Foretold Calamity

Thunderous roars shook the arena from every corner.

"Reed! Reed! Reed!"

"Woooow!"

"Incredible!!"

The crowd had worked itself into absolute frenzy. Not a single person kept their mouth shut, and not a single face was left unflushed. The duel had simply been that entertaining.

The spectacle of radiant spells colliding in midair was a rare and magnificent sight—entertainment on this scale was virtually impossible to find in this age. To top it off, Julian had run through a colorful repertoire of spells, pulled out a secret family heirloom, and still eaten dirt in the end. He had played the foil with extraordinary flavor, serving as the quintessential supporting act. Unintentional though it surely was, his performance ensured that not one spectator regretted the price of admission.

"Well done, Reed!"

"You're our hero!"

"I knew you had it in you!"

Darahalt, Loty, and the stonemasons charged in first. Darahalt practically scrambled up Reed's shoulders, tousling his hair into an unruly nest and slinging an arm around his neck as his stubby dwarf legs broke into a jubilant jig.

He had tossed and turned all night, agonizing over what would happen if they lost. Becoming the laughingstock of all Morasil would have been a fate worse than death. But now that dread had evaporated into thin air, and Reed had hoisted the pride of the Stonemasons' Union higher than the heavens. How could he not love the boy?

"You magnificent, clever little bastard!!"

As the masons erupted in deafening cheers, the spectators surged forward as well.

"Me too! Let me in!"

"This looks great!"

"Wait, everyone, please maintain some—oof!"

"Out of the way!"

Gamblers who had pocketed a windfall on Reed's odds, townswomen moved to tears by his display of magic, and unruly street urchins who just wanted a piece of the fun swarmed like an incoming tide. They surrounded Reed, hoisted him off his feet, and hurled him straight toward the sky.

Reed went airborne.

"Aaaaargh!"

A visceral terror of death, one he hadn't felt once during his duel with Julian, gripped his spine. He was having the absolute worst ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠time of his life, but the delirious crowd showed no signs of stopping their victory tosses.

After a good while of utter chaos, the referee finally managed to restore a semblance of order and proceeded with the closing ceremony.

A Magic Tower executive looking as if he had swallowed a mouthful of manure stood alongside a swaggering Darahalt. Together, they delivered stilted speeches pledging eternal goodwill between their organizations and shared an intensely awkward handshake. It was an undeniably comical sight, though thankfully witnessed by very few—the moment the fight ended, the spectators had already scattered into the streets.

"With this, we conclude our friendly exchange. May the bond between the Stonemasons' Union and the Magic Tower endure forever."

And so, the tumultuous duel came to a close.

What had begun as a petty provocation had yielded no small harvest for Reed. First, he made good coin. Second, he raised the standing of the Stonemasons' Union. Third, he gained invaluable combat experience against an actual mage—practical knowledge that would serve him well whenever he clashed with another spellcaster in the future.

Yet his greatest harvest was, without question, his reputation.

Though Reed had made a name for himself by rooting out demon worshippers, many had harbored doubts. Some dismissed it as sheer luck, others wrote him off as a con artist, and the cautious insisted on waiting to see more. The Demonic Borderlands was a graveyard of shooting stars—prodigies who flared brilliantly for a fleeting season only to vanish without a trace. But with this victory, Reed had proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that his past exploits were no fluke. His display had been nothing short of overwhelming.

Now, the name Reed resonated across all of Morasil. What kind of ripples would that fame bring?

The Magic Tower was far less somber than one might expect. In fact, it was buzzing with restless excitement.

Naturally, the humiliation Julian had brought upon the Tower's prestige left a foul taste in their mouths. But that grievance was thoroughly eclipsed by the shock of the magic Reed had displayed.

"Earth magic of that caliber! Just whose lineage did he inherit? Pull every record we have on earth mages, immediately!"

"The thing is, earth magic is extraordinarily rare, and those who take it as their primary discipline are practically nonexistent..."

"Then comb through the ancient histories, you fool!"

"To attain that level of mastery at his age... Does that make any sense? Is he an elf? A fairy of magic in human skin?"

