The thought of finally having a real place to stay, one that isn't a cramped inn room, sparks a faint glimmer of satisfaction. Potentially a thousand bits a month and a house? If nothing else, I'm finally catching a few breaks.

I weave through the crowd, scanning for Mayor Mare. She's easy to spot, standing near the stage and chatting with a group of ponies. Her smile is broad, but the faint lines of exhaustion on her face suggest she's been running on adrenaline all night.

As I walk toward her the pain in my shoulder suddenly flairs. With each step closer, a sharp, stabbing pain lances through my side, radiating outward with every breath. It's not the dull ache I've been dealing with—it's sharper, deeper, and wrong. I pause for a moment, clutching my chest, my breaths coming short and shallow.

Then, I feel it: a faint bubbling sensation beneath my skin, just below my collarbone, as though something is shifting where it shouldn't be.That's… not good.My classes as a mechanical engineer didn't cover much biology, but even I can guess what might be happening.Lung puncture? Great. That explains the wheezing.

The pain worsens as I move again, especially near my shoulder where every motion tugs on the injured rib. I grit my teeth and force myself forward, leaning slightly to one side to lessen the pressure. My vision blurs slightly, and I have to focus to keep from stumbling.Just get to her. Keep it together.

By the time I reach Mayor Mare, she's mid-sentence, her voice chipper as she addresses the gathered ponies. I muster what little strength I have left, interrupting as politely as I can. "Mayor… I need… help."

She turns, her smile faltering when she sees my face. "Kinetic? You look—oh dear! Are you alright?"

"No," I manage, my voice hoarse and strained. "I think… I need to get to a hospital."

Her eyes widen, and she quickly steps forward to steady me as I sway on my hooves. "You're hurt! Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"Didn't… feel this bad before," I admit, wincing as the pain spikes again. "Can you…?"

"Yes, of course," she says, her voice brisk as she gestures to a nearby pony. "Bring a cart! Quickly!"

Within minutes, I'm being loaded onto a wooden cart, the rough movement sending fresh waves of agony through my chest. Every bump feels like it might tear something inside me. The the crackling air under my skin has spread, making every breath a strange, unsettling sensation.

We arrive at the small Ponyville hospital, an unassuming building with a simple green cross over the door. Inside, the smell of antiseptic and herbs fills the air as a nurse ushers me into an examination room. The doctor, a middle-aged unicorn with a disheveled mane and a tired expression, takes one look at me and frowns.

"What happened?" he asks, levitating a clipboard.

"Fell," I wheeze. "Cliff. Something… wrong with my ribs."

The doctor narrows his eyes and lights his horn, a faint glow washing over me as he mutters something under his breath. His frown deepens as he finishes, though the magic seems to provide him with no real insight. "Hmm," he says vaguely, looking as though he's just been told to solve a riddle. "That doesn't look good. Definitely some kind of… internal issue."

I suppress an eyeroll through the pain. "No... shit."

He raises an eyebrow and gestures to a nurse. "Get me the spellbook. Healing volume two."

The nurse disappears into a back room and returns with a hefty, dusty tome. The doctor levitates it in front of him, flipping through the pages with an absent expression. His lips move as he reads, his horn glowing faintly as he murmurs the mental chant of each spell, likely to jog his memory. He finally stops on a page, tapping it with a hoof. "This one should do."

"Should?" I wheeze, my voice sharp despite the strain. "You don't sound very... confident."

The doctor waves a hoof dismissively. "Healing magic is more art than science. You just need the right spell and the intent to fix the problem. It'll sort itself out."

I blink at him, my brain struggling to comprehend the sheer casualness of that statement. "That's it? You don't... even have to know... what's wrong?"

"Not really," he replies, his tone matter-of-fact. "The spell does the heavy lifting. All I need to do is focus on the idea of healing and let the magic work."

I stare at him, my chest tightening—not just from the injury, but from the sheer absurdity of it all. "You just… wing it?"

"Pretty much," he says with a shrug, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. "The magic knows what it's doing."

I lean back against the examination table, my mind reeling.Magic knows what it's doing? That's their entire method?I think back to the hours I spend agonizing over every detail of my illusions, calculating particle vibrations, visualizing patterns, crafting layer by layer. And here's this guy, flipping through a book like he's picking out a dessert recipe, trusting that magic will justfigure it out.

It takes everything I have not to scream. Instead, I manage a strained laugh that quickly turns into a wheeze. "Great. Just great."

The doctor doesn't seem to notice my exasperation. He closes his eyes, his horn glowing brighter as he begins the spell. The air around me grows heavy with magic, a warm, golden light enveloping my chest. I feel a faint tingling sensation as the spell takes hold, the pain in my side and leg easing slightly. The bubbling sensation under my skin fades, and I can finally draw a deeper breath without feeling like I'm being stabbed.

"There we go," the doctor says, stepping back and wiping his brow. "That should take care of it. Just take it easy for the next few days. No heavy lifting, no running, and definitely no falling off cliffs."

I nod slowly, still processing everything. The pain has lessened significantly, but I can't shake the frustration bubbling under the surface. "Thanks, Doc."

He gives me a reassuring pat on my good shoulder. "No problem. You'll be good as new in no time."

The absurdity of the situation churns in my mind, but then I remind myself: their magic is far from simple. I've seen how unicorns mumble those mental Latin chants, with intricate visualizations, and align their intent just right to make spells work. It's a kind of complexity that I can grudgingly respect, even if it still feels like they're stumbling through it without really understanding the mechanics.

