It Means Mystery
"It means mystery," Ian said indifferently.
Priests had a habit of tossing around ancient languages in everyday life for no good reason. Arcana was just a fancy way of saying "mystery." Cards infused with mysteries. Given how their profession steeped them in ancient tongues, it was understandable territory—as long as they weren't showboating like Takarion.
"Exactly. Mystery it is," Isila said with a smile.
"You'll need time to mull it over. Care to take a stroll with me?"
He was right. Ian needed to sort his thoughts anyway, so he wandered the monastery grounds with Isila.
The sun blazed golden in the afternoon sky, bathing the monastery in light. Fresh green plants sparkled, each flaunting its vibrant life force.
"Ian. What do you think magic is?"
"Out of nowhere?" Ian blinked, caught off guard. He wasn't even talking to a mage. Who'd have thought he'd get a lecture on magic from some random monk he'd just met?
"Magic is communication between humanity and the mysteries."
Despite his surprise, Ian rattled off the answer like ChatGPT. Years of grueling theory training under Eredis had paid off.
"And what are the mysteries?"
"Existences beyond human comprehension. Trying to understand them is pointless because they're incomprehensible. You just feel them and accept them."
From close at hand—like fire, wind, earth, and water—to distant abstractions like the world, the cosmos, and fate. Everything that moved in unknowable ways beyond human perception was called a mystery. And mages were those who communed with them.
Ian glanced at Isila. "But why ask? Feeling a sudden urge to become a mage in your old age?"
"A mage... Do I look like one to you?"
What kind of Zen riddle was this? The conversation was veering off into the weeds, but Ian answered anyway.
"Nah. You look like a monk."
"And if I played with fire right in front of you? Still a monk?"
"..."
Ian made a subtle face. Cranky old man. He revised his assessment of Isila. At least the crankiness had a mage-like vibe.
"Might think you're casting magic."
"Right. Fire devours all in its destructive fury. Lava deep in the earth. Lightning in the sky. Both carry fire's power. But fire's essence aligns more with the heavens than the earth. Know why?"
Ian shrugged. "Because it purifies."
Isila beamed with satisfaction. "Spot on. Your knowledge is impressive."
Fire was the element of destruction. But that destruction wasn't mere annihilation—it was for renewal and rebirth. In terms his past life as a science kid would appreciate, it was the force of chaos amid cosmos. Fire was energy, after all. The flow of entropy.
"That's why heaven smites with lightning. It carries purification."
"Cleansing the sinner's crimes completely."
"Punishment and enlightenment in one."
Isila reached toward the sun as if grasping it. Sharp sunlight cast shadows across the old man's wrinkled face.
"Hell punishes with fire for the same reason. Hellfire is torment for sinners, but also a rite of purification, burning away their sins."
"Yeah, so they say."
Isila kept reaching silently for a moment. Then, abruptly—
The monk swung his fist toward the ground.
Fwoosh!
"...?"
Something astonishing happened. A vivid flame trailed his fist for an instant before vanishing!
Ian jumped. "Blazing fruit!"
"What?"
"Fire Fist Isila! Fire Punch! Fire Punch!"
"...You're overreacting."
Isila acted unfazed, but Ian was genuinely shocked. Just reaching for the sun and swinging? And flames erupted in midair?
Isila patted Ian's shoulder. "So, again: Am I a mage? Or a monk?"
Ian caught his breath. On second thought, it wasn't that surprising. He, a mage, summoned shadows with a gesture. A monk attuned to heavenly mysteries could ignite flames through fervent prayer—rare, but possible.
"Monk."
"Oh ho. Why?"
"That flame was communion with the heavens. Replicating it on demand? You'd struggle."
"Damn. Nailed it again. Wisdom's supposed to be an old man's privilege, but you're so sharp, it deflates me."
The feat Isila showed was Divine Magic. Deep understanding of scripture, fervent prayer to God—miracles granted in response. Isila cast without Maronius Language. Chantless magic. Proof of unshakeable faith. A monk so devout he conveyed desires without words.
"You're right. I couldn't repeat it reliably. But you, a mage, could produce the same result anytime."
If miracles happened predictably, they'd be techniques, not miracles. Mages systematized communion with mysteries for consistent results. That was magic's edge over miracles.
"Northern barbarians' magic sits midway—miracle and technique."
Isila offered the torn card. "Useless to me, since I don't worship the ice god. But you, Ian the mage, could learn to wield its mystery through dialogue."
A new magic style... Ian pondered briefly, then pocketed the card. Exploring novel magic was his wheelhouse.
Who am I? Me, the isekai cheat player. Status Window's invincible. I'm a god.
