I seriously overestimated how calm this lesson was going to be.
It was supposed to be serene. The courtyard of Woodborn's house had smooth stone tiles; there was a sculpted hedge and a fancy marble column, and somewhere the upper class had to be discussing something like noble meditations or contemplations of their generational wealth.
But that didn't reflect reality.
Not after I began teaching magic to three freshly resurrected, emotionally unstable superhumans.
"NOT TOWARD THE HOUSE!" Regan yelled as a violent bolt of magic whipped past her green ear and smashed into a column. A fist-sized chunk of marble clattered to the ground.
Medea, the fox-girl responsible, looked at her with innocence.
Regan folded her arms with a disappointed grunt. "I told you to focus harder."
The fact that she was missing a chunk of her ear didn't bother her much, but that parts of the scenery were damaged did.
"It was a warm-up shot!" Medea protested, her tail waggling erratically. "I was warming up my soul!"
"That is not a real thing," I said.
"It is real!" she insisted.
Regan hissed, "You lack discipline."
Medea blew a raspberry back at her.
I sat nearby and just watched - kind of supervising the whole thing. My only thought was, "Wow, these girls are horrible."
I've taught them to cast Sol, Ra, and Shu.
And some took to it more than others. Medea was casting them without any care for anyone's safety, even her own.
But I gave a laugh - a loud "Gyahahaha" to show part of my amusement and something that could be interpreted as both approval and amusement.
I turned down much of the innate edginess and turned up a bit of the 'freedom' aspect of my fake philosophy.
Morgan sighed quietly - the sigh of someone tired of her companions. She raised a hand and released a cast of Ra as smooth as pouring water - or fire. A serene arc of fiery energy sailed forward and struck a practice dummy I'd set up dead center.
Regan nodded approvingly.
Medea flopped theatrically onto the ground. "Why is Morgan good at everything?"
"I am not good at everything," Morgan murmured.
"Okay," I clapped. "Regan, you're up."
Regan stepped forward with this steady, soldier-like presence that honestly impressed me daily. She inhaled, gathered her power inward, and thrust out her palm.
A concentrated burst of fire, almost like a beam, exploded from her hand and blasted the dummy backward.
"My turn," Medea said giddily.
And before anyone could stop her, she fired.
With a boom, an enormous terracotta cast was vaporized.
Shards and up-heaved dirt flew everywhere.
"…cool," Medea whispered.
"Medea," Regan growled.
I stood there covered in dirt, contemplating if Woodborn would want stern words with me when he found out that we had destroyed the vase.
Then Medea said brightly, "Master, can I-"
"No." I cut her off instantly. "Don't call me master. Only when we're out on duty should you call me 'master.' Everywhere else, I am Edward. Use it."
Medea wrinkled her nose. "Edward sounds like a butler."
"It sounds dignified," Regan countered.
"It sounds boring," Medea snapped.
Morgan added quietly, "I like it."
"This is not a discussion," I said sternly.
Then there was silence.
Blessed silence.
I surveyed the courtyard: shattered pots, singed grass, melted hedges, scorched columns, destroyed training dummies, and the faint lingering smell of ash.
Somehow, my heart warmed.
I clapped my hands again. "Alright. That's it for the day."
Medea groaned and sprawled out flat on the courtyard floor like she'd been shot. "Nooooooo. I wasn't finished break-practicing."
Morgan quietly dusted ash off her sleeves. "We could clean," she suggested.
Regan pointed at her. "Yes. We should clean."
Medea pointed at me. "No. You should clean."
"No," Regan snapped. "You destroyed. You clean. I'm just gracious enough to help."
"That's called teamwork," Medea countered smugly.
"Medea, you clean up. Regan, come here," I said.
Almost surprised, the girl came over.
I motioned for her to lower herself, as she was far taller than I was. It made sense - I was still a toddler, no matter if she was an orc or not.
Then I took her ear into my hand and healed it, and then I patted her head.
"I can't have you being hurt, now can I? You did good today."
She blushed in a very girly way.
"Me too!" Medea yelled and put her hand on her furry ear and cast "Ra" to burn it.
She yelped as the flames singed straight through her own ear fluff and staggered in a circle as if she'd just been struck by lightning.
She hopped up and down while fanning her smoldering ear.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. "Medea, come here."
She bounded over with enthusiasm, like this didn't teach her any kind of life lesson.
I placed my hand against her burned ear and let healing light push through.
