Chapter 6
Chapter 6
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ace
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Lesson (1)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The next morning was different from the usual.
Even without the supervisor banging on the frying pan to wake them, everyone got out of bed. It wasn't simply because there was no work.
"Wow... This is a first. To actually schedule a lesson like this."
"Yeah, what's going on?"
"Maybe something good happened? I heard the Master made a huge haul of loot on his way back. Hey, you know anything about it?"
The kids, chattering excitedly among themselves, turned to Oliver, who had risen from the worst spot in the corner.
He was the one the Master had picked up this time, and he seemed a bit dim somewhere, offering only his usual blank expression without any response.
One kid spoke up.
"Ignore him. Seriously, looking at that guy makes me frustrated. Even Tom has it out for him, so don't get involved."
"Yeah, probably best... Man, I'm jealous. He came in with me, and now he's already becoming a Formal Disciple."
"Is that for real? Formal Disciple. Not just a rumor?"
"Pretty much true. At least, among Andrew's people, it's common knowledge. Makes sense—he already knows a few black magic spells."
"Yeah, that guy's definitely becoming a Formal Disciple. They said he's going to be a real black magician."
"So play it safe. He's got a nasty personality; once he marks you, it's a headache. And if he really becomes a Formal Disciple... Ugh."
"We're not the ones to worry about—it's Marie. Sixth year as a Temporary Disciple. Next month will be hell for her. She got on his bad side by sticking her neck out for that idiot. What was she even thinking...? Hey, what the fuck?"
They spoke upon noticing Oliver, who had approached silently. Everyone jumped in surprise—probably thanks to his lifeless face.
"May I ask something?"
Oliver spoke politely. There was no particular reason. He'd been forced to use courteous speech with the orphanage director and supervisor. It was a habit. Because of that, his polite tone felt more irritating than courteous.
"W-What...?"
"Supervisor Tom... What black magic does he use?"
"Ha...? What're you gonna do with that?"
"What, you think knowing'll let you do something to me? Don't get ahead of yourself."
"Just curious. Please, I'm begging you."
Oliver bowed his head in plea. Seeing this, the kids who'd been talking lit up with a sense of superiority.
"Well, if you're that desperate, I'll tell you just once, so listen up. Doesn't really matter to you anyway, but to become a black magician, you need two essentials first: 'Eye Opening' and 'Handle.' You see emotions—the main ingredient of black magic—and grab and manipulate them."
With that, he raised his hand, gathering black light. A surprisingly crude circle formed.
"Haa... This right here. Took months just to do this. How about you guys?"
The other two kids who'd been chatting did the same, forming circles at their fingertips. Lopsided and shabby ones, but still.
"Ooh, getting better?"
"Right? Been practicing on the side!"
"Ooh, impressive? See, that's Eye Opening and Handle. You need these to even start black magic."
Oliver understood the words, but the level was so low he couldn't respond. Wait, wasn't this just something you did? Practice? Time?
Fortunately, he had enough tact not to say it out loud.
"Heh heh, he's scared... Plenty of guys can't even do this... After Eye Opening and Handle, then you can do 'Processing.'"
"What's Processing?"
"You know nothing. Processing is using emotions to cast black magic. It can become a weapon stronger than a gun, an invincible shield, or a horrific monster."
"You can also make potions, cosmetics, perfumes, Filterettes, and rake in big money."
Money came up, and the kids stopped talking, letting out oohs of admiration and chattering excitedly among themselves.
Oliver, uninterested, was about to ask what it took to become a Formal Disciple when someone kicked the door open and yelled.
"You lazy brats! If you're up, get cleaning and eat! The Master's specially giving you the day off work to teach you, and you're just sitting around? Should I scrap it all?!"
At the supervisor's bellow, the workers froze, ending their chatter and scrambling into action. Oliver, who hadn't gotten the answer he wanted, felt disappointed but moved under the supervisor's glare.
The supervisor grabbed Oliver.
"Hey, you... Gotten cocky thinking you'll get lessons right away? Don't delude yourself. No one's become a Formal Disciple in under a year, let alone a month. So don't do anything stupid."
Oliver looked at his assigned supervisor. More precisely, at his emotions—shining with inexplicable anger and wariness. A familiar light. Oliver bowed his head.
"Yes, I understand."
As usual, Oliver started cleaning the factory with the other workers. Everyone worked hard, excited about the lesson, finishing earlier than normal.
After cleaning came mealtime, as always.
Thanks to the lesson, besides bread and soup, there was an extra plump, golden sausage.
Everyone devoured theirs greedily; Oliver ate too. Salty. Greasy.
Twenty minutes later, after eating and cleanup, a man appeared from somewhere. Unlike the factory kids, he looked well-fed and groomed; everyone bowed upon seeing him.
"Ah, Mr. Andrew...! Good to see you."
"Good to see you."
"Good to see you."
Led by Supervisor Tom, everyone bowed. Oliver followed suit, and Andrew raised his hand.
