Chapter 29
Chapter 29
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 29
Chapter Title: Sorrow (1)
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[The origins of black magic remain shrouded in mystery to this day. Decades after the birth of magic, black magicians began appearing one by one. Theories abound—demonic interference, side effects of magical experiments—but the most widely accepted hypothesis holds that black magic arose from crude imitations of true magic. —A Mage's Observations on Black Magic—]
Oliver kept turning the pages.
This book, written from a mage's perspective, spent a full two hundred pages explaining why black magic was an evil art and why it needed to be eradicated.
The primary reason given for black magicians' wickedness? They were mana-less inferior stock, grasping for power far beyond their station.
To avert such calamity, mana-less humans should be forcibly quarantined and sterilized, allowing inferior genes to fade naturally—a systemic solution, it argued.
What to make of it?
Oliver's limited education might be clouding his judgment, but the claims struck him as narrow-minded, illogical. Full of contradictions...
Which made it all the more intriguing.
Knock-knock-
A rap at the door. Oliver looked up.
"Something wrong?"
"Yes, Master. Apologies, but... it's time for work."
At Marie's voice, Oliver glanced at the clock.
She was right. Work time.
"Coming right now."
He slipped a bookmark into the volume and stepped out of the study. Marie waited there, bowed low.
"Anthony Family and Dominic Family sent over emotions. They're in the workshop now."
"Good work."
Oliver headed straight for the workshop.
The largest room in Joseph's Family headquarters was packed with people already.
High-grade disciples down to temporary ones—all present.
"You've arrived, Master!"
"""You've arrived, Master!"""
The moment Oliver entered, Peter led the disciples in a deep bow.
Not mere force of power, but respect welling from the heart.
Hardly surprising. He'd essentially faced down Anthony and Dominic Families single-handedly.
Yet their deference ran deeper than that.
"Everyone here?"
"""Yes, Master!"""
This was normally chore time for temporary and low-grade disciples.
Oliver gave them as much training as he could.
Nothing fancy about the motive.
He was standing in for Joseph now. Minimum responsibility demanded it.
"Before we start class, I'll handle a task. Not sure it'll help right away, but watch closely."
The eyes of the temporary disciples, low-grades, a few mids, and even high-grades sparkled bright.
"Those materials over there?"
"Ah, one second."
Marie directed a few temporary disciples to fetch the boxes.
Inside, compartments bristled with test tubes filled with emotions.
"Maternal Love and Rage. Eight-to-two ratio. Verified exact."
Oliver gave the box a once-over. Spot-on eight-to-two.
"Mind popping the lids on these test tubes?"
Marie signaled. The temporary disciples scrambled to unscrew them.
"All open, sir."
"Thanks. Everyone, step back a bit?"
At Oliver's word, Marie and the others nearby retreated.
With space cleared, Oliver reached into the empty air. Moments later, the test tubes shuddered and vomited forth their emotions.
"Lord preserve us..."
"...Ah."
"Ah, so beautiful."
The disciples gasped in awe at the spectacle unfolding before them.
Oliver got it. Even to him, it was stunning.
A mass of emotions coalescing into one—truly mesmerizing.
Zzzzzzap!
The two clashing natures rebelled as they merged, the sheer volume making it dangerously volatile.
Sparks flew in every direction, yet even those seemed beautiful to Oliver.
What if he slipped up here?
The basement might cave in at least. The factory? Who knew.
...
The backlash intensified, the disciples sensing trouble—then Oliver clasped his hands tight. The roiling mass steadied at once.
As if the turmoil had been an illusion.
Oliver flung his hands apart, funneling the blended emotion back into each tube.
"Close the lids, everyone, and check the levels make sense?"
They snapped out of their daze, fumbling to seal the tubes and inspect the fills.
"...All good here."
"No issues in this box."
"Fine here too."
"Perfect!"
Every tube brimmed just right.
Oliver ordered the finished batch set aside and dove into class.
"Like last time: split into Groups One, Two, Three."
They sorted themselves swiftly.
Temporaries plus some low-grades: Three.
Some low-grades plus some mids: Two.
Some mids plus high-grades: One.
Marie and Peter slotted into One. Oliver had them pull prepared test tubes for practice.
"Group Three: shape the emotions. No slop—crisp and straight. Once you've got it, warp the form faster than you can speak."
Group Three obeyed without a peep.
"Group Two: cast basic black magic like Hate Bullet, Black Shield—but grip it in your hand till you can't hold it anymore. Release, then cycle into another spell with the same emotion."
Group Two followed suit, no questions.
"Group One—you saw what I did earlier?"
The blending of Maternal Love and Rage.
They nodded, faces paling.
"Mix the emotions in those tubes."
It hit like lightning from a clear sky.
Yet not one grumbled. The fruits of Oliver's lessons were beyond words.
Miraculous, even.
Differences per person, sure—but one session with Oliver outshone months under Joseph.
"No need to worry. Small doses mean minimal backlash, and the affinities align, so it'll be easier."
He wasn't exaggerating.
Group One's pair: hatred and rage. Near-identical at heart.
The groups huddled in their ∩ formation, training away.
Oliver patrolled, calling out errors.
"Shape's buckling. Straighten it."
"S-sorry!"
"Don't let the emotion drag you. Control it. Too much waste."
"Yes! Got it!"
