Chapter 17: The Unseen Field

After half a month.

In Lia’s room.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, her eyes tightly shut.

Within her mental landscape, a colossal cube, meticulously crafted from spiritual energy, hung motionless amidst the dark void.

A low hum vibrated.

Within the cube’s confines, countless lines materialized from nothingness, meticulously partitioning it into eight smaller cubes.

The intricate model wavered momentarily before settling into perfect stability.

Lia pressed on, unwavering.

Her spiritual energy delved deeper still, simultaneously cleaving each of the eight small cubes.

Eight became sixty-four.

The complexity of the entire construct escalated by several orders of magnitude.

Beads of sweat slicked Lia’s forehead as the drain on her spiritual energy intensified dramatically.

‘Maintain it,’ she urged herself.

Gritting her teeth, she unfurled her spiritual energy like an intricate spiderweb, meticulously supporting each newly formed structure.

The sixty-four cubes now hung in perfect, stable suspension.

‘Divide again.’

Sixty-four transformed into five hundred and twelve.

As the final dividing line was meticulously drawn, a strained hum resonated through Lia’s mental realm, signaling the immense pressure.

The intricate model, now comprising five hundred and twelve minuscule cubes, quivered violently, threatening to disintegrate at any moment.

Lia abruptly poured her entire focus into the trembling construct.

The tremors ceased.

A complex mental construct, composed of five hundred and twelve distinct units, solidified into stable form.

‘Phase One: complete.’

Opening her eyes, she released a long, labored breath, her mind feeling as though it were ablaze.

***

The Advanced Library of the Mage Association.

The library’s interior was dimly lit, save for a few shafts of sunlight that pierced the high windows, illuminating visible pathways through the dust motes dancing in the air.

Klein occupied one side of a long, polished table.

Across from him sat Mage Edgar, the luminary of the Force Field school who had been among the very first to perceive the resonance of truth following the journal’s publication.

“Your apprentice’s treatise,” Edgar began, “I have perused it no fewer than twenty times.”

Edgar slid the tome, On Magidynamics, to the center of the table.

“The argumentation is flawless,” he continued, “the experiments impeccable.”

He paused.

“Yet, it remains incomplete.”

Klein remained silent, his gaze fixed on the mage.

“It merely elucidates how objects descend,” Edgar explained, tapping the table, “but offers no insight into why they do so.”

“These five formulae,” he elaborated, tapping the tabletop, “are all predicated upon a singular foundation: a constant acceleration, a.”

“This very question is currently the subject of fervent debate among mages throughout the capital.”

“Whence does this ‘a’ originate?”

Klein lifted the glass of clear water before him and took a slow sip.

“Indeed, it is a query that has occupied my own thoughts as well.”

Edgar leaned forward, his posture reflecting his earnestness.

“I have a nascent idea,” he murmured, “though it is still quite unrefined.”

Lowering his voice conspiratorially, he continued, “Might it be an intrinsic property of the object itself? An inherent tendency, a predisposition towards motion? Once deprived of support, this latent tendency is simply activated.”

“Once activated, this tendency might be released at a fixed rate, manifesting as a constant acceleration.”

Klein gently set his water glass back onto the table.

“If it were an intrinsic property,” Klein countered, “it ought to bear a direct relation to the object’s fundamental composition.”

“Consider a chunk of lead versus a piece of mithril; their intrinsic properties diverge wildly.

Why, then, would the tendency for motion they exhibit be utterly identical?”

“Experimental evidence unequivocally demonstrates the universality of this acceleration.”

Edgar’s line of reasoning was abruptly curtailed.

‘Indeed, universality,’ Edgar mused.

‘The most formidable aspect of this theory lies precisely in its universal applicability.

It holds true for every object.’

“If not intrinsic, then it must be extrinsic,” Edgar posited, shifting his approach.

“Is it possible,” Edgar mused, changing tack, “that the very fabric of space is the agent at play?”

“Consider, for instance, that the world beneath our feet actively repels everything situated above it.

However, this repulsion might not be uniform; instead, it could possess a certain… gradient.

Objects would then spontaneously slide from regions of weaker repulsion towards those of stronger repulsion.”

“Much like water seeking its lowest point.”

“This very process of ‘sliding’ would, then, be the fount of acceleration.”

A faint glimmer sparked in Klein’s blue eyes.

“An intriguing conjecture, indeed.

But how might one verify such a hypothesis?”

“If such a gradient truly exists, then the value of acceleration ought to vary with altitude.

The higher an object, the weaker the repulsion, and consequently, the lesser the acceleration.”

“Theoretically, that premise holds true,” Edgar affirmed with a nod.

“However, no existing experiment has proven capable of measuring such a nuanced difference,” Klein stated.

“Whether measured from a ten-foot platform or a hundred-foot tower,” he elaborated, “the resulting acceleration values show virtually no discernible distinction.”

“Perhaps our current measuring instruments simply lack the requisite precision,” Edgar suggested, a hint of reluctance in his voice.

“Perhaps the variation within this gradient is exceedingly subtle.”

“A theory incapable of falsification holds no true meaning,” Klein asserted, dismissing the notion outright.

A heavy silence descended upon the library, broken only by the distant echo of footsteps between towering bookshelves.

After a considerable silence, Klein finally spoke.

“Let us approach this from an alternative perspective.”

“Let us discard the notions of intrinsic properties and spatial gradients alike.”

