A new Change

Amelia—daughter of Connor, [Hunter] from the village Fallstrand—was having a good day. Warm anticipation bubbled up as she sat at her desk, reviewing her scroll a final time. A month of dedicated, singular study and she was finally ready to attempt a [Fireball].

In the year and a half since she had arrived at Panmore Academy in the city of Kingsheart of the Osmond Kingdom, she had never quite felt comfortable with the Kingsguards' determination that she should pursue being a [Mage]. Yes, her INT and WIS were relatively high, but that didn't actually mean she understood anything about magic.

Not that many did. While some Classes, such as the (common) [Shaman] Class used magic, they did not purport to study and understand it like the (very rare) [Mage] Class. But, the [Mage] Class had only arisen a century ago with the first King Osmond, when—instead of the [Shaman] (common) Class he sought—he was offered the [Mage] (very rare) magical Class (though scholars continue to argue why there did not seem to be a (rare) magic Class between [Shaman] and [Mage]). With it, he eventually claimed leadership of his village and began a three decade campaign to conquer the surrounding lands to establish the first kingdom of the Eurial continent. While there were many speculations as to what King Osmond had done to acquire the [Mage] Class, any knowledge he had was considered a royal secret, and the few [Mages] that had appeared since then had been quickly subsumed to His Majesty's Service or killed.

But, King Osmond's grandson—[King] Osmond III—was ambitious if anything. Though he himself lacked the personal power of his grandfather—[King] was a leader-style Class—he recognized the potential of the [Mage] Class and sought to encourage the development of patriotic, loyal citizens who could acquire it.

Hence the establishment of Panmore Academy. Identified gifted children of ten to twelve winters were ordered to attend with a specialized curriculum based on a sanitized version of the first King Osmond's personal letters on the subject.

And thus, only eighteen months ago, Amelia found herself enrolled—and bewildered—at Panmore at twelve years of age. Well, almost thirteen, but no one was counting. Her lessons since then had been bumbling affairs. For so long, she was convinced that she didn't belong there, but all her inquiries to her professors and tutors were turned sideways. New low after new low of self-confidence was hit as her studies failed to teach her an inkling of magic.

But now? At least, she was ready for [Fireball].

She didn't think she really understood magic. But she thought she understood [Fireball] enough to pull it off, even without the Skill. Or, really, any help from the Voice of the World, or, as it liked to call itself, the System. Actually, ever since Amelia learned to read, the Voice of the World had presented itself in visual format to her eyes, so really she ought to stop calling it that.

But, if casting a spell was a prerequisite to taking the [Mage] Class, she really could understand why no humans on Eurial had gotten the Class before the Founder. With only her general [Human] skills available, she had nothing to help with the process: she first had to learn to adequately manipulate her mana (which was a right bastard), then she had to manually manipulate the mana in just the right way to fill out the spellform, and then pump it full of mana until it cast. And, if it didn't blow up, she might just cast it or it could just fizzle. But if she did cast it, and she was lucky, she'd acquire the [Fireball] Skill. And then, once she finally hit "adulthood"—however the System measured that—and was allowed a Class, she'd finally be offered [Mage].

But these idle thoughts? She was procrastinating. She knew the spellform. She'd practiced her mana manipulation until she was blue in the face. (And why wasn't mana manipulation a skill! Ugh.). She knew what she had to do, and there was no choice but to get to it.

Rolling up the scroll she was studying, she hopped out of her desk chair, out the room, down the hall, through the doors, and began making her way across the Academy grounds to the practice fields. If she failed, there was a very strict policy of where you were allowed to accidentally blow yourself up, and if she survived, she didn't need another round of punishment from the deans.

She had just found an empty target range, when a voice called out to her.

"Yo, Raspberry!"

Oh no. Not again. "Hello, Pithia." Amelia began politely, turning around to face her and her friends, Melita and Thalia. "How is your day today?"

"Oh, not bad," Pithia waved nonchalantly, then showed her teeth. "But I just discovered an even better reason to call you Raspberry than your hair."

Amelia flinched back at that comment. She loved her curly, red hair and couldn't understand for the life of her why Pithia would bully her about it. But she wasn't sure she wanted to know another reason. "And that is?" she asked hesitatingly.

"'Cause it's the same size as your chest!" Pithia barked out, and her two goons joined her in cackling.

Crossing her arms in front of said chest, Amelia replied morosely. "That's mean. Why do you have to be so mean?"

"Because Raspberry," Pithia growled out, then pinched Amelia's ear to bring it closer. "You're stupid. And because you're stupid, you're weak. This ain't your little village anymore and you can't just get by with that pretty face of yours. And I'm keen to be a good teacher to you for that." And with that parting shot, Pithia turned on her heels and left, followed closely by her goons.

Amelia stood there a moment, rubbing her sore ear and muttering. "Stupid Pithia. I'm not stupid, you're stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid..."

Turning back to the target range, Amelia took several deep breaths, calming down and picturing the spellform in her mind. Then, pulling out just a teensy bit of mana, she began to fill in the edges of the spellform. She worked and worked for what seemed like hours, but was only minutes, and once she was satisfied that the spellform was correctly edged in, she started pumping mana into it. Five units, ten units, twenty units, thirty units… forty units of mana, and the spellform flared to life, spinning itself around into a tight ball, flaming alight, and shooting down the target range like a swift falcon.

