Chapter 43
Chapter 43
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 43
Chapter Title: Trivial Suspicion
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Blood ties are something you're born with.
With every beat of the heart, flowing through the blood across your entire body, embedded in every single cell that makes up your form—kinship clings like a brand. We call it "resembling each other."
The man out there picking stones from the potato field... he resembles me.
For starters, you could spot the common features in our facial structure. The shape of the nose bridge, the eyebrows, that sharp jawline closer to delicate than rugged. The neat teeth revealed with a sigh.
Then there was the dry, frizzy black hair. The veins bulging with a sigh, the somewhat pale skin tone, the prominent second knuckle on the index finger, and such.
Differences?
Those murky yellow eyes that reeked of grime. The grime stuck in them, anchored to the past instead of aspiring to the future. The sporadic flashes of irritation and pain. The wrinkles marking the years, and...
"Can I ask you something?"
"Oh, you're a mage, aren't you... Different one this time. Here to take them again? They're not ready yet."
His drawn-out speech carried a gritty rasp, like chewing sand. I'd heard something similar before. From a college senior asking me to stand surety for him.
It meant something felt off.
I narrowed my eyes at my father's bowed head as he groveled before me. He didn't recognize me.
An inexplicable impulse stabbed at my mind like a fresh wound. The urge to resent him, to lash out—it felt strangely novel. Even if memories faded, emotions lingered, it seemed.
For the first time in ages, I felt my blood cooling. Like turning into a cold-blooded creature. Chest icy, head burning.
Let's sort this out.
1) I harbor resentment toward my father.
2) He doesn't recognize me.
3) He hands something over to mages on a regular basis.
I picked my words carefully in my head. I couldn't lash out on unknown emotions alone. I wanted the full story. Objective: extract information from Father. Time to start role-playing.
The basics: assume the demeanor others expect of me.
Grovelling posture <= Father seems clearly lower-status than a "client."
Better to speak in a condescending tone.
Not ready yet <= An excuse. He wants to dodge blame for his own failings.
Fine, let him dodge.
"No intentions of holding you accountable. Just checking how things are running these days."
"Ah, I see... Um, how's that going? You said it was tough last time."
Different one this time <= Father clocked me as someone other than the "previous visitor." Asking outright if "that" is going well? Sloppy suspicion.
Physical tells were visible too. His eyes darted slyly. Guessing here, but he seemed suspicious of my "leniency" in turn. His "clients" must generally be bad-tempered sorts.
Better to act pricklier.
"Whatever you heard from the last guy, it's none of your business. Do I look like I owe you a full report?"
"Oh no, of course not... Absolutely not."
This is the countryside. Barely scraping by with potato farming. What "takeaway" goods could there be here worth hauling off? Not potatoes. He wasn't the type to joke about "taking the potato seeds" with any real attachment to the farm.
What group would every member be assumed to have a nasty personality? That was a pretty solid hint.
For that matter, why mistake me for a "client" on sight? There had to be some clear marker letting him jump to it so confidently. On me.
I tensed my throat a bit.
"Asking again. How are things running these days?"
"Goblin village popped up nearby—that's the headache. Those damn runts stir up trouble, and as you'd know, production drops, right?"
Father was testing the waters subtly, but I'd gathered enough clues. Time to present the answer.
Might involve a logical leap.
But even if my guess was wrong, it was fine.
Because steadily, behind my back, I was preparing illusion magic. If it went south, I'd just cast it. So I could afford a rough tongue.
I recalled Pinkvales' words first—known her only briefly from the carriage ride, but we'd gotten fairly close. At the village entrance, she'd said it was weird.
No natural reaction to strangers entering the village.
I'd figured it was because they'd hired mercenaries for the goblin nest... but maybe not. Let's think step by step.
The mercenaries were loafing at the chief's house. If the village had money, they'd have hired more to replace the deadbeats and clear the goblins.
They hadn't. Per the Crimson Tower mage, the mercs had been around a while. No funds to chase them off, so they just lived with it. In short: only one recent outsider visit to the village.
"Simplest read: outsiders have been coming regularly lately. High chance a mage is among them."
No mages with the mercs to begin with. Crimson Tower mage said it had been ages since her last visit. So why no interest in me or Pinkvales from the villagers?
Because they were used to it.
Why Father mistook me for a "client."
Used to it. The outfit.
Distinctive attire.
The Violet Magic Tower hood was familiar.
So, what were they trading?
