[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 2

That was how the watchman found him the next morning—sitting at the bottom of a pit, filthy from head to toe, frozen stiff, and with his hands scraped raw and bleeding. More adults arrived, shouting something he barely registered. Some even struck him a few times, but Kayneth remained indifferent, locked in stupor.

The memories of the war—where he had lost everything he held dear, including the only person he had ever truly loved—came crashing down on him. His death at the hands of a backstabbing worm, his soul transported into this vermin-ridden body, his brief flicker of hope extinguished by overwhelming despair—it was all too much. Even for a man as strong-willed and determined as he had once been.

Truth be told, Kayneth had already been broken back in that factory ruin, when he abandoned all hope of regaining his magecraft or ever rising from his wheelchair. He had given up everything to save Sola—admitted defeat for the first time in his life. And not against a worthy foe, but to a despicable coward with a gun.

Everything that happened after that had merely been the final blow.

For two full days, the magus lay there, eyes fixed on a single point. People came and went. They slapped his face, waved ammonia under his nose, tried to force medicine down his throat—but none of it made any difference. He felt nothing. Nothing mattered. Let them fuss around him—what of it?

Left like that, he might have stayed catatonic for years. Eventually, they would ship him off to an asylum, or something even worse. No one in the orphanage would waste time or resources tending to someone in such a state.

In fact, it was surprising they had even bothered to call an outside doctor for a boy like him. The man didn’t seem like a specialist in catatonia—just a general neurologist from the nearest charity hospital, judging by his worn, inexpensive clothing. The doctor shone a flashlight into his eyes, asked a few meaningless questions, likely hoping for any sort of reaction.

And then, without warning, Kayneth politely asked if the distinguished gentleman’s surname might be Archibald.

The doctor—who introduced himself as Kevin Watson—looked eerily like Morgan Archibald, Kayneth’s father and the eighth head of the Archibald family. Of course, Morgan would have been nearly seventy by 1992, while this doctor seemed, at most, in his early fifties. Perhaps he was some distant relative.

But the name "Archibald" clearly meant nothing to him.

Still, the sluggish gears in Kayneth’s mind began to turn again. Thoughts, slow at first, picked up speed.

‘Even if this is another reality, the mundane world looks identical to ours. They speak English here, so Britain hasn’t been conquered by the French, Germans, or Russians in this timeline. This orphanage was built in the 19th century just like ours; the trees in the yard are planted in the same pattern, and even that monster of a caretaker was hired some years ago. The phone numbers I dialed exist—their structure and even the phones themselves are the same.

I need more information. At the very least, I should find out the names of the queen and the prime minister. Better yet, visit a few places in London I frequented before. So far, it looks like the two worlds are similar enough—except here, I never left a beacon in those ruins, and the entire Clock Tower seems... off. Perhaps the Association avoids interfering in mundane politics, so while the 'normal world' remains similar, its magical counterpart could be very different. But if there’s magic here, there must be magi.

There are two possibilities: either magus Kayneth Archibald exists here but lives elsewhere—say, Egypt, if the Atlas Institute leads the Association in this world—or everything is different, and somewhere here exists an ordinary man named Kayneth Archibald… or someone with a completely different name. The same goes for Sola and everyone else I knew. Either way, my knowledge of the 'future' is useless. If anyone needs saving, it won’t be from an Einzbern mercenary or a traitorous student. My goal is clear: find the local Mage’s Association and figure out where it stands. Only then can I secure my rightful place there. Ideally, I’ll reconnect with my family, if it even exists in this world, though that seems... unlikely.’

"Easier said than done," he muttered bitterly. "True Magic replicated... the Einzberns would die of envy... Arrogant fool. Thought I was one of the Five Great Magicians. Look where that got me."

These words came from Kayneth Archibald—or rather, James Murphy, a ten-year-old orphan in this world. He sat on a dusty attic floor by a small window with shattered panes, staring out at the familiar sight of London. The drafts and the stench wafting up from the orphanage’s so-called "kitchen" didn’t bother him. Getting here hadn’t been hard—just a matter of stealing an old bronze key, green with age. His faint remnants of magical power had been just enough for that. There was nowhere else to go after leaving the infirmary—shared toilets, overcrowded dormitories crammed with dozens, activities and walks dictated by strict schedules.

