The Fall of the Golden Soul
As soon as I came to my senses, I went straight to the maid Isabel and informed her about the black mage conducting human experiments in the capital. She passed the information on to the crown prince, who mobilized the entire Royal Guard to raid the warehouse. But by then, only countless corpses and traces of the laboratory remained—the key facilities and the black mage had vanished.
The subsequent investigation revealed that the site belonged to Viscount Jimnus Clagel, a traditional noble house with no apparent ties to magic. The viscount's mansion was just as empty, not a single ant left behind. The crown prince added Jimnus Clagel to the wanted list and formed pursuit teams. Still, most figured there'd be little success. Tracking a determined mage is no easy feat.
There was nothing more I could do. I had no desire to encounter another black mage anyway. If there was any consolation, it was that Isabel earned a small merit for uncovering the heinous black mage hiding in the capital.
I put the incident behind me and resumed academy life. I didn't cut back on my nighttime strolls. For a soul, the night was too long and boring to waste idly.
During those walks, I'd occasionally pass tips to Isabel about serious crimes in back alleys or nobles plotting foul schemes. When vacation rolled around again, I headed to the Magic Tower. The academy only covered basic theory, but magic was a fascinating discipline. I'd often thought in my past life how great it would be to become a mage. Partly because I lacked talent for physical pursuits, but also because the prestige of visiting high mages in the territory was immense—one of the few paths for a bastard son to rise.
But such opportunities had never come my way. The Magic Tower offered classes for apprentice mages without masters. Not daily like the academy, but occasional lessons from high mages as a gesture of benevolence. Even so, they were far more specialized than academy fare.
There were also private lessons from masters to their disciples—esoteric knowledge and experience reserved for direct lineage. I absorbed it all. In terms of pure knowledge gain, the Magic Tower outshone the academy; all the tower's wisdom funneled into me alone.
During this time, I spent a lot of time shadowing one apprentice mage. The commoner boy named Forte shocked me at first sight. His soul was enormous, radiating a blinding golden halo. I'd never seen such talent. Was this what they meant by a once-in-centuries genius?
Yet despite that soul, Forte remained a masterless apprentice. Even high mages rated him poorly. But watching him, he was undoubtedly a genius. He couldn't focus in class, always goofing off, yet back in his room, he'd replicate it effortlessly. Lessons I struggled to grasp were too easy for him to concentrate on.
Another issue loomed. The Magic Tower drew talented kids, overwhelmingly nobles like the academy. One noble—a second son of a powerful earl's house—had noticed Forte's talent. Knowing wasn't the problem; envy was. He led a faction among the apprentices and openly bullied Forte, making tower life hell.
I considered asking Isabel for help. But even crown prince backing wouldn't change much. Tradition held that the royal family didn't meddle deeply in temple or tower affairs. Mutual respect and aid in crises was the unspoken rule. Asking the prince to protect a commoner apprentice? Absurd.
I hoped Forte would catch a high mage’s eye and become a disciple, or at least grow strong enough to fend for himself. Vacation ended, and I returned to the academy. For all intents and purposes, I was now a second-year, attending classes accordingly. The first semester passed uneventfully, and when I returned to the tower after half a year, Forte looked utterly wrecked—sunken, lifeless eyes and a gaunt frame on the verge of collapse.
What had worn him down so? I knew about the earl's son harassing him, but he'd been fine before. The cause was clear soon enough. In the interim, Forte had become a disciple of a Magic Tower elder.
So far, so good. But this elder was no good sort—his soul was pitch-black. Small for a tower elder, too. Worse, the earl's bullying son had joined as a fellow disciple. Forte handled all the grunt work alone, slaved without meal breaks, buried in endless research tasks that kept him up nights.
The real problem? Forte's talent was too good. He solved puzzles even the elder couldn't, only to get harder ones. And the elder claimed all the credit. A prodigy with great mage potential was crumbling bit by bit.
Then it blew up. Forte collapsed. After three days unconscious, he awoke with resolve and confronted his master.
