The Mage Who Runs Through Time
The Seira that Shiron remembered had been, without question, a figure of lofty brilliance.
Those luminous violet eyes had seen through every form of magic, and her porcelain-white skin and ash-grey hair called not so much for the word beautiful as for the loftier epithet of noble.
Had it been mere beauty, he would never have attached that word to her.
After five hundred years of watching the world from above, the image of a sage had fit her perfectly, hadn’t it?
Shiron stroked his chin, then furrowed his brow.
“Hwaaaang. Kheung… heuuuung. Heong.”
A mage who knew ten thousand spells, cold and proud and solitary, still mourning the comrades who had already turned their backs on the world.
“Kheuheung… heuuuung. Heoeoeoeong.”
True to her race—the elves, that noble and beautiful people—every gesture of hers had been elegant and refined, yet she never turned away from the plight of the weak, human or demon alike: a living legend, a hero.
“Kheung! Cough-cough, khehk!”
That was Seira, the Forgotten Mage.
“Haah…”
Unable even to raise his voice in anger, Shiron scrubbed his face dry with both hands. What in the world was this situation supposed to be?
Why are you coming out here?
Confusion, shock, rage, fluster, fluster, fluster. Irritation.
What the hell is this? Is someone messing with me right now? Huh? You’re telling me the one who pulled that shit on Ciriel was Seira?
Half hoping the absurdity might still be a dream, Shiron bit down on his tongue.
It hurt. This was no dream.
He looked at the pitiful woman before him—a woman who possessed not so much as a speck of dignity. The human who had been playing at slavery moments earlier was gone; in her place sat an elf covered in dirt, bawling her eyes out.
How deep must the resentment of someone who had lived so long have run, for her to weep so wretchedly…
At first he had considered a dream-devouring incubus or a witch who beguiled people while operating in secret. Incubi inflicted status effects that were hell to shake—confusion or mental domination—and witches needed no explanation at all.
No wonder holy power didn’t even make her blink.
Even as he recoiled from facing the reality in front of him, Shiron felt the pieces of a puzzle that had refused to fit slowly click into place.
That aside…
“Tch…”
He folded his arms and ran his tongue over dry lips. The taste was bitter.
The twenty-seven million shillings he had gladly invested to raise her affection had become so much scrap paper… that was secondary. What Seira had just endured was more than enough for her to hold a grudge against him a hundred times over.
The affection-raising project was ruined. Completely, spectacularly ruined.
“Hic. Heuuk. Keuk. Keueuk.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Shiron’s face crumpled. The one who wanted to cry right now wasn’t Seira—it was him.
Fuck. This is so goddamn unfair. If you look at it closely, isn’t this bastard’s own fault? If she’d just been begging on the street like a normal person, huh? Kind Ciriel would’ve picked her up like a stray cat.
No—why the hell did she even cosplay as a slave in the first place? Don’t tell me this bastard’s a masochist or something?
“……Wait.”
In that instant, Shiron’s mind snapped sharp and clear.
Masochist.
It was an element the game had never shown, but if Seira possessed a twisted disposition with masochistic leanings, everything suddenly lined up more or less.
Choosing to enter as a slave instead of a gentler method, deliberately claiming the lowest possible status for herself—it all fit. And hadn’t she never once worn a compliant smile even under Shiron’s relentless harassment?
Maybe it isn’t completely fucked yet.
A winding path appeared before Shiron’s eyes.
He still couldn’t tell exactly what that path was, but at this point there was no time to quibble over long or short.
Since things had come to this, a bold gamble was necessary. His resolve hardened.
The corners of Shiron’s mouth lifted high as he seized Seira by the chin. Not so tight as to crush, not so gentle as to soothe—just the right amount of force. Teary amethyst eyes met his black ones.
“Hey, slave.”
“……Hic?”
Seira’s eyes flew wide.
“Become mine.”
“…”
“Mm. Become my bitch. Wench.”
“……Wh-what? What are you even saying?”
“There are things that shine all the brighter precisely because they cannot be held. You are that wench.”
“…”
“Why no answer? If you understood, don’t keep me waiting any longer.”
“…Y-you. You.”
Seira narrowed her eyes and trembled. She could not comprehend what this insane little brat was spouting.
The greatest mage of all.
The foremost mage of past and present.
Seira Romere—hero who had slain the Evil God as a companion of the legendary hero—was being toyed with by a powerless human child.
Her tear ducts, which she had thought already spent, burst open once more.
“Why—why are you doing this to me?!”
She practically screamed the words.
