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Magical Testing 2

  The old man’s weathered face crinkles with satisfaction as he turns to the captain, his earlier professional detachment giving way to genuine enthusiasm. “She shows remarkable intuition for formation mechanics,” he says, nodding approvingly. “The way her spark interacts with the geometric patterns suggests an unusually structured approach—almost architectural in nature.” The captain merely nods, as if this assessment merely confirms his own observations from their earlier confrontation.

  The old man’s expression softens as he addresses me, though there’s a hint of apology in his tone. “That will be all for today. Unfortunately, we can’t allow you to leave with an active reservoir,” he says, his weathered hands clasping behind his back. “Security protocols, you understand. The artificial refill we provided needs to be depleted before you return to your quarters.” His matter-of-fact delivery suggests this is a standard procedure, though I suspect it has more to do with their wariness of my demonstrated capabilities than any general policy. The fact that he talks about my quarters surprises me though. Does that mean I won’t have to go back to that storehouse?

  “However,” he continues, a spark of academic enthusiasm returning to his eyes, “I propose we make this necessity into an opportunity for further observation. A game, if you will—something to help us better understand your formation methodology while accomplishing our security requirements.” His tone carries that particular blend of professional interest and grandfatherly encouragement that makes it clear this ‘game’ will be as much a test as everything else they’ve done today, though perhaps with slightly lower stakes.

  The old man’s weathered hands sketch abstract patterns in the air as he outlines the exercise, though I notice he carefully avoids actually forming any runes while explaining. “We’ll make it simple—form as many instances of our basic three-line rune as you can maintain simultaneously. Each time you successfully hold ten for a full count of thirty, we’ll add another ten to the requirement. We continue until either your juice runs out or you lose control of the formations.” His tone carries that particular blend of academic enthusiasm and careful observation that suggests he’s as interested in how I approach the task as in whether I succeed. “Think of it as a test of both endurance and concentration,” he adds, his eyes twinkling with scholarly excitement. “Most new channelers find their limit well before fifty concurrent formations, though I suspect you’ll prove… interesting.” The way he emphasizes that last word makes me wonder if he’s already formed theories about my capabilities that go beyond what I’ve intentionally revealed.

  I shift uncomfortably on my feet, thinking back to my clumsy attempts at multiple burst runes during my escape attempt. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to maintain that many,” I admit, the words sticking in my throat. Ten formations? Thirty? Fifty? The numbers loom like an impossible mountain. Even with Mairi’s natural talent serving as inspiration, I’ve never attempted anything close to the scale the man describes. Then again, that three-line rune looks practically childish next to the fucking Gordian knot that is burst.

  The old man waves away my concerns with a weathered hand, his eyes twinkling with that particular blend of grandfatherly encouragement and academic curiosity that I’m coming to recognize. “The only way to discover your limits is to push past your comfort zone,” he says, gesturing expansively at the open space before us. “Begin whenever you’re ready—the worst that can happen is you’ll fail, and failure is often the best teacher.” His casual dismissal of my concerns carries a weight of experience that suggests he’s seen countless students surprise themselves with capabilities they never knew they possessed.

  I begin forming the three-line runes in a deliberate circle around me, each geometric pattern materializing with practiced ease. As the tenth rune takes shape, I suddenly see how they relate to each other spatially—the simple shapes creating a larger, more complex pattern through their careful arrangement. The revelation hits me with the same satisfaction as recognizing an elegant coding solution, and I realize this must be what the old man intended to demonstrate. The thirty individual lines dance before my eyes like pieces of a greater whole, their seemingly basic structure belying a more sophisticated purpose.

  The combined pattern reminds me eerily of the more complex runes from the cave, though on a much larger scale. Where those ancient etchings had achieved their complexity through intricate internal geometry, this arrangement creates similar relationships through the careful positioning of simpler components. It’s like the difference between writing a complex function versus orchestrating multiple simple ones to achieve the same result—a parallel that makes me wonder just how deep the similarities between programming and channeling truly run.

