Vol 1 Chapter 4 – Childhood: The Spring at Age Seven

Good news. At age seven, I saw “magic” for the first time.

Magic is the quintessential element of fantasy, featured not only in TRPGs but in countless other fantasy works.

It heals wounds, repels foes, soothes nature, and even creates potent medicines.

In every world, magic is highly valued and plays a pivotal role. I, myself, have created and portrayed characters who wield magic in role-playing games more times than I can count.

There have been stories of a village boy mage—only modestly bright—who became an adventurer chasing after his childhood friend, a magic swordsman exiled from his village for being born heretical who took up adventuring for a living, or even a doctor who, at forty, became an adventurer to extend the lifespan of his artificially created, short-lived companion.

In such stories, magic proves useful in various situations and sometimes even causes a ruckus. I already knew from my status that this wonderful thing called magic existed in this world, but…

Unfortunately, in this world—with its strangely harsh settings—it was regarded as an extremely rare skill.

Today is the beginning of spring. The harsh winter is over, the snow has melted, and it is a ritual day when we plow the warmed earth to pray to the God of Abundance for a year of peace. There’s also a modest clearance sale of preserved feast foods, which serves as an excuse to drink party wine in the village square, and it was there that I saw magic.

But it wasn’t any impressive magic. It happened at a small open-air market set up by one of the merchant caravans—which had resumed operations in early spring and, taking advantage of the festival, had set up stalls to earn a little extra coin.

An old man, apparently a scribe-magician attached to the caravan, pulled some powder from a small bag—and then fireworks shot up. It seems such displays are usually done at the behest of a magistrate or priest, and they constitute one of the income sources for magicians.

At that moment, I was filled with great hope, thinking that maybe, like other skills, I might unlock the ability to use magic.

But, unfortunately, it did not work that way.

The good news quickly turned to bad news. Amid the excited group of children clamoring for the magician to show us more, I asked how one could learn magic, and the old man gave me a cold dose of reality.

“That’s right… kid, how many moons do you see?”

Smiling as he asked, I, like the other children, answered “one.”

Wait—hold on. I’m pretty sure there were quite a few locked magic skills with names that involved the moon. Does that mean magicians see a second moon—or even more?

However, he didn’t give a specific answer about the moon; instead, he smiled pityingly and patted my head. The other children said it was weird and went off to the other stalls, but stubborn as I was, I just couldn’t bring myself to leave.

“Well, just wait a minute. I’ve got work to do.”

That old man must have been a good soul—he didn’t chase me away and even took the time to talk to me after the fireworks were finished.

Once he had used all the powder, the old man quickly cleaned his hands with a water bottle and a hand towel, then took out his well-worn pipe from his pocket. With practiced ease, he packed tobacco into it and started speaking.

“Kid, what I just showed you isn’t magic—it’s sorcery. Either way, it’s not something you can master overnight.”

“What do you mean?”

When I asked, the old man lit a flame on his fingertip, touched it to his pipe to ignite the tobacco, and then laughed.

“Can you tell the difference between magic and sorcery?”

Admitting honestly, “I don’t know,” is the first step toward becoming a sage. I could have speculated, but without offering any half-baked theory, I simply shook my head.

“Sorcery is about harnessing natural elements, whereas magic is about bending nature to your will.”

Breaking it down in my own way: sorcery is a technique that uses the magical energy flowing within you as fuel and catalyst to trigger chemical reactions. Magic, however, is a method of twisting the very laws that govern this world—for instance, the concept that objects are drawn downward by gravity—by means of magical energy.

Even with fire, the results are completely different: whether it is the chemical reaction of combustion that the old man ignited on his finger or the imbuement of the concept of burning.

Sorcery’s fire burns not only the tobacco leaves inside the pipe but also scorches the pipe itself and consumes the surrounding oxygen, ultimately being nothing more than a chemical reaction.

