Chương 1: The Human Printer

Ivan Marcellion's fingers cramped as he traced the final curve of the healing rune onto cheap vellum. The geometric pattern glowed faintly before settling into inert ink.

"Phew." Another [Lesser Heal] scroll completed. Another three mana stones earned. He set the quill down and flexed his aching hand, noticing how black ink stained his fingertips. Ten years in Sky Reach, and this was all he had to show for it. A cramped basement office that smelled of mildew and cheap parchment, a skill everyone called a mistake, and just enough coin to keep the landlord from throwing him onto the street.

"Lesser Heal number three thousand and fifty," Ivan muttered to the empty room.

"A personal record." The irony wasn't lost on him. He could create healing magic for others but couldn't afford a single potion for himself. Not that he needed one. His body was fine. It was his pride that bled out slowly, one copied scroll at a time. The guild basement stretched beyond his doorway like a warren of similar closets, each of them housing another Production Class nobody. It was a little sad. Tailors who mended adventurer gear. Cooks who prepared rations.

Scribes like him, though most of the others had long since switched to [Flash Replication] and moved up to the better floors. Ivan sighed and called up his Status. It was instinct at this point, and the System answered in cold, unflinching numbers.

▣▣▣▣▣ Name: Ivan Marcellion Class: Arcane Scribe - Level 25 Race: Human (F) - Level 28 Tier: 01 [HP: 310/310] [MP: 160/290] ▣▣▣ Strength: G+ Vitality: F+ Agility: G+ Endurance: F Dexterity: C+ Intelligence: E Wisdom: E Perception: E- Willpower: D- Charisma: F- ▣▣▣ Race Skills: [Mana Sense] - Level 33 [Steady Hand] - Level 42 ▣▣▣ Class Skills: [Pattern Recognition - Level 1] [Deep Etching] - Level 49 [Inscription] - Level 38 ▣▣▣▣▣ He'd hit Level 25 an hour ago in his [Arcane Scribe] Class.

Since he mostly gained experience from his Class, his Race Level wasn't much higher than that. The long awaited notification had appeared while he was halfway through scroll number three thousand and forty-nine, and for one beautiful moment, hope had sparked in his chest. Finally. The System would offer him *[Flash Replication]** this time, and maybe he could finally fix all of this. * That was what he had believed an hour ago. He had so much hope.

Yet the skill selection screen had merely mocked him with three choices, none of them useful. How could that be? [Ink Preservation], which would make his materials last longer. [Enhanced Focus], which would reduce mental fatigue. And [Pattern Recognition], which claimed to help him "identify underlying structures in magical formations." Back in Level 10 choices, he'd ignored Flash Replication. He'd been suffering from that bad choice to this day.

Ivan hadn't given up because he knew once Level 25 came, he'd get the option to choose it again. Even though Level 25 took ten years to arrive, the carrot on the stick had kept him motivated. But now… Ivan had chosen [Pattern Recognition] partly out of spite. He had spent a decade waiting for [Flash Replication], so he had not clicked impulsively. [Pattern Recognition] had simply sounded more interesting than the other two useless options.

Now he sat in his closet, staring at scrolls he'd been paid a pittance to create with a bitter smile, wondering why he'd ever thought things would change. Ten years. That's how long it took me to go from Level 10 to Level 25. The next Skill Choice is at Level 50… I probably would never reach it in this lifetime. Goddammit. Why was his luck so bad? The door to his office slammed open without a knock.

"Marcellion! You done with my order?" Brock filled the doorway like a wall of muscle and expensive enchanted armor. The man stood at least six-foot-five, with the kind of physique that came from hunting monsters in dungeons instead of copying their magical weaknesses onto paper. His breastplate alone probably cost more than Ivan's entire year of rent. Ivan reached for the stack of completed scrolls without looking up.

"Five [Lesser Heal], three [Swift Step], two [Minor Shield]. All finished this morning."

"Huh. This morning? Hey, I put the order in three days ago." Brock snatched the scrolls and flipped through them with thick fingers.

"What the hell took so long?" Because I have to manually etch every single mana circuit by hand while you press a button and shoot fire from your palm.

"Quality takes time," Ivan said instead.

"Quality." Brock snorted.

"Right. That's what you Deep Etching idiots always say.

