Rumors (4)
“Ah... um...”
Her heart pounded like it might burst, and her mental fortitude had rocketed off into space. Her damn classmates had already vanished into thin air.
Ifrin tried to slink backward too.
“Step aside.”
But those exact words sparked her defiance.
Why won't you move? Why tell me to?
Ifrin bit her lip hard and lifted her face. She held the paper in her hand straight out in front of her.
“...Professor!”
She'd meant to do it with one hand, but somehow she ended up using both in the most polite way possible. What a blunder.
“Pro...fessor...”
Deculein gazed down at her with those same cold eyes.
Ifrin took a deep breath to steady her trembling heart. At the same time, she vowed to herself: That arrogant gaze of yours—someday, not now but eventually, I'll shatter it with my own power...
“I wish to establish a club. But to do so, I require the signature of an advising professor.”
The silence was excruciating, but Ifrin pressed on doggedly.
“...I swear I won't be a bother. It's just that the other professors don't look kindly on clubs for commoners, so a signature is all...”
By the time she finished, Ifrin had exhausted every ounce of her energy. Her outstretched arms shook violently. Deculein's inexplicable pressure felt like it was crushing her flat.
—But then.
It was utterly unexpected.
Deculein took the paper she offered. Without a word, he simply reached out and snatched it away.
“...Huh?”
Ifrin let out a choked gasp.
Deculein was reading the proposal.
Her nerves were shot. What if he thought, How dare this wretch crawl to me— and tore the paper to shreds?
She even heard a phantom riiiip—.
But Deculein drew a fountain pen from his pocket.
Her heart raced. What if he said, Were you expecting this? You presumptuous commoners— and tore it with the pen?
But Deculein signed it with the pen.
She panicked. What if he smirked, Did you think I'd do this— and tore up the signed paper in triumph?
But Deculein did not.
He simply handed it back to her, intact.
“Detailed contents shall be compiled in full and transmitted to my office at a later time.”
“...Pardon?”
And with that, he walked past her.
By the time she snapped out of her daze, his scent was already fading.
“...”
Ifrin stood there, dumbfounded, staring at the “Club Establishment Proposal.”
There was a signature.
Deculein's signature.
...Don't let your guard down.
What if he'd cast a spell to make it disintegrate after some time?
But as Deculein grew distant, farther away, shrinking to a dot and vanishing entirely, the paper remained whole.
“Whoa, wow, holy shit, wow wow wow! No way! Insane!”
Her irritating classmates, who'd been hiding, finally emerged.
“You actually got his signature... Ifrin, you've got some massive balls.”
“See? Told you! To that professor, nobles are commoners, commoners are nobles—doesn't matter. He treats everyone the same: like trash!”
They all laughed uproariously, but Ifrin felt rotten inside.
The worst.
Once again—unintentionally, sure—she'd begged for his pity.
Rage boiled up. Heat surged through her body.
She wanted to ask Deculein outright.
Why are you always so lenient with me alone?
I don't need your pathetic pity or sympathy. It's laughable. Can't you just cast aside those petty sentiments yourself?
Or if you're truly sorry, confess your sins to the whole world and beg forgiveness from my father...
“Iffy, you're joining too, right?”
Julia asked oblivious as ever. Ifrin clenched her fists tight and whipped around, glaring daggers.
“Hell no. And you—push me like that one more time, and I'll chew you out for real.”
She brushed her off coldly, but Julia's attention was already elsewhere.
“Oh, wait—no, joining? Screw that. Iffy, this is all thanks to you, so you be the president!”
“What the actual fuck.”
What the hell was wrong with this girl? Ifrin shook with disbelief.
“Hey. I said no—clearly—”
But then.
“Right! It's a big day, so I'll treat big-time! Wanna hit our place? Dad airlifted in some Roahawk boar.”
“...”
Roahawk boar.
Ifrin had never tasted it in her life. No one common like her had.
A ridiculously premium pig, raised on Yufrau perilla leaves—luckier than her by far. The moment you bit in, juices exploded, and the texture was softer than any meat in the world...
“...Iffy! You're coming too, right?!”
“No. I'm not.”
Ifrin let pride win. She pouted, pretending to be pissed, and Julia clasped her hands, bowing low.
“Sorry, sorry! I startled you, huh? I panicked too. Come on, just this once.”
That follow-up meant the world to Ifrin.
“...Fine, whatever. But no more bullshit like this.”
“Of course~ Let's go, let's go~”
“I only did it 'cause your cause seemed legit—”
“Got it, got it. Let's go~”
Julia linked arms with her and dragged her along.
And so, pretending reluctance, they arrived at Julia's family restaurant, Pig's Blossom.
