Chapter 02. The Rules Of Street Fighting
"What is your name, young man?"
Nobody had called him young in ages. The thought made Adom chuckle, earning him a sharp look from the nurse.
A movement near the door caught his attention - the nurse's familiar, a large Sunhound whose name danced frustratingly at the edge of his memory.
What was his name again? Buddy? Bailey? Something with B...
The creature was watching him with unusual intensity, his head tilted in that peculiar way animals do when they sense something isn't quite right.
"Adom Sylla, ma'am." The words came automatically while his eyes wandered, trying not to meet the Sunhound's unnervingly perceptive gaze.
The infirmary smelled exactly as he remembered - bitter herbs and sweet-scented healing potions, with that underlying tang of antiseptic magic that always made his nose itch.
Afternoon light streamed through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced in the air and making the Sunhound's fur shimmer like gold. He'd forgotten about those windows, how they filled the room with golden light at this hour.
"Is something wrong, Biscuit?" The nurse asked, noticing her familiar's unusual behavior.
Biscuit! That was it. The name clicked into place in Adom's mind with an almost physical sensation of relief.
The Sunhound's nose twitched, and Adom could feel the creature's innate magic reaching out, sensing... something. Something different. Something changed. Sunhounds were known for their ability to detect illness and magical anomalies - it was why they made such excellent familiars for healers. But surely it couldn't...
Adom looked away.
There were the familiar white curtains separating the beds, starched so stiffly they could probably stand on their own. And those shelves - rows upon rows of colored bottles, their contents shimmering with barely contained alchemy. Blue for mana restoration, red for blood replenishment, that peculiar shade of green for bone-mending...
"And what day is it?"
"Fifth of Sapin." His gaze caught on the ceiling beams. Dark wood, worn smooth by centuries of magic. How many generations of students had laid here, staring up at those same beams?
"Year?"
"847 After Restoration." He'd always wondered about that crack in the third beam that looked exactly like a dragon. Strange how some memories stay with you, crystal clear, while others...
"And who is our current Archmage?"
"Sir Gaius the..." Adom caught himself just in time. Sir Gaius the Dead, his mind supplied. Sir Gaius the Betrayed. Sir Gaius whose body would be found in three years, after...
"...the Wise," he finished smoothly.
The nurse - Miss Thornheart, that was her name - narrowed her eyes at his hesitation. She'd been old when he was young (the first time), her hair already steel-grey and pulled back in that severe bun. But her hands were steady as she held up her wand, its tip glowing with diagnostic light.
Ah, wands. He hadn't seen one in years - they'd fallen out of fashion in his time, as wand and staff users became increasingly rare. Not by choice, of course.
Hard to maintain a tradition when most of its practitioners were dead.
Wands were mainly used by those who struggled with manual spell-weaving - the "spell-dyslexic" as some unkindly called them - and first years just starting to learn the basics of magic. The runic inscriptions helped focus and guide the mana flow that some mages couldn't naturally control with their hands. So strange seeing one here now.
So strange seeing everything here.
Miss Thornheart sighed, finally lowering her wand. "He seems perfectly fine, Professor Crowley. Just a mild concussion. A night's rest should set him right."
Professor Crowley, shifted uncomfortably, his dark robes rustling. "Are you certain this isn't a case of..." He hesitated, then leaned closer to Miss Thornheart's ear, "possession?"
The nurse's expression hardened. "That was the first thing I checked when you brought him in, babbling about being 'back'. The diagnostic showed nothing unusual. No foreign essences, no spiritual intrusion. He's perfectly normal."
Crowley turned to Adom, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. "Then what was that about, young man? That shout about being 'back'?"
Adom managed what he hoped was a suitably embarrassed smile. "I... got knocked out, sir. Wasn't thinking straight when I came to."
He couldn't exactly tell them he'd traveled decades back in time. They'd either think he was mentally unstable - and wouldn't that be an interesting first day back? - or assume he was making light of serious magical principles.
Or worse, label him a deviant.
The Three Absolute Rules of magic were drilled into every mage from their first day: Nothing is created, everything is transformed. Death is irreversible. Time is uncontrollable.
These weren't just theoretical principles - they were fundamental laws that defined the boundaries between responsible magic use and dangerous deviation. Breaking them wasn't just impossible; the mere suggestion of trying marked you as someone who couldn't be trusted with magic.
Luckily enough, even the mad respected these boundaries. The last recorded attempt to break them was some 800 years ago - a rather unfortunate case of 'skill issue', as modern mages would say. So at least no one's first thought upon hearing him say "I'm back" would be time travel.
