Anomaly
Anomaly
In all my years of living, I'd never felt this miserable about being shit at magic.
I suspected it might be some kind of illusion magic, but I soon decided to shelve that possibility.
Illusion magic could produce powerful effects depending on the situation, but even for Demonfolk, there was no avoiding the prerequisite of preparation. Without pre-arranged tools and a set stage for the spell, illusion magic couldn't create hallucinations of this caliber. If I were deep in enemy territory, maybe I'd have considered it, but the idea that Demonfolk could've made such preparations across an entire forest in imperial territory without anyone noticing was so absurdly unrealistic it wasn't even worth thinking about.
The possibility that this bastard had become some unprecedented Demonfolk Hero-level illusion mage existed, sure—but if he were that kind of monster, he wouldn't be here.
"Damn, that stings like hell."
The wound itself was small, not even big enough to stick a pinky finger into, and it hadn't gone through. I wasn't sure if any organs were damaged, but if they were, I probably wouldn't be moving, right? I'd be fine.
But the process leading up to that wound had so perfectly defied my expectations that it hit me as a painfully costly blunder. I forcibly reined in my thoughts as they tried to spiral downward and resolved to jolt my awareness back into focus one more time.
Right. Kidnapping or assassinating an imperial princess wasn't supposed to be easy. It was only natural they'd send some real heavy hitters to attempt it. This guy was definitely strong.
But still. The ones strong enough to handle something like this solo were still being sent to the front lines first. The front wasn't holding steady for seven years for nothing.
Meaning, no matter how strong this bastard was, sitting around on standby with the grunts, he wasn't as strong as the general-class monsters on the front line.
"In that case... I'll fucking win."
I was supposed to behead the commander here—there was no way I could let myself get thrashed one-sidedly by some punk who couldn't even properly participate in the war.
"Stop spouting nonsense and tell me how you dodged that."
The guy had the gall to pick up on the muttering I'd done to steel my resolve, which was mortifying as hell.
"Tell me why your head didn't fall off, and I might consider it."
"This? Nothing special. I'm cursed, that's all."
I'd said it meaning I had no intention of telling him, but he answered immediately. I blanked out for a second at the completely unexpected response, and he kept talking, tapping his chin while looking up at the sky.
"'You shall exist yet not exist, be torn apart yet never die by anything wrought of blood and flesh. Thus you shall live in stasis, and the method of curse-lifting shall be death alone'... was it? Long-winded, right? But it's real, though."
Was about eighty years ago, I think? Hard to remember clearly. As I watched him finish speaking, tapping his temple with his middle finger, a curse nearly burst out of me involuntarily.
No, seriously, what kind of brainless prick casts a fucking curse of immortality on a lunatic like this? If you're gonna curse someone, curse a warrior, or at least make it so they can't even fucking use magic.
"What kind of imbecile recklessly casts a curse like that..."
The bastard caught the true feelings I finally couldn't hold back, twisted his body laughing again, and spoke.
"Heuheuheuheu. Your reaction's amusing. First time I've seen anyone say that. Truth is, I thought the same thing at first and laughed it off too. But it turned out to be a curse after all, surprisingly."
Half of me thought this guy, a member of a race that lived over three times longer than humans, was about to drone on about the stale tragedy of an immortal after a mere eighty years. The other half was feigning attentive silence so I could devise a plan and conserve strength while he rambled. Contrary to his casual tone, he started spiraling into full-blown madness.
"The core of the curse that bitch slapped on me was 'stasis'... Eighty years... eighty fucking years!! A grand total of eighty years, and my magic and Magic Power! Haven't! Grown one bit!! Me, who was praised as the darling of magic!! By that!! One insect of a wench!! She ruined my life—ripping her horns out and burning her alive wouldn't have been enough to satisfy me!! This? This is magic? If I hadn't been cursed, I wouldn't have even considered this kind of makeshift method as magic!"
What? Makeshift method?
Even if everything else was a madman's rambling, I couldn't ignore this.
"Isolated and separated from Magic Power... this... fucking...... ha. The anger's vanished again."
Contrary to my hope that he'd stay unhinged a bit longer, he suddenly showed a normal reaction again and scratched his head. So it wasn't an act—he was genuinely crazy.
"The stasis had a lot tied to it. Emotions frozen to what I was feeling at the time. Memory about the same as back then too. Thanks to that, even if I get furious thinking back on it, it cuts off abruptly—and things from a week ago are hazy, but eighty years ago is vivid. Funny, right?"
As I grew certain that eighty years of living like that had thoroughly fried his brain, I analyzed the last words he'd muttered.
Isolated and separated from Magic Power. Magic cast through makeshift methods. Stasis.
Since I hadn't completely washed my hands of magic either, even that much information was enough to start building a fairly plausible hypothesis. And the hypothesis was so goddamn brilliant that my previously sinking mood skyrocketed.
"So that's what it was. You little shit. You're using Mana, aren't you?"
There really was a god in this world after all. Because at my words, the bastard's previously calm face began twisting again.
