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Overpowered Pawn - 2 - Chosen or Unchosen
🕑 Added 2025-10-12 19:28:18 +0000 UTCEven after traveling back in time, Arthur tried not to think of himself as part of a large conspiracy.
But Headmaster Janus’ death presented as a fairly bizarre and problematic phenomenon.
It was strange that there was someone powerful enough to defeat the Archmage, and it was also strange that they'd chosen to do it during one of Arthur's sessions with him. Also, the fact that it had been accomplished with little noise within the handful of minutes Arthur was away from the lab...even more astounding.
It was tragic, too, considering Janus was a good man, but Arthur preferred not to dwell on that part. He hated it when good men died, but good men never stopped dying, and he couldn't mourn them all.
Rather, his time would be better spent contemplating how to get across the city in the shortest possible time. That was what he focused on as he began his run.
Even after he ended up in the past, Arthur kept up his military exercise regimen, and that was why he had more speed, strength, and stamina than he’d previously had at this age.
But it might not be enough to get him there on time.
It would have been easier if he had magic. Then he could have used a speed spell, or a potion with Mercurian, Di Erretres, 5 orders of the core of Jupiter. He even had the calculations in his head for one such potion.
But without magical ingredients and magic itself, it would be quite challenging to procure such a thing.
The best he could do was boost a standard pre-made vitality potion with some Apollonian herbs for added speed. Vitality potions were not as strong as a speed potion, but they would keep him from flagging out fast through his run.
He pulled one tube out of his handy knapsack, which he carried everywhere, and cocked it over his mouth, downing it in one go. It tasted like grass and lightning fizzing down his throat, but it worked quickly. He could already feel his heartbeat quickening, more breath filling his lungs. He went faster.
The choosing ceremony was happening right across town in the Torrington Abbey bordering the vast Western gates. It was also across a busy market, where Arthur ran through, bumping into and ultimately overturning a wagon in his way.
“Sorry!” he called out.
“You ass!” The older woman continued cursing at him. “Just look what you’ve done to my cabbages.”
She yelled the croaky words at his back when Arthur was already paces away.
But then he made the mistake of looking back and watching the grizzled, short, older woman groan as she bent with difficulty to pick up the vegetables in shaky hands. Arthur had a moment of hesitation, where common sense warred with conscience.
Don’t stop.
Stop.
If I stop now, I might not make it.
If you don’t stop, the arthritic old woman will have to pick up all the cabbage you spilled.
I’m already running late.
The world doesn’t revolve around you.
Damn it.
He skidded to a stop, turned on his heel, and doubled back. When she saw him coming, she gasped in indignation, ranting at him once more. He ignored her, scooped up the cabbages, and threw them in the cart before dashing off again.
That was not the only near accident he had in the market.
It was a busy day, with it being a public holiday and a nationwide choosing ceremony. Ingredients had to be bought for the parties that would be thrown for those who were chosen.
The sun bore down on him, a variety of thick smells invading his nostrils and making it harder to breathe. Sweat bathed his face and trickled down his back. He briefly considered chartering a carriage that passed in his path, but he didn’t have time to haggle, and they would probably quote him exorbitant prices on this holiday.
He checked his timekeeper. Five minutes.
Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. I’m not going to make it.
Rather than give in to despair, he picked up speed, reminding himself of his military training. His lungs grew tight, but this was nothing compared to the laps he’d had to run as a foot soldier. His muscles ached, but not as much as when he’d been made to hike mountains with heavy chain mail and armor on his body.
I can do this, he determined as he picked up speed. I'll make it.
Finally, once he got close enough to see the abbey entrance, he checked his timekeeper again. Two minutes. Relief flooded him. He’d made it.
He didn’t hesitate, climbing up the stairs and through the open doors. There was a space in the back row, and he almost made a clean entrance, until he tried to sit and the chair scraped back, the loud sound echoing across the room.
Amazing.
Everyone stared at Arthur, frozen mid-sit.
The room was filled with about a hundred and something people, most of them hopefuls and aristocrats.
The Abbey was designed as a smaller mirror of the Spectre Cathedral, with representatives of the Four Great Houses sitting at the helm of a stage. Except this time it was the Dukes of the Houses seated there, in front of the Lords of the Lesser Houses on a lower podium.
One chair was empty for the Barony of Porthandy. Arthur’s father's former lands had been reclaimed by the new king, and he hadn’t elected a new Baron yet.
One of the chosen hopefuls who stood on the stage gave Arthur a displeased look. Others sitting chuckled at his timing.
“Sorry,” Arthur called and took his seat, so the ceremony could continue.
Coincidentally, he happened to be sitting by Frank August, whom he would call a friend.
