The Shadow of the True Self
I'm designing a magic circle in the basement. However, the grand magic I aim to realize is so vast that even my Understanding falls short, leaving many parts blocked.
There are many concerns. Countless ideas tangle and twist in my mind.
Is it because this is work I'm doing, but not work I'll complete?
Or is it because even I cannot fully escape the 'predetermined death'?
"...Gone."
Al Ross's words, her ear pressed to the ceiling. I nodded toward her.
"Then come and sit."
"Why."
"Looking at you sparks magic in my mind. Inspiration."
"..."
Al Ross glances at the paper I'm scribbling on.
"What do you plan to do with that tiny scrap?"
"A mere fragment of the magic circle. Over a hundred thousand such sheets must gather to complete the grand magic."
In simple terms, it's a puzzle. Of course, with commercial 'magic paper,' there'd be no need for even tens of thousands, but this is ordinary paper bought with pocket change.
"A magic circle, viewed up close, is dotted with all manner of formulas. From afar, it becomes a single artwork. Lines and circles form circuits, mana flows through them, achieving harmony."
"...I know about magic."
"Indeed. You must have had a magic master yourself."
Al Ross flinched. She cleared her throat with a cough and shook her head.
"I'm self-taught."
"Puppetry cannot be mastered alone. Especially not in the Ashes Heap."
"I did it."
I already know who her master is. No need to ask. By the setting, it's Adrienne, and in truth, it is.
I pulled a single sheet from my inner pocket.
"Take it."
"...A contract?"
Al Ross's brows narrow suspiciously.
Mandatory obligations specified. Upon the employer's death, present this to him. Instructions will become clear.
Article 3: Employer shall teach Sylvia's magic.
Signatures: Sylvia von Yuseffin Illayde / Deculein von Grahan Yukline
Penalty for breach: Immediate termination and compensation.
Al Ross nods, then hardens at a certain clause.
"What does Article 3 mean? You teaching Sylvia's magic."
"Exactly as stated. I shall aid Sylvia in perfectly manifesting this voice."
"..."
Al Ross crosses her arms silently, pondering my intent.
I spoke.
"A wager."
"A wager?"
"Her magic against mine. Whichever finishes first. The loser withdraws without regret."
"...Not dangerous? If that woman finishes first, we're all screwed."
I shook my head at Al Ross's question.
"A somewhat shameful expedient."
Snap—
The pencil I'm using to draw the magic circle suddenly breaks. Al Ross's gaze lands on the pencil and my fingers.
"In this wager, I shall never lose."
"...Why?"
"The more Sylvia's magic advances, the more 'I' become myself."
"..."
Al Ross looks unknowing, but Deculein is inherently inimitable. A man beyond mere imitation.
Yet Sylvia's current replication of me to this degree must stem from some 'permission' granted by the me beyond the sea.
"A truer me would unravel Sylvia's magic."
"...Even with the contract?"
"A contract with a devil is void."
"..."
Breaching contracts and betrayal were daily bread for the original Deculein. Even blended with Kim Woojin, if the target is Sylvia borrowing a devil's power, he would shatter it mercilessly.
I turned to Al Ross.
"You know it too, but I remain incomplete. I think and move like Deculein, yet something lacks, and in the end, I am dying."
Perhaps now, I am closer to Kim Woojin than Deculein.
No matter the influence of personality, to be so enchanted by Al Ross's beauty, to feel such pity for Sylvia that my heart aches.
"Al Ross. When you meet the original me, take care."
Al Ross's eyes capture me. A clear light like a lake in a mystical forest. Truly, an appearance suited to tempting Deculein.
"I am content merely gazing upon you for inspiration."
I placed my hand on her face. Caressed it gently, as one would a treasure.
"He might seek to preserve you."
From the perspective of 'art,' Al Ross is perfection.
Her traits are unparalleled, making her little more than an ideal item for Deculein.
"Yet art that endlessly inspires merely through the eyes is rare."
"...Is that so."
"I wish for you neither death nor misfortune."
"..."
Al Ross averted her eyes. Pulled her face back like a turtle.
"Unhappy art has its value, but once it withers, it cannot be savored long."
I smiled and withdrew my hand.
"Prepare a doll by then. One to face the original me. Hide the real you. A brush-by or single glance is fine, but never long or close before me."
I explained the code of conduct. Al Ross listened quietly.
"It's regrettable, even tragic, that the original me never meets you as art, but it cannot be helped. For you to endure long."
Suddenly, Al Ross's expression hardened coldly.
"Endure? I'm human. Not art."
"Yes. You are human. Then why hide behind a doll you despise?"
"..."
One phrase sealed her lips. Each shifting expression more mysterious than a Da Vinci canvas.
"Perhaps you are already preserved within yourself. Until you escape that self-loathing, I shall be your death variable."
"...Death variable?"
An insecure Al Ross toward herself—Deculein might gladly preserve her. A self-hating human holds less value than ordinary artwork.
But an Al Ross who accepts herself—Deculein might spare her. As she says, not as 'art' but as a 'human,' or an 'artistic human,' to keep at his side.
"Enough prattle."
"...You're the one who started talking."
I returned to the magic design.
Snap!