"Enough. Enough. Don't be so stiff. Everyone done eating?"
"““““Yes!””””"
They answered loudly. Andrew nodded once and spoke.
"Then follow me from now on. The Master's going to teach you himself."
A faint smile spread across the kids' faces. Considering they only got lessons five times a year, it was understandable.
The kids naturally lined up; Oliver gauged the mood and took the very back.
"Follow me."
Andrew headed toward the factory warehouse. Amid packed sausage boxes and tarped mystery items sat a small door.
Less a door than a secret passage—hard to notice without looking closely. Andrew gathered black light in his hand, placed it on the door, and complex patterns spread, followed by a creaking grind as it slowly opened.
Andrew entered, the kids following. Inside was a surprisingly well-finished basement, lit by bulbs at intervals—quite comfortable.
The kids chattered softly, excited, imagining themselves living here as black magicians someday.
"Wait, we're really having a lesson?"
A man they passed on the way spoke to Andrew. He seemed to be of the same rank.
"Yeah."
"That's unexpected. After trips, you usually rest for weeks and just read."
Then Andrew glanced at Oliver in the rear.
"Guess not always. Ignore it."
"Got it."
Short exchange over, Andrew pressed on, passing rooms and corridors until they reached what seemed a classroom.
Unlike elsewhere, it was poorly finished—half dirt walls, exposed ceiling beams.
But it wasn't unprepared. Desks and chairs for the group, though short; wall shelves held emotion-extraction vials and black magic books.
Oliver felt his quiet heart race again. No proper education, but not half-assed either.
"Come in."
Joseph stood at the podium, appearing out of nowhere. Everyone bowed in greeting.
"Master! Hello!"
"““““Master! Hello!””””"
Joseph lightly waved acknowledgment and ordered them to sit. Desks numbered barely a dozen for over thirty Temporary Disciples—ridiculously few. Yet no issue.
The three supervisors sat first; the workers fought over the rest.
Slower or weaker kids lost seats, forced to stand uncomfortably at the back. This was standard for black magicians: the faster and stronger got more.
As class was about to start, Joseph asked Andrew.
"You not leaving?"
"If it's alright, may I join? Your teachings are always enlightening, Master."
"...Do as you like."
With permission, Andrew bowed. Joseph dove right in.
"This is a special lesson I arranged, so pay close attention. Before the main content, let's review basics. What is black magic?"
Marie raised her hand first.
"Fundamentally, the study of miracles using emotions, but delving deeper, it's handling the soul—the root of humanity. Emotions are merely a portion of the soul's energy."
"Correct. Black magic is essentially soul manipulation. Thus, beyond emotions, it extracts and uses invisible human traits like life force and charm. Since the soul is everything's root. In short, black magic explores humanity's truth and essence."
"Ooh..."
They nodded in understanding, some jotting notes. Oliver wondered if only he didn't get it.
"Now, what's the foundation for black magic? Speak."
Marie raised her hand again.
"First, 'Eye Opening' to see basic material emotions, and 'Handle' to manipulate them."
"Right. No amount of knowledge helps if you can't see and handle emotions. Next?"
"Extract emotions, then 'Process' them. That's what makes one a black magician."
"Exactly. The bare basics, the true first step. But that hard. Why?"
"Emotions are soul energy. Extracting and processing affects the caster. Sadness, anger, murderous intent, hatred... If the caster slips or lacks skill, the emotions backfire."
"Yes! Black magic has unmatched power and efficiency, but it's not free. Weak mind or skill, and emotions consume you instead. Theoretically strongest, but few reach that level."
The mood sobered. Black magic's difficulty sank in, breeding worry and fear.
Clap—!
Joseph clapped, refocusing them.
"That's why this lesson. So at least one gains skill. Theory ends here—extract emotions from these."
Joseph handed lab flasks to the Temporary Disciples. Inside writhed emotion clumps.
Tom took first. Confident smile, hand to flask mouth.
Soon, a black thread rose slowly. Everyone went "waa—" in awe.
Next, Marie. She extracted with more strain than Tom, frowning. He smirked.
Then Oliver's supervisor. Equally strained as Marie.
"Supervisors aren't just anyone, huh."
Someone muttered.
Supervisors done, workers and Temporary Disciples' turn. Grim faces, but few succeeded.
Only a handful fully extracted and held the emotion; others failed midway or entirely, struggling to maintain. Clear why no Formal Disciples here.
"Here."
Finally Oliver's turn. He stared at the flask; others ignored him—until he spoke.
"Master..."
All eyes snapped to him reflexively.
"What?"
"How much emotion should I extract?"
Everyone but Joseph scowled.
"...As much as you can. That's part of training. Extract and handle maximum."
Without pause, Oliver placed his hand over the flask mouth. Following his image training, he extracted.
The clump filling a third surged like vomit from the flask, stabilizing amazingly in his hand.
"What next?"
Everyone answered Oliver's innocent question with silence.