"There," I said. But I didn't lecture her. I was sure it wouldn't do anything in the future to prevent her from doing something stupid.
I looked over to Morgan and told her, "If you want to be healed too, then come here."
Though she didn't say a word, there was no apprehension, and she immediately came over and knelt before me.
I put a hand on her head - both a pat on it, and to cast another healing spell.
She looked very happy. Maybe she had been jealous of the others but was too proud or nervous to ask for the same treatment?
"Now go, and clean up. No magic until I say so," I told them. "You're a team. But, if you want, you can torture Medea just a little; it is her fault that you have to clean up so much after all," I said in a playful tone, and I hoped the girls understood its meaning - the meaning being that they would force Medea to do most of the cleaning.
I really hoped they wouldn't actually torture Medea.
I left them to clean, preferably without any more incidents, and went inside the house.
It was surprisingly big for just four people, and it wasn't in a scummy part of Astar.
The owner, of course, was Woodborn, but seeing how dusty it was when we arrived, I was confident in saying that he had no use for it.
I wondered what he used it for, or if he was just holding onto it to sell it at a higher price.
Immediately, I nearly walked straight into Woodborn.
"'Edward,'" he said, looking me up and down. "You are… dirty."
I dusted myself off. "A little dirt is nothing."
Behind him stood Gullyman - formerly a grunt and assassin, now freshly polished into something resembling a proper butler. His shirt was crisp, his posture straight, his hair slicked back enough to pretend it had always behaved that way. He held a leather-bound ledger under one arm like he had been secretly training for middle management his entire life. Honestly, I was still trying to figure out if he had been hiding his competence before or if Woodborn's and my influence had simply scared him into unlocking new life skills.
Back then, Woodborn hadn't been certain what to do with a man who used to murder people for a living. He'd asked me - very subtlety - whether he should dismiss him, imprison him, or "dispose of the liability entirely."
I had told him, quite calmly, that he should keep Gullyman close. Very close.
"He's useful," I'd said. "More useful near you than wandering freely. A capable man like that… you don't want him too far from your sight."
It had been advice, yes. I didn't know what to do with him myself, but it sounded like something more than just a suggestion.
Woodborn understood it in the way a shady guy like him would interpret it. I said I wanted Gullyman close to him, and Gullyman was an assassin, meaning that he was to keep Woodborn in check if he did something I wouldn't like. Like a safety measure.
After that, Woodborn accepted the situation with a thin smile and a nod that was definitely not voluntary.
Gullyman gave me a respectful nod. "Prophet Shadowboon."
"Just Edward," I corrected.
"Of course," he said. He'd already accepted the situation as it was.
Woodborn brushed a speck of dust off his sleeve. "I heard an explosion."
"Yes," I said. "Several."
"And one of my columns cracking?"
"Yes."
"And a vase being vaporized?" Woodborn sighed. "Well, that is why we have… money."
He folded his hands behind his back. "Now. Edward. I wanted to speak with you." He began pacing slowly down the hall. I walked beside him - at a third of his height.
"I have been thinking about these ideas you presented." He gestured absently. "But this other idea. This… 'printing.'"
I had to switch from prophet to businessman.
"Yes? What about it?" I said. "A machine that stamps ink onto paper should be relatively simple."
"Yes, yes." Woodborn rubbed his chin. "But you believe there is truly profit in… multiplying books?"
"More than profit," I said. "Control of information. Influence. Education. Entertainment. A whole industry."
Woodborn turned an eyebrow toward me. "Do people truly want that many books?"
I nodded. "They will."
He hummed thoughtfully. "And this machine… you are confident you can create it?"
"With time. And resources." I glanced back at Gullyman. "And someone to help with logistics."
Gullyman looked proud. People loved getting praised.
It was a simple way to get someone to like you more.
Woodborn exhaled through his nose, a mix of fascination and caution. "I admit, Edward, your mind runs in… unexpected directions." Then, with the faintest smile: "Profitable ones, I hope."
"Books will be just the start," I said. "Knowledge multiplies. Once the first press is made, you will be ahead of the entire kingdom. Every scholar, every noble, every merchant… they'll want your services."
Woodborn tapped his fingers together. "And how much investment would be needed?"
"Enough to build a workshop," I said. "Purchase metal, gears, inks, and paper stock. Hire workers. But every revolution starts with an idea, and for us, it will be easy to realize it."