Chapter 25: The Apprentice and the New Language of the World

“My apprentice.”

Klein’s response was utterly devoid of emotion.

Horace’s hand, gripping the manuscript, froze in mid-air. He slowly lifted his gaze, his eye behind the monocle filled with a sharp, scrutinizing intensity.

“An apprentice?”

“Lia,” Klein supplied, adding the name.

Horace, of course, remembered that name. The “Preliminary Study on the Laws of Motion of Objects,” with its five elegant formulas, had indeed originated from the hands of this very apprentice, Lia.

The old man brought the manuscript down with a resounding smack onto the table.

Bang.

“Klein, are you taking me for a fool?” Horace surged to his feet, his lean frame leaning slightly forward, trembling with agitation.

“An apprentice? Capable of writing this? What ancient tome did she unearth from some forgotten ruin?”

Klein offered no reply.

He simply stood, a silent, unmoving statue.

Horace began to pace the study, the ancient floorboards groaning under his steps.

“No, no…” He halted abruptly, snatching up the manuscript once more and flipping through several pages.

“Even if it were an ancient text, it couldn’t be. This system of symbols, these practical applications… they’re too novel, imbued with a certain… your essence.”

He gestured toward the example problem involving a fireball spell.

“You inserted this,” Horace stated, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

“Yes,” Klein conceded.

“Therefore, the original manuscript wasn’t like this at all.”

Horace advanced a step, his voice sharper. “The original was far purer, wasn’t it? Devoid of these extraneous magical applications, containing only the most fundamental logic and deductions.”

Klein maintained his silence.

“She claimed it was an ancient text?” Horace pressed, his voice laced with suspicion.

“Yes.”

“And you believed her?”

At last, Klein stirred. He lifted his head, his blue eyes locking directly with Horace’s.

“She is still too young.”

It was a statement without preamble or conclusion.

Yet, Horace understood its profound implications.

Young, and thus prone to errors. Young, and thus capable of deception. Young, and therefore unaware of how to flawlessly conceal a talent potent enough to overturn the very foundations of the world.

Horace’s tension visibly dissipated.

He settled back into his chair, his body sinking deeply into the plush cushions.

His gaze fixed upon Klein’s impassive face, a dry, hollow laugh suddenly escaped him.

“Ha-ha… ha-ha-ha…”

The sound, initially low, swelled into a booming chorus that reverberated through the book-laden room.

“Klein, oh Klein, where did you unearth such a marvel?” He reverently picked up the manuscript, his touch akin to caressing a priceless artifact.

“I truly believed those three laws represented the pinnacle of discovery, yet, unexpectedly… they were merely an appetizer.”

“This… this thing,” he declared, tapping the title on the cover with a finger, “it isn’t merely a theory, Klein. It’s a language. A wholly new language, designed to articulate the very fabric of the world!”

His excitement surged once more.

“All our mathematics, until now, has been static. We meticulously calculate lengths, areas, and angles. Yet, we have been utterly incapable of calculating ‘change’ itself!”

“The velocity of a falling object, the elusive trajectory of a passing gust of wind, the intricate process of a burning flame! These are all dynamic phenomena! We could only ever approximate with an average, never truly grasping the instantaneous reality!”

“But now, with this!” Horace proclaimed, hoisting the manuscript aloft, “Limits, derivatives, integrals! Segmentation and accumulation! We finally possess the instruments to articulate ‘processes’!”

“Through this, mathematics has finally awakened to life!”

Klein listened in tranquil silence, offering no interjections. While he grasped the profound power of calculus, he could not, like Horace, perceive its revolutionary beauty from such a grand, pure mathematical vantage point.

Horace’s heightened emotions gradually subsided.

He set down the manuscript, his expression now serious and contemplative.

“You didn’t come to me merely to present this, did you?”

“This manuscript requires promotion under the association’s name,” Klein articulated his true objective.

“Of course it must be promoted!” Horace exclaimed, striking the table with a resounding thud.

“No, ‘promotion’ isn’t the right word—this is evangelism! Every mage of six rings or higher must master it! Especially those of your Force Field school and our own Evocation school; this discovery will elevate our computational precision by an entire order of magnitude!”

He paused, a momentary silence filling the room.

“But have you truly considered the repercussions?” Horace asked, his gaze fixed on Klein. “I’ve heard about Valerius. His mind shattered, utterly and irrevocably.”

“A mere formula for uniform acceleration was enough to drive a Seven-Ring Mage to their demise. How many lives, do you suppose, will this ‘Principles of Calculus’ claim?”

“Mediocrities are destined for obsolescence,” Klein replied, his words echoing Lia’s own from that fateful day.

“Well said,” Horace acknowledged with an approving nod. “However, there are always those mediocrities who, before their own demise, delight in dragging geniuses down with them.”

“That young girl, Lia, she is now in grave danger.”

Klein’s body stiffened imperceptibly for a fleeting instant.

Horace rose from his chair and moved towards a cabinet nestled in the room’s corner. After inputting a complex sequence of magical incantations, the cabinet door glided open without a sound.

From within, he retrieved a palm-sized silver metal box, its surface intricately etched with delicate runes.

“Take this.”

He tossed the box to Klein.

Klein reached out, catching the box; it felt cool and surprisingly weighty in his grasp.

“This is the ‘Heart of the Guardian’,” Horace explained, re-securing the cabinet door.

“It’s a contraption I dedicated considerable effort to crafting in my later years. Upon detecting an imminent attack, it instantly generates an absolute protective barrier, capable of enduring the full might of an Eight-Ring Mage’s assault for ten minutes.

After its activation, it requires a fresh infusion of magic to be reactivated. I trust you’ll be more than willing to undertake this particular duty.”

Klein’s grip on the box tightened imperceptibly.

Ten minutes.

For a mage, a mere ten minutes could encompass anything: escape, a decisive counterattack, or even the arrival of timely reinforcements.

The significance of this gift was truly immense.

“A mind capable of conceiving calculus is more valuable than a hundred Eight-Ring Mages combined,” Horace declared, settling back behind his desk and waving a dismissive hand.

“Present this to your young apprentice. Instruct her not to perish so swiftly; I am still eager to discover what other marvels reside within that brilliant young mind of hers.”

“I thank you on her behalf,” Klein responded, slipping the metal box into his pocket.

“Alright, be off with you,” Horace commanded, waving his hand with an impatient flick.

“Do not disturb my reading. I shall retain this manuscript; you may take your transcribed copy to the council to initiate the official procedures. I will personally oversee its progress.”

Klein offered no further words, simply turning and exiting the study.

The heavy wooden door swung shut softly in his wake.

Horace then picked up Lia’s original manuscript, adjusted his monocle, and, like the most devout of adherents, began to peruse his new sacred text.

***

In the hushed corridor, Klein’s footsteps echoed with a measured, unhurried rhythm.

His hand remained tucked into his pocket, his fingertips brushing against the cool, unyielding surface of the metal box.

The Heart of the Guardian.

He found himself recalling Lia’s face—ever composed, yet occasionally graced by a fleeting, mischievous glint in her eyes.

This modest gift, he mused, might prove useful to her sooner than anticipated.