Chapter 65
Chapter 65
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Translator: crow
Chapter Title: Honorary Mage of the Magic Tower
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"Sigh... Do paper calendars break too?"
I was startled when I checked the calendar after waking up today.
What had I even been doing? Over a month had already passed.
Since I'd been appointed as a mage of the Gray Magic Tower.
In that time, not a single item from my eagerly planned list of [Things to Do Once I Become a Magic Tower Mage ★♥] had been checked off.
Like testing how citizens' attitudes changed based on whether I wore the tower robe.
Or draping the robe over my shoulders like some magic badge during a street hassle.
You know, all those rewarding, thrilling little things.
'So much to do.'
Unlike my expectations, the moment I'd become an honorary mage, a nonstop whirlwind of busyness had swept me up.
It wasn't the tower's fault.
The endless requests for handshakes from the Blue and Green Towers and the Church right before they left.
Layered with various other factors, the Gray Tower had been treating me with excessive kindness.
—As an honorary mage of the Gray Tower, are there any matters I should familiarize myself with or mindsets I must uphold?
—Matters to familiarize yourself with? Of course!
—Ugh, more memorization? What is it?
—Etch this into your mind: we're proud of you!
—What.
—Act with the mindset that our tower is your mirror!
—You said it backwards, though.
—Oops! Did I? That you're our tower's mirror? Sorry for overstepping!
—No. You said the tower is my mirror.
—Ah, then I got it right.
—...
Do whatever you want, Rishir.
That was the general stance of the Gray mages toward me.
I appreciated the sentiment, and deep down it felt like pure honey, but gobbling it up too greedily would wreck me.
I mustn't forget.
That their evaluation of me was inflated beyond reason.
The Gray Tower treated me like the greatest genius to ever mock the gods themselves.
But in reality?
Magically, I was a greenhorn who hadn't even grasped basic theory. Socially, just a newbie who'd barely shed his bastard status and gotten a new calling card.
If I let my melted brain run wild and did whatever I pleased, I'd burn through my capital in no time.
So right after my appointment, I'd spent time building the素养 befitting an honorary tower mage.
Like the Gray Tower's history, its external standing, precautions and conduct related to those.
And whenever time allowed, I'd squeeze in basic magic lessons with Lord Melthas.
Maybe because I'd already internalized it through my body.
Absorbing theory and filling the gaps wasn't as hard as I'd feared.
This morning too, thanks to Lord Melthas's generosity, I was receiving magic lessons.
"Lord Melthas. Thank you again for making time like this."
"Do you know what the masters have been saying about this lately?"
"Ugh. Whatever it is, I'm sorry already."
"They condemned me for monopolizing you. Nearly went to trial over it."
"Agh."
"Anyway, the point is, you don't need to thank me. There's a whole carriage-full of people dying to slather their own spit on you, and as one of them, I'm thrilled to have this chance."
"You're truly the epitome of a scholar, my lord. You remind me of my master all of a sudden."
"Ahem. I'd prefer you not mention your master in front of me."
"Don't talk like a jealous childhood friend. It's tough on me."
"Tch. Anyway, I'm curious. If your master were teaching this, how do you think he'd do it?"
"He'd probably make me spar with Senior Mum-mum."
"...I can't even imagine what kind of lesson that would be."
Around the time my time learning from Lord Melthas surpassed that with my master, I started feeling a twinge of doubt myself.
So.
Who's the real master now?
But that doubt didn't last long.
What mattered wasn't how much teaching I'd received, but what it was.
Back when I was truly nothing.
The first to acknowledge me and extend a hand had been my master.
If not for him, I wouldn't have realized my talent or made it this far.
On this point, even Lord Melthas agreed, referencing how he'd dismissed me as a bastard at first.
—Sniff... Still, I'm confident I could do better...
His jealous childhood friend routine in the midst of it all? Forgetting that pronto.
About an hour into the lesson.
—Teaching Rishir basics? What a waste.
—No kidding. If it were me, I'd start with—
—That's fine, but if it were me—
Masters who'd happened to pass by spotted us and started gathering, forming a peanut gallery to pressure Lord Melthas.
Masters of their caliber possessing park duelists, nitpicking and backseat driving left and right. Quite the spectacle.
