Unusual noise filled the lab.

  “Old man, you’re not listening,” Harlan said, irritated. “I’m telling you, he shoved that winged beast so hard it flew thirty meters. One impulse. You did the same when you showed me the menagerie.”

  “I hear you, I hear you.” Re scratched the back of his head. “But for a self-taught prospector, that’s… pushing it. You sure you actually saw it? Not something your brain invented after the fight?”

  “I saw it a hundred times. In a fight, he could make a dozen of those pushes.”

  “Fine. Let’s break down the mechanics,” Re mumbled, reaching for paper.

  He scrawled a couple formulas fast, did some rough math, then looked up.

  “Well. That puts his impulses at five… maybe ten, even fifteen thousand newtons.” Re tapped his pen against the table. “Impressive for a simple prospector. But plausible.”

  “I told you,” Harlan said, vindicated.

  “How else did he work with the Field?” Re asked.

  “I don’t know. I only saw the impulses,” Harlan said. “Thorren didn’t like using magic. Backlash hit him hard…”

  “Hm.” Re’s eyes narrowed. “So he trained one technique until it became a pattern. You see it now, Harlan? That’s the strength of patterns. Speed. Repeatability. Power. Even for a mediocre Field operator. And for someone who uses his head…” Re’s mouth twitched. “It opens an entirely different level.”

  Re grinned, showing too many teeth.

  Harlan swallowed. He knew what that smile meant. *More training.*

  Still, Harlan wanted to learn Thorren’s strikes. It wasn’t just a tribute to a friend. It was a clean combat tool, far better than his sluggish ice arrows. Those still came out wrong more often than not. With kinetic magic, though, he did better.

  “But, Harlan. Not all at once,” Re cut through his thoughts. “First you learn to direct bullets.”

  “I know,” Harlan said.

  ?

  A shot cracked.

  “Miss. Again,” Harlan ordered.

  Re gave him a sour look but said nothing. He aimed. Another shot.

  “Attempt thirty-seven. Miss,” Harlan said aloud as he wrote in his notebook. “They don’t teach you anything in those academies of yours.”

  That did it. Re boiled over. He didn’t snap back. He spun around, straightened, and stared at Harlan like a threat in human form.

  Harlan shrank, then immediately pretended to make a note.

  Re glared at him for a few seconds, then turned back toward the tree. Snow still clung to the branches. In a week, not a single hit.

  Re muttered something indistinguishable under his breath.

  “What?” Harlan asked.

  “Nothing. Do not interrupt.” Re rubbed his temples. “Mark it. Experiment thirty-eight: attempting generation of centripetal acceleration.”

  Re aimed again, deliberately left of the tree so the bullet wouldn’t hit it.

  The shot cracked.

  This time was different.

  The bullet flew straight, then snapped sideways, arcing past the right side of the tree.

  “Did you see that?” Re bounced on his heels, suddenly bright. “Give me the notebook.”

  He grabbed it and started writing in a rush, spilling details across the page.

  He flipped to a clean sheet and sketched a quick diagram.

  “I told you it’s possible,” he said, almost giddy. “Now all that’s left is to actually hit the target.”

  “Well, old man,” Harlan said with open envy, “try doing it without me having to haul you home.”

  Re was too deep in his notes to even hear the jab.

  When he finally finished, he rattled on, fast and sharp:

  “Now I understand the whole thing. My mistake was trying to influence the bullet itself. I tried to force a ricochet or a deflection after the shot was made. That’s wrong. You influence the trajectory. Those idiots from the journal didn’t even understand their own experiment.”

  He sounded excited, but his mind stayed clean and rational.

  “Come on, Harlan. That’s enough for today. Tomorrow we’ll finish it.”

  They left the plateau. If the tree could breathe, it would have sighed with relief. Snow still sat untouched on its branches.

  It didn’t get to enjoy that relief for long.

  The next day, Re hit the target on his second try. After every shot he wrote for a long time, ignoring the cold.

  He didn't miss again.

  “Done, Harlan. Back to the lab. I’ll explain everything.” Re’s eyes gleamed. “Tomorrow it’s your turn.”

  ?

  The grim, sharp-tongued Re Harlan knew was gone. This Re glowed. He waved his hands, jumped from thought to thought, and for the last hour he hadn’t called Harlan a useless prospector even once.

  They sat in the lab. Re kept writing and talking at the same time.

  “And here, on attempt sixteen—”

  “Re. Get to the point,” Harlan cut in.

  “I’m explaining something important.” Re stopped himself, then snorted. “Right. You’re a useless prospector. Forgot who I was talking to.”

  He huffed, offended, and finally laid out the core idea.

  “Basically: if you apply centripetal acceleration to the barrel at the moment of firing, or slightly before, then afterward you will only adjust the radius of the arc. Want it tighter, tighten it. Want no correction, do nothing, if the shot is already clean. Come on. Your turn.”

  He wrote down a few formulas and showed them to Harlan.

  “That doesn’t look complicated,” Harlan said, doing the math in his head.

