Dreams and Reality
"Pizza, burger, chicken, potato chips, ice cream... Yum, yum, yum," Harry muttered blissfully, his dream-self lounging in a magnificent feast hall surrounded by towering platters of modern delicacies.
The dream was so vivid he could taste the rich, melted cheese stretching between slices of pepperoni pizza, feel the satisfying crunch of perfectly salted potato chips between his teeth, and smell the distinctive aroma of flame-grilled burgers topped with pickles, onions, and ketchup. But it was the ice cream that commanded his attention now—a triple-scoop masterpiece of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry, precariously balanced on a waffle cone.
His dream-self happily licked the creamy confection, savoring the cold sweetness as it melted on his tongue. Each flavor transported him back to his previous life—to summer afternoons spent in air-conditioned malls, to birthday celebrations with friends, to quiet moments of indulgence after a long day. The ice cream felt so real, so gloriously cold and refreshing, until...
Two glowing eyes suddenly appeared on the frozen treat, blinking open to stare directly at him. The scoop of vanilla ice cream morphed slightly, forming what looked disturbingly like a face.
"Young master, wake up. It's time for sword practice," a voice emanated from the dessert, the words causing tiny ripples across its creamy surface.
Harry blinked in confusion, his dream-self taking an involuntary step backward. "Huh?"
The disturbing transformation didn't stop with the ice cream. All around him, his feast began to change. The burger's sesame seed bun parted like lips, the pepperoni on the pizza rearranged into eye shapes, and the potato chips clattered against their plate as they began to vibrate.
"Young master, wake up! Wake up! Wake up!" The voices grew louder and more insistent, overlapping in a cacophonous chorus that shattered the peaceful feast hall. The food items began floating around him in a dizzying spiral, their voices merging into a disorienting whirlwind of sound until—
Harry jolted awake with a strangled gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs. Disorientated, he blinked rapidly in the dim morning light that filtered through the heavy curtains of his bedchamber. For a moment, he couldn't distinguish between dream and reality, his mind still half-trapped in that bizarre feast hall.
"Young master, you must wake up." A calm, familiar voice spoke beside him, accompanied by a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You have sword practice with Lord Lor. Please wash up quickly. He's been waiting in the training ground for nearly fifteen minutes."
Harry turned his head to find Maya standing by his bedside, a concerned expression on her face. Her black hair was neatly tied back as always, and she wore the same blue uniform with the Gold family crest. In her hands was a basin of water, steam rising from its surface in delicate wisps.
"Ugh, it was you, Maya," Harry groaned, flopping back onto his pillows and throwing an arm over his eyes. The remnants of his dream were quickly fading, leaving behind only a lingering sense of disappointment and an empty feeling in his stomach. "Alright, give me a second. I'll be down at the training ground soon."
Maya nodded approvingly, setting the basin down on the nearby washstand. "I've laid out your training attire, young master. There's bread and cheese on the table if you wish for a quick bite before you go." With that, she curtseyed and quietly left the room, closing the heavy oak door behind her.
Harry dragged himself out of bed, his movements sluggish and reluctant. The stone floor was cold beneath his bare feet, shocking him into slightly greater alertness. He splashed the warm water on his face, the droplets clinging to his eyelashes as he stared at his reflection in the small silver mirror above the washstand.
"X," he muttered quietly, "is there any way I could recreate ice cream in this world?"
"Technically yes," the AI's voice responded in his mind. "But it would require machinery for refrigeration or significant ice magic. Perhaps that should be one of your future projects?"
Harry grunted in agreement as he toweled his face dry and reached for his training clothes. The outfit consisted of a loose linen shirt, sturdy leather breeches, and soft leather boots designed to provide support while allowing freedom of movement. A leather vest provided minimal protection without restricting mobility. It wasn't particularly comfortable, but it was practical for the grueling session ahead.
After forcing down a few bites of bread and cheese to settle his growling stomach, Harry made his way through the manor's corridors and down the grand staircase. Servants bustled about their morning duties, offering respectful nods as he passed. The huge tapestries depicting heroic battle scenes and mythological figures seemed to watch him with judgmental eyes as he trudged toward his fate.
The morning air was crisp and cool when Harry finally emerged into the courtyard, the sun barely cresting over the eastern wall. Dew still clung to the grass around the edges of the training ground, catching the early light and transforming ordinary droplets into tiny crystals that sparkled with unexpected beauty.