Last flashback for the reveal. My earliest memory: entering the Violet Magic Tower. How had I recalled it then?
Reborn as a commoner in a fantasy world.
Cried out for a status screen—nothing.
Not strong, not highborn, so figured I'd end my days potato-farming with my parents. But surprisingly, I had archmage talent.
Made sense why I was good at mental math.
Dragged off to some Magic Tower, showered with love calls from the Tower Masters.
...Dragged off.
I tossed it at Father casually.
"Remember your son? The one you sold off ten years ago?"
"Ah, that nasty little brat. Talking back even when adults spoke..."
"I see."
That was enough.
I unleashed the prepared illusion magic. Father lost consciousness and toppled. After a nap, he'll probably mix up left and right a lot. Fifty percent chance.
"See ya!"
"No need for a reunion?!"
I parted ways with the Crimson Tower mage simply.
On the way back, I grumbled.
"So, yeah... Obvious without seeing it. That's why I was gonna drop the memory hunt."
"I see."
"But need to think more. I get Father sold his kid—that was me, ten years back. Maybe the whole village got a taste for human trafficking. But his tone suggests dealings up to recently. Right?"
"Yes. Villagers wouldn't act so casual if it was just one visit ten years ago. Recent trades are probably certain."
"......"
"Suspicious?"
"One or the other."
1. Someone from Violet Magic Tower—or an imposter—has been steadily supplied people. Yuna doesn't know about the hidden villain in Violet Tower yet.
2. I know nothing about Violet Magic Tower.
Silly question, I knew, but couldn't hold back from asking.
"Which do you think? Pinkvales."
"Pick 2 and you'll bawl your eyes out?"
"I'd laugh."
"No reason to lie then. I think 1."
"Why."
"Anyone not a total idiot pushover would've spotted that look in her eyes. Violet Tower Master was dripping honey staring at you."
"?"
"...Total idiot pushover."
A butterfly alighted in a remote forest.
The pack of worthless mercenaries had planned to jump the arrogant mage, have their fun, then slip away from the village.
They were checking gear, setting up an ambush in a suitable thicket, when they spotted the butterfly.
Up close, it was a person.
A large conical hat pulled low hid the face. Golden twin tails tied to the side swayed gently. She clutched a spiraled staff tight to her chest.
"Boss, that..."
The youngest mercenary pointed to the forest edge. The others turned, eyeing the small, frail-looking mage.
"Lost missy, huh? We're ditching the area anyway—might as well grab one more, right?"
"Yeah, botched eating a whole village. Honestly, two's too few. Hey? Tits look decent."
"Your eyes going bad? Doesn't look like there's much meat on her... Face is pretty, though."
"No, guys, what are you saying...? That thing over there, no matter how you look, it ain't human...?!"
The staff quietly aimed. All but one mercenary felt no danger. The Violet Magic Tower Master murmured softly, like a sigh.
"D-Didn't want to get his hands bloody. Uh, ugh. It'll get worse."
"...What're you muttering?"
"So, these folks... from here on, uh, never existed."
"B-Bosses, run—!"
Light flashed from the staff tip. The youngest mercenary flinched, clutching his head and crumpling—which saved him from a direct hit. The beam merely grazed his hands.
A brief silence.
When he looked up, his fellow mercenaries stood frozen, unblinking. No breathing. Expressions unchanged. Eyes unfocused. Closer inspection: they seemed already dead.
The survivor thrashed in terror, fumbling to draw his sword. But lacking a "hand," he couldn't. A sword requires gripping the "hilt" by moving the arm.
"......Huh?"
Something felt missing, like it should be there but wasn't.
Human arms should end in "hands." Or maybe they never did. So how was he supposed to draw the sword? Racking his wits, he wedged the sword "hilt" on his elbow. Inexplicable terror shook him. Something was wrong.
The mage spoke softly.
"Y-You're... small, but resilient. If you'd come to Violet Magic Tower, ah, if you did really well... might've reached Eclosion. Just a Rank-4 merc now, though..."
"U-Ugh... Aaaah—!!"
The scream cut off midway. The mage's beam grazed his lower jaw. No "mouth" to cry out, no "lungs" to breathe. Choking on absent oxygen, he clawed at his throat, writhing in agony.
"Shh."
One more flash, and he was nothing.
Mother Earth swallowed five masses of senseless organic matter. They'd exist without meaning until life's end, then rot and return to nature.
It happened in some forest.