"I’m never getting used to this." John staggered out of the portal, his stomach twisting like a wrung-out towel. The world still felt like it was spinning beneath his feet, and he swallowed hard, pressing a hand against his ribs as if that would somehow steady him. "I think I’m gonna be sick," he muttered under his breath, but any further complaints died the moment he caught sight of Chase’s expression—serious, focused, and entirely unlike the grinning bastard who usually delighted in his suffering.
"Alright, let me do the talking," Chase said, his tone clipped as they headed out of the tunnel. His sharp eyes scanned the surroundings before he continued, "My family sent a cleanup squad to handle the aftermath of that shitshow at the party. Lucky for us, it’s my brother’s team. Should be easier to deal with."
John blinked. "Brother?" His brows furrowed as he glanced sideways. "You never told me you had a brother."
Chase scratched the back of his head with an awkward chuckle. "Didn’t I?"
John scoffed. "We’ve known each other for five years, Chase. How the hell do you forget to mention something like that? Do you have fur instead of a brain?"
"Fuck off, John," Chase shot back with a grin. Then, without warning, he reached into his pocket and pulled out another one of those damned orbs—the same type that had launched them into the Hot Spot earlier.
John’s stomach dropped. "No. No, no, don’t you—"
With full eye contact, Chase cracked the sphere in his palm.
"I hate you!" John roared as the magic yanked them into the sky, his stomach flipping inside out as they shot forward like a cannonball. Wind slammed into him, freezing and merciless, battering his face as he tumbled through the air like a ragdoll.
The suburban sprawl below rushed toward them at terrifying speed. The house—the massacre site—came into view, growing larger by the second. And then, just as John braced for impact— The spell slammed the brakes. John’s organs nearly crashed against his ribcage as they came to a sudden, jarring stop inches above the pavement. His legs wobbled as he staggered onto solid ground, the world still tilting beneath him.
"For fuck’s sake." He clutched his head, trying to piece himself back together. "Chase, that was—"
But his voice trailed off as his eyes landed on something that made his breath catch.
The Ship stood in the front yard. Beige and looming, the elevator cabin cast a long shadow against the ruined house, its presence wrong and yet… achingly familiar. A deep, unexplainable longing clawed its way up from his chest. His gaze flickered to the glowing interface of his Improbability Factor. Instinctively, his fingers tightened around the Terminal in his pocket. "Maybe you have answers," he whispered under his breath, his mind already racing with questions.
Then, movement.
John’s eyes snapped to the armored figures surrounding the house.
Werewolves.
A squad of them, clad in protective gear that straddled the line between medieval and riot armor—gray, plastic-like plating reinforced over their massive frames. Their helmets were uniquely shaped, accommodating long, triangular ears and elongated snouts. Their tails swayed behind them, thick with tension. John froze as they all turned toward him at once. The air shifted, heavy and oppressive as the pack sniffed the air, their keen noses flaring. Their tense shoulders eased upon recognizing Chase, but their wary eyes lingered on John.
It was like the world stopped breathing.
He gulped, fighting the primal instinct screaming at him to run.
Then came the voice. Deep, gravelly, carrying the weight of command.
"Chase." An eight-foot-tall werewolf stepped forward, his gray fur catching the dim glow of streetlights. His piercing golden eyes locked onto John with a gaze that was more predatory assessment than greeting. The claws on his gauntleted hand twitched, long and sharp enough to shred through steel.
John forced himself to stand still, even as his entire body screamed to step back.
"Carter." Chase nodded, arms crossed. "Looks like you’ve got things handled. As expected of—"
"Who is he?" Carter cut him off, his golden eyes narrowing. He sniffed the air again, his nose crinkling. "Smells of mana from a mile away, but too weak to really discern anything."
John’s pulse spiked as Carter’s form shimmered. His body—along with his armor—warped, shifting seamlessly into human form.
Now standing before them was a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to Chase—same sharp features, same strong build. But where Chase had blond hair, Carter’s was raven black, and his nose was slightly more pronounced. His golden eyes, even dimmed by Glamour, still carried a faint, otherworldly glow.
"I’m this idiot’s brother," Carter said, extending a hand.
John hesitated. He could already feel the strength in those fingers—like shaking hands with a hydraulic press.
Still, backing out now would only make things worse.
With a silent prayer for his bones, John reached out—only to wince as Carter’s grip all but crushed his hand. His knuckles made an alarming crack. John shot Chase a panicked look.
Chase just sighed. "Carter, let go before you break the poor guy’s hand."
Carter huffed but released him. John flexed his fingers with a barely restrained grimace, half-expecting his bones to be dust.