His father was already at the center of the training yard, standing tall and composed with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Lor Gold cut an impressive figure against the morning sky—his military posture unwavering, his scarred face set in lines of rigid discipline. He wore simple training clothes similar to Harry's, though of finer quality, and a sword hung at his hip, the pommel worn smooth from years of use.
As Harry approached, his boots scuffing against the packed earth of the training ground, his father's sharp amber eyes tracked his movement with the precision of a predator. There was no anger in that gaze, merely assessment and the unspoken expectation of excellence that had always characterized their relationship.
"Harry," Lor's deep voice carried across the training ground without need for shouting, "you need to start waking up earlier. A warrior's discipline begins at dawn, not whenever he chooses to open his eyes." His tone held no particular harshness, just the matter-of-fact delivery of a man stating an irrefutable truth.
Harry came to a stop before his father, automatically straightening his posture under that penetrating gaze. The morning sun cast long shadows across the training ground, stretching their silhouettes into elongated figures against the earth.
"From now on," Lor continued, uncrossing his arms and placing his hands behind his back in a classic military stance, "you'll exercise for two hours daily before even touching a practice sword. Building your physical foundation is essential before you learn the basics of swordsmanship. Today, we'll focus on conditioning your body."
Harry's heart sank as he processed his father's words. Two hours? My best time in the gym back in my previous life was one hour! And that was with modern equipment, air conditioning, and motivational playlists, he thought dismally. This is going to be brutal.
Still, he knew better than to voice these complaints. Instead, he straightened his shoulders further and replied with the expected deference, "Yes, Father."
A slight nod was Lor's only acknowledgment before he launched into explaining the training regimen. Harry listened with growing dread as his father outlined a physical conditioning program that would have made medieval drill sergeants wince.
Harry's morning training proved even more grueling than anticipated. The first hour consisted of running laps around the perimeter of the training ground—a substantial area that served as the primary practice facility for all the viscount's guards and knights. The packed earth was uneven in places, requiring constant attention to avoid stumbling, and the rising sun quickly turned the cool morning into a sweltering ordeal.
"Faster, Harry!" Lor called from the center of the yard, where he stood monitoring his son's progress. "A knight in full armor must move with speed and grace. How do you expect to do that if you can't even run properly without it?"
Gritting his teeth, Harry pushed himself harder, his legs burning with the effort. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his linen shirt until it clung uncomfortably to his skin. His lungs screamed for more air than he could provide, and a stitch formed in his side, stabbing him with each step.
After completing what felt like his hundredth lap (though it was closer to twenty), Lor finally signaled for him to stop. Harry bent double, hands braced on his knees as he gasped desperately for breath, black spots dancing at the edges of his vision.
"Good," his father said, though Harry couldn't detect any particular approval in his tone. "Now for the strength exercises."
What followed was a relentless series of push-ups, squats, and planks that targeted every major muscle group. By the end of this segment, Harry's arms were trembling uncontrollably, his legs felt like jelly, and sweat was pouring down his face in rivulets. He finally collapsed onto the ground, sprawling spread-eagle on his back and staring up at the cloudless blue sky, his chest heaving with each labored breath.
For a brief, blissful moment, he thought perhaps his father would take pity on him and call it a day. That hope was swiftly crushed when Lor's face appeared above him, blocking out the sun.
"Get up, Harry!" Lor barked, his expression uncompromising. "The first hour was just a warm-up. Now you'll begin strength training."
Harry groaned but forced himself to stand on protesting legs that threatened to buckle beneath him. His entire body screamed in protest as his father directed him toward a rack containing various training implements.
"Take these," Lor instructed, handing Harry a pair of canvas bags filled with sand. Each weighed approximately ten pounds—a significant burden for his seven-year-old frame, especially after the exertions of the previous hour.
What followed was a systematic torture session disguised as strength training. Harry lifted the weighted bags repeatedly in different positions to work his shoulders, arms, and back. He performed lunges while holding them, further taxing his already exhausted legs. He did twisting motions to strengthen his core, each repetition sending new waves of discomfort through his overtaxed muscles.
Throughout it all, Lor offered corrections, adjustments, and the occasional grunt of acknowledgment when Harry managed a particularly clean movement. The viscount demonstrated each exercise first, his powerful frame making the weighted bags look like feather pillows, before expecting his son to replicate the movements with perfect form.
By the end of the second hour, Harry was beyond exhausted. He lay sprawled once more on the ground, every muscle fiber in his body protesting vehemently against the abuse it had endured. His fine linen shirt was now a sodden rag plastered to his skin, and his hair was matted with sweat. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, a pounding drum that matched the throbbing ache in his limbs.
