Rumors. (1)
“So that’s what happened.”
The evening had already brought twilight to the ground. Sylvia was riding home in the car with Gilteon.
Her father, who enjoyed driving, gripped the wheel himself, while she gazed out the passenger window.
“My dear, did you do it on purpose, then?”
At her father’s question, Sylvia quietly nodded.
“Did you hate that child?”
“There’s nothing to hate.”
“……Right. She’s talented, yes, but it’s already too late for her.”
As he offered this advice, Gilteon suddenly recalled something from long ago.
Ten years prior, on the day of the academy entrance exam. During the Ilayde territory’s ‘aptitude test,’ two seedlings of archmages had been discovered.
It should have been cause for celebration among the territory’s people, but the problem was that one was Sylvia—and the other, Luna.
Luna.
A distant branch of the Ilayde family, now so estranged by time that they were strangers.
And the inevitable issue when talent overflowed in more than two: competition.
“She’s already fallen behind in the race, so there’s no need for you to pay her any mind. Just ignore her, and that’s that.”
……The continent’s magical world had an ancient tradition.
No matter the affiliation or attribute, only three could be recognized as archmages in any given era.
The bar was set so high that two seats had been vacant for nearly thirty years—but one was firmly held by the chairman, so if Sylvia claimed the remaining spot, Luna never could, and vice versa.
Sure, there had been overt family conflicts and various incidents on the surface, but the decisive reason Gilteon rejected Luna’s magical talent was precisely this.
Gilteon spoke softly.
“But my dear, beware of Deculein. He is no easy foe. They called him a prodigy in his youth. He may have stalled now, but he could soar at any moment. He’s merely diminished his own potential, selling himself out for some woman.”
“I know. He’s already seen through me completely. He’s got my weakness.”
“……Haha. The tiger’s cub, indeed.”
Gilteon laughed, but Sylvia clenched the hem of her robe in her lap. She still couldn’t fathom it. How had he known?
If she could, she’d ask him herself.
Gilteon glanced at his daughter’s expression and pulled the car to a stop.
“……Well, damn. We’re already here. It’s been ages since I’ve had a break from duties to drive my girl home, and it feels far too short. What do you say, dear? Shall we take a detour through the city streets together—?”
“I’ll go.”
“What?!”
Sylvia opened the car door and stepped out. Gilteon pretended to wail about her cruelty, but the moment her feet touched the ground, he said,
“My dear.”
His mouth smiled, but his eyes were gravely serious.
“The Ilayde name stands at your back.”
Sylvia looked at Gilteon.
In her father’s golden eyes—so like her own—she saw a reflection of herself.
“Don’t lose your confidence over something like this. If anyone dares make you their enemy, I’ll cut their head from their shoulders, no matter who it is……”
“Hurry back to the territory. Mother’s waiting.”
“……Ahem. How heartless. Very well.”
Gilteon awkwardly ran a hand through his hair and drove off. Sylvia entered the mansion.
“Milady, milady! Are you all right? I heard the rumors!”
The nanny rushed over, her face full of worry.
“I’m fine. It’s all settled. I’ll eat dinner a bit later.”
“Oh, thank goodness. We’ll bring it up whenever you’d like.”
“Yes.”
Sylvia trudged to her room, changed into her nightgown, and flopped onto the bed.
Thud—her soft golden hair fanned out like a peacock’s tail across the bedsheets.
“……Deculein.”
In a thoroughly disheveled state, Sylvia murmured softly.
Today, Professor Deculein had earned her respect anew. His magical insight and discernment were no laughing matter. And she’d been unlucky.
Of course, if his talent were truly mediocre, he wouldn’t be a tenured professor.
This was clearly my oversight.
“Oversight.”
Oversight.
Yes, an oversight……
And yet.
Today’s events left Sylvia riddled with questions.
Not about others, but about herself.
Sylvia never showed emotion toward anyone. She gave her heart to no one, nor accepted it from anyone.
Which was why today’s incident defied clear explanation, even for her.
“Why.”
Do I hate that child?
Ifrin Luna.
And her father.
“Why do I hate her?”
