On the first day of our arrival here, all the basic knowledge about the local language was simply... imposed on our heads. Just like that, without ceremony. As if someone had shoved a dictionary and an entire grammar book straight into our brains — and yes, it hurt. Convenient, of course, but I wonder about the real cost of this.
They say that the less intelligent a person is, the more mana is spent on this type of forced knowledge transfer. Which, if true, is both funny and sad. I hope I wasn't too expensive.
By the way, mana here is a state resource. Yes, you heard right: state. It's almost like electricity in certain worlds, or oil in others — but here, the government measures, regulates, and even charges for how much magic you breathe. Although the air is literally saturated with mana, people have not yet been able to invent an efficient way to extract it directly from the atmosphere.
So, to meet the demand, many people work part-time as mana donors. They sit in collection centers, with crystals connected to their bodies, slowly draining their reserves for a few coins. It's like selling blood... only more magical. And less hygienic.
I myself have considered the possibility. I mean, sitting in a chair and getting paid for it seems like a good deal. But the idea of someone sucking the life force out of my body in the name of the "collective good" gives me the creeps. I still prefer carrying bags or chopping wood.
For now.
Although, while studying runology, I had already thought of several ways to extract mana directly from the air. Only here, doing so would be practically a crime — or, at the very least, an academic scandal.
Runology, to tell the truth, is frighteningly similar to programming in my home world. Lines of symbols with internal logic, command flows, input and output parameters... The difference is that instead of running on silicon, the programs run on the fabric of reality. Here, to start a runic formula — something equivalent to running a program — you "fill" it with mana, like charging a battery before turning it on. And voilà. Magic.
My father, in the other world, was a passionate programmer. I grew up alongside him, surrounded by screens with lines of code flashing. At eight years old, I was already writing silly little games, the kind that only make sense to those who have more fun creating than playing. I never understood why he insisted on teaching me, until the day he handed me a code and asked me to debug it. I still remember his words: "If you understand the error, you're already ahead of a lot of people."
At the time, I thought it was just a hobby between father and son. But now, ironically, it's one of the few things that really gives me an advantage in this world.
In runology class, the irony was even more striking. The teachers strictly forbade us from trying to combine runes on our own — as if we had the mental age to play with fire without knowing what combustion was. They claimed it was dangerous. I understood. But what made me nervous was the fact that they themselves could barely explain the rules of rune combination. It was like watching someone trying to teach programming without understanding what a variable is.
Of course, I obeyed. In theory. On paper. But my mind worked on its own. I mentally wrote combinations, tested logic, put together sequences... and the more I did that, the more I realized that the magical system of this world is buggy. Incomplete. And maybe, just maybe, I could write my own "operating system."
But that's for later. For now, I'm just another skinny peasant looking for a place to sleep and a hot meal.
"I have several books. If you can rewrite them for sale, I'll give you gold or a share of the sale, the choice is yours. Or you can help at the school, there aren't enough teachers there. So?" said Uncle Toy, with the same unshakeable expression as always, as if he were offering me two equally mundane options.
I paused for a moment. Teach advanced math to wild children or hunch over old, moldy pages day and night?
We'll teach calculus to the little devils in the village? Imagine the scene: a bunch of brats with paint on their faces and sticks in their hands learning logarithms. Tempting. But... books seem safer to me. And lonely. And quiet.
Besides, I can make hidden notes. Study the structures of magical writing, the runes... Who knows, maybe I'll discover a trick or two?
"I agree to try to rewrite the books," I replied, with a restrained half-smile. (For now), I thought.
He nodded, satisfied, and declared with the same calmness:
"Great. I'm the chief of this village, so you can live with me."
...Of course he's the chief of the village. Why wouldn't he be?
I really should stop judging people by their appearance — or maybe continue judging, but be prepared to be wrong all the time.
And so, with a vague promise of intellectual work and a guaranteed bed, I was officially infiltrated into the camp.
"Eh? Boss?" I repeated, feigning surprise, while raising an eyebrow. "So you let a stranger into your house just like that, without further ado?"
He just looked at me, as if the question made no sense at all.
So that's how things work around here. Openness, hospitality... or an almost uncomfortable trust. Maybe it's part of the village culture. But for some reason, it only served to further heighten my paranoia.
Now I can't get the idea out of my head that everyone in this village is actually a retired gangster. All that's missing is for the local baby to have the same double chin and the same heavy gaze under thick eyebrows. A little ball wrapped in blankets, staring at you as if it knows exactly where you hid the body.
Brrr. I shivered just thinking about it.
We arrived at the village under the cover of night. The dim light from the lamps flickered in the small windows of the huts — well, "huts" would be generous. They were simple structures, made of rough wood, with thatched roofs and a weathered appearance. All of them... except one.
The chief's house was a palace in comparison. Two windows per room, freshly painted walls, and a roof that didn't look like it was about to cave in at the slightest gust of wind. I almost felt bad for not taking off my shoes when I entered. It was clearly the village mansion — and, as I was told, it also served as a school.
And that's where the little incident happened.
As soon as we crossed the threshold, I heard a muffled noise, like the sound of wood creaking under pressure. Suddenly, a thin voice shouted:
"Intruders! Daddy brought a bandit home!"
I looked ahead only to see a child running toward me, wielding a wooden spoon like a sword.
"Wait! I'm a guest!" I raised my hands, backing away.
Uncle Toy let out a low grunt, almost a sigh, and grabbed the child by the collar with one hand, lifting him off the ground as if he were a rebellious sack of flour.
"This is the new scribe," he said, as casually as someone announcing that dinner is ready.
The child looked at me, still dangling in the air, then at his father, and finally muttered:
"He really looks like a bandit..."
I let out a nervous laugh, trying not to think about the fact that this child had the same piercing gaze and broad chin as his father.
Yes. It's decided. This whole village looks like a mafia clan disguised as farmers.