"Not bad for your first session," Lor said, looking down at his son's collapsed form with what might have been a hint of approval. "You didn't quit, despite the difficulty. That shows character."
The faint praise did little to soothe Harry's physical discomfort, but it did spark a small glow of satisfaction in his chest. He had survived, at least. Whether he would be able to move tomorrow remained to be seen.
With monumental effort, Harry pushed himself up to a sitting position, wiping sweat from his brow with a shaking hand. As he caught his breath, an idea that had been forming in his mind since his conversation with X the previous night resurfaced.
"Dad," he began, his voice slightly raspy from exertion, "I want a Blackstone pen."
The request was so unexpected, so completely unrelated to their current activity, that Lor's composed expression momentarily faltered. His eyebrows rose in genuine surprise as he regarded his son with newfound curiosity.
"A Blackstone pen?" he repeated, clearly taken aback. "What for? Do you plan to start forging already? You're far too young to have the knowledge required to make anything significant. Even the most talented forger apprentices don't begin actual creation work until they're at least fourteen."
Harry shook his head, pushing damp hair away from his forehead. "No, nothing dangerous," he assured his father, trying to make his request sound as innocent and reasonable as possible. "I just want one. It's not like I'm asking for a sword or anything. Just a pen."
Lor studied his son's face intently, searching for some hint of the true motivation behind this unusual request. After a long moment, he sighed, crossing his arms across his chest.
"Fine," he conceded with evident reluctance. "I'll have someone bring one to your room later. But listen carefully, Harry—don't cause any trouble with it. Blackstone is valuable and potentially dangerous in unskilled hands. If I hear you've been misusing it, I'll take it back immediately."
Despite his exhaustion, Harry's face lit up with genuine excitement. The prospect of actually being able to implement some of his ideas made the morning's suffering seem worthwhile. "Thanks, Dad! I promise I'll be careful."
Lor shook his head with a faint smile, watching as his son somehow found the energy to clamber to his feet, his earlier fatigue seemingly forgotten in the wake of this small victory. What is that boy planning now? he wondered, not for the first time since Harry's unusual behavior began after the awakening ceremony.
"Go clean yourself up," he instructed, dismissing Harry with a wave of his hand. "We'll continue tomorrow morning—don't be late again."
Exhausted beyond measure from the morning's rigorous training, Harry barely managed to drag himself back to his chambers. Each step up the grand staircase was an exercise in determination, his muscles protesting with every movement. The stone corridors of the manor seemed to stretch endlessly before him, and by the time he reached his room, he was moving with the stiff, pained gait of a man five times his age.
Without even bothering to remove his sweat-soaked training clothes, he collapsed face-first onto his bed. The soft mattress and cool sheets felt like paradise against his overheated skin. His last coherent thought before consciousness fled was that he might never move again.
When Harry finally woke, the quality of light filtering through his partially drawn curtains told him it was already mid-afternoon. His body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of warhorses—every muscle stiff and aching, joints creaking in protest as he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. If this is what it takes to be a swordsman, he thought wryly, maybe I should reconsider my life choices.
As his vision cleared and he took stock of his surroundings, Harry noticed something that hadn't been there before his impromptu nap. Sitting on his writing desk near the window was a small, elegantly crafted wooden box. The polished mahogany gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, its surface inlaid with intricate patterns of silver that formed the Gold family crest.
Curiosity temporarily overriding his physical discomfort, Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and shuffled toward the desk, each movement accompanied by twinges of pain from his abused muscles. The short walk from bed to desk felt like crossing a desert, but the prospect of what might be inside the box provided sufficient motivation.
With fingers that were still slightly trembling from overexertion, he carefully lifted the lid. As it swung open on silent hinges, Harry froze, his tired eyes widening at the sight of the object nestled on a bed of midnight-blue velvet.
It was a pen—but calling it merely a "pen" would be like calling a dragon just a "lizard."
The writing instrument before him was nothing short of a masterpiece, radiating an aura of craftsmanship and opulence that took his breath away. Its body was crafted from polished gold of the highest quality, gleaming with a warm luster in the afternoon light. Intricate engravings covered its surface—delicate patterns of vines and leaves that seemed to flow naturally along the contours of the pen, each detail rendered with microscopic precision. At various points where the vines intertwined, tiny gemstones were embedded into the metal—rubies and emeralds that caught the light and scattered it in colorful patterns across the desk's surface.
The clip, attached to the cap with seamless craftsmanship, was shaped like the wing of a majestic eagle in flight, each feather individually defined with remarkable attention to detail. The piece was functional yet artistic, a perfect marriage of form and purpose that spoke to hours of painstaking labor by a master artisan.
