This Was a Romance Fantasy World
This was a romance fantasy world.This was a romance fantasy world.
Crackle—crackle—
Dry firewood blazed, spitting red embers into the air. A boar hind leg, fat sizzling and bubbling, roasted to a golden crisp over the campfire. A savory, oily aroma—intensely violent in its richness—teased the nostrils.
"Mmm."
Rian stared at the meat with utter seriousness. Not even when tackling calculus problems in his previous life, or mastering his twenty-seventh language, Swahili, had he been this focused. To him, this moment was survival itself.
"It's done."
The green-haired elf sitting across from him—his master, who had introduced herself as Iril—handed over the spit. Instead of replying, Rian snatched the meat and shoved it into his mouth.
Hot juices burst across his tongue. His stomach, empty for three days, screamed in ecstatic relief.
"Eat slower. You'll choke."
Iril propped her chin on her hand, watching him with amused fascination. To her, who had lived for centuries, human children were as fleeting as mayflies. But this boy was different. That bizarre intuition for handling mana. The instinctive grasp of principles he'd never been taught. It was too alien to dismiss as mere "talent."
"There, belly full now?"
Only after Rian had stripped the bone clean did Iril speak. He wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded.
"Yeah. Thanks to you, I'm alive."
"Skip the thanks. As promised, you're my disciple now."
"Long as you feed me on time."
Iril chuckled dryly at his blunt reply. Any normal kid would bombard an elf with questions out of sheer wonder. But this one seemed interested in nothing but the meat.
"You said you know nothing about this place, right?"
"Orphan. Woke up hungry, slept cold. That's all there was."
"Hmm, fair enough. Let's start with the basics, then."
Iril poked the dirt floor with a stick.
"This is the central continent, territory of the Solarrium Empire."
"Solarrium."
"Yeah. The empire blessed by the sun god. His current Majesty the Emperor is Kaiderion de Solarrium. He's been on the throne about fifteen years and is hailed as one of the continent's greatest benevolent rulers."
Rian listened with a blank face. Benevolent or tyrant, an emperor who didn't hand out tomorrow's bread was irrelevant.
"The imperial family has one princess. Ardelia de Solarrium. Thirteen, same as you."
Clunk.
Rian dropped the bone he'd been fiddling with. Iril tilted her head curiously.
"What's up?"
"Nothing. Just... the name rings a bell."
His expression stayed flat, but his mind raced. Memories from his past life. In one corner of his brain—like a library stuffed with books and knowledge—a dusty volume popped out.
The Princess Flees from Her Tyrant Dad
His little sister had left it in the living room. A romance fantasy novel, cover featuring a golden-haired girl. He'd skimmed it out of curiosity.
'Solarrium Empire. Emperor Kaiderion. Princess Ardelia.'
The keywords matched.
According to Iril, Kaiderion was a benevolent ruler. But in the novel, he was history's worst tyrant. Not from the start, though. One day, he snapped, drowning the empire in blood. In the end, he even guillotined his own daughter, Princess Ardelia.
'And the beheaded princess regresses to age thirteen, where the story begins.'
Rian calculated quickly. Princess at thirteen. Emperor still benevolent. Ardelia hadn't even debuted in high society yet—her face unknown to the public.
'So, pre-regression or post?'
If pre, the emperor would go mad in a few years, turning the empire into hell. If post, she'd be aiming for the academy by now.
'...Doesn't matter either way.'
Rian shrugged. He was a commoner orphan. Emperor mad or not, princess regressing or not—that was noble business up high.
"The princess hasn't been publicly revealed yet, so rumors are all we have. But as solar blood, she's surely dazzlingly beautiful."
Iril glanced at him slyly. The intent was obvious: stir some boyish fantasy about a same-age princess.
"Sure."
Rian yawned, utterly uninterested. Iril deflated a bit. At that dreamy age, kids brimmed with imagination. A beautiful princess their age was straight out of a fairy tale, naturally sparking admiration.