She lacked for nothing, had never failed to obtain what she desired, and her talent was deemed the pinnacle of the Ilayde family’s 500-year history—a pureblood noble.
She, the most perfect creation the supreme house of Ilayde had offered the world…… As that whisper of doubt echoed in her heart,
“It’s because you can’t afford to let your guard down.”
Mana gathered in her eyes. Her pure golden irises blazed like the sun.
The eternal, immortal rank of Eternal—ascendable only by the pinnacle of the magical world.
Those who reached it were etched into continental history as archmages.
From the highest spire of the Floating Island, a realm even the emperor couldn’t easily touch, one could gaze down imperiously upon all magic.
It belonged to neither her father nor her house, but solely to her—the seat she desired.
No, the throne already half in her grasp.
Thus, she would claim it.
Not as Ilayde’s Sylvia, but purely as the individual Sylvia.
Without fail.
Sylvia bolted upright in bed and sat at her desk.
Books, books, books. She had to read. To avenge today’s humiliation, to repay it with skill, she needed to read more, learn more.
Let her reaffirm it once more.
Deculein was no pushover professor. He was more than a match for Ilayde—an adversary overflowing with worthiness.
And Ifrin……
Not even worth watching. She hated to admit it.
As her father said, that girl had already dropped out of the race.
Ever since becoming Deculein, I had woken every day at the crack of dawn. Mornings always refreshed me, fully restored—but today, my muscles ached.
Thanks to yesterday’s near-mana explosion of a spell.
Yet Deculein’s personality, which I’d leveraged to set this routine, propelled my body naturally onward with its diligence.
I began magical training the moment I rose.
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—
Every metal scrap in the room danced to my will.
A marked improvement even from two days ago. Last night’s expenditure of 3,375 mana in a single, practical burst had skyrocketed my proficiency.
For reference, my trait Fleshly Eyes let me visually confirm even abstract proficiencies like this.
The figure read precisely 85%.
Once it hit 100%, I’d engrave beginner Telekinesis.
God knew how much it would hurt then……
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—
I controlled the scraps to brush past each other without touching, stopping when my mana dipped to half.
Next routine: spell acquisition.
Today’s spell was Basic Thermal Control—not particularly vital, so I figured I’d just memorize it superficially……?
“……Hold on.”
As I examined the formula for the fire-attribute manipulation spell Basic Thermal Control, an idea flashed in my mind.
It was as reckless as ‘memorizing Telekinesis across my entire body.’
“No need to acquire Thermal Control outright—if I just graft its core function onto Telekinesis……”
What if I extracted a specific ‘stroke’ of the spell—the central axis of thermal control—and transplanted it into Telekinesis?
Spell patchwork, or rather, spell upgrading.
Telekinesis and thermal control were both in the [manipulation] family to begin with, with somewhat similar structures.
Telekinesis focused on objects, thermal control on heat and fire—that was the only difference.
Thus, they shared quite a few lines. Eight of thermal control’s twenty-two strokes resembled those in Telekinesis.
So, couldn’t I cross-edit spells like plagiarizing a paper or gene-splicing……?
I flipped the switch on Understanding. Fully memorized Thermal Control’s formula, then closed my eyes.
Then, in my mind’s eye, I ripped out the marrow of the memorized Thermal Control and grafted it directly onto my body’s Telekinesis……
“—!”
A colossal pain erupted. Pain so immense, nothing else described it. Blood trickled from my mouth.
“……”
Clutching my heart, I dropped to one knee.
I’d definitely felt it just now.
Any ordinary mage would have died—once already.
“It worked, at least……”
Fortunately, the spell had fused perfectly. I could sense it in my body. Precisely in the magic circle near my shoulder, a Thermal Control formula—distinct from the original Telekinesis—had been added.
“……I’ll need to add one more routine from now on.”
The artificial upgrade of Telekinesis. A novel, reliable strengthening method.
But brutally dangerous, with mounting physical strain each time, so I’d need training via the Iron Man trait.
In other words, exercise.
That was when.
Knock knock—
It’s Roy. Have you prepared for the social event, sir?
