Kays Translations

Chapter 13: Magic and Science

Cradling a crystal ball in both hands, the thin and pale young man finally halted his steps just a few paces before Marlon and his companions.

He lifted his head, his gaze locking onto Marlon.

“Are you Marlon Lister?”

The one who asked bore an utterly ordinary face—square-jawed, sprinkled with pockmarks and dark spots. It was the kind of face so common among pure-blooded humans that it could disappear in any crowd, leaving no impression behind.

“I am. And you are…? Do you need something from me?” Marlon confirmed his name with an easy smile. At the same time, he noticed what the young man was trying to hide within his long, drooping sleeves: a crystal ball clutched tightly between both hands.

The stranger’s sudden appearance, coupled with his peculiar manner, might have unsettled another man. But Marlon, reassured by the presence of the formidable Claw Druid Master at his side, was too preoccupied with his own recent troubles—questions about the mind-sorcerers, the upcoming masquerade, and too many unresolved puzzles—to pay much heed. To him, the youth looked no more than some half-starved ascetic, perhaps an apprentice of the magical arts.

“I want you to look at this.”

The thin youth raised the crystal sphere with slow reverence, as if presenting some sacred relic.

And as he lifted it higher, Marlon’s eyes widened. Inside the cloudy globe, formations of fully armed soldiers marched in endless ranks, their square formations stretching so far into the horizon that one could not see their beginning or end. They were divided into opposing forces, each wielding massive, brutish steam rifles, exchanging fire in ceaseless volleys.

No—there was more. Much more.

Marlon, blessed with sharp eyesight, soon saw other wonders. Great floating airships drifted above the battlefield within storm-laden skies, their hulls bristling with pitch-black cannons that spat fire and thunder at one another. Thousands upon thousands of smoking, churning steam tanks—monstrosities resembling the armored beasts of Earth’s great wars—rolled across the ground. Some pushed through the gaps between infantry ranks, while others clustered together into pure armored battalions, spewing fire at both the enemy and the heavens as they advanced with merciless fury.

Yet what shocked Marlon most was not the scale of the war, but the nature of the weapons themselves. Explosions from the cannons did not merely shatter the ground—they unleashed devastating magical effects. One burst froze soldiers into ice sculptures of grotesque beauty. Another blasted shards of stone in every direction. Whirlwinds howled in violent emerald fury. Sickly green liquids corroded the very earth into yawning pits.

There was no doubt about it: the scene within the crystal was not just a battle. It was a full-scale war—one where steam technology and sorcery clashed in apocalyptic union.

Which raised the chilling question—

What exactly was this crystal ball?

Marlon’s memory quickly dismissed the possibility that it was a true military artifact. It was nothing like the “Campaign-Grade Command Projection Crystal System” he had once glimpsed in the lofty treehouse restaurant of The Light of Eshilia. That rare device projected lifelike images outward into the air, visible and audible to all around. By contrast, this shabby little crystal only contained its visions within, like a magical film reel. The material alone looked cheap, inferior.

“Is this a sorcerer’s crystal ball? And where did this war take place?” Marlon asked aloud.

Though he seemed to direct his question at the youth, his eyes slid toward Master Conchita Bowden, the Claw Druid. At nearly seventy, the elder was famed as a true scholar among druids—though, sheltered by nature’s power, seventy still left him as hale and vigorous as many men half his age.

“The Battle of Coriasa,” the youth said solemnly. “It took place four years ago.”

“No. This is not a sorcerer’s crystal ball,” Master Bowden answered without hesitation, his deep, rumbling voice brimming with certainty. “No such orb has ever displayed images within itself.”

Indeed, as the druid implied, true crystals in this world functioned like hyper-advanced projectors from a science-fiction tale, casting their captured visions outward in grand holographic form.

“Young one,” Bowden stepped closer, his ursine features grave yet curious, “roll back your sleeves. I suspect the secret of this crystal lies not within the orb itself, but within your hands that grasp it.”

The youth flinched at his words, his eyes darting nervously away from the towering half-man, half-bear figure. The druid’s commanding tone and beastly visage clearly unnerved him.

“Don’t be afraid,” Marlon said lightly, half in jest. “This is the merciful Grand Druid, Conchita Bowden. Beneath the wild exterior of a beast beats the gentle heart of a wise man.”

The reassurance seemed to steady the young man. His eyes, once evasive, grew calm again. He met Marlon’s gaze briefly before turning back to the druid. “As you command, honored master.”

Slowly, reverently, he lifted his arms higher. The wide sleeves slipped down to his elbows—revealing the truth.

Marlon’s breath caught in his throat.

The youth’s hands were not hands of flesh at all. They were machines. Cold, metallic, their surface etched with intricate, blood-red sigils that pulsed faintly with power.

But it was not the mechanical hands themselves that drew Marlon’s attention. It was what happened at the fingertips, where steel touched crystal. Each digit shimmered with a delicate crimson glow, as though feeding life into the orb.

“These markings…” the druid murmured, leaning closer. His keen eyes widened in recognition. “They appear to be a modified version of the Helfa Crimson Rune Array.”

The youth’s expression shifted to surprise—he had not expected anyone to recognize it so easily.

“How did you manage this?” Bowden pressed, curiosity outweighing restraint. He crouched slightly, examining every etched line with reverence. “If memory serves, the original Helfa rune was meant only to power the Crimson Vanguards—Helfa’s infamous phantom legion—granting them energy stronger and more compact than any steam-crystal device. And yet… their legend burned out almost as soon as it appeared.”

“Yes,” the youth whispered at last, voice heavy with both pride and sorrow. “You are correct. This is a modified Crimson Rune Array. It does not generate power. Instead, it softens the raw, violent energy of the magic crystals, bypassing cumbersome steam engines. With the rune, that chaos can be transformed into steady, controllable energy.”

“What flaw does it carry?” Bowden interrupted, his instincts cutting straight to the heart.

“Flaw…?” A shadow fell across the youth’s face. His voice grew hushed, tinged with grief. “My father said the rune’s weakness is its cost. It requires vast amounts of mithril, bloodstone, and other rare, precious materials. And even then… the conversion rate is pitiful—barely ten percent. Whereas steam engines convert energy at no less than thirty.”

The boy raised his eyes again, sorrow hardening into anger. “These hands… they are my father’s legacy. His only relic.”

Marlon softened. From the druid he had learned this truth: “Death is part of the natural order. No soul of flesh and blood escapes its slumber, save the gods themselves. I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” The youth inclined his head, though pride soon lit his words. “But my father was a genius! He taught me more than I can ever say. And before his end, he solved the riddle of the Crimson Rune. He raised its efficiency to fifteen percent!”

The pride faded. Darkness crept back into his eyes. “But he was too consumed by his research to guard himself. He failed to see the curse hidden within the rune’s very design. And when the vile—those whose hearts had already sunk into shadow—discovered his work, they came to steal it…”

Marlon exhaled slowly. Now it made sense.

This stranger who had barred his path was no mad vagabond. He was the son of a slain genius, burdened by blood-feud and legacy alike—a young scholar of magical science. And the crystal ball he cradled so protectively was no ordinary trinket. It was the fruit of his father’s invention.

Even so, compared to the grand, lifelike projections of a true Campaign-Grade Orb, this little device seemed crude. A toy, perhaps… or the seed of something greater.

“I think,” Marlon said at last, lowering his voice, “we’d best continue this conversation elsewhere. A crowded street is hardly the place for such secrets.”

The youth turned, gesturing with his mechanical hand. “My dwelling is just there.”

Not far away stood a small wooden hut, boarded up tightly as if to keep the world outside—or perhaps to keep something within.

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