Dreams Beyond the Sea
Over those years, I learned a great deal. The land that had been my entire world turned out to be just a tiny fragment of the vast globe. This endless expanse was a single massive island—a remote speck clinging to the edge of the continent, barren of resources and shunned by all as worthless wilderness. The moment I grasped the world's true scale, ambition stirred within me. I want to go out there. This cramped place no longer felt right for me.
But there was only one way off the island. Though close to the continent, it was cut off by treacherous deep seas. I had to board the airship that came every twenty years. Swimming or sailing was unthinkable—the ocean teemed with grotesque monsters that preyed on humans. Even Nanny's husband had vanished, dragged off by some unknown sea beast.
"Of course, I could cross it," Ojo said, claiming his magic items and mana would let him fly over the sea. But he cackled that even a lifetime of effort wouldn't get me to his level. I couldn't do it. I scoured for alternatives, but found none. The airship was my only shot.
Ojo told me a ticket cost around 5,000 gold coins. Five thousand? An unimaginable sum. The clan scraped together maybe 500 gold a year—ten years' entire income. It boggled the mind.
"Still, you should leave this place. Who knows, maybe even make it to the University." He said it as I stomped in frustration. The University—that was my real reason for craving escape. Without it, I wouldn't be agonizing like this. The gateway for all mages, a colossal magical realm predating the empire itself, founded by a grand archmage and home to countless who learned under him. When I first heard the tales, curiosity kept me up all night.
"I graduated from the University too. Took me about a hundred years to finish the basics." Ojo gazed into the distance, lost in reminiscence. A hundred years. To someone not yet twenty, it was inconceivable. I blurted in shock, "Is it that hard?"
"Can't say much—talking about the University to outsiders is forbidden." He tapped his wrist. Some kind of contract, probably. "But a hundred years is pretty quick. Some mages die of old age without finishing. And just getting in is no joke—hardly anyone even qualifies, let alone graduates."
Ojo's words inflated my chest with dreams. The University, the University. A haven of learning open to any talented mage, blind to birth or status, valuing only skill. My heart was already there. But my body was stuck on this rock. In the end, it all came down to money. Five years until the next airship. Where the hell was I supposed to scrape together 5,000 gold? I wasn't even sure I could manage it by the one after that, in twenty-five years.
Money—that was the key. As I racked my brain, fragments of my past life surfaced like faint dreams. Amid those hazy moments, I was piloting a drone—a flying metal insect. Too crude to call it a bug, but recent dives into memory confirmed it was a kind of puppet. Anyway, I controlled that steel flyer. What if I made something like that?
I hadn't recalled my past life fully, but the vivid memory of using it to kill burned deep—and my gut said it was possible. Regular magic had always felt uncertain; flames and water spells fizzled out. Ojo called me talentless. But picturing puppets brought natural confidence. He said such instincts were the mark of true magical talent. Did that mean I had a gift for puppets?
I carved wooden dolls and tested basic control. Drone shapes were beyond me, so I made human-like ones, infusing joints with mana. They stood and moved. But simple mana injection let them shuffle briefly before crumbling. Next, I drew mana as threads, puppeteering like marionettes. Easier, but fiddly to manipulate.
Through trial and error, I found the best way: give the puppet its own tree. A Mana Heart, maybe. Based on the tree in my chest, I replicated it perfectly inside them. It took three years to get there. Crude, but the pinnacle of my efforts.
I showed one to Ojo. He inspected it closely, then burst out laughing. "Oh, you've got real talent. Lucky you found magic that suits you. Puppetry doesn't hinge on raw gift as much as others." He infused it with mana; it took two steps and collapsed. Panicking, I checked—no damage.
"No talent for puppets here. Without the feel for it, even the finest doll won't budge." Fascinated, he fiddled with it, then pulled a scroll from his robes. Pressing his forehead, mana-thread spooled from his hand onto the scroll, morphing into flickering script.
I gaped. "Press this to your forehead—you'll see the memories I pulled. All my puppet knowledge. Should be useful." He handed it over. I did, and the glyphs dissolved into my mind. I wandered his memories as if I were him—scattered puppet lore: basic crafting, useful spells, materials, counters, pricing. Like keyword dumps, superficial since he wasn't passionate about it. Still, gems lurked.
Like the Mana Heart. Mine worked, but inefficient—flaws I'd never noticed. This basic design showed fixes. Different from mine, but invaluable reference. Other bits meshed with my puzzles in ways solo tinkering might've taken decades to crack. Overjoyed, I bowed deeply. Ojo nodded with a grin.
Another five years passed. I turned twenty-three, marking a decade under Ojo. Long in my life, short for mastering puppets and magic. The airship came, but I could only salivate—broke. Sneaking aboard? No way. Mages stronger than me patrolled it, glaring at anyone who approached. It left, dooming me to wait twenty more years.
Ojo vanished into his workshop post-contract. Queries went unanswered—deal done, as he'd warned. Announcing my training's end brought clan requests pouring in. Mages solve anything, after all. Desperate for cash, I took them all.
One: kill a clan foe swordsman. My fireball got slashed aside; he charged. I fled, took a gash to the hip, then incinerated him. Terrifying—a mere weed wounding me? Ego bruised.
Another: fetch herbs from a mystic site for a gold-heavy geezer. Didn't expect a century-old snake with spell-deflecting scales. Nearly swallowed whole. Grabbed a few herbs in panic and bolted.
Such ordeals dragged on. But soon, inefficiency hit me. At this rate, fifty gold a year tops— a century to goal. Needed smarter ways. Enter puppets. I'd tried them on jobs, but they were too crude, crumpling under sword swings.
Did they need to be perfect? My goal was drones, right? So I mass-produced. First: palm-sized flyers mimicking past-life drones. Memories showed them dropping bombs. Even weak puppets could pack punch with payloads. Made them simple: long, high, silent flight. No frills.
Firepower? Easy—oil-soak and self-destruct spell. Swarms simplified jobs. Many crashed or vanished; no matter, send more. But limits: control drained focus and mana. Distant flights needed vast power. My shallow knowledge couldn't fix it yet. More R&D needed.
Still short for a ticket. Needed efficiency. Radical innovation! With grim resolve, I obsessed over puppets. Ten more years of relentless iteration... and at thirty-three, I finally bought that airship ticket!
Bit surreal. Didn't see that coming. But I did it.