Dawn painted the sky in pink and orange as I arrived in the alley. I was freezing. My pockets were empty except for a small, squashed sandwich I'd brought for the old man.
He was already there, sitting on an overturned crate, staring blankly into space.
"You're late, kid."
I sighed. "…It's not even six in the morning!"
The old man snatched the sandwich before I could even hand it to him.
"Ha! You've already learned the first rule of the Scriptorial: always feed your master."
He swallowed half the sandwich in one big bite.
"All right. Today, we get serious."
He crossed his arms.
"Do you know what spiritual energy is?"
I shrugged. "Uh… it's… the reserve we use to write words?"
"In part. But not only that."
He drove his cane into the ground.
"Spiritual energy, kid, is: your mental strength, your emotions, your conviction. The stronger it is, the more powerful your word. Even if it's just 'FIRE.'"
I frowned. "…So if I'm angry… it's stronger?"
"Not necessarily. Anger can be fuel—but it eats you up fast."
He lifted a finger.
"The real secret is: Write calmly, even when your heart is screaming."
I fell silent.
He went on:
"You're too scared when you write. You're just thinking: 'It has to work.'"
He burst out laughing.
"And the result? Your poor flame ends up looking like a dying lighter."
I groaned. "Great… Thanks."
"All right. First exercise."
He stepped back a pace.
"Trace 'FIRE.' But this time, think of your mother. Think of the warmth you felt when she told you she believed in you. Write with that."
I stared at him. "…That's ridiculous."
"Write, kid."
I took a deep breath. I summoned my invisible brush. Slowly, I wrote:
F I R E
The red runes appeared in the air.
But this time… they looked sharper. The flame that sprang up in the palm of my hand was brighter, hotter. It stayed lit for several seconds before fading.
"W… woah!!"
The old man slammed his cane on the ground.
"See that? It's not the word that's weak. It's you who makes it weak."
I stared at my palm, stunned. "…That was… different."
"All right. Second exercise."
He pointed to an old metal barrel.
"Now try writing 'BLOCK' around that barrel. And do it imagining it's your mother you're protecting."
I swallowed hard. I stepped closer to the barrel. I wrote slowly:
B L O C K
The blue runes formed. A translucent wall appeared around the barrel… and held steady. Even when the old man smacked it with his cane, it didn't crack.
"Hah! Not bad, kid. You're not as useless as you think."
I felt a smile creeping onto my face. "…It's thanks to you, master."
"Of course it's thanks to me—and don't call me 'master,' or I'll puke."
He nodded.
"We're gonna repeat this every day. Because mastering three words… might just save your life more than once."
He scratched his beard.
"And maybe… one day, we'll work on your spiritual reserves. Because right now, you've got the stamina of an asthmatic seagull."
"…Thanks, old man."
He patted my head.
"Don't worry, kid. You've got fire in your eyes."
He looked up at the sky.
"And believe me… that's the true power of a Scriptor… an unbreakable will."
"All right, let's keep going."