"Judging by his mana control, he leans far closer to the esoteric school than the theoreticians."

"Just what formula was that spell constructed on?"

Mages were, by definition, eccentrics. They were inherently arrogant, and as a rule, thoroughly obnoxious. Yet when it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠came to magic itself, their devotion was absolute. Present them with an unknown spell or a novel theory, and they would swarm like starving hounds.

Ah! I want to corner him and pick his brain for hours!

If only I could get him into my research circle. I'd treat him like royalty...

Couldn't he just become my apprentice?

The sting of public disgrace forced them to maintain decorum for now, but beneath the surface, the mages were fidgeting with uncontainable curiosity. If Julian hadn't blundered so spectacularly, they would have extended an invitation to join the Magic Tower that very hour.

Yes, this was all Julian's fault.

"By the way, what became of that idiot?"

"He shattered his family's ancestral relic. He'll undoubtedly be cast out of the lineage."

"The Erentir name is finished. But why did the relic break so suddenly?"

"Probably broke down from age. Forget him, he's irrelevant now."

Arrogant mages showed no mercy to those who fell outside the scope of their interest. Having wiped Julian's name clean from their minds, they were about to resume their heated debate when an executive, who had been brooding in silence, finally spoke up.

"During my inquiries, I crossed paths with a man named Smith Leak at the Pioneers Guild. It appears he has ties to this Gravekeeper."

The executive had applied no small amount of pressure to pry information out of him. Smith had stubbornly stonewalled most of the questions, yet one crucial fact had slipped through.

"The Gravekeeper already has a master."

"Well, reasonably speaking, reaching that tier at his age without guidance would be impossible. And?"

"His master is supposedly an individual of immense political influence."

Not long ago, Sir Arivalt had leveraged House Evergreen's authority to pacify the city guards. Smith, however, had mistaken that demonstration of power for the backing of Reed's mentor. He had brandished that connection as a warning to keep the Magic Tower from overstepping.

At the time, I thought it was just a pathetic bluff...

Looking at the situation now, it seemed Smith hadn't been lying after all. That narrowed the list of candidates considerably:

First, an individual of significant influence.

Second, a mage skilled enough to nurture a disciple like Reed.

Third, and most importantly, someone with an eccentric streak. Why else would they conceal their identity while sending Reed all the way to Morasil?

Synthesizing those conditions yielded only one possible answer.

One by one, the listening mages widened their eyes.

"Don't tell me... you mean that bastard? No, wait. That man?"

"Certainly. A vagabond eccentric roaming the continent fits the bill completely."

"His prowess is beyond question, too."

They had all arrived at the exact same conclusion. Yet solving the mystery brought no joy to the room. Instead, they traded uneasy glances, their expressions turning deeply uncomfortable.

"...Then we observe from a distance for now."

"Indeed. If we try to poach a talent claimed by that bastard—pardon, that man—there's no telling what kind of unhinged rampage he'll unleash."

"Now, now. 'Unhinged rampage'? Isn't that a bit crude?"

"Is there a more accurate description?"

"...No, there is not."

In the minds of the mages, the danger rating assigned to the youth named Reed spiked dramatically. A chosen disciple of that man could never be ordinary.

Of course, none of them had the faintest clue that the entire deduction was a monumental misunderstanding.

Deep within the heart of the Demonic Borderlands lay an isolated forest. In a secluded grove so densely overgrown that not a sliver of sunlight could pierce the canopy, four apostles serving four distinct demons sat assembled.

Seated at a round stone table, Nadja scanned a printed broadsheet and furrowed her brow.

"Hey. Why do we always have to meet in dingy places like this? Isn't it just cheap prejudice to assume demon apostles have to huddle in the dark?"

None of the others bothered to humor her idle banter.

A warrior clad in pitch-black armor snored softly where he sat. An old man whose face was dotted with liver spots coughed into his sleeve, while an uncanny figure sporting the head of a goat stared blankly back at her.

"Tch. Boring."

Nadja pouted, though she held no genuine distaste for her companions—or rather, her rivals. Everyone seated at this table was thoroughly competent.

The old man spoke in a raspy, deceptively gentle voice.