Lord Melthas ignored them as best he could and wrapped up the lesson.
"Alright, it's getting noisy around here, so let's call it for today. Oh, right. Rishir. Don't forget what I just said. Things have been off in the northern alleys of Bondales lately, so be careful if you have business there."
"Got it."
"And again, I respect your decision to rebuild from the basics slowly. You've probably felt it yourself with overload and such, but the path ahead is far more treacherous than before."
"Seems that way."
"Even for you, it won't be as easy as last time. Keep that humble beginner's mind always. If I may be so bold, if you don't—"
"Ah, sorry, Lord Melthas. One moment—"
I was in the middle of receiving his blood-and-bone advice.
An untimely interruption made me scowl instantly.
"What's wrong?"
"My mana is surging again. Hold on, let me contain it with blue breathing. If I leave it be, it'll be too much to handle."
"..."
"Ah! Sorry to keep you waiting. Please continue."
"...I was going to say, ignore what anyone says and walk your path."
"Huh? That sounds a bit different from what you said before—"
"Quiet. Just take it as that."
Whew.
Lord Melthas let out a deeper sigh than when the park duelists were hounding him.
"That mana growth. Isn't it a side effect of using Normalization?"
He asked, confused.
I answered with an even more baffled look.
"That's the thing. Looks like there's something else I don't know about."
I'd finally pinned it on reacting to the villain's Normalization.
But this? No different from a seizure.
'Maybe it's a chain reaction? The already-completed Normalization affecting somewhere else—'
When I shared the possibility, Lord Melthas deflated with a whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.
"Rishir. Know this? It took me sixty years to get here."
"...Sorry."
For some reason, I felt compelled to bow deeply in apology.
It was winter.
And another week passed.
'I wonder if Fienne and Rona are doing okay? They're so busy, haven't seen them lately. Well, not like I can talk, glued to the tower.'
Life in the tower was still frantically busy; I couldn't even spare time to step out and meet colleagues.
But it wasn't all bad.
'Damn. This is comfy. Nice. Free room in the Magic Tower.'
Ever since the Gerhen incident.
I was still staying in the tower-provided guest quarters inside.
Prepared for masters and VIPs, it was undeniably better than my old lodging in District 9.
Especially since it was free.
If I could, I'd nest here forever.
But who am I?
A guy who knows shame. An even cooler guy.
I couldn't leech off the tower's hospitality for basic living indefinitely.
Students pay tuition to study.
Masters achieve scholarly feats that benefit the tower.
To truly call myself a member, I couldn't take the hard-won rights of my comrades for granted.
In other words—
'Time to earn my keep.'
I couldn't produce academic results like a student or scholarly achievements like a master.
Was there a way for someone like me to contribute to the tower?
There was.
The Magic Tower, smack in the middle of a city teeming with interest groups, couldn't be fully independent.
For peace and survival, external exchanges were inevitable.
The prime example: money.
The Magic Tower.
Or, in other words, a money-devouring monster.
Astronomical sums went into research and facility maintenance.
Student tuition alone couldn't cover it, so the tower solved funding through various means.
Parties whose interests aligned here.
The tower: overflowing with honor and power, short on cash.
Merchants and lesser nobles: short on honor and power, overflowing with cash.
They maintained good relations by donating large sums to the tower.
The tower became their power patron; they, the tower's financial backers.
Polta, who led a mid-sized merchant guild, was one such patron.
When his guild's sudden growth outpaced his influence, he became a tower patron.
Money that city nobles and crime syndicates would snatch anyway! Better give it to the tower!
To prey on a tower patron, even those pocket-pickers would need resolve.
For example.
The tower provided patrons a "Hey, who messed with our sponsor?" service.
How the scholarly assassins called mages survived.
Of course.
Given the weight of the "Magic Tower" name, aid to patrons was strictly limited.
1. No political nature.
2. No aggressive nature.
3. Must require magical aid.
Polta judged his situation met all criteria and came to the tower.
—The Red Box folks are holding our goods, but no contact.
Red Box: warehouse operators based in northern Bondales.
Public secret they were shady, tied to the crime group "Leather Chain" dominating north Bondales.
Yet countless merchants had to partner with them.
Few groups offered large storage for outsiders in Bondales.
