The Guide Who Picked the Wrong Mark
After Nephthys departed, Simon found himself facing the busiest week of his life.
Even his father Richard, ordinarily so easygoing, was behaving like a man possessed. With eyes sharp as drawn blades and a temper to match, he left no room for childish grumbling like do I really have to go to Kizen?
Richard cast a spell on Simon's body — a process he called building the Core — and whatever else it involved, it was simply, unrelentingly agonizing.
When three straight days and nights of core construction finally came to an end, Simon climbed into a carriage alongside his father. It was a magnificent, luxurious vehicle far beyond anything Leshill's modest barony should have been able to field, and the plush comfort of the cushions — unlike anything Simon had ever felt — left his mouth hanging open.
"Stay safe out there, Simon."
Anna, who had just loaded a two-week supply of boxed meals into the carriage, waved with tears streaming down her face.
"If it ever becomes too much to bear, you come home to Leshill any time you like."
Richard, famously devoted to his wife, snapped at her — what kind of thing was that to say to a boy taking his very first steps into the world?
Simon, who had never once seen the two of them quarrel, realized with a start that his everyday life was truly changing.
"We depart now."
The coachman gathered the reins, and the wheels began to roll. And so began the adventure of Simon, a boy who had never lived anywhere but Leshill his entire life.
Of course, it was anything but a leisurely carriage ride. Inside the rocking carriage, Richard drilled Simon in dark magic, boot-camp style.
"Breathe."
He didn't simply mean inhale and exhale — he meant Simon was to use the breathing technique his father had taught him. Simon drew in a deep breath, pulling the ambient mana from the air into his body. He'd practiced this countless times; it was no longer difficult.
"Now guide the mana inside you, slowly, and pass it through your Core."
Richard laid a hand on Simon's chest to assist. Simon carefully channeled the mana — flowing like a river — through the core beneath his heart.
Something changed. The mana, once loose and watery, felt denser now. Firmer.
"Now lead it down your arm. Yes — and release it through your hand."
With a sensation like a clogged vein bursting open,
a black liquid seeped from Simon's palm like beads of sweat. As Simon blinked down at his own hand, Richard smiled broadly.
"Well done, Simon. This is Jet-Black — the very wellspring of a necromancer's power."
According to Richard, there had once been an age when knights and mages ruled the continent. Now, of course, they had fallen behind the necromancers who dominated the era. Knights could not match the necromancers' sheer numbers, and mages were outclassed in both casting speed and destructive force.
"The greatest difference between a mage and a necromancer comes down to one thing: whether he possesses Jet-Black."
Richard extended his left hand. Above his palm, blue mana rose like heat shimmer.
"Mana has the properties of a gas. It's low in density, difficult to bind, and it wants nothing more than to scatter into the open air."
Then he extended his right. A viscous black liquid gushed up like a spring and trickled down beneath his palm.
"Jet-Black, by contrast, behaves closer to a solid or a liquid. It's made of concentrated magical power — easy to bind, and free to reshape at will."
The viscous black liquid dripping from his palm suddenly shot upward. It re-formed in midair — blooming into a flower, surging into a wave, flicking its tongue as a serpent, spinning into a windmill.
"Whoa……!"
Just as Simon was gasping at the dazzling display that had begun out of nowhere, the Jet-Black shifted once more, arranging itself into the shape of a magic circle. From that black circle woven of countless rune characters, a red light bled outward like a bomb about to detonate.
A prickle ran through him, and every hair on his body stood on end.
Something — something enormous was about to happen……!
Crang!
Richard clenched his fist, and the magic circle shattered. The pile of ash crumbling toward the floor slowly faded away.
"Those who wield power upon the foundation of this Jet-Black — that is what we call necromancers."
Simon nodded, spellbound.
"There's no time to teach you everything I'd like. For what remains, let's focus on the fundamentals — drawing Jet-Black out through your Core."
"Yes, Father!"
Practicing the creation of Jet-Black turned out to be far more fun than he'd expected. At first it was only a single droplet pooling in his palm, but as time passed, the drops grew larger and took on new forms.