The boy had big ears that he would often hide underneath his coif, and just about every girl who smiled at him, he was convinced he was in love with.
Frank grinned at him. “I thought you wouldn't make it. Where were you?”
Arthur shrugged. “Here and there.” He didn’t want to admit that he’d been under investigation for the death of Janus. There was already enough ...strangeness surrounding him to make his classmates weary, and he didn’t want to add to it.
When he’d been hired as a TA at the ripe young age of fourteen, the youngest there ever was, it had raised suspicion and some envy from his fellow students. The fact that he knew how to make potions nearly perfectly, often even better than the professors themselves, was another mark against him.
Not to mention the treasonous father thing. That was the real stinker.
Arthur was trying not to draw even more attention to himself, but a few of the students from his classes held a grudge against him for ruining their grading curve last semester.
So that was three marks against him now.
Son of a traitor, grading curve breaker, and now potential murder suspect.
“I already got chosen,” Frank whispered excitedly, showing off the blue emblazoned badge on his scholarly robe. The symbol of a roaring lion glowed. He’d been picked by the Thanor Noble Family, known for creating powerful mage-warriors mostly on the Knight path.
“Nice,” Arthur commented. “You’ll make a great Thanor Knight, my friend. Noble, strong, and not particularly bright.”
Frank nudged him with his shoulder. “Very funny. Those are pretty bold words for someone who’s going to be my nurse in the future.”
“Good. Maybe then I can finally correct whatever brain damage you suffered as a child.”
Frank nudged him again, and Arthur nudged back just as hard. He also caught the eye of Iris Featherworth, a classmate he studied with and tutored sometimes. She’d seen the soldiers taking him away, and she was giving him a worried look. He gave her a smile and a thumbs-up for good measure.
“Sven Longhard has been chosen by the Vanglorian Barony," the announcer called. "Lastly, I believe Arthur Vale is now present for his choosing!”
“Yes.” Arthur shot to his feet, walking forward as more eyes in the pew turned to stare at him. He walked down the aisle, trying not to show nerves, trying to look inviting and friendly and like someone a Noble House would pick.
He’d worked so hard to get here.
To become a Chosen, one had to be of age and had to be nominated by a man or woman of import in a chosen field. That meant a lot of sucking up to a lot of people. Due to his family history, Arthur had to do more to prove that he was of great value. It was why he studied so hard to be at the top of his class, although he was helped by the fact that he came from a future where he’d worked as a healer’s apprentice for some time. He also read as many magic theory books as he could get his hands on and worked multiple jobs to afford all the classes he needed to take.
He’d done all that for this moment. Just to be chosen by one of the great houses of the Magi and get the magical skills he needed to achieve his goal.
The moment was finally here.
He knew that his situation was complicated by his lineage, but if he had to choose, he would want to join the House of Raven. Their duchy had the most powerful pure mages in the land, and the most Bishops as well. Their cathedrals and monasteries across the coastal stretch served as institutions to learn the essential primary theory of magic and magic creation.
That was something that most mages would never in their lifetime be privy to.
Plus, the Raven Lands were close enough to the Weston duchy and the city of Narim so he could visit home regularly. For all those reasons, House Raven would be his top choice.
He had no desire to join the Thanors, as they were mostly warriors in the Royal Army, nor did he want to join the Borgans, the proprietors of dark magic. Joining the Westons would be alright, he supposed, although limiting in terms of how much he would learn.
Any of the lesser houses who could imbue him with magic would do as well. He just needed one of them to pick him.
Arthur was overqualified. His grades were stellar, he did not have a record for causing trouble, and he'd been an assistant to the most powerful man in the land. Before today, he would have guaranteed that he would get chosen.
Yet when he stood at the center of the stage, within joining circles to represent the triads of power, no placard went in the air.
The Noble Houses simply stared at him disinterestedly.
Arthur waited. He tried to hold onto hope, but with every second that ticked by, his stomach sank to his feet.
Once again, he tried not to think of himself as part of a large conspiracy. When he’d died and woken up a decade into the past, he didn’t necessarily believe the odd phenomenon had much to do with him. After all, Arthur only had the barest of magic ability within him, only enough to make poultices and level 1 and 2 potions. There was nothing special about him besides his trauma, and even that wasn’t exclusive to him. There was no reason why anyone would want him in the past.
He’d accepted that he’d traveled through time, but not by his own volition or power. He hadn’t done anything special before he died, hadn’t been part of a ritual, and hadn't even pleaded to a higher power before this happened. He’d simply thought about how much everything hurt, and what he would give to taste his mother’s cooking one more time as he slipped into the afterlife.
And he’d woken up in his bed, sixteen years in the past.