"Master, I can't go on like this."
"What? Daring to defy your master?"
The master-disciple bond in magic wasn't casual. The master was absolute.
"I have no issue with you taking the results of my research. But my body can't take it anymore. Please give me some leeway."
"Quiet! I did twice that in my day without complaint. More importantly, when will you finish the new standard mana heart method we're researching?"
What a greedy bastard. Forte's brow furrowed briefly, then smoothed. The elder missed it—wouldn't have cared if he hadn't. But I did.
[That guy's about to snap.]
Nearly two years observing souls had built my knowledge. Souls moved distinctly with emotions—anger, sadness, lies. Forte was furious, his soul twitching like when lying.
"One week. It'll accumulate mana 50% faster than the standard mana heart method, with superior quality."
"Ho, excellent."
The elder grinned in satisfaction. Forte was researching it, pouring his soul into it until collapse. A genius's creation would be revolutionary. Even I, a mana novice, saw the improvements from afar.
Days later, Forte completed it—and collapsed into sleep right there.
[Should I lend a hand?]
I lifted the parchment outlining the new method. Stronger now, I could manage. Exhausting, though. To others, it fluttered like on the wind, slipping through the door crack into the next room—the earl's son's lab.
[Whew, tough.]
Even after absorbing many souls, that was my limit. To rattle houses or hurl objects like in ghost stories? Inconceivable.
Just meant to frame the earl's punk or cause minor trouble, it spiraled into a massive incident.
Forte woke at lunch, noticed the missing parchment, and panicked. Searching turned up nothing, of course. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he burst into the next room.
"Ha!"
[Huh?]
Forte sighed; I was stunned. The earl's son lay dead, skull burst from within. The new mana heart method parchment rolled before the corpse.
Forte snatched it and fled—to the elder's lab.
[You did that on purpose, didn't you?]
He wouldn't hear, but I followed, watching his soul darken. Something had felt off. He'd crafted a mana heart method disguised as a head-bursting trap.
Straight to the elder he went, submitting it.
"Research complete, Master."
"Oh! Already? Good work."
The elder skimmed it feverishly, waving Forte out dismissively. Back in his room, Forte packed simply and left the tower without looking back. Heading into hiding, clearly.
Mages who decide to vanish are hard to track—like the black mage. But a young apprentice? If the tower pursued, escape would be tough.
I tailed him. He fled the capital swiftly, but on foot, progress was slow. He used spells for reinforcement, but limits showed. No pursuers yet; maybe he'd slip away.
On the fourth day, an old man with flowing white hair and beard rose from the earth before the exhausted Forte.
"Are you Forte?"
"Ha! This far, huh?"
Forte looked resigned. The man was the Magic Tower Lord, archmage—beyond the boy's league.
"Do you admit to murdering your master, Elder Bain Analess, and senior disciple Delius Cronel?"
"Delius... Never mind. I admit it."
"I've seen your new mana heart method. Brilliant work—even I couldn't improve the standard one like that."
"Thank you."
Forte beamed genuinely. Recognition from an archmage, pure joy as a mage.
"But it's incomplete, missing a key part—with a trap embedded."
Forte's lip curled.
"Not a great trap, mind. Elder Bain could've spotted it if he'd honed skill over schemes."
"I figured he wouldn't. All greed, no talent."
The tower lord nodded.
"The missing part's in your head, I assume?"
"Of course."
"Then, a proposal: Hand it over, and I'll lighten your punishment."
Suspicious from the start—he'd come alone. The lord had motives.
"What would my reduced punishment be?"
"Likely a long stint in the underground prison."
Death to life imprisonment. Forte scoffed.
"Just kill me here."
"How about this? I let you go—but destroy your mana hole."
A lie. His soul screamed it.
"Why are you tower old fogies so scheming and deceitful? Better death than torment under you!"
Forte bellowed—and his head exploded. He'd triggered his own trap.
His massive, radiant golden soul slipped free. I lunged instinctively and devoured it.