  I form each new set of three-line runes with deliberate care, positioning them to integrate seamlessly with the existing pattern. As I reach each group of ten, I subtly adjust their arrangement, combining them into what appears to be a single, more complex formation—a technique that feels natural to me but which I suspect might raise eyebrows if done too obviously. The process continues smoothly past thirty runes, the geometric patterns dancing before me in an ever-expanding array, and I’m surprised to find my juice reserves barely diminished by the effort.

  I study the old man’s face for any hint of how far he expects me to go, noting the careful way he observes my work without betraying his expectations. The ease with which I maintain these formations makes me wonder if this is truly meant to deplete my juice, or if there’s some other purpose to this exercise that I haven’t yet grasped. The artificial refill seems to have given me far more capacity than I anticipated, and I find myself torn between demonstrating my full capabilities and maintaining the appearance of an untrained channeler who’s just discovering their limits.

  I watch the floating array of geometric patterns grow ever larger, each new set of three-line runes sliding effortlessly into place like puzzle pieces in a grand design. The simplicity of the formation makes this feel almost like a meditation exercise, letting my mind settle into the familiar rhythm of pattern recognition and replication that defined my years of coding. I find myself wondering if this test is meant to be some kind of trap, but dismiss the concern—after all, even Mairi had managed multiple formations on her first try, and this basic three-line pattern is far simpler than the burst rune we’d practiced with.

  As I push past sixty concurrent formations, I begin to feel the first hints of mental strain, not from juice depletion but from the sheer cognitive load of maintaining so many distinct patterns simultaneously. It reminds me of trying to hold too many variables in working memory while debugging complex code—each individual piece is simple enough, but the cumulative mental overhead eventually becomes overwhelming. I continue adding new sets methodically, curious to discover where my natural limit lies, knowing that my artificially replenished juice reserves will likely outlast my ability to juggle the growing complexity of the expanding formation.

  I experiment with merging pairs of my floating formations, finding that while it requires intense concentration, I can combine them into larger, more cohesive patterns. The process reminds me of refactoring code—taking multiple simple functions and combining them into more elegant, efficient solutions. However, the mental strain of maintaining these merged formations while continuing to add new ones quickly becomes apparent, and I realize I’m fortunate to have attempted this before reaching my cognitive limits.

  The combined formations hover before me like intricate constellations, each merged pair requiring less mental overhead than maintaining them separately, though the process of joining them demands a level of focus that makes me doubt I could merge more than twenty total. It’s an interesting trade-off—the reduced strain of maintaining fewer, larger formations versus the intense concentration required to combine them in the first place—and I find myself wondering if this might be why more complex runes are typically designed as single, unified patterns rather than combinations of simpler ones.

  I study the four combined formations hovering around me, each a harmonious blend of twenty simple runes merged into more complex patterns. The process had been almost meditative, and while maintaining these larger formations requires constant attention, it’s far less taxing than juggling eighty individual patterns. I can’t help but notice how the merged formations now echo the complexity of the cave runes I’d studied, though in a significantly more regular pattern. If the cave runes were also combinations of other simpler runes, then those runes were in themselves already of a complexity similar to or higher than the burst one.

  The old man’s weathered face betrays the first cracks in his professional demeanor, his eyes widening slightly as he takes in the scale of what I have accomplished, though he quickly schools his expression back to careful neutrality. The captain makes no such attempt at restraint, his mouth hanging open in naked disbelief as he stares at the floating arrays, his earlier academic interest giving way to something closer to shock. The contrast between their reactions speaks volumes about the significance of what I have achieved, though I carefully maintain my concentrated focus, I’ve come this far, and I’m going to find out where the limit lies. On some level I realize that’s probably a bad idea, but this is the closest I’ve come to doing what I was so good at in my previous life, and I’m not going to get out of the flow now.

  The old man leans forward, his weathered hands clasped together as he studies the merged formations with scholarly intensity. “Fascinating… do you think you could add more?” His tone carries that careful blend of academic curiosity and professional detachment, though I catch a slight tremor of excitement in his voice that betrays just how unexpected my demonstration must be.

