Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Celdorne

Each new sight really lightened Cole's opinion of Celdorne. A throne room, historically, should represent power; architectural dick-measuring rendered in marble and gold leaf. But the chokepoint past the doors and the firing slits overhead suggested someone who understood the difference between showing power and keeping it. Not much of a surprise considering the practicality of the interior design in the summoning chamber and the infirmary.

Similarly, the king defied easy categorization. Those ears gave away elven blood – shorter than the healer’s but distinctly pointed – which made his apparent age a puzzle. Middle-aged by human standards, hair graying at the temples, but half-elven biology threw all those markers into question. Even his authority broke the monarchical playbook. Instead of some ostentatious crown, he wore just a simple circlet, though the sheen of the metal and the way those inset gems caught the light suggested ‘simple’ might be relative when it came to magical enhancements.

Either way, he had the look of someone who’d long since dispensed with ceremonial bullshit in favor of getting things done. Well, it basically tracked with everything else so far.

“At last. I had wondered what manner of soldiers might answer our call.” Not exactly the warmest welcome, but then again, Cole doubted anyone felt particularly cheerful about this arrangement. “I am Armonde Celdor, King of Celdorne. And you are?”

Cole bowed. “Lieutenant Cole Mercer, Your Majesty. With me are Sergeants Miles Garrett and Ethan Walker.”

“You may raise your heads. I trust Director Fotham has explained something of our situation?”

“He has, Your Majesty.”

When Armonde spoke again, it was with the direct attention of a commander evaluating troops instead of a king entertaining guests. “You would not be the first to stand against the tide. But I would hear your thoughts on the matter.”

Cole had to admire the king’s technique – skip past with the whole ‘will you help us’ dialogue. Create the illusion of choice while boxing them into the desired outcome. Though really, what choice was there?

Certain death versus a hero’s welcome – obvious enough, but he still wanted to think it through. The right answer wouldn’t change by morning, but the best decisions were the ones he could still defend after a night’s sleep.

“We’d like some time to think it over,” Cole said.

The faint smile that cross the King’s face suggested he’d expected as much. “Of course. Take what time you require to reach your decision.” He gestured to Fotham. “In the meantime, Director Fotham shall show you about the grounds and – rather more consequential – determine the extent of your magic.

Magic. Right. After all those late nights of isekai, the chance to actually test his own magical potential… Funny how that thought alone could almost make him forget his family would have to bury an empty coffin. Almost.

“The guest wing stands ready for you; you may select your own chambers,” Armonde continued. “Your servants will bring your evening meal there. The Scrying Pane upon the wall acts as a window between us. Should word arrive of your companion in the infirmary, or should you wish to speak, we may converse through it. Take the night to consider. We shall meet again on the morrow.”

A Scrying Pane, huh? Magical FaceTime sounded real useful, even before considering the implications of real-time communication in warfare. Somehow, it was both a blessing and a curse being presented with a fait accompli like this; less time racking their brains over a decision, more time analyzing what they had to work with.

Cole bowed, following the Director’s lead.

“Man.” Miles’ voice was quiet as they exited the throne room. “Mack’s gonna lose his shit when he wakes up. All them D&D seshes, and now… hell, we’re actually gettin’ tested for magic.”

Cole chuckled, almost needing to force it. The comment landed… differently than intended. Everyone caught the ‘when.’ But at least it gave them something to think about – another distraction from the reality that now faced them.

Cole remembered how Mack would go on about magic theory in his games, especially the one time he stuck a ring of enlargement in front of his gun. He’d probably have a thousand questions about how magic worked here. Probably? Shit, definitely.

Turning the corner and seeing the aesthetics of the hallways shift from dark stone to comfortable wood brought Cole back to the present. He addressed Fotham, “So, Director, how exactly does one measure magical potential?”

“Ah.” Fotham led them down the wood-paneled corridor. Honestly, the atmosphere wouldn’t look out of place in one of those old universities – Harvard, Oxford, and such. “We find ourselves obliged to make use of an apparatus called a manameter – being no more elaborate than a sequence of graduated chambers which measures the concentration of mana.”

Well, that was different. Usually these scenarios involved touching some glowing crystal ball that lit up with convenient color-coding. The term ‘manameter’ suggested something far more precise. Celdorne’s fascination with Victorian methodology was starting to read less like an aesthetic choice and more like fundamental principle. Not that Cole would complain; in fact, it ranked among the few redeeming features of this impromptu isekai.