Frankly, he was lucky the boy whose body he now inhabited had magical potential. Without it, the ritual likely would have failed entirely, his soul unable to find a suitable vessel. Instead, it would have been drawn straight to the Root. The fact that his soul had crossed into another world no longer surprised him.

For one, he knew someone—if that being could still be called human—who wielded True Magic capable of traversing worlds. Perhaps that individual had interfered in his fate, spiteful that Kayneth had once refused to become his apprentice. Secondly, the beacon ritual he had used was spiritual in nature, tied to a contract with spirits. Spirits, by their nature, interact with worlds differently, and finding no suitable host in one world, they might carry a soul to another. Finally, there was the dying "blessing" of that heroic spirit, a familiar of the highest order with gods in his lineage. Such a curse couldn’t simply be shrugged off.

One way or another, this was a different world, and he had no choice but to accept it. If there were a mystery here that could bring him back, he would have to find it through the Mage Association. He had lost everything—but magic was his purpose, and now he had it again.

Kayneth stretched out his hand—dirty, scratched, with two nails torn off—and focused, trying to open his magic circuits and perform basic healing. Nothing happened, not on the first try or the second. In his past life, he had been born into a magus family and possessed numerous magic circuits of exceptional quality. He had begun training in the family arts at five, the same age his father started transferring the Archibald crest to him—a mark containing the knowledge and skills of past family heads.

It had been painful, at times unbearable, but Kayneth endured it, understanding his duty as an heir. When he officially became the head of the family, he strengthened the crest further, adding new spells to it. All of that was destroyed when that cursed bullet struck him, burning his circuits with his own magecraft, crippling his nervous system, and leaving him nearly paralyzed. Even if the Association’s enforces retrieved his body and salvaged the crest, they would be lucky to recover a tenth of its power for the next head. Who that might be was anyone’s guess. Reines was too young, and the others would likely fight over the family’s secrets and wealth rather than take on the responsibility of becoming Lord El-Melloi.

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Of course, there was nothing more Kayneth could do to change his circumstances now. His priority had shifted to attempting a crude magical operation using the pitiful scraps of power at his disposal. In this world, James Murphy obviously didn’t have a family crest, had never studied magical arts, and it was still unclear just how pitifully inadequate the magic circuits tied to his body and soul were, courtesy of unknown parents.

“Well, at least it’s something...” Kayneth rasped after his tenth attempt. Pain coursed through the body—a sharp, familiar agony caused by forcing several undeveloped magic circuits to open at once. His palm glowed faintly as scratches and bruises vanished. The physical body reconstructed the spiritual image of the hand as it was before sustaining those injuries.

However, the nails didn’t regenerate—he didn’t have enough power. The circuits stayed open only briefly before snapping shut again, completely depleted. Just a week ago, in his own body, Kayneth could have healed a bullet wound with a flick of his wrist, wiped away the blood, and even restored damaged clothing. Now, he had barely managed to seal a few cuts. Pathetic.

The underdeveloped magic system of this body wasn’t the only factor to blame. Mundane issues, like hunger, likely played a role as well. Kayneth couldn’t stomach the slop they served the orphans—just the sight of it made him retch. The others probably thought it was the result of a concussion and subsequent nervous breakdown. Or maybe they didn’t care. Their opinions meant nothing to him.

One way or another, he needed to leave this orphanage. Staying here would only lead to death—either from starvation, pneumonia due to constant drafts, or from a shiv to the ribs courtesy of one of the “lovely” children. James’s battered face was no coincidence, and it likely wasn’t the first time. Two monumental tasks, with barely any resources to accomplish them.

Sighing, the magus rose and trudged toward the hatch leading downstairs, trying not to inhale the dust swirling up with his steps. It was almost time for “dinner,” and there’d be trouble if the adults didn’t find Murphy among the children.

On his way, Kayneth once again tried to devise a plan for the near future. Locating the local Association proved unexpectedly difficult in his current situation. How would he, as a rootless amateur in “his” London, go about finding the Clock Tower without knowing its address or the names of its magi?