"He’s on our side, dumbass," Chase continued, rolling his shoulders. "Name’s Thomas Greenheart. He was with me when all this went down. Think of him as a— contracted mage. Off the record, of course." Chase gestured at the ruined house. "He also saved my ass, so drop the act."
Carter frowned. "Greenheart? A mage?" His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he shrugged. "You know I don’t pay too much attention to this, but I really didn’t know there were mages still willing to talk to us after—"
"Anyways," Chase cut in, a little too quickly. His usual smirk was gone for a fraction of a second before he recovered. "The bastards were Ninth Street."
Carter’s expression darkened. "Figured as much. Didn’t know they had a branch family in our territory." He exhaled sharply. "Guess you took care of that."
"Yeah, but there were a lot of witnesses," Carter muttered, rubbing his temples. "That’s gonna be a pain in the ass."
"Well, excuse me," Chase scoffed. "I’ll be less flashy next time I’m fighting for my life."
Carter’s grin was sharp, almost wolfish. Then his golden gaze settled back on John. "I’ve never seen you before. First time dealing with the Ninth Street?"
John’s mouth was suddenly dry. "I—I, uh… yeah," he stammered. "I was more in an… administrative role before. My mercenary company decided to promote me. It doesn’t feel like a promotion now."
Carter chuckled. "Welcome to hell, kid."
John wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a joke or a warning.
"Still," Carter continued, arms crossed, "you did good work. My brother’s as messy as ever, but a couple of them died rather cleanly." His eyes gleamed with curiosity. "I’m guessing you’re an Air Affinity mage?"
John nodded stiffly, barely keeping up with the conversation. “I— Right.” He wasn’t sure why he agreed, but Carter’s tone didn’t leave much room for argument.
The werewolf grunted, eyeing him like a puzzle missing a few pieces. “That explains why your mana smells so faint.” He cracked his knuckles, muscles shifting beneath his armor with an unsettling ease. “Either way, I guess I should thank you for saving my brother.” He leaned in, lowering his voice to something that was almost a growl. “Next time, there’ll be a bonus if you look the other way.”
“Fuck off!” Chase barked a laugh. “Like you’re one to talk. At least when I handle things, there’s something left to analyze.”
Carter scoffed, but there was an unmistakable pout in his expression. “We already knew they were fishmen from the Ninth Street. A blind werewolf could’ve smelled it from a mile away. Now we get the privilege of cleaning up this mess because you want to be ‘clean’.” He waved his arms dramatically. “Do you have any idea how hard it’s gonna be to get the stink out of my armor?”
“Poor baby!” Chase taunted, smirking as he clapped Carter on the back. Then he turned to John. “Thomas, since this isn’t part of your contract, I’ll spare you clean-up duty. Go get some rest—we’ll debrief later.”
John barely managed a nod before his attention drifted to the scene around him. The stench of rotting fish clung to the air like an oily residue, coating his tongue, seeping into his clothes. It was inescapable. He turned back toward the house, bile rising in his throat. The werewolves had already moved on, falling into step with Carter like a well-trained pack, leaving John alone in the aftermath.
“I guess that went better than expected,” he muttered, more to convince himself than anything. He turned on his heel and made his way to the Ship. The tomb-like quiet of the interior was an almost overwhelming relief, drowning out the horrid scent and the lingering tension in his chest. He collapsed into the chair, exhaling a shaky breath.
And then it hit.
A wave of something foreign surged through him, like raw emotion forcibly injected into his skull. He sucked in a sharp breath, fingers curling into the armrests as an unnatural warmth spread through his chest.
Happiness.
It wasn’t his. It was artificial, invasive—like someone had cracked open his brain and shoved the feeling inside. His hands trembled as he pressed them against his face until the feeling faded. His gaze drifted to the Spell Glove on his hand. “I can cast spells now, I guess. But do I even need this?”
His thoughts barely had time to settle before a bright blue window flickered into existence in his mind’s eye.
John frowned, curiosity battling unease. “This has to be useful for something.” He mused.
And then his world shattered.
A sharp, searing pain punched through the back of his skull, as if a hammer was driving his thoughts into pulp. His breath hitched, body locking up as a flood of information surged into his brain—an avalanche of symbols, equations, and whispers in a language he had never learned but somehow understood. His vision blurred. His muscles seized. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a choked, soundless scream—his own. It went on for what felt like an eternity. By the time it stopped, he was crumpled on the floor, gasping, body slick with sweat. His limbs were jelly. His thoughts were sludge. Every nerve felt like it had been peeled raw. Slowly, he forced himself upright, staggering back into the chair. His fingers fumbled for a cigarette, lighting it with shaking hands. The first drag did nothing to steady him.
