Dragon's Breath (2)
Even the lightest graze from the enchanted dagger left a vicious edge behind.
A fine line opened across the pale, fern-soft palm of his hand, and bright crimson beads of blood began to well up one by one.
Roy twisted the lid off the cheap aqueous solution he had prepared earlier and let the blood drip into it.
In moments the glass vial was nearly overflowing. He swirled his wrist in slow circles, mixing his blood thoroughly into the liquid.
As human blood steeped in mana joined the solution, its color grew steadily murkier.
Without hesitation Roy poured a portion of what little mana he still had left into the vial.
Pure human blood and mana fused with the solution as one; the cloudy liquid, thick with impurities, began to clear until it shone a pure, transparent violet.
Damn it. My mana's already at the limit.
A single handful of blood was all it had taken for his heartbeat to turn erratic. The last dregs of his mana were spent; even his vision seemed to blur.
But he could not stop.
The thing he had hungered for so long was right in front of him.
He would not halt here.
Never.
Knowing full well how brutal the side effects would be, Roy pulled out another vial of the solution and tipped it into his mouth.
It was still an incomplete aqueous base—never refined into a proper potion. Made from cheap materials and cloudy as dishwater, it could restore a fraction of one's mana, but the backlash was savage.
Roy, however, had already steeled himself. He was hunting the Dragon's Breath.
Ugh… what the hell is this taste…
It was foul beyond description, yet a portion of his mana returned.
Next came the solution he had temporarily strengthened with his own blood.
The Mana Amplification Spell.
An ancient formula devised by his ancestors—a kind of temporary awakening exclusive to mages, allowing the caster to wield vastly enhanced magic for a short span of time.
In his mind Roy rapidly constructed an intricate amplification circle of staggering complexity. Then he drew out his magic pen and began etching the circle onto the wall of the basement stairwell, using the blood-fortified solution as his ink.
Because he employed Silent Casting to avoid detection, the work took far longer than it otherwise would have.
Please… don't move until I finish. That thing is mine!
From this moment on, every second would count.
While they waited for their leader to emerge from the underground vault, the masked men searched the cellar for every lamp they could find and lit them one by one.
Boodle was in league with them, yet he still played the part of a hostage. Better that way later, he had decided. It had already proven useful upstairs, letting them take Geren down with ease.
"This one's completely out. For a baron's son, he's nothing special."
"Same over here. Though for a baron's wife she held out pretty well, heh heh."
"Wouldn't mind a taste myself. Think we'd get away with it?"
"The baron's wife? Get a grip. That's not why we're here tonight."
They had only one purpose.
The Dragon's Breath.
When the big man now inside the vault had first brought them the information, they had scarcely been able to believe their ears.
There's Dragon's Breath under the lord's manor. What do you say we steal it and each take a single sip?
They had been half-skeptical at first, but the offer was far too sweet to ignore.
A miraculous draught that permanently increased one's mana—something death itself could not reverse.
More mana meant more coin. Different denominations entirely. Or perhaps even a change in station. A commoner might become a noble; a noble might earn a title. That was the allure of the Dragon's Breath.
"But that part's true, right?"
"What part?"
"That even one mouthful is enough."
"Yeah. Just one sip, he said. Emptying the whole flask yourself barely does more than a single swallow, so no point getting greedy. That's why we agreed to share—one sip each. Same reason the baron stashed the leftovers down here."
"…You think he might double-cross us?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
One of the masked men lowered his voice even further.
"That big guy. We made him leader because he brought the intel, but him insisting on going in alone from the start… doesn't that feel off?"
"He said the vault has a formation that only lets one person through at a time. You know—the kind you find in ancient dungeons. Touch it wrong and you're short a head. If a noble's hiding something as precious as Dragon's Breath, he'd prepare that much at least."
"Fine. If he has played us, we make him pay right here. There's only one way out, after all."
Boodle listened to their chatter and itched to snap something back—not about the content, but about the sheer leisure with which they traded gossip in a situation like this.
Pathetic fools.
He had accepted the proposal not so he could drink the Dragon's Breath himself. He meant to carry it out in the small bottle nestled against his chest and give it to his grandson.
With that boy's talent, all he needs is a spark and he could rise to a barony without difficulty.