The simplest option would be to break secrecy—demonstrate his magecraft in front of ordinary people, preferably in a park, a plaza, or even on live television. As long as enough eyes witness him they’d come for him quickly. Of course, he’d only be lucky if they didn’t erase him and the witnesses under the guise of another “gas explosion.” Especially if the Church got to him before the Association. Ignorance of the rules offered no protection from the consequences…

A sudden blow to the back of his head sent his thoughts scattering. The world flipped, and Kayneth regained awareness lying on a filthy, mold-covered floor.

Three older boys loomed over him. One rubbed his knuckles, evidently the one who’d struck.

“What’re you staring at, freak? Didn’t get enough last time? We can fix that, can’t we, boys?” The leader sneered and kicked James in the ribs.

“Yeah, crush the mutant! Don’t want to catch whatever he’s got,” another boy jeered, delivering a kick to the face. Kayneth barely raised his hand in time, and the dirty boot only grazed him.

“Hey, let me have a go!” the third chimed in. The trio descended into a frenzy, raining kicks down on Murphy’s body.

If I die here, this’ll be the stupidest death imaginable, Kayneth thought with almost detached clarity. The pain was tolerable—nothing compared to what magi endured during training or high-level rituals. The humiliation and the familiar sense of helplessness were far worse.

Not long ago, he’d lain on the floor in a pool of mercury and his own blood, unable to feel his numbed body, struggling just to breathe. And now, these fools might actually kill him.

“Hey! What’re you doing?” one of the boys exclaimed, startled, as James suddenly grabbed his leg.

“Oh, nothing... Want to see a neat trick, you little runt?” Kayneth rasped, smearing blood from his cracked lips onto the boy’s leg. A simple straight line was all he needed. He poured the remnants of his magical energy into the rune, thankful that the "Isaz" symbol was so easy to draw. In his semi-conscious state, anything more complex would’ve been impossible.

“What the hell are you babbling about, freak?” another boy snapped, landing another kick that sent Kayneth sprawling against the wall.

Then the first boy screamed. He crumpled to the floor, clutching his leg.

“I can’t feel my legs! What did you do, you bastard?!”

“Just… frostbite,” the magus said indifferently, glancing at the boy’s pale, frostbitten skin visible through the tears in his tattered pants. “Second degree. If you idiots drag him to the infirmary right now, they might save his leg. It’ll just hurt like hell when it thaws.”

“You think you’re invincible, freak?” the third boy snarled, raising his fist.

“Go ahead, don’t rush,” Kayneth taunted with a deranged grin. “The longer you hesitate, the more likely your friend gets to enjoy a wheelchair. Trust me, you get used to it. One day you have legs, the next you don’t—it happens.”

“You’re dead, freak,” one of the boys hissed, slinging their screaming friend’s arm over his shoulder. “We’ll drown you in the toilet.”

“Try me,” the magus called after them. He slumped against the wall, assessing his condition.

He had no energy left for even the simplest healing. He’d have to endure the pain until nightfall—or longer. The minuscule reserve he’d used barely fueled the rune. In truth, the frostbite was barely first-degree. At this age, his past self could have completely frozen someone. But dwelling on past glory was pointless when he faced immediate problems.

Today, he might have bought himself some time. Tomorrow? The day after? He had to leave the orphanage, or his second chance would end in stupidity. These children weren’t bluffing—they’d drown him if given the chance.

A strong magus could take on dozens, even hundreds of normal humans—or soldiers with weapons. But doing so required preparation: a fortified location, mystic codes, bounded fields, a full reserve of magical energy and a few magical furnaces. Fighting without those was a recipe for failure and a senseless death.

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The next day’s escape attempt failed. His plan required at least two distinct magical actions, but the pitiful body he inhabited could barely generate enough energy in a full day for one, even with his constant efforts to rebuild the nearly atrophied magical circuits. As a result, Kayneth spent the entire day ensuring he stayed in plain sight of the orphanage staff or surrounded by large groups of children—cowardly and shameful, but he had no other choice.

The situation grew more complicated when rumors spread about the boy, Murphy, who had ended up in the infirmary with frostbite. Other children, labeled as "weird" like him, avoided him outright. That day, Archibald chose not to spend any magic on healing his injuries. Instead, by evening, he poured all the magic he had accumulated into a simple ritual. Using a nail pried loose from the attic, he scratched an alchemical circle onto the back gate of the orphanage's fence. It was crude and painfully simplistic, but without proper materials or tools, it was the best he could manage.

