Chapter 27: The Rose That Falls Too Easily (1)
Chapter 27: The Rose That Falls Too Easily (1)
Translation: Godtl
The process of alchemy activation unfolds as follows.
First, the practitioner uses their mana to draw out the elemental power from an alchemical catalyst.
The drawn-out element passes through magical circuits to be constructed in a specific form—this refined power is called a 'Code.'
For example, even when using the same Wind Quill, employing just the 'Ejection' Code creates 'Wind Calling,' which summons a gale.
When overlapping two Codes like 'Compression' and 'Ejection,' it becomes 'Running Wind.'
It sounds simple in theory, but if it were truly that easy, the world would be overflowing with high-rank alchemists.
Constructing Codes.
Overlapping them.
Both must be executed under strict laws, control, and calculation.
Countless alchemists who could wield magic flawlessly in laboratories often failed to demonstrate their true capabilities in actual combat.
The life-or-death tension of an instant could easily lead to mistakes.
In that sense, Penelope was performing remarkably well.
Amplification, Compression, Ejection, Blasting.
A spell formed by overlapping four Codes.
"Roar of the Wind God."
Though created by overlapping generic Codes, it was a formidable 4th-Rank wind-attribute magic.
—Kwooooooosh!!!
The flawlessly manifested spell exploded.
Its power was so immense that the shockwave alone could flip a massive train.
It was no wonder alchemists were treated as artillery on the battlefield.
"Miss! That's dangerous to fire at a person!"
The problem was that her opponent was anything but ordinary.
The Undertaker emerged leisurely from the cloud of dust, unharmed despite the all-encompassing attack.
His casual banter even carried a hint of amusement.
Penelope's gaze caught the shadow writhing like smoke around the Undertaker's body.
If alchemists of the 5th-Rank or higher could wield 'Unique Codes,' then knights had 'Battle Will.'
Battle Will.
A unique technique born from the fusion of combat instinct and mana drawn from within.
The Undertaker's Battle Will seemed to be an ability to manipulate shadows.
From the start, he had been fighting by shaping shadows into spears to throw or wrapping them around his body.
Penelope's spells were repeatedly blocked by the shadows, rendering them useless.
Even straining herself, all she could manage was deflecting thrown spears and hindering his approach.
She hadn't landed a single proper counterattack.
And it was painfully clear the Undertaker wasn't even trying.
He was toying with her, displaying the cruel leisure of a cat playing with a mouse.
"Got anything else, miss? You can do better than this!"
With a vicious grin, the Undertaker spun his body, adding centrifugal force before hurling a spear.
Unlike alchemists, who specialized in projecting mana outward, knights excelled in condensing it within.
Though it was merely a thrown spear, the projectile of a 5th-Rank Knight became a black streak, exploding on impact and shaking the earth.
"Ugh—!!"
Caught in the blast, Penelope tumbled across the ground several times before barely managing to rise.
"A noble lady rolling around on the ground like that—how undignified."
"..."
"Ahh, I really picked the best job, didn't I? Where else in the world would you find such a fun workplace?"
Truthfully, there was no need to drag Rosemore's youngest daughter into this.
Brighton's request had been strictly about eliminating that commoner without leaving a trace.
Targeting Penelope in the process of fulfilling the request was an unnecessary risk.
But the Undertaker despised nobles.
He had devoted his entire life to the glory of Britannia.
From the deepest shadows of the kingdom, he had undertaken the most dangerous missions, staking his life for his country.
Everything had been for the sake of his homeland.
Yet, the moment Britannia signed a truce with the Alkand Empire, they discarded him.
Not only was he expelled from his organization, but they also erased his records and issued a kill order to hunt him down.
All because of those damned nobles.
Filthy pigs who basked in peace without knowing whose sacrifices made it possible, sitting in the most glorious and comfortable places, flaunting their arrogance.
"A piglet is still a pig."
That's why he wanted to see it.
The moment those eyes, shining with false pride and hollow courage, clouded over with despair.
The disgraceful struggle for life, ending in terrified, squealing cries.