“The procedure itself is, I assure you, possessed of an almost elegant simplicity: you need only cast a barrier spell at a prescribed distance while this clever little device performs its measurement. We’ve multiple safeguards to ensure the pressure of any mana does not result in a shower of glass.”

They stopped at a door with a brass placard. The foreign script provided the first tangible limitation to the translation magic that had gotten them smoothly through first contact. Perhaps Fotham’s offer to teach them about Celdorne’s culture wasn’t mere courtesy after all.

Stepping inside, it was obvious that the testing room matched its approach

Beyond the placard, and despite the castle’s medieval trappings, lay a decidedly academic space. Metal-reinforced walls and copper-like mesh across the windows hinted at some form of isolation – probably from ambient magic, given the context. The familiar shapes of thermometers and barometers along one wall suggested environmental monitoring - whatever that purple liquid was, it still had to follow basic physics.

A tall glass instrument dominated the far corner: a series of seven identical bulbs connected vertically, rising from a base reservoir where the measurement fluid sat inert. Each bulb bore three distinct markings, likely indicating ranges, given how the liquid would need to fill one chamber before overflowing to the next.

A simple line marked the floor three feet from the device, also marked with unknown numerals. The attention to detail tracked with everything else they'd seen so far.

“As with all matters of precision,” Fotham said, indicating the line, “we find ourselves bound by standardization. Now then – shall we address the barrier spell itself before proceeding to any tests? One ought to begin with fundamentals, I dare say.”

Cole gave him a nod.

The Director brought them to a series of anatomical diagrams along the wall. “The manipulation of mana, you see, stems from a particular gland near the spine – the nerves directing its secretions while the blood bears its influence throughout one’s person. Not unlike the way fear or excitement spreads its effects through the body, if you take my meaning.”

The diagrams showed cross-sections of human anatomy – someone had clearly indulged in a rather excessive number of dissections to achieve this level of detail. Though the alien labels meant nothing, Fotham’s earlier gestures made the subject clear enough.

The weird ass pressure point he’d felt since arriving? It just so happened to coincide right where their Victorian anatomists had sketched an auxiliary organ near the spine. A mana gland. What the fuck? The summoning had just casually rewritten their biology?

Cole sighed. At least they were getting proper documentation of their modifications, though he'd have preferred a simple system interface at this point. Seeing his INT and STR would’ve been far less existentially concerning than spontaneous organ generation. Judging from their looks, his buddies probably thought the same.

Fotham didn’t seem to care much for Ethan’s thousand-yard stare. “You’ll find that magic depends rather intimately on one’s capacity for visualization. Some mages need only think to shape their spells, while others require the structure of proper incantations. Rather like music, if you will – most shall find themselves bound to their sheets. Others, more fortunately endowed, might hear the entire symphony in their minds.”

“Observe, if you would, the formation of a simple barrier.”

A faint distortion rippled through the air, reminiscent of heat waves off summer asphalt. It started to emit a subtle blue light, as if applying a glow filter to reality. The effect stabilized into a reticulated pattern – interlocking hexagons, translucent but distinct. The purple liquid in the manameter rose smoothly through the first bulb, settling just past the second marking.

“This imagination, you understand, serves as both instrument and orchestration in this singular arrangement. Though I suppose those unfortunate souls who cannot summon even a whisper of melody in their minds shall find themselves forever in the audience, so to speak.”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

The barrier shifted under Fotham’s direction – tilting, contracting, expanding like someone was messing around with a model in AutoCAD or Blender. Each transformation maintained that same hexagonal stability, though the patterns flowed and redistributed with each change. The manameter, throughout all this, saw only the smallest of fluctuations.

“To form such a barrier, first you must sense your mana. You’ll find it rather like becoming aware of your pulse, though in this case, you’re seeking a particular warmth of current flowing through your nerves.”

Cole focused on his arm, trying to isolate any sensation that wasn’t just normal muscle tension or blood flow. There – something different. Turns out Fotham wasn’t bullshitting; it was a warmth in his blood that seemed to respond to his nerve impulses, flowing from that new organ. Kinda like adrenaline, but… controllable somehow.

“Having found that sensation, direct it outward through your arm, as if pressing against something unseen.”

It felt truly strange, about the same level as trying to control each individual toe. Yet, there was a natural feel to it. The sensation intensified and spread across his arm. As he built up the energy, he caught new diagrams on the wall – five sequential sketches showing the progression of barrier magic. First figure radiating waves, then containing them before stretching it into a plane.