“Fuck me,” he muttered again. “I better rip the band-aid off now.”
He took another breath, closed his eyes, and reached for the knowledge that had been crammed into his skull. Memories surfaced—ancient ones. Older than him. They whispered secrets he wasn’t sure he wanted to know, unraveling in his mind like forgotten truths.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
His frown deepened. “So this thing can… turn my Improbability Factor into Mana?” The words felt alien, like they belonged to someone else.
He waited. Nothing else came. No further revelations. Just an empty, gnawing silence.
John clenched his jaw. “I could’ve figured that out myself!” He slammed his fist against the armrest, exhaling hard through his nose before yanking out his Terminal. “Maybe this’ll be more useful.”
He scrolled through its bare-bones interface. A camera app. Messaging. A browser labeled HiddenNet. He tapped on it, fingers hovering over the search bar. “What should I even look for?” He said to himself. His gaze flickered to the glowing blue windows at the edge of his vision. “What about Improbability Factor?”
The page loaded.
No results.
John exhaled through his teeth. He backspaced and tried again. “What about Authorities?”
His fingers hesitated before typing something else. Permanence.
And then—
His lungs seized.
He toppled off the chair, gasping, vision narrowing to pinpricks. A crushing weight pressed against his chest, suffocating him. It was like reality itself rejected the word.
Panic surged through his veins. With shaking hands, he frantically erased the letters, one by one.
His heart slammed back into rhythm. Air rushed into his lungs as he scrambled to his feet, sweat slicking his forehead.
“I—I get it,” he croaked, wiping his mouth. “I can’t mention you. I can’t even write you down. Why?”
His pulse pounded in his ears as he swallowed hard, forcing himself to sit back down. The cigarette lay forgotten on the floor, smoldering.
John inhaled deeply, steeling himself. He typed again, slower this time. Authority.
The Ship remained silent.
No crushing weight. No suffocating void.
He let out a shaky breath, watching as results populated the screen. “Still alive. Guess that’s a good sign.”
John hesitated before clicking the first link. A creeping sense of unease curled around his thoughts, though he couldn’t quite place why. The page loaded with an unsettling smoothness—too fast, too clean, like it had been waiting for him. The layout was eerily familiar, resembling a stripped-down Wikipedia page, but something about it felt… wrong. It was sparse, devoid of images or any real substance. His eyes narrowed. “There’s not much here, is there?” His voice barely broke the silence of the Ship. He leaned closer, skimming the first few lines.
Authorities are like mana—but they’re not.
John blinked, rereading the sentence twice. “The hell does that mean?”
He scrolled down.
Mana allows its user to control one of the many known elements according to its user’s Affinity, while Authorities grant power over a specific concept.
According to the few records found, they don’t rely on mana to function. No one knows how Authorities are gained, nor what they truly are.
A comprehensive list does not exist, and this one is obviously incomplete.
John exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. “Way too vague.”
His gaze flickered to the list below.
Authority of Wrath
Authority of Growth
Authority of—
He stopped. “Authority of Love?” His brow furrowed. “That… can’t be real.”
A strange discomfort settled in his gut as he scanned the entries. The names felt weighty, like they carried more meaning than the words suggested. Growth. Wrath. Love. They weren’t just names. They were concepts made manifest.
His fingers twitched, but he forced himself to keep reading.
Authorities are extremely dangerous, as they are theorized to affect their wielder down to their very soul, turning them into mindless beasts that only want to kill others.
John stiffened. His breathing shallowed, his chest tightening as something clawed its way to the forefront of his mind—
A jet of water. The sensation of splitting flesh.
Himself—torn in half.
His body jolted. A sharp gasp tore from his throat as he clenched his fist, his nails digging into his palm. Cold sweat slicked the back of his neck. “Breathe.” He forced a shaky exhale, eyes squeezed shut as he rode out the phantom pain. “A-Alright. I’m alright,” he muttered, leaning back, eyes fixed on the bare ceiling of the Ship. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs, but he ignored it.
Slowly, cautiously, he returned to the screen.
From the very limited available information, it seems that Authorities manifest in ways unique to each user.
John read it again, then one more time, searching for meaning in the hollow words. Nothing. His grip tightened around the Terminal.
“This doesn’t help at all.” His voice was bitter, edged with frustration.
His instincts screamed that there was more—there had to be more. The entire Hidden World couldn’t be this clueless, information like this didn’t just disappear.
