The Magic Scholar

"You mean a boy who uses magic?"

"That's right."

Benjamin had come straight to the front of the camp and called Dorothy out, and what left his mouth was a request for help finding a certain boy. The explanation that followed, borne along on his great booming laugh, came down to roughly this: he had found a genius; he wanted the boy; he needed her help. And then he looked at her, utterly sure of himself.

"......"

She nearly let a curse slip before she knew it, but she mastered her expression at once. There was nothing new in it. The moment Benjamin caught so much as a shard of genius in any young man, that youth became his target, and such eccentricities of his were all too familiar. Why else had they taken to calling him the genius collector?

"What sort of person is he?"

"A boy of fourteen to sixteen or so. Gray hair. A beggar, most likely, or an orphan. That kind."

"Not his particulars. His genius."

"Ah. That."

Benjamin answered with complete confidence.

"I saw him cast Type 1 Magic, Disc. Mm. He was good at it. He even shifted the angle as he went—front, back, left, and right."

"You know it as well as I do. Magic isn't doodling. It needs theory, axioms, necessity."

"A sphere must be a sphere. A disc, a disc. Building ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the necessity by which mana is compelled to take that form—that is the first step of magic."

"That is why the study of magic is a science of principle."

"Magic is born holding theory and imagination side by side, so imagination alone has its limits, and theory alone grows excessively stiff."

"But that boy made the two coexist. Self-taught, I'd wager."

"It belongs to talent and instinct. Not the sort of thing you manage by stacking degrees into a tower."

Dorothy found herself asking before she could stop. So that meant—?

"Suppose I taught him myself."

"That boy could picture the plans for a five-story building."

"So help me find him. Helping me privately would be fine enough, but if the army were to move..."

I opened my eyes.

A nightmare I had dreamed more times than I could count. I no longer shed tears, but the cold sweat still ran over my whole body, for however false every part of the dream might be, its sense of reality was extraordinary.

The face of the man called Father was always blurred. Of course it was. I had been an orphan with no one in the world from the day I was born, and the dream itself was nothing more than a cunning patchwork of the last few years.

I had always been alone. A wretch like me.

When my head was still swimming, washing my face was the surest medicine. I blinked and pushed myself up.

"Not yet."

Someone shoved me, and I dropped back onto the bedding with a thud.

"Huh?"

"Your wounds haven't fully healed. You have to keep lying down."

A voice that was somehow familiar. Rough hands. Every detail jolted my mind awake. Danger.

The old bounty hunter was looking down at me.

I bolted upright and shouted.

"Y-you—you went and kidnapped me after all. You wanted that bounty so badly, did you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't play innocent. Bounty hunter."

"Hoh. That's a title I rather like, actually."

The old man lifted his arm and pressed his thumb hard into my forehead.

Weakness already ruled my whole body. I had no chance to resist before I toppled backward, and so I lay on the sickbed once more.

The old man clicked his tongue.

"A sick man doesn't go thrashing about."

"......"

"I'm no bounty hunter, so you can rest easy. Let's introduce ourselves. What's your name?"

"...Isn't it proper to give your own name first?"

"Well brought up, aren't you."

The old man snorted a laugh.

The answer did not come back at once. Strictly speaking, it did not come back as language at all. He thrust a book in front of my eyes.

"Here. Your book of magic."

"Give it back!"

No wonder my chest had felt so empty. Whether I shouted or not, the old man went on holding the book in my face.

"I hear you. Before that, read the writing at the lower right of the cover. It's the author's name."

"I can't read that writing."

"Don't lie."

"I mean it."

At once the old man's face grew grave. I could not begin to guess why.

"This goes beyond what I expected... You didn't even read the explanations. You mastered the Ochelimet Transformation from nothing but my scribbles?"

"What? Don't mutter things only you understand."

"No. Never mind."

He shook his head, then set the magic book squarely on my chest. A low, rumbling chuckle escaped him.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Benjamin Oslo. The quack magic scholar who wrote this book."

I had to doubt my own ears.

"Is that true?"

"Spent your whole life being taken in, have you?"

I had. But judging by the way he spoke, he seemed to mean it. Half dazed, I opened my mouth.

"...Eugene."

"Right. Eugene. Good to meet you."

The old man seized my hand by force and shook it wildly in the name of a handshake. Only then did I understand.

"Ghhk—"

The wound near my shoulder was far worse than I had thought.