  I focus inward, assessing the mental strain of maintaining my current array while considering the complex geometric relationships between the merged patterns, and I nod. “I could probably manage another forty or so,” I say thoughtfully, my mind automatically breaking down the problem like a particularly challenging coding optimization. “Though I think I could only combine about twenty of those into a fifth merged formation—trying for more would likely cause the whole thing to collapse.”

  I pause, considering the mathematical progression of complexity. “After that, I’d have to keep any additional runes either individual or in smaller groups. The mental overhead of maintaining the merged formations is already significant, and while I could probably push past a hundred total runes, trying to combine them further would be like… like trying to juggle while solving complex equations.” The analogy feels clumsy on my tongue, but it’s the closest I can come to describing the peculiar mental strain of maintaining such intricate magical geometry.

  The old man leans forward, his weathered hands clasped together as he studies the intricate patterns floating before me. “Could you attempt to merge these larger formations?” he asks, his voice carrying a blend of scholarly fascination and barely contained excitement. Like he’s heard this might be possible but never actually witnessed it. “The theoretical implications of such a combination…” he trails off, his eyes darting between the complex geometric arrays as if already calculating the possibilities.

  I consider the merged formations hovering around me, each one a carefully balanced symphony of twenty simple runes. The prospect of combining them further sends my mind spinning with possibilities, like contemplating nested functions within functions, each layer adding exponential complexity. After a moment’s hesitation, I begin the delicate process of weaving two of the larger patterns together, my spark guiding the precise geometric alignments while my programmer’s mind tracks the intricate relationships between each component. The mental strain is immediate and intense, the fourty runes need to be temporarily disconnected to be formed into a new pattern, and it feels like trying to solve multiple simultaneous equations while juggling chainsaws, but I persist, curious to discover if these magical constructs follow the same principles of modularity I’m familiar with from coding.

  With painstaking concentration, I weave the two merged formations together, watching as forty individual three-line runes coalesce into a single, breathtakingly complex pattern. The final geometry clicks into place with an almost audible sense of rightness, like perfectly aligned code executing flawlessly, and suddenly the mental strain diminishes dramatically. Where before I’d been juggling forty separate components, now I only need to maintain a single, unified formation—though its intricacy still demands considerable focus to hold stable. I can’t possibly do that again while holding the first one up too.

  Eager to complete the test and deplete my remaining juice, I rapidly form thirty more three-line runes, combining them into three groups of ten with practiced efficiency. The additional mental load hits me like a sledgehammer, my mind struggling to track the geometric relationships between my massive forty-rune formation and these new merged patterns. I can feel my concentration fracturing under the strain, each group of ten requiring constant attention to maintain their delicate balance while the larger formation hovers nearby like a monument to magical complexity.

  I can’t feel more than detached fascination as my mind finally reaches its absolute limit at one 40-rune formation, two 20-rune formations, three 10-rune formations, and 13 individual runes. 123 in total. The strain of maintaining such a complex array of relationships becomes too much to bear. The massive forty-rune formation begins to unravel first, its carefully woven pattern dissolving like sugar in hot water, followed quickly by the collapse of my other merged formations. The individual runes flutter and fade like dying fireflies, each disappearance sending tiny ripples through my spark’s perception until all that remains is the empty air and the lingering echo of mathematical precision.

  The old man’s weathered face betrays a mix of awe and excitement as he makes rapid notes in the air with trembling fingers, while the captain’s expression has shifted from skepticism to something approaching reverence. I slump onto the floor, mentally utterly exhausted but physically unaffected, noting with interest that my juice reserves remain far from depleted despite the display. The artificial refill continues to pulse through my vessel with nearly undiminished energy, making me wonder if perhaps they’d expected this exercise to be far more draining than it had proven to be.

