The morning after deciding I wanted to enjoy this life, I discovered that enjoyment still required getting out of bed.
An unfortunate limitation.
Milo had left my timetable beside the washbasin. Mana theory, history, then supervised practical work. Underneath, in his careful handwriting, he had added a reminder about returning a library book.
Apparently, building a meaningful second life included avoiding overdue fees.
I dressed, collected my things, and paused beside the desk. The notebook containing my unfinished training records lay where I'd abandoned it the previous evening. I tucked it into my satchel.
If I wanted to explore dungeons with Tomas someday, wishing enthusiastically probably wasn't enough preparation.
That was how I arrived at the training yard early, feeling responsible and slightly suspicious of myself.
Tomas was already there.
"You're early," he said.
"So are you."
"I wanted to practice."
"I wanted to become the sort of person who says that."
He smiled and raised his hand. A small barrier appeared above the grass, tilted at an angle.
We spent the next twenty minutes discovering that wanting to improve was considerably easier than explaining exactly what needed improving.
His barrier held when stationary but weakened when he moved it. My low-output shots were consistent until I tried adjusting them quickly.
Mistress Soren found us arguing over whether that counted as progress.
"Where are your records?" she asked.
I tapped my notebook.
"Good. After breakfast, we'll discuss what they actually tell you."
An ominous promise.
My first problem was that I had started treating skill percentages like examination marks.
My second was that I enjoyed watching them rise considerably more than studying for actual examinations.
That afternoon, Mistress Soren caught me checking Magic Gun's proficiency while she explained skill development.
"Lewis. Distinguish a skill's underlying function from its manifested expression."
I dismissed the screen.
"One is what it does," I said. "The other is how it does it?"
"An acceptable beginning. An example?"
"Throwing a stone versus using a sling. Different delivery methods. Similar result."
"Provided you account for differences in force and control."
She moved on. I wrote that down, then returned to admiring my percentage.
In retrospect, she had practically handed me the solution.
Naturally, I ignored it until something disappointed me.
Over the following weeks, training became part of the life I was building rather than something standing between me and an adventure.
Tomas joined me regularly. We learned which exercises benefited from working together and which simply required somebody nearby to say, "That didn't do what you think it did."
My other subjects kept intruding in useful ways. Mathematics helped compare mana expenditure. History explained why certain kingdoms licensed destructive skills. Etiquette covered formal requests, which proved essential whenever I wanted permission to test the launcher.
Apparently, "for educational purposes" required considerably more supporting detail when explosions were involved.
Milo kept my schedule straight and pursued his own instruction with equal seriousness. When I complained about training records, he showed me three pages of practice accounts.
I stopped expecting sympathy.
The percentages rose steadily.
Pocket Dimension improved through ordinary use. Fireball advanced during supervised casting. Minor Healing progressed more slowly because I remained unwilling to manufacture patients.
Healing reached its next level first.
I was assisting in the infirmary when the notification appeared, after treating a gardener's scraped forearm.
Healer Brenn made me finish recording the treatment before celebrating.
Another dangerous adult.
The difference became apparent with my next suitable patient. The spell took hold faster, closing a shallow cut with less effort.
"It's stronger," I said.
"Then use only what the injury requires," Brenn replied.
Gaining power apparently created additional opportunities to be corrected.
Pocket Dimension advanced two days later.
I opened the familiar space and felt its boundaries retreat.
Double the room.
I immediately imagined everything I could store.
Milo immediately asked whether my inventory needed another page.
We approached miracles differently.
Fireball followed during a practical lesson. My next standard cast struck the ward plate hard enough to trigger a sharper warning chime.
Same basic spell. Same five-mana cost. Greater impact.
Mistress Soren adjusted the target and made me practice reducing the output until I could reliably reproduce my earlier results.
Then Magic Gun reached level four.
I had counted carefully. The increasing gains meant one hundred and forty-one successful uses crossed the threshold from a fresh level, with a little proficiency carried forward.
Golden light passed over the carbine.
I held my breath.
Nothing happened.
Same stock. Same barrel. Same sight.
I turned it over.
Still a gun.
"Underwhelming," I muttered.
Tomas leaned forward from behind the firing line.
"What were you expecting?"
"Something unreasonable."
"That narrows it down."
I requested the description.
I reread the last sentence.
"Remains?"
An unpleasantly obvious memory surfaced.
My first activation. The system explaining visualization. Me imagining an M16 and receiving exactly that.
"Could I have changed its form before now?"
Tomas watched my expression.
"What?"
"I may have mistaken the menu for the entire restaurant."
I dismissed the rifle.
Then I pictured a handgun: the grip, frame, sights, and familiar balance of a weapon remembered from another life.
Light gathered in my palm.
A pistol appeared.
Tomas stared.
"Oh."
"Yes," I said. "A fairly substantial oh."
After securing the instructor's approval, I tested it against the ward plate. The cost reflected my selected output, not a fixed price attached to holding a smaller weapon.
"So the shape doesn't determine everything."
"Then why give me a carbine? Or a launcher?"
I lowered the pistol.
The system had been translating capabilities into examples I understood.
Improved efficiency. Stored energy. Explosive delivery.
I had interpreted the examples as boundaries.
Somewhere, Veronica was probably experiencing an unexplained urge to hit me with a practice spear.
Over several supervised sessions, I experimented.
A compact weapon was convenient but harder to hold steady at distance.
A long rifle offered better support for precise aiming.
A heavier configuration remained heavy. Summoning something my growing body struggled to manage did not qualify as tactical genius.
Rapid fire consumed mana rapidly.
A shocking discovery.
The instructor ended that experiment early.
Changing shapes also failed to bypass the skill's limits. A larger barrel didn't grant unlimited power. Anything I created remained constrained by available mana and the performance my current level could sustain.
"Could I design something that never existed on Earth?" I asked the system privately.
"Something entirely mine?"
I grinned.
Not a catalog.
A workshop.
The protagonist in me wanted celebratory music.
The soldier wanted proper testing.
For once, they agreed.
I began separating records for configuration, output, and cost. Against matched targets, the fourth-level improvement became clear: equivalent shots required less mana, while the same expenditure could produce greater impact.
The gun hadn't needed to change visibly.
The important improvement was beneath its appearance.
Healing repaired more effectively. Fireball delivered greater force. Storage held more.
Magic Gun became a more capable means of turning mana into a weapon, while leaving the shape increasingly open to me.
Tomas reviewed my early results and tapped one page.
"You changed three things between these tests."
"Yes."
"Then how do you know which one helped?"
I looked at him.
"Do you practice sounding like Mistress Soren?"
"Only when you make it easy."
We repeated them properly.
That evening, Milo found me sketching a weapon that had never existed in either of my lives.
"Will it work?"
"I don't know yet."
He considered that, then placed a fresh notebook beside my elbow.
"For when you find out."
After he left, I glanced at the birthday drawing tucked safely in my desk, then at the notes Tomas had corrected.
A few weeks ago, I had been thinking about the people I wanted to come home to and the strength I needed to go farther.
This was what building that strength looked like.
Questions. Practice. Friends who noticed mistakes. Enough humility to try again.
I opened the notebook and wrote the first heading:
What I Want to Build.
Then I picked up my pen.
For once, imagining the next part of my adventure felt less like waiting for it to happen.