Cleric Besia (3)

The last black magic I had constructed punched straight through Gaudium.

Killing him had never required a spell this elaborate. I had built it for one purpose: absolute suppression. Computations fierce enough to scorch my mind to ash, and a torrent of magi poured in without reserve. The result was Gaudium, stripped of every magical and physical means of resistance.

Even if he carried some relic or artifact for emergency escape, that too would be sealed. My prediction held. He fished something from his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠robes and worked it frantically, but the thing was dead.

"What... what are you?"

I walked toward him. A metallic scent of blood hung in the air. I had deliberately left Gaudium physically intact, so the smell was obviously from the blood dripping off my own hand. Clutching my throbbing left hand, I sat down in front of him.

What am I?

An Immortal who cannot die. A black mage who has reached Transcendence. A wraith returned ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from the past.

Among those many identities, I chose only one.

To take revenge on the Demon King. And to take revenge on you.

"...Have we met before? In the past?"

"We have."

"My sins are great, I grant you that... but are you not a black mage, same as I? I know not what passed between us, but I beg you — forgive me. I have yet to fulfill my dearest wish. Even a single month's reprieve...!"

"That wish of yours has already been granted."

"...What?"

I felt no need to explain it in terms Gaudium could understand. There was no reason to spell out how I became an Immortal because of him, how I committed countless sins, how the Hero sent me back through time. We weren't exactly on good terms.

I thought I had already wrung every last feeling out of myself. I thought killing him once would have been enough. But looking at that old face again, rage and hatred welled up without end.

I shaped the black magic. I formed it into gears and built a cycle. Until the target's heart stopped, those gears would turn without end. I poured every last drop of remaining magi into this single spell.

This was a man who must not be allowed to die easily. So that I would leave behind not even a single regret, I intended to grant him a death meant for him alone.

"...Stop."

Even Gaudium grasped the meaning of this black magic. The rank of Elder wasn't something just anyone could obtain. He had a mind that could calculate, from the process of the spell alone, what result and meaning it would carry — in an instant. And so Gaudium writhed like a wretched insect standing before despair. He seemed ready to detonate his own magi and blow his brain apart.

"...Stop, stop! Just kill me—GAAAAAAAH!"

Watching him thrash, preferring death now to tasting that agony, I completed the spell without a flicker of emotion. The gears began to turn, slowly. Until every last drop of the magi I had poured in was spent.

The moment the spell took hold, Gaudium went limp, as if he had lost consciousness.

Haha.

Watching him, a smile rose to my face of its own accord. It had been a very long time since I had last smiled.

He looked peaceful on the surface, but inside the hell I had constructed, he would be dying by inches. I had layered time acceleration on top of it. By my calculations, in a mere single day of real time, he would suffer for a hundred years. I had never used black magic of this concept before, so I couldn't be sure how it would turn out — but it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would work out fine.

Leaving Gaudium behind, I decided to handle the rest of the cleanup. It wasn't organized, but these were treasures collected by Gaudium, an Elder of the Black Magic Tower. Meaning there were treasures worth coveting even if you only picked up one. I gathered a few things, then approached Besia.

The girl had collapsed and, while she was at it, fallen into a soft, even sleep. I shook her a few times to wake her, but all I got back was nonsense.

"Bishop Revega... just a little longer... I'm gonna sleep a bit more..."

A bishop waking a sleeping priestess? I wondered what kind of rank she held for that to make sense, but either way, she had to get up.

I drove my heel into the floor.

"Ow! I said I was waking up!"

"I'll undo your shackles."

I nicked my fingertip with the dagger and drew out just a sliver of magi. When I directed that magi at the shackles on Besia's wrists, they came undone with a natural clatter.

"W-wait? They're actually off?"

"What, you think they're fake?"

I undid my own shackles as well. Having recovered her sealed Holy Power, she looked as if she had regained her vitality. Her appearance was that of a walking corpse, and yet she was overflowing with energy. What a contradiction that was.

"I've been holding out way too long in this filthy magi. If this isn't what living feels like, then what is?"

"That so."

"I can finally feel God's grace again — wait, your hand's hurt! I'll heal it!"

Besia dumped Holy Power into my left hand without so much as asking. The brilliance of that light made it clear this was not the Holy Power of an ordinary priestess. At the same time, Besia remembered something she had forgotten.

"Oh, right. Magi and Holy Power are opposites...!"

For black mages and monsters — any breed that carried magi in their bodies — Holy Power was lethal. And I had been using black magic until just moments ago. If things had gone wrong, the Holy Power could have hurt me.

"...It's healing?"

Flesh began to grow back over my hand, perfectly intact.

...The reason was genuinely strange.

Those who practiced ordinary black magic had to, as a matter of course, hold magi within their bodies. That was how one became skilled in the art. But I was a black mage who had already mastered the craft to its peak. I had no reason to store magi in my body just to wield it. And since I had obtained a body that held no magi whatsoever, if I stored magi in a specific vessel and operated through that, I could become the one and only being who was a black mage and yet could receive healing from Holy Power.

Which meant I might be able to hide the fact that I was a black mage from the clergy. There happened to be a priestess right in front of me, so I ran a test.

"Do you sense any trace of a black mage on me?"

