Rykker weighed the three theories Aaron had proposed.
Each was plausible, and the chilling possibility that they were all true simultaneously sat heavy in his gut.
But the logic of the situation was quickly overshadowed by a more primal realization: if these theories held, how would he ever find his way back?
The thought wasn’t merely a spark of panic; it was a visceral, physical ache, a jagged tearing sensation in his very soul.
He had a life.
He had friends who filled his days with laughter, family whose presence was a constant warmth, and brothers-in-arms who brought a specialized kind of chaos—but it was his chaos.
He had coworkers he could rely on, people who shared the weight of his burdens.
Now, there was only this… grey, sterile, magic-starved void.
Despair wasn’t just an emotion; it was a slow-acting poison, seeping into the essence of his being and reducing his hope to a fading whisper in a vast darkness.
He felt utterly abandoned in a realm where his compass no longer worked.
His mind clung to Aaron’s mention of “machines” and “technology”—tools that supposedly functioned without a single drop of mana.
He struggled to visualize such a world.
What did a machine even look like?
In this sensory-deprived void, he had no references, no shapes to cling to.
He considered the inanimate objects of his own world—stone, wood, iron.
They were static, mindless.
Was a machine simply a house that could move?
And if a house could do things, what would its purpose be?
The concept felt like trying to grab smoke.
He knew of the non-magic users back home.
They were far from helpless; they wielded hammers, chisels, and complex pulleys to shape the world.
Their lives were grounded, yet they possessed a different kind of strength: they cultivated Qi.
He had seen the way Qi users moved, their bodies tempered by Tai Chi and rigorous martial arts until they were as formidable as any sorcerer.
Yet, he had never seen a Qi user breathe life into a pile of metal or command a tool to work on its own.
They were warriors, not creators of life-like objects.
Was that the secret of Aaron’s world?
Did they simply master Qi to such a degree that their tools became extensions of their will?
Was technology just another name for the internal fire he had seen in the martial masters of his own realm?
***
“Many pardons, Sir Aaron, but might I be so bold as to inquire further about your mysterious world?” Rykker asked.
“Sure.
“If it’s true that your world is devoid of mana, as you claim,” the General asked, “and you can build these ‘machines’ to control your world, how do you get them to do your bidding?
What type of energy do you use?
Is it qi?
Do your people cultivate?”
Aaron chose his words with precision, realizing the General was confusing the mystical with the mechanical.
On Earth, the concept of qi—a vital life force flowing through the body’s meridians—was a matter of philosophical faith, not physical law.
“According to our history, qi is the energy that permeates the universe,” Aaron said.
“It was believed that through cultivation, a person could harness this life force to nourish their body.
However, that is where the application ends.
We don’t use cultivation to drive technology.
While qi represents a philosophy of life for many, it is not a power source.
Our machines are moved by the laws of physics—kinetic, thermal, and electrical energy—rather than spirit.”
***
Rykker was baffled.
Without mana or qi to draw upon, the mechanics of this world felt hollow.
He found himself dwelling on this place called ‘Physics’—who were its legislators?
Were its laws designed to distribute power, or to suppress it?
Rykker asked, “Forgive me, Sir Aaron, but I cannot reconcile your claims.
You say your machines run on ‘Law’ rather than magic.
But to my understanding, a law is simply a rule imposed by a sentient ruler upon a specific territory.
How can a rule generate power?”
“I believe I understand the misunderstanding,” Aaron smiled.
“The word ‘Law’ carries a dual meaning here.
The ‘Laws of Physics’ are the fundamental principles of reality, like gravity or the laws of thermodynamics.
They aren’t created by men; they are universal constants that cannot be bypassed, broken or ignored.”
Aaron clarified, “The ‘Laws of the Land,’ however, are the rules of society—decrees against theft or violence.
These are human inventions intended to foster peace.
Unlike the absolute laws of the universe, these social laws can be, and often are, defied.”
***
The realization didn’t strike Rykker like a lightning bolt; it seeped into his consciousness like cold groundwater, slow and relentless.
He was beginning to understand, though the truth felt like grit between his teeth.
This world was a cage of invisible geometry, governed by absolute laws—Physics, Thermodynamics, and the cold whims of whatever architects had built this reality. Read the latest chapters at novelping . com.
Here, these laws carried the weight of ancient edicts.
They were as absolute as magic, as pervasive as qi, yet they felt sterile.
This was a different breed of energy, a silent, clockwork power he had never encountered in all his centuries of casting.
Yet, despite his growing comprehension, a hollow dread settled in his chest.
He was utterly out of his depth.
In his own realm, he could reshape existence with a whisper, but here, he was a master musician trapped in a world without sound.
Without his magic, he wasn’t just a stranger; he was a prisoner.
He was stuck in this rigid world, and worse, he was shackled to a mundane mind that lacked the neural pathways for the sublime.
The weight of it felt physical, a crushing pressure against his invisible ribs.
He was trapped in a reality where the “miracles” were nothing more than the result of rigid mechanics and mathematical inevitability.
His home thrived on the fluid, sentient pulse of mana—an internal life-force that responded to the soul.
Earth, however, was a place of cold, external engineering, where power was not felt, but harnessed, generated, and converted through unfeeling metal.
It was a violent clash of paradigms: the warm, chaotic art of sorcery versus the frozen, predictable logic of the machine.
***
Aaron wondered to himself, How do you explain the laws of physics to a man who commands magic?
Aaron pondered the common thread between kinetic energy and mana.
Though their sources were different, their nature was the same: they were both expressions of power.
To help the General understand, Aaron needed to find the “magic” within the machine.
He found his answer in the universal laws that govern existence.
The First Law of Thermodynamics—the principle that energy is never lost, only changed—was a truth that transcended worlds.
Kinetic energy and life force were merely different dialects of the same language.
This was the bridge Aaron had been looking for; energy was an eternal constant, whether it powered a wizard’s strike or a common streetlamp.
Conservation of energy isn’t just a rule, Aaron thought to himself, it’s the bedrock of reality.
It’s the law that controls life itself.
Looking at a hydroelectric generator, Aaron saw a way to translate his world to the General’s.
The machine was a “water mage” of steel and wire, capturing the kinetic fury of a river and refining it into light.
It was mechanics, not sorcery, but the result was just as potent.
If motion could be converted into power without mana, then the General’s ticket home didn’t have to be a portal—it could be a machine.
“Together,” Aaron whispered, “we can turn this technology into the doorway he’s been looking for.”
Oh, no!
There goes my geek again…