Chapter 18

The “causal link” involved in casting magic was an exceedingly complex factor. Was the intended phenomenon natural? Did the caster clearly understand what caused the magical phenomenon? Was the amount of mana expended sufficient to produce it...?

Of these, understanding the cause of a phenomenon was particularly important, affecting both the spell’s success rate and its mana consumption. Knowing or not knowing made an enormous difference.

The trouble was that understanding the workings of Decay from its outward appearance was all but impossible. Hadn’t Turan himself only become aware of microorganisms after magnifying them with a spell the librarian taught him?

There was another unintended catch: casting Decay on a living animal was incomparably harder than using it on something like a piece of fruit.

‘That was close.’

As Turan set down the mouse he had rotted alive, he realized he had spent over a third of his mana. What distinguished a living mouse from an apple? The lack of a continuous supply of life force? The difference between animals and plants?

He had used the spell too rarely to guess the exact reason. Perhaps trying it on a dead animal later would tell him more...

In any case, for now he had to conceal that fact and act as though he had succeeded effortlessly.

“All right. My turn now.”

With those words, Maysa made a small gesture, and a breeze swept across the garden. A moment later, an unfortunate mouse wandering near its edge came flying toward her, flailing, and landed neatly in her hand.

[SQUEEEAK!]

She attempted the same spell as Turan, but the mouse showed no particular reaction beyond writhing to escape.

“Hmm...”

Holding a mouse in each hand, Maysa rolled her bulging eyes back and forth between them, as though searching for a difference. At that grotesque sight, Asiz, who had gotten free of the vines at some point, spoke with a look of revulsion.

“Of all the spells you could use, why that one? It’s disgusting.”

“It was just the first thing that came to mind.”

In truth, he had chosen this spell because it had little practical use. In a battle between wizards, one rarely had time to seize an opponent and wait several seconds. He also wanted to gauge how much House Arabion knew about the laws of nature.

‘I thought it unlikely, but does even a great house like Arabion... know very little?’

When learning ancient knowledge from the librarian, Turan had suspected that long-established wizard houses monopolized such knowledge. A wizard who possessed it could hold an absolute advantage over those who did not.

Contrary to his expectations, however, Maysa did not appear particularly knowledgeable about these things. Was it because she was still young and had much left to learn? Or else...

“Looks like you’re having trouble, Maysa. Why not call it Turan’s win?”

While Turan was lost in thought, Asiz teased Maysa, who was frowning with the mice in her hands. The instant she heard him, her eyes, always underlaid with melancholy and languor, sharpened.

“I can do it too.”

Drawing a light breath, Maysa fixed a piercing stare on the mouse. One way to make up for an insufficient causal link in magic was to pour in enormous quantities of mana, compensating for inefficiency with sheer volume.

To take an extreme example, a wizard as powerful as the head of a great house could kill an ordinary knight with a single word, as though killing an animal. Of course, taking that one life would leave the caster nearly exhausted.

“Just a little more...”

Holding the mouse, Maysa willed it ceaselessly.

‘Rot, rot, rot alive—’

It was an inefficient attempt at an unfamiliar spell whose principles she did not even properly understand. How much power had she poured into it, heedless of the mana draining from her body?

At last, the healthy mouse began to rot. It happened more slowly than when Turan had done it, but it was unmistakably the same phenomenon.

“Oh, you did it!”

Beside the admiring Asiz, Turan’s eyes widened in equal surprise. Had she actually realized that the secret to Decay was growing and strengthening the microorganisms that rotted living things?

“... Did it.”

With those final words, Maysa crumpled to the ground. As the mouse slipped free of her hand and fled squealing, Turan and Asiz hurried to support her.

“Maysa! What’s wrong?! Open your eyes!”

While Asiz cried out in alarm, Turan examined her face and physical condition.

‘What caused this? Using too much mana? But running out of mana shouldn’t make her collapse.’

Turan had exhausted his mana countless times practicing magic as a child, but he had never fainted from it. He had merely struggled with weakness after losing even the power to reinforce his body...

With that thought, he looked at Maysa’s emaciated body, and something occurred to him.