At least it's not entirely effortless for them,I think, leaning back against the table with a groan.It's just… different. I have to know every piece of the puzzle, while they trust the magic to fill in the blanks.

The thought doesn't soothe all my irritation, but it's enough to keep me from spiraling further. I push myself off the table slowly, testing my legs. My ribs still ache, and there's a stiffness in my chest that makes deep breaths uncomfortable, but it's a far cry from the stabbing pain I felt earlier.

I pay, (100 bits!), and shuffle out of the hospital, squinting against the midday sun. The fresh air feels good, even if my body is still sore. As I make my way back toward the town square, I rehearse what I'm going to say to Mayor Mare about the house. Part of me wonders if I should be pushy about it, but she did help me get to the hospital.

The town is still bustling with activity. Ponies are cleaning up from the earlier festivities, chatting in small groups, and returning to their routines. The cheerful atmosphere contrasts sharply with my own lingering discomfort, but I do my best to blend in.

Finally, I spot Mayor Mare near the edge of the square, overseeing a team of ponies dismantling a stage. She looks up as I approach, her eyes widening slightly when she sees me. "Kinetic! You're up and about already? The doctor said you were in rough shape."

"Yeah, well," I say, forcing a grin, "magic fixes fast. Speaking of fixing things, I wanted to check in about the house you mentioned earlier."

"Oh! Of course," she says, her tone turning slightly awkward. "I, uh, meant to get it sorted sooner, but with everything going on…"

I wave a hoof dismissively. "I get it. Last night was a lot. Just wanted to make sure it's still on the table."

She nods quickly, gesturing for me to follow her. "Absolutely. It's just a short walk from here. I'll show you."

The house Mayor Mare leads me to is… underwhelming.

It sits at the edge of town, nestled between two modest homes, looking less like a place of residence and more like a glorified garden shed. The paint is peeling, the windows are small and grimy, and the roof tilts slightly, as if even it is disappointed with its lot in life.

"This is it?" I ask, my voice tight. My ribs still ache, and my patience is running thin. "This is the Town Mage's house?"

Mayor Mare winces, her smile strained. "I know it doesn't look like much from the outside, but it's—well, it's what we have. It's been empty for years, and I'm sure with a little cleaning, it'll be perfectly—"

"Perfectly shed-like," I mutter under my breath. My irritation grows. After everything—the cliff, the manticore, Nightmare Moon—I expected something,anything, better than this. "This is what I get for being conscripted into mortal danger?"

Mayor Mare doesn't seem to catch my tone. She produces a key, unlocks the door, and gestures for me to enter. "Why don't you take a look inside?"

Grumbling, I step forward and push the door open. The hinges creak, and for a moment, I brace myself for the disappointment of cramped quarters and musty air.

But then I step through, and my jaw nearly hits the floor.

The interior is vast. Impossibly vast. What should have been a single small room opens into a sprawling space, complete with a high, arched ceiling, multiple rooms branching off a central corridor, and a staircase spiraling upward to a second floor. The walls are lined with bookshelves, each packed with ancient tomes, and the air smells faintly of parchment and ozone. The space is well-lit, with glowing orbs floating near the ceiling, casting a warm, steady light.

"It's…" I start, my voice trailing off as I step further inside. "It's bigger on the inside."

Mayor Mare nods, looking pleased with herself. "It's enchanted, of course. Every Town Mage has lived here. It's… practical."

Practical? This place defies everything I know about, well,space.I glance back at the doorway—it's still the same size, the small exterior entirely incongruous with the interior dimensions. My mind races as I try to make sense of it.

"How?" I ask, turning back to her. "How does this even work?"

She shrugs. "Magic."

Of course. I rub my temples, already feeling the beginnings of a headache. Magic is the universal answer here, but it's not enough for me.There has to be a way to explain this.

I step into the main room, my boots echoing faintly on the polished wood floor, and begin piecing it together.If I had to recreate something like this without magic…

General Relativity.Space-time is malleable—gravity bends it all the time. If the enchantment somehow folded space within the walls of the house, creating a bubble where the interior volume expanded exponentially, it could explain the size discrepancy. But… there's no sign of gravitational distortion. I'd be heavier or lighter inside depending on how the space-time curve worked. Scratch that.

Quantum Superposition?Maybe the house occupies multiple states at once, its interior dimensions shifting depending on where you stand. But that would lead to overlapping probabilities, and I'd be noticing flickering or inconsistencies. Everything here feels stable, solid. Not quantum.

Then... Holographic Principle?Now, this has potential. If the entire interior of the house is encoded on the surface of the structure—the walls, the doorway—it could act like a projection. The small exterior would serve as the "boundary" for a much larger virtual space inside. It would function like a holodeck, where the space adapts to movement, creating the illusion of a vast interior while the actual physical space remains small.

"That's got to be it," I murmur, pacing the room. "The walls are acting as some kind of encoding layer, projecting a larger interior volume. It's not really big in here—it just feels that way because I'm walking through a projection."

Mayor Mare blinks at me. "Are you alright?"

I wave her off, still pacing as my thoughts race. "Yeah, yeah, fine. Just… thinking out loud. This place is incredible." I glance around, letting the vastness of the space sink in. If this really works the way I think it does—if it's somehow using a projection principle to create a functional interior—then maybe I could adapt it. Maybe I could use the same principles to enhance my illusions.

