Magic Adventure: Story About Julius

After that day with the magic sphere, I wasn't the same anymore. I stayed silent when others laughed. I walked away when people gathered around the table. It felt like that number frozen inside the crystal — "1" — had carved itself into more than just my memory. It was etched into my voice, my steps, my very skin.

I started training the very next day. No teacher. No mage. Just me. I gathered old books, begged traders for scraps of scrolls on training, watched those stronger than me and mimicked everything they did. At first, it was clumsy — scraped elbows, bruised knees. But with time, I lasted longer. Quieter. Stronger. I didn't wait for a miracle or hope for some sudden burst of power. I simply understood: I had no other path.

Months passed. Snow gave way to blossoms, rain to sunshine. My hands hardened. I threw rocks, lifted logs, and used magic in chalk, trying to make even a flicker of fire obey me. Sometimes it did. Most times it didn't. But I kept going. Somewhere beyond the mountains, past the ruins of my life, he was still out there — the one who took everything. And if I didn't grow stronger, even his shadow would be enough to crush me.

The day of the first trial came. It was a celebration in the village. People filled the hillsides to watch. Mages sat in high seats. We, the participants, waited on a wide stone platform under the open sky. I didn't know all my opponents, just their faces — calm, cocky, nervous. I was somewhere in between. I didn't expect to win, but I believed — just a little — that I'd changed and that I was no longer that trembling boy who stared at a glowing number.

When they called my name, I stepped forward. My heart pounded, heavy but steady. One step. Another. I bowed to my opponent. And in the next breath… I was on the ground.

I didn't even know how it happened. What I'd done wrong. Just—suddenly—I was lying in dust. My back ached. My vision blurred. My lip bled. And above me stood the victor. Not cruel. Not proud. Just… indifferent. He'd won. I had lost.

So fast.

So pointless.

Someone helped me up and asked if I was okay. I nodded. Didn't speak. No applause followed me. Just a few murmurs. A quiet chuckle. Someone is already forgetting my name.

I walked home alone. Past the crowds. Past the mentors. Past the eyes that would never look my way again.

When I got back to the elder's house, he didn't ask a thing. Just nodded. Set a plate on the table. I didn't touch it. I sat in the corner, still. Not because I was empty — but because too much had been jammed inside me at once.

Later that night, I rose. Wrapped my arms. Took a candle. Walked outside.

To the same clearing behind the woods where I'd always trained.

It was dark. Cold. Quiet.

Perfect for someone too weak to be remembered even for a single match.

But I still had a year.

And this time… I wouldn't fall so easily.

I don't know how many times I rose before sunrise.

How many mornings my legs were already shaking before the sun even peeked over the trees? How many times my hands were raw with blisters, wrapped in an old cloth, and soaked with ointments that barely dulled the sting? I never kept count. Pain became routine. Not an enemy, but a neighbor — always present, quietly whispering, "You're still alive, so you can do more."

Every year, I went to the tournament.

And every year, I failed the very first round.

The first time — it was a shock.

The second — it hurt deeper.

The third — almost expected.

By the fourth, I walked off the field before the judges even spoke.

By the fifth, I didn't bother listening. I already knew the outcome.

All those years, I told myself I was getting stronger. That my steps meant something, that effort was the path.

But when you fall again and again — when names of champions are celebrated and yours is whispered like an awkward memory — you begin to doubt.

No one called me by name.

They called me "the one with level one," "the one who keeps coming back," "the one who doesn't leave."

And maybe… that's why I kept going.

Not pride. Not rage. Not even revenge.

Just stubbornness. I didn't want to disappear.

I didn't want to become someone forgotten.

The elder watched me with a quiet kind of respect. He never praised me. But I knew he saw — I hadn't broken.

Yet behind his eyes, there was sorrow too.

He understood: if nothing changed… I would stay on this road forever.

Alone.

Empty.

The younger ones trained nearby. Some outgrew me in a year.

Some in a month.

But I stayed. Silent.

And every time I stepped near the arena, something twisted in my chest. Not fear.

A reminder: you're here again.

You might fall again.

I watched faces change.

New hopefuls stepped forward, full of fire and talent and dreams.

And I stood beside them. Quiet. Waiting my turn.

Years passed.

And I was still standing in the same place.

Almost.

But the fire inside me hadn't gone out.

It was smaller now.

Quieter.

But still burning.

One day, I just sat under a tree and didn't get up until the sun had set.

I didn't train. Didn't swing a stick, didn't toss dust into the air, didn't whisper spells no one could hear. I just sat there. At first, I thought the stillness would drive me crazy. But instead… I felt something strange. Peace. Or maybe it was emptiness—I'm still not sure.

I watched the wind stir the branches. The pollen rises from the grass. Children laughing and running nearby, not knowing I'd spent years just trying to take one step forward.

I kept asking myself why nothing worked. Why did all my effort feel like water slipping through a sieve? I'd thought I had a clear goal—revenge, strength, victory. But somewhere along the way, I forgot what it meant to live for something other than fighting myself.

And then…

I remembered a smell.

Not magic.

Not dust from the training fields.

But cinnamon.

I don't know why that moment brought it back. Maybe because I needed it. Maybe because it was always there, just waiting for me to be quiet enough to notice.

I remembered my mother's caramel bread, fresh and warm from the oven. How I used to help knead the dough. How I tried to copy her recipe, even when I burned it every time. Pekkie always dusted everything in flour. Mozzarella would sing ridiculous songs about cheese. And Syroppa would drizzle honey over the buns when no one was watching.

That was warmth. Real warmth. The kind you don't need to prove. The kind that just lives inside you.

I looked down at my hands—calloused, rough, scarred. But once, these were the same hands that held a wooden spoon, folded soft dough, and traced patterns on pies.

Maybe…

Maybe I needed to go back to that.

Not because I was giving up.

But because maybe, all this time, I'd been looking in the wrong place.

I searched for strength where I had none.

But maybe it was with me all along—in what I had forgotten. In what I had thrown away, thinking it made me weak.

Baking.

The fire that doesn't destroy, but creates.

The flame that gives flavor—not pain.

I didn't know where it would lead.

But that evening, I made a choice:

I would start from scratch. From dough. From flour.

From heat—not for battle… but for bread.