‘That’s it.’

“There aren’t any wizards with the Healer Bloodline here, are there?”

“No!”

“Then have someone bring water and salt to her room. And fetch the elders.”

After giving those instructions, Turan immediately lifted Maysa into his arms. She weighed no more than three or four newborn lambs...

Indeed, a body like this could hardly function properly without mana’s help. Clearly, her body had been kept going by magical reinforcement and had failed when her mana ran out.

* * *

“Ugh...”

“Maysa, are you all right? Are you awake?”

Maysa Arabion struggled to open her eyes at the woman’s voice calling to her. Midella, the head of House Berg and her mother’s cousin, was looking down at her with a face full of concern.

“Why am I...?”

“Asiz said you suddenly collapsed while practicing magic with our guest. Is that right?”

Only then did the memories she had briefly forgotten return. Her magical contest with the slick-looking man her older cousin had praised as his savior and a magical genius; the injury to her pride when he accomplished something she could not and showed it off; how she had poured excessive amounts of mana into imitating him...

“Yes. Where are the two of them?”

“For now, we have them staying in the temple under watch. That man might have done something strange to you.”

“No, that’s not it. I did something foolish.”

Maysa laboriously shook her head and sat up in bed. The fresh clothes someone had put her in slipped down, exposing her skeletal arm. At the sight, Midella spoke cautiously.

“I had some soup made. I know you don’t eat for the sake of your magic, but shouldn’t you consider your health too? I hope you won’t take offense.”

“Thank you, Aunt. I’d like to rest a little. Would that be all right?”

“Of course. Get some more rest.”

Once she was certain Midella had left, Maysa gazed at the soup beside the bed, then levitated it in front of her with a small gesture. The rich aroma of flour, butter, and milk made her stomach churn wildly, as though crying out for nourishment.

Maysa picked up the spoon and cautiously brought a spoonful of soup to her mouth. Her tongue and stomach leaped with joy at receiving something other than water and salt for the first time in so long, and—

Four pairs of eyes glared at her, weeping tears of blood.

[“Please save me, Maysa. You can do it...”]

[“It hurts so much, Sis.”]

“Bleurgh—”

Smelling the sour stench of the vomit soaking her mouth and body, Maysa laughed as though sobbing.

* * *

Beneath House Berg’s residence stood a temple dedicated to the limping goddess. It served two main purposes: a place for house members to pray, and a room for temporarily confining those too highborn—or otherwise awkward—to put in a prison. It had only one entrance, and both its door and its walls were too sturdy for anyone to dare break through.

“So don’t get any foolish ideas.”

“Yes, understood.”

After taking Maysa to her room and explaining what had happened, Turan had been confined in the temple by Midella, who politely asked his understanding. Though Asiz had testified on his behalf, there remained the possibility that Turan had used some trick to harm her.

The truth would come out once she woke anyway, so Turan chose to stay quietly in the temple rather than cause a needless confrontation. As for their not confining Asiz along with him despite his presence at the incident—well, that was only to be expected, since he belonged to their house.

Sitting with his back against the wall, Turan regarded the guard standing opposite him: a sturdily built man with a large longsword at his hip. His name was Haram Berg, a noble of the guardian bloodline who had married into House Berg.

Turan sat with his eyes closed, reviewing the magic Maysa had demonstrated to pass the time, when a sharp swish reached his ears. Opening his eyes, he saw Haram busily swinging his sword through the air.

“What are you doing?”

“Training.”

After that curt reply, Haram resumed swinging his longsword. A downward cut, a thrust, a spinning slash followed by raising the sword overhead to cut left and right in succession...

A commoner or knight doing this with a blade would have been merely amusing, but when a noble gifted with exceptional physical prowess by his bloodline performed such techniques, the sense of pressure was on another level entirely. It was as though the sword’s shadows coiled around his body.

Turan wondered whether it was appropriate to swing a sword about before the goddess’s statue, but the movements themselves were as graceful as a dance, so he sat quietly and watched.

“Oh...”

The admiring sound escaped him without thinking. Hearing it, Haram abruptly stopped his sword practice and stared at him.

