how do you live? (for forever) || dungeon meshi

chapter 1 ― charles' letter

Spellwright. A renowned profession of magic-users who translate raw mana—the lifeblood of magic—into usable spells. Tasks range from copywriting the oldest grimoires, researching rune symbolism, to designing a spell's structure. As mana circulates through their body, they intertwine them into intricate inscriptions. The resulting spells, depending on the craftsman's skill, become the force that molds spirits, allowing the spellwright to command elements, conjure illusions, or even bend the norms of what reality sets.

Spells were going to be the future, you thought. As you traced the markings on parchment—some old, some new—you could feel a faint energy.

If the entire world focused on unlocking this potential, there was no doubt it could take them to unimaginable heights.

Two grueling years. The parchment beneath your fingers, once crisp and white, now bore faded lines of papercuts. The weight of your next move thrummed in your very bones, channeled through the quill that ached in your grasp. You'd done the impossible. Cracked the code. A spell to cheat mortality itself.

Not eternal life, no. Perhaps a mockery of it. A thousand years for any race—a lifetime most could only dream of. A millennium could stretch itself before you. But a disquieting silence stills within.

A thousand years. A thousand chances to... what?

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chapter one ― charles' letter

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Nestled amidst the clusters of southeastern continents, Alon[2] was bestowed as a paradise by outsiders.

Believed that the land was sculpted by the hand of a benevolent deity. They were blessed with the fairest sand, lush forests, and presumed sacred lands. Its shores, lapped by gentle waves, surrendered to beaches adorned with sand the color of crushed pearls. Towering waterfalls, cascaded glittering light down moss-covered cliffs. The very air hummed sweetly, as if it were only meant for the people themselves.

The people in Alon consisted of a variety of races. As it was once a predominantly tall-men land. The tall-men in Alon were with skin kissed by the sun and smiles as warm as the climate, known to be the most hospitable in the world. The western and eastern elves, along with the gnomes, fought to claim the land. It led to years of war but ended with the tall-men's independence. From then on, only by the borders were there disputes with other continents.

Despite the occasional disputes, life in Alon meanders at a gentle pace. Quaint villages sprinkled the landscape, their wooden houses adorned with vibrant laundry lines that danced like flags in the warm breeze.

These breezes reach far removed from the bustling heart of Alon, beside a small lake, one largely ignored by the masses, and into a solitary cottage.

The peace today didn't differ, the window-framed clouds looked like they always had. And you've never been against it.

A knock disturbs your quiet thinking.

You rise cautiously, tiptoeing towards the peephole for a cautious glimpse.

Your top clients were usually elves.

Which was unexpected as you were a tall-man. Your talent in spell-scribing and crafting was the sole reason they tolerated you, a respect for your skill rather than valuing you as a craftsman. Tools, not equals, that's how they saw you. Most of them, anyway.