With progress he could see with his own eyes, Simon lost himself in practice, oblivious to the hours. Richard, for his part, was delighted by his son's rapid achievement — while carefully steering him so he wouldn't grow impatient.
……Monstrous. Absolutely monstrous progress.
Richard hid it well, but inwardly he was reeling in disbelief.
Three days. Just three days, from simple emission to shape transformation.
This genuinely was not normal. Given that even talented practitioners needed anywhere from half a year to two years to achieve shape transformation, it was no exaggeration to say Simon had been born for Jet-Black. He was Simon's own father, and still teaching him sent chills down Richard's spine.
In truth, Richard had long known about his son's talent. The only reason he hadn't built the Core sooner was that he'd been waiting for the right moment.
Talent that erupts before a child's identity and emotions have settled is poison. Richard more than anyone regretted his own childhood, when he had raged like a tyrant, and he had no intention of passing that mistake down to his son.
But now, at last, the time had come for Simon's talent to bloom. The whole continent would be stunned by this boy's arrival.
Merely imagining it sent shivers racing through Richard's body; he could hardly sit still.
"Father! Look at this!"
Simon raised a swirl of Jet-Black above his palm, flickering like flame. Richard studied it with a grave expression.
"Deep black. A beautiful Jet-Black, laced with the faintest trace of blue."
"Th-that's good, right? Am I a rare case? Do I have talent?"
"It just looks cool. That's all."
"……"
Simon's face fell into a sulk, and he returned to his practice. Richard turned his head away, barely wrangling the corners of his mouth as they fought to climb skyward.
Keeping a straight face is no easy task either.
And so the time flew past. From Simon's perspective, a full week vanished without his noticing.
And then—
"This is as far as I can go with you, Simon."
Richard announced it without warning. Simon felt his heart plummet.
"I thought you were taking me all the way to Kizen."
"I'm sorry, but your father has his reasons — I cannot set foot inside the Dresden Kingdom. From here on, every decision and every step is yours to make."
A crushing weight of pressure bore down on him all at once, and he swallowed dryly. Seventeen years spent only in Leshill — it would have been a lie to claim he wasn't afraid of so sudden a change.
Then Richard took Simon's hand in a firm grip.
"I give you my word, my son. You will outdo every one of them. And — "
Richard smiled warmly.
"I am truly proud of you."
At his father's recognition — the first Simon had ever heard in his life — something in his chest swelled and ached.
"I'll be off, then. Father."
Having parted ways with Richard as well, Simon rode on alone in the spacious carriage, devoting every remaining hour to tempering his Jet-Black rather than letting the time go to waste.
Another week slipped by.
"Whoa……!"
He had arrived at Langestin, the capital of the Dresden Kingdom.
Seeing a great metropolis for the first time in his life, Simon's sole impression was of being utterly overwhelmed. Towering buildings at every turn, carriages cutting recklessly across the roads, and people — teeming, endless crowds. It was a spectacle so foreign that his eyes spun just trying to take it in.
"Out of the way! Move!"
Simon startled and stumbled backward. A colossal carriage more than five meters wide came barreling down a steep slope — and pulling it was a horse made entirely of bare, rattling bone.
An undead!
Undead were strolling about in broad daylight, right in the middle of the city — from hauling carriages and rickshaws in simple labor, to handing out flyers as odd-job workers in the plaza.
It was a sight only possible in an age where necromancers reigned supreme.
Keep your head on straight.
Simon gave his own cheeks a light slap, then pulled a crumpled, well-folded note from his pocket.
239 Campbell Road, Langestin SL1E 6AJ.
— A guide will be waiting. —
So I'm to find my way to this address, then.
Simon steeled himself. Langestin or Leshill, at the end of the day people lived the same everywhere, didn't they? He'd go to this address, meet the guide who would escort him to Kizen, and everything would fall into place.
But staring at the note alone, nothing clicked. In the end, Simon approached a plump blonde woman standing with her back to him.
"E-excuse me, madam. Might I ask you something?"
The moment the woman turned around, Simon froze in horror.
One of her eyes had popped out of its socket and was dangling there, swaying to and fro.
"What is it, dearie?"
"……"
It's rude to stare. It's rude to stare.
