Corporate Mage - Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Part I - Just Another Tuesday

Tuesday Morning

Present

Thirty-five years ago everything about our world changed. Actually, no. That’s not grandiose enough for what happened. I need to give it the respect it’s due.

Let me start at the beginning.

My parents were born into a relatively safe world with billions of people. Where the most difficult thing they had to decide on a daily basis was what they’d have for dinner. Trust me, I get it. Deciding what you want to eat is one of the most difficult decisions a girl could make. For me, it’s often between meal box numbers six or twenty-two.

That artificially flavored truffle mac-n-cheese? It’s to die for.

Seriously. I’m not being sarcastic. They are delicious.

Or if I’m lucky and in the field–recently killed monster meat of various varieties.

But I digress.

My parents’ world was a mundane one. A world filled with technology and a global economy. Where magic was the stuff of fiction and legends. Where heroes were just something you saw in movies or read about in books.

Then one day, with no warning, and no explanation… the very fabric of our existence shifted.

For that was when mana arrived and nothing would ever be the same. At first, we were shocked. We were surprised. The implications were vast, and the potentials were limitless.

Naivety was our downfall.

We knew oh so little at the time of what was to come. It started with pretty lights in the sky my mother would often tell me as I grew up. People were swept away in a flash of light, young, old, mother, daughter; it didn’t matter.

There were even others brought from their own strange worlds–the Outlanders we called them. People from all sorts of civilizations that dealt a second blow to our view of where we stood in the universe.

The upheaval was vast, but our wonder overcame it, Dad would often say.

Mankind’s awe was short-lived.

Mana-wells formed all over the world like a pillar of light and caution. And soon, monsters wreaked havoc on the countryside all over the world. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, we soon discovered just the first part of mana’s twisted sense of humor.

There was some sort of hidden system inside each of us. Unfortunately for many in my parents’ generation and older, there were no magic screens or anything to show what that system did to you.

They had to learn.

And for the next year, they did. Nations poured an entire world's worth of vast and incalculable resources into the phenomenon. Which was when we learned the next piece of the puzzle.

Magic was real.

But that wasn't all.

Those aged ten and up found themselves thrust to level sixteen, while the younger ones gained a solitary level each year until they turned sixteen.

When the revelation came to light, governments and scientists labeled them the Lucky Tens. The ten-year-olds had so much opportunity for growth, the pundits would say. They would be the ones to usher in a new age–the Age of Potential and Magic.

The lucky ones.

They and other teens were given so much effort and focus into molding them into what we needed. Heroes. Adventurers.

That was when cities started dying from monster swarms. Something I’ve seen firsthand. Trust me, it’s not pretty.

Luck?

More like a damn mockery.

Especially when almost half of those lucky youth gifted with magic didn't survive to see adulthood. And that's not even mentioning the cataclysm of wars and monsters that soon followed all over the world. When nations turned on nations. When civilization teetered on the edge of collapse.

It took another ten years for humanity to claw and drag its dying carcass out of the ground and make a stand. A time when the few nations that remained clung to safe zones and corporations built fortified cities in the wilderness, all in the name of profit and advancement.

But that isn’t my story.

That’s a story about my parents. Both ten years old and pushed to be greater than the rest of us. They burned brightly and eventually found love in the middle of some adventure.

Me?

I’m just trying to make it through another damn Tuesday. Thirty-five years after the Great Change.

I'm going to need all the luck I can get.

✦     ✦     ✦

…Ayrelle Sarith, the elven Outlander and Platinum Adventurer with the team Loren's Tears has completed the first tier II dungeon today in what marks—

…

I cut off the television and stand up, stretching and yawning as I do. Despite using magic for most of its functions, mankind can't stop calling it a TV.

A sigh escapes my lips. I wish I could go delving, but I'm not quite there yet.

Still, I find that, unlike the majority of people, I don't really care about the famous adventurers who are akin to celebrities and heroes of yore. Despite having tons of entertainment and stories surrounding isekais, it seems that Earth is the world they came to.

Well, we lost some people too. I often wonder what happened to them.

If they are anything like the Outlanders who came here, I suspect they're fine. At twenty, I’m slightly ahead of the curve in levels, but I’m definitely not a trailblazer. And I am definitely not anywhere near what a platinum-ranked can accomplish.

