Dark Moon
Reveille at six. Morning roll call.
They ran under the instructors' cadence, washed up, then ate breakfast. For a slave's rations, the meal was surprisingly generous — they were soldiers as much as they were slaves.
After breakfast came ideological instruction: the excellence of the Freesel military, the benefits of serving in it, the hope that one day a slave might rise to high command.
Just a scheme to make the successfully manufactured Battle Mages easier to control.
Next was magic training. Active Battle Mages taught them the fundamentals.
No. 211 hated this hour.
Forced into magic by Mana Essence injections, he had no talent for it. He had learned a handful of basic spells and succeeded at none of them.
"Today we test. Those who fail to manifest magic will face the appropriate measures. You already know this, but you are far too old to be learning magic. So give it everything you have."
Most mages began no later than around age ten. Magical talent showed itself between five and seven; the younger the child, the more readily they accepted mana and formed an Astral.
"No. 31. You're first. Step forward and cast."
"Yes, Instructor Vinous."
A woman with violet hair walked to the front. Pale skin, crimson eyes — nothing about her looked ordinary. Her beauty was startling, and her gait carried the quiet dignity of nobility.
The instructor's gaze on No. 31 was complicated, yet bright with expectation.
Ordered mana radiated from her. That much was fine. A 1-Class mage sensing another 1-Class mage's mana was only natural.
…It's not just the mana. I can see part of the formula the mana is carrying. No — I can feel it.
A sensation hard to put into words. Invisible, yet visible. Imperceptible, yet felt.
He focused on No. 31's formula. Analyzed it. Basic spell structures rose in his mind. More than thirty percent of what she was showing him was unfamiliar — but guessing the rest was not difficult.
This spell is… Gale.
No. 31 opened her mouth. The formula was complete. She spoke the final incantation to bring it into reality.
"Gale."
A fierce wind roared out.
Several of the cadets, Yujin among them, staggered under the blast. He barely righted himself before he fell. Of the fifty-odd people present, roughly ten hit the floor — the ones standing closest to No. 31.
"Excellent, No. 31. Train as you please."
As always, special privileges were granted to her.
"Thank you, Instructor."
No. 31 accepted it with quiet composure and withdrew to a corner to read a grimoire.
"Next. No. 36."
Instructor Vinous called the next cadet.
A freckled young man stepped forward, taut with nerves, and began constructing a formula at the instructor's chin-jerk.
Failure. Compared to No. 31, his mana is wildly unstable.
An unstable formula had no chance of becoming a spell.
"F-Fire!"
Pssh.
A flame flared once, then died with a deflating hiss in under a second. No. 36's face went white.
"Pathetic. Follow the soldier outside and take your measures."
Vinous's face was expressionless.
"…Yes, Instructor."
No. 36 walked out, drained of strength.
The "measures" Vinous meant were Mana Essence injections.
They call it Mana Essence, but it's really a cocktail of concentrated mana and drugs.
Mana Essence raised mana affinity. On the surface that sounded good — but the side effects were severe. Internal organs aged at an accelerated rate, shaving years off a person's life. And the moment the Essence entered the body, agony crashed down like a wave. Fail to endure it, and the Astral collapsed — death, or a ruined husk.
Yujin and every other slave here received Mana Essence on a regular schedule.
In the short term, rising affinity looked like a gift. Long-term, it was a curse. Taking it as often as the failed No. 36 only hastened the end of the road.
"Next. No. 37."
Vinous pressed on with the examination.
"No. 211. Come forward."
His turn arrived in twenty minutes. He swallowed hard and walked to the front. He had never once succeeded at manifesting a spell.
"Stop dithering and begin."
Vinous's tone was thick with boredom. His eyes held no emotion at all — not even one percent of expectation.
Yujin drew his focus tight. His Astral answered his will, and mana raced through five mana roads. The roads built a formula into the mana. The formula cohered into a single structure. Through the Astral, he confirmed once more that the construction was perfect.
All that remained was manifestation.
He spoke the incantation, tension coiled in his voice.
"Light."
A pure white sphere of light appeared. Radiance spilled outward, brightening the space around them.
Vinous's eyes widened for a moment, then settled back to normal.
"…A clean manifestation. Your skill has improved beyond any comparison with last time. I heard you suffered a mana backlash yesterday…. Did you have some kind of epiphany?"
"I'm not sure, sir. It just feels… easier somehow."
He hedged. Honestly, he hadn't expected success to come this easily either.
"An unconscious breakthrough, then. It happens from time to time. No. 211. Can you use any other spells?"
What rose to mind was the Gale No. 31 had cast. He had only just seen its formula for the first time, but as a fellow 1-Class spell it didn't feel difficult. If he tried, he was fairly sure he could do it.
…No need to draw attention here. And if I fail, there's no real downside either.
No. 31 received special treatment. Friction with her would gain him nothing.
"…I believe I can use Fire, sir."
"Do it."