But soon, another pencil breaks. Due to imperfect strength control.
Al Ross asked.
"Is that proof you're dying?"
I nodded silently.
The more I exist now, the more mana I use, the more I shatter. Even without murder, a week remains at most.
"I see."
Al Ross nods alone and falls silent. Watching me, watching the magic circle I record.
"...Professor."
After a long while, she murmurs softly.
"You're a freak even rarer than in the Ashes Heap."
"Silence. Even you cannot compare me to that refuse from the Ashes Heap."
"..."
Good grief.
Al Ross shakes her head in disbelief.
I visited Sylvia at the appointed time each day.
"Today, after inspecting your magic circuits, fairy language drills."
"..."
Sylvia nods silently. Arrogant demeanor, so I flick her forehead sharply.
"..."
Caught off-guard, Sylvia stares blankly upward. As if pondering what just happened.
"...Ow."
She belatedly yelps, rubbing her forehead.
"I dislike corporal punishment, but no answers means another. Sit."
I placed the prepared materials on her desk. Grievance from the flick makes her approach with a puffed face and sit.
Then she grumbles.
"My skull nearly cracked."
"Must have misjudged the force."
"No lie. My head hurts. You meant to kill me."
I checked her forehead and startled. Truly swollen like a unicorn horn.
Strength control issue, indeed.
"...So heed my words well. First, this part of your circuit is wrong."
I pointed to a circuit in her incantation formula. Thirteen straight lines twisted like a knot, forming a core circuit.
"It's not."
Sylvia countered.
"It is wrong."
"Magic has no wrongs."
"Wrong."
"You're sabotaging. To win the wager."
At her words, I feigned gathering for another flick. Sylvia shudders and leaps to cling to the wall.
"I commit no such dishonorable sabotage. Remember: In magic's realm, no absolutes, but errors exist. 'Inefficiency' is error."
"..."
Sylvia glares at my fingers, lips pursed tight.
Must hurt terribly.
"Answer."
"...Got it."
Only then did I withdraw, and Sylvia returned to sit beside me.
The next day, I visited Sylvia again. Her attire differed from yesterday.
Yesterday, plain noble gown; today, a dress with an extra lace trim.
"Today, magic circuit lecture, then fairy language composition. You reviewed, yes?"
"...Yes."
Fear of punishment ensures prompt replies. Casual speech irks, but correcting bit by bit is proper.
"Sit."
"Okay."
She sits, shows her revised magic circuit.
I scrutinized every part, every segment, for inefficiency or shortfall.
"...Excellent."
I nodded. Truly, her magical talent shone in the answers.
"..."
Sylvia said nothing, but clenched her hidden fist under the desk. The sight oddly cute; I smirked crookedly.
Sylvia's eyes widened.
"Ah, you smiled."
"...No complacency."
I hardened my expression.
"Circuit efficiency is simple from the start. Anyone comprehends. The issue is optimally aligning 'compatibility' between circuits. Mage accidents mostly from forcing incompatible joins..."
I continued the lesson, but Sylvia's face was round and content. Deeply satisfied.
....
The next day, and the day after, and the one after that, and beyond.
Each day at the same time, I visited Sylvia.
Each day, Sylvia's attire upon facing me changed daily.
First day plain; with each passing day, an extra hemline, an accessory added. Now, vibrant yet tasteful fashion fitting social circles her age.
Of course, magical prowess rose steeply too. Sylvia absorbed my teachings like a sponge, applied swiftly.
Worthily, archmage talent.
Yet not all perfect.
"Fairy language proves difficult, it seems. Fifty points."
"..."
Sylvia bowed gloomily. Passed magic quiz, but failed fairy dictation miserably.
"It's hard."
"No haste. Your time exceeds mine anyway."
"..."
Then Sylvia's face turns impassive again, gazing up. As if wanting to ask something.
"A question?"
She nods at my words.
I tidied lesson materials, answered.
"Ask."
"Not lesson-related."
"Fine."
"Aren't you scared."
Flat tone blurs question from soliloquy, but familiar now.
I asked back.
"Scared of what?"
"Dying."
Dying.
As she says, my life now is short. Drawn existence from the start; at lifespan's end, sublimate to paint.
That, to me, is death.
"...When I die."
I turned to Sylvia. She met me with her signature blank eyes.
"The next me dies. Then the one after. And beyond. Yet the 'purpose' remains one, so no need for fear."
No need for fear.
Yes, no 'need' to fear.
Deep in my heart, perhaps I do fear death.
"Yet, Sylvia."
"Yes."
She answers calmly.
This child overlooks one crucial fact.
Thus, I worry for Sylvia.
"Ask."
Sylvia blinks, tilts head. Vastly changed from our first meeting.
"My death holds no fear for me."
I asked her.
"But are you alright?"
"..."
Sylvia's face subtly hardens.
In truth, this too was one aim of the lessons.
"When I die, it's death, but the next me you revive."
I set down the pencil.
"Forgets all these memories."
Tick-tock— tick-tock—
Flowing time.
Of today's promised two hours, 53 seconds remain.
"Of course, the next me continues these lessons."
In that ticking echo, Sylvia watches me. Peers into my eyes.
I asked.
"Sylvia... that parting—can you bear it?"