The Doppler illusion I've been perfecting is already pretty advanced. It manipulates light and color through particle vibrations, creating an effect so convincing that even Twilight was fooled. But this house takes things to another level entirely. It's not just creating the illusion of space—it's making it usable. Could I do something similar? Create an illusion so comprehensive, so immersive, that it feels real?

I stop in my tracks, my mind leaping ahead. If I could scale up the Doppler illusion, combining it with controlled sound and tactile feedback, I might be able to create a space that traps someone in an entirely fabricated environment. A prison of light and vibrations. It's a chilling thought, but the possibilities…

"Maybe not a prison," I mutter to myself, spinning the idea around. "A containment field? An escape mechanism? Something practical."

Mayor Mare clears her throat, snapping me out of my musings. "I'll leave you to explore. It seems like you're… enjoying the place."

I glance at her, suddenly remembering the last Town Mage. "Wait. You said this place was empty for years. What happened to the last mage?"

Her expression falters slightly. "Well… he just stopped showing up one day. No note, no explanation. We assumed he moved on to bigger things, but it's hard to say."

I frown, the idea unsettling. "So he just vanished?"

"Yes," she says, her tone brightening as if to brush away the implication. "But I'm sure you'll do fine here. Everypony already speaks highly of you."

I force a smile, but her words stick with me. Vanishing without a trace isn't exactly comforting, and the house's bizarre nature doesn't help. "Thanks. I'll, uh… get settled in."

She nods, passing the key to me and steps back toward the door. "If you need anything, you know where to find me. Welcome to your new home, Kinetic Flux."

With that, she leaves, closing the door behind her. The silence that follows is heavy, the vastness of the house suddenly feeling less inviting and more… ominous.

I wander further into the main room, my thoughts circling back to the holographic principle. If this house works the way I think it does, it's way beyond what I can recreate. I shake my head, letting out a bitter laugh. "Guess I'm not as clever as I thought."

The realization stings a little. For all my tricks, all my bluffs, there are still things out here—magical or otherwise—that are far beyond me. I run a hoof along one of the bookshelves, the tomes there ancient and worn. Maybe the answers are here, waiting to be found.

But for now, one thing is clear: this house is mine. Whatever happened to the last mage, they'll have to pry it out of my cold, dead hooves before I abandon it.

I stand in the center of the cavernous main room, trying to take it all in. The soft glow of the floating orbs overhead bathes the walls in a warm light, highlighting the intricate woodwork and the faintly shimmering runes carved into the baseboards. The place has an ancient, almost sentient feel to it—like it's been here forever and is still watching me.

With nothing better to do, I start exploring.

The first door I try leads to what appears to be a kitchen. The layout is simple—stone counters, wooden cabinets, and a sturdy table in the center. There's even a large, cast-iron stove tucked into one corner. For a moment, I'm impressed. A fully functional kitchen? Maybe this place isn't so bad.

Then I open one of the cabinets, and the stench hits me. My nose wrinkles as I peer inside to find food—if you can even call it that. Bread loaves that have long since turned to rock, jars of preserves caked in fuzzy mold, and sacks of flour that now seem to house colonies of bugs. My stomach churns, and I quickly slam the cabinet shut.

"Great," I mutter, stepping back. "Guess the enchantments don't extend to food preservation."

I move on, leaving the kitchen behind. The next door opens into a long hallway, lined with more doors than I can count. The place feels like it goes on forever, a labyrinth of rooms and passages. My hooves echo faintly on the polished wood floors as I wander, stopping at random doors to peek inside.

One room turns out to be a laundry room, complete with a large, rusted washbasin and a drying rack. There's a pile of old linens in the corner, most of them too far gone to save. Another door leads to a sitting room, its armchairs covered in faded upholstery and its bookshelves thick with dust. There's even a small fireplace, though the ashes inside are long cold.

I find a master bedroom near the center of the house. The bed is massive, its canopy frame draped with tattered curtains. Despite the decay, there's something regal about it—like this room was meant for someone important. A quick search of the adjacent wardrobe reveals a collection of moth-eaten robes and cloaks, their colors faded beyond recognition.

Beyond the master bedroom are three smaller guest rooms, each identical in layout. Simple beds, plain dressers, and a single window in each. The windows, I notice, don't show anything outside. Instead, they glow faintly, as if mimicking daylight. It's eerie, but I suppose it beats staring at a blank wall.

The more I explore, the more rooms I find. There's a study with an ancient desk piled high with loose parchment and broken quills. A workshop filled with rusted tools and half-finished contraptions. A music room with an out-of-tune piano and a set of dusty string instruments. The place feels endless, as though the house is bending space just to keep expanding.

"Does this place even have a limit?" I mutter to myself, stepping into yet another hallway that stretches far longer than it should.

The sheer scale of it is overwhelming. As much as I hate to admit it, it's impressive—far beyond anything I could ever create with my illusions. For all my bluster and tricks, this house operates on a level I can't even begin to comprehend. It's a humbling thought, one that keeps nagging at me as I wander through the endless corridors.

Finally, I stop in what looks like a library. The walls are lined with bookshelves, their contents ranging from leather-bound tomes to loose scrolls. A large, comfortable-looking armchair sits by a cold fireplace, and I sink into it with a sigh.

