The Mage's War (Overlord OC) [No Ainz/Nazarick]

[Stimpak Medic]

Prologue: A Strange Book

Some years ago, in the city of New York, in the late middle of the nineteenth century, there was a young man whom had teetered on the edge of youth and the beginning of his adulthood. He would sit in his apartment on a rocking chair of polished wood and soft cushions that was quite comfortable in shape and size, smoking his pipe while reading a book he had found himself quite enamored by. It was a novel by a late-aged English author who had moved to New York City several decades ago, the honorable Mr. Gregory Smith.

Mr. Smith had written several fantastical novels that had not gained much traction in the academic circles frequented by scholars and writers much like himself, but he had stirred up quite a dedicated fanbase among the English youth who had moved to New York City.

The young man adjusted his small red bowtie at his neck to be more comfortable, as he had tied it rather tightly before leaving home earlier that morning, when the sun was barely stretching its way through the streets, whilst still below the large grey uneven barrier of the buildings and offices. His grey vest was slightly wrinkled from his posture on the chair, but it did not need ironing just yet.

The young man had short, rather soft hair of the yellow variety, with bright blue eyes that always seemed to know exactly what they were looking at. It was almost a supernatural ability if one were to put much hand in the idea of supernatural abilities and the like.

Of course, such an idea was preposterous, and wasting even a moment's thought upon the idea was the domain of scammers and liars who would say just about anything to take a nickel or dime from a youth's pocket. Even the Gypsies would hesitate before speaking of such things, being on the farther end of odd and queer.

Still, he would have looked quite at home in the very novel he read, with his simple grey suit and red bowtie.

In Mr. Smith's books, there was a semi-famous passage referring to the spontaneous nature of magic and mysticism, and how such forces were completely outside the common logic one might hold for science and rational thought.

It went as such: "Any magician worth his salt knows that one cannot simply open the veil to the powers beyond the Christian framework and expect a linear and simple answer to one's request."

Of course, the very concept of accessing magic and powers beyond that of the Church was already quite blasphemous, and if such things were real, he would never reach out towards them. No, he wouldn't.

Placing his pipe down into the ash basin on the small glass-topped table next to the rocking chair, the young man let out a soft chuckle. The idea that he would search out powers of mysticism and blaspheme against God was a very serious problem that he would not wish for or draw upon himself.

However, deep within his mind, in the small back corner of a forgotten room which had no lights or memories, something flared to light. A memory, no.. a desire. A blasphemous desire to learn more. Accompanied by the fantastical books he had read by Mr. Smith, that desire had already begun leading him to such a fate that not even he could have imagined what awaited him.

He dumped the lit tobacco from the wooden pipe, pressing down with his thumb to smother the lit herbs. It didn't even hurt by now, as he had done this many times already.

Swiping the blue silk bookmark with its small crystal at the end of its silver chain from its resting place atop the table, he placed it at the spine of the book between the two open pages he had stopped upon, and closed the book with a soft pat.

He stood up from the chair somewhat quickly, as he had an alarming thought. He had to return the book to the New York Society Library of which he had checked it out from several days before, and the time to return it was rapidly approaching.

There were rumors that the Free Society Library was to split into several different Trusts and branches, but there was no confirmation on such baseless claims.

There seemed to be some logic to it in the most base sense, as since the city grew, the library system must also open more branches after many donations and funding from rich businessmen and government grants.

Letting out a soft exhale of air, he took a few steps forward, looked around him in his spacious apartment at the soft white walls, with their portraits and two thick paned windows. It was a simple, but not bare apartment, boasting a bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, and a living room. He wasn't particularly affluent, nor was he despondent and poor. Neither was he a miser or man of poor character.

There were, with no doubt, just as many young misers as old, and the young man seemed to have sidestepped such a fate for so much the better results in his life.

He could picture himself as an old man, his body gnarled and wrinkly, with wispy hair and a scabby way of speaking.

He was quite entertained by the thought, and he walked over to his open-door bedroom and to his closet. His briefcase rested against the wall at the back of the small closet. Its squarish black leather shape was impossible to miss, and he took it up with his free hand, placing the book inside of it.

Walking over to the wide bed with its soft mattress and silver sheets, he placed the briefcase gently down atop the folded blanket at the far foot end.

Fixing his bowtie yet again, he checked his pocket watch, a golden watch of impeccable design. It was sleek and only made a minimal ticking noise that could be silenced with the turn of a small lever on the back.

Placing it back into his pocket, he took out a pair of white gloves from his dresser near the bed and put them on. They fit snugly, and he then walked back to the closet, swiftly pulling out a black revolver, which he placed in a holster that he took out and wore. Finally, he put on a grey dress jacket over it.

He looked quite casual, as he did not wear the black that many gentlemen wore, and it wasn't a particularly important errand. He was quite fond of grey, and whether he intended it or not, he seemed to unknowingly be at the head of a trend of more casual wear that was hitting the city by storm.

Adjusting his suit to his proper shape, he then gripped the briefcase firmly by the handle and turned off the lights in his apartment before stepping out into the spacious and pretty hallway of the building he lived in.

It was a rather respectable building, and its owners, the respectable Mr. and Mrs. Jameson, were a talkative sort, who owned several dozen properties, of which they sold and rented these apartments to semi-well-off men and women who had moved into the city recently with the immigration boom of the late 1860s.

With a soft greeting to the man who worked in the lobby, the young man stepped out of the front doors and out into the streets of Manhattan.

A carriage pulled up, seeing the young man walk to the side of the street and place his hand out for a carriage driver.

The young man stepped into the carriage, and the driver asked where he was going, and strangely, asked his name afterward.

"You can call me Mr. Hardy. George Hardy. Take me to the Library." The young man said, not paying much mind to it.

"Of course, Mr. Hardy, I will make great haste." The driver said, and he pulled the reins.

The carriage, of which was a large black box model that boasted sleek spoked wheels and comfortable seats alongside large windows that could be opened and closed with a brass knob on each side of the carriage.

It all went smoothly until his mind wandered back to the novel he had read earlier. It was one of magic, dragons, and sorcery. He knew very little of it, but it was quite enticing to pick it up again and refresh his rental.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't sour at the fact that he couldn't find a copy to purchase on his own. It was a book that did not exist in the secondhand stores, and the main bookstores on the high avenues had already sold their copies.

"Hold that book close, Mr. Hardy, you'll be needing it soon." The carriage driver said, and George almost found himself gripping his pistol as the sound of large rocks grinding together could be heard, and a deep shadow fell across the carriage.

Dizziness overcame him, and the last thing he heard was an amused "Good Luck, Mr. Hardy." before he fell to the arms of unconsciousness.

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Author's Note: No Ainz/Nazarick in this story.