In the future, there would be heavy research into time magic with a high chaos potential of the order of Jupiter himself. About three different empires had made strides into it, and Arthur figured one of them had eventually pulled the trigger and launched a time machine, sending everyone hurtling into the past. He was one of the unfortunate souls who’d managed to maintain consciousness of the future, and he hadn’t met anyone else like that.
But the absence of evidence wasn’t evidence of absence.
There had to be someone else or multiple people like him. Maybe they were laying low, or they'd simply been killed once they began ranting about a future only they knew about.
That was why Arthur had not told a single soul about this.
Arthur planned on taking advantage of his future knowledge in a different way. After all, now he had a clear path to avoid his downright dastardly fate as a foot soldier locked in enemy prison, starved and tortured daily for information he didn’t even have.
No. Arthur Vale would never do that again.
To avoid that fate, he needed money. Lots of it.
Arthur’s problem was that his father’s crime left him and his family a few steps above impoverished. His mother was a Pawn-pathed Farmer-mage with Class C skills. While her pay wasn’t the worst he’d seen, it was split between him and his two siblings, and his mother insisted they all go to expensive abbey classes so they would have a better chance at life than she did.
Arthur managed to pay his fees by himself and also paid some of his brother's fees too. He used his income from several part-time jobs as a teaching assistant, part-time potion maker, and paid volunteer at the John Wylan Asylum for the criminally insane. Still, it barely covered their needs, and the bills piled up.
His mother was sick, even though she would never admit it. His sister, when she wasn't being a hellspawn, was the sickly type too, and needed extra care. His brother frequently pulled insane, expensive stunts that often caused damage to other people's property and that needed to be paid for as well.
Arthur was working about 16 out of 24 hours a day, and it never seemed to be enough.
He bore it because he thought it was all temporary
He had a plan to become a specialist healer in the capital who catered to the wealthy.
He would achieve this by joining a prestigious [healer] academy and specializing in cosmetic arts. Cosmetic healers were one of the few categories of people who wouldn’t get drafted in the war, especially if they had a wealthy enough client base. Even if he was captured by enemy soldiers during a siege of the capital, he would be treated far better than other captives and could be freed in order to cater to the captor elites.
There was a man in the future like that, a fat, wealthy healer called Dremaine. Even as a Maradonian in a foreign, enemy land, he had lived the relaxed, affluent life that Arthur envied.
Arthur wanted to be Dremaine and did everything in their life to achieve that goal.
He studied like a madman, every free moment of his life. He attended classes at the expensive and competitive though second-rate academy, passed endless tests to qualify him to potentially become one of the Chosen.
In his second life, he’d worked under Healers and mages, going far beyond his scope to get a more holistic view of magic as a whole.
He’d done every possible thing he could think of to achieve his dreams.
But that wasn’t enough. He needed to get magic to be a specialist healer, and the best way to do that was to join one of the Noble Houses of Magi.
That should have been easy for a skilled person like Arthur.
It would have been easy if his father were not Morgan Vale, his Uncle were not Elias Vale, and Janus were not dead.
Damn it.
Now that the calming potion effects had faded, Arthur felt boiling anger at his situation, and it threatened to consume him.
He fought hard to beat it back, but he felt like screaming.
I don't deserve this.
I have not done anything to anybody.
All I want is to be a rich, fat healer selling overpriced cosmetic procedures. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently, it was.
If someone was indeed trying to screw with him, they were doing a very good job.
About a full minute had passed, and none of the Noble Houses had picked him.
Another minute passed in humiliating silence.
Their eyes rested on him, and likely, some of them already knew about the Inquisition.
Arthur could tell what they were thinking. The son of a traitor aided the murder of his master, who had put faith in him. He’d done it for money or power or revenge.
Like father, like son.
No Noble House would want to associate with him
Damn it twice.
Arthur's hands clenched into fists. His heart raced. He held out hope. He wanted to beg. He might have if he thought it would do him any good.
But it never had in the past.
Instead, Arthur prayed to a deity that had never once answered his prayer.
Someone, anyone, please listen. I can't live that life again. I can't let my mother work herself to an early death. I can't let my brother go into a life of crime, and I can't let my sister marry an abusive lout.
That's not the life they deserved. They've done nothing wrong to anyone, yet they're treated like criminals because of something they have no control over.
A bell rang to signify that his choosing was over.
No one raised a finger. Duke Weston looked like he wanted to, but he didn’t, giving Arthur an apologetic glance instead.
Arthur was unchosen.
He was too tired to even raise much indignation. Just so tired of fighting prejudice and paying for a crime he did not commit. Murmurs of pity followed him as he walked back to his seat, and he couldn’t bear it. Iris tried to meet his gaze, but he gave her a fake smile as he sat.
“What was that?” Frank said, looking shocked. “What happened?”