A day later, during a walk, the magus casually approached the rusty gate, placing his palm on his magic circle to activate it. Sealed power surged forth, altering reality to conform to the symbols and diagrams etched into the decrepit iron. The change was subtle but effective: for a couple of seconds, the metal lock softened, turning from solid to viscous. The magus yanked the gate open and dashed outside, trying to recall the quickest route to the main street.

Navigating the alleyways, he prayed none of the caretakers or those brutish little thugs who would gladly beat the “freak” to death without witnesses were on his trail. After a few twists and turns, he emerged onto a narrow asphalt road lined with dilapidated houses, relics of better days. Dodging a couple of clunking old cars typical of the area, Kayneth spotted an empty taxi. He raised his hand in a practiced gesture.

“Kid, you got money for this?” the driver asked with a disdainful glance at the battered and scruffy boy.

“More than enough, don’t worry,” the magus replied, waving a few torn scraps of free newspapers scavenged from the orphanage. At the same time, he cast a hypnotic spell. As usual, his magic in this body required him to channel all his reserves into one strong impulse, opening every accessible channel. It wasn’t perfect, but all he needed was to make the greedy driver see fifty-pound notes. The rest—Sir Christopher Wren, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the watermarks—would be filled in by the man’s own imagination.

“Fine, hop in. And I won’t ask where you nicked those.”

“Whittington Hospital. Quickly,” Kayneth ordered as he climbed in. Curse this body and its short stature—every movement was a strain. “I’ll pay extra for urgency.”

Archibald sighed, watching the familiar streets and landmarks of London pass by. It was astounding how much this world resembled his own, yet its magical underbelly was entirely different. Surely there were secrets here—laboratories, workshops, or magus inns concealed behind barriers invisible to ordinary people. Right now, however, he couldn’t sense them, as blind to them as any mundane fool. That had to change, and soon.

“Here we are, Whittington Hospital. That’ll be—”

“Keep the change.” Kayneth tossed the bundle of paper onto the seat and bolted from the cab. The hospital doors were just twenty paces away. He nearly sprinted the entire distance.

“Hey, you little shit! Stop right there!” the driver shouted after him.

But the magus had already pushed through the heavy doors (far too resistant for someone his size) and entered the familiar hospital lobby. Normally, he came here once a month or so with his advanced students. They needed practice in spiritual healing, and sick magi weren’t abundant enough for all the trainees. It had been simpler to strike a deal with a local doctor—a fabricated story about a secret medical research institute, reinforced with hypnosis. No one missed the vagrants brought in from the streets if a novice healer botched a spell. Now, however, he was one of those filthy outcasts—a disgrace to the Archibald name. If any of his colleagues saw him like this...

Spotting the reception desk, the magus made it just past a few doctors and patients before collapsing face-first onto the cold stone floor. He hardly needed to act; exhaustion from the past few days in this body was enough to make him lose consciousness the moment he let his guard down. They wouldn’t kill him here. He’d wake up either in a hospital bed or behind bars.

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The police weren’t called, and he wasn’t thrown in jail. When the magus woke up the following afternoon, a doctor gave him an extended lecture about his inappropriate behavior, stealing, and lying. The man even mentioned that they’d paid the taxi driver themselves this time because it was an emergency, but warned him not to try such stunts again. Kayneth nodded weakly, feigning remorse, even mumbling an apology or two. When the farce grew tiresome, he simulated dizziness, disorientation, and nausea—textbook symptoms of a concussion. Faking these signs was child’s play for an experienced healer.

Left alone, he finally took in his surroundings. A cramped, six-bed ward for the homeless and destitute. The peeling paint, ancient ceiling lamps, and overall shabbiness screamed "budget care," but compared to the orphanage infirmary, this place was practically a palace.

His fellow patients didn’t interest him—at least they weren’t trying to bash his head in, which was good enough. For now, he needed rest. The fights at the orphanage had left him battered, and he required a quiet space to meditate, retrain his magic circuits, and plan his next steps. He had a lead on finding this world’s Mage’s Association but lacked backup plans. Worse, he hadn’t solved the mundane issues of money or shelter. The orphanage at least provided a roof and rotting cabbage for sustenance. Once discharged, he’d have nothing.

