Chapter 297
Chapter 297
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 297
Chapter Title: After the Mission Ends (2)
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Wall.
It wasn't a formal term; it was a kind of slang with multiple meanings.
It could refer to the growth limit imposed by one's talent, or the resulting limit on advancement within the Magic Tower.
Though it carried various meanings, at its core they all boiled down to the same thing—a truly ambiguous yet intuitive word.
That aside, Oliver couldn't quite grasp what Kevin was saying.
"Derrick's going?"
"What a tone of disbelief."
"Honestly, yeah, a bit."
It really was. Oliver had sparred with Derrick twice in total.
The first was during a class at the Magic Tower, the second at the investment party.
And in those encounters, Oliver had witnessed Derrick's astonishing improvement.
He had evolved from simply hurling spells to attack, to combining them with others for maximum efficiency and power, demonstrating a profound understanding of magic by dominating the space itself with fire magic's properties.
Especially at the end, when he merged a massive whirlwind with flames to fill the entire arena—that was truly impressive.
As proof, Oliver had abandoned trying to dismantle the spell at its weak points and instead swung his quarterstaff to overpower the flames through sheer force.
"Not a personality I like, but his talent's decent enough. He picks up the essentials quickly when taught."
"Not just talent—his willpower's impressive too."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Normally, when a big attack gets neutralized, people hesitate, but Mr. Derrick wrapped himself in the scattering flames and pressed the assault relentlessly. Takes real grit."
Without exaggeration or belittlement, Oliver shared exactly what he'd felt.
Kevin stared at him, observing intently.
"It's funny, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing much... Anyway, I won't deny what you said. Derrick's arrogant, but he's got the guts to match. Hates losing, so even if class was tough, he'd stick it out if you prodded him a little. But willpower comes in different flavors."
"Different flavors?"
"Yeah. Someone fueled by pride can overcome any hardship to protect it, but if that pride shatters, so does their will. Fragile as glass."
"Is that Mr. Derrick?"
"Spot on. He fought evenly with a professor's personal aide—who's not even a wizard—and got humiliated by some black mage at a party full of city tycoons. Everyone doubts him now."
"Isn't that old news?"
"The problem is he hasn't gotten over it yet. Not surprising, though. It's the fate of half-baked geniuses. They despair meeting real ones, face disappointment and mockery from those around them... That's why he still hasn't shown up for classes."
Hearing that, Oliver recalled the diary and research logs from the lightning mage and Aidri he'd captured in the past.
Those with talent who entered the Magic Tower, only to be exposed as limited and expelled.
The shock must have been immense: self-doubt, glares from others, whispers... Things Oliver could scarcely imagine.
Yet they'd thrashed about even dipping into the Tower's backroom deals, only to end up on the streets, scavenging new paths in the shadows. Desperate, but admirable.
"What're you pondering so deeply?"
"Just... It reminded me of those captured mages' diaries and logs."
"I can guess the contents. Plenty like that."
"Will Mr. Derrick... get expelled too?"
"If his family cuts support, maybe. Tower tuition's steep."
"Would they cut him off?"
"Pretty likely. The firepower plant investment they were prepping fell through because of him. And with him in this state... Hard to keep funding."
That meant they might pull support, leaving Derrick on the streets.
Well, it was one path, not a bad one in Oliver's view, but reminded of his role as the professor's personal aide, he pondered deeply.
"May I ask what you think, Professor?"
"About what?"
"About leaving Mr. Derrick like this. Isn't he your disciple?"
"You still haven't grasped the term properly. To a wizard, disciple and master is a special bond. It only forms after formal discussion and mutual agreement. Derrick's not my disciple—just one of many students in my class."
"So you don't feel sorry for him?"
"Do you?"
"Yes. With his talent and will, breaking so easily... Seems a waste."
"Didn't know you thought that highly of Derrick."
"He's a student in your class... No, a classmate, and I'm your aide. Shouldn't we help if we can?"
Kevin stared at Oliver piercingly, observantly. At last, he spoke.
"...I'm not interested. If he breaks this easily, that's all he is. But if you want to help, I won't stop you. Though there's nothing much you can do."
Kevin spoke coldly.
Not doubting Oliver's abilities, but considering Derrick's personality.
No help works if the person won't cooperate.
But Oliver's response was simple.
"If it doesn't work, oh well."
"Simple mindset—admirable... Heading to see him today?"
Oliver checked his wristwatch and shook his head.
"No, quitting time soon—too tricky. Got somewhere to go first."
Oliver replied firmly.
"Here it is."
Landa's night. Oliver, box under his arm, followed a beggar's lead through the labyrinthine sewers to a vast space.
It was the new home of the Poor Brothers.
Exposed by Shamus's raid, Cant had abandoned the old spot for this one.
As proof, the place was still a mess.
Men from the Poor Brothers stacked drum barrels filled with cement along narrow passages for cover, while women and kids teamed up to pitch tents.
Oliver scanned them as he entered, arriving at the largest tent.
The head of the Poor Brothers, Cant's tent.
