Preparation (3)

The library rooftop late at night.

Ifrin leaned against the railing, gazing at the university's nightscape.

Above, the magic tower glowed blue all the way to its peak, while below, lit classrooms, corridors, and food stalls twinkled like stars across the buildings.

With exams underway, night had vanished from the university.

"……"

Ifrin pulled out the Wizaboard she'd tucked away.

This miniature magic board—black frame, white base—was the communication hub for tower mages.

Its official name: Omnidirectional Multi-Communication Transmission Board.

Commonly called the Wizaboard, it featured a remote bulletin board accessible only to tower mages, enabling their exchanges.

No professors used it, though—its lifespan of 7-8 years was too short for their standards.

"Holy crap."

Frightened by the skyrocketing bids, she deleted it.

"……Yeah, makes sense. I'd buy it too if I had the cash."

Which was exactly why—Deculein was so damn weird.

Why reveal all these hyper-efficient techniques and tips without hiding a single one?

Most professors charged a fortune for private lessons in secret, or only shared under contracts barring disclosure, and only with those swearing loyalty.

Mages were a breed that eyed successors warily no matter how rich they got, jealous of upstarts clawing their way up.

This year's Deculein broke every mold. Suspicious as hell.

"Whatever."

Shaking it off, Ifrin leaned on the railing and took a deep breath.

Suddenly, a thought struck her.

Her dad must've once leaned here too, pondering unsolvable magic—or life's tougher riddles—under the night breeze.

"……Don't worry."

Ifrin murmured softly, pulling a letter from her pocket.

Weekly exchanges with her father. The voice and video letters hinting at his genius had expired, but his handwriting from those days lingered.

Daughter. I'm making a gift for you right now…… Just reading ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the opening line burned her eyes.

"I'll finish Dad's research no matter what."

Part of it was in the letters she kept; the rest hid somewhere in this tower. Ifrin knew where.

"I'll become a mage greater than Deculein. Better than that bastard—"

"Impossible."

Someone cut in. Startled, Ifrin straightened up and whipped her head around—nearly snapping her neck.

It was Sylvia.

Ifrin narrowed her eyes to slits, glaring.

"Here to pick a fight? Won't work—buzz off."

Hmph. Sylvia smirked, her face full of pouty disdain.

"If Deculein's your enemy, then you got private lessons from the enemy."

"What the hell? You believe some dumb rumor? That's noble behavior?"

Sylvia's cheeks puffed at the casual retort. Ifrin had gained the poise to brush off any taunt.

"You know."

Sylvia grumbled, then twisted her lips in a sneer.

"Deculein hasn't set foot in his lab for nearly three years. Not since your father died. Not once."

"Pfft. Obviously. Dad was a genius. Without him, that guy's worthless."

Ifrin laughed instead. Unexpected praise.

"But you know."

Sylvia wasn't done.

"Three months ago, he started going every day. Cleaned the lab, hired an assistant prof, stocked new magic tools."

That instant—Ifrin's smile froze.

"What does that mean?"

Sylvia smirked, pleased by the reaction, and spun away.

Her teasing lilt drifted back.

"No idea."

Clack, clack—

Ifrin couldn't grab her. She just stood there, dazed, thinking.

"……No way."

Her father had once said something like that.

Deculein was spying on his letters. Watching everything, coveting his research.

So nowhere safe to hide it.

"No way."

But don't worry. The research was somewhere he'd never find. Barrier magic faded with time, but Deculein's greed couldn't pierce it.

Remember our cipher game from before—the one left just for me……

"No way……"

Impossible. Impossible.

Dad was a genius. Never wrong.

So Deculein's resumed research had zero connection to her father.

She repeated it over and over……

"No waaaaay!"

Sylvia's voice echoed relentlessly in her ears.

Three days before the Verhert conference.

Finally.

I'd completed Beginner Telekinesis right on time.

"Fortunate……"

Made the deadline somehow. Satisfied, I showered in the annex bath—I'd built it separate since trekking to the main house was a hassle.

Knock knock—

As I stepped out in a robe, a knock sounded.

"Who is it."

—Roy, sir.

"What is the matter. Speak."

—Yes, Master. Our finances are precarious.

My brow furrowed involuntarily.

"Finances?"

—Yes. At this rate, we'll be broke in two months……

I nodded. True—I hadn't lectured lately, so only my professor salary trickled in. Meanwhile, expenses never stopped: 150 mana stones, magic books, ancient tomes, and more.

"Wait there."

I levitated the safe hidden under the annex floor—cute thing, keyed only to my mana.