  I can’t help but laugh out loud, startling both men from their intense observation. The pure joy bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, a familiar satisfaction I hadn’t experienced since landing in this world. It reminds me of those rare perfect moments when code flowed effortlessly from my fingers, each function sliding precisely into place like pieces of an elegant puzzle. I’d never imagined that magical runes could scratch the same intellectual itch as programming, but here I am, constructing complex geometric patterns with the same methodical precision I’d once applied to nested functions and recursive algorithms. The realization brings another burst of laughter, drawing concerned glances from my observers, but I can’t bring myself to care. For the first time since arriving in this strange world, I feel truly, completely in my element.

  The captain strides toward me, his boots echoing against the stone floor as he shakes his head in amazement. “Are you certain you’re not some secret imperial scion?” he asks, only half-joking. “Perhaps a bastard daughter of the Empress herself? Because what I just witnessed…” He trails off, gesturing at the empty air where my complex formations had hovered moments before, apparently unable to find the words to describe what he wants to say.

  The old man’s weathered laugh fills the chamber, bouncing off the ancient stones with surprising vigor. “Not quite that absurd, Captain,” he says, his eyes twinkling with academic excitement, “though I must admit, in forty years of testing channelers, I’ve rarely seen such natural aptitude. Even among those few who showed exceptional talent, none achieved this level of complexity as complete novices.” His gnarled fingers trace abstract patterns in the air as he speaks, as if trying to recreate the geometric relationships I’d created.

  I shift uncomfortably under their scrutiny, watching as the two men exchange meaningful glances that speak volumes about the significance of what I’ve accomplished. The captain’s question about imperial lineage, while meant partially in jest, carries an undercurrent of genuine wonder that makes my stomach twist with anxiety. I worked so hard to maintain the facade of a simple commoner who stumbled into power, but then I couldn’t keep my damn enthusiasm under control, and now I’ve clearly revealed capabilities far beyond what they consider normal—even for trained channelers. It’s not even related to the stupid runes I know, or the fact I learn them quickly. No. All of that is irrelevant in the face of me thinking that was so damnably fun…

  I watch the two men continue their excited discussion about my “natural talent,” guilt gnawing at my conscience. Their amazement at my ability to maintain multiple formations simultaneously feels almost fraudulent—after all, isn’t this just another form of parallel processing? The years I spent optimizing code, managing multiple threads, and architecting complex systems have given me an intuitive understanding of how to handle multiple concurrent operations. It’s not some innate magical genius they’re attributing to me; it’s simply the application of skills I’ve spent years developing in another context.

  The praise feels particularly hollow given how carefully I’m concealing my other capabilities. Did I get a leg up by being able to see the formations spinning around me? Could I do this if I had to feel out the runes entirely by spark? Better to let them believe I’m simply a gifted novice than risk exposing secrets I myself don’t fully understand. Still, part of me is tempted to ask for a rematch where I close my eyes. Something tells me it wouldn’t make a difference as long as I keep the runes within that six meter radius we discovered earlier, but still.

  “What’s the most impressive display I’ve ever seen?” I ask, genuinely curious about the limits of what’s possible. The question seems to energize the old man, his weathered face lighting up with remembered wonder as he recalls past achievements he’s witnessed. The captain settles back against one of the stone tables, clearly having heard these stories before but content to listen again.

  “There was a channeler from the northern provinces,” the old man begins, his voice taking on the measured cadence of a practiced storyteller, "who could maintain over a hundred runes simultaneously, though his true genius lay in combining them into larger patterns. He once demonstrated the ability to merge fifty simple runes into a single, massive formation—something I’d thought practically impossible until I witnessed it myself.”

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  Fifty runes? Combined? I want to slap myself. Of course. Base 2 is going to kill me. Could I have combined fifty or sixty runes together if I wasn’t so stuck on thinking the next step up from 40 would obviously be 80?

  The old man continues, “of course, there are the tales of Her Imperial Majesty’s prowess—they say she once maintained over two hundred concurrent runes during her ascension trials, though I wasn’t personally present to verify such claims. Still, given what I’ve heard of her abilities in other contexts, I wouldn’t dismiss the possibility outright.”

  The captain notices me studying him with a thoughtful expression, and before I can voice my question, he answers with a wry smile, “Right now, eighty.” He runs a hand through his hair, chuckling softly. “Though I could barely manage twenty when I started out. Quite pitiful, really, considering how much time I spent training.”