This house… it's a lot. Too much, really. But it's mine now. And if I'm going to live here, I'll have to figure out how to make it work. I head back to the master bedroom, glancing at the bed closer, the blankets look rough but the bed itself seems intact, and soft. I sink into the plush bed, it's a bit unsettling, but I set my pouches on the bedside table, falling asleep near instantly.

The next morning, I decide the house isn't going to clean itself. With the state it's in, I'd be lucky if it didn't sprout mushrooms by the end of the week. There's no way I'm living in a rotting mage's shack, TARDIS-sized or not. Time to pay Rosie a visit.

The apothecary's shop is just as chaotic as ever, its shelves crammed with everything from dried herbs to jars of dubious liquids. Rosie is behind the counter, her familiar face lighting up when she sees me walk in.

"Kinetic! Back for more chalk dust? Or are you finally branching out into real potions?"

"Neither, unfortunately," I say with a smirk, gesturing to the cluttered shop. "I'm here for cleaning supplies. Lots of them."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Cleaning? What's gotten into you?"

"Got a house now," I say casually, as though the very idea doesn't still feel surreal. "Figured I should make it livable."

Rosie chuckles, already moving to gather some items. "You? Cleaning? This I've got to see."

She pulls out a bundle of rags, a few bottles of herbal soap, and a straw broom that's seen better days. "This should get you started. Anything else?"

"Baskets," I say, scanning the shop. "Big ones. I've got a lot of trash to haul out."

Rosie grabs a couple of woven baskets from a shelf. "That'll be 15 bits."

I wince. 15 bits feels steep for a broom, some soap, and a couple of baskets. But then I remember Rainbow Dash's words about bargaining. It's time for my first haggle.

"15 bits?" I say, trying to sound incredulous. "Come on, Rosie, these baskets look like they've been here for years. How about 10?"

She narrows her eyes, clearly amused. "10? Please. These baskets are hoof-woven. 13."

"They're also covered in dust," I counter, picking up one and giving it a shake for emphasis. "12, and I'll throw in a good word about your shop around town."

She snorts. "You think ponies don't already know about me? 13 is my final offer."

I hesitate, then nod, pretending to consider it longer than I need to. "Alright, 13. But only because I'm feeling generous."

Rosie grins, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Pleasure doing business with you, Kinetic. Good luck with the cleaning."

Back at the house, I unload my supplies and get to work, starting in the kitchen. The rotting food is the worst of it, the stench almost unbearable as I toss everything into the baskets. The marble counters are grimy, the stone floors sticky with who-knows-what. It takes hours to scrub the place down, but eventually, it starts to look like a real kitchen again.

When I find the faucet—an old, tarnished spigot sticking out of the wall—I'm floored. Running water. Inside. I twist the knob, and a steady stream flows out, splashing into the basin below. It's not like the sinks I'm used to, more like a hose faucet, but still—running water.

"Where's this coming from?" I mutter, crouching to inspect the spigot. Is it pumped from a well? Maybe an underground reservoir? Or is this, like everything else about this house, fueled by magic?

I let the water run for a moment, marveling at its clarity and steady flow. If it's magical, it's a subtle kind of enchantment—nothing flashy, just functional. And it's the only running water I've seen in Equestria so far, which makes it all the more intriguing.

The rest of the house takes most of the day to clean. I scrub the grime from the master bedroom, clear out the rotting linens from the laundry room, and haul broken furniture and trash from the sitting room. By the time I'm done, the place looks almost livable, though my muscles ache from hours of work.

I collapse onto one of the newly cleaned chairs in the library, wiping sweat from my brow. The house may be bigger on the inside, but at least now it feels less like a forgotten relic and more like… home.

The library is quiet, the soft glow of the floating orbs casting a gentle light over the rows of books. I lean back in the chair, letting my head rest against the padded back. My body aches from a full day of scrubbing, hauling, and generally doing things my muscles aren't accustomed to, but it's a satisfying kind of ache. The kind that says,You did something worthwhile today.

For the first time since arriving in Ponyville, I feel like I have a place to call my own. Sure, it's weird and magical and far beyond my comprehension, but it's mine. A place to rest my head without worrying about the cost per night.

Eventually, I haul myself out of the chair and make my way to the master bedroom. The massive bed, freshly dusted and with the least-tattered linens I could salvage, looks like pure bliss. I set my bit bag and chalk pouch on the bedside table, then collapse onto the mattress with a groan.

It's soft. Luxuriously soft. The kind of bed you sink into, like it's hugging you back. My muscles practically melt as I stretch out, the aches and pains of the day fading into a pleasant numbness. "Alright," I mutter to myself, my eyes already drooping. "Maybe this place isn't so bad."

Sleep comes quickly, deep and dreamless.

When I wake, the first light of dawn is filtering through the faintly glowing windows. For a moment, I just lie there, enjoying the warmth of the blankets and the softness of the mattress. But eventually, duty calls.

I swing my legs off the bed, wincing slightly at the residual soreness in my side. The doctor's magic might have patched me up, but the muscles around the injury are still tender. Grabbing my bit bag and chalk pouch, I make my way out of the house glancing back at it. It doesn't seem as tilted as before, in fact the roof looks nearly straight.

The walk to Town Hall is peaceful, the crisp morning air helping to clear the fog of sleep from my mind. The streets are quiet, with only a few ponies out and about this early. I nod to a couple of them as I pass, their cheerful greetings making me feel more at home than I expected.

When I arrive at my office I step inside and set my things down on the desk. The window lets in the morning light, illuminating a small stack of papers that Mayor Mare must have left for me.

