Finale. Curtain Call.
Finale. Curtain Call.
'What...?'
Amid the pure white, van--ishing Silk Sword, a single blue thread suddenly caught Ela's eye.
A strand that grated.
A single strand of blue fallen upon pure white fur clothing—as conspicuous as it was insignificant.
But suddenly, that number multiplied.
Just as Ela had unfurled her Silk Sword, the blue threads proliferated rapidly and began to contend in midair.
Tangling together.
Plan's blue threads had begun to perfectly block Ela's razor-sharp white Silk Sword.
'...A sword?'
Impossible.
Not only had she never heard of a mage wielding a sword—the idea of utilizing a Silk Sword was even more unthinkable.
Yet now, Plan was clearly manipulating blue threads shaped into a Silk Sword.
Perhaps even faster and sharper than Ela's own.
"You insolent...!"
Utterly insolent.
If he had used magic to manifest the form of a Silk Sword, she could at least accept that much.
But what was utterly unforgivable.
Was the fact that Ela's pure white Silk Sword was being pushed back by blue threads.
'Why.'
Why on earth.
Cheonrajimang.
The art that had elevated the Four Siblings to their current standing, and the very technique that let Ela hold her place as the firstborn among them.
Each strand of the pure white Silk Sword was imbued with Ela's soul. How fervently she had devoted herself to making so many cower in terror and kneel before her.
The silk swords numbered one, two, reached into the hundreds. She had never once imagined being defeated, certainly not by a first-year, and a mage at that.
But.
The reality unfolding was bizarre.
As if Ela's white threads were nothing more than raw fabric, the blue threads nonchalantly embroidered themselves across them.
"This cannot be...."
Ela bit down hard on her lower lip.
The taste of welling blood was acrid.
It was a skill she had executed so flawlessly that even she was satisfied. So why could she not even crack the opponent's composure?
Bound, fixed in place, perfectly blocked, victory slipping further away.
"Why...."
The premise she had taken utterly for granted, never once questioned—that she would never lose to a mage—was now shattering before her eyes.
"Just why—!"
Ela gripped her sword anew.
This time she doubled the number of silk swords outright.
Meanwhile, Plan quietly focused on his manifestation.
He could not draw out countless threads considering his total mana reserves, but so long as even one was properly made, that was enough.
'Artificial Flowers and Real Flowers.'
An artificial flower is, after all, nothing more than decoration.
A pitiful imitation created by copying a living flower—a wretched thing meant only to satisfy the viewer's self-regard.
Many misunderstand magic as artifice.
Even mages sometimes think this way.
A sweet lie that makes miracles seem real. A power that is, at best, only that. Many think so, and it is the same everywhere.
But they are wrong.
The formula that schematizes imagination.
The circuit that translates it into a design.
The composition that makes the design into reality.
A vivid fragrance is contained in every part of that connected process.
A scent that imitations can never produce. The name of that scent is the very essence.
At the end of cooking lies a delicacy; at the end of refining, a masterwork sword is forged. At the end of craftsmanship, immortal art shall remain.
Humans call such things "close to a miracle."
Then is magic the same?
Is the discipline called magic also merely a field that approaches the realm of miracles only as it reaches its peak?
'No.'
That is precisely what is wrong.
When Plan reached that stage, the rank of Great Mage, Märchen, his realization had been brief.
Magic is not some fantasy that sweetly whispers lies. He knew that one truth in his bones.
Magic, and miracle.
These two words share the same meaning.
There is no need to imitate a miracle, no need to invoke a miracle, no need to strive to come close to a miracle.
"Magic."
...This phenomenon is, in and of itself, a miracle.
Fruit born of a heart that resolved to achieve the impossible. The essence of magic is to 'prove' that miracles are reality.
Splendor, wonder, elegance... all of these are nothing more than byproducts that magic naturally exudes.
Thus, do not fixate on the byproducts.
If one holds the essence, no matter how simple the magic, a profound fragrance will blanket the surroundings.
If one wields it without knowing the source, it can never be anything more than a well-polished imitation.
Just like Ela before his eyes.