"Uh... hmm? I'm not really sure. If I actually touch you, maybe a little suspicious?"

That was good enough. I nodded and gestured that we should leave this place. Besia glanced at Gaudium, collapsed behind us as if asleep, then followed me out of the warehouse.

"Lord Gaudium, you've finally come ou—"

The overseer who had mistaken us for Gaudium coming out of the warehouse had his head severed. The head that had been wearing an unnatural smile just a moment ago rolled across the floor.

A black mage of ordinary caliber could not defeat me.

I shook the blood from my dagger and walked on. Besia looked at the overseer with a cold expression, then followed behind me. True to her calling as a cleric, she seemed rather pleased that a black mage had died, however it had happened.

"Besia."

"What?"

If I were alone, it would be one thing, but bringing someone with me was bound to introduce variables. On top of that, she was in an utterly frail state. She had gained some energy from recovering her Holy Power, but that was temporary. She was in a condition where she could collapse and stop at any moment. I asked about her will.

"Can you hold on?"

"Yeah."

She smiled. A smile of boundless hope. The smile of someone who had found hope of escaping hell.

"Good."

The dagger dug into my hand once more. A vast quantity of magi gathered into the blade again. Besia's expression soured at the sight, but she bit down hard on her lip, as if steeling her resolve even further.

"Want ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me to heal that?"

"Save it. The only reason you're standing right now is because of your Holy Power."

What help could I expect from a half-corpse?

Drawing magi together, I began to climb the stairs. From the deepest underground. Toward the lofty surface.

The apprentice black mage Harajim was spending another tedious day. Go to his master for a lesson, research black magic, return to his private room to study black magic again — a life like a hamster wheel. And yet, compared to the lives of black mages who weren't affiliated with the Black Magic Tower, he was living rather comfortably. He didn't have to worry about attacks from the Church. He could study in peace.

He recalled the lesson from just a short while ago.

Black magic is a discipline devoted solely to gathering magi. Human sacrifice, contracts with demons, slaughtering people — the reason we use such vile methods is because they gather magi most efficiently.

Then... as long as we have magi, that's enough?

In theory, with infinite magi, even an apprentice like you could burn an entire nation to the ground and have some left over. But that's impossible. So you become a powerful black mage through efficient use and efficient methods of gathering magi.

That was why black mages split into various schools. If you just have enough magi, you can do anything! And so, the school that became a target for extermination through all manner of heinous human sacrifice. The application of magi is similar to the application of mana! And so, the school that pursued scholarship and employed complex, efficient black magic.

If having magi is enough to become strong, then isn't the school that's best at gathering magi the strongest?

If black mages were the only ones in this world who held great power, then yes. But there is the Church. There are swordsmen. There are mages as well.

What his master had answered with was a simple theory.

No matter how gifted you were, what did it matter if you died quickly? Research quietly, gather magi, and as time passed, you would eventually become a powerful black mage. Harajim had engraved this teaching of his master's deep in his heart.

It was the same even when he realized a storm of magi was rising from the very bottom. He crouched down low and peeked just his head out to check what was beyond.

"Did one of the seniors go berserk or something...?"

That was what he thought — but the ones actually walking down that path were two slaves. They were wearing typical experimental robes. Anyone could tell at a glance. But there was one strange thing: magi was concentrated around them at a density that even a decent black mage would struggle to handle. And on top of that...

"What the hell are you two?"

A fearless black mage approached the slaves. No shackles on their necks, and one of them was holding a dagger. There were so many strange things that pointing them out was only natural. But for that black mage, it was the greatest misfortune imaginable.

A wet slash.

"Hiiiiiieek...!"

Harajim ducked his head even lower. In an instant, a man's head went flying. The dagger had moved at a speed he couldn't even see, and simply sliced the neck clean through.

W-what the hell is that monster?

He stayed hidden and waited for them to pass. Step. Step. Each footstep sent a chill crawling up his spine. The fortunate thing was that they either hadn't noticed Harajim, or simply didn't care — they passed him by and continued climbing the Black Magic Tower.

Harajim, still gasping for breath, started to move in the opposite direction from where those slaves had been heading. And then he found them. Dozens of corpses with their heads cut off.

"Hah... hahh..."

He could barely breathe. He recalled the things his fellow students used to say as a joke. No matter how enormous this Black Magic Tower was, if the Church ever decided to raid it, the first thing you should do is prepare to run.

But this wasn't the Church. There were only two of them. And they were dressed as slaves, at that.

"Don't tell me... a T-Transcendent?"

Had a Swordmaster or an Archmage disguised themselves as slaves to wipe out the Black Magic Tower? Though it was strange that they were radiating magi like that.

Then he felt a massive aura of magi rising to oppose them. When he turned his gaze, dozens of black mages had gathered. A mighty presence that didn't yield an inch to those slaves. Only then did Harajim let out a breath of relief.

"Right. A slave might be strong, but there's no way they can beat those people."

Black mages who had been chatting comfortably with his master. There were even a few of Elder rank among them. Black robes inlaid with gold — the ruling class of the Black Magic Tower. They were strong, and because of that strength they held enormous authority and power. Harajim's goal. The object of his admiration.

He looked at them, praying that they would drive out the intruders from the once-peaceful Black Magic Tower — and that was when a blast that shook the very earth erupted.