In contrast, with magical fire—if the old man intends for only the tobacco leaves to burn and designs his incantation accordingly—then only the tobacco leaves burn. The pipe doesn’t scorch, and oxygen isn’t consumed; however, once the magical energy within the incantation is exhausted, the fire vanishes completely. Even if burning tobacco leaves remain, magical fire will persist regardless of the absence of oxygen or even in a downpour, continuing until the magical energy runs out or the caster dispels the incantation.

Though the actions seem similar, the outcomes are completely different. For example, if used as an attack, the fire from sorcery could be extinguished by rolling on the ground, but magical fire wouldn’t be snuffed out by rolling or covering it with soil. When you think about it, that’s an incredibly terrifying form of attack.

As I was impressed, the old man moved the conversation to the next stage: how to actually use magic.

Apparently, it’s not enough just to have magical energy to use magic or sorcery.

Every living creature contains magical energy; while there may be differences in quantity, no one is completely devoid of it. It’s simply a matter of the total amount stored and the maximum output at any given moment—like comparing the capacity of a water tank to the size of its faucet.

So, what sets a magician apart from a non-magician is whether they possess the “eyes” to discern the elements necessary for an incantation. Magicians, with their special vision, see the “structure of the world” and weave their incantations as though they were knitting.

That’s why they ask how many moons you see in the first place.

Some are born with these eyes open, while others have them awaken later due to some trigger. And among humans, the latter is overwhelmingly common; even though there is an artificial method to awaken them, it hardly ever works, the old man said, with a kindness as if he were consoling a stubborn child.

The reason was obvious: it’s more convenient if magic and sorcery are treated as specialized techniques.

If everyone could use magic or sorcery, its value would drop. Naturally, the power of the nobles who seem to rely on it would wane, and the influence of magicians would also decline, so there’d be no advantage to making it widely accessible.

So they all agree to keep it a secret from anyone who isn’t in on the plan.

Moreover, this technique is extremely difficult to handle. Imagine if someone, having awakened their magical energy without being able to control it, unleashed a flame that wouldn’t die down or triggered an enormous explosion—not just a house burning down, but potentially an entire estate or town being wiped out. That makes the desire to keep it secret entirely understandable.

That’s why magic users keep their techniques secret, and merely being exposed to magic doesn’t unlock magic-related skills.

In truth, one can awaken it without anyone’s instruction. The first magicians likely experienced a sort of spontaneous enlightenment, and it’s a natural occurrence. I, too, had discovered traits and skills that weren’t locked and could be awakened on my own, but I steered clear of that because it was inefficient.

Magical or sorcerous abilities that are self-awakened not only have a low 《Activation Success Rate》, but also poor energy efficiency, and moreover, they are subject to high variances in all sorts of checks like 《Accuracy》 and 《Damage》.

And I’m a firm believer in fixed values. Unfortunately, I didn’t want to devote my proficiency to such inefficient, randomness-reliant skills. If the base values were ordinary and the growth high, that might have been acceptable, but the reverse was utterly unsuitable for an unlucky guy like me. If only I had a decent 《Luck》 stat, it might have been worth considering.

So, how does one properly learn it?

The answer is obvious: you have to pay up.

There are two options: either become an apprentice to a magician, or enroll in the mage bureaucrat training program—which is attached to the state institution known as the Imperial Academy of Magic that gathers magical knowledge and technology. Either way, you’ll need an astronomical amount of money—an amount so high that even if you sold the cultivation rights to your farmland, you wouldn’t come close to it.

“It’s impossible for me…?”

“Well, that’s how it is, kid. I’m sorry… I don’t even have the energy to take on an apprentice at my age anymore.”

The old man smiled apologetically and took a puff. Then, he glanced around and reached into his pocket.

“Hmm, since I just told you something not so good, can you keep it a secret from everyone?”

I nodded without hesitation at his mischievous proposal. The way I bobbed my head up and down made me look every bit like a seven-year-old, no acting required.

“Alright, then, here you go. This is something I no longer need.”