“Returning to the most fundamental question: what, precisely, is moving it?”

“What force is exerting this influence upon it?”

Edgar watched him intently.

“It is the earth,” Klein declared.

“Objects invariably descend towards the earth.

Thus, the very source of this influence must be the earth itself.”

“I concur.”

“How, then, does the earth exert such an influence?

Through direct contact?

Clearly, that is not the case.”

Klein sketched a diagram on the tabletop.

“That leaves but a single possibility,” he stated.

“Action at a distance.”

“The earth, through some unseen mechanism, compels the airborne stone to descend.”

Edgar’s breath hitched, his eyes widening.

“A field?”

“One might indeed refer to it as such,” Klein affirmed with a nod.

“The earth, then, emanates an invisible field outwards.

Any object entering this field would be subject to its influence, thereby acquiring a constant acceleration.”

This explanation, it seemed, held greater plausibility than any put forth before it.

It offered a perfectly coherent explanation for the universality of acceleration.

For all objects, without exception, would exist within the confines of this singular field.

“But therein lies a new dilemma,” Edgar interjected, instantly pinpointing a fresh contradiction.

“If the earth truly serves as the source,” he reasoned, “then this field cannot possibly be uniform.”

“Just as the light from a candle diminishes with distance, so too should this field attenuate as one moves further from its origin.”

“Consequently, the farther an object is from the ground, the lesser its acceleration ought to be.”

“We have, then, merely returned to the very same predicament of an unfalsifiable hypothesis,” Klein observed.

“No, this time it is different,” Edgar countered, his eyes suddenly alight with a new understanding.

“This time, we possess a point of reference.”

“What might that be?”

“The heavens,” Edgar declared, gesturing towards the window.

“The very laws governing the movement of the stars.”

Klein froze, taken aback.

“According to that established theory,” Edgar elaborated, “a similar interaction exists between the sun and its planets.

As planets orbit the sun, their velocities are in constant flux, unequivocally indicating the presence of acceleration.”

“If the sun, too, emanates a field, then that field is assuredly not uniform.”

“The closer a planet orbits the sun, the more rapidly its velocity shifts, and the greater its acceleration.

This, in turn, demonstrates that the sun’s field experiences a dramatic attenuation with increasing distance.”

Edgar’s voice gained an accelerating fervor.

“Now, the contradiction emerges with stark clarity.”

“The celestial laws dictate that fields attenuate.”

“Yet, the terrestrial laws indicate a field of constant strength.”

“Why this disparity?”

“Could it be that the heavens and the earth are governed by two entirely disparate sets of rules?”

Klein rose from his seat, beginning to pace restlessly beside the long table.

This was a contradiction of a far more fundamental nature.

Should one acknowledge the existence of such fields, then one is compelled to explain why the solar field of the heavens and the terrestrial field of the earth possess fundamentally divergent characteristics.

“Perhaps the terrestrial field’s sphere of influence is exceedingly circumscribed?” Klein hypothesized.

“Within its immediate sphere of influence—say, up to a few hundred feet in altitude—the field’s intensity might exhibit negligible variation, thus appearing to be a constant value.”

“And beyond this circumscribed range?” Edgar pressed, his voice sharp with inquiry.

“At significantly greater altitudes, would ‘a’ then begin to diminish?”

“In all likelihood, yes.”

“What, then, would be the law governing this diminution?

Would it mirror that of the solar field?”

Klein halted his pacing.

He found himself without an answer.

Every line of deduction converged upon a single, insurmountable obstacle.

They were desperately lacking in empirical data.

More critically, they lacked a foundational theory capable of unifying the celestial and terrestrial realms.

“Your apprentice,” Edgar said, turning his gaze to Klein, “what are her thoughts on this matter?”

“She has not broached the subject,” Klein replied, his voice even.

He recalled Lia’s earnest attempts to translate and find suitable analogies in her mind when elucidating those complex formulae.

Such knowledge, he mused, likely existed within her mind as a complete and cohesive system.

Yet, what she had conveyed to him comprised only the most fundamental, most readily digestible fraction of that whole.

‘Did she not know, or did she simply choose not to disclose it?’

“Klein,” Edgar said, rising to his feet, “this question delves far deeper than we initially surmised.”

“It is not merely a question of the origin of acceleration.”

“It may well point towards the ultimate, underlying laws of the world itself.”

“Indeed.”

“I shall persist in my research,” Edgar declared, retrieving the journal from the table.

“I intend to endeavor to design an experiment of sufficient precision to measure the subtle variations in acceleration at differing altitudes.”

“Should any new insights come to you, do not hesitate to apprise me at once.”

“Very well.”

After Edgar’s departure, Klein remained standing amidst the quiet expanse of the library for a considerable time.

He eventually made his way back to the mage tower.

The room on the fourth floor was steeped in silence.

Lia, having concluded her training, sat at her desk, engrossed in a book on ancient runes.

So utterly absorbed was she that she failed to register Klein’s quiet entrance.

Klein paused behind her, his gaze resting upon the girl’s small, focused form.

‘What other profound mysteries resided within that young mind?’

‘To unify the very laws of heaven and earth?’

Such a notion verged on utter madness, yet Klein found himself believing that if anyone in this world possessed the capacity to achieve it…

‘…it might very well be her.’

He quietly withdrew from the room, leaving her undisturbed.