John exhaled through his nose, his mind sharpening. “Censorship.” He said with disdain. That was the only explanation. He’d bet anything Chase’s family had records tucked away somewhere. “Next time I see him, I’m asking if they have secret records. But for now…”
His fingers hovered over the search bar.
Magic.
He hesitated. “Would this be censored too? Am I wasting my time?”
The results loaded—hundreds of them. More than he expected, but still… not enough. Not for something this fundamental for the Hidden World.
John’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Maybe I’m right.” The thought unsettled him more than it should. His eyes landed on the first link. A forum, ancient in design—like something ripped straight from the nineties.
“…Still active?” He muttered, noting the last post’s timestamp. Seconds ago. The site was primitive, all clunky fonts and jagged boxes, but posts were constantly updating. The Hidden World clearly had its own digital underbelly.
John chuckled. “They really need better developers.”
He scrolled down, searching. One section stood out.
Amateur Spellcrafting Megathread
That sounded promising. His pulse quickened as he clicked the thread, expecting walls of text or half-baked theories.
Instead—
A single image loaded beneath the title INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER TO MODERN SPELLCRAFTING.
A picture of a rune, strange symbols put onto a pixelated image that messed with the layout of the forum.
The world stopped.
John’s breath hitched. A weight, cold and suffocating, pressed against his chest.
Somewhere in the depths of the Ship, something stirred.
A groan of grinding metal reverberated through the walls, distant yet deafening.
His mind buckled.
A jagged pain seared through the back of his skull—sharp, unnatural, like a hook sinking into his brain.
His vision fractured.
For a single, unbearable moment—
The Ship was not the Ship.
And he was not himself.
John barely had time to process the notification before a sharp pressure built behind his eyes, like someone had forced a book’s worth of knowledge into his skull all at once. He groaned, gripping the edge of the console as the Ship’s dim lighting seemed to pulse around him. His stomach churned, and he wiped a shaky hand across his forehead, only to feel the clammy dampness of sweat.
“W-What?” His own voice sounded distant, hollow while the coppery tang of blood pooled at the back of his tongue. John forced himself upright, eyes darting toward the message still lingering on the fading blue window. Spell Component. His fingers twitched. That phrase alone sent a thrill through his exhausted body.
“Don’t tell me…” He swallowed, glancing at the battered controls before him. “I can make my own spells?” A slow grin stretched across his face. He exhaled in disbelief, staring at the Ship’s mysterious console—not with his usual suspicion, but something closer to gratitude. “For once, you actually gave me something useful!”
His excitement faltered when his eyes landed on something that hadn’t been there before. A brand-new sixteen-inch flat screen sat embedded in the aged console, sleek and modern in stark contrast to the rest of the Ship’s worn-out controls. John’s smile faded. “That wasn’t there before.” He said with narrowed eyes. His pulse quickened. Before he could question it further, a faint buzz echoed inside his skull, not painful, but insistent. Words he hadn’t known a second ago now sat on his tongue like old memories.
Emulator Station.
He muttered the phrase under his breath, staring at the screen. As if reacting to his voice, a hidden slot beneath it clicked open, revealing a flat keyboard and a touchpad. John’s hand was already on his pistol before he even realized it. He chuckled, his grip easing as he exhaled. “I’m way too jumpy.” Still, he didn’t move right away. He let the silence stretch, watching—waiting. But nothing else happened. The Ship just sat there, like an animal playing dead.
Slowly, cautiously, he leaned in.
The screen displayed a single selection menu.
John clicked it, and the screen flickered before settling into something that made his breath hitch.
A text editor.
He stared at it, his brain stuttering over itself.
“No way.” A strange anticipation curled in his chest. Suggestions populated the editor’s interface, their formatting painfully familiar. His eyes darted over the lines of text, recognizing syntax, function calls, and modular components. The way it structured itself—
“T-This can’t be real.” His voice came out hoarse. He barely noticed his own hand trembling as he scrolled through the menu. His heartbeat thundered against his ribs. He could call spell components. He could input parameters. He could write magic. “…The Ship turned magic into computer code.” John let out a shaky laugh, staring at the ceiling in sheer awe. “That’s— Oh man. OH MAN!”
His mind raced. “If magic can be broken down into code, then it follows an underlying logic. That means it isn’t purely mystical nonsense—it’s a system.” He inhaled sharply, gripping the console as excitement flooded through him. “I need more Spell Components.” His voice held a new determination. “If I can figure out how this works, I might actually be able to—” A thought stopped him cold. John pressed his fingers against his temple, forcing himself to think. “If I assume that magic is just a logical system—then there has to be rules. Breaking those rules sound like it could lead to catastrophic results.”