“You shall feel resistance as the mana takes form. Picture that resistance shaping itself – rather like cupping water in your hands, but not overflowing. Allow your mana to find its natural form, much as water seeks its sphere.”

Cole was nearly on the verge of asking why Fotham didn’t bother starting with verbal incantations when the air in front of his arm rippled. The man smiled. Well, if this was a test, then Cole sure as hell wasn’t gonna fail it.

“Now then, visualize the pattern as it forms, much as ice spreading across a winter pond. The more clearly you hold that image in mind, the more readily your mana shall align.”

Right. Like the fourth diagram – the transformation from compressed energy to crystalline structure. The distortion wavered as Cole tried to find that point. Not quite ice forming on a pond; more like those videos of ferrofluid snapping into patterns under magnetic fields. The air shimmered, the plane of mana almost settling into geometry, then destabilized again.

Glancing to his sides, Miles seemed to be around the same stage, whereas Ethan had already formed his very own barrier. Not surprising, given the level of spatial visualization that bomb disposal demanded.

Cole took a breath before trying again. The manometer’s purple liquid oscillated with their attempts. Maintaining this kind of precise pressure while simultaneously drawing more unknown energy through his system required nothing short of his full concentration.

Then, it clicked. Cymatics – those elaborate patterns formed by sound frequencies. The barriers hexagonal structure suddenly seemed less arbitrary. If mana behaved anything like other wave phenomena, those patterns represented points of stability. Sort of like how blast waves created predictable patterns, except this was holding a standing wave in place instead of letting it propagate outward. Though that raised the question of what happened when the resonance broke down.

The thought barely finished forming. Cole’s barrier snapped into place – a short wall composed of mana arranged in a honeycomb lattice. Maintaining resonance, he realized, was basically just holding a sustained note. Break concentration, lose the frequency, lose the barrier.

A brief glimmer to his left flared up. Miles had finally gotten his pattern locked.

“Excellent progress, gentlemen.” Fotham's pleased expression carried the same quiet pride Cole had seen in his old drill instructors – the ones who'd set up damn near impossible challenges just to watch their trainees rise to meet them. “Now then, shall we proceed with proper measurement?”

“Sure,” Cole said.

“If you would, Sergeant Walker.” Fotham indicated the marked line before the manameter. “Direct as much mana as you can summon into your barrier. One must have a proper measure of your capacity, you see.”

The purple liquid responded the moment Ethan took position, climbing smoothly through the first bulb and into the second. Foreign numerals aside, the progression seemed logical enough. Had to be some inverse square relationship at play, given how particular they were about that three-foot mark.

The fluid kept rising as Ethan held his barrier. No shock there – he’d been the first to get it right. This kind of visualization probably felt like a vacation compared to picturing bomb internals. By the time it pushed through the third bulb and settled near the first mark of the fourth, Cole had already done the math.

“Level ten,” Fotham nodded, writing something in a notebook. The repeating patterns in their numerals had suggested base ten. Nice to have confirmation.

“Ten outta twenty huh?” Ethan grinned. “Yeah, guess I’ll take that.”

Mack sure as hell would love this. Hell, it’d be pretty poetic – rather, funny as shit – if their resident enthusiast turned out to have the most pedestrian metrics, but right now, Cole had more pressing concerns. The imminent assessment of his own magical aptitude weighed on him. He wouldn’t ask for much; manifesting some absurd statistical outlier like any other isekai protagonist would be great, but he’d settle for demonstrably competent.

Though given Celdorne’s apparent penchant for expedited integration, he doubted they’d get much time to dwell on the results either way. All the time in the world to make it a pissing contest with the boys, though.

“Lieutenant?” Moment of truth. Time to find out just what the summoning had given him.

Cole took position. Right then – flood the barrier with every bit of mana he could muster. The fluid rose through the first bulb almost immediately, his barrier snapping into that hexagonal resonance without the earlier wobble. Practice made perfect, apparently.

The second chamber filled as he pushed harder. Different sensation now, like pressing against an invisible wall while that warmth flooded through his nervous system. His barrier flickered brighter, patterns growing more distinct as he forced more power through them. The liquid crept into the third chamber.

More. The warmth flowed through his body as he channeled everything he had. Past Ethan's mark now, climbing toward the second line of the fourth bulb. Cole grit his teeth, maintaining that perfect resonance even as the energy threatened to destabilize.