No matter how flashy it grew, how strong it grew, he detected not the faintest fragrance that could be called the essence.
Plan suddenly glanced to the side.
He saw the representatives staring at him with dazed eyes.
'See it for yourselves.'
What would now be displayed was the essence of magic.
Those who can savor the fragrance of a Real Flower no longer seek Artificial Flowers. Likewise, if the Magic Department representatives sensed this essence, they too would stop their blind pursuit.
Even if they were bested by Inherent Abilities at this very moment, they would strive never to lose the essence.
Whether one's body changes, or even the world changes.
The essence of magic is an immutable element.
So long as this does not vanish, so long as there exists even a single mage who can witness it and be inspired.
Mages will not yield before any calamity, and magic will willingly become their tool.
He intended to teach the Four Siblings as well.
He would make them realize that the blessing they had gained overnight was in truth a curse—a mere shackle that had rendered them unable to focus solely on the sword.
Plan's threads splendidly handled Ela's Silk Sword. Soon, cross-stitch began to be embroidered upon the empty air.
One line. Two. Stretching endlessly.
What was soon drawn was a blue hexagram.
A power that does not dim, for it can never be overturned. A symbol of wisdom. Even within this simple figure, the essence of magic exists.
Becky, Trixie, and Louis came into Plan's view. Seeing them watch this spectacle blankly stirred an unnameable feeling within him.
'The path you must walk from now on.'
The rough gemstones that Plan had acknowledged.
Since they too were mages, it was a point they would have to reach someday.
"You...."
Ela's mouth fell open in admiration.
To admire an enemy—how foolish.
But even knowing that, she could not help but admire. It was irresistible. The sight unfolding before her bypassed understanding and struck her instincts directly.
Ela's closed eyes. The blackened field of view.
Where there had only been darkness, she now sensed every trajectory of the blue threads. Countless magic circles were embroidered in blue.
A geometry that exceeded hundreds in lines and circles alone—patterns, figures, motifs... utterly beyond comprehension. Things she could only vaguely register as beautiful.
Ela could not read formulas.
Even so, the sheer volume was enough to make her lose all bearings, a quantity she dared not even think of fathoming.
And yet, she could feel it.
That every point, line, circle—all that could be called myriad—was interlocking and operating like intricate cogwheels.
'Beautiful.'
She could not bring herself to speak that word aloud.
She simply, before she knew it, released the strength in her hands and admired the blue patterns drawn across the dark canvas.
In a situation that should have been desperate, she instead grew calm. It was as if she were being drawn into some unknowable place.
She could only admire.
She could only acknowledge.
'This... how am I supposed to....'
-You will lose if you are not careful.
Suddenly, Ivan's words replayed in her mind.
What had her Silk Sword lacked? In what direction should she walk to reach that level? What should she train to attain it, and where exactly had she first gone wrong...?
Countless questions bloomed forth, but she could not open her mouth to ask. Nor did Plan's threads ever offer her an answer.
They simply flowed gracefully, as if unfurling art.
As if intending to fill every single gap existing within Ela's Silk Sword, they dyed it blue.
And at last, the finale.
Snap-boom—!
All the threads were severed at once and launched into the air. Plan cast a single spark upon them.
The Fire Wolf immediately leaped up, chasing after it.
─Time elapsed. The 5th Stage concludes.
Curtain call.
A magnificent spectacle unfolded in midair.
The Fire Wolf, its body entirely sheathed in van--ishing threads as it belched flames, was itself a festival's sacred fire.
The Fire Wolf's body scattered like a mirage in the sky, and what remained was only a deeply settling Silence.
Within that stillness, the announcement continued.
─Tallying midterm scores for announcement.
─Magic Department, 300 points.
─Knight Department, 240 points.
The scores of the two departments, identical until now, began to diverge starting at the 5th Stage.
Plan murmured quietly.
"Is that pleasing. Ela."
The one now holding the advantage was not the Four Siblings, but the Magic Department.
─Considering the capabilities of both department representatives.
─The 10th Stage will begin in 5 minutes.
In that moment, as if time had stopped.
Ela could offer no answer at all.