Initially, people thought that leveling would be easy. Just do something according to your path, and mana will reward you. Sure, it did, for a pittance. Little old me just got the standard one level a year like every other kid born after the Great Change.

Then we learned that the trailblazers dried up all the easy essence grabs within the first few years. Now it's all grinding away and eking out a living.

At least until one of the old Silicon Valley companies made a breakthrough and released the interface, a wrist device that allowed those who could afford it to access their system. That company was eventually bought out by what would become Arcan Corp. There have been many knock-offs since then, but you can tell the good ones by how much information they provide.

How does it work? No damn clue. I’m not an artificer.

I just use the magitech; I don’t make it.

However, it did bring an awareness to the world that would have been laughed at three decades ago, or so I’ve been told. I’m just a twenty-year-old girl trying to make a living through the aftermath of the apocalypse. My job nowadays comes with an interface that gives access to every little detail known.

At fifty K a pop, it damn well better.

I make my way to my room, the soft hum of the apartment's protective wards barely noticeable in the background. A glance at my watch makes me wince as I realize I’m going to be running late…

Again.

Sifting through my wardrobe, I quickly pull out an ensemble of enchanted clothes. They look like everyday wear, cargo pants, and a tactical shirt–you know the ones with pockets on the sleeves, but they are embedded with runic thread that gives me a little edge in agility and resistance. Once I get them on, I slip my body armor over my head and tighten it down snuggly against my torso. The armor, which is lightweight for its purpose, is surprisingly sturdy against both physical and magical attacks. A necessity because every damn kid who gets magic thinks they’re some fucking archmage who can rearrange the continents.

Luckily, that hasn’t happened.

Yet.

I suspect an Outlander will be the first to do it.

After the Deceiver was killed four years ago we’d learned that the other world transplants got preferential treatment by mana but that didn’t mean they are significantly more powerful than the rest of us. At least according to the governments. After the orc [Mindflayer] wiped out several cities in southwest Asia…

I reserve my judgment.

I sigh. It’s the same thing every morning. I need a roommate. Or a cat. Something. I spend way too much time getting wound up by my own thoughts.

As I look at my reflection, I can’t help but notice the bags under my hazel-green eyes. I wince and pat my cheeks to wake myself up before I start to weave my curly black hair into a tight braid—letting that shit be wild and free is a death sentence in a fight. I’m liable to chop it all off one of these days. I pause mid-motion with my hair tie spread around my fingers… That may be a good idea actually…

I shake my head and sigh again as I realize just how tired I am, quickly wrapping the tie to secure the braid. I’m spouting nonsense. I love my hair.

And it's in that moment of vulnerability that an uninvited memory surfaces. The smiling faces of my mom and dad flash before me, their laughter echoing in my ears. Just as quickly, the pain and anger surge. They left me. They went chasing after more power, more essence, more everything…

Thirteen-year-old me did not do well in an orphanage where kids were killing each other by accident or kidnapped and forced into human trafficking rings.

Those first two years were… rough.

I quickly shake away the memories, tucking the emotions somewhere deep inside. There's no room for that right now. Or ever.

The weight of my handgun feels familiar and comforting as I slide it into its thigh holster, making sure to slot both my clips with mundane rounds and enchanted rounds in their appropriate slots next to it. Then, my enchanted assault rifle, with runes glowing faintly along its barrel and lower receiver, is slung across my back.

There's a satisfaction in having it there. In my job, I often run into trouble.

Raiders. Monsters. Rival corporations. Boys.

And girls.

They all posed various levels of threats that needed to be handled.

With varying degrees of attention. Some more than others.

With a soft touch.

I shake my head of my errant thoughts and get started grabbing my stuff.

While the adventurers of the world were caught up in the romance of rune-enchanted swords, staves, and bows, I had gone the more sensible route of my corporation-employed comrades.

I chose a path where I could harness the raw power of both mundane and enchanted rounds through the barrel of a rifle.

I didn’t get to use it often, but it was always ironic to me when some raider [Spellsword] thought they could take me. Some others laughed, claiming that guns were for the weak or the magic casters stuck only with innate casting instead of true runeweaving. That was until they were on the receiving end of a spellburst round.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips. Those idiots usually provided some easy essence.

Using enchanted guns, or at least rounds, was fairly common now, but it really just helped even the odds when you were up against some fucking mage with their reality bending bullshit.