I sigh, settling into the chair behind the desk. "Alright, Kinetic," I mutter to myself. "Another day pretending you know what you're doing."

I sit at the desk, idly flipping through the stack of papers. Most of them are mundane—requests for minor enchantments that I can't make, a few complaints about the weather schedule, and a report on a barn that could use some "magical reinforcement" for its beams. I file them into neat piles, half-listening to the faint creak of the floorboards and the occasional chatter of ponies outside.

But my mind keeps drifting to the Archmage Examination. What exactly are they going to ask me to do? Practical test or not, it's bound to involve high-level spells—the kind that only unicorns with years of dedicated magical study can pull off.

Teleportation feels like an obvious one. It's flashy, versatile, and a cornerstone of advanced magic. I've seen Twilight do it in the show, and if I'm not mistaken, it's a favorite of Celestia's students. But how the hell am I supposed to replicate something like that? My tricks revolve around manipulating the physical world—particles, light, vibrations. Teleportation is on a completely different level.

I drum my hooves on the desk, scowling at the thought. Maybe I could fake it? An illusion of disappearing, followed by moving somewhere out of sight? But no, if the test is in front of Celestia or any skilled mages, they'll see through that in a heartbeat.

The problem gnaws at me, frustratingly out of reach. I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling as if it holds the answer. There has to be some way to—

The door swings open, and I snap upright, startled. A young stallion stumbles in, his eyes wide with panic and his chest heaving like he's run a mile. His mane is disheveled, and there's a faint singe mark on his left flank.

"Town Mage!" he gasps, skidding to a stop in front of my desk. "I—I need help. It's my sister! Something's wrong with her magic!"

I blink, caught off guard. "Your sister's magic? What happened?"

"She's—she's glowing," he stammers, his voice shaking. "Her horn won't stop sparking, and everything she touches gets zapped! She can't even pick up a glass of water without it shattering. I think she tried a spell, and it… backfired or something."

My stomach tightens. This isn't another farmer needing crop advice or a carpenter wanting safety rituals. This is real magic—a problem I can't just science my way through.

"Alright," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the pit forming in my gut. "Take me to her."

The stallion nods frantically and leads the way out of the office. As I follow him through the streets, I mentally prepare myself for whatever I'm about to face.

Magic gone wrong. This is going to be tricky.

We move quickly through Ponyville, the stallion leading the way as he weaves between houses and carts. His panic is infectious, and I can feel my chest tightening with each step. This isn't some trick I can pull out of thin air—this is an actual magical crisis, and I don't even know where to start.

When we reach his house, the first thing I notice is the faint hum in the air. It's like static electricity, making my coat prickle. The stallion pushes the door open, and I step inside, greeted by a scene of chaos.

The living room is a mess. Cushions are torn, furniture is scorched, and the air smells faintly of ozone. In the center of the room stands a young mare, her horn sparking wildly with arcs of blue energy. Her eyes are wide with panic, and she flinches as another jolt of magic shoots out, smashing a nearby vase.

"Stay back!" she cries, her voice trembling. "I can't control it!"

"Uh…" I glance at the stallion, who's looking at me like I'm his last hope. My stomach churns.Think, Kinetic. Think.

I take a cautious step forward, keeping my voice calm. "Alright. Let's figure this out. What were you trying to do when this started?"

"I—I was just practicing a light spell," she stammers. "Nothing big! Just a little glow to help me read at night."

I frown, trying to piece it together. A light spell doesn't explain this level of magical discharge. Her horn is practically a lightning rod. "And then what happened?"

"I don't know!" she wails. "It just—" She gestures wildly, another arc of magic zipping through the air and singing the curtains. "—it exploded!"

I grit my teeth, trying to make sense of it. Light spell. Explosion. Out-of-control magic. Could it be some kind of magical feedback loop? Maybe she overcharged the spell, and now it's stuck, constantly building and releasing energy. But how do you stop something like that? I don't know enough about magic to be sure.

"Alright," I say, trying to sound confident. "First thing we need to do is stabilize the situation. Can you stop channeling magic? Just… turn it off?"

"I've been trying!" she cries, tears streaming down her face. "I can't! It won't stop!"

Of course not. That would've been too easy.

I step closer, feeling the hum of her magic grow stronger. The air around her feels charged, almost like static electricity before a storm. My brain races, scrambling for something—anything—that might work.

If this were physics, I'd treat it like an overloaded circuit. Maybe I can ground the excess energy? Or redirect it somewhere harmless? But this isn't physics. It's magic, and I have no idea what rules I'm working with.

Still, I have to try.

The hum of the charged air grows louder as I step closer, the energy radiating off her horn making the hairs on my coat stand on end. My mind latches onto the idea of treating this like electricity—it's the only framework I have to work with.

"Okay," I say, keeping my voice calm. "This is like an electrical circuit. If there's too much current, you need a place for the excess energy to go. We need to ground it."

"Ground it?" the stallion asks, his voice shaky. "How do we do that?"

I scan the room, my eyes darting over the mess. No wires, no modern tools—nothing even remotely helpful. My thoughts flicker to the medieval-era materials around me. "We need something conductive," I mutter, mostly to myself. "Something that can safely draw the magic away from her horn."

The stallion stares at me, clearly confused. "Conductive?"

"Metal," I clarify, snapping my gaze to him. "Do you have anything metal? A rod, a chain—anything long and sturdy?"

