Magic Multiverse 6 (Patreon)

“I might not be able to visit tonight,” Hermione muttered as they stood in front of her apartment building. “I have work, and I don’t know just how it’ll take. I have a … project.”

A magical one, he assumed, confident that he was reading her brand of evasion perfectly. “A pity, I would miss our special lessons, even for a night,” he said, kissing her. “Especially since you have been lazy this morning.”

“I wasn’t lazy. We already did it twice,” she argued, for a moment, competitiveness rearing its head. She realized what she had declared loudly only when an old woman gave her a dirty look. Her blush was monumental while she hid by pressing against his chest. “I can’t believe you,” she whispered.

“I can’t help it. You look too cute when you blush,” he teased her. “We are still on for tomorrow, right? I have my day off, and we can have some fun,” he said.

“And study,” she said. “Just because we’re … I mean, you got it … we’ll still study.”

“Yes, Miss Tutor,” he teased her, and after one last kiss, she walked inside, and he went to open the pub, which, unfortunately, wasn’t as fun. A part of his duties was to clean the mess that was left from the previous night, which was no fun.

He turned on the music, humming as he mopped the place.

As he worked, he summoned his skills panel, checking his development. Admittedly, before yesterday, he wasn’t expecting esoteric magic theory to be his second-highest skill, but apparently, life decided having a literal system recording and improving his skills wasn’t the only curveball he needed to deal with.

He also needed to deal with the existence of magic.

[Soccer - Advanced 53/250 (Midfielder)

Wand Magic Theory - Intermediate 75/100

Chess - Intermediate 69/100

Tantric - Intermediate 68/100

Darts - Intermediate 21/100

Boxing - Intermediate 12/100

Poker - Basic 9/50]

He suspected that most people in his place would have started digging all around the world, or at least London, trying to find the trail of magic, to understand it further.

He couldn’t bring himself to do so. He was happy to spend most of his free time with Hermione rather than trying to dig into the world of magic, only to step into something that might complicate it.

Especially since slowly, he was getting better at utilizing the System, slowly learning that the system’s definition of a contest is not as strict as he had first thought; at least when he was interacting with people it deemed as a target.

Why, he didn’t know, but he would eventually learn. Even if he didn’t, he was happy with the benefits.

But, as he returned to his neighborhood after work, he felt too energetic to return to his flat, so he decided to take a trip to the gym. Not the fancy one, but the cheap one he had paid out of pocket.

With football paused, he needed another exercise, and boxing seemed to be a good way. Especially since he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to play football professionally anymore. He wasn’t sure he still had the passion for it.

Previously, he still struggled in the amateur league, trying to make something happen because he didn’t have any other option. Football had been one skill he had truly developed.

But, with the System changing the equation, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. For the moment, he was just as happy taking a little break while exploring other options. Chess was an option, but he still needed to check an amateur tournament to see how it worked without Hermione’s assistance.

Especially since the system notation made it clear that unlike knowledge about magic, the chess rewards was dependent on her engagement. He suspected said engagement wouldn’t survive long enough to improve him to a degree he could compete with real professionals.

Also, there was the aspect of enjoyment. Because, while system rewards made learning much easier, he still needed to actually focus during competition. It wasn’t some kind of autopilot that took over him.

He couldn’t handle sitting in a chair for six hours for a match while fully focusing, for ten days straight.

Which was why he was more sympathetic to testing his boxing skills. It helped that, unlike chess, boxers earned real money even without climbing to the top of their ladder.

“Of course, that all depends on how easily I can farm points,” he muttered to himself as he changed in the gym dressing room. From the encounter last night, he had learned that fights with real risk allowed him to earn more points, but he wasn’t willing to test it unless there was a real, urgent need.

He might have a system, but he also still had one life. No need to ruin everything by hurrying up.

Since it was after six, the gym was relatively crowded, the regulars were still working out, while the casual crowd was also dropping in one by one. He didn’t enjoy a crowded gym, but he didn’t have much time.

He hummed as he found a nice sandbag near the corner and started working through the routine. The skill gave him the knowledge and muscle memory, but repetition was still required to develop his muscles the correct way.

In a way, it was similar to getting used to a new car; taking it for a spin was required to familiarize himself whenever he got a burst of points. While he worked, the owner, Liam, approached. “Looking good, Sam. I didn’t expect you to improve that much in a month.”

