Chapter 24
Chapter 24
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 24
Chapter Title: The Mage Who Steps Outside
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"...!!"
The Violet Magic Tower Master widened her eyes round, clamped one hand over her mouth, and yanked urgently at my sleeve with the other. Wondering what was wrong, I looked over and realized she wanted to yawn.
I bent down to match her height and leaned in close.
The Tower Master peeled her hand away and let out an adorably cute yawn.
Cute yawns are a rare sight, but somehow she'd nailed it.
"Hyaaaaah."
I sucked in every bit of her outgoing breath from a distance close enough to avoid any needless misunderstandings.
This was absolutely not some depraved fetish act.
Yawns are a natural phenomenon in any living creature with a soul.
Just like burning firewood to generate heat, living beings burn their souls for energy. That energy is what wuxia calls true essence, or more plainly, life force.
It's also why black mages go wild-eyed kidnapping people—they cast spells using life force.
And the byproduct of soul combustion is mana.
Poetically speaking, mana is the ash left after a soul burns.
Living creatures exhale trace amounts of mana with every breath. But when unrefined mana builds up inside, it all gets released in a yawn.
The higher one's realm, the purer and greater the amount of mana expelled in a yawn. A single yawn from an archmage can rival a decent elixir.
That's why there's a tradition of masters allowing their disciples to "drink" their yawns. For the closest bonds, they even overlap lips to absorb 100% without waste, or so I've heard.
How could anyone do something so embarrassing? I was already on high alert to avoid any accidental lip contact.
Oh.
"...?!"
Did it just brush...?
"Fwew."
The Tower Master smiled, looking utterly refreshed and at ease. Her nonchalant reaction meant it must've been my imagination... I fiddled absently with my lips.
Ever since that wordy, trouble-filled session with Second Prince Irid wrapped up, the Tower Master and I had been enjoying some truly serene, peaceful days.
Wake up in the morning, wash up, brush teeth. Carve some modeling.
Eat, do light stretches, carve modeling.
Eat, take a short break by carving modeling, carve more modeling.
Eat, carve modeling...
Yeah, I needed a ton of modeling. Finely crafted heroine models fit for the spotlight, massive robot models to fulfill every guy's dreams—tons of stuff I wanted to make.
But most urgently, I needed combat data.
For the Second Prince as the main enemy, sloppy swordplay was narratively forgivable since his foes were mercenaries. But against knights? Botch the sword fights, and plausibility crumbles.
I needed monster movement data too. I'd built a foundation borrowing from countless videos from my past life, but consulting Face-Scar Senior—the Tower's top social butterfly, with an astonishing 50% weekly outing rate—he trashed it as total garbage.
"Maybe I should head outside once..."
"O-Outside the Tower is dangerous!"
"I know it's dangerous, but still."
In my nine years at the Tower, I'd never researched even a fingernail's worth of combat magic. Not because I'm some pacifist. Panty modeling was just way more fun than mind-breaking spells.
The Tower Master opposed me learning combat magic too. "It mixes in impurities," she said. Archmage wisdom must have its reasons, so I hadn't bothered looking into it.
That meant I needed an ally. A reliable bodyguard to protect me out there. Best case? The Tower Master tags along...
"Should I fill out a strategic weapon relocation form...?"
"No."
Apparently, superhumans of archmage rank have to submit forms to the palace stating where they're going from where, and how long they'll stay.
Seemed like overkill, but putting myself in a neighboring lord's shoes made it click. If a walking nuke suddenly strolled into my territory? Cold sweat, numb limbs.
Even if the lord stays cautious, some punk black-haired delinquent picks a fight... Depending on the walking nuke's temper, an entire city block could vaporize.
Hence the procedure to prevent stomach ulcers among the Empire's many lords.
Rejections mean resubmitting, dragging on for a month sometimes. Better to temper expectations for the Tower Master's company.
For reference, the day all the Tower Masters gathered to scout me? Not a single form filed—total chaos. Rumor has it the lord of my birth village foamed at the mouth and fainted.
Anyway.
I'd have to venture out whenever the chance arose...
I headed to the Tower Master's lab to ask if she wanted to carve some bra modeling together, only to find her in thin nightclothes, fidgeting anxiously with a letter.
"P-Princess... l-letter."
I took the letter from her glitchy stuttering. A flashy missive from the palace, decked out in all sorts of jewels. Pure research funding.
Prying off the jewels one by one, I checked the sender: First Princess Elaine.
Stripping away the convoluted political fluff, the core boiled down to this:
'My little bro seemed to have fun.'
'Do me too.'
'I like beating people.'
'Colosseum in a week.'
"Hm."
Somehow, she'd penned this blunt mess in elegant prose. Royalty through and through. I reread the letter, gauging the prospective player's tastes.
