Chapter Six: Conti Powatan

Joan set down the teacup. At first, he felt nothing in particular, but after a few seconds a comforting warmth blossomed in his stomach, quickly spreading through his entire body. It was as if he had just soaked in a hot bath, all fatigue melting away, his spirits instantly revived.

“It really works,” Joan murmured, a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips as he lowered the cup.

He glanced at the “Tear of the Divine” gemstone in his hand and noticed it seemed dimmer than before. This was unsurprising; brewing a potion consumed some of the energy stored within the artifact. Where once there had been ten energy levels, now only nine remained, hence the slight loss of luster. Fortunately, the “Tear of the Divine” would automatically regenerate one energy level each day, so he needn’t worry about exhausting its power.

Joan was determined not to let this precious potion go to waste. Bathed in the evening sunlight streaming through his window, he unfurled a scroll and quickly lost himself in the vast ocean of knowledge, forgetting all the trivial matters of the world.

In Vares, the world of magic was broadly divided into eleven levels. Excluding the legendary spells, rarely seen in the world, the standard spells ranged from cantrips (level 0) up to the ninth circle.

A spell’s level was typically determined by the maximum amount of magical energy it could wield. Another consideration was whether a spell targeted a single creature or multiple ones—those affecting groups were usually of a higher level.

By these standards, if an arcane spell could channel up to five degrees of magical energy, whether it affected an individual or a group, it would be considered a first-circle spell. For second-circle arcana, the single-target maximum was ten degrees, while for group spells it was five degrees. The third circle maxed out at ten degrees for both single and group targets, and so on. An eighth-circle spell could channel up to twenty-five degrees for a single target, and twenty for a group. Ninth-circle spells, whether single or multiple targets, had a cap of twenty-five degrees. Anything beyond this belonged to the realm of legend.

As for cantrips, their upper limit was usually no more than one degree of magical energy. The “Ray of Frost,” for instance, didn’t even reach that threshold—its power was merely half a degree.

But what did half a degree of magical energy amount to?

Simply put, a “Ray of Frost” striking its mark inflicted about as much harm as Joan could manage by hurling a brick with all his might. Still, this didn’t mean Joan should abandon magical study for the practice of brick-throwing. The spell, though weak, bestowed a freezing effect—useful for more than just harming foes. A brick might knock someone out, but it could never chill a cup of boiling water in an instant.

As Joan immersed himself in his study of spellcraft, a sudden knock on the door broke his concentration.

“What is it?” he snapped, irritation seeping into his voice at the unwelcome interruption.

“Excuse me, is it convenient to talk for a moment?” a girl’s clear voice called from outside.

“No, it isn’t,” Joan replied, his bluntness bordering on coldness.

There was silence beyond the door.

Time passed. Joan eventually solved the thorny problem he’d been wrestling with and allowed himself a brief respite. He remembered someone had knocked earlier. Glancing back, he noticed a pair of eyes peering through the crack in the door.

He frowned, stood, and opened the door. Sure enough, it was the Asa girl he’d picked up along the way, tiptoeing as if about to sneak off.

“Wait,” Joan called after her. “What do you want?”

“So you finally have time to talk to me?” the girl beamed, but seeing Joan’s frown deepen impatiently, she hurried on: “I just want to know where I am—and why I’m here!”

Joan raked a hand through his hair, already weary at the thought of a lengthy explanation. Without a word, he returned to his desk, grabbed a pen, and swiftly wrote his answers on a scrap of paper.

The girl hovered at the threshold, dark eyes full of confusion, unsure whether to enter. Joan finished his concise reply, returned to the door, and handed her the note.

Perplexed, she took the paper and quickly read it. Enlightenment dawned on her delicate features.

Joan breathed a sigh of relief—thankful she was literate, sparing him further trouble.

“Thank you for saving me.” The girl pressed her hands over her chest in the traditional Asa gesture and bowed deeply. Then, curiosity overcoming her, she asked, “Why didn’t you just tell me what happened? Isn’t it more trouble to write it all down?”

“On the contrary,” Joan replied, barely concealing his impatience. “I’m not good at speaking. Explaining something complicated with words takes too long.”

He was not lacking in expressive ability—he could weave a vivid tale to himself, alone—but the presence of others changed everything. Perhaps it was his nature: he harbored an intense aversion, even a touch of hatred, for social interactions. Every time he was forced into conversation, he wished he could cut out his own tongue—better to be born mute, so people would pity his silence rather than insist on pointless small talk.

If he had to converse, and if writing was an option, Joan much preferred to communicate by pen—as he was doing now.

The Asa girl didn’t really understand his oddity; she made a noncommittal sound, her gaze lingering on him with evident curiosity.

“Anything else?” Joan’s hand tightened on the door handle.

“No, nothing else,” she replied quickly, sensing his impatience. “My name is Conti—Conti Powatan.”

Joan nodded, acknowledging he’d heard.

Conti was no fool; she could tell the aloof youth before her cared nothing for her name and only wished her gone so he could read in peace. She had never met anyone so peculiar, but forced a smile and asked, “May I ask, what’s your name?”

“Joan Vida.”

“‘Joan’? That sounds like a girl’s name,” Conti muttered under her breath.

Her reaction didn’t surprise him. His grandfather had given him the name, in memory of his late mother, Joan Tyrell. It didn’t bother him, just as he didn’t care about Conti’s own name. Names were mere labels to him; he would have preferred his own to go unspoken, his life undisturbed by others. Socializing had no place in his world—almost all his time and energy were devoted to the study of magic. Nothing else mattered.

“Joan, do you live alone?” Conti asked, still curious.

“My grandfather, Guillaume Tyrell, lives in the cottage out back.”

“May I visit Mr. Tyrell?”

“As you like.”

“I’ll go now, see you later.” Sensing his growing impatience, Conti wisely waved and skipped down the slope toward the wooden cottage, lively as a young deer.

…

Joan shut the door and exhaled deeply, returning to his ideal state—needing nothing from anyone, disturbed by no one.

Within five seconds, Conti was completely forgotten. Joan’s mind was once again wholly absorbed in the study of the cantrip “Ray of Frost.”

In the world of Vares, all magic—whether divine miracles or the arcana of mages—rested upon two fundamental elements: spell slots and spell configurations.

A spell slot was the wellspring of magical energy: like the surging river that drives a waterwheel, the roaring wind that turns a windmill, or the billowing steam powering an engine. This energy had no inherent attributes; mages could shape it into fire, ice, lightning, or other elemental forces, or use it to fuel non-destructive spells such as invisibility, transformation, or flight. Its application depended on the spell’s configuration.

Just as the energy that drives machinery comes not from the body but from nature, spell slots could not typically be generated within living beings—they were drawn from the “Weave,” the magical web that pervades the universe.

A “spellcaster” was simply someone capable of linking to the Weave and drawing spell slots from it.