The Girl Who Rewinds Wounds (1)

In the private room of the Magic Academy dormitory, I was working on an assignment when I grew tired of scribbling out practice magic formulas. I tossed my pencil aside and pulled a small pocket watch from my pocket to examine it. It was the old wind-up watch that Professor Apryon—the elderly professor who had conducted my interview—had lent me.

While I was distracted by the watch, the pencil rolled away with a soft clatter. It was a primitive thing: a round wooden dowel with a graphite core jammed into one carved end.

“Ah.”

The pencil rolled weakly across the floor and fell off the edge. I tried to snatch it from the air, but my body had all the coordination of wet bread. Instead of catching it, I batted it harder toward the ground.

After an undignified moment spent breathing in dust, I finally retrieved the pencil from beneath the dormitory bed. Its tip was broken.

I hesitated, wondering whether I should use Melbrick’s Eccentric Character Replication. The spell copied the physical properties of one object onto another. If I transferred the nature of the graphite to the wood, I might still be able to write with it. Then again, with my current skill, the wood’s properties might copy onto the graphite instead, leaving me with a perfectly useless solid wooden rod.

Best to hurry, then.

I gripped the watch Professor Apryon had given me, feeling the faint vibration of the unwinding spring against my palm. I closed my eyes and summoned the sensations: the tightening of a mainspring, the swing of a pendulum, the sweep of hands, the trickle of sand, the drip of water. I still needed a clock or some similar image as a focus. For now, at least.

When I opened my eyes, the pencil was whole again. The graphite tip stood sharp, as though it had never snapped.

The ability to turn back the time of an object. That was the talent the professors had identified in me.

“The concept of controlling time itself is neither impossible nor particularly rare,” Professor Apryon had told me during my talent evaluation interview. “Spells that accelerate time, halt it, rewind it, duplicate it, or skip across it have been developed by countless mages since antiquity.

“Could I not undo my mistakes? Could I not gain just a little more time? Such longings have haunted humanity since the dawn of history. Magic is the mirror of our desire to live even slightly more comfortably. It was inevitable that so many mages would devote themselves to the study of time.”

I remembered how he had laced his fingers together then, his expression grave.

“Yet to interfere with time is to interfere with the very laws of nature and causality. Even the greatest archmages, gathering immense power, weaving formulas of exquisite delicacy, and offering both priceless catalysts and the acceptance of unknown consequences, can barely manage the feat. Every time spell demands absurd amounts of effort and cost; the formulas themselves are extraordinarily difficult. In short, they are profoundly impractical.”

He had looked at me then with those wise, ancient eyes.

“Which is precisely why your ability holds such tremendous value. It is also exceedingly dangerous. Consider what would happen if you rewound the time of a person’s body but left their heart untouched. The collision of blood flow would likely kill them instantly. Therefore, this is not a power to be used thoughtlessly. You must always fear yourself.”

His words had been terrifying, yet his face had not been stern.

“At present, the time you can rewind appears limited to between five and roughly fifteen seconds, and only on objects you can touch. That is all Mentia’s Magnifying Glass could tell us about your mysterious talent.

“We do not yet know the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠true depth of your power, nor even whether it stems from magical aptitude, bloodline, or some other miracle. Still, I believe that by honing both theory and practice here, you will be able to refine it.”

Finally, he had extended his hand.

“The three of us will keep your secret. We will spare no effort in helping you train your ability. In return, you must choose one of us as your supervising professor. This is not a suggestion but an order—one that will profoundly affect both your safety and, naturally, your enrollment.”

And so I had become Professor Apryon’s disciple. He had even lent me the watch, saying it would help with training.

Though I felt guilty toward the professor who had taken me on so readily, I was not a particularly outstanding student.

My theoretical grades were slightly above average. In practical application, I barely avoided failing. The pressure of knowing that a completed formula would manifest real magic before my eyes scattered every logical structure and geometric principle I had memorized and froze even the calculations that usually came easily.

As a mage I was mediocre, but the talent the three professors secretly helped me cultivate was slowly, steadily growing.

Just as Professor Apryon had predicted, the old wind-up pocket watch proved immensely helpful. By holding it and practicing, I learned exactly what kinds of imagery and focus would rewind a given span of time.

Thanks to that, the ability that had once required every mental exercise the professors could devise just to rewind five seconds had grown. Now, with a simple mental image, I could turn back up to five minutes. Five minutes might not sound like much, but in terms of multiplication it was a sixty-fold improvement.

Only now did I understand why my father had sometimes muttered those puzzled words.

“Strange… I was sure I set that sack of flour upright. Why did it spill?”

“Was the rolling pin here? Kaira, did you play with it?”

“Hm? Didn’t I just set this bread out in front of the shop?”

I had always thought my father was simply a bit scatterbrained. In truth, the young me—unable to control the power yet—had occasionally rewound the time of the entire counter or display shelf my hand had touched.

…Though, to be fair, he was rather scatterbrained.

“Kaira!!”

At the shout from the doorway I reflexively turned my head. Silhouetted against the evening light pouring through the hallway window stood my roommate, Ophia.

Ophia. The daughter of a horse trader from the outskirts of the capital. She would sometimes bury her nose in my light brown hair and declare that it smelled like the oat porridge she cooked for the horses. Every time, I would answer:

“That’s because I’m a baker’s daughter… Anyway, it’s embarrassing, so please stop…”

Since neither of us was nobility, we could interact without formality. There was some difference in family wealth, but students like us formed the majority at the academy. The elegant young noblewomen or the Twenty-Seventh Imperial Prince I had imagined while reading academy stories were actually quite rare.