Opened the lid.

"Let us see……"

Grabbed something at random: a porcelain vase.

The Eastern Flower Vase, bought at auction for 2.5 million elne.

I paused before invoking Midas' Hand.

Mana left: 1,635.

To sell properly, I'd need to dump all 3,000.

"Return in three hours."

—Yes, sir.

Roy withdrew. I waited for mana recovery.

While idle, I checked the item with Magnate's Wealth. Still gleaming brilliantly.

Note: Midas' Hand barely boosted fully bloomed 'treasures.' Like bumping a 30,000-output to 30,300.

But this Eastern Flower Vase was clearly unawakened……

"Let us try."

After 150 minutes, mana full.

I gathered it all and breathed Midas' Hand into the vase.

Shoooo—

Blue mist from my fingertips seeped in. The surface hummed and shimmered.

And then.

A 2.5 million elne vase had become too good to sell.

"Hm……"

Its artistic value alone overflowed, and now it had a bottomless elixir effect to boot.

"Better to sell."

But 'fatigue recovery' was useless to me. I had no fatigue.

Nor could growing and peddling flowers amass real capital.

Knock—

Exactly three hours later, Roy knocked. I opened the door and handed him the vase.

"Have it reappraised and find a buyer. This covers five—no, ten years' finances easily."

"Pardon? M-Master, this is the one you bought then—"

Roy looked flustered. I felt much the same.

Over his shoulder, Yeriel toddled up like a day laborer.

"Heeey~ Heard you need money~"

The girl who'd stay one day had overstayed three.

The estate was so vast, I'd barely noticed.

"Knew you'd pull this. Just sign an IOU—I'll lend you—"

I shook my head.

"No need. We'll reappraise this and auction it again. Roy, take it to the appraiser."

"Meeh? You're nuts?"

Yeriel scowled fiercely. I pondered briefly, then amended.

"No. I have time too—shall go together."

Who appraised such items mattered.

Auction houses and antique shops had frauds aplenty, but my traits let me spot them all.

"What? You just bought it—sell it back? I'll lend you—"

"Silence, Yeriel."

"What silence! You're about to blow real cash again! You'll get half back at best! How much'd you pay?!"

"2.5 million."

"Then maybe a million! You bought it as an 'antique investment,' and now selling before two months? What an idiot!"

My conviction drew doubt from Yeriel—and even Roy.

Fair worry, really.

"So concerned? Follow then."

"No! It's not concern—it's this bullshit! Hey!"

"'Hey'?"

Yeriel's yell cut short at my word. Her voice shrank to a grumble.

"……No, not concern…… You're just doing something insane…… Knew it! If you're wasting money like—"

"Not waste. You'll see—follow."

"God, your stubbornness……"

Yeriel's face mixed fury and frustration, but I smiled once and headed out.

She trailed with a 'fine, let's end this'……

One hour later.

Yeriel arrived at the appraiser with Deculein.

"Jeez……"

She figured Deculein had lost it lately.

Ignoring Julie, stressed by the Verhert conference—nerves frayed.

"This……"

Truth was, he'd done inhuman stunts whenever overheated like this, so she'd braced……

"An extraordinary piece."

When the capital's top appraiser gawked at the vase—bought two months ago—with utter awe.

Yeriel's mind blanked.

Deculein asked.

"Extraordinary how?"

"Yes. Aesthetic value aside…… Plus effects I can't verify……"

"Not 'can't'—'won't disclose,' surely."

"Pardon? No, merely—"

"Flowers grown in this flower vase never wilt. Its petals, consumed, become fatigue-recovery elixirs."

The appraiser's eyes widened; he bowed hastily.

Yeriel flinched. Fatigue elixirs?

"I-In-deed! Brilliant, if true! I overlooked it!"

"Indeed."

Deculein scanned the shop, plucked a fresh decorative flower, and inserted it.

"No need for Ruten. Cultivate this, prove the effect, then hold a small auction at Hailletchi."

He handed the appraiser a Yukline fountain pen.

"Yukline crest draws crowds. No fee for you."

"Ah, yes! I'll do my utmost! Minimum ten million—fifteen with bidding wars!"

2.5 million ballooned to at least ten—in that instant.

Yeriel and Roy's eyes bulged.

"Good. Spread the word. Roy, venue on you."

"Pardon? Ah, yes, sir."

"That is all for today."

Deculein exited first. Yeriel hesitated, then followed.

"……Lucky break. Congrats…… I guess."

On the street, she side-eyed him. Deculein addressed them.

"Yeriel. Roy. Return to the estate with the vase."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Huh? Where you off to?"