The butler spoke with the knock. I checked the clock. It was already one in the afternoon.
“I shall descend shortly.”
Understood. I’ll wait outside the door.
I donned my overcoat and called to the butler.
“Roy. Henceforth, schedule no social events unless utterly vital.”
I’d cancel social nonsense if possible, but today was the key event ‘Flowers of the New Year.’
I shall remember.
The real reason for attending today’s social was, of course, to check faces of potential named characters—but above all,
◆ Shop Currency +0.5
Shop Currency.
I needed at least 5 to access the shop, but I only had 2.5—and more for what I wanted.
I opened the door. The butler waited, head bowed.
“I am prepared.”
“Yes. And this is the blacksmith list you requested last week.”
“Very well.”
Last week, I’d tasked the butler with scouting skilled forges.
“‘Gleaming Adamant’……”
Among the roughly forty-five listed, one name shone brightest—caught by my Tycoon Magnate radar. That was my choice.
“An unusual name. Take this blueprint to Gleaming Adamant.”
I handed him the design.
This would be my ‘personal armament.’
Mages typically favored staves or wands; at their peak, such became ‘artifacts.’ Mine would be utterly alien by comparison.
A weapon solely for Telekinesis—expect great things.
“Yes, understood.”
The butler pocketed it without peeking or questioning. The posture of a fine servant.
“Shall we go? The car is ready.”
“Yes. Well done.”
“……Pardon? Ah, yes. Thank you.”
I exited the mansion with the butler.
“Fine weather.”
“……Pardon? Ah, yes. It is.”
Early spring’s clarity was cozy. The butler seemed flustered by my every word, but I savored the fresh air and boarded.
“Depart.”
“Yes.”
The car glided smoothly.
Lounging regally in the back seat, Midas’ Hand crossed my mind.
Should I try it on the car?
With 1,300 mana left, I could infuse about 1,000.
Curiosity sated, I activated the trait.
Vrooom—!
The car surged forward. The startled driver slammed his head on the wheel in apology.
“Forgive me! Forgive me!”
“It is fine. Drive on.”
“Y-yes! Forgive me!”
The self-flagellating driver soon regained composure, and the back seat grew even more comfortable. The rare vibrations and noise had all but vanished.
Ride enhancement, something like that.
Not bad.
We arrived swiftly.
The venue: a grand castle in the capital’s flashiest district, Hailrich. An entire fortress amid the city streets, repurposed as a noble social hub.
“We’ve arrived.”
The driver alighted first and opened my door. Eyes converged instantly—this car was an outrageous luxury in this world.
“An honor to meet you, Professor Deculein.”
Well-trained attendants greeted me.
I followed their lead down the red carpet. Reporters lined the outer press area, flashes popping chaotically.
I ignored them and entered the castle.
The venerable master of ancient magic arts, head of the Yukline house. The Imperial University Tower’s youngest tenured professor, Deculein von Grahan Yukline.
A sudden amplified voice boomed as I crossed the threshold—the entry announcement. I nearly startled.
“Enjoy your time.”
I nodded and entered the hall.
Twinkling lights like stars, a vast and opulent interior thronged with people. Surveying the crowd, I knew coming was right.
So many familiar named characters: Yutrin, Page, Syrio, Rafel, and more……
“……?”
Yet amid the splendor, one figure stood out strikingly.
I recognized her at a glance.
Julie.
Julie, who loathed socials, couldn’t skip this event. For some reason, she alone wore armor.
“……”
Our eyes met; she offered no greeting and looked away. Nor did I approach her.
In this game, nobles, mages, knights, adventurers, and such received special treatment.
For reference, ‘adventurers’ were a highly professional, structured profession—requiring exam passage for qualification. Unlicensed adventuring branded one a vagrant or wanderer, punishable by law.
Among such adventurers, key named characters pivotal to story branches.
I spotted ‘her.’
A woman with red twintail hair, sharp and irritable features. She scowled, evidently bored by socials, yet already surrounded.
She was the cheater adventurer ranked 5th in initial combat power—
Ganesha.
I mustered courage to approach her.