For a scion of House Archibald, accustomed to power and privilege, this was an unthinkable nightmare. Even in Japan, he could have swallowed his pride and returned to London for financial or magical aid. Here, there was no family, no safety net. Nothing. Still, as long as he had his magic, there was hope.

The magus spent three days in the hospital, catching his breath and gathering his thoughts. The meals were barely edible, but compared to the slop at the orphanage, they were almost gourmet. Kayneth grimaced at the realization of how low his standards had sunk in just a few days. Something had to change.

Most of his time was spent in "sleep"—meditating, stabilizing his magic circuits, and healing his injuries. He focused on the cracks in his ribs and bruised internal organs, which mundane medicine would take weeks to fix. Cuts and scrapes could be left to the hospital staff, as could dehydration and malnutrition. His weakened immune system would need separate attention later. Rationally, it made sense to conserve his limited magical reserves, but his body’s circuits could only store so much, and he lacked the necessary materials to create proper storage devices.

At night, he carefully explored the hospital under hypnosis, even venturing into restricted areas. Slowly, a plan began forming in his mind—a way to secure the funds he so desperately needed. For now, though, it was more of a rough sketch than a fully developed strategy.

Several times, they tried to question him casually. A police officer came by, asking about the orphanage. Kayneth answered honestly, hiding nothing. Yes, they were fed slop; yes, the mattresses were infested with bugs, thicker than even the cockroaches; yes, he had been beaten multiple times by other children. But when asked for the names of the director or caretakers, or even the orphanage’s exact name or address, he truthfully couldn’t recall, only vaguely naming the district. What would happen to that wretched place no longer concerned him. Whether the entire staff ended up in prison or continued as if nothing had changed, it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t be there. The rest was irrelevant.

Early in the morning of the fourth day, Archibald used the magic power he had accumulated overnight to convince a nurse to return his now slightly cleaner rags. His excuse? That he was being officially discharged. After that, all he had to do was bide his time, lingering in the hospital corridors for a couple of hours before slipping out through the main doors, blending into the sparse morning crowd. Waiting for an official discharge wasn’t an option. In his current situation, the most he could expect was another orphanage, perhaps marginally better than the last one, but still unsuitable for a magus. Worse, who knew where it might be located or whether Archibald could escape it again to make his way back to central London?

Wittington Hospital hadn’t been chosen by chance. Beyond his familiarity with it in his own world, the hospital sat near one of London’s largest ley-line intersections.

Walking slowly through the still-quiet streets, Kayneth had the chance to glance around while simultaneously attuning his senses to the increasing magical energy in the air. Ley lines—natural "rivers" of Earth's magical energy—were once widely recognized when magic was an integral part of everyday life. Back then, many could feel their presence and direction, and temples or fortresses were often built at their intersections. These sites were commonly protected by magical barriers, fueled naturally by the ley lines themselves. Over time, settlements formed around such places, first as villages and later as cities.

In cities older than 500 years, at least one ley-line intersection often lies at the heart. These locations frequently house the estates of magical families, research laboratories, branches of the Mage’s Association, or even cathedrals and temples tied to the hidden side of the Church. London was no exception. It boasted several such intersections. While the Clock Tower wasn’t situated on the largest, its primary intersection remained a vital hub for the magical community in Britain. Kayneth was certain that in this world, too, he could find someone there who might serve as a point of contact.

He sighed, staring down at the cheap tourist map of central London he had picked up from the hospital. Mapping out the ley lines onto it would be easy—he could practically do it in his sleep. Aligning the magical geography with the city's mundane layout and street names was straightforward, given that they were identical to those in his world. However, once again, he’d underestimated the limitations of this body. After just a few miles, he was already exhausted, and there were still at least twice that distance to cover.

But what choice did he have? He gritted his teeth and pushed on. If he stopped now, he might as well give up on his goals, abandon magic, and collapse in the corner to beg for scraps. Judging by his ragged clothes, gaunt frame, and the bruises and scratches still marring his face, people would likely give generously…