  The old man’s weathered face crinkles with amusement as he pats the captain’s shoulder consolingly. “Now, now, Captain—I’ve never managed more than sixty in my entire life, and I’ve been at this far longer than you’ve been alive.” His eyes twinkle with self-deprecating humor as he adds, “It’s obviously why I ended up teaching instead of joining the imperial guard.”

  The casual admission of their limitations sends my mind spinning, forcing me to reevaluate my recent performance. I’d maintained over twice the old man’s maximum capacity while barely tapping into my juice reserves, and the thought makes me uncomfortably aware of just how far beyond ‘natural talent’ my abilities might appear. The revelation leaves me torn between pride in my achievement and anxiety about drawing too much attention. Better yet, I am suddenly extremely eager to attempt this particular exercise with Mairi. Something tells me she’d give me a run for my money, based on how she handled so many bursts.

  I shift on the cold stone floor, my earlier elation giving way to a more practical concern. “So what does this mean for me?” I ask, gesturing vaguely at the space where my formations had been. “Being able to maintain so many runes at once—is that going to cause problems?” The question carries the weight of someone who’s learned to be wary of standing out, of drawing too much attention in a world where power often attracts unwanted interest.

  The old man’s weathered face crinkles with amusement as he waves away her concerns, while the captain maintains his carefully neutral expression. “It’s mostly used as a measure of bragging rights among channelers,” the old man explains, his tone carrying decades of experience with such posturing. “While there’s some correlation between formation capacity and overall skill, it’s far from the only metric that matters—which is precisely why our good captain here was able to best you earlier despite your impressive display. Raw ability means little without the knowledge and experience to wield it effectively.”

  I frown at my still-thrumming vessel, the artificial juice pulsing through it with barely diminished vigor despite my elaborate display. “I thought this exercise was meant to deplete my reserves,” I say, letting genuine confusion color my voice. “But I’ve barely used any juice at all, even with all those formations.” The admission feels dangerous, but the discrepancy between their expectations and reality seems too significant to ignore.

  The old man’s weathered face splits into another knowing grin, his eyes twinkling with academic amusement. “Most novices,” he explains, leaning forward conspiratorially, “attempt this exercise hundreds of times before achieving even modest numbers of concurrent formations. They drain their vessels through sheer repetition, forming and reforming basic patterns until exhaustion sets in.” He gestures expansively at the empty air where my complex arrangements had hung moments before. “You’ll simply have to keep at it until your reserves run dry, though I suspect we’ll be here quite a while if your efficiency remains constant.” There’s an unmistakable spark in his eye as he adds “I’m very eager to see how far you can stretch your capacity by the end of it.”

  The captain waves his hand dismissively at the old man’s careful methodology, a hint of swagger returning to his bearing. “This academic approach is all well and good,” he says, straightening his uniform with practiced precision, “but I’d rather see how she handles the heat rune now that we’re in a proper setting. After all, she’s already demonstrated remarkable proficiency with it. Let her use her power to overcome my shield.” His hand moves to rest on his sword hilt as he steps into a defensive stance, a familiar rune already beginning to form in the air before him.

  The old man’s weathered face creases with concern as he shakes his head, clearly uncomfortable with this deviation from standard testing procedures. “Captain, while I appreciate your… enthusiasm, perhaps we should continue with more controlled exercises. The artificial refill can be unpredictable, and we’ve already seen her unusual formation methodology.” His words carry the weight of decades of experience, though I notice how the captain’s expression only hardens at the gentle rebuke.

  I study the captain’s posture, recognizing the telltale signs of wounded pride beneath his professional demeanor. His earlier shock at my abilities has crystallized into something more competitive, as if my natural talent somehow diminishes his own hard-won expertise. The way he positions himself, the careful placement of his feet, the tight control in his movements—everything speaks of someone determined to prove themselves superior, regardless of the old man’s cautionary words. I can’t help but wonder if I’m about to become an unwitting participant in some sort of magical pissing contest.