Light and Fire were considered the most basic of 1-Class spells. More than eighty percent of their formulas were nearly identical. Avoid a major mistake, and manifestation shouldn't be hard.
"Fire."
He formed the formula and spoke the incantation.
Whoosh.
Where the sphere of light had been, an orange flame bloomed.
Fire burning in midair with no fuel — that was magic, pure and simple.
"Enough. Extinguish it."
Vinous's order fell.
The flame snuffed out at his will.
The instructor smiled with satisfaction.
"Even the control is perfect. No. 211. Learn other spells. Personally, I'd recommend Ice. Have you studied Ice?"
"No, sir. I haven't."
"Learn Ice and compare it with Fire. Whichever feels more natural will tell you your affinity. You'll advance to 2-Class without much trouble, so preparing for a specialized attribute now isn't a bad idea."
"Thank you, sir."
He saluted the instructor.
It left him a little dazed. Vinous was famous for being stingy with praise. The only cadets who had ever earned it from him were No. 31 — and now him.
"Next! No. 212!"
No. 212 managed to manifest a spell, but received only a curt order from Vinous to keep working at it.
After lunch came military drills — formation, hand-to-hand, marksmanship, tactics, and more.
The Battle Mage Project was exactly what the name suggested: a project to manufacture combat mages for military use. Learning army formations and combat techniques was only natural.
Today was marksmanship.
No. 211 was confident in formation and tactics, but hand-to-hand and shooting left him uncertain. He wasn't terrible — he just fell short of average.
The marksmanship instructor was Lexy, a woman with short pink hair.
Instructors of both sexes wore officer uniforms — black-trimmed designs that cut a sharp figure.
Lexy greeted them with an easy laugh. Whether deliberate or not, she had left the upper buttons of her uniform open, putting her full chest on display. Yujin fought the urge to keep staring into the pale valley of her cleavage.
"Alright, brats. Fun shooting time. I don't need to tell you how important a gun is, right? When your mana runs dry, the only thing you can trust is a rifle. No gun? Then all you've got left is praying to the sky."
Lexy grinned as she said it. She clearly thought it was a joke. Nobody among them got it.
She shook her head and continued.
"Nos. 31 through 40 — take the firing line and set your stance. Everyone else, break down and reassemble your weapons until you've got it cold!"
He spread a cloth on the ground and set the rifle on it. An FS66 assault rifle — standard issue for Freesel's elite forces, supposedly. Whether it was any good, he had no idea.
Drawing on No. 211's memories, he began disassembling the rifle. He knew the method, but the knack eluded him, and he stuck several times.
Not brute force — pull it, like drawing something free.
After roughly ten cycles of breakdown and reassembly, the feel came to him. What had taken about fifty seconds at first was down to thirty. Reassembly still ran about ten seconds longer than disassembly.
"Next. Nos. 211 through 220 — firing line."
He stepped into the first lane, settled into position, and checked the target. Fifty meters out. Hits knocked the target farther back. The multi-talented No. 31 held the record — she'd hit a target at seven hundred twenty meters. Without a scope, of course.
No. 211's personal best was three hundred ten meters.
"Commence fire!"
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Gunfire cracked from the other lanes.
…This stance doesn't feel right. Can I adjust it?
He glanced at Lexy. She took shooting seriously. Changing his form without permission could set her off.
Change it. If she complains, play it off as a mistake. They're not going to inject Mana Essence over one screw-up, right?
He eased his shoulder and waist into a more natural position. His body shifted slightly left — the lane itself felt a touch off-balance.
Better.
He squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
The round punched dead center through the target.
The target slid back fifty meters.
He adjusted the muzzle a fraction and fired again. Center mass once more. A flicker of surprise ran through him.
No. 211 never shot this well…. Is this Seong Yujin's skill? …Did I always have talent for this?
Half-doubting, he pulled the trigger again. The two-hundred-meter target — hit. Center again.
Huh. I'm getting a feel for this. The wind's picking up a little.
He calculated the wind. It felt harder than building a magic formula. He couldn't be sure his math was right.
Fill the rest in with instinct.
Bang.
The bullet drove through the heart of the target.
By the time he punched through the five-hundred-meter mark, Lexy's gaze — and the other cadets' — had locked onto him. He hesitated for a beat, then refocused on the target.
Hit.
Hit.
Hit again.
Before he knew it, he was lining up on No. 31's record distance: seven hundred twenty meters.
I can just barely make out the target.
Even he felt his confidence slip here. With the target so hard to see, calculation was nearly impossible. He left half of it to pure sensation and squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
The target shoved farther back. A hit. His heart started hammering. He forced the excitement down with everything he had. He was still shooting. Excitement was poison.
His personal best ended at eight hundred fifty meters.
Once the target vanished from sight, he couldn't hit it. If he could still see it, he was sure he would have. That was the feeling.
He lowered the rifle, heart still trying to climb out of his chest. When he turned, Lexy was watching him with a strange, unreadable expression.