"Come on, miss! It's almost over! Just hang in there—you might even survive!"
"Haa... haa..."
"I'm really at my limit! Don't give up, keep pushing forward!"
The Undertaker clapped his hands, urging Penelope on.
Penelope wiped away beads of sweat and pulled out the next catalyst.
Yet this was merely an act of habit.
Though she was flailing about, perhaps she had already accepted defeat in her heart.
Her body, having cast powerful spells in rapid succession, trembled as if electric currents ran through it.
She never knew circuit overload could hurt this much.
Her stamina and magical heat were nearing exhaustion by the second, and from all the rolling and tumbling, her body was covered in wounds.
She'd mustered courage from Jurgen's encouragement.
She'd rallied her fighting spirit.
But before this overwhelming disparity in power, even the courage she'd painstakingly built up had become nothing more than an object of ridicule.
The wall of the 5th-Rank that had tormented Penelope her entire life—
remained unshaken even in what might be her final moments.
It was infuriating.
So infuriating she could cry, clinging to sheer stubbornness.
If it was going to end like this anyway, why had she even tried to be brave?
Why had Jurgen foolishly believed in Penelope and stayed behind here?
In someone beyond saving—whom no one, not even herself, could believe in.
"Jurgen, run away now. I'll... I'll handle things here somehow."
This was an escape.
At the moment of losing her life to the Undertaker, she wanted to believe, "At least Jurgen got away, right?"
To console herself by thinking, "At least I did my best."
It was a lie she told herself.
Jurgen spoke.
"The reason I'm staying here is because I believe in Miss Penelope."
So what?
This is what comes from believing in me.
In the end, I couldn't even protect you.
"But truthfully, my belief isn't all that important."
He shrugged his shoulders with a chuckle.
"How about Miss Penelope believing in herself just once?"
At those words, Penelope froze in place.
"Believe... in me?"
A mediocre student.
A loser.
A noble lady merely gilded with thin gold leaf.
With each repeated failure, her self-confidence grew hazier by the day.
She held nothing in her hands; all that remained was stubborn pride and defense mechanisms close to obstinacy.
She wore the most dazzling crimson dress before those who mocked her.
Dancing while repeating to herself: Look at me, I don't care what any of you say.
Because she couldn't believe in herself, she became obsessed with appearances.
Because she was obsessed with appearances, the emptiness within grew deeper.
There were so many people to resent that she ended up hating the one person she had—herself.
After repeated self-loathing, she could no longer believe in herself.
Thus, Penelope was hollow.
"And you want me to believe in this?"
She knew.
This self-deprecation, this doubt—she was sick of it all.
Her pitiful self-pity wasn't just once or twice either.
Begging for others' belief, gaining shaky courage from mere words,
only to recklessly discard the hard-won courage,
throwing tantrums when things didn't go her way—such weakness.
She hated it.
Hated this version of herself.
Always, without fail, she wanted to be a better person.
Her heart sank into deep waters.
A cold, salty despair seeped in like osmosis, enveloping her body.
Penelope closed her eyes.
Enough.
Let's give up.
'You're truly utterly useless, aren't you?'
The mocking laughter of her sister Clarice, ringing in her ears even at the very last moment, pierced through her.
This was the memory of when Penelope ultimately failed to surpass the wall of the 5th-Rank and couldn't master her family's unique node, "Full Bloom."
This memory later became the nightmare that bound Penelope.
A nightmare that would surge up uninvited at any time.
"...No, now that I think about it, this pisses me off."
Penelope, who had given up on everything and closed her eyes.
Her sharp crimson eyes regained their light.
What caught her crumbling fighting spirit wasn't courage, pride, or self-sacrifice.
Not such noble and lofty emotions.
Right.
Every human knows they're unsightly, yet loves themselves more fiercely than anyone else.
Without that love, they couldn't endure.
The mental image that bloomed within Penelope the moment she heard her sister's final mockery was——.
The most intense emotion that had been her lifelong companion—this defeated woman's constant bedfellow.
Bluster and obstinacy.
So, the family's unique code, Full Bloom?