He pulled out an old, worn ring from his pocket and gently let me hold it. It was of an indescribable color—somewhere between silver and lead—without any gems or embellishments, yet it was heavy for its plain appearance. At my size, it was clearly meant for an adult, since even my thumb would be too small.

“If fate wills it, that ring will lend you its strength.”

“Thank you, old man. But why something like this…?”

“Old junk?”

I shook my head vigorously. For a moment, I thought, maybe it isn’t really what it looks like.

After all, a ring given by an old man who seems like a proper magician—you’d expect it to be a crucial key item, right?

“Something this splendid…”

The old man chuckled and exhaled smoke at my remark.

“It’s something I used when I was young. It’s just that—it’s a ring of little value.”

I thought it was a pretty unique item, though. In TRPG clichés, this old man would be a great sage—maybe even named Wiseman—and the ring would be crafted with lost technology from a thousand years ago, one of those classic tropes. Then, when someone knowledgeable sees it, they’d exclaim, “That is…?!” I know my stuff.

“Well, you never know what might draw you into the world of magic; it might just call forth some strange fate.”

With a playful grin, he patted my head again. Then, he scooped another handful of powder from his bag and told me to scram because he still had work to do.

It was a spring where I received both good news and bad news at the same time—and I acquired something important…

【Tips】Some species require a focusing implement to activate magic, while others do not; humans are in the former group. Additionally, in sorcery, the use of catalysts—chemicals that assist the underlying reactions—can lead to greater energy efficiency and enhanced power.

In fact, I witnessed miracles even before I encountered magic. And, being Japanese, I am quite devout; whether or not it brings practical benefits, I have a deep-seated inclination to worship higher beings.

I do feel that way, but…

“Ah… something about upper-world clients…”

Ever since I heard that divine message—a prophecy, really—from the God of Abundance during Sabbath Mass when I was five, I’ve had this nagging thought: might my faith be nothing more than a way of offloading pressure onto the subcontractors? That subtle feeling led me to secretly acquire the 《Faith》 category skill that designates a primary deity.

From what I learned with interest from the priests, the religion of this world is basically polytheistic, without a structured mythos. Given that truly powerful beings actually exist, it all makes sense.

That said, it’s not as if there are no beings who claim to be the one all-knowing, all-powerful god, nor that there aren’t any followers of such a deity. Surely, there must have been some good souls in this world who walked on lakes or turned stones into bread.

However, their power is limited to this world. They aren’t universal gods like Bodhisattvas or Shiva; instead, they are local deities who, by honing their abilities as higher beings of this world, earn the right to create a “new world,” as stated in the flavor text of the upper-tier faith skill.

In short, although my memory has grown faint and blurred, it seems that the Bodhisattva’s single word “outsourcing” was not a lie. The world of gods is so unforgiving that it brings tears to your eyes.

Ever since I received that divine oracle and unlocked my faith skills, I felt this unspoken preferential treatment—a kind of “connection”—that made me reluctant to reach out too eagerly. It’s just like when a newcomer at a company is rumored to have gotten in through the chairman’s family connections.

Both situations are just as awkward.

I do recognize the convenience of the faith category. A higher being—a god—brings miracles to the world through his power, a sacred rite granted to the devout. Naturally, unlike magic, it doesn’t require magical energy; its potency depends solely on the depth of one’s faith and devotion.

Furthermore, since the act itself is executed by the god’s authority, there’s no risk of an activation failure (though accuracy and resistance are another matter), and the energy efficiency is superb.

But… I just can’t shake this uneasy feeling, stemming from the clash between my Japanese religious tolerance and my experiences working as a trading company employee.

And the fact that the basic faith skills are set at a rather low cost can’t help but feel intentional. As a result, even though faith-based skills are by no means weak, they’ve become a lower priority for me.

It’s not like using magic locks you out of faith or anything, so I figured relying on divine favor might not be such a bad idea. But then, at the spring festival, I saw a priest perform a miracle—transforming scattered clumps of earth into flower petals—and it left me with a bitter feeling…