“What’s wrong? You came running. I still haven’t finished my assignment. The deadline is midnight. I haven’t done today’s Taerei’s Memory Preservation record yet either. So I won’t be able to eat dinner with you…”

Taerei’s Memory Preservation was a simple spell that temporarily stored the caster’s memories so they could be shared with others or transcribed onto enchanted paper. In Earth terms, it meant I still hadn’t written in my diary.

“That’s not it. Do you know where Professor Melissa is?”

Professor Melissa was the elderly instructor of herbalism and healing magic. True to her gentle, grandmotherly image, she never scolded students, so many of them dozed off in her classes. As a result, the average score on her exams was shockingly low. I, however, had never fallen asleep in them.

“Professor Melissa? I’ve been in my room all day, so I have no idea.”

The lingering memories of the Korean research student I had once been wanted to grumble, Why are you asking me about someone who isn’t even my advisor? but I held my tongue. A pure-hearted baker’s daughter wouldn’t say such things.

“What should I do… what should I do…”

In Earth terms, Professor Melissa also served as something like the school nurse. I had a bad feeling that something serious had happened.

“Is something wrong?”

“Kalia… she… in the courtyard…”

Kalia. The second daughter of a poor baronial house in the southern countryside that barely managed to hold onto its territory. She was technically nobility, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but her family was so insignificant that she got along well with merchant’s daughters like us. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠That was probably why she had come to this academy.

She actually had a rather poor relationship with the few students from truly powerful noble houses. Those young nobles were themselves far down the line of succession and had come to the academy to find their own paths; they all carried their own baggage. Kalia, however, had a stubborn personality and a complex about her family. I could guess that she had gotten entangled with them and done something rash.

“She knocked the young lady of the Mittenburg ducal family unconscious!!”

“Ehh?!”

I dropped the pencil again. Zophy of Mittenburg’s notoriety was well known. Her theory grades were average, but she possessed an almost instinctive talent for practical magic, earning top marks in every exercise. She was also as arrogant as her talent warranted—the very picture of a spoiled youngest daughter from a great noble house.

Why someone of such high birth would attend an academy where commoners formed the majority, I didn’t know. But even great nobles had their own troubles: matters of succession order, political marriages, and the like.

Something Zophy had done without a second thought—something she probably committed every day without even noticing—must have wounded Kalia’s pride. The hot-tempered girl had challenged her to a duel in a fit of rage.

Since neither of them was yet skilled enough for a magical duel, they had used wooden practice swords. Basic swordsmanship was a required liberal arts course taught from the moment of enrollment.

Among nobles, refusing a duel was considered dishonorable. To someone like me who had lived two lives entirely outside the nobility, it was an incomprehensible concept, but that was simply how things were.

“The young lady took a blow to the head and fainted… and she still hasn’t woken up…”

Kalia, despite her humble status, had issued the challenge. Zophy, her own pride inflamed, had accepted. But she couldn’t win with a sword. She had taken a hard strike from the wooden blade to the worst possible place—the head—and fallen unconscious. That was the situation.

It was bad. A practice steel sword with a blunted, flexible edge might have been safer, but a wooden sword was a dangerous weapon. A head injury could lead to the worst possible outcome. Since it had been a duel between nobles, some leniency might be granted, but the vast difference in status and power meant the result would likely be grim.

Kalia was still young. I couldn’t let her be branded a criminal, or at best a ruined provincial noble with her future destroyed. I also didn’t want to watch a classmate die or become a cripple.

Without realizing it, I kicked my chair back and shot to my feet. The flimsy wooden seat toppled backward with a clatter.

“…When?”

“Huh?”

“When did Zophy collapse?”

Ophia flinched at my transformed expression and answered timidly.

“J-just now…”

Before she even finished speaking, I was already sprinting toward the courtyard, Professor Apryon’s watch clutched tightly in one hand.

“M-move, please, get out of the way!!”

A good spectacle always drew a crowd. I had to push through the murmuring students surrounding the two girls.

Both of them had changed out of their uniform robes into light plain clothes, more suitable for a duel. Kalia ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sat collapsed in front of the fallen Zophy, her face clearly one of pure panic. Zophy remained unconscious.

“Kalia, are you all right?”

“I-I’m fine, but… she… over there…”

With tears brimming in her eyes, she pointed at Zophy and trailed off. It seemed she finally understood what she had done. Without another word, I approached the unconscious girl. She still had a pulse. I couldn’t tell how badly she was hurt. This world had no MRI machines. If her brain was truly damaged, even calling Professor Melissa might not—

Ophia had said it had just happened.

I pressed my left hand, still gripping the watch, against my chest and lightly touched Zophy with my right. I closed my eyes. The sound of a clock tower bell, the tick of a swinging pendulum, the click of gears meshing, the soft hiss of sand pouring through an hourglass.

After a long moment of concentration, a voice I had heard before echoed in my ears.

“Hmph. Didn’t I tell you? If you like duels so much, I’ll accept one right now. Hurry and prepare. Th-that… wait,”

I opened my eyes.

“What is this? Why am I lying down? …And what is this smell? Bread…?”

“Because I’m… the daughter of a bakery……”

My answer was swallowed by the cheers of the watching students. I slowly lowered my head.

This is really tiring…