But what truly set the pen apart was the Blackstone elements. The top of the cap was crowned with a perfectly spherical orb of pure Blackstone, its deep, shimmering black surface seeming to absorb the light around it rather than reflect it. The contrast between the luminous gold body and the light-devouring Blackstone created a visual dynamic that was both striking and elegant. Beneath the orb, a subtle inscription in elegant script circled the cap: "Power forged through purity."
Harry turned the pen over in his hands with reverent care, marveling at its perfect balance. It was light enough to handle with ease, yet possessed sufficient weight to feel substantial and significant. At the base of the pen, where the nib would extend, was an additional band of Blackstone wrapping around the entire circumference. This band was carved with arcane runes that glowed with a faint, pulsing blue light when Harry's fingers passed over them—responsive to his touch and the mana within him.
"Wow," Harry muttered, his earlier fatigue momentarily forgotten as he twirled the pen carefully between his fingers. The craftsmanship was beyond anything he had expected—this wasn't merely a functional tool but a work of art, likely worth more than most commoners would earn in several years. Dad really came through with this one. I expected something basic, not a royal treasure.
With newfound energy born of excitement, Harry rose from his desk and moved to the wardrobe, wincing as his sore muscles protested. He shed his filthy training clothes and quickly washed using the basin of now-cold water Maya had left earlier. Clean and dressed in fresh attire—a simple but well-made tunic and comfortable breeches—he returned to his desk, the Blackstone pen calling to him like a beacon.
From the bottom drawer of his desk, Harry retrieved a scroll of high-quality parchment. The material was smooth and thick, its edges trimmed with precision, and its surface treated to accept ink without bleeding or feathering. Such writing materials were expensive in this world, reserved primarily for official documents, magical contracts, or the correspondence of nobility. Harry had been given a small supply for his lessons in penmanship and composition, but he had something far more significant in mind for this particular scroll.
Settling into his chair, Harry unrolled the parchment across his desk, using small paperweights shaped like the Gold family crest to hold the corners flat. The blank canvas before him represented limitless possibilities—the first step in bringing knowledge from his previous world into this one.
He held the elegant Blackstone pen in his right hand, feeling its perfect weight and balance. The connection was immediate—a subtle warmth that spread from the pen into his fingers, a resonance between the Blackstone components and the condensed mana within his body that X had described.
"X," he spoke quietly, mindful that servants might pass by his door, "you said I can make anything using Blackstone, right?"
"Yes, Harry," X's voice echoed clearly in his mind, carrying its usual tone of precise confidence. "As long as you understand how it's made down to its smallest detail—its components, structure, and function—you can manifest it through Blackstone as a medium."
Harry's eyes lit up with excitement, his mind already racing with possibilities. The potential applications seemed endless. "So, does that mean I can even create medicine? Food? Things like that?" The implications were staggering—he could revolutionize healing practices, solve food shortages, or simply satisfy his own cravings for the flavors of his previous life.
"Yes," X confirmed, "If you have the knowledge of how it is made, you can recreate it with Blackstone. This includes organic compounds like coffee beans or medicinal herbs, provided you understand the chemical composition, cellular structure, and the exact process by which they grow. The more complex the item, the more detailed your understanding must be."
"Perfect," Harry said with growing determination, his fingers tightening slightly around the pen. The thought of potentially recreating some of the comforts and technologies from his previous life sent a thrill through him. No more bland food, no more primitive medicine, no more writing by candlelight—the possibilities were limited only by his knowledge and imagination.
He positioned the pen over the pristine parchment, the Blackstone nib hovering just above the surface. For his first creation, he wanted something ambitious—something that would definitively prove the potential of his unique abilities. The choice was obvious.
"Alright, X," Harry said, his voice steady with purpose, "transfer all the knowledge of how to make a smartphone into my head."
The effect was immediate and overwhelming. A subtle hum filled his mind as data flooded into his consciousness—intricate schematics for chipset architecture, detailed diagrams of motherboard circuitry, precise chemical formulations for battery composition, complex algorithms for operating systems, protocols for wireless communication, material science for touchscreens, and countless other components that made up the modern marvel he had taken for granted in his previous life.
The sheer volume and complexity of information would have overwhelmed an ordinary person, possibly causing severe mental trauma. But Harry's mind, enhanced by his connection to X, processed it all with remarkable efficiency. His eyes grew wider as the knowledge settled into place, connections forming between concepts, implications becoming clear.
