The System Runs on Magic [BL, Fantasy, Romance, Action]

“Llewellyn? Overrated. My uncle once fought a Knot with just a crowbar and some duct tape.”

“No, but seriously, are we sure he’s not a government experiment?”

“Elemental Skills aren’t that hard to master. He’s just lucky the System likes him.”

My teeth clenched.

Lucky? That guy saved three cities last week!

I moved to hide the comments out of spite, but my cursor froze halfway there. They didn’t violate any company guidelines; they weren’t profane or abusive, just stupid. Annoyingly, I couldn’t hide stupid.

I kept scrolling.

“Llewellyn could tell me to jump into a Knot blindfolded, and I’d thank him for the privilege.”

“If he walks past you, do your molecules realign? Asking for science.”

“How is his hair so fluffy?”

Let’s… ignore those.

I swear, the worst chaos wasn’t at the Knot sites tearing cities apart. It was in the damned comment sections of this website.

Further down in the thread, someone was trying to start a petition to ban Llewellyn from using Fire Magic indoors. Another was arguing, very seriously, that Llewellyn’s powers violated local noise ordinances.

I took a sip of my third coffee of the night and copy-pasted another pre-approved reply from the agency’s response matrix:

“Thank you for your feedback. Your concerns have been noted.”

This was a lie. I tracked concerning comments, but nobody at the agency even glanced at them unless a lawsuit was involved.

Not that it mattered to me. This job was all I could find, and even though it paid so little I could barely cover groceries after paying my rent, credit card debt, and my half of Gran’s nursing home, it was all I had. I wasn’t going to risk it by doing more than I was supposed to—and I definitely wasn’t about to start doing unpaid emotional labor for the Internet.

Anything beyond comment moderation wasn’t in my job description, so I wasn’t going to touch it.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. Not having to get up in the morning or go to an office was great. And I didn’t hate the project. The moment I heard the agency was going to monitor Llewellyn’s online reputation, I requested a transfer to the team before my supervisor even finished speaking. Nobody else wanted the project due to the sheer volume of conspiracy theories and trolls anyway—especially not the night shifts. Pretty sure the agency was just relieved some low-level idiot was eager to take it.

Worked out for me.

Llewellyn was the only person alive with Transcendent-level Elemental Mastery, and who knew what beyond that. He was more than good—he was impossible. His tactical brilliance and unmatched ability to control and neutralize the most complex physical manifestations of the Knots had made him a legendary figure worldwide. Most people hardly mastered one, maybe two Elements if they were extraordinarily gifted.

Llewellyn was on another plane entirely.

I’d followed his every move since he first appeared in the public eye, devouring every rumor and report. Whatever standard you held him to, he was completely off the charts—and there were whispers claiming he had Elemental Foresight.

Innumerable forums, fan clubs, communities, and social media pages tracked his every move, dissecting his ascent step by step.

I read all of them.

Most of them were wrong. Some of them were so wrong it felt personal.

Anyway.

The good thing was that now, with the agency’s tools, I could see every comment, every rumor, every mention of Llewellyn on any site or social media platform all in one place. I could catch new videos the second they went live, follow conversations about his skills, see what people thought they’d figured out about his techniques and tactics…

Honestly, it was pretty great.

Well, all things considered anyway. As they say—when life gives you lemons, etc.

I had never planned to live like this, but somehow I’d found myself at 31 years old, working the graveyard shift at a digital agency monitoring online conversations for high-profile clients. I wasn’t sure whether to be proud or concerned that I’d maneuvered my way onto this project.

My mother had named me after a foreign poet who never joined any publishing circles—just sent out poems by post, got into literary spats in the papers, and disappeared into the hills. I sometimes wondered whether the name had set me on a similar quarrel-by-post sort of path.

At least, this job beat arguing with trolls for free. Tonight alone, I’d flagged three users who seemed one bad day away from starting a cult and fifteen scammers.

As I scrolled past another comment comparing Llewellyn to an interdimensional dragon king, a private message popped up.

[Niamh]: Ryo! How’s the night shift? :)

I stared at the smiley face and sighed.

Niamh was my manager. She was smart, level-headed, and always had our backs with the higher-ups. Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better supervisor.

But the smiley face meant I was about to get saddled with something.

I typed back in the chat.

[Ryo]: Still alive. The trolls are debating whether Llewellyn’s sword is a metaphor for repressed sexuality.

A gif of a cartoon llama snorting into a drink appeared on my screen.

[Niamh]: Vital intel. I trust you’re documenting it thoroughly?

[Ryo]: Of course.

[Niamh]: You’re our resident Llewellyn expert—how accurate is the sword discourse anyway?

Well, that’s…

What kind of details did she think I had?!

[Ryo]: I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.

[Niamh]: Thought so.

A beat before another message popped up.

[Niamh]: Actually, hang on. I found something I thought you’d appreciate.

A link appeared below her message, a deep-dive post on a weaponsmith forum titled The Historical Accuracy of Llewellyn’s Sword Design and Why It Matters.

I clicked on it. Someone had managed to get pretty good close-up photos of Llewellyn’s sword. Actual sword, I mean. Not the metaphorical kind.

That was unusual. Llewellyn wasn’t fond of the press, and photos of his weapons or artifacts were rare.

The post went all the way back to Innishae’s cultural renaissance under King Eoghan, breaking down how swordsmithing techniques evolved after Yun Seojun shipwrecked on the island. It analyzed both Irish and Korean influences, what their intermingling meant within the broader cultural area of the Bay of Biscay, and how it all tied to current Elemental Mastery under the System.

There was also a section on the Chinese characters on Llewellyn’s blade, what they likely were, and how they allegedly matched the calligraphy style from Baekhaven’s Huayuan District.

It was actually pretty great.

[Ryo]: Since when do you care about the historical accuracy of weaponsmithing?

[Niamh]: I don’t. But someone with a vested interest in Llewellyn’s... equipment might.

I narrowed my eyes at the italics.

[Ryo]: You’re the one sending me sword discourse at 1 AM.

[Niamh]: And you’re the one who brought it up. And who is still typing! :)

The smiley face brought me back to my initial concern. As if reading my mind, Niamh added,

[Niamh]: Anyway, is it very busy?

[Ryo]: The main site’s been lively. I haven’t checked the rest yet, but I’m assuming the usual. How can I help you?

[Niamh]: Would you mind double-checking Llewellyn’s keyword filters? Emma tried to tune them again, but now everything’s setting off alerts—even normal posts.

Emma was Llewellyn’s PR manager, the one who’d hired us to monitor his online presence. Great at handling the public, hopeless at handling the tech.

Still, could’ve been worse. I leaned back in my chair, tension easing.

[Ryo]: Sure. All channels?

[Niamh]: The usual three.

[Ryo]: On it.

This wasn’t exactly the highlight of my night, but at least it was straightforward. Then again, my standards for “straightforward” were pretty low these days.

I had just opened the filter settings, preparing for whatever chaos Emma had inadvertently unleashed, when a window popped up.

It wasn’t from the agency’s internal chat.

It wasn’t even on my screen.

…I stared at the System window floating in mid-air in front of me, heartbeat speeding up.

I’d seen this a few times before, but—

[System Notification: Match identified. Initialization in progress.]

What?

A second message appeared.

[Relocation in 3… 2… 1…]

Wait—Relocation?! What relocation?! I didn’t agree to—

My kitchen vanished.

A split second later, I was somehow on a stone path among ruined walls.

Surrounded by an Elemental tornado.