Boodle was certain his precious grandson could claim the title the family had long desired. Look at Jerry, that baron's blood. A boy of far superior gift and finer character—yet it was a miserable creature like Jerry who got into the Knight Academy instead of him. The frustration and helplessness had been more than Boodle could bear.
Then, in that very season of despair, the man now inside the vault had come to him with an offer.
Help me, and I will grant the long-cherished wish of your line.
The goal was almost within reach.
A long while had already passed since the leader of the masked men entered the underground vault.
"What's taking him so long?"
"No kidding. How long does it take to find a bottle—or a cup—and walk out?"
"He didn't slip out some other hole, did he?"
"Come on. No way."
Unable to wait any longer, one of them broke their agreement and shouted into the vault.
"Hey! What are you doing in there? Why aren't you coming out!"
They had only lit the lamps around the entrance, so the interior was hard to make out. Enough light spilled in to give a rough sense of the space—yet the big man who had gone in under a Lighting spell was nowhere to be seen.
"No answer. Should we go deeper?"
"Damn it! What did I tell you? He's already bolted through another passage!"
Even so, none of them rushed in to search. The magic formation the big man had mentioned still weighed on their minds.
"Ah, to hell with it. Why don't we throw this one in first as a test? Doesn't look like he'll last much longer anyway."
The suggestion was to hurl Geren deep into the vault and see whether the formation truly activated. No one could refuse. Anyone who objected would be told to lead the way himself.
In the end the masked men lifted Geren's unconscious body and flung him into the deepest recess of the vault.
"……"
"……"
"What the—nothing happened! Find that bastard, now!"
The situation flipped in an instant. Three of the masked men charged into the inner chamber.
Through it all Boodle remained where he was, still playing the hostage. His reason was simple.
Idiots. That man would never lie.
Strangely enough, of everyone present, Boodle trusted the first man into the vault the most—because he knew exactly who that man was.
"…!?"
And then he could only stare in shock.
A young boy had suddenly appeared right before his eyes. A face he knew all too well.
Why… in a place like this…
While Boodle reeled, the boy who had stepped out from the basement stairs spoke to him.
"Boodle. I'm sorry, but I'll free you later. Taking them down comes first."
There was nothing ordinary about the boy's eyes—cold, still, and steeled with resolve. In his hand he gripped a dagger whose edge glittered with lethal promise.
"L-Lord Roy…?"
The three masked men who had entered the vault hurriedly cast Lighting spells to illuminate the space.
By rights the underground vault of a lord's castle should have been called a treasury—or an armory. This place had once been both. Now unused, outdated weapons and armor occupied every corner. Most had been left to rot or rust until they were barely fit for scrap. Relics from the days of open war, nothing more.
"Where the hell did that bastard vanish to?"
They found no exit. They did, however, discover a suspicious wall—one fitted with some mechanism that barred passage until it was solved.
"Son of a bitch. There really was a secret passage!"
"What do we do now?"
"What else? Run before the guard arrives. The second I get my hands on that—"
Someone walked into the vault.
Every masked gaze snapped toward the entrance. They thought it might be Boodle. It was not. Every one of them froze in shock.
"Guh—!"
The boy had thrown a small dagger.
It streaked through the air at a ferocious speed and buried itself in the crown of one masked man's skull. He died where he stood without even managing a proper scream.
"What the hell is—"
Before they could grasp what was happening, the dagger lodged in the dead man's head moved of its own accord. It rose into the air, dripping blood, and immediately sought its next target.
Only then did the remaining men wrap mana around their bodies. Even so, they could not match the dagger's speed.
"Kh… s-spare—"
"What is this…"
There was no room to defend—no room even to think. Mercy did not exist. In the space of a breath, all three masked men took fatal strikes to head or heart and fell dead.
Roy, under the temporary mana surge of the amplification circle, had cast one of the most difficult spells in the psychic school: Psychic Animate.
Infused with the caster's mana, the dagger flew through the air as if granted a life of its own. Its power was nothing short of devastating.
"……"
Roy rubbed his hazy eyes with a hand still wet with blood. He could not collapse yet. The goal was right in front of him.
As if he had known all along, he stepped up to the suspicious wall the masked men had just discovered.
"A guardian formation. A bloodline-responsive magic formula."
He stretched out his hand and pressed his palm to the center of the stone wall—to the deeply carved sword of the Greenhilt crest, driven into the earth. Only the slightest trickle of mana was needed to awaken the mechanism.