Risk Red Box.
Or get fleeced by city nobles.
Hell's dilemma; merchants' choices were set.
—I want to confront them directly at their lair, but rumors say the mood up there's foul. So, shamelessly requesting the tower's help.
Polta's request was simple.
'Come along to talk with those tough guys and give 'em the evil eye.'
The tower reviewed.
Political? No.
Aggressive? No.
Needs magic?
—I know the warehouse. It's warded; in a pinch, break the ward and retrieve goods.
Yes.
Thus, the tower decided to provide the "Who touched our sponsor?" service.
I volunteered.
"The Gray Magic Tower's honorary mage tasked with resolving this issue, Rishir. Pleased to meet you."
"...Pleased to meet you."
Polta shook the young mage's hand with a friendly smile.
'You're kidding.'
Outwardly, at least.
Polta recalled the donations he'd sent the tower.
Not enough to throw weight around, but plenty for decent treatment.
At least a full mage, he'd thought.
But this.
'Honorary mage?'
Sounds nice.
But the face.
'Cute, but—'
No wrinkles; baby-faced.
Too young.
By Polta's knowledge, mages that age topped at 4th circle, generously.
Far from full mage.
What cases grant honorary titles to such mages?
More dishonorable than honorable came to mind. Not his imagination.
Polta pictured Cal, Red Box head, and his thugs.
Warehouse staff? Mercenaries, really.
Seemed reliable when guarding goods.
Now? Regretted trusting them.
Polta imagined the worst.
Could this young mage handle it?
"..."
No image came.
This kid subduing those brutal mercs.
Heck, bringing a kid mage might create new problems.
They'd know what storming a business with a tower mage meant.
'Insane.'
What to do?
While fretting, they arrived at District 13, Red Box's turf.
Dilapidated streets.
Unpaved, filth everywhere; walkers reeked of lawlessness.
The pretty young mage stood out glaringly.
Without the gray robe, he'd have been hassled ages ago.
"Let's go."
Yet Rishir strode ahead, no tension.
"Ah, uh..."
Polta fidgeted, following.
The place: a dingy tavern in a remote 13th District corner.
Red Box head Cal spent most time here, one of his own spots.
"..."
Back corner of the empty tavern. Bald man with a huge scar sat.
Cal.
Coins piled high on the table; checking ledgers.
"..."
He spotted Polta, glared.
No greeting.
Pretty bold for eating someone's goods and ghosting.
Even annoyed at Polta.
Like Polta stole his.
Otherwise, why ignore calls?
'Damn.'
Polta steeled himself, got to the point.
Return the goods I paid to store—
Perfectly reasonable.
"Can't right now."
Utterly unreasonable reply.
"There's no 'can' or 'can't'! I'm a paying customer using your warehouse! This isn't a request; it's a demand! You have an obligation!"
"Hey, customer. We have our circumstances too. Don't make it hard for us."
Cal glared at Polta.
Then at Rishir.
Gray robe.
Baby face.
Snicker.
A sleazy smirk curled his lips.
"Brought quite the scary fixer, huh?"
"..."
Polta's face twisted openly.
One thought: A real full mage, and Cal wouldn't dare.
"Looks like you came to end us without hearing our side— we have thoughts too. Hey."
Cal kicked the table leg.
Clatter.
Tavern patrons rose, surrounding them.
"You're insane. Gonna touch a tower mage?"
"Nah. Just politely asking nicely. Leave while you can."
Polta's feared scenario unfolded.
Rishir's easy vibe created extra trouble.
Mercs intimidating a tower mage?
Then.
Rishir stepped forward to Cal.
"Honorary mage from the Gray Tower to mediate this, Rishir. Care to talk privately?"
Polta screamed inwardly.
Step up now?
Crazy?
Sure enough.
Cal scoffed mockingly.
Bang!
He slammed the desk threateningly.
Echo faded; heavy, awkward silence fell.
"Rishir..."
Then.
His eyes glazed; belatedly mulling the name.
"...!"
He shot up, gesturing to the seat opposite.
"R-Rishir! Ah, sit, please!"
Not just Cal.
Everyone bowed to Rishir.
"...?"
What.
What happened?
'Rishir? Am I the only one who doesn't know this name?'