He blinks, then nods quickly. "We have an old iron poker for the fireplace!"

"Perfect. Get it."

As he scrambles to find it, I focus on the mare. Her sparks are becoming more erratic, and I can feel the heat of the discharged energy. "Listen," I say, trying to keep her calm. "We're going to redirect the magic. It's going to feel weird, but it'll stop the sparks, alright?"

She nods, her eyes wide and tearful. "O-okay."

The stallion returns with the iron poker, his hooves trembling as he hands it to me. The metal is old and slightly rusted, but it'll have to do. I grip it in my telekinesis, testing its weight.

"We'll need to get this into the ground," I explain, thinking out loud. "The earth can absorb the energy safely."

The stallion's eyes widen. "There's soil right outside!"

I nod while giving him a bit of a flat look. "Good. But she'll need to direct the magic from her horn to the poker. That's the tricky part."

The room is charged with tension, the magical energy crackling faintly as the mare's horn continues to spark. I carefully guide the stallion to jam the iron poker into the garden soil just outside the door, ensuring it's planted firmly enough to stay upright. The faint smell of ozone lingers in the air as I assess the situation.

"Alright," I say, turning back to the mare. "Here's what we're going to do. You're going to focus on directing all that energy into the metal poker. Think of it like a storm cloud sending lightning to the ground. The poker is your lightning rod—it'll take everything and send it safely into the earth."

Her expression is panicked, her ears pinned back as she glances nervously at the sparking energy around her. "But… how do I do that? I don't know how to stop it!"

"You don't need to stop it," I say quickly, trying to keep my voice steady. "You just need to aim it. Right now, your magic is like wild lightning—uncontrolled, striking everything. But with a little focus, you can guide it where it needs to go."

Her lip quivers, and she takes a shaky breath. "Okay… but I don't understand how."

"Alright," I say, stepping closer but keeping a safe distance. "Let me explain. Magic like this works with intent, right? You're thinking about light, but your magic got overloaded, so it's spilling everywhere. What we need to do is shift your intent. Instead of making light, think about sending that energy out—out of your horn, out of the room, into the poker. Visualize it as a single line of light, like a thunderbolt connecting your horn to the metal."

She frowns, her brow furrowed in confusion. "A thunderbolt?"

"Lightning," I say, simplifying further. "When the clouds send lightning to the ground, it's looking for the fastest way down. Your horn is like the cloud. The poker is the ground. All you have to do is tell your magic to flow to the poker, and it'll do the rest."

Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of understanding crossing her face. "So… I just think about the lightning going there?"

"Exactly." I gesture to the sparking magic. "Close your eyes if it helps. Picture the energy in your horn moving down into the poker, like water pouring out of a jug."

The stallion looks at me, his expression dubious. "Will that really work?"

"It should," I say, more confident than I feel. "Magic obeys intent, and if she focuses hard enough, the energy will follow her command."

The mare closes her eyes, her horn still sparking erratically. Her breathing is uneven, but she starts to calm as she concentrates. She walks slowly to the door, a short distance from the grounded rod. I step back, watching closely as the arcs of magic begin to shift, their chaotic bursts becoming more focused.

"That's it," I say softly, keeping my voice steady. "You're doing great. Just keep visualizing."

Slowly, the sparks around her horn dim, condensing into a single bright thread of energy. It arcs toward the poker. The air hums as the energy flows into the metal, the poker glowing faintly as it channels the excess magic into the ground.

The room falls silent except for the faint crackle of dissipating energy. The mare opens her eyes, her horn no longer sparking. She looks at me, her expression a mix of disbelief and relief. "It worked?"

I let out a long breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Yeah. It worked."

The stallion claps a hoof on my shoulder, his voice filled with gratitude. "You saved her. I don't know how, but you did."

I force a smile, my chest still tight from the tension. "Just… using what I know."And what I made up.

As the mare steadies herself, I glance at the glowing poker, the faint warmth still radiating from it. It's not a perfect solution, but it's enough for now. My mind churns, already considering how I could refine the method, but for now, I just feel relieved that it's over.

"Thank you," the mare says quietly, her voice trembling. "I thought it was going to destroy everything."

"You're welcome," I reply, the weight of the night settling over me. "Just… take it easy with your spells for a bit, alright?"

She nods quickly. The stallion gratefully hoofs me 50 bits and I step outside, the cool night air hitting my face. The garden is peaceful, the soil undisturbed except for the glowing poker sticking out of the ground. As I lean against the doorframe, catching my breath, one thought lingers:

I really need to figure out how magic works before it kills me.

The walk back to my office feels heavier than it should. The adrenaline of the event has worn off, leaving me with a dull ache in my ribs and the humbling realization of just how far out of my depth I am.

Still, the practical magic test looms in my mind like a storm cloud. I slump into the chair at my desk, absently twirling a clump of chalk in the air.

Teleportation.

I'm almost certain it's going to come up. If I know anything about the dramatic flair of magical societies—and I'm starting to feel like I do—it'll be the centerpiece of the test. Some impossible challenge: a high tower, a sealed chamber, or a sheer cliff with no obvious path. "Get here," they'll say. "Prove you're worthy."

The whole concept of teleportation feels maddeningly out of reach. Moving from one place to another instantly? That's not something I can fake, even with my best illusions. I stare at the far wall of my office, the bricks worn and irregular, and let my thoughts drift.

What if I didn't need to move instantly?

