Arcane Exfil Chapter 3: Celdorne

Each new sight really lightened Cole's opinion of Celdorne. A throne room, historically, should represent power; architectural dick-asuring rendered in marble and gold leaf. But the chokepoint past the doors and the firing slits overhead suggested soone 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 so ostentatious crown, he wore just a simple circlet, though the sheen of the tal and the way those inset gems caught the light suggested ‘simple’ might be relative when it ca to magical enhancents.

Either way, he had the look of soone 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 warst welco, but then again, Cole doubted anyone felt particularly cheerful about this arrangent. “I am Armonde Celdor, King of Celdorne. And you are?”

Cole bowed. “Lieutenant Cole rcer of the United States Army, Your Majesty. With are Sergeants Miles Garrett and Ethan Walker.”

“You may raise your heads. I trust Director Fallamore has explained sothing 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 outco. Though really, what choice was there?

Certain death versus a hero’s welco – 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 so ti 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 ti you require to reach your decision.” He gestured to Fotham. “In the anti, Director Fallamore 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 al 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 et again on the morrow.”

A Scrying Pane, huh? Magical FaceTi sounded real useful, even before considering the implications of real-ti communication in warfare. Sohow, it was both a blessing and a curse being presented with a fait accompli like this; less ti racking their brains over a decision, more ti 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 comnt landed… differently than intended. Everyone caught the ‘when.’ But at least it gave them sothing to think about – another distraction from the reality that now faced them.

Cole rembered how Mack would go on about magic theory in his gas, especially the one ti he stuck a ring of enlargent 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 asure 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 manater – being no more elaborate than a sequence of graduated chambers which asures the concentration of mana.”

Well, that was different. Usually these scenarios involved touching so glowing crystal ball that lit up with convenient color-coding. The term ‘manater’ suggested sothing far more precise. Celdorne’s fascination with Victorian thodology was starting to read less like an aesthetic choice and more like fundantal 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 asurent. 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 re courtesy after all.

Beyond the placard, and despite the castle’s dieval trappings, lay a decidedly academic space. tal-reinforced walls and copper-like sh across the windows hinted at so form of isolation – probably from ambient magic, given the context. The familiar shapes of thermoters and baroters along one wall suggested environntal monitoring - whatever that purple liquid was, it still had to follow basic physics.

A tall glass instrunt dominated the far corner: a series of seven identical bulbs connected vertically, rising from a base reservoir where the asurent 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 nurals. 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 fundantals, 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 excitent spreads its effects through the body, if you take my aning.”

The diagrams showed cross-sections of human anatomy – soone had clearly indulged in a rather excessive number of dissections to achieve this level of detail. Though the alien labels ant 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 docuntation 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 sa.

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. So 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 sumr 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 manater rose smoothly through the first bulb, settling just past the second marking.

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

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The barrier shifted under Fotham’s direction – tilting, contracting, expanding like soone was ssing around with a model in AutoCAD or Blender. Each transformation maintained that sa hexagonal stability, though the patterns flowed and redistributed with each change. The manater, 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 – sothing different. Turns out Fotham wasn’t bullshitting; it was a warmth in his blood that seed to respond to his nerve impulses, flowing from that new organ. Kinda like adrenaline, but… controllable sohow.

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

It felt truly strange, about the sa 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 shimred, the plane of mana almost settling into geotry, then destabilized again.

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

Cole took a breath before trying again. The manoter’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 ford by sound frequencies. The barrier’s hexagonal structure suddenly seed less arbitrary. If mana behaved anything like other wave phenona, 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 glimr to his left flared up. Miles had finally gotten his pattern locked.

“Excellent progress, gentlen.” Fotham's pleased expression carried the sa 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 et them. “Now then, shall we proceed with proper asurent?”

“Sure,” Cole said.

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

The purple liquid responded the mont Ethan took position, climbing smoothly through the first bulb and into the second. Foreign nurals aside, the progression seed logical enough. Had to be so 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 ti 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 sothing in a notebook. The repeating patterns in their nurals 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 trics, but right now, Cole had more pressing concerns. The imminent assessnt of his own magical aptitude weighed on him. He wouldn’t ask for much; manifesting so 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 ti to dwell on the results either way. All the ti in the world to make it a pissing contest with the boys, though.

“Lieutenant?” Mont of truth. Ti 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 imdiately, 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 ford 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 ntioned 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 sa 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 beco available to you once you’ve been properly integrated with OTAC.”

Cole pulled out a random volu 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 seed 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 fundantals, I should think – matters of language, cultural particulars, basic theory of magic. Following that, presuming you find our arrangent 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 asly .22. The report suggested sothing 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 – so 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 enchantnt configurations,” Fotham said.

Mauser action – or sothing close enough. The shooter seed to have the rhythm down: load a round, flip what looked like a selector by the trigger guard, pause for a mont – probably channeling mana – then fire. First couple shots were normal enough, just cratering the reinforced backstop. Then ca sothing different – blue flash from the chamber, and the next impact sohow 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 sohow – basic chanical 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?”