Arclight students liked polished words, and the city liked paperwork even more. On the licensing placard beside the door, the place was listed as a Bound Pavilion, sanctioned for “controlled experiential Projected Arcanum Supported Techina” and “non-lethal combat simulation under warded conditions.” That phrasing was for the Guild inspectors and civil clerks who pretended young people never did anything reckless on purpose.
To everyone else, it was Mana & Mirth. A shop where you could get humbled without giving the Wardhall a reason to remember your name.
The building sat on the edge of the east market road, where the Academy’s clean stone started to give way to real city noise. A glassblower’s shop steamed up its windows two doors down, and a spice importer kept their door propped open to lure people in with cinnamon and smoke. Mana & Mirth didn’t compete with either. It didn’t have to. Its sign was a simple iron bracket, the letters carved into darkwood, the runes underneath so subtle you wouldn’t see them unless you knew what you were looking for.
Discretion, baked into the grain.
Inside, the air felt like it had been combed.
The sound of the street faded behind us—not because the doors were thick, though they were—but because the room itself was layered in a clever mix of Arcanum and Sanito which that took any sharp noise and folded it back down into a gentler register. You could still talk. You could still laugh. You just couldn’t carry a shout across the building, and you definitely couldn’t throw a spell and pretend nobody noticed.
That was the deal. That was why people came here instead of trying their luck in an alley.
Darren swept in first like he owned the place. He always did that, even when he didn’t own the place, even when he was borrowing coin from me to buy skewers he would insist were “victory rations.”
“Welcome,” he announced, spreading his arms toward the rows of private booths and the warm lantern light, “to the only place in the city where my reputation dies quietly.”
Mikel made a displeased sound and adjusted the cuffs on his gloves, as though Darren’s voice had brushed dust on him. “Your reputation dies everywhere, Darren. This just makes it harder for witnesses.”
Cale didn’t comment. He paused just inside the threshold, and I watched his eyes move, drifting over the counters or the booths while tracking the other patrons the way the rest of us did, but he was clearly also following the curves of the ward lattice where it sat in the air like invisible architecture. Most people only noticed wards when they failed or flashed. He read them the way I read map lines, the way Mara read expressions in a room full of liars.
That was the first time it occurred to me that this might be easier to explain to him than to my other friends.
I cleared my throat. “Before we start, I should tell you what this actually is. This isn’t a glamour show, and it isn’t illusion theater.”
Cale looked at me, attentive in that quiet way that made it hard to waste words.
“It’s a Bound Construct Field,” I said. “Arcanum-built, Aura-anchored, with Technica regulators layered underneath to keep it from killing anyone outright. You’re not watching an illusion. You’re stepping into a fabricated environment that responds to your body, your timing, your awareness.”
Darren blinked like I’d spoken a foreign language. “So it’s a game.”
“It’s a game the Guild tolerates,” Mikel said, “because it keeps idiots from testing their brilliance in public.”
“Rude,” Darren said. “Accurate, but rude.”
Cale’s gaze flicked back to the interior, to the polished stone floor etched with faint spirals and the small runes embedded at the edges of each booth. “Expressions?” he asked.
“Not in the mode I’m putting us in,” I said. “They have standard scenarios where people can use limited Expression work, mostly for coordination practice. This one is different. The field suppresses active Expression output. You still have your body. You still have reflexes. But you don’t get to solve problems by burning them.”
Mikel’s mouth quirked, which was the closest thing to approval he ever offered. “He’s trying to say it’s harder.”
“It is harder,” I said, because Cale’s face told me he already understood that part.
We signed in at the back counter where the registration stone sat. It was a dull chunk of gray crystal with a smooth palm imprint worn into it, like it had spent years being pressed by nervous hands. Above it, a hanging lamp glowed warm, and beneath it sat a woman who made the entire place feel less like a student hangout and more like a professional facility that happened to sell snacks.
Her nameplate read Maera Quill.
Maera looked to be in her late thirties, though in a city like ours that didn’t mean much. Her hair was dark and cropped short, with one thin streak of silver near her temple that looked earned, not styled. She wore a plain black vest over a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and there was a faint scar along the back of her left hand that suggested she’d once been closer to the action than the counter. Her eyes were the kind you didn’t mistake for friendly, but you could mistake them for fair.
She watched Darren with the patient resignation of someone who had known Darren since he was a smaller version of himself.
“Back again,” she said, deadpan.
“Maera,” Darren replied with far too much cheer. “We missed you.”
“You missed my skewers,” she corrected without looking up.
Mikel placed his palm on the registry stone with practiced calm. I did the same, then glanced at Cale.
Cale pressed his palm down without hesitation. The stone warmed briefly, then settled, the binding gentle enough that it didn’t itch. Maera’s gaze sharpened the smallest amount as the registration rune completed.
“Call of Legancy--Blackout protocol?” she asked, eyes on me.