The idea unfolds slowly, and I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. Maybe the problem isn't about going somewhere in the blink of an eye. Maybe it's about bypassing obstacles to ensure I can get there eventually. If the goal is simply to reach an inaccessible location, perhaps I don't need to defy physics—I just need to cheat them.

My gaze sharpens on the wall. The grains of the bricks catch the light from my desk lamp, uneven and coarse. Each brick is a collection of smaller particles, bound together by mortar, friction, and a lattice of chemical bonds. If I can't go around the wall… what if I could go through it?

The idea of vibrating my body like some comic-book speedster crosses my mind, but I dismiss it almost immediately. Physics doesn't work that way.

The idea of vibrating my molecules to phase through the wall is tantalizing in theory, but it crumbles under scrutiny. For one, quantum tunneling—the idea that particles can pass through barriers due to wave-particle duality—isn't practical at a macroscopic scale. The probability of every single atom in my body tunneling through simultaneously is so astronomically low that it might as well be zero. And even if I somehow managed it, the energy required to vibrate my molecules at such a frequency would generate immense heat, enough to cook myself alive before I even got halfway through the wall. Not to mention the likelihood of structural failure in my body. No, vibrating like that is definitely out.

But loosening the bonds between the grains of the wall? That feels plausible. Bricks aren't solid monoliths—they're held together by a combination of weak intergranular forces and the chemical bonds of the mortar. If I could weaken those bonds, just enough to create a temporary path, I might be able to push the grains aside with telekinesis and slip through.

The more I think about it, the more the idea takes shape. The wall isn't an unyielding barrier—it's a collection of grains, bound together by forces that, while strong on a structural level, might be manageable on a smaller scale. If I could disrupt the intergranular forces—the weak bonds between the grains of the bricks and the mortar—I could loosen the material just enough to displace it.

I push myself up from the chair and move closer to the wall, running a hoof along the rough surface. Each grain of sand and piece of stone feels distinct under my touch, a patchwork of materials fused into one solid whole. The trick, I realize, is to work section by section, loosening and displacing just enough material to create an opening while minimizing the energy required.

I close my eyes, my horn lighting faintly as I focus on the wall. The familiar hum of my telekinesis fills the room, but this time, I narrow my intent. Instead of brute force, I imagine a delicate touch, like loosening the threads of a tightly woven fabric. If I can gently disrupt those weaker connections, the grains should shift, like sand spilling from a clenched fist.

I focus on a small patch of wall, about the size of a hoofprint, and push my telekinesis into the microscopic spaces between the grains. It's like trying to pry apart the layers of an onion without damaging the skin. Slowly, painstakingly, I feel the bonds weaken, the grains loosening their grip on each other.

"Alright," I murmur to myself, my voice barely audible over the hum of magic. "Now, move."

I push the loosened grains aside, sliding them into the surrounding brick like pieces of a dense puzzle. The material resists at first, the friction and mechanical interlocking fighting against me. But with enough pressure, the grains begin to shift. The wall ripples faintly, like clay under a sculptor's hands.

I repeat the process, working section by section, loosening and displacing the grains as I go. Each motion is deliberate, each patch of wall a new challenge. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my horn aches with the sustained effort, but I press on, forcing the material back in place behind me.

After what feels like an eternity, I finally make it through the other side. I step out of the wall, breathing heavily, my legs shaking from exhaustion. The air on the other side feels cool and fresh, but my relief is short-lived. When I glance back at the wall, my stomach sinks.

A pony-sized gap in the pattern mars the brickwork, the grains I displaced failing to settle back into place. The bricks sag slightly, the pattern broken and uneven, like a poorly patched wound.

I stare at the damaged wall, frustration bubbling up. This wasn't phasing through the wall—it was breaking it, squeezing through, and then haphazardly trying to rebuild it. The result? A mess. A glaring, uneven scar on what used to be a solid surface.

"Great," I mutter, pacing in front of the wall. "All that effort, and it's just glorified demolition and reconstruction."

I sit down heavily, my horn still throbbing from the exertion. The experiment technically worked—I made it through the wall—but the method was painfully inefficient. Not only did it drain me, but it also left behind an obvious, ugly patch. If I tried this during the Archmage Test, it wouldn't impress anyone. It would just look like I didn't know what I was doing.

I stare at the broken wall for a long moment, replaying the process in my head. The issue wasn't the technique itself—it was how I used it. I'd tried to loosen and move the entire wall, grain by grain, as I passed through. That kind of brute-forced micromanagement was bound to be exhausting.

Then it hits me. Why did I try to move the entire wall like some kind of living ooze? Why didn't I just remove one section entirely?

I smack my forehead with a hoof. "Of course! Just cut a square."

The solution seems so obvious now. Instead of trying to make the entire wall pliable, I could focus on a single, precise section—a square cutout. By loosening the bonds in just that line and pulling it out, I wouldn't have to waste energy on the rest of the wall. It'd be like cutting a door, stepping through, and then putting the piece back in place.

"Simple. Efficient," I say, shaking my head at myself. "Why didn't I think of this sooner?"

Eager to test my new idea, I step up to the wall again, horn glowing faintly as I prepare to focus on a clean, square section. This time, I picture the process clearly in my mind: loosen the bonds along a precise line, pull the square out in one motion, and replace it without disturbing the rest of the structure. Easy, right?

I push my magic forward, expecting the usual hum of telekinetic energy to fill the air. But instead, I feel… nothing.