“Ah, I’m sorry. Did I disturb you?”

“No.”

Despite saying that, Haram simply kept staring at Turan instead of resuming his practice. After a brief silence, he asked an unexpected question.

“Are you interested in swordsmanship?”

“Pardon?”

Where had that question come from all of a sudden? Briefly bewildered, Turan answered honestly.

“Interested... I’m not sure, but I did think it looked impressive.”

“I see.”

With that blunt reply, Haram drew his longsword again, executed a few more movements, and spoke.

“Most nobles look down on unarmed combat and weapon techniques. Attacking directly with magic is easier and more powerful. They think these things are only for knights.”

“Well, unless your bloodline specializes in close combat, it is rather inefficient.”

Depending on their bloodlines, nobles fell into those adept at applying power to their own bodies and those adept at projecting it outward. Most belonged to the latter category, so nobles skilled in close combat were rare. Turan’s own bloodline favored projecting magic over a distance, with his ranged and close-combat capabilities split roughly seven to three.

“But in real combat, sometimes you find yourself in those situations whether you want to or not.”

Turan spoke while recalling kicking the leopard monster he had encountered on the hill, and slitting the rabbit monster’s throat to finish it off. Haram tilted his head at this, then abruptly reversed his grip on his sword and offered it to him.

“Would you like to try?”

“I’m here because I’m a suspect. Are you sure you should give me a weapon?”

“You’re no warrior. It makes no difference.”

Only after turning those words over several times did Turan understand. It meant that he was so obviously terrible with a sword that it made no difference whether he had one. Judging by the dazzling swordplay Haram had just displayed, it could hardly be called conceit. If they both fought with swords and no magic, even ten Turans would clearly be no match for him.

“Let’s see...”

Holding the longsword awkwardly in both hands, Turan followed Haram’s instructions on stances and movements. Unlike magic, which did what he wanted on the first attempt, his movements felt clumsy even to him.

“Not like that. Extend your front leg a little farther—”

“Your elbow is too high. Keep that up and you’ll cut your thigh.”

“Raise your arms higher.”

Haram, whom Turan had initially taken for a man of few words, became surprisingly talkative once he began teaching swordsmanship. After roughly thirty minutes of basic instruction, Turan handed the sword back, rubbing his aching wrists.

“Here you are. I’d like to try more, but it’s exhausting...”

“This sword is tailored to my bloodline. It’s heavy for an ordinary noble.”

No wonder. With an ordinary iron sword, even three hours of swinging, let alone thirty minutes, should not have tired him. Had this swordsman used training as an excuse to wear him out so he could not escape?

As Turan entertained that suspicion while kneading his forearm, Haram offered some advice.

“Make time to train your body if you can. Mana guarantees a certain degree of physical ability even without exercise, but properly building up your fitness still makes a great difference.”

True, learning some of these skills would probably help if a desperate situation forced him into close combat. He would be no match for a bloodline specializing in it, like Haram’s, but against someone of similar strength to himself, wouldn’t it be another weapon at his disposal?

As he was learning some final exercises to loosen his overworked muscles, the temple door opened and House Head Midella entered. The first thing she did was bow her head politely in apology.

“My deepest apologies, Turan. This was no way to treat our benefactor.”

“Then the young lady must be all right. I should apologize myself. My behavior was inappropriate for a guest.”

Turan accepted Midella’s apology graciously. Given that the heir to the house they served had suddenly collapsed, their response had been reasonably sensible. Hearing their exchange, Haram nodded and spoke.

“Glad to hear nothing was amiss.”

“Thank you for your trouble, Haram.”

“The House Head’s orders must be obeyed. I’ll take my leave, then.”

Haram gave the House Head a brief bow and promptly left the temple.

“I hope Haram wasn’t rude to you. He’s a rather brusque man. I’m sure he meant no harm.”

“On the contrary, he taught me a few things.”

At Turan’s answer, Midella smiled faintly and nodded, then said something unexpected.

“That’s good to hear. More importantly... Maysa said she would like to apologize to you. Could you spare her some time?”