power on top of it? No wonder Warren was in heat. The Slayers had just found themselves a gold mine.

“Most impressive,” Warren said. “And with conscious restraint, no? I should imagine Level 17, perhaps higher, at full capacity.”

Ethan chuckled. “Damn, doc. And here we thought we were hot shit hitting level 10.”

“‘Hot shit,’ Warren repeated. “Vivid. Though raw power, while promising, is but the first step. We shall see what becomes of it, beginning on the morrow.” He addressed everyone, “Report to the library at 9 in the morning. We shall proceed to the Office’s grounds from there. Good day, gentlemen.”

Cole watched him go. It was hard not to feel a bit envious of Mack; seemed like everything came naturally to him, even mana capacity. Especially mana capacity. Visualization, he could do just as well, if not better.

But hell, after three weeks of being cooped up in the castle, Cole would take what he could get. At least tomorrow they’d finally see what Alexandria actually looked like beyond their window view.