The fluid finally settled.

“Level twelve.” Was that satisfaction on Fotham’s face?

Cole held back a smirk. Not bad for a nice little tour de force. Definitely not bad, considering the high probability of the alternative level 1 cliche. Now to see what Miles could do.

Miles took his position, expression focused as he formed his barrier. The liquid climbed steadily through the chambers, finally settling at the first mark of the fourth bulb.

“Level ten.” Fotham nodded, then lowered his voice. “Well then. Three competent heroes at the price of a single summoning – not the most remarkable heroes one might hope for, perhaps, though I dare say rather efficient in terms of expense.”

Remarkable heroes. Hell, if Fotham was still disappointed, just what kind of monsters were they supposed to be fighting?

“Now then, I believe His Majesty mentioned showing you about the grounds? There are several matters which may be of interest to you – the library, the training yards, and of course, the armory.”

Cole couldn’t disagree. Yeah, it’d be pretty interesting to see just how those guns of theirs worked and, more importantly, how they interacted with magic. “Lead the way.”

Fotham guided them through an adjoining door from the lab section. It opened directly onto what had to be the castle’s research library – three floors of shelving with the same Victorian sensibilities as everywhere else. A network of copper pipes crossed the ceiling, keeping the books cool and dry.

He led them past empty reading tables to a section near the entrance. “Your preliminary materials for the orientation period,” Fotham explained, indicating the prepared books before gesturing to the brass gates that barred the upper floors. “Further resources shall become available to you once you’ve been properly integrated with OTAC.”

Cole pulled out a random volume while Ethan and Miles looked around. Maybe it just took a while for translation to kick in? Unsurprisingly, the spine’s script remained as stubbornly foreign as the placard outside the testing room. Still, he grabbed another – that familiar, futile optimism of rechecking an empty fridge. No joy. He slid it back with a sigh. Fotham’s offer seemed almost mandatory now.

“So, uh… say we agree to help you. What’s the training sequence look like?” Cole asked.

“A months’ instruction in the fundamentals, I should think – matters of language, cultural particulars, basic theory of magic. Following that, presuming you find our arrangement agreeable, you would transfer to OTAC’s facilities for the full course of Slayer training. You may, of course, find yourself interacting with other offices. My own – the Office of Thaumaturgy – maintains certain... collaborative interests with OTAC where matters of specialized magical knowledge are concerned.”

“Specialized, huh?” Miles walked over. “Like, what kinda specialized?”

“That rather depends on the circumstances. Summoning heroes, for one,” Fotham replied, nodding his head to them.

Fair enough. The answer was pretty vague, but Cole couldn’t reasonably expect the man to betray OPSEC on a whim. They’d probably learn soon enough about it anyway.

“Well then.” Fotham clasped his hands. “Shall we proceed to the yards?”

Deep booms from heavy rifles echoed down the corridor – certainly not any measly .22. The report suggested something well beyond .50 caliber, which didn’t bode well for his future encounters with whatever the hell required that much stopping power.

Fotham led them through a covered walkway that opened onto the castle’s western yard. A series of firing positions had been set up at the far end, occupied presumably by researchers donning heavy canvas coats, leather aprons, and face shields.

The rifles they worked with looked similar to the ones he’d seen the guards using, albeit with a few minor differences – some sort of pocket near the stock, gleaming brass-like fittings around the chamber, and runic patterns spiraling down the barrels. Each shot distorted the air like heat waves rippling outward.

“Our research division, testing various enchantment configurations,” Fotham said.

Mauser action – or something close enough. The shooter seemed to have the rhythm down: load a round, flip what looked like a selector by the trigger guard, pause for a moment – probably channeling mana – then fire. First couple shots were normal enough, just cratering the reinforced backstop. Then came something different – blue flash from the chamber, and the next impact somehow turned the splintered wood to ice. More than just frost; looked like the cold radiated outward from the point of impact.

Interesting. It answered a few questions about their design and how they worked, but raised about a dozen more. The selector had to be for choosing effects, but what about the split-second timing between shots? And what stopped the effect from dissipating after the bullet left the barrel? It was probably connected to those brass-like fittings somehow – basic mechanical linkage tied to the trigger, perhaps.

“Enjoying the demonstration, hm?”

The question snapped Cole out of his analysis. He offered a nod.

Fotham smiled. “Perhaps you’d care to try it yourself?”