The Mage's Intellect
The master of the Clock Tower, known as the Intellect of Mages.
One of the Twelve Heroes who had fought in the Great Cataclysm.
Alfons Hus stared fixedly at the rising star who had lately been drawing every eye.
So this is the talent the Executor singled out.
He paid no mind to the fact that his irritating old rival, Gerard, had put forward a proxy. That sword-obsessed oaf forcing his way into things was hardly new. A man of wisdom and character such as himself simply had to be the bigger person and overlook it.
I heard he was a necromancer, yet he feels a little different.
As a hunter who had reached the absolute pinnacle of magic in the modern age, Alfons needed only a glance to catch Minho’s peculiarities.
First: there was none of the clammy, oppressive mana wavelength unique to necromancers.
Second: the sense of dissonance that radiated from the servants Minho had brought with him.
I’ve never seen a necromancer command summons like these.
Sir Isra and Ingrid.
The mana wavelengths coming off both servants were thoroughly strange. They did not feel like ordinary undead; it was as if he were looking at living people.
Even a casual glance was enough for a veteran of his caliber to glimpse the nature of the Resurrected. The title of strongest mage of the era was not empty praise.
Perhaps I should take a slightly closer look.
Would you kindly stop prying any further?
A woman’s thought rang through his mind.
Zzt—
A portion of the mana he had spread like a net tangled and came undone. Alfons’s eyes trembled minutely.
What?!
The summit of the Clock Tower was his domain. For a mage, a “domain” was nothing so mundane as a laboratory. It was the optimal environment in which to unleash one’s full power. Here, at the top of the Clock Tower, he was confident he could defeat even his old rival Gerard with one hundred percent certainty.
And yet, inside the domain he had so thoroughly constructed, he had lost control of his mana for even an instant.
Someone more sensitive to mana reaction than I am?
The most critical factor in mana control was talent. Alfons had seen countless mages across the hunter industry, yet never once had he met anyone whose talent surpassed his own. Even the disciples he had taken in fell short—all of them except one.
The disciple he had accepted only recently: Emilia.
But that isn’t the only problem, is it?
Suppose someone truly possessed talent that reached the heavens. Even if a mage of greater raw material than himself existed, experience—the second most vital factor after talent—took long years to accumulate. Even Emilia, in pure mana-control ability, still could not match Alfons.
And yet something had just disrupted the mana control of a man who stood at the absolute peak in both talent and experience?
It’s nothing more than a cheap parlor trick. Pay it no mind.
The woman’s thought answered as though she had peered straight into his heart. Alfons swallowed a groan. There was no mystery about who had scrambled his control.
One of Minho’s two summons—the captivating woman watching him with an impassive expression.
My master respects you, so this is only a warning.
Quantity of mana. Achievements attained. Physical ability. In every category she stood far below him.
And yet…
To think a summon exists whose mana control surpasses mine.
When had he last been this shocked? He had weathered the Great Cataclysm, founded the Clock Tower, cultivated gifted juniors, and striven toward the ultimate truths of magic. In his later years he had even come to believe he had mastered the principles and laws of the world.
He had been wrong. The world was wide. Another being besides Emilia had surpassed Alfons’s talent.
Ah… ahh…!
Why—why did such a magnificent existence have to be a mere summon?
While he was still swallowing the bitterness, a voice he knew all too well slammed into his eardrums.
“I say.”
“······.”
“Hey!”
“······.”
“You old geezer—have you gone deaf?!”
The voice of the rival he had competed with for decades struck home.
“You’re noisy.”
“I have to shout if I want you to hear me.”
Only then did Alfons realize he had been standing there in a daze. The shock had been that severe.
Compose yourself.
The rough gem he had discovered three years ago, Emilia, possessed talent and skill every bit as remarkable. A summon’s potential depended on its master; his own jewel would shine far more brilliantly. With that thought he steadied his mind.
“How long do you intend to leave a guest standing about like a fool?”
“Even age hasn’t cured that impatient temper of yours.”
“And your childish tastes haven’t changed either.”
“Childish? Ha! To disparage this beautiful gold… Do Englishmen dump their aesthetic sense into the Thames and live without it?”
“What did you say?!”
The two old men snarled at each other.
“More importantly, what about our contest? Why bring this fellow here instead?”
“What do you mean?”
“The match was to decide which was superior—magic or the sword. Was it not?”
Alfons gave a light shrug of his shoulders.
“Putting forward an outstanding mage as your proxy is as good as admitting the sword ranks below magic!”
“Your eyes must have gone bad with age and you ate something wrong. You’re spouting more nonsense than usual.”
Gerard’s face twisted.
“Of course we settle it with swords. Magic? Magiiic?”
“The summons under the Executor’s successor are that formidable—why insist on something as crude as a sword?!”
“Stop the rubbish and show me that brilliant disciple of yours.”
“Hmm. Fair enough.”
Inwardly Alfons clicked his tongue. The disruption of his mana control had shocked him so badly he had completely forgotten to introduce his disciple.
“Just a moment.”
Tap-tap.
He lightly struck the floor with his right foot. With a bright shimmer of light, a woman in a violet robe crossed space and appeared.
