Life could change with a single word.
It didn’t matter whether it was filled with immeasurable love or stemmed from the depths of the deepest malice and loathing.
It might even be a perfunctory word said without the slightest heat or emotion.
Sorcerer Jenié Kors knew this well.
It was a careless word that changed the boy.
“Ah…well. I guess it’s about the size of an eyeball.”
Jenié was at a loss. She wasn’t sure how to explain what she meant to her student.
He couldn’t see, so he didn’t understand. How should she put the size of something into words? He knew what a sphere was, but the size…
After struggling for a little while, she reached that answer.
He understood the parts of his own body, even if he couldn’t see them. So she used his eyes—human eyes—as an example for comparison.
As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. She had brought up the topic of eyes to someone who couldn’t see. She’d thought long and hard, and it was really the only comparison she could come up with, but…she immediately felt guilty for being so careless.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…um…,” Jenié faltered.
She stopped speaking when she saw the boy.
He had lifted his head. His vacant, silvery pupils were blown wide.
Jenié had only ever seen him with his head down, looking reserved, almost soulless…as though life was unbearable for him.
The boy lost control over the A-ori he was maintaining, and it struck the ground with a splash.
“A round…sphere of…water…about the size…of an eyeball? An eyeball? Is…is that so…?”
The boy whispered those words to himself repeatedly. Over, and over, and over again, as if he were carving them with water into his desiccated heart.
The boy was just seven years old.
That was probably the moment Kunon Gurion, the sorcerer who couldn’t see, was truly born.
Two years had passed since the day when Jenié’s careless words jump-started her pupil’s rapid development.
As usual, they were in the garden in front of the detached house, running magic drills.
“Next! Whirlpool!”
“Yes!”
On command, a stream of water flowed from the large A-ori hovering in front of the small sorcerer. The resulting eddy—big enough to easily swallow two or three people—surged so violently that anyone entering it would drown in an instant.
“Next! Bring it to a stop, then separate it into thirty pieces!”
“Yes!”
The ring of water came to an abrupt halt before splitting into thirty distinct A-ori.
“Next! Thirteen red, eleven blue, and six green!”
“Yes!”
As instructed, the spheres began to change color. Bathed in sunlight, the dyed A-ori sparkled like jewels.
“Next! Dog, cat, cow, monkey, sheep, cat, sheep, cow, human!”
“Yes!”
The A-ori re-formed into a single sphere, transforming into each creature as the commands rang out.
Jenié nodded with satisfaction. She had a lot on her mind.
There’s really nothing I can teach him anymore.
He surpassed me so quickly. I can’t do any of these things. What am I doing, reeling off these commands like it’s nothing, when I, his teacher, can’t do any of it myself? How is he able to perform at this level? I probably shouldn’t even have assigned him tasks this extreme, and yet he hasn’t even broken a sweat!
Honestly, she thought. It might be time for me to quit.