The sign and interior screamed luxury, and the food was delicious—delectable, mouthwatering.
Especially that ecstatic Roahawk boar... She wanted to savor it forever.
* * *
The last Thursday of March, an annex of Yukline Mansion.
Now fully remodeled into a training ground and gym, sunlight barely pierced the dim space. I swept back my damp hair.
Intense exercise had left my reflection drenched in sweat long ago.
The old me wouldn't have cared, but this new personality made it feel like bugs crawling over my skin.
Snap—!
I cast a basic common-series spell. A three-stroke incantation, activatable with a mere finger flick.
Named Cleanse. It gathered sweat and grime from my body into the air—a pre-shower fix.
I roughly wiped myself down and checked the clock.
6 a.m.
I'd risen at 4, so two hours passed. About five days into my daily dawn workouts.
I examined my body in the full-length mirror.
The results were vivid. Muscles sculpted practically and perfectly—not oversized or bulky, rivaling a statue's.
All thanks to Iron Man. No workout felt grueling; soreness healed in moments.
A couple months of this, and pure athleticism would surpass those vaunted NFL or NBA stars.
“Next routine...”
Unyielding Sword.
I drew the custom blades I'd commissioned from the smithy. Not one, but many—exactly twenty.
Material: mok steel. Inherits wood's hue and weight, yet tougher than iron—top-grade metal.
These weapons? Sharp octahedrons, in a word.
Half my forearm in size, dart-like, but no hilt—both sides blades, perfectly symmetrical.
Every face razor-sharp, every point needle-fine: ideal for psychokinesis.
Thrust, slash, pierce, launch—all attacks effortless. In a pinch, form a shield for defense.
Basically darts—for use until I process the Frost Stone. Same plan for that.
“Rise.”
At my command, twenty darts levitated.
Vrrrrmmm...
They flew in a swarm but promptly collided, clanging chaotically.
Clang—! Ting—! Crash—! Crunch—!
Roof and pillars shattered. I hastily reduced them to ten.
Still not used to it. Mok steel's premium quality didn't help.
Five to the right diagonal, five left. The ten darted across like a matchstick tower in midair.
Fewer seemed more precise...
But at speed—ping! Two collided and ricocheted.
“...!”
One sliced my shoulder. Fuck. I muttered it under my breath but held back. Then another surged, stabbing my thigh.
“...Fucking hurts.”
Too painful to stifle. Different speeds among the ten caused the disaster.
At least I gauged the destructive power.
One could kill a person effortlessly.
“...Hup!”
I exhaled sharply, yanking the dart from my thigh.
Blood poured, but no healing needed.
I am Iron Man. Mana or stamina recovery exceeds human limits.
“Once more.”
Before the thigh wound closed, I levitated the ten again with psychokinesis.
Shing—!
One tumbled wildly, stabbing my shoulder.
“...!”
Excruciating.
But no grimacing, no roars, no bulging eyes.
No—couldn't. Even if I wanted to scream, nothing came out.
“Such trifling darts...”
Only fury. How dare these mere weapons defy my control?
You chose the wrong opponent. I will win—I declare it—until I do...
Personality Competitive Drive activated.
Why learn through the body? Famous adage.
The more it hurt, the steeper the proficiency gain. No loss.
...That day.
I ended training after 108 slashes and 13 stabs.
Victory unfinished, stamina remained—but lecture at 3 p.m. left no choice.
* * *
3 p.m., Tower's A-Class lecture hall.
Unlike prior sessions, the ordinary spacious room brimmed with unusual tension.
Cause: Sylvia and Ifrin. First class after their brawl.
“...Ahem. Ahem.”
Ifrin tried ignoring Sylvia, but her eyes kept drifting. Sylvia ignored her entirely.
Factions split naturally. Commoners sat by Ifrin, supportive; nobles by Sylvia, sneering at Ifrin.
In that suffocating mood, discomfort mounting—
Rrrroll—
The door opened. Head Professor Deculein entered.
Impeccably dressed, as always.
Ifrin gripped her pen unconsciously. After reading her father's letter last night and fueling her rage(?), just seeing his face stirred complicated feelings.
Deculein ascended the vast hall's podium. He straightened his attire habitually, set down materials.
“Greetings.”
His curt tone prompted reflexive salutes from all.
“Today, we shall conduct a lecture directly tied to the comprehension of Pure Elements.”
Mages opened tomes. Ordinary indoor session, so they'd brought Deculein's treatise Understanding Elements.
(Ifrin couldn't afford it.)
“As you know, 'elements' form the foundation of nearly all magic. Yet many mages still confuse 'series magic' and Pure Elements.”
For instance: attribute first, series next.
Example: creating fire. That alone is Pure Element.