“Yes,” I said.
She lifted one brow. “You understand that mode is restricted.”
“I understand,” I replied.
Maera’s attention shifted to Cale. She did not stare, but she didn’t look away too quickly either. “First time in Blackout?”
“Yes,” he said.
There was a pause that lasted long enough to mean something. Then she nodded once, decisive. “Booth Seven. Don’t force the field. And if you come out with your pants off again, Darren, I’m charging you double.”
Darren made a pained sound. "My Lady! You wound me. And that was one time!”
“Yes and completely on accident I remember,” she said rolling her eyes. But she was smiling.
We headed down the left row toward Booth Seven, past half-private cubicles where other groups were already running scenarios. I caught flashes through the ward veils—an illusionary siege in one booth, a dungeon corridor in another, a group practicing timing around a shifting barrier. None of it spilled out into the hall. Even the loud laughter hit the air and softened immediately, like the building refused to let anyone be dramatic for free.
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Booth Seven was a circular chamber lined with smooth stone and spiraling runes. Four plinths stood in the center, each carved with shallow grooves for stance and balance. No chairs. No harnesses. The space was built with the assumption that you would be standing, that you would be moving, and that you would not be coddled.
Maera entered behind us and set a small crystal on a pedestal near the wall. It looked plain, but the Scriptura were clean and professional.
“This will map your Mana Room and translate it into the field,” she said. “It won’t let you cast. It won’t let you cheat. If you panic and try anyway, it’ll snap you out of the scenario and you can explain to me why you wasted my time.”
Darren swallowed and stood up straighter.
Mikel took his position without speaking.
Cale stepped onto his plinth last. The moment his boots settled into the grooves, the runes beneath him brightened a shade, then steadied. His face didn’t change, but I noticed Maera’s eyes flick down to the floor and then back up again, like she’d seen the field respond and filed it away.
She tapped the pedestal crystal. The runes around the room answered in a slow pulse, and the air tightened—not with pressure, but with structure. Sound folded inward. Light bent. The edges of the room softened as the construct-space began to take shape.
Maera’s voice came through the field, still calm. “Blackout protocol. Mechanical scenario. No Expression output. The field will provide equipment consistent with the setting which is actually based on a popular Illusia Serial Story. If you shoot each other in the head, I will laugh, and then I will charge you.”
Darren coughed. “That seems unfair.”
“It’s extremely fair,” Maera said. "Don't shoot your allies dumbass."
The corridor around us finished resolving, stone and shadow locking into place with a final, almost inaudible click. The construct-space had weight now. Not the floating, half-forgiven kind you got in illusion theaters, but something heavier—edges that didn’t soften when you stared at them too long.
Darren shifted beside me, boots scraping softly. “Okay,” he muttered, lowering his voice without being told. “This feels different.”
“It is,” I said. “This isn’t one of the academy drills.”
Cale hadn’t moved. He stood a half-step forward of the rest of us, shoulders loose, body held steady but ready.
“This scenario is based on an old illusionist series,” I continued, keeping my voice quiet as the field settled. “Long-running. Famous, if you care about that sort of thing. It’s called Call of Loyalty.”
Mikel glanced sideways. “That one? The no-magic world?”
“That’s the one.”
Cale looked back at me. “No magic at all?”
“None,” I said. “No Expressions. No wards. No cores. None of the everyday totally devoid just a people, learning concepts called science and a study of the world called physics. Oh and allow alot of weapons that throw lead at very high rates of speed; these weapons don’t forgive mistakes.”
That earned his full attention.
“The illusionist who built it was obsessed with his story realms's realism,” I went on. “He wanted to see what combat looked like when you stripped away mana advantages Stuff like Aura shields and indvidiual rapid regeneration. This world has no second chances.”
Darren frowned. “This world sounds incredibly...crude”
“I know right,” I said. “Should be awesome.”
I stepped closer and lowered my voice further, the way you do before saying something you want remembered.
“In this world, weapons don’t announce themselves. They don’t glow. They don’t hum. They don’t care how talented you are. If you stand in the wrong place at the wrong time, you die.”
Cale nodded once.
I swallowed. “Which means everything comes down to tactics. Economy of motion. Awareness. You don’t waste movement. You don’t expose yourself. And you never assume the other side is weaker just because they don’t shine.”
Mikel exhaled slowly. “Charming.”
Before anyone could respond, the air in front of us rippled.
The corridor dissolved.
Darkness rushed in—not empty darkness, but layered, textured. Heat. Wind. Distant noise. The smell changed first: dust, oil, sun-baked stone, and something faintly metallic that clung to the back of the throat.
Then light snapped into place.
A sigil flared in midair—not a rune, not an arcane glyph, but a flat, stylized emblem formed of sharp lines and muted color.
CALL OF LOYALTY
The letters burned briefly, then faded as a low voice filled the space. Not booming. Not dramatic. Calm. Professional. The kind of voice that assumed you were already paying attention.
