The Veteran Demon Sorcerer, Walter Balzac
Heavy rain poured down in sheets.
It's really coming down, Walter thought, gazing at the downpour.
He'd anticipated the rain. After all, he'd once studied Hydrokinesis. Born the son of a wealthy noble, Walter had kicked away his cushy position out of sheer craving for magic and run off into the world.
At first glance, it sounded like the textbook case of a mage. But...
What had drawn Walter into the world wasn't pure curiosity—it was base desire. In magic, in the mysteries, he'd sensed immense power.
His master, Balzac... was none other than a Demon Sorcerer.
As a child, Walter had stumbled upon Balzac attempting to offer up a villager as a sacrifice. Balzac tried to kill the boy to silence him. But Walter's reaction wasn't quite what he'd expected.
"Y-You're... sacrificing a person?"
"And what if I am?"
"Whoa...! That's badass!"
"???"
Balzac stared at the kid, wondering if he'd hit peak chuunibyou. Who in their right mind would see a human sacrifice to a demon and think cool?
But Walter was dead serious. Balzac's demon sorcery had looked straight-up awesome to him.
He could've said something fatherly like, "Kid, demon sorcery is evil magic only the lowest scum can handle." But Balzac didn't. Instead, he started reeling in the innocent boy.
"Impressive, right? With this demon alone, you could wipe out anyone who pisses you off!"
"Even my stepmom?"
Balzac grinned, seeing potential. This one's got the makings.
"Of course!"
From that day, Walter served Balzac as his master. Balzac got himself a noble disciple; Walter learned wicked demon sorcery. And with it, he killed his stepmother.
Demon and magic—wielding those twin powers, Walter, still in his teens, could kill with horrifying ease. He was utterly enchanted by that strength. Knights? They couldn't even resist!
Yes! This is it! This is the power I wanted!
Enthralled by magic's might, he'd slain his annoying stepmom and her spawn. Sure, he had to offer up some peasants as payment... but Walter didn't care one bit.
What? A few farmers for magic? Hell, that's basically free!
Classic rotten noble—Walter didn't see commoners as human.
He ground through people without a second thought, raising his demon sorcery proficiency. Guilt? Nah. I'm the strongest—who's gonna call me out?
Even when his father caught him mid-ritual, Walter stayed cool. Nothing happened. His demon—fattened on sacrifices—wiped out the old man's knights.
Tch. Guess inheriting the title's off the table.
To claim a title, you needed a priest's record. But Walter was already a full-fledged demon sorcerer—no chatting with priests for him.
Leaving home, he wandered the Empire, seeking a place to crash. Tough luck, though. Even in a mage-friendly Empire, demon sorcerers got no love.
Get too chummy with one, and Solar Church priests flip out. And it's not just them—the Pope himself slaps you with excommunication!
Excommunication: not some special breathing technique to draw solar power, but a religious decree. "We no longer recognize you as one of our faithful."
Lose that, and no holy benefits—plus, everyone treats you like a heretic. In the Holy Empire, Solar Church HQ? Social death sentence.
No point hiring a demon sorcerer if excommunication tanks your rep.
Are all Empire folk idiots?! Walter fumed at the hostility. Demons were strong, useful—just feed 'em a few peasants, and they do your bidding! Not using them is the real stupidity!
Raised in luxury, he couldn't hack beggar life. He planned to settle somewhere quiet, research demon sorcery on the down-low.
But fate—or coincidence—threw him a lifeline: shady mages reaching out.
"Hello, sir! We're the Golden Rule Research Society!"
"Golden Rule what now?"
"Yes! Our society is purely merit-based. Produce results, and we promise massive support!"
Suspicious. Walter had never heard of them, and the timing was too perfect. But exhausted, he took the hand. At least they didn't persecute demon sorcerers.
I hate these crap jobs, Walter grimaced at the rain. On Society orders, he was collecting amberstones by the river.
Amberstone: versatile catalyst gem for magic circles. The more, the better—especially with war brewing between Duke Paragar and Duke Roxlan.