"I did it? I really did it! Whoo-hoo!"

She had missed the target. But that day,

Ding!

Amelia received the Skill [Fireball].

The next few months passed in a blur. Successfully learning a magic spell and receiving the Skill for it was considered the most important step for a student at the Academy. With the Skill at hand, now Amelia was no longer just a drafted student, she was a [Mage]-candidate—though such a thing was not recognized by the System per se. And, as a more visceral pleasure, Pithia stopped bothering her.

Even if Amelia wasn't a [Mage] yet, picking on someone with [Fireball] could end poorly

With her worries out of the way and the path to graduation cleared, Amelia finally found she could relax a little after a grueling eighteen months. While she still had studies, she found she could enjoy the purely academic side of it for once. And, with the academy being in Kingsheart—first and largest city on the Eurial continent—she found the time and attention to enjoy what it had to offer. Not mere [Leatherworkers], but [Tailors] working the finest furs, leathers, and—something new!—cloth into the loveliest outfits. Not mere [Bakers], but [Confectioners] making cakes and pastries. Not the village head telling stories thrice a year, but an actual [Performer] Class regaling the public daily with the greatest comedies and tragedies she had ever heard.

Life was good.

Until, one day, while studying in the library, she doubled over as a massive pain swept through her abdomen. Willing the pain away, she looked around bewildered as no one else there had been affected.

Then, a second wave of pain swept through her abdomen, and an awful keening noise reached her ears. A few heads began to turn her direction, worry creeping onto their faces.

What's wrong with me? Did I eat something bad? I better get to the infirmary, she thought as she staggered to her feet, and began to slowly move towards the exit. She had only taken a few steps though, when a third wave of pain passed through her and, with a cry, she fell unconscious.

Amelia's next conscious thought was her noticing it was dark. Not the dark of a closed room or of night, but the dark of being asleep. But Amelia was very clearly not asleep. Or, at least, was conscious, and so she was puzzled.

Finally, a flash of light blinded her a moment as the familiar view of the System came before her. But, with her Status page, came a notification in a language she could not read.

Monitio: Trait quibus sumpturi solet causa: temeraria, alvaria, prurit, papulas, rectitudo in thorace vel gutture, angustia spirandi, equinitatis, tumidusque, ieiunium pulsatio, vertiginis, egressus, debilitatem, sollicitus, esuriem, et mortis. Velit ante cognovimus esse.

[Cognovit] [1]

She looked over it thrice before seeing if there was any way for her to interact with it, and, other than simply hiding it for later review, the only option was something else she could not read. With little else to do—and a hint of recklessness—Amelia pressed the button.

Suddenly, the entirety of the System snapped away, and Amelia was left in the dark of her conscious unconsciousness—or whatever it was—yet again. She tried calling up her Status, but nothing happened. None of her other senses picked up anything, not even though, so she wasn't sure if she had a body or not, which lent itself towards the dream idea.

The lack of sensation was disturbing. But, after a bit of experimentation on what she could do, she found that she could speak to herself. And so, as time dripped away coldly, she soon started humming to herself various rhymes from childhood, if only to keep the fear at bay. She was just starting on the third rhyme—about [Farmer] John and his [Chickens]—when her Status page snapped back, though it looked different. For starters, whereas before the Status page had always appeared like high-quality parchment, now it was blue. Well, it was still parchment, but the parchment was blue! And what had been beautiful cursive writing, was now comprised of blocky letters, which only after staring at them for several minutes did she realize it was still the [Ostesh] alphabet that she wrote in. They had become simplified and disjointed. Cold, methodical. Efficient.

She wasn't sure she liked it.

But, once she got used to it, she started reading. Nothing about the actual contents of her Status had changed. So she tried pulling up her notifications log and it responded, though in the new format. Reviewing the entries, the only things that stood out was one line in the same mysterious language as that prior notification, followed by a second line in the same language. She presumed the latter reflected whatever she had done to the first notification.

As she sat—or whatever she was doing in this odd place—a notification appeared.

Ding!

You have gained the following Trait:

[Reincarnator] (unique): Upon death, your soul is returned to the world as a newborn with your memories, Traits, and Skills intact.

[Reincarnator]? Amelia had never heard of that Trait before. It is labeled (unique), which means it must be powerful. But what was that about death? I don't want to die! I have so much to do. My family, my magic. Serving my country. Maybe even find a Mr. Amelia when I'm older. What is going on? How could—

At that point,

Ding!

You have died.

What?!

Name: Amelia (Level 12)

Race: [Human] (Level 12)

Class: [ ]

Unspent Experience: 7800

HP: 0/21

MP: 220/220

CON: 6

STR: 7

DEX: 11

INT: 21

WIS: 21

CHA: 12

Free: 0

Traits: [Reincarnator], [Studious]

General Skills: [Fireball 1], [Cooking 7], [Cleaning 6], [Ostesh 40], [Planning 12], [Learning 19], [Eating 4]

Class Skills: []

Skill Points (SKP): General 3

v. 0.76a