...God's a bit much. Mage it is.
Ian was a mage. He couldn't pass up meeting a mystery.
"Bring Takarion along, and you'll earn a debt from Zoltin."
"Zoltin?"
"He came to meet Takarion. Takarion penned the Gospel of Saint Marcus, and Zoltin's a disciple of Saint Marcus."
Ah. Ian got it. Zoltin visited Blue Key Monastery for Takarion, but Takarion was off healing Drbosi Baron's illness. Medieval comms lag at work. Even the Celestial Faith's network couldn't sync like phone lines.
"Zoltin's praying for Takarion's safe return. Deliver him safely, and Zoltin'll owe you."
Not a bad deal for Ian. Clashing with the church occasionally as a mage? A cardinal acquaintance was solid backup. Zoltin's debt could prove useful someday.
"Fine. What's a trip north?" Ian said, tucking the Arcana card away.
The night at Blue Key Monastery was bright.
Shockingly so. Light in a medieval night without bulbs? Incredible.
Candles were the era's light source, naturally. They sounded romantic, but Ian's experience said otherwise. Candlelight was dim—barely enough to see your hand. Outdoor use? Forget it. Indoors, a mouse-dropping glow for squinting at books. No wonder Edison's bulb was revolutionary, that inventor-slash-patent-thief.
Ian had nearly gone blind under candlelight multiple times. Where was his smartphone? Bright flashlight mode? Modern life's light blessings hit hard. He'd subbed in Umbrakinesis for candles.
But now... the monastery glowed like daytime.
Exaggeration, sure. But bright enough to stun.
Candlelight was puny. Hundreds blazing? Different story.
"What the hell is this?"
Ian gaped at the altar packed with hundreds of candles. As a medieval local, he knew candles' cost. Burning hundreds in one night? To him, it looked like mountains of cash going up in smoke. Overwhelming.
"Since you're here, pray before you go."
"Pray?"
Monks knelt in fervent prayer. Yeah, this was a monastery.
"For Brother Takarion's safe return."
Abbot Renus pondered deeply. What could the monastery do for Takarion, who'd stuffed their coffers with gospel profits? Prayer was the answer. Mercs unreliable, knight orders slow to muster.
So Takarion's earnings fueled hundreds of candles, blazing away.
"Prayer, huh."
Ian approached the goddess statue. Belenca, already praying, glanced over.
"Here to pray?"
"Yeah, something like that."
Belenca made space. "What for?"
"Nothing specific. Safe travels?"
The abbot wanted Takarion prayers. But who cared about that guy?
"First, pray for that nameless man you sent to heaven."
"Oh, right."
Fighting assassins, Ian had killed. Belenca had suggested praying for forgiveness later.
"How do you do it?"
"I'm the expert. Start by begging forgiveness from his family and friends."
"..."
Belenca was a knight. Murder pro and apology pro...
"He tried to kill me first. Still gotta apologize?"
"Hmm. Think his assassin mom would agree?"
"Fuck. Seriously."
Belenca's slippery logic shut Ian up, grumbling. Life's weight was equal for all. Even lowly creatures had parents. Even worthless humans had loving folks.
No need to belabor it. Taking life was sin.
"You look down."
"No reason to smile."
As Ian's face darkened, Belenca comforted: "Advice from a senior sinner: Don't bottle it up. Spilled milk."
"...Didn't you just say beg forgiveness from the bereaved?"
"Beg, yes. Expecting it? No. Forgiving enemies is God's domain."
Forgiving sinners was hard. Family killers? Impossible. If easy, saints wouldn't be saints.
That's why "love your enemies" was divine word.
"Past sins are hard to forgive. But..."
Belenca patted his shoulder. "I can pray for yours."
"..."
"That's the knightly way. Bear your sins, but pile on good deeds to earn more prayers."
Belenca smiled with her eyes. "You're not alone, Ian. If hell's demons come for your sins—"
"I'll stake my honor and fight for your innocence."
Her sky-blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight.
Own your sins—that's karma. But you can pray for sinners. Sincere prayer lightens the load if it reaches heaven.
Ian met Belenca's gaze for a moment—then chuckled and looked away.
"Then I'll pray for you, Belenca."
"...For me?"
"That your sword exists for justice. If someone calls the blood on it dirty, I'll defend you with my knowledge and mysteries to the end."
Belenca clasped her hands, eyes shut. Her smile lingered.
"Heh... I've got one hell of a reliable master."
Before hundreds of radiant candles, knight and mage prayed for each other's souls. Their prayers rang true, reaching the heavens.
...
Stars twinkled in the night sky.
A night where Takarion seemed to yell from afar,