Stockpile now, burn in battle later.
"Uh... Master..."
As Walter zoned out, a hulking brute approached.
"What is it, Jooabil?"
Jooabil led the mercenary band Walter had subjugated. Over two meters tall, strong enough to uproot boulders barehanded—but brain-damaged from childhood fever, a tragic warrior.
Band "leader," but really a puppet. Shrewd underlings pulled strings—until Walter's demon cleaned house, claiming the band.
Now, Jooabil was his lackey.
"People... comin'."
"Sigh. You idiot. Didn't I say chase 'em off?"
Walter figured the dimwit botched simple orders. But...
"T-Tried... but..."
"But?"
"Guys said... not to..."
"???"
Walter tilted his head. Mercs refused? Note to self: investigate.
Jooabil was dumb, but the rest had average medieval smarts—full adults. He hadn't forgotten; it was impossible.
Noble, maybe?
Mercs had eyes; they could spot nobility. Big deal in this medieval fantasy world—kicked it to the boss.
"I'll check myself."
Walter rose, leaning on his staff. If noble, sweet-talk through. Nag too much? Kill and shut 'em up.
Top-tier demon sorcerer: no escaping his demons, whatever the foe.
Ian strode toward the bridge without hesitation.
"That's it."
Visible from afar: a sturdy stone bridge, epitome of Golden Empire paranoia—practical, unyielding. Swollen river raged, but the bridge stood firm.
After rickety medieval spans, ancient engineering hit different. Ancients made the best stuff!
"Ian. Weirdos guarding it, right?"
"Yeah. Definitely weirdos."
Ian spotted the slouched sentries. Super sus. No fortress nearby—just a bridge, yet mercenaries? Waste of coin.
"War nearby?"
Made sense for strategy. But too few troops, no officers.
Puzzled, Ian approached.
"Huh... wha?"
Mercs spotted him late—too busy yapping.
Not war, Ian judged. Zero tension.
"Who goes there!"
Real mercs, though. Voice screamed "I've threatened folks."
Simple.
"Mage. Ian."
"M-Mage?!"
Boom—panic. Ian pressed on.
"Heard you're blocking the only bridge, causing trouble. I wanna cross."
"..."
"No one to explain?"
Smooth delivery, piercing gaze. Mercs gulped.
Young punk ranting? Maybe. But Ian radiated something else. Years as a mage sharpened his vibe—speech, eyes screamed pro.
No instant curses.
"N-Not our call..."
"We'll fetch the boss!"
They bolted to the tent. Overkill? Nah—smart. Mercs read rooms like animals; weaklings vs. nobles hone that instinct.
Ian scanned camp while waiting.
That...?
Weird gear: stone crates, picks, chisels. Dig site vibes.
Not my business. Cross safe, done.
[Horrible...]
[Repulsive...]
...?
Whispers from the vegetal mystery tickled Ian's ear. Grasses, trees trembled. Soil, wind—even rain murmured unease.
Then, blood scent wafted.
Ian turned. Pale-faced man.
"Heard a VIP arrived. Who might you be?"
"..."
Eye-lock, seconds. Mutual soul-probe.
Both mages realized it simultaneously.
"What... are you?"
Walter yelled first.
"Chimera! Kill them!"
Monstrosity lunged—wolf-goat hybrid horror.
Ian invoked magic. Skill card in mind.
Unlike Arcana, skills triggered mentally—his unique magic enabled it.
"Freeze!"
⟨ Cryokinesis: Touch of Frost (Lv 2) ⟩
Envelop your hand in frost to rapidly freeze anything you touch. Prolonged contact may cause frostbite—use with caution!
Ian smashed the charging chimera with Touch of Frost. It froze solid, paralyzed, crashing down.
Walter glared coldly. Decent Cryokinetic...! But petty ice against demons?
"You... summon demons?"
Walter smirked at Ian's question.
"Heh. Bingo, Cryokinetic."