242 - The Magic Swordsmanship Syndrome
Japan's highly talented special naturalization system typically targets young PhD holders from abroad. It comprehensively evaluates not just degrees but also practical experience, annual income, certifications, and more, all to invigorate the Japanese economy. However, granting an instant 70-point pass just for registering an A-rank unique magic copyright in Japan has drawn no small amount of criticism from weaker nations desperate to hold onto their talent. Like Switzerland, which didn't flaunt it openly, every advanced country had its own strategies for luring talent.
The criteria for A-rank magic review were kept strictly confidential. Rumors floated around about power, efficiency, clarity, complexity of countermeasures, simplicity of casting, and the like, but nothing was ever officially confirmed. The Japan Magic Copyright Association, tasked with the deliberations, had been agonizing over it for ages.
"They're handing over A-rank level magic just to give an AI permanent residency? What the hell is the guy who registered this thinking?"
Brushing aside the absurd registration motive, the elderly man peered intently at the magic circle.
It wasn't about belittling the otakus' sincerity. Thanks to them, Japan had risen as a global cultural powerhouse. But at least the cost-benefit had to make sense, right? Permanent residency and a My Number card were handed out like candy just for marrying a Japanese citizen—who the hell would shell out their gold bars for this?
"Matsumoto-san, gold bars?"
"You think this looks like a rock? Keep looking. It reeks of suspicion—might be some dangerous spell that self-destructs after repeated use."
"Nah, no way."
1st Circle magic 'Adella'. A single grand circle, but the circuit formulas were complex enough to shame a 3rd Circle spell. In that sense, A-rank seemed out of reach, but the sheer power on display from a 1st Circle spell was downright suspicious.
"How the hell did they dig up all these runes?"
Nine runes in total. What drove countless magic scholars to despair was finding runes suitable for magic circles. Like French irregular verb conjugations, they seemed patterned until they randomly fizzled mid-cast—no shortcut but brute-force trial and error.
"President, isn't this magic circle too complex even for B-rank? The circuit syntax is archaic."
"It's the power. Everything else aside, the power's insane."
"How insane? Can I run a sim too?"
Matsumoto, head of the association, wanted to register 'Adella' as A-rank to classify it as a high-risk special management target. Magic capable of easily killing a person was generally dubbed "murder magic." Classics from the Middle East wars included the 4th Circle Glakis Astana and 5th Circle Ignis Bellum, both with massive casualties. And this Adella was no different.
"Just give it A-minus. If we don't tag it high-risk and it gets abused later, we're the ones taking the heat."
Higher magic ranks meant lower association fees. Coming from the notoriously money-minded president, it carried weight. But how dangerous could a 1st Circle spell really be?
"Still, maybe review it once more—"
"Hold on, sorry—phone's ringing. Yeah, yeah, Katsuhata! What's up this late? Isn't it dawn there? How'd the match go—got some grub? Take care, don't catch a cold... What? You lost?"
The association head's face twisted grotesquely as he took the call. It was like the saying about demons possessing someone. The old man hung up abruptly, tore at his thinning hair, and stormed out of the review room.
It didn't take long for news to explain his bizarre outburst.
A massive boon had finally hit Korea after ages. Japan had suffered a crushing defeat in the national exchange tournament against the West.
Unlike Korea, which fully embraced advanced American-style magic education, Japan clung stubbornly to its unique traditions. Especially the Katsuhata school, successor to the Tenshin Shōden Katori Shintō-ryū—a Japanese high-flow martial arts lineage dating back to the 15th century—which dominated among Japanese magic swordsmen.
The photo of Emika Katsuhata, the cherished official heir of the Katsuhata lineage and a once-in-a-millennium swordsmanship prodigy, kneeling before an unknown Hungarian boy became a global sensation.
Nations harboring grudges against Japan seized the moment, dredging up and savaging past reckless comments from Japanese netouyoku.
Over 25 years since nations launched the exchange tournament post-Middle East War—which nearly sparked World War III—to reaffirm peace. Japan’s young magic swordsmen, who boasted loudly at home, turned into paper tigers on the international stage—a tired routine by now.
"Is Japan's sword-based education fundamentally flawed?"
The annual gripe rang truer than ever this year. Japan's coaching staff, braving hate comments to "swim back," held a grim press conference upon return. They unpacked at the dojo, musty training uniforms spilling from suitcases neglected amid intense practice.
"Emika, don't take it too hard. There's next year. You're only 14."
"..."
"She's in shock. Leave her be to sort her feelings."
As seniors and her master, changed into casual clothes, headed home to families one by one, Emika couldn't. Replaying the bout mentally yielded zero win scenarios.
Damn...
Too furious for tears. She sprawled on the wooden floor, lost in thought. Could a sword ever beat magic? As her last pride teetered, a faint vibration hummed from her back.
Earthquake? No, my phone.
The device she'd left nearby buzzed wildly. A call from her "little sister"—more acquaintance, three years younger.
"Emika-chan!"
"Not in the mood to chat. Call tomorrow? Sorry."
"I toppled a cedar with Ayabe-uncle! Finally! Can I learn real swordsmanship like you now? Stab stab pow pow? I wanna travel abroad toooo!"
"Not in a joking mood."
"For real... We found amazing magic swordplay! It's free for now—wanna try, sis?"
Emika's half-lidded eyes snapped wide. The photo from her dongsaeng showed the massive guardian cedar at the back mountain entrance uprooted and felled at the base.
"Whoa! Whoaaa! Nami-nee, look! Money's in!"
"Nice? 8,000 yen on settlement day one?"
Royalties for Adella's magic copyright hit the account. New spells released near-free for the first three days for promo, with proper payouts from day four—we'd been warned. Opting for daily settlements, I got fees at set times.
A-minus unique magic took a 45% cut. No clue on Japan's full price, but roughly 50 uses that day.
"Got more unique magics like this? Register a few and boom—rich!"
"Unique magics don't pop out like candy. Nope."
"Bring more! Make 'em if you have to!"
"Tch. Wanna cross the line again?"
"Nope, starting magic lessons today. Money duplicates while lounging—how to resist? Aaah, rich NEET dreams!"
Adella, fired up with impure motives for study. She'd already bought desk and pens with VR in-game currency.
"Weren't you studying Japanese the day before yesterday?"
"Thought about it—translator exists, no real need."
"Pfft."
Obviously a three-day whim; no point arguing. Becoming a unique magic's "creator" or "holder" had perks: mana tax waivers beyond pure mana fees, casting sans wand in 3 steps vs. 5. Rarely used anyway, so minor perks barely registered—but registration alone held meaning.
Professor Cheon Kyujin relayed Korea's first official government contact: Reviving the Walpurgis special investigatory committee, victim support budget passed the appropriations committee. What should've happened right after my interview took two months.
"Wanna take the call?"
"For me?"
"Yes."
"Hand it over."
I scurried back to my room and answered the government official.
"Hello?"
"NoName?"
"Yes, speaking."
"What the hell is going on?!"
"Huh? What do you mean...?"
"The rumors—no, news blowing up! Handing unique magic to Japan or whatever. Your guardian knows zilch...!"
"Hold on."
Phone on speaker, I checked internet news. Nothing major. Flipping pages, I found a fresh article erupting in comments.
A Japanese man in the interview boasted proudly about Japan's unique magic 'Adella', vowing dominance in next year's nationals.
Ugh, what cringe is this? Goosebumps from the clear-eyed zealot. What were they even on about?
"No idea."
So I answered honestly.