Fine, I'll admit it. That's impressive.
The moment when all those dazzling magical flower buds bloom simultaneously and scatter is nothing short of spectacular.
The brilliance of Full Bloom had always shone from the opposite pole of Penelope's existence.
As if whispering: You will never hold this light in your hands.
"But so what?"
Just because I can't do that one thing, I'm useless?
Me?
The mother of cola?
Penelope drew out an alchemy catalyst.
A cumbersome trinket she had crafted herself but carried around like a charm, lacking the proper code to utilize it fully.
The flame-type alchemy catalyst Red Rose, kindled from sulfur and gunpowder.
"Ignition."
Flames erupted from the Red Rose as it absorbed her mana.
Flames as scorching as the humiliation, inferiority, and jealousy she had endured.
"Diffusion."
The wildfire-like flames spread, incinerating everything in their path.
"Formation."
Taking shape like the twisting vines of a rose.
"Condensation."
Until they formed a plump, luscious bud.
Up to this point, the sequence mirrored her family's signature magic, Garden of Rosemore.
Had the fifth and final code—the unique Full Bloom—been inserted, it would have been complete.
But what she sought wasn't Rosemore's magic.
As always, Penelope's life had never aligned with such dazzling words.
Instead—
"Falling Flower."
Pathetic, greedy, and forever thirsting for validation—a weakling coward...
Yet even that inner frailty was something she had learned to love. The magic of a loser.
A magic meant solely for Penelope.
"Wither Gracefully..."
If she were to name this magic...
"...Garden of the Fool."
That's what it would be.
"Magnificent, Miss Penelope. Full marks."
Along with praise that seemed to come from nowhere—
—!!!!!!!!!!
The flower of flames withered.
Petals laden with terror unfurled, swallowing everything in sight.
"Cough... Gah! Ugh, the smoke—"
The Undertaker tore off his charred coat.
"Ah, damn. I liked this coat."
Beneath the scorched, tattered fabric, the burns stung sharply.
Not life-threatening, but the Undertaker had to admit—
That was a close call.
"What the hell do you do when someone awakens in a crisis? I almost died back there."
His gaze shifted to the noble lady cradled in the arms of the commoner.
The noblewoman had collapsed from the recoil of expending her mana.
Had it not been for the cursed alchemy altar Demon Eater—the one he'd looted from those Black Mages—he would've been reduced to cinders.
Even the Demon Eater, which normally devoured most spells without issue, had overheated to a searing red after consuming her magic.
"Eh, whatever."
He'd been carrying it around for situations like this anyway.
What mattered was something else.
"Speaking of which, commoner—what are you?"
A commoner holding an unconscious noblewoman in his arms.
No ordinary commoner, that much was clear.
The moment she completed her spell, the lady had blacked out, caught in the fiery backlash of her own magic.
Yet this commoner had snatched her out of the air and shielded her with a transparent barrier.
His reflexes were one thing, but that barrier—that was Force Field, a 2nd-Rank alchemy technique.
Come to think of it, he'd walked out unscathed even after taking a spear throw head-on.
The Undertaker studied him intently before something clicked.
"I knew I'd seen you somewhere... Huh?"
From a distance, it had been just a vague sense of familiarity. Now, up close, it was undeniable.
This presence.
This aura.
The scars peeking through the tears in his clothes.
Unbelievable.
Could it really be...?
"Boss? Boss! Is that you? Han-bin? It is you, right? You remember me, don't you? It's me, me!"
Flailing like an overexcited child, the Undertaker watched as Jurgen sighed.
"Wow! How long's it been, Boss? When was the last time? What are you doing holed up in this backwater? Weren't you the Minister of Internal Affairs or something?"
The moment he'd seen that Battle Will—the first to wield shadows—he'd had his suspicions.
The flippant attitude had all but confirmed it.
And now, it seemed he'd been recognized after all.
Well, the Polymorph Potion could alter one's face and voice, but not their build.
He'd always been sharp, that one.
"Long time no see, Cain."
It seemed old ties weren't so easily severed after all.