Aethelburg was practically tailor-made for Elian’s cheerful deliveries. Sunlight turned the cobblestones into a sparkling path. The air, thick with the scent of roasting nuts and blooming flowers, felt like a constant, friendly greeting. For Elian, being a delivery guy was more than just a job; it was a happy little adventure, especially thanks to his amazing, if slightly quirky, Skill-Echo System.
Oh, it wasn’t some grand magical power. More like a delightful cheat sheet to ‘good enough.’ Not genius, not even close, but reliably, wonderfully, good enough. If he saw someone doing something useful – a quick flick of a knife by a street cook, the practiced knot-tying of a sailor securing ropes, the charming way a flower seller convinced a customer – zing! His System would hum to life, gifting him with a fun, if faded, copy of that skill. A playful echo, always a bit… off, but always handy.
Take locks, for instance. Before, they were fiddly frustrations. Now? A breeze! After just a few minutes watching old Man Willow at his locksmith stall, jiggling picks with surprising speed, Elian could practically feel the tumblers click into place in his own fingers. He wasn’t about to start crafting master keys, mind you. But for skipping a long detour through a winding alleyway? Perfect! A happy little click and he was through, whistling a cheerful tune.
And then there were the satchels. Always getting snagged on crates, ripped by sharp corners. Annoying, right? Not anymore! One afternoon, delivering thread to Madam Sylvie’s tailor shop, he’d watched her quick, precise stitches, the way her needle danced in and out of the fabric. Next thing he knew, his System was buzzing, and suddenly, he could mend those rips like a little miracle worker! Not exactly fine tailoring, more like sturdy, functional patches that held like iron. But hey, no more stray packages falling out! Another happy little victory.
Even bumps and scrapes from his sometimes-clumsy delivery routes were less of a bother now. He’d picked up a knack for bandaging from observing Agnes, the kind-hearted medic in the market square, always patching up scraped knees and bumped elbows. Elian’s bandages weren’t exactly works of healing art. But they were neat, they were clean, and they definitely made a difference. Another small, but genuinely appreciated, boost to his day. He even enjoyed scratching out delivery notes now, his handwriting developing a slightly more stylish curl after watching the town crier pen official notices with a flourish. And sometimes, when the mood struck, he could even pluck out a simple, cheerful melody on a borrowed lute, echoing the tunes of the wandering minstrels he often passed in the square.
Life was just… easier. Brighter. And his Skill-Echo System, with its collection of cheerfully mediocre but wonderfully useful tricks, was the reason why. Every day felt like a little game, a happy exploration of Aethelburg and its many skills, and Elian was thoroughly enjoying playing along.
One delivery slip, though, felt different from the start. It was heavier paper, for one, with elegant script that seemed to practically whisper importance. And the address… it led him away from the bustling market streets, down a quieter lane where houses stood back from the cobblestones, their window boxes overflowing with vibrant, almost unnaturally bright flowers.
At the end of the lane, a heavy oak door loomed, unassuming yet somehow imposing. A small, polished brass sign declared: "Lysandra, Artisan." Just two words, but they hung in the air with a weight that resonated through Aethelburg.
Whispers followed that name like trails of stardust. Lysandra, people murmured, their voices hushed with a mixture of awe and something akin to fear. Genius, some breathed, as if uttering a sacred word. Touched by fire, others whispered, hinting at a power both wondrous and dangerous. Elian had heard the stories, fragments of legends really. Of self-writing quills that penned poems of heartbreaking beauty. Of clockwork birds that sang with the voices of real nightingales, their tiny metal hearts beating with captured magic. Of tapestries woven with threads of moonlight that shifted and shimmered with hidden stories. Lysandra's creations were said to blur the line between art and enchantment, between craft and miracle. Intrigued didn't even begin to cover it. He felt a pull, a genuine curiosity, tugging him towards that heavy oak door, towards the enigma of Lysandra.
He knocked carefully. The door creaked open to a different world. Inside was chaos, but a beautiful chaos, a working chaos. Metal gleamed, new and polished in some places, but in others, he noticed older pieces, prototypes perhaps, slightly clumsy in their design, tucked away on shelves. Wires curled, some brightly colored and fresh, but others faded and stiff with age, like vines clinging to the walls. Notes covered every surface – not just pristine sketches, but also crumpled drafts, pages stained with ink blots and coffee rings, filled with crossed-out diagrams and scribbled corrections. It looked like years of relentless experimentation, a visible history of trial and error. And in the middle, a woman worked with amazing focus. Lysandra. She shaped something shimmering, her hands like dancers, but he now noticed the calluses on her fingers, the faint tremor that wasn't just focus, but perhaps fatigue. It was breathtaking, but also… hard-won, somehow.
He placed the package, thrilled to be there. She didn't notice him, lost in her work. Her fingers flew, shaping, bending, yes, like dancers, but he also saw the strain in her brow, the slight clench of her jaw. Her dark eyes narrowed in concentration, but around them, he could see the faint lines etched by countless long nights. Mesmerizing, yes, but also clearly demanding. He realized, looking closer, that her tools weren’t all gleaming and new either. Some were worn smooth with use, their handles almost polished by years of being held, reshaped by her own hand over time. His System tingled. Both he and his system wanted to grasp that mastery, even for a second, but now he wondered if ‘mastery’ was even the right word. Maybe it was… endurance.
The whisper in his mind was faint, lost in a quiet workshop hum, a hum that now sounded less like magic and more like… the steady thrum of relentless effort. He felt a spark of understanding, a fleeting echo of her skill. Then it vanished, leaving almost nothing. A pale shimmer. Weak. He looked at his own hands. Ordinary. His System, usually fun shortcuts, felt… almost disrespectful here, in this place built on what was clearly years of unwavering dedication. Lysandra’s genius didn't feel like a gift anymore. It felt… earned. Painstakingly, fiercely earned.
Lysandra finally looked up, dark eyes sharp, intense. She signed the slip quickly, eager to return to her work. She turned away, focus unbroken. Elian watched her. Her rigid spine, her set jaw. It wasn't just skill, he realized, breath tight. It was something more. Something complete. She vanished into her work. The world disappeared for her. He stood there, simply awestruck. He and his fabulous system had just witnessed genius.
From Happy Mediocrity to Awestruck Silence: The Day the System Shut Up
