The Fallen Apple Wand: Black Magic That Drives People Mad—Literally

The Fallen Apple Wand's black magic drove people insane. Not figuratively, but physically. Black magic, that alien power from beyond this world, simply didn't mesh with the lifeforms of this realm. That's why so few could even look a high-circle black mage in the eye. The spells they wielded gnawed at the mind, shattered reason, and stripped away all judgment.

That was why the Maou War had been so brutal. Ordinary soldiers couldn't mount a proper defense against high-circle black mages—they just died in droves.

But the warriors of Nordenburk were different. At the northernmost edge of the continent, where snow fell year-round, where even midsummer averaged under 50 degrees Fahrenheit and winters plunged to -40, they thrived in that extreme climate. Warriors who bared their ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠torsos to battle monsters there had minds tough enough to hold firm even before a black mage.

That was why Gunter Nordenburk, unlike the others in the banquet hall who had lost their grip on sanity, could grasp the situation clearly.

Yet he couldn't bring himself to move.

"Step aside... Hand over the child... ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and I'll let you all go unharmed..."

First, his honed warrior instincts screamed that his odds against that black mage were less than 0.1 percent.

"No, wait."

But it was the sight of the girl stepping forward with her axe that gave him an inexplicable certainty. Rushing in to "help" would only get in her way.

"Run now, and I'll spare your life."

Her declaration as she raised the axe somehow evoked the image of his father—the master of the Zitan Wood Wand, the mightiest warrior of the north.

At first, even Gunter himself refused to acknowledge it. He'd never held a high opinion of Professor Ria, dismissing her as just like the scheming prince, the saintess, and the Eastern Union envoys—another politician.

That illusion shattered the moment she raised her axe and activated her reinforcement ritual.

"Reinforcement ritual—activate."

With a voice brimming with confidence, the runes etched into the axe ignited in unison. For even northerners, mastering reinforcement rituals took years—her fluid command meant the professor was no stranger to northern magic.

And she proved it spectacularly.

"Come at me for real."

With a bold taunt, she cleaved through the oncoming mass of tentacles in a single stroke. Stomping the writhing fragments underfoot, axe held high, no trace remained of her earlier fragility.

Successive barrages of artillery spells tore through the tense air. Solid buildings melted like snowballs. Something terrifying descended from the skies. Yet she gripped her weapon without a flicker of fear—what else could you call that but a warrior?

Gunter took up his own axe but stood silent for a long moment.

"Which generation Nordenburk are you?"

"...The seventeenth."

"Seventeen? Impressive. Usually, the founders' will fades after that long."

Ria tapped Gunter's shoulder as she spoke.

"Surviving a 7th Circle black mage's spell with your bare mind? You'll make a fine warrior."

It was simple praise, pure admiration without ulterior motive. From someone who'd faced the Maou's forces three centuries ago, she knew exactly how formidable 7th Circle black mages were.

But to Gunter, it landed differently. He was the designated heir to the Zitan Wood Wand. His father was one of the greatest warriors in Nordenburk history; his grandfather a hero who met his end on the Absolute Defense Line. For someone born into that lineage, excelling was expected—no praise for hunting high-rank monsters young or mastering rune magic.

Maybe that's why. His poor impression of the professor melted away, replaced by the thought that she was a good person.

"I'll live up to your expectations."

He bowed his head, then gathered the still-dazed northern ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠students and departed. In the carriage back to the dorms, Gunter addressed his peers.

"Remember that letter from ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Eastern Union's minor duke?"

He'd had no intention of clashing with the other faction heirs. But that didn't mean he'd dance to their tune.

"Tell them we reject the offer."

No need to fear heirs when the leaders themselves posed no threat. He'd avoided conflict only to dodge hassle.

But for someone who'd saved his life—

"Northern warriors don't heed cowards."

There was no reason to heed cowards. Gunter Nordenburk had chosen to side with Professor Ria.

"Ah, what about my dress?"

That was her first thought once the battle heat faded.

Glancing down revealed her dress in total ruin—splattered with the black mage's blood, swamp mud, banquet food debris, pocked with shelling holes. And the front was slashed clean in half—she'd ripped it without hesitation to avoid encumbrance in the fight.

Hiss. Should I get it repaired?

She knew plenty of combat spells, but daily life magic? Not so much.

As she mulled that pointless worry, Lily approached.

"Are you alright, Professor...?"

"For now."

Well, her body was fine, so that counted as alright. She had no idea what'd happen once the buffs wore off, but it was still good.

"More worried about Sylvia, though."

She turned her gaze out the window. The massive World Tree, woven of green particles, still lit the night sky.

She remembered how well Sylvia had fought the Maou's "kin" back in the Maou War days, so it was probably needless anxiety. But she couldn't shake the worry—three hundred years had passed since then.

She was reaching for her wand when—

"Ah, it's over."

The World Tree's leaves began to cascade down. The particles drifted like snow, then detonated on impact, massive blasts shaking heaven and earth.

Seeing that confirmed Sylvia's victory. No kin had ever survived it.

"Phew..."

She let out a soft sigh and slumped into the least-damaged chair.

Sylvia returned shortly after. Her green eyes widened at the blood-soaked sight.

"Sis, you okay?"

"Yeah. Not my blood."

She calmed the alarmed elf and pointed behind her.

"Anyway... the real urgent issue is over there."

Few normals could witness 7th Circle black magic up close and stay sane. The Nordenburk kids had iron wills—easy wake-up with a few gestures—but the others? Not so much.

Unfortunately, she had no talent for healing. Other magics came naturally, but recovery spells? No dice. That was why the Olive Wand had been her last creation.

"Oh, right."

Finally noticing the crowd, Sylvia drew her World Tree Wand. With a flash of green light, the night's chaos ended.

But she didn't think this was the end of it all.

To her, well-versed in black mages, the raid felt like the opening shot of something bigger. Black mages had lain low for three centuries—there had to be a reason they'd surfaced now.

Even if the Empire was spiraling, an attack on the Victory Festival banquet honoring the Maou War triumph demanded action.

"They must know that..."

So why pull a stunt like this, even dragging in kin?

No matter how she turned it over, only one reason fit.

The Maou's resurrection.

"But..."

The dead couldn't return to life. Even in the ever-evolving magic academies, it was an unchanging law upheld for a millennium.

She'd killed the Maou herself. Her killing spell had struck between his eyes. She'd even confirmed the kill.

By all theory, not even the Maou could come back.

Unless it involved his black magic.

A power from beyond that defied this world's laws... maybe it was possible. The ominous thought kept creeping in.

That was when Sylvia burst through the door.

"Sis!"

Bam!—She flung it open like she meant to shatter it and slapped a newspaper onto the desk.

She caught it absently and scanned the front page—

"...Ah."

She let out an involuntary sigh. As always, her bad premonitions never missed.