The First Summoner (Eng Version)

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The night swallowed Glowstone's streets as Marcelo finally reached his apartment door. The cold weight against his chest – the Mask of the Forgotten Sage – seemed to have changed color during the walk? Marcelo blinked. Was it the lighting? Did it look more... alive? If you could call it that...

Lydia, exhausted and restless, slid from his shoulder before he even opened the door. Her furry, scaly body – the size of a large cat – contorted in a stretching arch, tiny membranous wings spreading in a yawn that revealed rows of minuscule sharp teeth. She let out a low hiss, more a tired sigh than her usual communicative sibilance.

— Finally — she hissed, rubbing her snout against Marcelo's trouser leg. — Home smell! — Then she pulled several objects from the small satchel Marcelo carried.

On the walk home, Marcelo had been persuaded to buy numerous shiny trinkets – including a golden candlestick. "They have crystal lamps... what would he need candles for?" he'd thought. But the glitter had attracted Lydia, who saw them as "treasures," and he hadn't been able to refuse her. This had repeated about eight times... Marcelo already felt poor. "Guess I need more missions soon," he thought.

Silently, Marcelo turned the key in the lock. The click echoed loudly in the quiet stairwell. He pushed the wooden door open, and the familiar chaos of his home enveloped him. Stacks of books on Basic Summoning vied for space with clothes and dishes. A small mana-stone hearth flickered weakly in the corner, casting dancing shadows in cold blue light. The air hung thick with the smell of old paper, dust, and the faint sulfur scent that always clung to Lydia.

He kicked the door shut, leaning against it for a moment.

— Good day — he murmured, rubbing his eyes. He slowly removed his tunic, movements heavy with fatigue, and carefully hung it on a crooked hook behind the door. He hesitated. The mask waited in the inner pocket. He felt compelled to take it out, needing to see it again.

With careful touch, Marcelo withdrew the mask from his pocket. The dark wood seemed to absorb the hearth's weak light, the empty eyes transforming into deeper pits of darkness. Palpable cold radiated from it – a damp chill mismatched with the apartment's dry air. The weight in his hands felt disproportionate, as if containing something far denser than wood.

Lydia, who'd been snuggling on an old rug near the hearth, jerked her head up abruptly. Her body stiffened, reptilian eyes – usually golden and curious – narrowing into watchful black slits.

— Why don't you try it on? I wanna see how it looks — she said.

Marcelo looked at her and replied:

— I'm curious too! — Still holding the artifact, he headed to the bathroom. He walked to the small stone basin embedded in the wall, beneath a mercury-stained mirror hanging crookedly. Slowly, he raised the mask toward his face.

In the mirror, his pale, tired reflection stared back. Messy dark hair, fatigue-lined eyes under the blue-tinged light. Then, the dark wood began to obscure his vision. He hadn't even touched it to his skin, but mere proximity – the alignment with his features in the reflection – was enough.

For a fleeting, almost imperceptible instant, the mask's empty eyes in the mirror glowed. Not with light, but with a sudden depth, as if those dark sockets became portals to an unfathomable, ancient, watchful void. Marcelo jumped back with a startled yelp. The mask nearly slipped from his numb fingers.

— Shit! — The word echoed loudly, making Lydia leap.

He gripped the mask tightly, heart pounding erratically against his ribs. He stared at it, then back at the mirror. His reflection was normal now – just a frightened young man clutching a piece of old wood. Exhaustion, he thought desperately. Just exhaustion and suggestion. That damn vendor planted a seed in my head.

But his hands still trembled. And the wood's chill now seemed to have seeped into his bones.

— Marcelo, what happened? — asked Lydia from the doorway.

— Nothing — Marcelo replied. Then he picked up the mask and put it on, turning to Lydia. — So? How do I look? Scary?

— Marcelo... your face... — Lydia spoke in shock.

— My face, what? — said Marcelo, confused.

— Just... look in the mirror... — Lydia whispered.

Marcelo turned and faced the mirror, where he saw the vivid face of the carved old man.

— Impossible! — He clawed at the mask, but where his fingers should have touched wood, they met only skin. — This can't be happening! Damn it!

Marcelo frantically rubbed his face, fingers exploring every inch where the mask should have been.

— But it was here! — his voice came out strangled, sharp with panic. — I put it on, I felt it... I...I... am I crazy? My face? This old man! Damn it!

Lydia watched, head tilted. First came a slight tremor in her membranous wings. Then, a small "puff" escaped her nostrils, like a stifled sneeze. And then... she exploded.

An unexpected sound filled the small bathroom: laughter. Not hisses, but high-pitched, bubbling shrieks like crystal bubbles popping. Lydia rolled on the cold stone floor, front paws batting at her own scaly belly, golden eyes narrowed to teary slits in pure amusement.

— Ha! Ha! Ha! Your face! — she squealed between bursts of laughter.

Marcelo froze mid-self-examination, hand still clutching his cheek. Blood rushed back to his face, staining his ears and neck crimson with rage and humiliation.

— There's NOTHING funny about this, Lydia! — he yelled, voice cracking. — My face is stuck to a wooden mask! This is... it's...

— Really isn't, sorry — the small dragon panted, trying to control herself. She hopped onto the sink's edge, still shaking with giggles.