Exhaling that fire? 'Destruction series'.
“Thus, today I shall teach you this spell.”
Mages busied themselves, flipping pages puzzled. Nothing in his book matched.
Snap—!
He flicked; lights dimmed. In the dark void, a spell formula and name materialized.
Singeing Flame
“Huh?”
“What?”
All gasped. Singeing Flame ranked extreme difficulty among Pure Elements.
“No cause for alarm. I do not command you to master it. Your skills fall short by comparison. Singeing Flame serves merely as exemplar.”
Deculein continued calmly.
“As all know, ordinary ignition requires but eight lines.”
Fire bloomed midair at his words—his magic.
Its flames swayed needlessly elegant.
“Yet Singeing Flame demands eighty-eight.”
Soundless, formless fire.
This mid-high spell for mass slaughter and arson required eighty-eight strokes purely for 'ignition.' Offensive use added sixty more.
“Has no one pondered why? Merely 'curious fire'? Or because, despite claims of Pure Element, it seems laced with manipulation or illusion series?”
All blinked blankly.
“Why classify it Pure Element despite series traits? What defines Pure Elements to breed such doubts?”
His lecture held strange allure.
“You have lived without such questions. Theory mere material; you mastered magic through pure intuition.”
Ceiling flames flickered red, then blue, then black.
One hundred fifty mages' eyes glazed blankly.
“You must clearly comprehend the formula for the pure element 'fire'.”
A simpler formula projected: eight-line Fire.
From then—
Ifrin and most mages, mere observers till now, naturally drew pens.
Sylvia, however, stubbornly resisted.
I have nothing to learn from you. Theory or intuition—you can teach me naught...
Still sulking.
“Observe closely. Add these two slender lines to Fire's formula, and color shifts. These two lines control hue.”
Red to blue: two lines.
“Four lines yield greater flame.”
More destructive: four lines.
“Yet seven lines added make it 'flow'.”
Flames cascaded like illusion.
Not magma. Fire truly 'flowed'.
“...”
Even Sylvia, trying to ignore, grew restless. Unexpected content itched her hands.
Indeed, Deculein's lecture was profoundly 'theoretical.'
Elite—genius—mages wielded via intuition. Theory for broad strokes; details by feel.
If all theoretical, magic would be cookie-cutter copies.
Sylvia fit that genius mold. Her attribute was origin, not element. No need for convoluted Pure Element theory.
Besides, over-theory left no time for practice.
Mana per line: so much. This circuit: function X; that: Y.
Full theoretical grasp meant eternities to memorize one spell, scant practical training.
“Now, revisit these seven lines.”
A so-called 'paradox.'
Elites need superior intuition.
Yet elites can't explain intuition.
Thus, elite teaching demands theory.
But theorists drown in theory, intuition lacking—can't cast mid-high spells; not elite.
Professors half-baked. Give young mages theoretical frame, they intuit rest—but profs explain intuition sans theory.
Deculein differed.
“These seven lines make fire 'flow.' Yet this formula seems familiar.”
She anticipated his next words.
Water.
Magically isolating water's property and granting it to fire made flames 'flow' like water.
This: Pure Element combination.
“Precisely. This is water's attribute. Fire and water. Such Pure Element combinations are arduous to execute, yet principles suffice for understanding.”
That instant—Sylvia felt chills crawl her back.
Unexpected source, long-forgotten: learning.
From Deculein, the sensation of true learning.
Sole issue: Sylvia brought no writing tools. Stubbornly assumed pointless.
Who'd guess jealousy-plagued Deculein prepped such for talented rookies? She expected only envy.
“...”
All in A-Class entranced, focused on Deculein.
They scribbled; she alone idle.
Restlessness surged.
I could apply this far better than you lot. Learn deeper. Why study without me?
Fidgeting, Sylvia tentatively extended a finger. Neighboring female mage had flung her case aside—spider eyeing prey, slow...
Then—eyes met briefly.
Woman refocused instantly, but Sylvia burned with shame at exposure.
“...”
Gnashing teeth in agony, Sylvia reluctantly manifested mana. Carefully, no external leak.
Origin mana from her dantian surged veins to periphery, exiting fingertip. Once mere blue, it gained hues, forming long blunt tool.
A pencil.
“Thus, Singeing Flame's attributes are profoundly composite.”
Soundless sway: wind.
Formless rise: smoke (fire + water).
Three attributes fused: Singeing Flame.
“Pure fusion of fire, water, wind renders it Pure Element magic. Now, simplify Singeing Flame. What calculations for manifestation?”
Sylvia immersed in lesson.
Pouring spirit into professor worthy of 'teacher'—face, voice, teachings.
Regaining, faintly, that pure emotion lost in distant childhood...