'Oh, my scrolls are ten percent better.' You know what I say? I say ten percent doesn't mean shit when I can buy twenty scrolls from a Flash guy for the same price." That was the difference between people who chose [Deep Etching] and [Flash Replication] at Level 10. One improved the quality of each scroll. The other produced enough scrolls to level at an absurd rate. Anyone stuck with [Deep Etching] was better off finding a Class Switch Stone and starting over.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Ivan stayed quiet. There was no winning this argument. He'd had it a hundred times before. Brock tossed a small pouch onto the desk. It landed with a pathetic clink of coins that immediately told Ivan the truth.

"That's half the agreed price," Ivan said.

"Late fee." Brock grinned, showing teeth too white and straight to be natural.

"Next time, work faster."

"We agreed on seventy mana stones for the full order."

"And I'm giving you thirty-five. Math checks out." Brock turned to leave, then paused in the doorway.

"You know what your problem is, Marcellion?"

"Enlighten me."

"You're a bottom-feeder. Production Classes like you? You're not even real players. You're NPCs who think they matter." The door slammed shut behind him. Ivan sat frozen, his hands resting flat on the desk to keep them from shaking. That fucking bastard. Did he really just pay him thirty-five stones? He needed five hundred for rent, and that was due in four days. He'd been counting on this payment to make up the difference. NPCs who think they matter. The words echoed in his head like the tolling of a bell.

He looked down at his ink-stained fingers. Black residue filled the creases of his skin, permanent marks from a decade of work that nobody valued. Level 40 Brock could swagger into his office, steal half his payment, and walk away without consequence because the System said Brock mattered and Ivan didn't. The unfairness of it sat in his chest like a stone.

"Level 40," Ivan muttered.

"That arrogant piece of shit is only Level 40, and he acts like he owns the world." A true powerhouse could just breathe his way and he'd be mince meat, and yet he acted so tough. What a world. If Charisma actually mattered in this stupid System, I'd have a Skill by now just from arguing with idiots, he thought. His eyes drifted to the fresh notification still hovering at the edge of his vision. The skill he'd chosen. [Pattern Recognition]. Ivan sighed. Now, why is it looking at me like that?

He recalled he hadn't really read the Skill description since it seemed fairly self-explanatory. What does that even do? He focused on the skill description, and text expanded in his vision. [Pattern Recognition - Level 1] Details: Identifies underlying structures in magical formations. Allows the user to perceive the foundational geometry of spells, enchantments, and mana constructs. Higher levels increase clarity and reduce mental strain. Foundational geometry. Underlying structures.

Bored and bothered as he was, Ivan chose to reach for a blank scrap of parchment and dipped his quill in ink. Without thinking, he began to trace the pattern for [Lightning Bolt]. It was a spell pattern he'd copied hundreds of times for adventurers. People with the [Skill] could fire it with a thought. A scroll stored that same pattern on parchment so someone else could trigger it. His hand moved automatically, muscle memory guiding the quill through the familiar curves and angles.

But this time, something was different. The pattern made sense. It was a strange feeling. Before, when he'd copied [Lightning Bolt], he'd seen it as a collection of lines to be replicated exactly. Like tracing a picture without understanding what it depicted. But now, with [Pattern Recognition] active, he could see the why behind each stroke. This curve here channeled the mana into a compressed spiral. This angle controlled the release velocity.

This junction point determined whether the bolt would arc or shoot straight. It was like reading a language he'd been copying phonetically for years and suddenly understanding the grammar. Ivan instinctively knew that if he had this skill before, it wouldn't have been much use to him. But ten years of experience in seeing and scribing all this somehow made him instantly proficient in this skill. [Pattern Recognition has leveled up!] [Pattern Recognition has leveled up!] [Pattern Recognition has leveled up!] …

[Pattern Recognition - Level 11]"What the… That easy?" For a moment he wondered if he was dreaming or not. Ivan set the quill down and stared at the half-finished pattern on the scrap paper. His heart beat faster. What if I didn't need the scroll? The thought was insane. Blasphemous, even. Magic required the System. At least, that was how normal combat magic worked. You learned a Skill, the System installed it into your class slots, and you activated it with a mental command. Scrolls were different.

They were external spell patterns stored on parchment so someone else could trigger them. Nobody was supposed to draw the pattern in the air and make it work by understanding it. But he'd just spent ten years manually carving the geometric foundations of hundreds of spells. He knew their shapes better than he knew his own handwriting. Ivan picked up the quill again. His hand trembled slightly as he held it above the desk, not touching paper. Just air. He closed his eyes and visualized [Lightning Bolt]. Every curve.