“Thanks, Liam,” he responded. “It helps that I have the necessary conditioning from football. It’s just learning.”

Liam shook his head. “Oh, this is more than just having the conditioning. You have talent. Believe me, I know,” he said. “Any chance you’re interested in real fights?”

Sam nodded. “Actually, I’m considering it. Since the football dream is pretty much over, boxing sounds better than the alternative. But, I don’t have the money for it yet. You know how it goes.”

It was not a lie. Since he started collecting points from Dudley, he did consider changing his focus.

Unfortunately, reaching the point that he could make money from boxing was not that easy. The official conditions alone were a barrier. There were medical examinations, brain scans, and sports licenses. Not only did they cost over a few thousand pounds, but it also took weeks, which was enough to see him homeless.

Worse, he would be trying to join without the usual steps like going to gyms run by people with correct connections for years, which gatekeepers always took as a personal affront, often creating problems for the applicants. Meaning, it would probably cost more to grease some palms.

Then, there was the fact that low-ranked fights, just like amateur football, cost money rather than earning it. It took months of consistent victories to climb to a point where he could make money.

Sam expected Liam to just nod and leave. Instead, Liam smirked wider. “I know. These busybodies at the commission create a lot of problems.” Sam paused punching the bag, showing interest. “But, if you’re looking for a quicker start, we have some local competitions, without all that annoying red tape. It’ll hurt a bit more, but you’re a tough lad.”

He understood exactly what Liam was leading to, especially with the mention of it hurting more. Bare-knuckle underground fights. Fewer rules, more violence, but also quicker pay. If it were before learning about the magical world, he would have refused immediately. Underground boxing, like anything, was a swamp, and once one dipped their toes, it was hard to get away.

It was more of a gray area than fully illegal, but still murky enough that he would never have tried that if his ambition was still to be a rich athlete, or even live a safe, ordinary life, but learning about the existence of magic made the world more complicated. Having some extra money would allow him to work less, which he could spend exploring the system and its complications. Then, there was the possibility of farming points from underground fights.

Also, he had Tantric, which was supposed to help him recover from injuries faster, solving underground boxing’s biggest problem.

“I’m not saying I’m not interested,” Sam said, hedging his bets. “But, this is a big decision. Let me think for a few days.”

Liam’s smile got wider, reminding him of a shark. “Sure, young man. If you can decide before the weekend, there’s a nice opportunity. Don’t miss it.”

He spent the next two hours working hard, testing his skills, not just focusing on boxing. As his muscles cramped, he started applying Tantric techniques, testing their potential.

He gave himself a massage in a corner and realized that the knowledge was accurate. It was useful. Not a gamechanger, but then, it was still high Intermediate, which was decent, but a lot of improvement potential.

He might consider underground boxing if the difference between Advanced and Intermediate was as big as he hoped.

He couldn’t help but smirk. If the Advanced wasn’t enough, there was always the next stage. After all, farming skill points for Tantric was hardly a chore.

He decided to test how far he could push, so he stayed longer, which was an advantage of it being sleazy. It stayed open longer than usual, probably due to some shady reasons, including a few very suspicious figures that might be involved in some illegal dealings, but he ignored them.

It was not smart to poke one’s nose into everything.

However, that decision was tested when the clock was showing eleven. Someone he didn’t recognize, a tall man radiating a posh aura, walked in, talked with the owner for a moment, dropped some cash, and started pounding the sandbag without gloves, still wearing a suit since he didn’t even bother to change. He didn’t even remove his jacket.

That would have been weird enough, but he could see that the suit the guy was wearing was very expensive. He didn’t know much about fashion, but cheap suits and expensive, bespoke ones were easy to distinguish.

Sam didn’t plan to interfere with it. The guy was beating the sandbag hard enough to suspect that he was on drugs. The last thing he needed was to deal with a man riding high.

He paid some attention, mostly for self-preservation. But, the more he watched, the more he doubted his initial assessment. Catching some details, he could see that the man was not on drugs.

He was having some kind of breakdown.

Sam continued to watch as the man wailed on the sandbag, hitting hard. To his surprise, the man didn’t strain his wrist despite punching hard, which suggested some serious familiarity with fighting, contrasting with his obvious posh aura.

The more he watched, the more intrigued he became. No one would get that depressed unless something had gone really badly in their life.