"Cough, cough! I understand your boredom, child, but be patient. You know our appointed hour draws near, do you not? Turtoci, are the preparations proceeding smoothly?"

"Caaawww!"

The beastly figure shrieked. Why an entity with the head of a goat produced the cry of a crow was a question no one cared to ask.

The nodding warrior jolted awake.

"War? Is it war already?"

"People will die in droves, so yes, one might call it war. Cough."

"Hahaha! Excellent! Let's butcher and be butchered to our hearts' content!"

Nadja remained sullen, tapping her fingernails on the stone table.

"So when, exactly? What's the timeline?"

"Baaah!"

"Next spring is the projected estimate."

"Hmph. Next spring... That's far too slow."

"Nadja. Why the impatience? That is unlike you."

Nadja offered an ambiguous smile as she lifted the broadsheet once more. Detailed across its pages was a thorough account of the duel between Reed and Julian. A faint, genuine smirk curled the corners of her lips.

"Just personal business."

Next spring. How much stronger would Reed become by then? How much more useful would he be?

Like a child eagerly counting down the days until her birthday party, Nadja's eyes gleamed with undisguised anticipation.

The Governor's Palace stood at the dead center of Morasil, serving as the seat of power for the realm's supreme ruler.

Crafted by an ancient civilization, the stone edifice was magnificent and imposing, commanding deference from anyone who stepped beneath its arches. Yet the interior was shockingly spartan. There were no lavish works of art, no ostentatious luxuries, no plush carpets underfoot, and no silk drapes flanking the windows. The only decorative touch was a series of austere portraits depicting past Emperors lined along the cold stone walls.

Bleak as a tomb, the Secretary grumbled internally. Hardly fitting for nobility.

He knocked briskly on the heavy door of the executive office.

"Your Excellency. I have come with a report."

"Enter."

The Governor sat with his chair turned, casually reading a newspaper. But something about the publication caught the Secretary's eye.

West Life?

Why on earth was the ruler of the western frontier reading a third-rate rag like that?

As the Secretary hesitated, the Governor spoke.

"It seems an amusing spectacle unfolded recently. An exchange between the Magic Tower and the Stonemasons' Union, of all things."

The Secretary rapidly rolled his eyes, calculating what answer the Governor sought before offering a dismissive sneer.

"Ah, yes. A petty scuffle escalated into a duel, so I heard. But at the end of the day, it was merely low-tier mages rolling in the mud. For imperial subjects who should be toiling on the frontier to waste their minds on such trivialities is utterly deplorable."

"Do not be so harsh. I attended in person yesterday, and found it quite entertaining."

"I am the deplorable one, Your Excellency! What a fool I am! A secretary who fails to grasp the cultural weight of such events!"

Without missing a beat, the Secretary spun on his heel and rapped his own skull in an exaggerated display of self-chastisement. The Governor let out a soft chuckle.

"And it was hardly low-tier. The Magic Tower fellow was somewhat disappointing, but the other youth was far from ordinary. I had the distinct impression he will grow into someone remarkable."

"...For Your Excellency to say so, he must be extraordinary indeed. Could he prove useful for the frontier's expansion?"

Tapping his fingers against the polished desk in contemplation, the Governor smiled faintly.

"Time will tell. But you came to deliver a report, did you not?"

"Ah, yes."

Snapping back to attention, the Secretary produced a sealed document from his coat.

"According to projections from the beast scholars, the time draws near."

The perpetual ease vanished from the Governor's face. His brow hardened as he took a measured sip of tea.

"Hmm. Near... Exactly when?"

"The consensus points toward next spring."

"Spring, of all times..."

The Governor murmured under his breath, his tone heavy with foreboding.

"It will be a grueling season."

Reed earned eight gold coins from the duel—his cut of the gate receipts collected by West Life.

In truth, the total proceeds had been considerably higher, but Darahalt had already skimmed a portion.

"We ought to carve a nice stone statue for the Magic Tower," the dwarf had explained with a grin. "They're stewing in their own bile right now, so smoothing their feathers like this is just good manners."

"I see."