I asked the Tower Master too. Anything more detailed on the First Princess?
She plopped onto my thigh as I sat cross-legged, using my arm as a makeshift backrest.
"Heard she's been a battle fiend since she was little."
"Battle fiend, huh."
"Yeah. Count Yurensuto would say stuff like, 'Don't act like a wild filly rampaging like the First Princess.' Word got around of knights breaking arms sparring with her."
Pure gold. Combat-focused.
If the player loved fighting this much, it was my duty to prep a combat map. Time to deliver the juicy final showdown I couldn't with the Second Prince.
But a sudden question hit me, so I asked her.
"Come to think of it... Don't they usually number them First Princess, First Prince, Second Prince?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"Huh?"
"Oh, ah... The First Prince is dead. That's why they skip him on purpose. The palace folks... don't like talking about the First Prince. Taboo. They treat him like he never existed."
"Whoa, how'd that happen?"
"Just rumors, not sure, but poisoned. Around age ten."
Made sense to tread carefully. Parading around about a murdered crown prince would smear the palace's face.
Poisoned, huh. Palace intrigue to romance fantasies flashed by. Poison and throne fights screamed dysfunctional family.
Maybe that explained the Second Prince's loose screws? Not inherited paranoia from the Emperor, but some growth-trauma incident.
Sensitive topic—better skip poison references. No "who poisoned my green tea?" tropes.
Combat, combat...
What about dark fantasy?
A gray ashen wasteland where everything's perished. Some... mana disaster wiped out 90% of humanity, replaced by grotesque monsters speaking incomprehensible tongues.
Humans cling to life in small outposts, burning through lost civilization's artifacts and knowledge, quietly dying day by day.
But a sliver of hope: rumors of a shelter left by humanity somewhere... uh, a "safe dungeon." Guarantees survival for at least the next century.
Enter the player.
A mysteriously aura'd player carves a path through warped nature and colossal beasts. Survivors trail and serve, turning the player into a prophet.
Toss in minor group troubles for the player's followers too. Petty theft to outright murder. These "morally gray choices" really define a player's character.
Heroines too, obviously. For women: one frail scholar type, one apprentice knight fangirling hard to keep up, one tough-as-nails tomboy. Something like that for now.
Definitely need to head outside. Combat data is critical.
No Tower Master escort? Time for plan B. Someone with solid combat chops, eager to help gather my data. Not a shut-in researcher—someone who's cracked goblin skulls in the field.
Time to enlist Face-Scar Senior.
"Junior, repeat after me: Ro-Le-I."
"Face-Scar."
"Ro-"
"Ro."
"Le-"
"Le."
"I."
"Face-Scar."
A bit of comms friction, but peeling off a few jewels from the letter flipped him super cooperative. Nothing beats cash.
The Tower Master whined up a storm, but outing prep flew along. Face-Scar Senior hired an adventurer party, mapped a safe route, soothed her that it'd be fine.
"Take this, just in case... this too... and this, oh and..."
Like she'd kill me if I didn't take them, she tried snapping my neck under an artifact pile. Forty-nine necklace artifacts alone!
She went further, threatening I couldn't leave till I wore them all.
Face-Scar Senior pondered, then instructed me.
"Whisper in the Tower Master's ear that she's the world's best."
"Why?"
"That's how the path opens."
Senior was confident. I trusted the mage-vet explorer. Channeling elementary school days spotting moms hugging homecoming kids.
With warm parental vibes, I pulled the Tower Master into a hug—nice and toasty—and whispered in her ear.
"You're my favorite in the whole world, Yuna?"
"...!!?!"
That instant, the Tower Master evaporated. Not hyperbole—literally.
Freaked out at first, but Face-Scar Senior explained: she slipped a high-level illusion hold and bailed. He wore this oddly satisfied smirk, for some reason.
Seniors are seniors, even just months ahead. He'd bulldozed every obstacle.
Ended up leaving with just one necklace.
And so, heart pounding with excitement, I stepped outside the Tower for the first time in nine years.
At the rendezvous, a trio party awaited us. Called adventurers, but their gear was no joke—borderline knight-level, if anything.
One guy, two gals. Visually: warrior, archer, thief. The thief's outfit was plenty skimpy, low fabric—prime modeling ref. Straight rip and use.
The leader-looking guy stepped up: handsome youth with a slick 2:8 part sweeping his hair back. Fox-like eyes, even a teardrop mole—something about him just... sleazy.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Rowillen, Rank 2 adventurer. Looking forward to adventuring together."
"Likewise. Tear-Mole Twink."
"...Is this guy picking a fight with me right now?"
"He's got some brain quirks. Bear with it."
Face-Scar Senior jumped in as shield.
His face twisted in rage at "Tear-Mole Twink"—thank goodness, looked like the type who liked girls.