"You're here."
The beggar who'd guided Oliver called Cant, who emerged using his quarterstaff like a cane.
He wore his usual beanie and longcoat, but one sleeve hung limp.
"Hello, Mr. Cant."
Oliver greeted him immediately; Cant smiled back.
The guide slipped away promptly; Cant thanked him, saw him off, then invited Oliver inside.
"How's your health?"
"Fine as can be. Resting while others work, right? Thanks for worrying anyway. That booze?"
Cant nodded at the box with a silly joke.
A lighthearted gesture to ease the mood and Oliver's concern.
"No... Heard alcohol slows recovery if you're injured."
"True, but disappointing... So, what's inside?"
"A prosthetic arm."
Oliver opened the box as he answered.
"Doesn't look like just any prosthetic."
"It's a golem prosthetic."
True enough. Inside was no wood or rubber arm, but one of stone—powered by mana and stone.
"Not cheap, I bet."
"That's why the performance is top-notch. Will you accept it?"
Cant thought it too much for him but nodded at Oliver's face.
"Gratefully. I'll see the technician tomorrow for the procedure."
Oliver pulled a business card and receipt from his pocket.
"Where I bought it. Take this and the receipt—they'll do it free."
"Thoughtful... Golem prosthetics hurt like hell, they say."
"Yes, apparently. They tear into flesh to connect nerves and golem parts—excruciating."
Oliver relayed what Arthur had said. Cant grimaced wryly.
"Truly grateful. Gives me courage."
"But once it's on, supposedly better than the real thing. Grab distant stuff without moving."
"Hard to pass up. I'll muster the guts."
"Thank you."
"Thanks? I'm the one helped... Just delivering this?"
Cant asked as if seeing through him.
"Actually, came to ask something too."
"What?"
"What compensation did you get?"
"Compensation?"
"Yes, for the ABC job. Realized doing something so risky wasn't just for money."
Spot-on judgment. The Poor Brothers were a sizable network eavesdropping in streets, bars, eateries, hotels, taxis—but rooted in the city's slums. Limits to self-protection.
Cant knew this, so he never dove too deep, sticking to precarious lines.
No one mourned slum deaths here.
But Shamus was different.
"Why curious?"
"Just unlike you, Mr. Cant. No need if it's sensitive."
"After a gift? I'd look like a jerk not telling. Did you bring it aiming for this?"
"Pardon? Ah... Yes."
Oliver caught on late it was a joke, playing along awkwardly.
Pretty clumsy, but Cant laughed.
"Hah, you've learned jokes now."
"Studying thirty minutes before bed."
"Joke?"
"No, real."
"Ah... Keep at it."
"Really?"
Oliver sounded disappointed—he thought he'd improved.
"You're getting better, so push a bit more."
"Ah, thank you."
"Back to it, then. You want to know my reward?"
"Yes... If it's trouble—"
"No trouble. They enabled us to form a welfare group eligible for city budget."
"Welfare group?"
"Yeah. Poorhouses for beggars overnight, shelters for workers hit by sudden misfortune to regroup. City dangled it: budget for a period if we build and run them."
"Accepted ABC for that?"
"Hard to refuse."
"Hm... So you got it?"
"Negotiating term and amount now."
"Accepted without haggling?"
"Pretty much. Foolish, but sometimes you gotta."
Cant replied. Oliver couldn't judge—he'd worked without proper pay himself.
Oliver hesitated, then spoke.
"If—"
"—It's fine."
Cant cut him off before the pitch.
"Fine how?"
"Weren't you gonna offer help?"
Cant read him perfectly.
"How'd you know?"
"Dunno, just figured."
Cant chuckled low, shaking his head.
"Appreciate it, but I'll pass. Heard your rising rep—took down Shamus solo?"
"Not revenge, just business."
"Right, I set up the fixer gig, so no complaints... If you stepped in, city'd give us better terms—they love the strong. But don't."
"Why?"
"Too much help turns poisonous."
"Pardon?"
"Too much help poisons. If a baby can't stand alone, constant aid means it never learns. We've taken your help plenty, but this we handle ourselves. Might be rough, results imperfect, but we need to grow."
"Oh... Sounds cool."
"Right? Adapted from the priest."
"Priest?"
"Yeah, the one who took me in as a beggar kid. Said God gave humans brains to think and limbs to act independently—for their own good. Help's the last resort."
"Oh, cooler."
"Yep. So passing on your help now... If we truly need it later, I'll ask then. Can you?"
"Hm... Depends."
"That's enough."
Cant was sincerely pleased.
After, they chatted idly on personal matters, not work—keeping healthy distance.
As topics ran dry, Oliver stood.
"I'll visit again."
"Bring booze next time."
"After you're healed."
Oliver bowed to leave; Cant called to his back.
"Doesn't have to be through me."
"...Pardon?"
"Helping people. Not just via me. I'm no good at it— just trying."
"...Wasn't planning, but who then?"
"Whoever catches your eye. Good deeds need no best—just do them."