Driven by necessity and Lydia's persistence, Marcelo slowly turned back to the stained mirror.

The reflection staring back was no longer just the carved face of the old sage – it was *him* transformed into the man. His once-smooth skin now showed the same deep wrinkles and severe grooves as the carving. His eyes, once brown and young, now held a sullen, cold glare. His messy dark hair seemed to have receded and whitened, retreating into a disheveled tonsure. It was him, Marcelo, imprisoned in the face of an unknown ancient.

— No... — his whisper came out hoarse.

He brought his hands to his face again, this time with brutal force. Nails scratched wrinkled skin, fingers pinched and pulled at sagging cheeks, trying to peel off a mask that only existed in flesh.

— Off! GET OFF! — he roared, voice oscillating between his normal tone and the cavernous resonance of the old man. He struck his own face with the back of his hand, a sharp crack echoing in the bathroom. The pain was sharp and real.

— Marcelo... — Lydia said. — You're... you're hurting yourself.

— OF COURSE I'm hurting myself! — he screamed at the mirror, staring at the stranger who watched him with his own terrified eyes. — My face is an OLD MAN'S, Lydia! How is this possible? What did that mask do to me?

He gripped the stone basin, knuckles white from pressing against the cold surface, trying to anchor himself as his world crumbled. Ragged breaths echoed in the sudden silence.

The reflection in the mirror breathed with him, every wrinkle deepening with panic, ancient eyes reflecting a desperation that was viscerally Marcelo's, even wrapped in centuries-old disguise.

— Let's find the vendor... — Lydia suggested, landing on his shoulder.

— Yes! — Marcelo agreed, lifting his wrinkled face with sudden determination. — He must have a way to fix this.

*****

As he boarded a rust-hulled aircraft perched on Glowstone's rooftops, the vendor pulled an identical mask from his cloak's inner pocket—the same ill-tempered old man's face, with deep grooves and hollow eyes. He held it under the flickering light of the deck's mana lamps, a sour smile stretching his lips beneath the hood.

If only I found more fools like that one... he thought, fingers tracing the rough wood. The next city would likely bring fatter profits.

The aircraft—a "Crane Freighter" with wings of patched metallic fabric and a keel corroded by moisture—growled like an ancient beast as its mana engines ignited. The deck vibrated underfoot, releasing a cloud of rust from corroded joints. Leaning against the cold railing, the vendor watched the night market shrink below. There lay the bubble of silence where his ephemeral stall had stood—now just an empty circle among illuminated booths.

— So, how were sales, Joe? — asked a grease-smeared crewman passing by with a crate of gears.

— Good! But there's always room for improvement — the vendor nodded, tucking away the replica mask. His eyes gleamed as he jostled the leather pouch on his belt, where coins and Marcelo's mana crystal clinked together.

The engines surged, blasting bluish steam that swallowed his solitary figure on the deck. The Crane tilted with a shriek of stressed metal, its dorsal propellers slicing through the damp night air. Within minutes, only a flashing red speck remained in the starlit dome, bound for new cities. Deep in the cargo hold, muzzled by nets and silence spells, stolen goods awaited new, unsuspecting buyers.

*****

The night wind lashed against Marcelo's wrinkled face as he burst into the square, Lydia clinging to his shoulder. He dashed straight to the dark corner between the smoked-fish stall and the herb vendor's stand – the exact spot where the bubble of silence had hovered hours earlier.

Only emptiness remained.

No embroidered rug, no sinister hooded figure, no glint of fake crystals. Just the rough stone floor and a suspicious puddle reflecting the moon like a blind eye. Marcelo spun in circles, boots scuffing the cobblestones, his heart sinking with his last shreds of hope. His aged face contorted into a mix of rage and despair.

— Gone... — the hoarse, unfamiliar voice that was now his echoed through the night's murmur. Lydia sniffed the ground, letting out a worried hiss.

He approached the fishmonger, a burly man in a scale-stained apron stacking trout with bored detachment:

— The man who was here... hooded, with a wooden box. Where'd he go?

The fishmonger wiped his hands on a grimy cloth, eyeing the frantic "old man" with suspicion:

— Already left. That's how he is. Shows up, peddles junk, vanishes without a trace. Didn't even leave a shadow. — A spray of dirty fish-washing water splashed near Marcelo's feet.

Across the way, the colorful-haired herb seller instinctively backed away as Marcelo neared. Her eyes widened at his living-mask face:

— The hooded man? Oh, yes, he's gone! Strange fellow! — She made a warding gesture with her fingers. — Best forget him, sir. He doesn't seem... good.

Finally, an elderly jeweler carving mana stones on a stool sighed at Marcelo's approach:

— I remember seeing him, but don't know where he went — he said, trimming a small glowing quartz.

The last hope drained away. Marcelo staggered back, rapid breaths making the wrinkles on his neck quiver. Lydia nibbled his ear restlessly.

He touched the old man's face that wasn't his, hearing the vendor's mocking laughter in the distant clink of coins. The mask wasn't just wood – it was a cell without bars. And the only key had vanished. "Maybe the Guild can help," he thought.

But what would he say when he got there? "I accidentally bought a mask that swapped my face?"*

An absurdity... but he had no choice.