"It'll take time to build a complete smartphone," he muttered, suddenly appreciating the astonishing complexity of the device. Each component represented centuries of scientific progress and engineering refinement from his previous world. Creating one from scratch would be like attempting to rebuild an entire civilization's technological journey.
X's voice chimed in, offering an unexpected solution. "Not if you sketch out all the components with the embedded knowledge of how they function. The Blackstone will respond to your understanding and intent."
Harry blinked in surprise. "Really? I thought I'd have to write down every single name, function, and working principle—document the entire manufacturing process step by step."
"Do you think the scroll can store that much information?" X replied with what almost sounded like amusement. "Just draw the components while focusing on their functionality. The Blackstone will interface with your mana and the knowledge I've transferred to you, extracting the necessary details directly from your mind."
The explanation made sense. After all, this was a world of magic where intent and understanding often mattered more than rigid procedure. Nodding to himself, Harry touched the nib to the parchment and began to draw.
His hand moved with surprising surety, guided by the knowledge newly implanted in his mind and the subtle influence of the Blackstone pen. On the scroll, intricate diagrams took shape—not the crude sketches of a seven-year-old boy but precise technical illustrations that would have impressed engineers from his previous world.
First came the motherboard, the central nervous system of the smartphone. Harry detailed its layered circuits with meticulous precision, labeling the pathways connecting the CPU, GPU, RAM, and storage components. Each transistor and microchip was rendered in miniature, the Blackstone ink seeming to flow of its own accord in places where Harry's concentration on the details was particularly intense.
Next, he sketched the battery, mapping out its lithium-ion composition and the sophisticated mechanisms for energy storage and distribution. He drew the protection circuits designed to prevent overheating and added notations about capacity and charge cycles.
The display screen followed—a complex layering of OLED technology with touch-responsive surfaces. Harry focused particularly on the pixel structure and the light-emission properties, knowing these details would be crucial for functionality.
One by one, he added the remaining components: the camera module with its high-resolution lenses and AI-enhanced processing capabilities; the charger with its precise voltage regulation and energy transfer protocols; the speakers with their vibration mechanisms and acoustic chambers; and finally, a comprehensive outline of the software framework, detailing the user interface, security encryption, and wireless connectivity features.
As he completed the final line of the schematic, something extraordinary happened. The entire scroll began to shimmer with an ethereal light, the Blackstone ink glowing with increasing intensity until it was almost painful to look at directly. The pen in Harry's hand vibrated and grew warm, channeling his mana into the creation process.
Golden sparks danced across the surface of the parchment, following the lines he had drawn as if tracing each circuit and component. The air above the desk shimmered like a heat haze, and within that distortion, components began to materialize—first as ghostly outlines, then gradually solidifying into physical form.
Piece by piece, the smartphone assembled itself before Harry's astonished eyes, guided by the detailed blueprints he had created. The circuits linked together, the screen fused seamlessly onto the frame, the camera lenses aligned with micrometric precision, and within moments, a complete device rested on the desk where only parchment had been before.
Harry stared in wonder at what he had created. The smartphone was sleek and elegant, its casing a perfect blend of black and gold that echoed the Blackstone pen itself. It radiated a sense of quality and craftsmanship that surpassed even the most premium devices from his previous life.
With trembling fingers, he reached out and picked it up, half expecting it to dissolve like a mirage. But the device was solid and real in his hand, its weight and balance exactly as he remembered from his previous life. The screen came to life at his touch, illuminating with a warm glow that reflected in his wide, amazed eyes.
"It worked," he whispered, his voice barely audible even in the silence of his chamber. "It actually worked."
"Of course it worked," X replied matter-of-factly. "Your understanding was complete, your intent was clear, and your mana is exceptional. The Blackstone simply provided the conversion mechanism between knowledge and physical reality."
Harry turned the device over in his hands, admiring the seamless integration of technology from one world and magic from another. The implications were staggering—with this power, he could potentially revolutionize this entire medieval society, introducing innovations centuries ahead of their time.
A slow smile spread across his face as he powered on the device, the familiar startup animation playing across the screen. Perhaps being reincarnated in this world wasn't a punishment after all—it was an opportunity. An opportunity to build something extraordinary.
With the smartphone in one hand and the Blackstone pen in the other, Harry felt a surge of purpose and possibility. His path forward was suddenly clear, illuminated by the glow of the screen in his palm. The journey would not be easy, but it would certainly be interesting.
"Let's see what else we can create," he murmured, already mentally listing the next innovations he would bring to this world.