Time travel, in particular, was considered dangerous nonsense, the kind of thing that got you funny looks in the better cases and serious discussions about your fitness to study magic in the worse ones.
For the absolute worst case, as a deviant, you'd find yourself having a very final discussion with the Mage Council's executioner. They were quite efficient about it too - no dramatic trials, no last words. Just a very quick solution to a very dangerous problem.
Adom almost smiled at the irony. He'd spent years believing the same thing, dismissing the very notion as absurd.
Then he broke the Second and Third Rules an hour ago.
Which in itself would be fine to explain if he could prove it. Not that he could - or should. That would involve explaining things to people who solved magical anomalies by removing them permanently.
Well, in their defense, when entire civilizations are wiped out overnight and continents reshape themselves because someone decided to be "innovative" with these rules, you tend to take them seriously. The Fourth Age ended that way. And the Third. And the Second.
The ruins of those ancient magical societies stood as silent warnings, their perfectly circular voids in reality still studied by modern mages. So their zealousness in enforcing these rules was... understandable.
"Must have been quite a knock to the head," Crowley muttered, not quite convinced.
"You have no idea," Adom grinned, then noticed both adults staring at him with unsettled expressions. Right. Teenagers didn't usually respond to authority figures with knowing grins.
He swung his legs off the bed. "I'm leaving now-" The words were out before he could stop them, and he immediately saw Professor Crowley's eyebrows shoot up while Miss Thornheart's lips pressed into a thin line.
Decades of being an accomplished mage, of making his own decisions, of being the authority figure - he'd completely forgotten how these interactions were supposed to go.
Students didn't announce their departures to professors; they asked permission. Basic manners that had been drilled into him as a child, now completely forgotten in the habits of adulthood.
Adom caught himself and cleared his throat, fighting back another inappropriate grin. "I mean... may I be excused, Miss Thornheart? Professor?"
The nurse's expression had shifted from stern to oddly curious, while Crowley was looking at him as if he'd grown a second head.
Adom gestured vaguely at his own temple, forcing an apologetic smile. "The concussion, remember?"
The excuse was becoming quite convenient, really.
Biscuit finally seemed to make up his mind, padding over to Adom and pressing his warm nose against his hand. Whatever the Sunhound had sensed earlier appeared to have been dismissed as non-threatening, though Miss Thornheart's thoughtful expression suggested she'd be keeping a closer eye on her newest patient.
Much to Adom's displeasure.
"You may go, Mr. Sylla. Please be careful, and you do not have to come to tomorrow's practice. Get some rest."
"Thank you, Professor." And then Adom ran.
He ran.
Here's the thing about running: when you've spent decades barely able to walk, dragging yourself around in a wheelchair, watching your body betray you bit by bit... well, running becomes something of a dream.
A half-forgotten memory that makes your heart ache. Young people at the Xerkes Celestial Academy of Mystical Arts or for short, Xerkes, took it for granted - this ability to just pick up your feet and move, to feel the wind in your face, to cover distance with nothing but the strength of your own legs.
Adom ran through the courtyard, his feet pounding against the ancient stones, past startled students with their various familiars.
Xerkes had only one rule about familiars: as long as it didn't burn or kill other students or furniture, and could fit in a classroom, it was allowed.
Hmm. That was two rules...
Anyway.
Students stared at the weird kid sprinting and laughing like a maniac. He didn't care. He ran in place, feeling his muscles respond instantly, perfectly, no pain, no stiffness, no betrayal. Just pure, beautiful motion.
The late afternoon sun cast the Academy's white towers in gold, their spiral tips reaching into the cloudy sky like they always had.
“Sylla,” someone greeted with a nod, while another called out, “Watch it, Sylla!” as he nearly collided with them. He waved a quick apology, laughing as he ran on. Snatches of conversation followed him—“Is he racing death?”—and a few curious glances turned his way - children who would become colleagues, rivals, friends, some even enemies.
But right now, they were just confused teenagers watching another teenager have what appeared to be a mental breakdown in the middle of the school grounds.
It felt like flying. It felt like freedom. It felt like a dream.
Except it wasn't a dream. And that? That was even better.
"Hey, shrimp!"
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Adom stopped automatically, his body responding before his mind could intervene. What was that called again? Ah yes, reflexes, and in this case, it seemed his body was still wired in a way that made him answer to specific things still.
A habit he would have to correct soon.