I blink, confused. My horn glows faintly for a moment, sputters, and then fizzles out completely. I try again, this time concentrating harder. The result is the same—nothing happens.

"What the…" I mutter, tapping a hoof against my horn as if it's a faulty lightbulb. "Come on. Work."

I try once more, gritting my teeth and pushing harder. For a fleeting second, I feel a faint flicker of magic—a spark of potential—but it vanishes almost instantly, leaving me with an empty, drained sensation.

That's when it hits me: I'm out of mana.

The realization makes my stomach drop. I've never run out of mana before. Sure, I've felt tired after big 'spells' or prolonged use, but this? This is a whole new level. It's like trying to take a deep breath after running a marathon, only to realize there's no air left.

I stagger back from the wall, the exhaustion hitting me like a wave. My legs feel weak, and my head throbs dully. The soreness in my body from earlier experiments intensifies, and I slump to the ground, my thoughts racing.

"Great," I groan, covering my face with a hoof. "Not only did I fail, but now I'm literally useless."

The emptiness in my horn feels unnatural, almost wrong. I'm so used to relying on magic for even the smallest tasks that its absence feels like losing a limb. I can't even test my improved wall-cutting idea. What's the point of having a breakthrough if I can't use it?

Frustration bubbles up, but it's tempered by a creeping sense of vulnerability. I've always thought of my magic as a tool, something I could summon at will. But now, sitting here, drained and powerless, I realize how fragile that assumption is. Without magic, what am I? Just a pony with some chalk and a lot of bad ideas.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. Panicking won't help. I just need to rest, eat something, and hope my mana replenishes itself. That's how it works… right?

I linger on the ground for a while, staring at the wall I just climbed through—or rather, the awkward, mismatched patch where I disrupted the brick pattern. It's not a gaping hole, thankfully, but it's obvious. Too obvious. If anyone sees this, I'll have some explaining to do.

With a weary sigh, I stand up. The emptiness in my horn is still unsettling, but I'm too tired to dwell on it. It's been a long day, and I've hit my limit. Time to call it a night.

Only then do I remember: I left my chalk pouch and bit bag on my desk inside the office. Of course, my brilliant plan to walk through the wall didn't account for basic logistics like carrying my stuff. Now I'll have to do the walk of shame—right back through Town Hall's front door.

"Fantastic," I mutter, shaking my head. "Just fantastic."

I make my way around the building, every step a reminder of my lingering exhaustion. The air is cool, the streets quiet now that most ponies have turned in for the night. When I reach the main entrance of Town Hall, I hesitate, glancing around to make sure no one's watching. The last thing I need is an audience.

I push open the door and step inside, the faint creak of the hinges echoing in the empty space. My office is just down the hall, but the walk feels longer than it should. The silence makes my hoofsteps seem louder, like the building itself is judging me.

When I reach my desk, my chalk pouch and bit bag are exactly where I left them. Grumbling under my breath, I grab them both in my mouth—because, of course, I'm too drained to use telekinesis—and head back out.

As I step into the hallway, I nearly collide with Mayor Mare.

"Oh! Kinetic!" she says, blinking in surprise. "What are you still doing here?"

I freeze, the chalk pouch and bit bag dangling awkwardly from my mouth. I mumble something incoherent, realizing too late that I can't speak with them in my teeth. Mayor Mare tilts her head, her brow furrowing slightly.

"Is everything alright?" she asks, clearly trying to piece together what she's seeing.

I nod quickly, offering a muffled "Mhm!" before scurrying past her. My face feels hot, and I silently curse my luck. Could this day get any more humiliating?

By the time I step outside, the cool night air is a welcome relief. I make my way back to my house, trying to push the day's events out of my mind. When I finally reach the front door, the sight of the familiar, impossibly small exterior is oddly comforting. I step inside, the vast interior stretching out before me, and let out a long, tired sigh.

Dropping my chalk pouch and bit bag onto the nearest table, I take a moment to absorb the silence. The house feels almost too big, too empty, but tonight, that's exactly what I need.

I shuffle to the master bedroom, my hooves dragging slightly on the polished floor. The bed is just as inviting as it was the night before, and I sink into it with a groan, the soft mattress cradling my aching body.

"Tomorrow," I mutter to myself, closing my eyes. "I'll figure out the test. I'll figure out… all of it."

The day's exhaustion pulls me under quickly, I don't dream.

Author's Note:

Spoiler:That is nothow the house works.

Assumptions

Wall Dimensions:

A "person-sized hole" is approximately2 meters tall,0.6 meters wide, and0.2 meters thick.

Volume of the hole: V=2m0.6m0.2m=0.24

Brick Properties:

Bricks are primarily made of clay, with adensityof about 2000kg/m3.

Mass of material: m=ρV=2000kg/m30.24m3=480kgm

Bond Energy:

The energy required to weaken bonds is approximately the energy to overcomevan der Waals forcesbetween grains.

Assume1 Joule per gramof brick material is required to disrupt intergranular bonds (a rough estimate based on molecular interaction energy).

Energy Required

Total energy to loosen bonds: E=480kg1000g/kg1J/g=480,000J

Comparison

480,000 Joulesis equivalent to:

About 115 food calories(1 food calorie = 4184 Joules).

The energy released by a 0.1 kg (100 g) mass falling from a height of ~50 meters.

And that's without the chemical bonds.
Fuck i just realized hes not person shaped, oh well.