A Crack in the Shield

Scratch, scratch.

A pen raced busily across a sheet of stained scrap paper. All sorts of diagrams and formulas were etched onto the page. By the time the nib finally stopped, the paper was filled to the brim, leaving not a single blank space.

Claude Regan stared down at the magic formula he had recorded. Before he could even read five lines, his brow furrowed. A heavy sigh of frustration escaped his chest.

"Dammit. I copied it exactly, so why...!"

The knowledge bestowed by Harmensales. It was a spell in its own right.

However, knowledge was merely knowledge; it did not come with "understanding." It only allowed him to view the pristine, uncorrupted magic formula.

Even so, that alone was a priceless opportunity.

Mages tended to hide their most valuable spells. If they hit a wall, they formed cabals to share them only among themselves. The sheer closed-off nature of mages was evident in how dearly they priced magical contracts designed to enforce absolute secrecy.

Claude Regan was a mage who belonged to no such group. He had to find his own themes and conduct his own research. All to escape this wretched Redline, this absolute rock bottom.

Yet, he had nothing to show for it.

"Ha, haha. If I can't even comprehend a single spell after gaining the Apostle of Knowledge, then I..."

On impulse, he went to crumple the paper but stopped himself. Too much effort had gone into copying it without a single error. It was a grimoire he had barely managed to piece together after viewing the formula over and over again.

There was no other way.

If he couldn't understand it, he had no choice but to extract the knowledge required for comprehension. As long as he paid the price, Harmensales would continue to cooperate.

The only annoying part was—

Knock, knock.

After a knock, a filthy-looking man entered the laboratory.

He hadn't even given permission to enter. An uneducated wretch.

"Piggy, what is it?"

The man flinched under his irritated gaze.

"Didn't I tell you not to contact me unless absolutely necessary?"

"Y-yes, of course. I know, Master."

"And yet?"

"Something has come up that I absolutely must report."

Claude Regan clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"...Speak. It had better be important."

Once permission was granted, the pig let out a sigh of relief.

He quickly shut the door behind him, as if afraid of being seen, and spoke.

"Well, you know that woman you told me to keep an eye on?"

"Number 18... you mean the Scrap?"

"Yes. It looks like she's making contact with the Termite."

Contact? With Number 17?

"Be specific. For what purpose?"

"I couldn't hear their conversation clearly, but they were holding hands and acting strangely close. I already thought it was suspicious during the last collection, so..."

Claude Regan narrowed his eyes.

"Number 17 and Number 18."

It was a baffling development.

He had never paid any attention to Number 17 in the first place. There was nothing special about how he had acquired him as a laborer. He had simply found him rolling around on the streets and picked him up like one would a stray pebble.

True to his nickname, he was just a white-haired termite.

Number 17 doesn't matter.

But the situation was different with Number 18.

That woman is dangerous.

A mage who had reportedly been exiled from the 5th ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠region, Yellowline, after racking up massive debts. Though her magic circuits had supposedly been shattered as punishment, she couldn't be viewed on the same level as the third-rate mages of the Redline.

Her arrival at the mine was also close to a mere coincidence.

I hoped there would be some way to make use of her.

High-level magic—like extracting only her magical achievements directly from her brain—was out of the question for him. He had subtly made several proposals, but she hadn't budged. She was a woman capable of sowing discord at any moment.

And now, true to form, Number 18 was making her move.

"Um, though I brought it up, it might actually be nothing. Just some friendly chatter, or at most, a little romance? Maybe you shouldn't worry too much about it..."

Seeing Claude Regan's expression darken, Number 14 quickly added a few words. He didn't want any unnecessary backlash to hit him. It would be troublesome if his spying was exposed, too.

But his words fell on deaf ears.

"Fool. No matter how much of a scrap piece she is, a mage is still a mage. Romance with a mere insect? Don't make me laugh."

Thud. He slammed his palm onto the desk.

"Time to do some cleaning."

"...What should we do?"

"What could a worthless wretch like you possibly do?"

There was no need to use the laborers.

For this workshop possessed a very convenient set of rules.

Lights out.

Normally, he would have been fast asleep, drenched in exhaustion, but tonight sleep eluded him. After all, he had less than a day left to live. No matter how he looked at it, this "death" was different from the first.

If there's a reason for me to die, it has to be the collection.