Desperately calming his pounding heart, Simon forced a smile.
"I'm trying to get to the address written on this paper……"
"An address? Let's have a look."
Cold sweat poured down Simon's back as the dangling eyeball swung sharply toward the paper and swept across it. Fortunately, he kept his lips clamped shut, and no sound escaped.
"Ah, Campbell Road? It's one of Langestin's famous sights. Go around the plaza up there and take the right side — you'll find an alley paved with golden tiles."
"Oh……! Thank you so much!"
Simon bowed deeply at the waist. The woman spread the fan in her hand over her mouth and laughed, hoho.
"Such a well-mannered young one. Rare as hen's teeth these days. May fortune follow you through Langestin."
Everything's actually going smoothly!
Bowing his thanks once more, Simon struck out briskly toward the plaza the woman had pointed out.
……
And a short while later.
A man who had been silently watching the entire exchange approached the very same woman, exactly as Simon had.
So this is Campbell Road at last.
What on earth made this city so impossibly convoluted? After twenty minutes of wandering in circles, Simon finally made his way onto Campbell Road. Just as the woman had said, the floor tiles were washed in gold.
239, 239……
Note in hand, he walked along checking the address plaques on each building when—
"Pardon me."
Someone appeared out of nowhere from across the way and addressed him. It was a bald man, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. He pulled out a handkerchief, dabbed his brow once, and spoke with impeccable courtesy.
"Would you happen to be headed to 239 Campbell Road — or, more precisely, SL1E 6AJ?"
Simon's eyes went round.
How does he know even the fine details of the address?
"Ah! You must be the guide sent by Mr. Howl……!"
The man nodded.
"Yes, I'm Mr. Howl's guide! You were taking so long to arrive that I feared you might be lost, and I've been out searching for you."
Relief flooded through Simon.
"Finally! I'm Simon Polentia."
"Rauly, a guide of Langestin, at your service. Now, this way, please. You must be worn out from your travels — I'll see you to your lodging first."
Simon nodded and fell in behind him.
"It's about a fifteen-minute walk. I'll take us by the shortcuts and get you there as fast as I can."
"Great!"
Leaving Campbell Road and winding through the crooked alleyways, Simon kept glancing around in wide-eyed wonder.
Houses here, houses there, houses everywhere. The city was packed so densely that wasted space was virtually nonexistent. He suspected the population of this one city was several times that of everyone living across the entire Les Hill Territory.
"I was worried sick about you, sir. An outsider wandering Langestin alone, without a guide? It's dangerous."
Rauly rattled on and on.
"You know what they say — eyes open, wallet gone. The city's crawling with folk just waiting to strip naive travelers down to their skin. Pickpockets, muggers, crooked merchants charging triple. Once we reach the lodging, I'll teach you a few phrases of the Langestin dialect. It's only a stopgap, but it beats knowing nothing at all."
"Aha."
Simon smiled pleasantly.
"So that's why you're planning to strip me down too, old man."
"……!!"
Rauly stopped dead in his tracks.
"S-sir? What on earth do you mean by——"
"Your gaze kept drifting downward, quite against your will."
Simon said, extending his index finger.
"You touched the lower pocket of my vest with your own hand once — checking the goods were still there, weren't you? Judging by the pocket's width and the way the fabric creases, there's something like a knife tucked inside."
"……"
Rauly wiped a fresh sheen of sweat as he turned to face Simon.
"Well…… yes. That's right."
Click.
He acknowledged it without a fight, flipping open the lower pocket of his vest to reveal a knife handle.
"Didn't I tell you? Langestin is a dangerous place. In alleys this narrow, you never know who you'll run into——"
"And crucially — that man Howl I mentioned earlier? I made him up."
Simon spun around with a bright, beaming smile, one arm cradling the back of his head.
"The moment I said I was Mr. Howl's guide, you swallowed it whole. You see, Howl is the name of a goat that Johnson back in Leshill dotes on. Running an errand for a goat, were you?"
"……"
The friendly smile froze solid on Rauly's face.
"Y-you — you knew all along and followed me anyway?! Who the hell do you think you are, you little punk?!"