  “You thought science and resonance with the Field must be complicated and obscure?” Re smirked. “The most important thing—in everything, not just science or magic—is the basics. The base! Fundamentals. Repeat them every day. Only a solid foundation lets you build complexity. People forget that.” Re slapped the paper. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait, Re. I still have to feed the animals and water the crops.”

  “Right,” Re said, genuinely surprised. “How could I forget that? Go. Come get me when you’re done.”

  Harlan disappeared for about four hours. Re ran out of patience and went looking for him, but they met in the corridor outside the greenhouse.

  “Where have you been?” Re demanded.

  “I have a list of duties, actually. A contract,” Harlan replied calmly.

  Re grunted something indistinct, then added, “Get ready.”

  Soon they were back on their training plateau. It was just as quiet.

  Harlan unholstered the revolver. Re took out his pen and notebook.

  Harlan fired the first shot and... hit immediately.

  Second. Third. Fifth. Seventh.

  All seven rounds punched into the tree.

  “That’s impossible.” Re stared. “Does a useless prospector actually have some talent?”

  “You just explained it clearly for once,” Harlan said innocently.

  Re was speechless.

  “Well then, my friend,” he said at last, voice recovering its edge, “let’s see how many bullets you can correct without stopping.”

  Re laid out every suitable gun he had: five revolvers, three rifles.

  “Three seven-shooters, two six-shooters, and three fives.” He squinted, counting in his head. “Forty-eight shots total. Let’s go.”

  Harlan fired fast, rotating through the revolvers. He focused until his vision narrowed. The bullets kept cutting straight into the target.

  Around the twenty-fifth round, maybe the fourth revolver, a dry, loud crack split the air.

  Both of them froze, peering toward the snowy brush.

  Then the crack split the trunk down the center. A fracture Harlan hadn’t noticed raced through the wood. The tree, riddled with bullets, groaned and split in half. The top crashed into the drifts.

  Harlan and Re looked at each other.

  “Hmph. True talent,” Re said, already writing. “Experiment’s ruined. Reload everything. Start over.”

  Instead, Harlan sat down in the snow.

  “No, Re. That’s enough. Unless you want to haul me home.”

  The old man looked down at his student, disappointed, and grumbled, “Fine. Home for today. Be happy. You’ve got your signature technique now. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  *Praise from Gramps? That happens?* Harlan allowed himself a quiet, private satisfaction. He stood with effort and packed the bag.

  ?

  That morning, Harlan sat on the porch with his knees pulled to his chest, staring at the mountains. The tea in his mug had gone cold a long time ago.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Somewhere beyond those white peaks, Garret was still out there. Kel and his wife. A whole life that now felt like someone else’s story.

  Harlan exhaled and set the mug on the step.

  Pinky, lying nearby, crawled closer.

  “Don’t worry. Gramps will be back soon.” Harlan scratched him behind the head.

  Four days had passed since Re left for the Wildlands to look for a new test subject. He’d taken only a small hiking pack: a compact tent, a small heater, and about ten days’ worth of food.

  “Re, are you crazy?” Harlan had tried to stop him. “Nobody goes into the Wildlands alone. At least let me come with you.”

  “Listen, kid.” Re had grinned. “I walked there for eighty years and nothing happened. Now it suddenly became dangerous?” He waved it off. “And someone has to watch the menagerie and the greenhouse. Last time I went, they almost died. Had to throw out two sprouts.”

  “So you’ve done this before?”

  “Of course. Where do you think all those northern plants and animals came from?” Re had almost laughed. Then he looked at the furred crocodile. “Pinky, you’re in charge.”

  And then he’d gone.

  Now Harlan had spent four days as the only human in that huge lodge. The silence, which felt like a blessing at first, started pressing on his ears by day four. He caught himself talking to the plants in the greenhouse.

  “You know, Pinky,” Harlan said, looking at him, “I think it’s time for a change.”

  Pinky tilted his head and blinked his yellow eyes, confused.

  ?

  A loud scream yanked Harlan out of his thoughts.

  “Dammit, Pinky! Who did this? I’ll kill ’em!”

  Harlan listened.

  “Oh. Gramps is back,” he said out loud, and went to meet him.

  Harlan barely stepped out of the greenhouse when a stick flew straight at his forehead, hard. Almost on instinct, he shifted the air pressure in front of himself. A sudden gust knocked the stick left. It slammed into the wall.

  “What did you do?” Re roared.

  “What did I do?” Harlan asked carefully, bracing for another attack.

  “Why did you put… THIS… on Pinky?”

  “Oh, that.” Harlan laughed. “Gramps, you’ve lived alone too long. You don’t understand fashion.”

  "I'll give you fashion!"

  The stick whipped up again. Harlan dodged.

  Pinky trotted gracefully toward Harlan, tail wagging like he’d done nothing wrong.

  The day before, bored out of his mind, Harlan had dressed the furred crocodile in some pink cloth and scraps. Pink was his color. Especially the ridiculous bow on his head.

  Re did not agree.

  He kept cursing and ranting until Harlan finally stripped Pinky out of the outfit.

  Pinky looked almost disappointed.