"Faster. You're lagging."
"I'll fix it."
"Same mistake again. Correct it."
"Sorry. On it."
"Mix incomplete. I'll split it—redo."
"Th-thank you."
Oliver fixed their slips on the spot, dropping tips as needed.
Soft. Indulgent next to Joseph's iron rule.
Paradoxically, that leniency fired them up, turning mistakes into rapid gains.
Youngest in the room, yet his pupils now saw Oliver as their true master.
Time wore on. Practice hit its stride.
Nothing left to nitpick. Oliver circled mechanically, observing—then grabbed a random disciple for a question.
"...Mind if I ask how you wound up here?"
A temporary disciple from Group Three blinked in surprise.
"Me, sir?"
"Yes—and your shape's collapsing. Fix it."
"Ah! Sorry..."
"...So, how'd you join? If it's touchy, no pressure."
The disciple hesitated, then spoke.
"...Lived with a beggar crew out in the sticks. Socked the boss and bolted. Ran into Master... er, Joseph."
"Ah, crossed paths with him then."
"Y-yeah..."
Oliver quizzed others at random about joining Joseph's Family.
Orphanages, work sites, slums—tales varied, but Oliver just nodded along.
"Alright, your story next—"
"—Oliver, sir."
Marie cut in, sweating bullets as she blended.
"Yes? Marie."
"Practice time's up."
Oliver checked the clock.
"...So it is. Good work today, everyone. Clean up."
Relief washed over them. Gasping, they crammed emotions back into tubes.
Drained to the bone, yet glowing with rare satisfaction.
Daily drills were forging them into proper black magicians.
Keep this up? It wasn't a pipe dream.
"...That wrap everything for today?"
Oliver asked Marie about the schedule. She whipped out a notepad like a secretary.
"...Yes, Master. Just hand the processed emotions to the Pharmacist for Anthony and Dominic Families. All done."
Peter chimed in.
"Then, Master—one suggestion."
"Hey, Master needs a break—"
Oliver cut Marie off.
"What is it?"
"Not to bother you. But we need fresh materials... Permission to go fetch with the others?"
Oliver pondered briefly. Then:
"I'll come along."
"No need! Really, not trying to drag you—"
"—No, I want to harvest them myself. Get things ready?"
Oliver donned the black magic item "Fake Face," teamed with Marie and Peter, and set out to harvest emotions.
First stop: his pick—an inn.
The very one from his debut harvest.
Peter knocked. The old woman answered.
"Eh? Who're you?"
"Fruits ripe?"
"Ahh... Figured you'd show soon. Got three ready. In you go."
She beckoned them inside.
Up the cramped hall and stairs to the second floor, same as before.
Three tiny rooms. Child's wails echoing.
Identical so far.
"Mother around?"
The door creaked open slow. A woman peeked out.
Not the one from Oliver's memory.
"Landlady?"
"Eh. Yeah. That's the one."
She swung the door wide, familiar-like.
Eyes dull, shadows under them. Baby bawling on the bed.
"Waaah! Waaaangh—!"
A racket.
Peter tallied payment while checking her state. Oliver sidled to the old woman.
"Where is she?"
"Huh? Where's what?"
"The woman from before."
"From before...? Oh, her? Booted her out. Kid sick, needed cash—went and peddled her own emotions. Useless now. Chased the empty husk off. Why?"
Oliver stood stock-still.
Peter and Marie eyed his distant gaze but extracted the Maternal Love anyway.
Job done, out of the inn—Oliver lingered, blank.
Marie ventured carefully:
"M-Master... Everything alright...?"
Objectively? No big tragedy.
Her emotions weren't uniquely radiant or anything.
Still...
The owner of his first Maternal Love. Oliver just wanted to lay eyes on her again.
Not a must. Pure itch of curiosity.
He shut his eyes. Then forced them open, straining.
The hazy emotions sharpened, his range ballooning—like staring at the sun, eyes burning.
Oliver ignored the pain.
Unseen truths hurt worse.
His vision stretched block after block. Then—her faint glow.
"...There."
He bolted.
Marie and Peter trailed, baffled. Down the main drag, into a side alley.
Beggars and vagrants clustered there. Oliver spotted her.
Rags filthy and threadbare. Beside her: booze bottle, a child near death, abandoned.
Her. The original.
"...Huh?"
Gaunt beyond recognition, she stared up at Oliver with hollow eyes.
No spark of memory. Fine by him.
Familiar routine: she thrust the dying infant forward, begging.
"Baby's sick. Please, some charity. Needs medicine."
Even sans the liquor reek, Oliver clocked her broken state easy.
Not a speck of that old Maternal Love lingered. Just shallow selfishness in the void.
Peter murmured:
"Empty shell now, Master."
Oliver said nothing.
He stared long at the woman wielding her child like a begging bowl. An emotion defied words welled up.
Sorrow, emptiness, frustration... Ah, impossible to pin.
"Kind soul, a coin for the babe? Days without food. She's hurting. Please..."
Oliver flicked between the vacant woman and the fading child.
Long quiet. Finally:
"Money... here."
Peter tossed a pittance, gauging Oliver.
She flung the baby aside, scrabbled dog-like for it. Oliver watched a beat, then retraced his steps.
The heavy air stifled questions. Then Oliver muttered:
"Aaah... She was so pretty once."