Chapter 7: The Magic Web

The worlds within the multiverse are realms suffused with magic, where every existence is saturated with arcane power. Each stone, every stream, every living creature, and even the air itself harbors untapped potential energy. This primordial magic is the raw material of creation, as well as the latent consciousness slumbering within all things. It permeates every fragment of matter and manifests throughout the multiverse in countless forms of energy.

Mortals cannot wield this original magic directly, yet they can employ a woven magical structure to bridge the consciousness of the spellcaster and the primal substance of magic. Spellcasters call this bridge the Weave!

The deity who commands the true source of the Weave is known as Mystra, the Goddess of Magic.

Though spellcasters may name and understand this bridge in various ways, regardless of the terminology, without the Weave, the primordial magic remains locked and inaccessible. Not even the mightiest archmage could conjure a spark to light a candle where the Weave is severed.

But where the Weave embraces the world, a spellcaster can summon lightning to smite foes, teleport leagues away in an instant, or even reverse death itself.

All magic is intimately entwined with the Weave, though each spell interacts with it in its own fashion. The elves call their arts elven magic or life magic. The dwarves have their runes. The dragons, their draconic incantations. Clerics and divine agents, who channel the power of gods, call it divine magic. And so on.

...

Before him stretched a world of blinding whiteness—the ground a dense grid of lines, the sky a false blue. Born awoke, staring blankly at this cheap, special-effects world, at a loss for words to express his dismay.

Yet because this world was so obviously artificial, Born immediately recalled that he had been undergoing his magical “initiation.” This must be a place much like a dream, or perhaps akin to the inner worlds of tailed beasts in those ninja tales.

Born realized, to his chagrin, that he had been forgetting the real world, tempted to accept this false one—had the absurdity not jarred him to his core, he might never have noticed.

After walking a while, he more or less understood the situation. With a thought, his surroundings shifted once more. He found himself in a place reminiscent of a water prison, a vast iron gate looming ahead upon the water’s surface, a great seal inscribed at its heart—though no giant fox lay within.

“Is there only matter here?” Born stroked his chin thoughtfully. With a thought, a glass of animated, ice-cold soda appeared in his hand, fizzing merrily.

It was marvelous! Though, truth be told, it looked as though it had been painted by hand.

Sip after sip, the taste was there, but something was off… Then, he conjured a hamburger—again, it seemed plucked straight from a picture book. Born took a few bites, but soon his face darkened. The flavor was right, but there was no sense of fullness; it was as if he’d eaten nothing but air.

So it was all an illusion, capable of deceiving even the senses. What a wondrous world! A glutton’s paradise, where one could eat anything without worry.

Without dwelling on it, Born’s thoughts sparked another change: a towering tree appeared before him. A swirling blue orb of energy spun in his palm—he shouted, “Spiral Sphere!” and pressed it to the tree.

Crack! The tree toppled and vanished.

“That works too…” Born twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s try this,” he muttered. “Sword, come!”

“Ten Thousand Swords as One!”

...

“No good—the more complex, the more distorted it gets…” Later, Born imagined a giant mecha, but the style was so peculiar it resembled a child’s drawing.

Of course, if one overlooked the ghastly visuals, this place could satisfy any fantasy. With a wave of his hand, Born cleared everything away, returning to the original white, grid-lined, bargain-basement world. He conjured a cheap-effect lounge chair and lay back, rocking gently.

“It’s just like the little match girl from those fairy tales…”

“No, wait…”

“Matches? Fuel?”

“Where am I… how did I get here?”

“I am… Born Iolum, a count, my grandfather?!”

“Yes—the initiation ritual… I’m in the middle of the ceremony!”

Born remembered at last!

“So these grids are… the Weave?”

In his memory, the Weave was only a name—a symbol for the most primordial magic.

“So, is this the projection of my subconscious? If so, what about the deeper Weave…”

Born widened his eyes, peering through the white shell.

Suddenly, everything changed. The world became a riot of colors, the sky dazzling and wondrous.

There are countless hues in the world, yet the human eye cannot distinguish them all—our vision limited by the types of cone cells we possess. Most people are trichromatic (red, green, blue), perceiving a rainbow in seven colors under a prism’s light. At most, we see variations in shade.

But now, Born seemed to perceive more than a dozen colors! Most were gray, muted tones.

Inert elements!

Born understood instinctively; when he tried to sense them, the gray ones proved intangible—truly void—while the colored ones responded.

“Emotions?”

Even so, most of these colors “ignored” him. But the one akin to “flame” was more receptive—surely fire, whose warmth he could feel. Another, much like “blue,” tingled slightly—electricity?

He could not touch them with his hands, but by focusing, he discovered he could commune with them.

Yes, commune! The elements possessed consciousness! Some were lively, some showed surprising “intelligence,” while others were dull as wood.

Born tried drawing them into his body; though his spiritual form was illusory, he felt the elements coursing through him.

In that moment, Born felt like a kindergarten teacher, coaxing a band of colorfully dressed children—some obedient, who lingered; some who darted away the moment they entered; some who ignored him entirely and ran amok.

Those “children” who stayed gradually took on Born’s “color,” influenced by his emotions.

Magic power!

He understood at once—this was the true method! Now knowing what to do, Born devoted himself to communing with the elements, coaxing them in and transforming them into magic.

But soon, he felt something was wrong. His senses grew weaker, and he began to feel “tired.” Looking down, he noticed his form growing transparent.

“Mental exhaustion? That can’t be right—doesn’t meditation restore magic and the mind? Why am I depleted?”

Could it be another, subtler energy was being spent? Born recalled the materials his grandfather had placed on the ritual array.

He guessed that his current “spiritual” state was related to those materials. He needed to hurry and convert more magic—though the more “intelligent” elements yielded higher quality, they required more mental effort to coax, and Born had little remaining to spend. He could only gather the less “intelligent” ones to build up his reserves.

At last, when the final trace of energy was spent, magic filled only half his body.

In an instant, Born felt as if he’d been flung from a roller coaster—spun a hundred times in midair, then hurled to the ground.

Bang!

Born collapsed, overwhelmed by vertigo, as if the world spun endlessly.

He retched, but his stomach was empty. The count helped him up, soothing his head with a gentle hand. The dizziness and throbbing subsided.

He calmed himself.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Born said sincerely, grateful to the old man. He could already sense the new strength within him—magical power!

Now, possessing magic, he felt as though his soul had been cleansed, the veil over it lifted, and the world shone in new beauty. He understood: he had truly become part of this world; it no longer rejected him. His soul and body were finally united.

Even a master of souls would not detect anything amiss in him.

His grandfather’s eyes shone with the radiance of magic, as if to see through him, but at last he nodded in satisfaction.

“Good! Excellent! You already have the magic of an intermediate apprentice!”

Even an ignoramus would realize how extraordinary this “initiation ritual” was. To complete it was to possess the power of an intermediate magic apprentice, skipping the long accumulation of initial magic entirely—learn a spell, and he could cast it at once!

Reality is not like a game, where every character is a professional, and one can cast spells simply by having the right attributes. With effort, an ordinary person might become a soldier or a guard, but few ever break their limits to become professionals; those with the gift for magic are rarer still. Even among elves, advanced spellcasters are but a minority.

The key is entry—without it, one cannot even find the path, no matter how hard one tries.

For some reason, Born’s head grew heavy, his body swayed uncontrollably, and darkness claimed him. The count seemed prepared and caught him up immediately.

Seeing the count carry Born out, Viscount Gordon hurried to meet them. Though the count remained as aloof as ever, the faint smile at his lips assured Gordon that all had gone well—he broke into a wide grin himself.

...

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