Baek Si-woo's collection had just ended yesterday. His turn should have been far off. Yet, the system claimed he would die abruptly tomorrow. To figure out why, he had to pay attention to every single change around him.

And he had found something.

That bastard.

He had witnessed the pig quietly slipping out of the dormitory and returning. He might have just gone to take a dump, but Baek Si-woo couldn't help but connect it to the death awaiting him tomorrow.

Right. It makes sense that he'd plant at least one spy.

Running a forced labor camp with over a dozen people meant anticipating mutiny. It wasn't unusual to plant a rat to nip any rebellion in the bud.

But why tomorrow, of all times?

The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place.

The pig, Claude Regan's spy, must have spotted him talking with Number 18. If the countdown had started then, everything lined up.

In the end, it was because he had gotten involved with that Scrap.

Well, if they've already decided to get rid of me...

Baek Si-woo stopped pretending to sleep and sat up. He lightly nudged Number 18, who was lying on her side, with his foot. He felt her flinch. As expected, she was awake.

Ignoring the eyes watching his back, he stepped out of the dormitory.

A moment later, Number 18 followed him out. Perhaps her eyes had grown accustomed to the pitch-black mine, or perhaps she had grown familiar with him; she was able to distinguish him by his silhouette alone, just as he had recognized Number 14 earlier.

"A late-night rendezvous is a bit much. Aren't we moving a little too fast?"

"Too fast, my ass. Not in a million years."

It felt ridiculous to maintain formalities alone, so he opted for a casual tone. Far from taking offense, Number 18 let out a giggling chuckle, seemingly in a better mood.

"So, what is it? If it's about your magic, I don't know either. Innate magic is highly unique. Unless you're a mutant, you usually learn it from your bloodline, but..."

She glanced him up and down.

"Do you... well, do you even have a family?"

He had felt this from the start, but she had a real knack for speaking in a mildly infuriating way. Regardless of his annoyance, the information was valuable. As expected, Number 18 was definitely a mage.

"Forget that. More importantly, about Number 14."

"The guy who just went somewhere and came back?"

"Yeah."

This was the crucial part.

I have to win Number 18 over.

There was no time to look for other options. Above all, there was no better candidate than her. At the very least, she was the least slave-like person in this place.

One could easily tell just by watching her behavior.

Number 18 felt absolutely no sense of danger.

She was the only person who did not fear the collection or the overseer.

"I think Number 14 is the overseer's lackey. His job is to watch us and report back. And if my hunch is correct, I'm going to be collected tomorrow."

"You worry too much. Your turn already passed."

"The order is entirely up to the overseer."

He had no concrete proof, of course. He had merely deduced it from the death timer. Even as he spoke, he wasn't one hundred percent certain. It was nothing more than a strong premonition that something would happen tomorrow.

"If nothing happens, then great. But if I'm right, I'm as good as dead. And if I die, you'll never get to find out about my magic or what the hell is wrong with my head."

I've become curious about you. He remembered her face when she said those words. Her eyes, gleaming with a fanatical thirst for study and knowledge.

And crucially...

"I know why you're holed up in a dump like this."

The moment those words left his mouth, the atmosphere shifted instantly.

"I don't know why you're so obsessed with that magic, but I can help you."

The amusement in her eyes—which had looked at him like a clueless puppy barking at a tiger—vanished, replaced by a cold seriousness. He had no idea how he would actually follow through on this promise, but he didn't care. Survival came first.

"You... who told you—"

"Tomorrow. Remember that."

Baek Si-woo cut her off. It would only get complicated if the conversation dragged on.

"If things go down the way I said, and you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠do nothing..."

"And if I don't? What are you going to do?"

"I'll drop dead right in front of you."

"How amusing. And how exactly would you do that?"

Baek Si-woo glared at her.

"I'm saying I'll die, not you! So you'd better do something."

The die was cast.

The next day.

With every passing second, his throat felt bone-dry with anxiety.

He couldn't even bring himself to swing his pickaxe. In the end, he had left his life in someone else's hands. The realization that he couldn't even take responsibility for his own survival filled him with a bitter sense of misery.

The work shift ended, and the time arrived.

"Work shift over."

Claude Regan's gaze swept over the crowd and landed on two people.

"The Termite, the Scrap... no, not the Leech. Number 20, One-eye."