  The old man’s shoulders slump in resignation as he steps back, his weathered hands falling to his sides. “Very well, Captain. But remember, if this goes poorly, I warned you.” His tone carries decades of experience dealing with headstrong students, though there’s a sharp edge to his words that suggests deeper concerns than mere academic caution. The captain merely nods, his fingers already weaving through the air as he walks away from us, and forms an intricate array of overlapping runes that coalesce into a shimmering, disc-like barrier before him.

  I watch in fascination as the complex formation takes shape, though the distance prevents me from clearly discerning individual components of what appears to be at least three distinct runes combined into a formation working in concert. I catch the subtle exchange of glances between the two men, noting how the old man’s hand drifts to rest near a pocket where I suspect another rune-inscribed item lies hidden, ready to be deployed if I prove more threat than test subject. The captain’s confident smirk never wavers as he gestures for me to walk to the other end of the room, though his stance betrays the tension of someone preparing for potential combat rather than mere demonstration.

  Before I take up my position, I study the captain’s shimmering barrier with academic interest, appreciating how the runes work together to create a unified defensive formation, the juice flowing from one rune to another in a perfect choreography. When I finally stop, I note that the old man has come along with me to the far side of the room.

  The heat rune forms easily in my mind, its geometric pattern already as familiar as the sprintf function I’ve used countless times. While I know the artificial juice in my vessel will eventually need depleting, I can’t help but wonder if there might be more pleasant ways to accomplish this than another magical firefight—especially given how our last encounter ended with my face blistered and burning. I was rather looking forward to trying the formation thing a few more times. I’m fairly certain I should be able to get to one hundred and thirty, or even more if the combination of fifty or sixty runes works.

  My mind drifts to the captain’s earlier mention of quarters, a concept that seems almost laughably civilized given my recent accommodations in that dusty storeroom. Still, if he’s offering actual living space rather than just a different cell, it might be worth playing along with his test. And he’s really kinda asking me to clobber him right? The heat rune hovers ready in my mind as I weigh my options, its familiar geometry waiting to be manifested at my command.

  I figure there’s nothing for it, and manifest the heat rune before the captain’s shield with practiced ease, the geometric pattern flowing from my spark as naturally. Since I can see it, the distance isn’t a concern right now. Rather than my usual careful approach to juice allocation, I open the floodgates completely, channeling power into the formation as fast as my vessel can supply it. The sensation is unlike anything I’ve experienced before—where normally feeding juice feels like carefully pouring water through a funnel, this is like opening a fire hydrant, raw power rushing through my channels with devastating intensity. I realize with alarm that the burst with which the vial fed juice into my vessel works similarly in reverse.

  The old man’s weathered face contorts with alarm as he lunges forward, his mouth opening to shout a warning that comes too late. The heat rune flares with blinding intensity, transforming in a millisecond into something resembling a miniature sun, its core blazing white-hot as it devours juice at an unprecedented rate. The air around the formation shimmers and distorts, the temperature climbing so rapidly that I can feel the flash of heat even on the other side of the room, and I realize with sudden clarity that I may have drastically miscalculated the consequences of my experiment.

  The captain’s smug confidence evaporates in an instant as my heat rune transforms into something monstrous. The miniature sun pulses against his shield with such ferocity that the defensive formation visibly warps, its carefully constructed geometry bending under the onslaught. The shield holds, but the look of utter shock on the captain’s face is worth whatever trouble I’m about to be in.

  “Holy fucking—” he shouts, stumbling backward, his boots skidding across stone as the wall of heat pushes against him. His shield flares brilliantly, edges rippling with strain as it absorbs the impossible energy unleashed. Sweat instantly soaks his uniform, his face flushing crimson as though he’s stood too close to a forge.

  Around us, small runes all throughout the walls of the ancient chamber suddenly light up in a dizzyingly complex pattern, each one flaring to life with a soft ping that builds into a harmonic chorus. The walls, ceilings, and floor become awash in an unearthly blue glow that casts everything in a ghostly, underwater luminescence. I feel the hairs on my arms rise as the miniature sun that occupied the space right in front of the shield, and the shield itself, vanish in an instant with a sound like air rushing to fill a vacuum, leaving behind only dancing purple afterimages on my retinas and the lingering smell of something burnt.