But this kid acted like it was someone else's story.
"Alright, basics done."
Iril pulled a thick leather tome from her robes. Its cover bore intricate silver geometric patterns.
"To learn magic, start with language. Magic is built from ancient tongues and formulas."
"Can't do magic without reading?"
"Obviously. Magic's logic, not just feel. Sure, you manhandled mana on instinct earlier... but that's dangerous. Unstructured magic is a ticking bomb, ready to blow anytime."
Iril placed the open book on Rian's lap. It was crammed with unfamiliar script—not standard imperial tongue, but the ancient language of mages.
"This is Arke, the mages' ancient script. I'll read first; match the sounds to the shapes."
Her finger traced the opening line as she intoned in a low, clear voice.
So that's the structure.
Rian's eyes scanned like a machine. Lip shapes. Vocal resonances. Glyph forms under her finger.
Ah.
Nine lines. Barely one minute fifty of data. But to the language monster who'd mastered twenty-seven tongues in his past life, it was plenty.
"Stop."
"Huh? That's just nine lines. Focus and—"
"Got it. No need for the rest."
"...What?"
Iril blinked. Rian flipped pages casually.
"Phonetic script."
His finger hit the consonant chart.
"Consonant-vowel-final combos. Grammar: subject-object-verb. Particles suffix to mark cases."
"Wait, hold on. Rian? Didn't you say you couldn't read? And this is Arke?"
"Yeah. Picked it up from you reading just now."
He pointed to the first line again—and fluently read the unread back half.
"Mana flows like the wind: grasp and it scatters, sense and it gathers."
"Right?"
Iril's jaw dropped. Perfect pronunciation. Perfect translation.
Impossible!
Just a few sentences heard. Yet he'd inferred the entire phonology and grammar?
"Like cryptanalysis. Grab anchors, stats fill the rest."
To Rian, Arke glyphs weren't arcane art. They were a tidy database. Dismantling and rebuilding languages was easier than breathing.
"And Master."
"Huh? Oh, yeah?"
"Page fifteen, third line."
He flipped to it.
"Condense mana and emit"—but the formula's wrong. That particle belongs on 'circulate,' not 'emit.' Context fits better, or mana backflows.
Iril snatched the book, face paling. This grimoire was vetted by the Mage Tower's sages—an intro text.
But Rian was right. A tiny particle slip. Trivial in prose, fatal in magic.
"How did you...?"
"Obvious glitch. Doesn't parse front-to-back."
Rian shrugged it off. Iril swallowed dryly.
Genius? No, too tame. This was a disaster.
"...Language lesson over."
She slammed the book shut. Not pride—not anymore. Nothing left to teach.
"Theory doesn't make magic. Practice does."
Iril cleared her throat, shifting gears. Yeah. Brains and mana control were separate. His boar-crushing telekinesis was crude—raw force, no finesse. True mages channeled through Mana Circles, precise and elegant.
"Listen up, Rian. A mage's heart needs a 'Circle'—a vessel."
She touched her chest.
"Breathe in ambient mana, form a hair-thin ring near the heart. Imagine damming a river. But the dam can't be thick—must be invisible, delicate."
Her tone turned solemn.
"Forming a 1-Circle is a mage's first trial. Even prodigies need six months' meditation to stabilize it. Bone-grinding patience and—"
"Like this?"
Hummm—
Before she finished, a clear resonance hummed from Rian's chest.
Iril choked mid-sentence, eyes bulging.
Around his heart: a perfect blue mana ring, spinning flawlessly. No wobble, no instability. As natural as if it'd always been there—a pristine 1-Circle.
"You... what did you just...?"
"Made the ring."
Rian replied flatly.
"Explanation was simple. Mana's high entropy—left alone, it scatters. So make a closed system to contain it."
Put simply: mana energy dissipates into chaos if loose. For magic, trap it in a "vessel" to keep density high.
"Cl-closed system?"
"Yeah. Link start to end, infinite loop. Like tying a knot."