"And I've decided to carve a monument of you beating down that pompous brat so we can display it right in our front courtyard! Legendary clashes like this need to be preserved in stone for future generations. Brilliant, eh?"

"...Please, Meister, don't. And what part of that was a legendary clash?!"

To hear Darahalt talk, one would think Reed had saved the Empire from ruin. Yet Darahalt's antics were mild compared to the rest of the guild. Lately, the stonemasons treated Reed like a prized golden calf.

"Reed! Are your feet tired?"

"Uh, wait—!"

Every time he ran into a mason, they would shove their head between his legs trying to carry him on their shoulders. And when mealtime rolled around:

"Reed! Lunch is on me today!"

"You like roast beef, don't you?"

"Hey, you prick, did you just cut in line?!"

They nearly came to blows over who got the honor of buying him a meal, forcing Reed to stuff himself with four heavy courses a day. While he was deeply touched to be coddled like a beloved youngest brother, it was undeniably overwhelming.

Well, at least my food expenses are zero for the foreseeable future.

After desperately talking Darahalt out of immortalizing him in stone, Reed finally had the coins in his hands.

Eight whole gold pieces!

An astronomical sum. For most commoners eking out a living in the lower districts, holding this kind of wealth was an unimaginable fantasy. Gazing down at the radiant luster of the gold, Reed felt his lingering resentment toward Julian melt away. He turned a wistful gaze toward the open sky.

"You know, Julian's spellcraft wasn't half bad. If we had met under different circumstances, perhaps we could have been good friends."

For a fleeting second, he almost imagined Julian's face smiling benevolently down from the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠clouds—even though the man was very much alive.

Shaka stood nearby, staring at Reed as if looking at a complete lunatic.

"Right! Now that I have the coin... it's time to buy that magic book."

After all, why had he needed money in the first place? To acquire a proper introductory manual on the arcane. For this, he had turned to Loty.

"The introductory text you mentioned? Sure, I'll ask my father."

Though he hardly looked the part, Loty hailed from a fairly prosperous background. According to Darahalt, his family operated a prominent merchant company.

Why a merchant's son is chipping stone for a living is beyond me, Reed mused.

Wandering into an arcane apothecary himself would have been foolish. With no knowledge of going rates, he would have been thoroughly fleeced, and worse, it would broadcast to the entire city that he was a total amateur in the fundamentals of magic. Letting Loty handle it was by far the wiser path.

A few days later, Loty delivered the goods.

It was a hefty tome bound in supple calfskin, its pages composed of pristine, high-grade parchment. At a glance, it looked thoroughly impressive—save for the title emblazoned on the cover.

"..."

"..."

Reed stared flatly at the cover before lifting his eyes toward Loty.

"...Did you pick this specifically to insult me?"

"No, no, no! You know how mages are—cranky, arrogant, and thoroughly obnoxious! That's just how the author is!"

"..."

"Not that I'm saying you're like that! But seriously, look past the title. The contents are leagues ahead of any standard primer. I flipped through it myself, and it makes everything ridiculously easy to grasp. Belzark Crescen might be an eccentric lunatic, but he's an Archmage for a reason."

"If you say so. Fine."

Reed accepted the book gingerly and handed over six gold coins. Six! A stack of paper had just cost him an absolute fortune.

Earning it is agonizing, but spending it takes an instant.

His hand trembled slightly, though his heart didn't clench with the gut-wrenching despair it once did. His monetary senses were growing numb. Then again, it wasn't a waste. If push came to shove, he could always resell the volume. More importantly, the exorbitant price tag reaffirmed an undeniable truth:

Magic is money.

The more he polished his craft, the more knowledge he accumulated, the more wealth would naturally gravitate toward him.

"Whew."

Taking a deep breath, Reed turned past the cover. The preface met his eyes:

Everyone possesses the right to learn. Even a low-IQ moron. To be barred from the sublime wonders of magic simply because one was born with a deficient intellect is an intolerable injustice. Thus, I, Belzark Crescen, bestow this work upon the absolute simpletons of the world.

"...What an insufferable prick."

The condescension practically dripped from the ink. Yet Reed found himself nodding along with the sentiment that all people deserved the right to learn. As foul-tempered as the author clearly was, his intentions seemed genuinely noble.