"Tower business."

"……Why the tower so much lately?"

Yeriel squinted suspiciously.

"You need not know, Yeriel."

"New girlfriend? Stay forever~ Dump that rigid, inflexible bitch."

"Silence."

Deculein boarded his car without explanation—vroom—and left.

"Ugh. Total lone wolf."

Yeriel and Roy stood stranded mid-street.

No complaints. In the capital after ages—time for luxury district browsing.

"Roy? You've slaved lately—pick anything. My treat."

"No, ma'am. I'm fine—"

"Take it when offered. I see how hard you've worked……"

They strolled the luxury hall.

That day, Yeriel bought Roy a 5,000 elne luxury item; herself, a 300 elne wallet.

Last tower visit of the week, I sifted exam papers.

For midterms, referencing three years back.

The prior Deculein's exams.

"……Difficult."

Glancing alone screamed hellish.

Problems for problems' sake. Pointlessly brutal.

Mistaking exam rigor for superiority birthed such nonsense.

"Allen. There?"

I called via crystal orb. Allen arrived in 30 seconds.

"Yeees! Here!"

Badge-passed, he proudly wore his assistant prof pin. I tapped the three-year-old paper.

"Original of this?"

"Original, sir?"

"Yes. Likely my arbitrary edits. Not recent— scour three to five years back. Fetch any remnants."

"Ah, yes! On it!"

Allen left, returned swiftly.

Bulging briefcase.

"Here!"

"Good."

I eyed the papers with Understanding.

And knew at once.

……As expected.

The true gem was this.

I'd studied enough to know.

Good problems drew curses mid-solve but awe upon completion.

That triumph felt organic, sometimes sparking silly grins.

If Deculein's were merely hard, this wasn't.

Brutally tough, yet sparking profound intrigue.

"Allen. Magic exam paper, correct."

Magic wasn't math, after all.

Thus, even paper tests held unique traits.

"Ah, yes! Absolutely!"

"Good. Dismissed."

"Yes!"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

I delved into the exam with Understanding.

Question 7 on the paper: calculate the formula, analyze circuit hints, combine correctly, infuse mana into the deduced magic circle.

The answer manifested—magic activated.

A painting.

One canvas bloomed in midair, sharper than nature itself.

A watercolor woman's portrait, bleeding hues.

Each tint an element. White dress: wind. Sky: water. Diffusing clouds: mist. Her exquisite features: pure elemental harmony……

A perfect match for Understanding Pure Element Magic.

The ideal problem.

"……"

I closed my eyes instinctively. Gooseflesh rose. Deculein's signature aesthetic sense electrified me.

The image consoled exam-weary mages, yet harbored faint rage—adornments like raisins in bread, enriching the vibrancy.

"……Ha."

I could only chuckle dryly.

Envy stirred, near lust.

Past Deculein couldn't use it raw. Had to alter.

Jealous of this unforeseen beauty, belittling it as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠'too easy,' tweaking solo.

Not I.

This exam was perfection, lecture-aligned. Fitting a head professor's test……

"Yet."

I eyed the rippling portrait's woman. No Ifrin. Nor familiar.

Who was she?

Knock knock—

Another knock. I dispersed the image, opened the door.

Allen.

"Professor! More here! Off now!"

"Perfect timing, Allen."

A thought struck; I grabbed the departing Allen.

"Yees?"

He tilted his head.

I said.

"Prepare."

"Pardon? Ah, yes! What for?!"

All clueless yet eager. I liked his no-backtalk vibe.

"For Verhert."

"……Pardon?"

Even Allen's pure face balked this time. As if he'd misheard.

I stated calmly.

"For Verhert, I select you as attendant assistant."

Allen blinked first. Then features swelled sloooowly, like low-res render—mouth gaping fist-sized.

"Yeeeeeeeeeek—"

"Close your mouth."

"……"

Eyes ballooned next. Bursting imminent, I added.

"You may refuse. Verhert could be perilous—"

"N-No, no, no! I-I can go!"

"Very well."

Verhert rules: no guards needed, but attendants mandatory. No one else fit.

Yeriel? Never. That fatty Relin or another prof? No.

Allen: untrustworthy mage, but no threat to me.

"Sunday. Prepare thoroughly."

"Y-Yes! Meticulously! Thank you! Thank you!"

Allen bowed nonstop. Thought he'd balk.

Guy had ambitions after all.

"Th-Then I'll prep everything! Food, magic, tools, and, and……"

Counting on fingers, so adorably earnest.

Better buy him a warded robe coat, just in case.