Despite other-Terry’s possibly-good-natured-but-probably-mocking comments, Terry had been surprisingly content with his frost. It covered more ground than he’d intended, but it had been contained to a circle that was about six feet across. The point was that it hadn’t covered everything within a few hundred feet in a thick layer of life-stealing ice. Not that Terry was opposed to life-stealing ice. He just wanted it on-demand, under control, and murdering monsters. Not spreading out from him like a subzero oil spill caused by a sleep-deprived third-mate trying to slalom around reefs in a supertanker. More importantly, despite all the hiccups in the process, it was proof that he could exert some control over the spell or whatever the hell it was called.

  Technique, supplied other-Terry. It’s called a technique. At least, it is in this world.

  Why?

  How should I know why they call it that? They just do.

  I— Terry hesitated. No. That’s a fair point.

  While other-Terry was often a fount of sarcasm-laced information, there were clearly huge gaps in his knowledge of Chinese Period Drama Hell. If it had to do with magic or monsters, the construct could seemingly supply an answer to even very esoteric questions without a problem. His cultural information, on the other hand, was always accurate but nonspecific. The kinds of things that could be inferred from a more general knowledge of how particular kinds of societies worked. The construct just seemed vastly more knowledgeable to Terry because things like nobles, monarchies, and Adventurer’s Guilds weren’t a part of his particular culture back on Earth. He didn’t think that an analog to the Adventurer’s Guild even existed where he’d come from.

  What he did know about monarchies and nobility had been gleaned indirectly from history classes, books, and that most reliable of sources, Hollywood. While that provided some foundation for understanding, it was not even remotely the same as growing up with it. Things that the people here intuitively understood were often opaque to him until much too late to be useful or simply never became clear to him. Not that he expected that the people here would do much better if they had been murderhobo-ed to his world by an asshole truck. Things he took for granted, like the rules of the road and movie theater etiquette, would no doubt seem wholly alien to someone like Kelima. That line of thought was promptly interrupted by other-Terry.

  Are you done daydreaming, yet? You got me into work mode, so let’s do some work.

  “Yeah. Yeah,” muttered Terry. “I’m on it.”

  His confidence bolstered a bit by his semi-successful attempt at a smaller version of the ice technique, Terry threw himself back into it. All he achieved was failure and more semi-successful attempts. It seemed that, unlike a certain flying elephant, confidence was not his main problem. His problem was a fundamental lack of skill, talent, or both. Something that no amount of confidence could overcome.

  “I guess it was too much to hope that this would be easy,” Terry told the nearby trees.

  Was it easy to learn all of that programming you used to do? other-Terry asked.

  “No. I guess it wasn’t that easy. Not at first.”

  There you go. You will have to put in the time with this. Incremental improvement is the name of the game with fine control over any kind of magic. That’s true everywhere unless you’re dealing with a true prodigy. Bad news. You are not a true prodigy. But, if you put in the time, you will get better at it. Good news, though. Since you decided to put Sleeping Beauty over there into a coma, you’ve got time on your hands. So, back to it.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  If you’d care to offer, you know, some helpful advice about how to improve beyond practicing more, I’d love to hear it, Terry fired back.

  Other-Terry went silent for long enough that Terry thought he just wasn’t going to answer. So, he was surprised when the construct spoke again.

  I can only get so much from your memory, but what I can glean tells me that you’re trying to move the energy in your core through brute force. Is that about right?

  “Yes,” said Terry aloud.

  Something about having conversations in his head made him feel increasingly like a crazy person the longer they went on. Speaking out loud made it feel less surreal to him, even if it didn’t actually change the baseline madness of it.

  Okay, said other-Terry. That can work, but the general consensus is that it’s the least efficient way to do it.

  General consensus? A general consensus made up of whom?

  Terry, said other-Terry. I want you to consider that question and ask yourself the following question. Do I actually want the answer to that?

  For once, he simply did as he was instructed and asked himself the question.

  “No,” spoke Terry. “Dear god, no. I do not want the answer to that, because I’m betting that there is a one-hundred-percent chance that the information would just make me unhappy or send me into an existential crisis.”

  Oh yeah, said other-Terry. Probably both. Which would be fun for me but not productive for you.

  “Moving on,” said Terry. “If brute forcing it is inefficient, what’s more efficient?”

  This is going to be one of those things that will aggravate you, and it’s not because I’m trying to mess with you this time.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just spit it out.

  Don’t say I didn’t warn you, hedged other-Terry. The most efficient way is to form a cooperative relationship with the energy in your core. Once you do that, it will become far more responsive.”

  Terry said nothing as frustration and annoyance warred for dominance inside of him. It felt like his head might explode.

  “Are you shitting me?” Terry demanded.

  Did I not just warn you, in advance, less that one damn minute ago, that this would aggravate you?

  Yes, admitted Terry. You did warn me.

  Then, why are you yelling at me?

  “Because that advice doesn’t mean anything,” shouted Terry.

  The volume of his words scared some birds that had roosted nearby, sending them into panicked flight. Terry watched them flee into the sky and tried to take calming breaths.

  I will admit that, as far as advice goes, it definitely leans toward the cryptic.

  Leans?

  Okay, said other-Terry. It dives headfirst into the cryptic. But one variation or another of this advice appears from the most talented people in every world where you find magic or cultivation. And trust me, I picked the least obscurantist version of it.

  That’s actually a little horrifying, observed Terry.

  This is the thing that trips everyone up about magic. It’s not rational. You can slap explanations on top of it. System worlds try to codify it. But, when you get right down to it, magic is, by definition, unnatural. Why does it work? Because reasons. What are those reasons? Nobody fucking knows. As for getting it to work right, that isn’t a process you can reason your way through. At some point, you have to just feel your way through it and find whatever you need that lets it flow smoothly for you.

  “So, basically, I need to find some way to make friends with the energy in my core, so that it will do what I want. Is that about the size of things?”

  I probably wouldn’t have put it that way, mostly because it sounds like something you’d hear in kindergarten or a children’s cartoon, but sure. If that works for you, it’s close enough.

  “Should I build a campfire, smoke weed with the energy, and do a Kumbaya singalong with it?” asked Terry.

  Okay, you’re just being an asshole.

  Terr sighed and said, “Yeah, I kind of am.”

  Also, they don’t have marijuana in this world. So, no weed for you.

  “Who’s being the asshole, now?”

  I am, Terry. I am. Also, it’s time to get back to work. Break out your guitar and start singing, flower child. Croon your sweet song of seduction to that energy.

  “Have I mentioned recently how much I hate you?”