  Only then did Harlan study Re more closely.

  “Re. What happened to you?”

  “Nothing,” the old man grunted, unpacking his bag.

  From among the remaining food and gear, he pulled out a jar with a tiny sprout inside.

  “Here. Plant it. Log it.” Re shoved it toward Harlan. “Didn’t find anything useful besides that. And even that’s trash.”

  “I’ll plant it. But your wounds need cleaning,” Harlan said, scanning him. “Beasts?”

  “Trifles.” Re waved it off. “A couple small pack predators crawled into my tent at night. I chased them out, but one got a bite in. I already sealed it with the Field.”

  “It still looks bad. I’m bandaging it anyway.” Harlan dug out the med kit and pulled antiseptic and wraps.

  Re didn’t fight much. He let Harlan dress his arm. There were no open wounds, but bite marks remained—scabbed over with dried blood.

  “Will you teach me how to seal wounds too?” Harlan asked. “That would be useful.”

  “Thanks,” Re grunted, judging the wrap. “Healing magic is the hardest. I do not think it’s worth your time.”

  “Well, if the greatest professor in the world can’t teach it, what can we do,” Harlan said, shoulders slumping theatrically. His eyes, however, shone.

  “It’s not that I can’t, it’s that you’re a bit dim.” Re sounded tired. “Still, I can teach a yarg if I have to.”

  “Okay. Then today you’ll tell me.”

  Harlan sprang up and carried the med kit away.

  “You’re not a yarg,” Re tried to mutter after him, but Harlan had already disappeared around the corner. “What a nuisance…”

  ?

  Re sat on a chair in the “gym” with his tea, watching Harlan with half an eye. Harlan did his daily warm-up: eight cubes suspended in the air, rotating, shifting, weaving. Re didn’t need to help.

  Re traced a finger along the rim of his mug, eyes never leaving the spinning cubes.

  What he said aloud came out different.

  “Soon you’ll pass for a real Field operator,” he said when Harlan finished.

  “And compared to Academy students?” Harlan asked.

  “Hm. Even considering you started at almost thirty—”

  “Twenty-five,” Harlan cut in, offended.

  “Doesn't matter,” Re snapped. “Even considering your late age, your progress is good. They would admit you to the Academy without exams.”

  Re took a sip.

  “And in some disciplines—telekinesis, for example—you can do things most professors cannot.”

  “Where’s the catch?” Harlan narrowed his eyes.

  “What catch?”

  “You’re praising me a lot,” Harlan said, wary.

  “Praising?” Re looked genuinely insulted. “I’m always critically honest. You’re still a useless prospector, but you learned something. What, do you want to go to the Academy? Why?”

  “Me? The Academy?” Harlan scratched the back of his head. “Never thought about it. I don’t know. Maybe I would. I like magic.”

  He winced.

  “Field control through resonance,” he corrected himself.

  “Hm,” Re said.

  He pulled a couple books from the bag hanging on the chair.

  “I thought about it. Healing magic isn't happening.” Re handed the books over. “But you can read these.”

  “Why not?” Harlan sighed and took them, shoulders dropping.

  “Because we have nowhere and nothing to practice on.” Re’s voice was blunt. “And I have almost no entry-level literature on biology or medicine. Without knowledge, healing magic is poison.”

  “Poison?” Harlan frowned. “You can poison a patient?”

  “Not literally,” Re grumbled. “Without anatomy and biology, you might stop bleeding or fuse a bone. Anything beyond that ends with you killing someone faster than you heal them. You’ll boil blood, for example.”

  Re scratched his beard.

  “I’ll explain how to fuse the epidermis. Nothing deeper.”

  “Epi-what?”

  “Skin, Harlan. Skin. Go read what I gave you.”

  ?

  After Harlan worked through the basic anatomy and biochemistry books under the old man’s supervision, he tried sealing skin on a chunk of monster meat Re had pulled from the icebox.

  After many attempts, he finally managed it.

  Working directly on something living felt strange. The thawed hunk of flesh already looked too much like dead meat, and it had started to stink. And yet—these were still cells, once part of a living organism.

  “Healing magic is mostly surgery without instruments,” Re instructed. “Close the edges with telekinesis, like this.”

  The torn edges met, nearly closing the cut.

  “Good. Now bond the tissue molecules. Form a scar.”

  Harlan did it, then exhaled hard.

  “Re. You were right. It’s too hard.”

  “I told you.” Re didn’t soften. “And the main thing is practice. Lots of it. Like ordinary doctors. That’s why the Academy effectively merged the disciplines. Students train as doctors, scientists, and healing mages simultaneously. Many end up as ordinary physicians and never master the rest."

  “So all doctors graduate from the Academy?”

  “No. But many graduates of the Academy’s medical faculties become ordinary doctors.”

  “What about you, Re? You treated me. Did you finish med school?”

  “Yes.” Re’s answer was immediate. “With honors. Field biochemist by diploma.”

  “Wow.” That was all Harlan managed.

  Re tossed the piece of meat back into a pot.

  “That’s enough for now. In a pinch, maybe you’ll seal a scratch.”