Instantly, a murmur rippled through the workshop. The established order of the collection had been completely shattered. Meanwhile, Claude Regan turned his back, utterly indifferent to the laborers' reactions.

"Follow me."

Baek Si-woo watched the retreating back of the mage before turning his gaze to Number 18.

"Ha. This is why he's a third-rate hack."

Number 18 looked visibly flustered. It seemed she hadn't expected to be included in the collection herself. Her cart wasn't even half-filled with ore.

As they followed Claude Regan, Number 18 leaned in close and whispered.

"It happened exactly as you said. How did you know?"

"Never mind that. What are you going to do now?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't use any grand magic right now."

"What? You're telling me this now?"

At his accusing glare, Number 18 scrunched up her nose.

"I'm serious. If it were the old days, maybe, but right now it's a bit difficult."

Dammit. Had he put his trust in the wrong person?

Maybe the hint itself was a trap.

Baek Si-woo scrowled deeply, his mind ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠racing. Was he really going to die such a pathetic death? Rather than stubbornly clinging to a rotting rope, it was better to carve out his own path, no matter what.

Just as he was about to resolve himself to that.

"But I can set the stage for you. You'll have to handle the rest."

"What stage? Speak clearly."

"Claude Regan might be third-rate, but he's still a dark mage. There's an absolute, overwhelming difference in mana capacity between him and a beginner who just awakened their magic yesterday. No matter what kind of magic you have, you can't do anything with a microscopic pool of mana."

Even as a magic novice, he could grasp the logic.

"I'll lend you a bit of mine. Wait for my signal."

He couldn't blindly trust Number 18's words. He had barely two minutes left. He would have to hold out until the absolute last second, and then struggle with everything he had. If he didn't want to die like a dog.

The procedure was the same as before.

"Offer your blood to the Lord."

Inside the ritual chamber, Claude Regan drew his dagger.

But Baek Si-woo did not offer his hand. He had an instinctive feeling that he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would rather fight Claude Regan to the death than let Harmensales manifest again.

"What are you doing? Give me your—"

The moment arrived without warning.

"Wh-what's going on?! Why is it doing this?!"

A panicked voice echoed from outside. The voice belonged to the unfortunate Number 20, who had been dragged along with them. At the urgent cry, Claude Regan threw the door open.

"What is the meaning of this noise?!"

Black smoke was already billowing from the tunnel. The source was the carts that Number 18 and Number 20 had brought in. Not only theirs, but smoke was also rising from Baek Si-woo's cart.

The ore?

Looking closely, the ores were glowing red-hot. Number 18 had clearly done something to them during the night. And it wasn't just a simple parlor trick.

Thump!

The moment the smoke touched his skin, his heart hammered.

The sensation of the foreign presence inside his body—which he had been aware of ever since his magic awakened yesterday—began to swell. The change that started in his chest surged through his bloodstream, spreading to his fingertips and toes.

The foreign substance circulating through his veins, mixed with his blood. It was suffocatingly dense, yet incredibly fulfilling. The "power" swirling within him was bursting from his very pores.

He realized it instinctively.

Now.

Baek Si-woo gripped his pickaxe. At the same time, he recalled the words he had heard yesterday. Be honest with your emotions. A tool to smash something. The target to swing the "hammer" at.

The back of his enemy's head was right in front of him.

Surprisingly, he didn't hesitate for long.

Whoosh!

The moment Baek Si-woo swung the pickaxe, Claude Regan whipped his head around. His dark eyes were filled with irritation and rage, as if looking at a slug that dared to crawl up his leg.

Indeed, to Claude Regan, these people were nothing more than insects.

These pieces of trash!

The decisive reason why an ordinary person or an aspiring mage could never defy a true mage lay in the Shield. For a mage, the absolute basic of combat was securing a minimum safety measure.

By deploying a magic barrier, a mage stood on an unassailable high ground.

An absolute advantage where neither physical brawls nor sharp blades could touch them.

This time would be no different.

A worn-out pickaxe? No threat at all. He would skin Number 17 and Number 18 alive for plotting mutiny and throw them to the other slaves. They would serve as an excellent warning.

That was how it should have gone.

Crack!

"Argh! Aaaaargh!"

The pickaxe, enveloped in a shimmering haze, buried itself deep into Claude Regan's shoulder.

Piercing through the Shield—which could stop even a bullet—as easily as if it were a sheet of paper.