“…D-do I deserve this treatment?! Did I do something wrong?! Did I?! I’m Seira Romere! I can’t live like this! Just kill me! K-kill me!”
“…Hmm.”
So that wasn’t it?
“Young Master.”
At that moment Yuma, who had been standing at Shiron’s side, spoke.
“It has grown late. Perhaps you might take your meal now. The sun is beginning to set.”
“Ah. Shall I.”
Shiron lifted his gaze toward the west. The sky was staining red as night approached. He was hungry, and his head ached.
I need to cool my head a little. Mine and this one’s both.
He turned toward Yuma. He had grown tall enough that looking up at her—tall for a woman—no longer strained his neck.
“All right. I’ll leave the cleanup to you.”
“Yes.”
Yuma watched the boy’s retreating back as he entered Dawn Castle.
Her eyes were those of a parent gazing upon a child who had left home, become a Tower Master, and returned. The gaze burned fiercely yet somehow warmly; it felt so humanly maternal that one almost forgot the horn growing from her head.
Seira found that expression on Yuma so alien that a chill ran down her spine.
“Emma. Raynor. Flora. Move the intruder to the dungeon.”
And yet, true to form, the look Yuma cast down upon Seira was cold as ice.
The main hall of Dawn Castle.
While Shiron had been away, the chandeliers that had remained cold and dark were now lit. Everyone except those on watch duty had gathered in one place to celebrate his return.
“So in the end, you used Ophelia’s ability.”
“That’s right.”
Shiron answered while tearing into a well-roasted deer leg. Seasoned with nothing but salt and a touch of spice, the meat still carried a wild, gamey richness that had yet to fade.
He found himself reflecting that the food at Hugo’s mansion had been far more refined, but this was no time for such distinctions. Because of Seira he had skipped lunch entirely and come straight here. Eating without complaint was only natural.
“Then Ophelia is…”
“Probably collapsed in the mansion training hall. Lucia and Ciriel were watching, so those good kids wouldn’t just leave her lying on a cold floor.”
“That is a relief, then.”
The one-horned Yuma offered Shiron a gentle smile. Inwardly, however, she was far from purely glad.
Young Master…
Worry began to fill Yuma’s mind.
The silver-haired elf had been several levels above any mage Yuma had encountered in her entire life.
How many years has it been since we last committed the full strength of Dawn Castle?
They had subdued her easily enough by deploying the castle’s forces, yet the mere fact that a mage—not even a swordsman—had lasted that long was a miracle. Moreover, the elf had not even fought at full power.
Mages were meant to rain artillery from the rear of a battlefield. In the chaos of close combat they could neither chant nor maintain concentration.
Yet that elf had seemed quite familiar with melee, and the magic layered over her body had been of remarkably high caliber.
Her stature was so far removed from the present age that it recalled the turbulent era of five hundred years past.
Where in the world has such a being been hiding? And how did the Young Master come to encounter someone like that?
Even so, Yuma felt her chest swell. The Young Master had refused to abandon Ophelia even when his life was in danger. He might be tearing into meat with that indifferent air, but he truly had been born with a hero’s qualities. Watching Shiron, who remained human yet treated even a mere demon as family, Yuma felt pure delight.
“Young Master, may I ask one thing?”
Still, what needed to be addressed had to be addressed.
“Hm?”
“Regarding the disposition of that woman. Do you intend to keep her imprisoned in the dungeon?”
“Ah.”
“And as for her identity—she strikes me as an exceedingly dangerous individual. I find myself, though it is impudent, wondering why you did not kill her at once. If you would be so kind as to tell me the reason…”
Yuma was confused. Shiron’s manner toward the elf had been a little mischievous, yet it was not the manner of one facing an enemy. To treat so softly someone who had threatened his life ran completely counter to the temperament of the Shiron she knew.
“……No reason I can’t tell you.”
Shiron sucked the sauce from his fingers with loud smacks and reached for a napkin. The gazes of every maid packing the hall focused on him.
“That elf. She was a companion of the hero five hundred years ago.”
“…Pardon?”
“A companion of the hero from five hundred years ago has, five hundred years later, met the hero of the present age.”
Shiron rose abruptly from his seat.
“Pretty romantic, isn’t it? The woman fated to become my companion—that’s exactly what that bitch is.”
“A companion of the hero…? But that woman… she seemed to harbor clear hostility toward you, Young Master. How on earth do you plan to win her over?”
“Just watch.”
Shiron drained his lemonade in one go and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“She’ll like me more tomorrow than she does today.”
There was no affection left to fall any further, after all. The boy did not touch his food again.