Every angle. Every junction point where mana needed to flow. Then he traced the pattern in empty space with special Mana Ink coating his fingertip. [Pattern Recognition has leveled up!] His mana drained like water through a sieve. The pull was immediate and brutal, yanking energy from his core so fast it made his vision swim. But for one perfect second, he felt the spell form. A tiny spark of blue-white electricity crackled at the tip of his quill. [Pattern Recognition has leveled up!] [Pattern Recognition has leveled up!] [Pattern Recognition has leveled up!] … [Pattern Recognition has reached Level 58.] … [Arcane Scribe has leveled up!] [Arcane Scribe has leveled up!] [Arcane Scribe has leveled up!] … [Arcane Scribe has reached Level 31.] [Human (F) has leveled up!] [Human (F) has leveled up!] [Human (F) has reached Level 30.]"HOLY SHIT?!" He'd even gained so many Levels! That was years of work…! He'd gained six Class levels in under a minute. This skill is broken.

I- Then the world tilted. Ivan's head struck the desk with a dull thump. His vision blurred. The last thing he saw before darkness took him was the faint scorch mark on his quill's tip, still smoking. Did I just cast magic without the System?

When Ivan woke, his head throbbed like someone had driven a spike through his temple. He groaned and pushed himself upright, immediately regretting it when the room spun.

"Mana exhaustion," he muttered.

"Oh, brother, I feel like shitt." He checked his status screen with bleary eyes. [Mana: 3/290] Three points left. He'd burned through almost his entire pool in a single second. Whatever he'd done, it had cost him everything. But he'd done it. Ivan stared at the quill resting on his desk. The tip was blackened, the wood slightly warped from heat. Evidence. Proof that he hadn't hallucinated. And… Level 58. He'd taken [Pattern Recognition] from Level 1 to Level 58 in a few minutes. Wasn't that crazy?

Had anyone else accomplished something like that before? A knock on the door made him flinch.

"Marcellion? You in there?" The voice belonged to his supervisor, a nasally Level 30 [Administrator] named Petras who handled job assignments for the guild's Production Division. Ivan had maybe three conversations with the man in ten years, none of them pleasant.

"I'm here," Ivan called out, his voice rough. The door opened. Petras stood in the hallway, dressed in his usual gray robes. His expression was the practiced neutrality of someone delivering bad news.

"You're wanted upstairs," Petras said.

"I don't mean this building, in the floating castle. Central Spire. Immediately." Ivan's stomach dropped.

"The Central Spire? Why?"

"Didn't say. Just said to bring you." Petras glanced at the scattered scrolls on Ivan's desk, the ink stains, the general disaster of the room.

"Might want to make yourself presentable. This came from the City Lord's office." The words hit Ivan like a splash of water. Victor Hargraves. The City Lord himself.

"When?" Ivan asked.

"Man, I don't know. Now?! Enforcers are waiting outside." Petras stepped back from the door.

"Whatever you did, Marcellion, I hope it was worth it." Ivan forced himself to stand despite his pounding headache and depleted mana. His legs felt like jelly, but he managed to stay upright. The City Lord wants to see me. Why? I haven't done anything. I'm nobody. As he followed Petras out of the basement, Ivan caught a glimpse of his reflection in a cracked mirror hanging on the wall. He looked exactly like what he was. A Level 25 failure with ink-stained hands and cheap clothes.

Black hair, badly trimmed and tied into a short ponytail because he could never be bothered to get a proper haircut. A few loose locks had fallen across his face, and he pushed them aside with the back of his hand. His beard was in its usual annoying state too, not clean enough to look intentional but at the same time not messy enough to fully justify shaving right now. Honestly, he looked like a man who had spent ten years underground arguing with parchment. … Which was accurate, unfortunately.

But somewhere in his chest, beneath the fear and exhaustion, a small spark of defiance still burned. If they're going to drag me to the Spire, means I'll have to encounter that woman again. Ugh, dammit. Hana Kim. An old friend… Hah, could he still call her a friend? She worked in the City Lord's court now, an [Enchantress] who'd risen through the ranks while Ivan stayed buried in the basement. The last time he'd seen her, she'd smiled at him. Just a brief moment of recognition before her duties pulled her away.

Ivan followed Petras out, already wondering how awkward it would be to see Hana again. His ink-stained hands remained clenched at his sides.