The Last Magic Chapter 1

01 Sakurako

When did I first learn about magic?

I can’t quite remember—it had always been a natural part of my life ever since I was little.

It wasn’t something convenient or practical. Instead, my grandmother would recite long incantations like she was telling a story, and then poof—a tiny flame would flicker to life in the palm of her hand.

It was beautiful, almost dreamlike, and I was utterly enchanted.

But though my grandmother was a sorcerer, her job was actually that of a fortune teller.

She ran a fortune-telling shop in the basement of an old building near Urayasu Station, where she wore a black hooded robe that made her look like the Evil Queen from Snow White. Of course, the only thing menacing about her was the outfit—her face was as kind as Santa Claus.

The shop itself was dimly lit and a little eerie.

"Why make it so scary?"

When I asked her that, she smiled and said:

"Atmosphere is everything. A little bit of fear makes it feel more mystical. That way, customers open up more, and I can give them better advice."

"Advice? But aren’t you using magic to see their futures?"

"Magic can’t show you someone’s future. All I can do is give them the tiniest nudge in the right direction."

She said that and smiled.

So if she wasn’t using magic, what was the point of her fortune-telling?

I didn’t understand it, but surprisingly, my grandmother’s shop was pretty successful. 

And every person who came out of her readings left with a relieved, peaceful expression on their face. That made me proud.

But even though she always said she couldn’t see the future, there was one time she did—with absolute certainty. It was about my grandfather’s illness.

My grandfather was a stern-looking man with round black-framed glasses and perfect posture. 

He had worked at the city hall until retirement and was the serious, no-nonsense type, just as his appearance suggested. I admired him and tried to imitate his demeanor—his influence on me was strong. Most of all, he and my grandmother got along beautifully.

One day, while my grandparents were visiting our house, my grandmother suddenly grabbed my grandfather’s hand and shouted:

"Go to the hospital right now! You have cancer!"

Everyone was stunned. My grandmother, though a sorcerer, was always level-headed—she had never said anything so outlandish before.

Hearing this, my grandfather frowned behind his glasses.

"Don’t say something so ridiculous all of a sudden. I get my annual check-ups. I’m fine."

But my mother—their daughter—was deeply worried. This was the first time my grandmother had ever said something like this.

"Dad, just go. If it turns out to be nothing, all the better, right?"

I felt uneasy too and chimed in.

"Grandpa, let’s go to the hospital. I’ll come with you."

At that, my grandfather gently patted my head.

"If you’re all this insistent, I’ll get checked tomorrow. But Sakurako, you have kindergarten. I’m a grown-up—I can go alone."

My Grandpa said

True to his word (he was a meticulous man), he went for the exam the next day.

—And cancer was discovered.

He was admitted immediately.

We rushed to visit him, and though he was lying in a hospital bed, he relaxed his usual stern expression and said:

"They caught it early, so it’s fine. Guess I should’ve listened to the sorcerer."

Just seeing his face made me believe everything really would be okay.

At his bedside, my grandmother silently peeled apples—enough for all of us—without saying a word.

The surgery went well, and after a few months in the hospital, my grandfather was discharged, quickly regaining his health.

Since none of us thought magic could do something like this, we kept asking my grandmother: "How did you know?"

But every time, she only gave a vague, troubled look.

"I… don’t really remember."

She didn’t seem to be lying—she genuinely didn’t seem to know.

But a small problem arose. Word spread. The story became a rumor. (And yes, I might have told my kindergarten friends about it.)

"A sorcerer predicted cancer."

Turns out, stories about fortune-telling sorcerer weren’t new—no one had ever figured them out, because the sorcerer themselves didn’t know how it happened.

Just like my grandmother.

But the world wasn’t satisfied with that.

Predicting cancer? That was sensational.

The rumors snowballed, and a year later, a TV show invited her on. Honestly, we thought she’d refuse—she barely remembered the prediction, after all. But for some reason, she agreed.

"I think it’ll be a nice memento."

She smiled softly.

—

On the day of filming, my family and grandfather watched from the audience as my grandmother performed magic on camera. I was nervous—what was she going to do?

In front of the cameras, she recited her usual incantations, summoning small flames and water like always. It wasn’t anything grand, but as a fortune teller, she had a way of making even simple magic look impressive.

After proving she was a real sorcerer, the flamboyantly dressed host asked:

"So, how did you predict the cancer?"

My grandmother answered cheerfully.

"I don’t really remember."

The host made an exaggerated show of disappointment before pressing further.

"Well then, is there any other amazing magic you can do?"

A provocative question—probably for the sake of entertainment.

But my grandmother simply said:

"Oh yes. I have a special spell."

Even we were surprised—she’d never mentioned this before.

The host pounced on the opportunity.

"Then show us right now!"

"I can. But nothing will happen. Is that still alright?"

Her tone was gentle, almost chiding.

A special spell… where nothing happens? What did that mean?

The host was just as confused.

"Huh? Nothing happens? Even though it’s magic?"

"More like… no one will notice. It’s too incredible."

My grandmother grinned mischievously.

"Uh… okay? Just go ahead, I guess?"

Under the host’s bewildered urging, my grandmother began chanting.

A spell only sorcerer could understand—words like a hymn, a folk song, a solemn and mystical melody. 

Just listening to it was mesmerizing. And for some reason, she was crying. The cameras zoomed in on her tears.

When the chant ended, the studio fell silent.

And—just as she said—nothing happened.

"So… that’s it?"

The host hesitantly asked, and my grandmother beamed.

"Yes. Because the magic already succeeded."

Amid the murmurs of the studio, her expression was brighter than I’d ever seen—her gaze fixed on us in the audience.

Her eyes were tender, full of warmth, like she had accomplished something great.

Something incredible had happened. Even if we couldn’t see it.

I never forgot that look. And that was when I decided—I wanted to be a sorcerer.

The show aired mostly as-is, and the reception wasn’t great. "See? Magic is useless."

At kindergarten, the kids who watched it teased me mercilessly.

"Sakurako’s grandma’s a fraud!"

It hurt. It made me angry. I started keeping to myself.

My parents, too, faced whispers at work and around town.

"What was your mother even trying to do?"

They sighed in frustration.

So when I said:

"I want to be a sorcerer too."

They didn’t take it well.

"You should focus on studying and sports."

They dodged the subject.

It wasn’t that they disliked my grandmother or magic—they just didn’t want me doing it.

And since my own reasons for wanting to be a sorcerer were vague, I couldn’t argue. So I carried that frustration with me, starting elementary school in a gray mood.

That was when I met her—a lively girl with a ponytail sitting in front of me.

The moment the teacher finished introductions, she spun around and asked:

"Can you use magic?"

Here we go again. I’d been asked this so many times before. Kids would get excited, then lose interest the moment they realized magic wasn’t some grand, flashy power.

"No. Only my grandma can. Not my parents."

"Will you be able to someday?"

"……You don’t know? Magic only lasts ten seconds. It’s not useful at all."

I didn’t want to say this. I wanted to say magic was amazing. But after being told so many times that it was worthless, I figured—better to disappoint them now than later.

But the ponytailed girl just grinned.

"Ten seconds is plenty! Even the fastest runners take about that long for a 100-meter dash. Ten seconds is a long time!"

"Ten seconds… is long?"

No one had ever said that before.

"Super long! That’s enough time for a miracle!"

She nodded so vigorously her ponytail bounced like a real horse’s tail. Just being near her made me feel energized.

Then she declared:

"So Sakurako, you’re definitely gonna be a sorcerer!"

Shiba Rin.

My first—and lifelong—friend.