Sam sighed, feeling a sudden pang of sympathy. The guy reminded him of how he had felt when he had been after the injury derailing his life.

“Hey, mate, how about we put some gloves on you before you break a finger or two?” he interrupted.

He expected him to either thank him, or react badly. To his surprise, he did neither, but instead raised his hands absentmindedly. Luckily, the gym had some spare gloves and wraps, and he took a set, quickly wrapping his hands before putting on the gloves.

The man said nothing, and the moment he finished putting on the gloves, he started punching the bag again.

Sam paused a moment, watching him. Intermediate boxing didn’t suddenly make him a professional trainer, but it gave him some understanding. He could see that the man had solid training, but he was also rusty.

“So, what did the bag do to you? Stole your money, or kidnapped your wife?” Sam asked.

“What?” the man replied, dazed.

His accent confirmed Sam’s earlier guess that he was quite posh. Private school and grew up in a countryside mansion, if he were to bet.

“I’m asking what got into you. You look like you need to talk.”

The man looked at him for a second, fixed his glasses, and sighed. “No, thanks. I would much rather continue punching. I decided to try it as a way to manage my emotions.”

Sam shrugged. “How about you punch something better than the sandbag, then?”

“You want to fight?”

Sam shrugged. “Well, I need a decent sparring partner, and you look like you want to punch someone that grunts in pain. A good trade-off, right?”

“Why?”

He wanted to distract the guy, but he realized he could frame it in a way that he also tested his system. “I’m curious about your story. We can have a bet. We fight to the first knockout, and if you lose, you tell me your story. If you win, you get to lash out.”

He paused for a moment, his expression flickering. “Fine,” he said.

“Do you need to change?” Sam offered. “A suit might not be ideal.”

“Don’t worry. It’s designed so that I can fight comfortably wearing it,” he responded.

It was a weird choice for a bespoke suit, but Sam shrugged. “I’m Sam, by the way.”

“Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” the guy responded; even the delivery of his name was posh. Sam would have mocked him if the man wasn’t bordering on a mental breakdown.

While Wesley removed his jacket, Sam noticed the inner pocket had some kind of wooden object. He panicked for a moment, concerned that it was another type of wand, but his skill-based knowledge was enough to confirm that it was not.

It was a mere wooden stake, and since it wouldn’t be a default accessory with an expensive suit, Wesley must have picked it absentmindedly.

A mental breakdown was a tricky thing.

They stepped into the ring. Sam started defensively, letting the guy attack, only occasionally slipping somebody shots, hard enough to make Wesley grunt in pain. However, he didn’t try to take him down yet, focusing on his mobility.

At first, he didn’t try because he believed Wesley needed to lash out a bit. But, as he continued to fight, he noticed he had another advantage. The patience he developed from playing midfield for years, honed by weird sparring matches he had with Dudley.

Fighting against a heavyweight taught him to be more patient, which was sharpened further by his improved boxing skills.

It made their fighting style especially different, since Wesley was lashing out. And, in boxing, a lack of control was not a winning strategy, especially since Wesley wasn’t exactly a powerhouse.

He let Wesley attack for almost five minutes straight, which had been enough to deplete him, before he delivered a basic combo. With his guard open, he had a nice shot at his chin, and he went down.

It was his win. When the notification arrived, celebrating his victory, he smirked…

[Serious Spar, Victory, +5 Boxing]

[Tertiary Special Character Defeated, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce]

[+10 Vampire Lore]

[Vampire Lore Uninitiated -> Basic]

… only to freeze when he had received the reward. He hadn’t expected Wesley to give him a boosted reward, but that was easy to accept. The special reward he got from the guy, however, was not that easy to accept.

Vampires. Even the idea was creepy enough, but when he paused to process exactly what it entailed, it got even worse. It wasn’t just some kind of creepy old guy Dracula story. No, according to the burst of information he had just received, vampires were literal demons that possessed the bodies of the dead, puppeting the body while still having access to most of the memories.

He had to admit, it was harder to accept than people with wands and magic living in some kind of hidden society. Magic was easy to accept. Demon-possessed bloodsuckers that actively preyed on humans, not so much.

Worse, he feared that they were common enough that Wesley carried a stake with him.

Another thing to process … later.

“Are you alright?” he found himself asking, glad that Wesley was too distracted with his woes to notice his sudden pause.

The knowledge also explained why Wesley had a wooden stake in his inner pocket.

