Echoes of the Past
The child kept his eyes glued to the letter, as if staring at something beyond it. Maness shifted his gaze from the half-tranced boy to the letter itself. Not ordinary paper, but parchment suited for mages, inscribed with printed text. A subtle flow of mana pulsed through the provocative words that opened it.
[The Empire is preaching lies.]
Maness's brow furrowed. This dated back over a decade, to a time under Emperor Ropelt XI's protection, much like now. Peace had endured, breeding some corruption compared to earlier days, but not enough to spark such talk among mages.
Curiosity piqued, Maness scanned ahead quickly—but to no avail. The following lines were deliberately smeared, their original form unrecognizable. Two possibilities: some trick embedded in the letter itself, or the wisp failing to manifest it fully. Maness leaned toward the latter. If the letter held a trap, the boy beside him wouldn't wear that expression.
"Hm?"
As his thoughts drifted back to the boy, Maness sensed something off. Vitality flickered in the child's previously vacant eyes. And those eyes were fixed on him.
The past Maness gazed into the present. Then, in a low murmur, he spoke.
"I understand."
"...Understand?"
That was the trigger.
A storm erupted in the silent room. Not wind, but something akin to it, coiling around Maness, twisting reality. Everything in his vision stood firm in place—yet wasn't. A sensation like alcohol poured straight into his brain. Clinging to the fraying thread of reason, Maness caught a faint voice from beyond.
—Teacher!
A familiar voice, cracked and distorted, defying recognition.
Forcing his head toward it, Maness witnessed the surge: turbulent flows of immense power. At its calm center stood a man, serene as the eye of a typhoon.
—Teacher!
A young man cried out toward him, voice thick with sorrow, rage, affection—and emotions far deeper.
—Let go! Let him go! Teacher's still in there…!
The youth's form couldn't advance against the gale. No matter his struggles, he drifted farther from the one he called desperately.
A voice of resignation comforted him.
—Live a life beyond what I taught you, foolish disciple.
It ended. The power swept everything away. The youth was dragged off. The antique room warped. The glimpse of the child's understanding faded.
"Hah… hah…."
Snapping back from the abrupt ordeal, Maness gasped raggedly. Hardly a pleasant experience; rest felt desperately needed.
—Maness.
The familiar name snapped his head around as he slumped, panting. But it wasn't for him. The figure resembled the man he'd glimpsed in the opposite room earlier—likely the head of Pictri Trading Company. He knelt before the child.
—This letter….
The man carefully took the letter from the boy's hand, read it, and folded it neatly. Resignation colored every motion.
—Your father thought he understood humans perfectly.
He sat beside the boy.
—That's why he built the company—and succeeded spectacularly, as if to prove it. But now… was it arrogance?
The man bowed his head. Not crying, but Maness dared not probe deeper. The rippling form conveyed pain enough.
—I can't understand it, Maness. Any of this.
The eyes that had sought his father dropped to the floor. Tracing the carpet pattern? The wax drips? Or pondering something formless?
"Can you understand it?"
The child's young voice turned to Maness again. Those blue eyes lifted, piercing his future self. Maness strove to meet the boy's face calmly. The space had transcended what a mere wisp could conjure. In this uncontrollable chaos, acceptance was all he could do.
"Understanding means you can't escape it."
The facing eyes blinked. No melting world this time—just a blink. Moonlight shattered through the window. Dank attic air. Desk, chair, bed, lantern. In Snowrobe's dormitory—now like home—another self held his breath.
—You can't stay here.
Maness Pictri, backlit by moonlight, cradled his head in anguish. Across from him, a firm voice pressed.
—Leave as naturally as possible. Erase yourself from Snowrobe, from the magic world.
His eyes snapped open at the commanding tone—filled with resolve. Maness struggled to accept this other self's aura. No wastrel here; noble fit perfectly. The ideal deputy head of the company.
"I understood. And I turned away."
His hands dropped. Maness faced him—a mirror of himself, unmarred.
"Now it's up to you."
The final words blurred: Maness? His old name? Or just "myself"? All that mattered: every vision through the wisp was Maness Pictri's tale. Acknowledging the listener's presence. A gift for the aftermath.
"...Ridiculous."
With that, the world collapsed. Everything forming the space crumbled, leaving nothing. Beyond: a single yellow orb, gleaming ethereally.
