I Died

Magic is an extraordinarily difficult discipline.

Mages memorized dozens of magic formulas just to float a single flame. They calculated mana volume, set coordinates, adjusted temperature and power. With only a slight exaggeration, a single miscalculation could blow a finger clean off — and that happened more often than anyone cared to admit.

But all of that was ancient history.

"Lights."

"Room temperature, twenty-three degrees."

"Alarm for seven in the morning."

"Ahh. So convenient."

As science advanced, people no longer needed to memorize complex magic formulas. More precisely, that change came after the development of a new technology that handled all the complicated calculations for them — Nano AI.

Nano AI.

From what I'd heard, it packed the computational efficiency of hundreds of human brains into a device the size of a fingernail. Anyway, it was the sort of thing they stuck inside a person's brain and left to do its work.

Well, I forgot all the complicated stuff the moment I graduated high school. Why bother remembering any of it when the AI did everything?

Of course, magic researchers and the technicians who built Nano AI still studied. Someone had to understand the principles if the AI was ever going to be upgraded.

I was not one of those someones.

But that wasn't a problem. Knowing how to use it was enough.

You don't need to know how to build an engine to drive a car, and you don't need to understand electromagnetic waves to use a microwave.

You say what you want. Then the AI handles it.

That was the magic I knew — and then I died.

Suddenly???

It was on my way to work. I was waiting at a light when a tremendous noise erupted beside me, and then my memory cut out. Whether I was hit by a car or a magic vehicle exploded, I have no idea.

There might have been a one-line news report. No way to check, though.

And when I opened my eyes again—

What ancient cliché is this……

I had become a newborn baby in another world.

This world had magic too.

Creating fire, moving water, using mana to produce every kind of phenomenon imaginable — on the surface, it wasn't much different from the magic of the world I'd lived in. I consider myself pretty lucky.

Why?

Because Nano AI had followed me all the way into this other world. So this is what they call a past-life perk, I guess. I'd been reborn in a world with magic, and I had an AI in my head that calculated that magic for me.

So on the day I became able to speak, I slipped into an empty alley and carefully opened my mouth.

"Ligh."

At first I thought it was a pronunciation problem. My tongue was still short back then.

"Fiye."

"Wahter."

"Wha' can you even do."

Different specifications, it said. Different mana wavelengths, or something. Incompatible with the basic arrays used in existing magic formulas. The user's mana organ was an unregistered form — blah, blah, blah.

In the end, I understood exactly one thing.

"It doesn't work……"

Like bringing a brand-new smartphone somewhere with no network and a completely different charging port.

But I couldn't just sit around doing nothing.

For the first few years, I tried in my own way. I watched from a distance every time a street mage cast a spell, and I scavenged discarded magic tools from the dump. After learning to read, I'd squat in front of bookstores and memorize whatever magic books had been left open on display.

More precisely, I'd cram one page at a time into my head, then retreat to the back alleys and show it to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the AI again.

The results were always similar.

Asking for samples was easy. The hard part was that a single magic book cost more than I could earn even if I starved for months.

Once, behind the market, I found a hand-warmer magic tool. The casing was broken, but the mana stone inside was still intact. I carried it around for three days, recording every spell cast by every mage who passed by. I thought maybe this time it would work.

Same result.

In the end, I just pried out the mana stone and sold it. With that money I bought two loaves of bread — ate one that day, and saved the other until it grew mold.

Should've just eaten it right then.

After that, I decided to keep my expectations moderate. Hope only lasts long when your stomach is full, after all.

And so, in the eighteenth year since I'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠come to this world—

"Spare a coin, please."

I became a professional beggar.

Nano AI wasn't completely useless.

"AI. What time is it?"

"Is this spoiled?"

The problem was that knowing the time didn't give me a place to clock in, and knowing something was spoiled didn't stop me from having to eat it more often than not.

The conveniences of civilization are generally convenient when you have money. For those without it, a suffering worse than death awaits.

Of course I didn't spend all day face-down on the street waiting for coins. In the morning I hauled loads at the market, at midday I scavenged behind restaurants, and at night I picked scrap from the dump. But when I had no money, I still had to hold out my hand.

Pride doesn't fill a stomach, after all.

"Young man with perfectly good arms and legs, tsk tsk."

A passing old man clicked his tongue and tossed a copper coin. I quickly scooped up the fallen coin.

"Thank you. Live long."

"Don't say that."

One more copper coin, so my total fortune was now four. Just one more and I could buy a stale loaf of bread. Fresh-baked bread was seven coins, and soup with meat was twelve.

The world made people miserable with surprisingly specific numbers.

I passed by the bakery and glanced through the window. Brown loaves lined the shelves in neat rows.

"……Smells good."

Gurgle.

My stomach made a more honest sound. I'd have liked nothing better than to land a proper job somewhere and collect a paycheck — but this goddamn medieval fantasy world had no mercy. Being an orphan meant they wouldn't even give me an interview, and the thought of turning to thievery still pricked my conscience.

"Isn't there a way to end this beggar life?"

"Oh. So I can get a job?"

"You son of a bitch."

The AI was spouting this crap, and I still couldn't use magic. But I'd survived eighteen years. That was holding up pretty well, in its own way.

"Hey, you there."

Someone called me. I turned my head and saw the general store owner standing at the back door — a middle-aged man with a bulging belly. He pointed with his chin at a worn sack at his feet.

"Take that to the dump. Two copper coins."

"Three coins."

"Two coins."

"Half of that's metal scrap."

"That's why I'm paying you."

"Three coins."

The man narrowed his eyes. I stared right back. One more coin and I could buy bread with money left over. No reason to back down.

"……Tough bastard."

"Thank you."

The sack was much heavier than expected. Broken glass bottles, rusted metal scraps, and dented dishes all mixed together. When I slung it over my shoulder, something inside clattered and jabbed into my back.

"If you know that, how about helping me carry it."

"Figured as much."

Arriving at the dump, I set the sack on the ground and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stretched my back. Three copper coins sat in my hand. I could buy bread now.

Just as I was about to head back, a crumpled piece of paper slid out from under the sack. At first I thought it was wrapping paper.

Dense red lines covered the yellowed sheet. The center was blackened and burnt, and most of the fine mana stone powder embedded along the edges had lost its light.

"This is…… a magic scroll?"

Something nobles and Experienced Climbers carried for situations when they couldn't cast magic themselves. Supposedly you just poured mana into it without constructing a formula, and the stored spell activated on its own.

The most important thing was that they were expensive — of course, that only applied to unused ones.

The mana stone powder was completely burnt out, and a large hole had been punched straight through the middle of the formula. Even a scrap dealer would barely give you paper money for it.

Still, I picked up the scroll.

"Analyze it."

I didn't get my hopes up. It would just come back with insufficient information, or the core computational unit destroyed, or additional samples required.

My hands stopped.

"What?"

Translucent lines floated up over the crumpled scroll. Red threads covered the blackened paper. Broken sections connected; erased characters filled in one by one. Doodles ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that had seemed meaningless for eighteen years took form for the first time.

I clutched the scroll.

"What kind of magic is this?"

Fireball. The small fireball street mages floated on their palms. Not a particularly impressive spell — I'd heard that even in this world, most people who'd learned a bit of magic could use it.

But not for me. I hadn't been able to create even a single spark until now.

"If you restore it, can I use it?"

Figured as much. Got my hopes up for nothing.

I was about to put the scroll down when I stopped. The message wasn't finished yet.

For a moment, no words came out.

"……You mean I can use it myself?"

I carefully unfurled the crumpled scroll.

"……Analyze it."

Red lines floated before my eyes.