"Holy fuck... with so many miracles in the world, ridiculous fucks who don't believe in the Hero are still popping up. It really is the end times. Ain't that right, you lunatic?"
"Shut... your... mouth..."
Whether he was colossally embarrassed or his eyes had rolled back because a human had seen through the truth, he ground his teeth and tore at his own hair.
Right. A member of the Demonfolk who once wielded magic by manipulating Magic Power directly, reduced to casting spells using Mana—the kind that would make a human's body go pop if they tried it. No wonder he called it a makeshift method and found it disgraceful.
Since he wasn't using the Magic Power in his body directly but refining it into Mana first, there was no way to sense his Magic Power. And because the entire process from spell activation to completion was made solely from the Mana coming out of his body, only the completed spell appeared in the form of Magic Power while the process itself remained invisible.
Of course, as befitting someone who had boldly bragged about his glorious past with his own mouth, he'd pursued extreme efficiency and eventually achieved stabilization. Probably poured his heart and soul into it like studying for college entrance exams.
But he'd been hit with a stasis curse. How much growth could he really have achieved over eighty years of honing a makeshift method he'd never used before?
Everything began to make sense now. Why his magic repertoire was limited. Why, despite that, its power was still monstrous. Why someone with such a storied past was holed up in this place.
To share the joy of this epiphany, I condensed everything I'd understood using my outstanding summarization skills into something clear and concise, then delivered it to him.
"So you're just a defective has-been piece of shit, huh?"
"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!!"
Maybe adrenaline had suddenly kicked in, because the wound in my side didn't even bother me anymore.
I widened the distance to counter the magic he was preparing while his eyes rolled back. Let him shoot all he wanted. Now that I could see it, it was no different from an arrow—as long as I wasn't stuck in close quarters getting stabbed from a blind spot, I was confident I could dodge attacks focused on physical cutting and penetration without much trouble.
The problem was how his rage kept alternating between sudden spikes and abrupt brakes. And separate from figuring out his limits, I still had absolutely no means to actually attack the bastard.
The "wrought of blood and flesh" part probably referred to living beings. Even so, the reason my sword hadn't worked was likely because this was slicing, not tearing.
"Once I get back, I'm definitely studying curse lore too."
I vaguely recalled hearing about it. That a curse without a possible curse-lifting method could never be established. That the core principle was to twist the lifting method so complexly or so extremely that it ultimately required the victim's self-destruction to be fulfilled.
And I'd also heard that the more powerful the curse, the easier the lifting method was—exclusively for the caster. If it wasn't structured that way, the caster would suffer harm instead, wasn't that it?
Since this lunatic had mentioned ripping out horns and whatnot, the one who cursed him must have been a member of the Demonfolk or some other horned race.
As far as I knew, the only horned races on the continent capable of casting curses were the Dragon Race and the Demonfolk. And dragons were literally dragons—even Demonfolk wouldn't dare run their mouths at one.
The one who cursed him was definitely a fellow Demonfolk. In that case, did the answer lie in Magic Power after all? But how do you tear a person with Magic Power...?
Maybe it was possible?
"Hoo. The anger lasted a bit longer this time. Anyway, you have no way to kill me, right? Just tell me how you're dodging my magic and I'll make it painless..."
"What are you babbling about, you Mana-using has-been fuck. I don't use Mana either, dipshit. I'll kill you soon, so shut the hell up a minute."
"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!!"
Of course, I couldn't use Mana, but nothing worked better for triggering an inferiority complex explosion than this.
Maybe his baseline pride was just that high, because a single jab was all it took to send him back into an emotional dysregulation disorder. The magic he started firing gradually shifted toward penetration-type spells. Was a sliver of rationality struggling to conserve Magic Power? Whatever the case, it was a good development for me. Those might put a hole in me, but they couldn't punch through.
For now, I used the surrounding trees and terrain as much as possible to evade his attacks while sliding the sword I'd drawn back into its scabbard. Then, forcing my scattered focus together somehow, I concentrated on a single sensation.
What came to mind was the feeling I'd experienced right after passing through the gate—the sensation of threads bursting from my entire body, weaving together into a vast cloth, and being swept away by it.
That was definitely Magic Power.
And judging by how my senses had expanded in response, I guessed that Magic Power resided not just in people's bodies but in objects as well. That was why refined human aura couldn't imbue a sword. Aura, transformed through the purification process, became something entirely different from Magic Power—and while people might adapt, objects couldn't adjust to match it.
The reason enchantments and magic sword creation were possible, I figured, was because they used Mana as fuel and ultimately manifested Magic Power to activate the spell.
That was how I'd been able to coat my sword with Magic Power in the first place. Since it was the same Magic Power, after all.
If that was the case, didn't it mean Magic Power—whether it came from a person's body, from an object, or from someone else—could be synchronized to some degree?
And if that was possible... if I connected the sword and scabbard with Magic Power, synchronized them with the bastard's torso and head, and then moved the Magic Power and drew the sword...
Wouldn't his head come off along with the blade?
Even I thought this was an idea so insanely brilliant Satan himself would give it a standing ovation.