Actually, that’s not fair.

Some of those sword slinging fiends can literally cut a bullet in two at higher levels. I haven’t met one yet, but I’ve heard of them. So surely they're around.

Plus, shields of all sorts exist that can stop mundane rounds. Maybe that’s why the swords and other archaic styles still exist. Or maybe the raiders and adventurers simply have trouble getting ammunition reliably.

It’s probably that.

Damned scavengers. Nothing but a bunch of vultures picking at the carcass of civilization.

For my part, I’m one of the hybrids. The alignment that is supposed to allow me to use mana both physically and magically. Technically, I can cast magic… But magic and me… well, let’s just say we haven’t gotten along too well. I don’t even know what my damned domain is yet despite having a high end magitech interface.

Domains, the schools of magic that dictate what type of caster you are.

There were many different types of interface devices, The Adventurer’s Corps had ones that only read information relevant for their purposes such as your Class, Level, Alignment, and Core Rarity. Those were used to assign ranks and membership badges.

Having a |Threat Scan| device or passive is vital. It doesn’t tell you someone’s build, but that stuff can be blocked. Instead, it tells you whether or not you’d be an idiot to attack them.

I look in the mirror one last time, touching the anti-divination choker around my neck, my fingers trailing along the two runed moonstones. It was probably my most important purchase yet.

That said, diviners hold a niche use, and there is one international organization that employs trustworthy ones who can help you. The Registrars—an almost monk-like group of divination mages who had managed to figure out Oaths built around mana’s intent that forced them to keep their client’s build secret.

Without it, I suspect no one would ever go to one.

After all, not having the ability to stop someone from figuring out every detail of your build was a sure way to wind up dead. Especially in today’s world.

I’d even tried seeing one of them, just so they could [Inspect] my class, but that just came up with ‘unknown’ when it came to my domain.

At this point, I suspect that when I reach my next threshold, my class will force me into a physically aligned one.

That would suck. Magic had always been something I loved the idea of, and the thought of never gaining access to it hurt.

But hey, today is a new day. I grab my wallet–no purses here–toss it into my cargo pocket, sling my backpack over my shoulder opposite my rifle and make my way out of the apartment.

Depending on the mission, today I would hunt, gather some loot, and maybe, just maybe, inch closer to the strength I sought. All to ensure I'd never be as vulnerable as that thirteen-year-old girl left alone in a world teeming with monsters and magic.

The lobby of the building gleams with a mixture of old marble and runed metal, a blend of old-world luxury and new-world magic. The atmosphere is charged with a faint buzzing energy, the building's protective wards at work. They're a necessity in these troubled times.

Catching sight of Dave, one of the security guards, I offer a friendly wave. Dave’s an older gentleman, gruff looking with scars that tell tales of battles past, but with a heart of gold. He always tells me he’d be an adventurer if he hadn’t taken an arrow to the knee.

I don’t really get the joke.

Security is one of the reasons I live here. It costs a fortune, but luckily it is one of the perks I get for my job.

“Morning, Lexi,” he greets with a nod, his voice gravelly yet warm.

“Hey, Dave. Anything interesting happening in the building today?” I ask, adjusting the strap of my backpack for comfort.

He chuckles. “Well, a few mana surges on the fourth floor. Nothing the system couldn’t handle. And Mrs. Henderson on the seventh floor tried summoning her late husband again. Nearly opened a portal or something, we have no idea–At least I don’t think summoners can actually do something like that. Anyways, usual Tuesday stuff.”

I smirk. “Oh, Mrs. Henderson. When will she learn?”

Dave shrugs, his lips curling into a smile. “Never, I reckon. This time corporate is getting involved, though. Off to work?”

“Yeah. Apparently, a new mana-well’s been located.”

His brow furrows with concern. “Be careful out there. Word's been going around about raiders ambushing the corporation's teams lately.”

“Always am. Besides, they won't know what hit them if they try anything.”

He chuckles. “That's the spirit. Just remember to keep that rifle of yours handy.”

“It’s always at the ready, Dave. Thanks for the heads up.”

With a final wave, I head towards the exit, the weight of the day's responsibilities pressing on me. The world outside is both a battlefield and a treasure trove, and in this high-stakes game of survival and profit, I intend to win.