"Dumping words and vanishing. Some thanks."
Still, gains aplenty. Fragments, yes—too scattered for the full picture yet.
"No tears shed, so hurry up and spit me out."
Snapping irritably at the wisp shook off the past's echoes.
*
The familiar scent—tea leaves and sweet desserts—filled his nose again. The first-year dormitory hall. Opening his eyes, Maness faced the unchanged scene.
First instinct: touch his face. For tear tracks, perhaps. Uncontrollable sobbing or mad laughter would earn annoying rumors. Fortunately, his skin was smooth as ever.
"Well done."
Metaph approached, clapping in welcome. Students encircling them stirred, regaining senses—exhausted from emotional release. Iris alone had recovered, shooting him a pouty glare.
"Didn't expect such a clean resolution. I hoped for more varied reactions, to be honest."
"...The wisp?"
"Right there, isn't it?"
His finger pointed above Maness's head. Looking up revealed a soft, non-blinding glow hovering close.
"It enjoyed itself enough to come quietly. Simple creature—feed its desire, and it's done."
Metaph waved at the air; the wisp circled narrowly and settled between them. Impassive, intentless essence of magic—yet something inexplicable emanated.
"Less 'desire fulfilled' and more…."
A subtle pride, satisfaction—like one achieving life's purpose. Unthinkable for an ordinary wisp.
"Problem?"
"No, nothing."
Likely imagination. Aftereffects from the visions. But too vivid to dismiss. Enough to question how this wisp reached the first-year dorm.
"Solved brilliantly—time for rewards."
Another wave sent the wisp flying to the dormitory entrance. Almond caught it midair, yawning as she departed—throwing Maness a meaningful glance amid the wastrels.
"No need for rewards. I got mine."
"Hm, gaining insight from your past. Quite poetic. But that's why I came here."
"Pardon?"
Metaph's face lit up at the pivot.
"I'm on duty starting today."
"And that concerns me how…."
"Evenings free, so—want help with magic practice?"
Maness's face crumpled further at "magic practice."
"You're on duty—how's time free?"
"Normally, Almond drags me to the shopping district for forced drinks."
That explained it—the mystery dominating Maness lately. Almond's daily fatigue: hangover!
"I thought professors respect students' time outside class…."
"What a harsh thing to say. I'm just suggesting."
"Ah, suggesting."
"Meet at the field from last class, then."
With that, Metaph vanished in a blink. Maness wondered at spatial magic—but no, impossible. Illusion trick, senses fooled. Textbook for an illusion mage.
No refusal accepted. Sighing at lost rest, Maness dragged his weary body out—only then noticing the crowd still clogging the entrance.
Sensing him, whispers spread.
Maness inhaled, exhaled softly. Their doubts stemmed from his lack of reaction—because it wasn't his past. Someone else's. He lacked the sensitivity to be overwhelmed by an incomplete tale.
But explanations weren't his style—nor Maness Pictri's. One line sufficed here.
"Creepily huddling like this—scram already?"
The most effective, wise approach.
*
"You seem overly excited."
"Do I? Sorry, hands are itchy."
The man steadied his wildly spinning dagger and sheathed it. The razor edge gleamed in the moonlight.
"Glad the higher-ups see potential in me. First mission: storm the mages' lair and take heads!"
Snowrobe's outer walls loomed high. But such defenses posed no issue.
"Long time, Snowrobe."
Pulling off his hood revealed silver hair flung back forcefully. Beneath: eyes like those of the supposedly exterminated demonkin. Predator eyeing prey.
"Alone, it'd be tough—thanks to you, less work."
"Beyond tough—impossible."
"Hey, harsh joke. This wall? Climb in seconds if I want!"
"...Sure."
"Don't underestimate me! I'm a full Night Raven now!"
Night Raven. The continent's most secretive group. Even the Magic Tower had half-abandoned pursuit—a half-magical assassin order.
"Advice: don't utter that name aloud."
"Got it."
"Not that it matters now."
The silver-haired man halted, hand to the wall. Hidden runes glowed, revealing a passage wide for one adult.
"Just as I left it."
"Straight in?"
"Why hesitate at a place like home?"
The predator slipped inside without pause. A path intimately familiar. Snowrobe's alumnus entered the secret passage he'd built with classmates.