  I realize that all my juice has vanished with shocking abruptness, like a computer suddenly losing power. The complete depletion hits me with unexpected force, but instead of the familiar hollow emptiness I’ve come to associate with running dry, my entire body tingles with an intense euphoria. The sensation reminds me of the runner’s high I used to chase on long runs through the forest, only magnified a hundredfold, every nerve ending singing with pleasure even as my mind remains crystal clear.

  I slump against the nearest stone table, my legs suddenly wobbly as waves of ecstasy wash through my system. The rational part of my brain tries to analyze this new development—clearly the artificial refill creates different effects when depleted rapidly compared to the natural juice from the fruits. But coherent thought becomes increasingly difficult as the sensation intensifies, my body humming with an almost electrical pleasure.

  My whole body trembles with waves of euphoric pleasure, each pulse more intense than the last, making it nearly impossible to maintain any semblance of dignity. The artificial juice’s sudden depletion has triggered something far beyond the feeling I normally experience when running dry, and I find myself grateful for the stone table’s support as my legs threaten to give out entirely. The sensation reminds me distantly of the rune the old man had shown me earlier, and I absently note that the thing would be utterly useless if the sensation is the same. It’s as if my entire nervous system has been rewired for pure ecstasy.

  The old man fixes the captain with a withering glare that carries decades of academic disapproval, his weathered face a picture of exasperated resignation. “This,” he says, gesturing at my writhing form—and the walls that still have a lingering blue afterglow—with barely contained frustration, “is precisely why we normally deplete artificial refills gradually.” The captain’s face has turned an impressive shade of crimson as he struggles to maintain his professional composure. His earlier bravado has completely evaporated in the face of my increasingly vocal response to the juice depletion. His hand fidgets uncomfortably on his sword hilt as he pointedly looks anywhere but at me, a woman experiencing what appears to be an intense magical orgasm on the chamber floor.

  I gradually become aware of my surroundings again, my body still trembling with aftershocks as the intense euphoria slowly fades. I’m drenched in sweat, my clothes clinging uncomfortably to my skin, and I realize with mortification that I must have been writhing on the floor for some time. The captain’s conspicuous absence speaks volumes about the spectacle I must have made.

  The old man stands nearby, his weathered face a careful mask of professional detachment though his eyes twinkle with barely suppressed amusement. “The good captain,” he says dryly, “found himself rather… overwhelmed by your response to the artificial depletion. He managed to maintain his composure for approximately three seconds before beating a rather hasty retreat.” His tone carries just enough humor to make it clear he’s more amused by his colleague’s discomfort than my predicament.

  I shift uncomfortably against the cold stone floor, acutely aware of how my sweat-soaked clothes cling to my body in ways that leave little to the imagination. The intensity of what just happened—an experience that far surpassed any physical pleasure I’d known before—has left me torn between burning anger at being subjected to such an intimate display and utter mortification at my complete loss of control. My face flushes hot as I tug futilely at my tattered clothing, trying to restore some semblance of dignity.

  The old man’s casual demeanor only intensifies my conflicted emotions, though his weathered face shows nothing but professional detachment, something I immensely appreciate right now. “My dear,” he says, waving away my obvious discomfort with a dismissive gesture, “I’ve witnessed this particular reaction at least a dozen times before. The artificial refill has quite predictable effects when depleted suddenly—your reaction was rather par for the course.” His matter-of-fact tone carries neither judgment nor embarrassment, suggesting this is simply another instance in his long career of magical instruction.

  “I… understand why you normally deplete it gradually,” I grimace at the old man, trying to keep my voice steady despite the flutter in my stomach. “Though the effects were rather… remarkable.” I watch his weathered face for any sign of judgment, but find only that same professional detachment, though there is a slight upwards twitch to the side of his mouth.