"Become my disciple."

"I refuse."

It took two days before I could rise from the sickbed. By then I had a fair sense of the place: a two-story house where the old man, Benjamin, lived alone with his daughter.

The moment I learned that the daughter, Dorothy Oslo, was an officer of the Federal Army, I seriously considered smashing a window and running. But when I heard that she was the one who had nursed me while I was unconscious, I let the thought of flight go. More than anything, it was Dorothy who set food in front of me at every meal without fail. She seemed to know how to win a person over far better than the eccentric old man Benjamin did.

And now, two days on, I bowed a full ninety degrees in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thanks and meant to leave the house.

But.

"Become your disciple—what is that supposed to mean?"

I was caught right in front of the door. The old man blocked it with his own body, arms folded.

"I saw you use magic. All of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it."

"...Is this a threat? You said you weren't a bounty hunter."

"No."

"Then what is it?"

"You were good. At magic."

"Ha."

A ridiculous sound escaped me out of sheer disbelief. I protested in earnest.

"If you really are the author of this book, and a mage of any standing, I would accept that offer with gratitude. But I still don't trust you."

In the end, what Benjamin amounted to was an eccentric old man with a Federal Army officer for a daughter. Even now I could not shake the thought that all of this was a trap.

Above all else—

"Someday I'm going to the Federation."

"To Frauvia?"

"Yes. I'll study there myself. That's my dream, and I'm saving the passage money for it. I can't waste my time living as your disciple, or whatever you want to call it."

"Passage money."

The old man sighed.

"Eugene. You don't mean eighty pounds, do you?"

"...I do."

"......"

Benjamin was silent for a while, then went on, slowly.

"You won't be able to board on that. They only take citizens of the Frauvia Federation."

I already knew as much. I shot back, sure of myself.

"I heard the Eddington takes imperials too. That's the one I mean to board."

Benjamin's expression did not change by so much as a speck. If anything, it grew graver.

"A free-trade permit issued before the war. An identification paper stamped with the seal of a military officer of colonel rank or higher, a university professor, or a high official of the Federation. Or else a sum of money large enough to make even the illustrious Sir James Eddington blink. If you have even one of those, then you're right."

"......"

"If not, listen to me. Sir Eddington is merely generous to free-trade merchants. There are plenty of ships that won't allow even that."

The rumor must have been twisted somewhere along the way. The old man shook his head, a low sound of dismay escaping him.

Is it the truth?

"I don't lie."

As if he had seen straight through my thoughts, Benjamin added that. It did not help much. I could already feel, from the way he spoke, that the words were true.

The strength drained clean out of my arms.

Five years.

Five years.

For five years I had saved with desperate, grinding stubbornness, and for one purpose only: to scrape together the fare to Frauvia. How many days had I gone hungry? How much had I suffered? How many beatings had I taken? And still—how full of hope those days had been.

"......"

All of it, for nothing.

I sank slowly to the floor. The dream I had held together for five years was beginning to crumble. How could the world be so pitiless? It was just as one corner of my heart was about to give way.

"What a sorry sight."

"...!"

"Were you listening with your ass?"

Kahahaha—Benjamin laughed, great and hearty, and jabbed a thumb at himself.

"I, Benjamin Oslo—former chair professor, disgracefully booted from the university of magic, a theoretical magic scholar long past his prime."

Then he stretched out his arm and pointed at me.

"Already told you, didn't I? That I'd take you, Eugene, a beggar of no account, as my disciple and teach you magic."

"......"

"Don't sit down just because you can't board one measly ship. You weren't planning to live your whole life on the floor, were you?"

Benjamin took hold of both my shoulders and hauled me up. He was so strong he set me on my feet in a single motion.

"Skin and bones. How old are you?"

"Sixteen..."

No. My being so light must have done half the work. I parted my lips with care.

"Will you... truly teach me?"

"So you finally believe me. Quick about it, too."

Benjamin tapped my shoulder—the one without the wound.

"You have talent. No question about it."

"...!"

"But you're still nothing more than raw stone. I'll cut and polish you until you're a jewel the people of the Federation themselves won't dare look down on."

A strange light turned in the old man's eyes.

"I'll ask you one last time."

That was heat. An enormous heat of will that, even past sixty, had not yet burned itself out. The fierce flame seemed to take his gaze for a fuse, catch, and leap across to me.

Benjamin held out his hand.