Arthur shrugged like he didn’t care. “Who knows?”
“He’s the son of a traitor,” someone in the front seat said plainly. “It was inevitable.” The boy gave him a pitying look. Arthur recognized him, although he didn’t know his name. He was ranked number 5 at the academy and had the Raven insignia emblazoned on his chest. “It’s a shame. I think you have the skill to become a great archmage.”
“You still can.” Frank hurried to say. “There’s always next year, and your application might be better then.”
"Right," Arthur said, but he knew it wouldn't happen. There was no other way to beef up his application. He was already the best in his cohort, both at potion making and at magic theory. His arithmetic was stellar. He had the knowledge. He just didn’t have the power to make anything happen. And he never would.
After all, he’d been Unchosen in his first life, too.
Arthur hadn’t been as gifted academically in his last life. He’d hovered somewhere around Rank 10-20 (out of a class of about a hundred), but in this life, he had worked his ass off to climb to Rank 1. Not just by using knowledge from his previous life, but also by plain old studying day and night until his brain hurt.
And it worked. He was number one in their entire class. There was nowhere else for him to climb to, nothing else he could have done to avoid this outcome.
It was over.
Once it was time to leave, Iris hurried to catch up to them. Frank stopped his babbling instantly, tongue-tied around her as usual, but Iris merely gave him a nod before speaking to Arthur.
“That was utter nonsense,” she said instantly, heatedly. “They must be mad! You’re the most qualified person in our class. You know more spells and potions than even some First Rate Healers. It’s utter idiocy for them not to pick you.”
A few passersby shot her a looks. It was probably unwise for Iris to be scolding Nobles within earshot, but Iris was the oldest of eleven children, and she was the one who often had to keep them in check. Hence, she had a strong sense of responsibility and the overwhelming urge to scold even a god if they stepped out of line.
“It’s fine,” Arthur said, because he was also worried about her being overheard by the wrong people.
Iris lowered her voice, glancing around apprehensively, but she kept going. “No, it's not. Why were the guards harassing you earlier? I know it was over something stupid. Perhaps, if they hadn’t made you late, then you would have gotten chosen before the quotas were met. Ugh, the ingrates.”
“Iris, you might want to keep it down,” Frank pointed out, because the Nobles were now stepping off their podium and would be approaching soon.
“No, Frank, I will not keep quiet against blatant discrimination. They’re only doing this because of his–” She finally shut up, swallowing the last words as she shot him a careful look. Arthur knew what she’d been about to say.
Most people danced around who his father was. Some pretended they didn’t know. Some knew but pretended they didn’t care. A few actually didn’t care.
Luckily enough, the previous king was unpopular enough that most didn’t mind that he was dead. But the son of a traitor was still the son of a traitor. People pitied and suspected him at the same time.
Arthur blew out a breath, and though he felt the stares on him, he refused to show any shame. He met one catty glance with an arched look of his own until the person blushed and looked away. He remained silent as the three of them cleared the path for the Lords to pass, bowing politely.
He burned on the inside but remained implacable on the outside, still thinking about if and how it all tied together.
His regression. Janus’ death. His being Unchosen.
Was it a coincidence or was it planned?
Had he simply been collateral damage in the assassination, or was it intended to frame him?
Why? He was no one.
But what if he wasn't?
As everyone rose to say their final prayers, Arthur finally let himself consider that they might be trying to frame him for the crime so the true culprit would get off scot-free.
If that were the case, they would be sorely disappointed. He refused to go down for something he didn’t do. He would never again live his life, paying for another man’s foolishness.
He released a breath. He quelled all his anger, his despair, his panic, and only let rational thought prevail. He focused on what was important.
His survival.
Protecting his family.
Living richly and happily.
How to do that?
Gain magic as a healer.
He’d tried and failed to do that the sensible way, by joining a Noble House.
But there was another way to gain magic, a way attempted only by the stupid or the stupidly desperate.
Unfortunately, now, he was the latter.
***
From the Journal of Morgan Vale, Baron of Porthandy, Great Knight Supreme, The King’s Hand.
The term 'Chaos Potential' appears to measure the power of a spell or magic in general, with increasing order of magnitude representing less potency. This is because the mages seem to believe that magic with more chaos potential makes it less bound to the mundane laws and closer to the divine triad from which all magic stems. Increasing the order of magnitude is a measure of how far away it is from the divine triad or the secondary heptagonal, and therefore, that makes it less powerful.
Basically, chaos and power go hand in hand. It’s easier to create powerful magic of mass destruction than it is to create powerful magic with less destruction.
Is this physics or superstition? Or both?
I'll need to study more to understand exactly how it all works.
So much about this world aligns with mine, yet so much does not make sense.
