The Last Magic Chapter 22

22 Grandmother 1

I’ve never stopped to think whether becoming a sorcerer was a good thing or not. I simply had no choice—I was forced into magic. It was like inheriting the family business.

When I was born, the war was apparently still going on, but I don’t remember it. By the time I was old enough to understand things, it was already over. There were shacks everywhere, everyone was poor—it was that kind of tattered era. Though looking back now, I suppose that was just how things were back then.

Opinions on magic were split—half the people believed in it, the other half thought it was shady. Those who disliked it treated us like vermin, as if we were nothing but swindlers. Even schoolteachers didn’t look at us kindly.

So, I never actively wanted to be a sorcerer, but I was chosen anyway.

"You’re the one who’s going to do it."

That’s what my father told me.

I was the middle child of five siblings—the second daughter—but apparently, I had the most talent. Normally, you’d expect the eldest son to inherit such things, but birth order and gender didn’t matter in magic. After all, if you didn’t have a certain level of magic power, you couldn’t cast spells. You also had to memorize difficult incantations, so intelligence played a role too.

You’d think my siblings would resent me for it, but they didn’t—if anything, they looked at me with pity. More like, "Thank goodness it wasn’t me."

Because, well—I had to wake up before sunrise, draw water from the well, and while my father poured that water over me, I had to chant spells. Summer was bearable, but winter? It was freezing, miserable, pure hell. I hated it.

I was even made to do mountain retreats. Inside some crumbling old temple, I’d chant endlessly in front of a bonfire, like some esoteric ritual. And it was hot. I had to sit close enough for the sparks to fly at me.

Did all that ascetic training help? Well… probably.

At the end of the day, magic is about focus—whether you can shut out the world no matter how harsh the conditions. To escape the pain, I’d chant with all my might, thinking of nothing but magic. And then, strangely, everything around me would vanish, leaving only the desire I wanted to fulfill burning in my heart. Then, finally, a little flame would flicker to life in my palm.

That moment was wonderful. No matter how many times I did it, it never got old.

Of course, once the chanting was over, reality would come crashing back—whether it was the cold or the heat—so it wasn’t all good.

Still, my training progressed smoothly. I attended school up through middle school, then became my parents’ apprentice. What did I do? Well, think of it like fortune-telling. Technically, it wasn’t divination—it was "using magic to glimpse the future." But in practice, it was more like observing the client—their eye movements, where their hands touched their face, how they spoke, the emphasis in their words—then piecing together their inner thoughts to offer advice.

"This has nothing to do with magic at all!" I thought at first. But surprisingly, it was useful.

New clients would sometimes scoff, "What could some little girl possibly know?" But if I showed them just one spell, they’d go "Whoa!" and suddenly open up. It was like a credibility badge, I suppose.

That said, "analyzing the client" was even harder than magic itself. I studied under my father for a long time. I’m still learning, believe it or not—even now, past eighty.

Once I got used to the work, the next thing on the agenda was my marriage.

And that was a whole ordeal. By then, the economic boom had shifted public perception of sorcerers from "shady" to "useless." That was thanks to TV spreading like wildfire. sorcerers made for great entertainment, so at first, plenty of them appeared on shows like celebrities. But gradually, the narrative shifted to "Magic isn’t all that impressive," and sorcerers vanished from the screen.

So, by the time my marriage was being discussed, the general attitude was "Marry a sorcerer? Out of the question!" It took forever to find anyone willing.

My parents scrounged up connections and eventually found my now-husband.

He was a government worker—stubborn and inflexible—and apparently, he hadn’t had much luck finding a match either.

Well, he was a prickly one. The moment we were alone during our arranged meeting, he said:

"I don’t believe in magic. It’s all a fraud. So, unfortunately, I can’t marry you."

It wasn’t that he thought magic was useless—he straight-up believed it was fake. I knew some people confused it with advanced sleight of hand, but still, that was too much. It made me angry.

So, I cast all kinds of spells right in front of him—fire, water, wind, you name it.

At first, he kept insisting it was "just tricks." But finally, he said:

"Fine. Then read my mind."

Mind-reading wasn’t my usual thing. Technically, I could use magic to glimpse someone’s thoughts, but it wasn’t very practical—

it only lasted ten seconds and only showed whatever they were thinking in that moment. Most of the time, all I’d get was "Hurry up" or "This is probably fake," which wasn’t helpful.

But hey, he asked for it. Tit for tat. So I spent five minutes chanting a spell… for a ten-second peek into his mind.

And you know what he was thinking? "Very Beautiful." He was staring right at me. At first, I didn’t get it—I even glanced around, thinking he meant the elegant tatami room we were in, the hanging scroll, or the vase in the alcove.

So I said:

"You’re thinking, [Very Beautiful]. Probably about that scroll or the vase, right?"

His eyes went wide.

"I’m impressed. You really can read minds."

I was relieved. I’d proven magic wasn’t a lie. I never expected the meeting to go well, but then he said:

"But your training seems lacking. What I called beautiful wasn’t the scroll or the vase."

I looked around again, confused. There wasn’t anything else it could be. Seeing my reaction, he frowned.

"How dense can you be? It’s obviously you."

I was stunned. I never imagined he’d mean me. He hadn’t acted like he thought I was pretty at all.

While I was still baffled, he continued:

"I told you at the start, didn’t I? [Unfortunately, I can’t marry you.] I thought you were beautiful, but since I believed magic was fake, I was disappointed. Now that I know it’s real, there’s no reason for regret. I’ll marry you."

I didn’t know what to say.

Then he bowed deeply.

"I apologize for calling magic a fraud. I mean it."

I’ve never seen such a sincere apology before or since. That’s when I decided marrying him would be fine.

Honestly? I liked his apology more than any proposal. Apologizing isn’t easy, especially for men back then—they rarely humbled themselves like that in front of women.

He was rigid and difficult, but he had the integrity to admit when he was wrong. Clumsy as he was, he always said what he meant.

When the marriage talks progressed, my father made a demand:

"If you have children, I want them to become sorcerers."

My husband’s reply was simple:

"If they choose that path, I won’t stop them."

Typical of him.

And so, the marriage between a straight-laced bureaucrat and a shady sorcerer was settled.

He never frowned at me continuing the family craft—as long as I handled housework and childcare. Surprisingly, though, he doted on our kids and helped raise them actively. That was rare for men back then.

"We both have jobs. It’s only fair," he’d say.

And that was that.