“I need to understand it first.” His voice was steadier now. “If I just start messing with this without knowing what I’m doing, I could end up blowing myself up the first time I cast a spell.” A quick mental image of himself in a billowing wizard’s robe, throwing lightning like some fantasy hero, flitted through his mind. He snorted just as the Terminal buzzed.
John flinched. His fingers snapped to the device on instinct. A message flashed across the screen.
Chase: Where are you? We need to talk.
John raised an eyebrow.
“He tells me to leave, then asks where I am?” He scoffed, shaking his head as he typed a response.
Thomas: I left like you told me to, you dumbass. Where do you want to meet?
The reply came instantly.
Chase: Hot Spot, twenty minutes from now.
Thomas: Fine.
His eyes lingered on the fake name next to his message. Thomas Greenheart. The alias still felt like a borrowed identity rather than his own. John’s fingers tapped idly against the console as his mind clicked into a darker train of thought. His gut twisted as he recalled what Carter had almost let slip out before Chase cut him off. “It’s obvious that something has happened to the real Thomas Greenheart. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. Otherwise, why would a pack of werewolves have an ID for a mage?” John slowly exhaled, reaching into his pocket. His fingers brushed against the gem nestled there. For the first time, it felt heavy. As if someone else's soul was still clinging to it.
“I’m imagining things.” He let out a nervous chuckle as he began the flight to the Hot Spot.
The Ship’s characteristic ding yanked John out of his dark thoughts. His pulse, already unsteady, gave a sharp kick as he straightened in his seat.
“We’re already there?” His voice came out rough, still tinged with the weight of his previous musings. His fingers danced over the controls, bringing up the main display. The Hot Spot flickered into view—a lonely building in a cluster of mismatched buildings, half-hidden beneath the neon glow of its oversized dying sign. The tunnels leading into the underground base were carved deep into the earth, but as he tried to zoom in, the map turned into a garbled mess of static.
John frowned.
“Great.” He muttered, adjusting the controls. “The map goes fuzzy the second I try to get a closer look.”
His thoughts flickered back to Chase’s words at the safehouse. “Wards.” John said. “Just like the ones Chase mentioned before, something is woven around that tunnel to keep prying eyes out.” His stomach twisted at another thought surfaced. “If magic can blind my sensors, can it mess with other parts of the Ship? Could it mess with my restarts?”
A sharp phantom pain crawled up his side—the vivid memory of cold air biting at his exposed organs, the agonizing pressure of his body being split apart. His breath hitched. “I can’t take that risk. I need to learn more about magic.” John exhaled forcefully, as if trying to physically shove the thoughts away. He pushed himself off the console and strode toward the exit. The moment he stepped onto the threshold, the outside air hit him like a slap—cool, crisp, alive. The sky stretched above him, darkening into deep purples and blues, as the last slivers of daylight clung stubbornly to the horizon.
He let out another slow breath, trying to center himself.
“This Hidden World—“ He said before his voice trailed off. His gaze flickered back to the Ship’s interior. The dim glow of the controls blinked back at him, silent and expectant. An invitation. A promise that he could walk away.
He didn't have to do this.
He could just leave.
“As far as I know, Chase is safe now.” His voice was quiet, almost testing the words as he spoke them aloud. “He doesn’t need my help anymore.”
And yet—
John’s fingers curled into a tight fist. The weight of the Spell Glove pressed against his palm, the strange, pulsating energy coursing through the device an ever-present reminder of how much had changed in a single day.
“But I need answers.” His voice carried more weight this time. More certainty. “Magic. Authorities. The Ship.” He listed. “What are they?”
He turned back toward the open sky, jaw tightening.
“The blue windows—the system’s messages—they don’t feel like normal magic. The first time I saw them, they had claimed something was interfering with the installation. Then, the system had forcefully added the Authority of Permanence to itself. Does that mean the system, and by extension the Ship, is different? Or is it just another type of magic?” John said as he closed his eyes for a brief moment, lost in his thoughts.
Before the question could settle, a thunderous boom split the air.
John flinched, instincts firing on overdrive as his hand shot to his pistol. His head snapped toward the source.
A column of strange light slammed into the ground right in front of the Hot Spot, illuminating the entrance with a violent brilliance only seen by John’s eyes. The earth shook from the impact, and for a brief moment, the entire world seemed to pulse with raw, unnatural energy.
John squinted against the dying glow, his pulse hammering in his ears.
The light slowly faded, unraveling like mist in the wind.
And in its place—
A familiar silhouette stood, backlit by the remnants of supernatural shimmer. Broad shoulders. Blond hair and a shit-eating grin.
Chase.