Reed turned the page to find an illustration. Rather than a scholarly diagram, it was a brightly colored drawing reminiscent of a children's storybook. The author's opinion of his readership was abundantly clear.

What is this? A knight and an assassin?

Reed read the accompanying text:

Definitions of magic vary across different academies, but I define it thus: Any act of intervening in reality through the medium of mana. That is magic.

The wizard conjuring a fireball. The southern assassin slipping into shadows. The northern berserker drenched in frenzy. The eastern swordsman projecting a blade aura. The knight reinforcing his flesh. Whether primitive or refined, instinctive or structured by rigid theory, all fall beneath the broad umbrella of magic.

Naturally, if you explain this to a meatheaded knight whose skull is stuffed with muscle instead of a brain, he will challenge you to a duel on the spot. Exercise discretion.

It was a fascinating perspective.

"A knight is just another type of mage... is that the gist?"

While merely one scholar's opinion, the logic held together seamlessly. Reed turned to the next section.

Another illustration greeted him, this time depicting a bowl of meat stew and a spoon. An utterly bizarre pairing for a magic treatise.

The three requisites for manifesting magic are as follows: Knowledge, Mana, and Will.

Consider the manifestation of a spell as the act of dining. Mana is the soup. Without soup in the bowl, you can never fill your belly. Expanding your mana reserves is equivalent to brewing a larger batch of soup.

Knowledge is the spoon. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠No matter how much soup fills the vessel, a tiny teaspoon limits how much you can lift in a single mouthful. Accumulating knowledge, refining your incantations, and optimizing formulas is the process of enlarging this spoon.

Will is your appetite—the desire to consume the meal. Suppose you have brewed an ocean of soup and carved a ladle the size of a barrel. As you gorge yourself, a moment will inevitably arrive when your stomach is full. Push past that limit, and discomfort sets in; you will no longer wish to eat. Disregard that warning and keep shoving soup down your gullet, and you will suffer violent indigestion—or your stomach will rupture outright.

"Ah...!"

Reed slapped his knee in realization. That brief metaphor untangled every lingering knot in his understanding.

Why had the destructive output of his spells felt constrained despite his boundless ocean of mana? Because his spoon—his knowledge—was too small.

And that splitting headache he experienced after wildly firing spells during the goblin subjugation? That was the sickening fullness the author described. Pushing further would have inflicted permanent physical damage.

Thrilled by the joy of genuine comprehension, Reed devoured page after page. True to its introductory nature, the book walked through major theoretical schools, spell classifications, and the history of arcane development. Nearly every leaf featured simple sketches and an absurd number of culinary metaphors, but the text was incomparably easy to digest.

It sinks right into your head.

Abrasive though the author was, no finer primer existed. Loty's recommendation had been spot-on.

Having read the entire volume in a single sitting, Reed closed the cover and stared up at the wooden rafters.

"Incredible..."

Though it was only the foundational layer, Reed finally grasped just how vast, intricate, and profound the discipline of magic truly was. There was so much left to learn. Even a lifetime of study might not brush against the outer hem of its ultimate truths.

Some would have found that realization paralyzing, perhaps giving up before they began, just as Julian had. But not Reed.

The knowledge of how much remained to be discovered, and how much he was capable of learning, set his pulse racing. Reed reopened the primer to the first page and began reading it again. It was far too early to waste the night on sleep.

The day following the duel had been a public rest day. Having spent the holiday chatting excitedly about the clash between Reed and Julian, the citizens of Morasil waited eagerly for the next edition of West Life.

An exclusive interview with Reed was slated for publication. The populace was hungry to learn more about this rising star—a budding wave of public admiration.

From the break of dawn, long queues formed before newsstands. Those without coin or literacy lingered near the edges, hoping to catch secondhand gossip. A lighthearted article was precisely the modest indulgence they needed to endure another grueling workday...

"Wait, what?"

Those who bought the paper froze, their eyes widening at the front page. In fact, every single person holding a broadsheet wore the exact same expression.

Every printing press in Morasil had carried the exact same proclamation.

The calamity had been foretold.