  The old man’s weathered face takes on a stern cast as he explains the true cost of my magical high, his words cutting through my lingering euphoria like a splash of cold water. “That vial contained the equivalent of three months’ salary for an imperial guard,” he says, “it’s always a bit of shame when it gets wasted like this.”

  The old man’s weathered face breaks into a genuine smile as he clasps his hands together, his earlier professional detachment giving way to unrestrained enthusiasm. "Never mind that.” he clearly means both the effect on me, and the rather remarkable action the room took when it seemed like things were going off the rails. It’s suddenly clear why they decided to use this place for their testing. Does it have some sort of build it supression system?

  “Remarkable, truly remarkable," he declares, already sketching notes in the air with practiced gestures. “Your natural affinity for complex formations, combined with such unprecedented juice efficiency… the Imperial Academy will be absolutely delighted. I suspect they’ll want you transferred to the capital immediately for proper training.” His words carry the weight of certainty, each syllable falling like lead weights in my stomach as I realize the implications of my performance.

  I force myself to maintain a neutral expression despite the panic clawing at my chest, my thoughts immediately flying to Mairi and the others. The children are still out there somewhere in this vast city, or outside it, probably searching for me even now, and the thought of being whisked away to some distant capital before I can find them makes me want to scream. I’d promised myself—promised them—that I would always come back, that I wouldn’t be another adult who abandoned them to their fate. The praise heaped upon me now tastes like ashes in my mouth as I realize my impressive display may have just made it impossible to keep that promise.

  The captain leads me through a series of increasingly ornate corridors before stopping at a heavy wooden door. The captain clears his throat awkwardly as he opens the doors of my new quarters, his earlier military bearing somewhat diminished by what appears to be genuine contrition. “About your… reaction to the essentia depletion,” he begins, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, “I apologize for putting you in that position. I didn’t think, and I got carried away.” The words hang heavily in the air between us as I feel my face flush with remembered intensity.

  I stare at the captain, unsure how to respond to his awkward apology. The humiliation of what transpired in the testing chamber still burns fresh in my mind, my body’s betrayal displayed for all to see. Part of me wants to lash out, to make him feel even a fraction of the embarrassment I experienced, but I swallow the impulse. He is, after all, my captor, and antagonizing him serves no purpose beyond momentary satisfaction.

  “Right,” I say finally, my voice carefully neutral. “I suppose neither of us expected… that.” I study his face, searching for any hint of deception or amusement at my expense. Had he known exactly what would happen? The thought that he might have deliberately engineered my humiliation sends a fresh wave of indignation through me, but his obvious discomfort suggests otherwise. Still, men in positions of power rarely apologize unless they stand to gain something from it.

  The captain shifts his weight, clearly eager to move past the awkward moment. “The old man says you’ll need at least a day to recover before we can continue. In the meantime, these quarters should provide adequate comfort.” His formal tone has returned, though he still can’t quite meet my eyes.

  I take a deliberate step toward the doorway, noting how he tenses slightly. “Just to be clear,” I say, keeping my voice light despite the edge underneath, “will this continuation involve unexpected bodily reactions, or was that a special welcome package?”

  The captain winces, his composure slipping again. “That was… not standard procedure.” He gestures vaguely toward the room. “There are fresh clothes in the chest. Someone will bring food shortly.”

  As I step into the room, I can’t resist one parting shot. “Next time you want to see a woman writhing on the floor, Captain, there are establishments in the city that cater to such interests. No need to waste three months’ salary on magical juice.”

  His face flushes crimson as he quickly steps back, pulling the door shut with perhaps more force than necessary. I listen to his retreating footsteps, a small, bitter smile playing at my lips. The victory feels hollow, but it’s something.

  The room beyond proves surprisingly comfortable—a real bed with actual linens, a small writing desk, even a window overlooking what appears to be an inner courtyard. It’s a far cry from the dusty storeroom or my makeshift hideout in the slums, though the solid click of the lock engaging behind me serves as a pointed reminder that it’s still very much a prison, albeit a gilded one.

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