OPERATION BRIEFING — ALPHA FORCE
THE EASTERN THEATER
The illusion shifted again, pulling us upward into a wide aerial view.
Below us stretched a harsh landscape of broken hills and clustered stone settlements, roads cutting through dust like scars. No leyline glow. No ward shimmer. Just sun, shadow, and terrain that did not care who crossed it.
The voice continued.
“The Eastern Theater has been in a state of low-intensity conflict for three decades. Multiple factions. Competing loyalties. No unified authority.”
Images flickered into place as it spoke:
-
Narrow streets choked with market debris and abandoned vehicles
-
Flat-roofed buildings stacked close together, perfect for ambushes
-
Dry riverbeds turned into movement corridors
-
Rooftops dotted with antennae and rusted equipment
“Civilians are present. Identification is unreliable. Engagement errors are fatal—to them and to you.”
The view snapped inward, plunging us into a dimly lit room.
We stood around a rough table. The illusion had dressed us in a strange muted, utilitarian gear. The cloths were a thick fabic with a sort of armor plates of it. It was equipment designed to be forgotten the moment you looked away.
A crate opened on the table.
Weapons manifested one by one, assembling themselves with a soft mechanical click that made my skin prickle.
I recognized them from the manuals.
The crate opened with a muted mechanical click.
There was no flare of light or answering hum from the room’s wards. Whatever lay inside was inert in the way only mundane objects ever were—present, heavy, and unconcerned with who touched them.
The first weapon rested in a foam-lined cutout near the top.
I recognized the shape from illustrations and texts: a V-17 Blackline Service Rifle-- one of the main service weapons of this world. The machine was compact, angular, and finished in dull black, it looked more like a tool than a weapon. No markings beyond serial stamps. No decorative elements. Just steel, composite, and a design that favored function over intimidation.
Cale lifted it free and turned it in his hands.
He didn’t test the trigger or sight down the barrel. Instead, he shifted his grip slightly, adjusted the stock against his shoulder, and worked the action once. The sound it made was dry and final, like a door locking.
“That thing doesn’t announce itself,” Darren said under his breath.
“No,” I replied. “It just does what it’s meant to do.”
Beside it lay a smaller weapon, cradled in its own slot.
The R-9 Whisper was a short-barreled sidearm with an integrated suppressor, built for close quarters and quiet work. It was lighter than the rifle but no less serious for it. The magazine capacity was intentionally limited, which told you everything you needed to know about how it was meant to be used. This wasn’t a weapon for panic. It demanded intent.
Cale checked it with the same calm precision—magazine seated, slide forward, grip tested once and then left alone.
The last compartment held the FUP-3 Field Utility Pack.
There was nothing elegant about it. Breaching charges, mechanical rather than arcane. Restraints that relied on tension and locks instead of bindings. Simple tools for forcing doors, cutting wire, and patching wounds long enough to stay on your feet.
Everything inside assumed failure was possible.
Maera’s voice carried into the chamber, steady and unembellished. “No spellcasting. No Expressions. No Technica support. The construct will translate impact and force directly. If you’re hit, you’ll feel it.”
“And if we push it?” Darren asked.
“Then you’ll learn where your limits actually are,” she said.
The space around us finished resolving, the stone underfoot rough and uneven, the air thick with dust and oil. Somewhere ahead, water dripped in a slow, irregular rhythm.
Cale stepped forward without being prompted.
Rifle held low, stance relaxed but alert, he adjusted the strap of the utility pack so it wouldn’t catch. There was no tension in him, only focus—the kind that came from understanding a situation rather than dominating it.
“This isn’t a magic fight,” I said quietly.
Cale nodded once. “That’s fine.”
The scenario clock began to count down.
And Alpha Force moved.
The voice continued.
“Alpha Force operates without magical support. You are not enhanced. You are not protected. Your survival depends on coordination, restraint, and precision.”
The illusion focused on us—four figures standing around the table.
“Mission parameters:
Infiltrate hostile-controlled territory.
Recover designated assets.
Avoid civilian casualties.
Exfiltrate without attribution.”
The briefing faded.
The room around us solidified into a night-time exterior. Low light. Distant gunfire. Wind tugging at loose fabric.
Darren swallowed. “This is… a lot.”
Mikel adjusted his gloves, face tight. “So this work has no shields, Expression or mana of any kind?. Like its just us?? That is crazy? Who would want to be in that world?"
I glanced at Cale.
He was examining the rifle with quiet focus, checking weight, balance, the way the stock settled into his shoulder. I watched him, load and unload the weapon. I watched aim down the sights like he had been doing it all his life.
After a moment, he said, “This world is honest; there is no do over in his world. You get damnage and there isn't a magical cure.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
Somewhere ahead, a flare arced into the night sky and burned out.
The scenario clock began to tick.
And Alpha Force moved.