It was the best way to deal with vampires.

He helped Wesley to stand up. “That was a nice hook,” Wesley said.

“You need to be more careful with your guard,” Sam said.

Wesley sighed. “My usual opponents can punch through my guard, so I’m not used to it.”

Sam knew that the guy must be talking about vampires, but he was used to giving easy excuses after dealing with Hermione. “You must be sparring with heavy-weight partners, then.”

That made Wesley laugh for some reason. “Something like that,” he said, but he continued to laugh, like he had just heard the funniest thing in his life. Sam didn’t interrupt, as it was clearly having a breakdown. “How about another round?”

“Sure,” Sam replied, always happy to farm points, especially boxing, since he couldn’t have a full-contact spar with Hermione. He liked skill points, but not that much.

They sparred three more times.

[+15 Boxing]

[+25 Vampire Lore]

[Vampire Lore Basic -> Intermediate]

“How about another round?” Wesley offered.

Sam was tempted to farm more points, but he could also see that the initial confused rage Wesley had been dealing with had dissipated, and further sparring wouldn’t help.

He didn’t want to take advantage of him. “Nope. How about we walk to the nearest pub, and get you blackout drunk while you tell me exactly what got you out of sort?”

“A proper therapy session, London style. Why not?” Wesley replied. Sam stopped by the locker room for a quick shower while Wesley recovered from the punches, and they started walking around.

He didn’t ask anything until they stepped into the nearest pub, and Wesley drained three pints in less than a minute at the bar. “So, what happened?”

Wesley sighed. “Not that impressive, I’m afraid. I got fired.”

Sam would have agreed, but considering Wesley’s main skill was vampire lore, he suspected it was a bit more complicated. “You must have loved the job.”

He sighed. “It’s complicated. I have been trained for the job since I was ten years old. Getting fired from it … it’s complicated.”

Sam sighed. He didn’t know the exact circumstances. “I can understand,” he said. Wesley scoffed. “I had tried to be a football player since I was seven. Constant training, youth academy, everything. Then, an idiot tackles me wrong, ruining my chances of going pro. It hits hard, especially when you’re sixteen. I felt like I was about to die.”

“Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s alright. I understand where you are coming from,” Sam replied, even as he gestured to the bartender. “But, less talking, more drinking,” he said.

They mostly drank. He also challenged Wesley to a game of darts, which seemed to be an easier way to farm points while they were competing … only for Wesley to demolish him.

Apparently, Wesley was much better with darts than he was at boxing. But then, considering what his new skill gave him about vampires, trying to deal with them from a distance was a smart call.

“Really, you spent a year in California for work. How was it?” Sam asked.

“Both better and worse than I expected. Work was … tricky. Though, one misses certain things. Both their beer and tea are worse than dishwater.”

“Americans, what can you expect?” Sam replied. “To proper British luxuries, then.”

“I’ll drink to that. I need to stockpile before I return to America.”

“I thought you got fired.”

“I did, but I’m thinking maybe I should freelance. It’s not like the council will ever hire me again. Not after … everything.”

Sam decided not to prod him despite his curiosity. From the context cues, he was sure that Wesley worked for some kind of anti-vampire organization, which, from occasional details Wesley dropped as he got drunker, sounded like a disgustingly posh group.

The kind that would hunt him first for using the wrong fork before a vampire.

Unfortunately, his plans to question Wesley more had died when an older man walked into a pub. “Wesley,” the old man delivered with a chilly, disgusted tone.

Wesley turned, his eyes wide. Sam tensed, wondering whether to help the guy, as Wesley seemed to be panicking. “Father,” Wesley whispered in a weak voice. Sam decided not to interrupt, as he realized it was not a fight he could help Wesley with.

“Haven’t you disappointed our family enough for one night?” the man delivered, his tone getting even chillier. Then, he turned and walked away. Sam wasn’t surprised to see Wesley following his father out, trying to argue.

He decided he could always talk with Wesley later, trying to sound him about vampires, particularly about more common details like their numbers in London, the kind of information that wasn’t included in his skill … “Or not,” he muttered himself, remembering that he had no way of contacting with Wesley.

The only thing he knew was that Wesley was planning to move to California soon. Very soon, if his father’s attitude was any indicator.

Not that he could do anything. He had received some skill points, and an even bigger revelation about the true nature of the world.

He wasn’t sure he profited. He was already missing his ignorance.