“M-m-m-m…”
“Speak without trembling, my disciple.”
“You called for meeeeee!!!!”
She practically screeched. Alfons unconsciously ran a hand down his face.
Talent in abundance, yet her spirit is so fragile…
Aside from that passive nature she was an excellent prospect. The real reason he had deliberately summoned Gerard—who kept no disciples of his own—was precisely that. If she saw one of the Twelve Heroes startled by her, perhaps her confidence would rise.
And now the successor the Executor had personally pointed out had walked into the middle of it.
This may not be so bad either.
It looked like the perfect stimulus to move his disciple’s heart.
“This is my disciple Emilia. And this is Sir Gerard.”
“H-h-h-hellooooo!!”
“Hahaha. Unlike your master, you know your manners.”
Alfons clicked his tongue at Gerard’s booming laugh.
“The young man beside him is Park Minho.”
Emilia stared straight at Minho.
“I-isn’t that the one who fully cleared the Tower of Chaos?”
“That’s right. Today he will observe as Sir Gerard’s proxy and test your skills.”
From the shadows of her robe Emilia’s eyes blazed with intensity. Alfons was delighted by the sight.
Seeing a peer who set the highest record in the Tower of Chaos has sparked some competitive fire, has it?
Excellent. What Emilia lacked was confidence and fighting spirit. The mere fact that Minho stirred any emotion in her was already a positive sign. How long had it been since his late-taken disciple had shown such an active reaction?
He suppressed the warm feeling and once more tapped the floor with his foot.
“Let us change venues.”
Spatial Technique – Mass Teleport
A pure white radiance enveloped the group.
I squeezed my eyes shut against the white light that slammed into my retinas, then opened them again.
“Where is this?”
“It is spatial transfer magic, Master.”
Instead of the Tower Master’s library-like chamber, we now stood in a wide space that reminded me of a sparring ring.
Spatial transfer, huh.
When Alfons used the spell I felt the mana wavelength interfere with my body.
“Could you have resisted it?”
“Mm. I think so.”
“Splendid. You have properly grasped the essence of mana release.”
“Is that so?”
“Heh. It is not something just anyone can do.”
There were two ways to resist magic: spread mana outward to disrupt the formation’s structure, or use internal mana to repel the interference. The former was a mage’s method; the latter, a warrior’s.
Whew. If I’d resisted without thinking I would’ve been left alone at the top of the Clock Tower. Close call.
“Master possesses talent for both, so you may simply use whichever method feels comfortable.”
“Hahaha. Mage girl, has not our lord already mastered the method of resisting through mana release?”
“Hmph. Who’s to say he won’t master the other method just as quickly?”
Mana resistance… I’d learned something useful today.
Anyway.
“You’re staring a little too hard, don’t you think?”
I lowered my voice and whispered to my two servants.
From the shadows of her purple robe the Tower Master’s disciple was looking me over with a rather heated gaze. Did she already see me as a rival? I was starting to feel disliked for no reason.
“Ingrid.”
“Yes, Master.”
“What was that just now?”
“Ah. You noticed!”
“I saw your mana move and figured it out.”
The mana wavelength that had blanketed the entire Tower Master’s chamber… At first I hadn’t even realized the flow was artificial. Only when Ingrid interfered with it by some means did I feel the wrongness.
“That was mana resistance.”
“I think I get the rough idea.”
Without meaning to, I had grasped both methods of resisting magic. Quite the educational day.
“As expected of Master! This girl believed in you!”
“Hmmm…”
Kids. Let’s not compete over stuff like that.
“Hahahaha! Now it is my turn.”
Shiiing—
A sword drawn from its sheath scattered cold blue light. The weapon that symbolized the Black Knight Gerard—the Blood-Red Longsword of the Fallen Knight—revealed its form. Between the overall black tone of the blade, crimson light flickered. The chill radiating from the edge seemed to drop the temperature by a good five degrees.
“Well?”
My question carried many layers of meaning. The Blood-Red Longsword of the Fallen Knight had been Sir Isra’s beloved blade in her previous life. Who did the epithet “Fallen Knight” refer to? The answer was painfully obvious. In the final moments when her strength failed, she had even used it as a cane. I couldn’t begin to imagine what was going through her mind.
“Hah. I am fine.”
Sir Isra spoke as she swung the sword in an X-shaped arc.
“The grudges of the past ended the moment my breath failed me.”
“······I see.”
“My second life shall be devoted solely to my lord.”
Whew. Good. I had made the sword loan a condition for Isra’s sake, and I’d worried a little on the side. Looks like I was overthinking it.
“Master.”
Thud—thud—
At Ingrid’s words I shifted my gaze. Today’s sparring partner, Alfons’s disciple, was slowly approaching. She had been staring only at me from the very beginning. She clearly didn’t care for the situation.
Nothing for it, then. If someone decides to hate me for no reason, the only thing left is to give them a reason.
“Did you have something to say?”
I stripped every trace of wariness from my voice and answered as though I barely registered her presence. Let’s hear why she came over.
“I-I-I-I…”
She stammered, then suddenly thrust something at me.
Paper and a pen.
“Please sign this!”
Who, me?