The Magic Tower Lord Arrives! (4)
The air in the auditorium quivered subtly.
Standing on the stage, Amelia Luminis scanned the students seated before her. But much of her gaze fixed on one in particular—a black-haired boy sitting slightly to the right of dead center. She didn't need to hear his name to know who he was. He had to be the boy her beloved disciple had spoken of: Aren.
So, he can sense this much power, huh.
The moment she'd entered the auditorium, she'd deliberately let a sliver of her strength leak out. A mere fraction, really—barely a drop from her full reservoir. If she'd unleashed even a fraction more seriously, the students would've collapsed like autumn leaves the instant she stepped in.
It was just a little test to gauge one man's potential.
And it had been quite successful.
Rare, indeed.
There existed an insurmountable wall between her—a transcendent being counted among the continent's elite—and these academy students. They were beings of entirely different dimensions. Even trying to measure her realm with half-baked skills was a fool's errand. Humans instinctively averted their eyes from unknown landscapes beyond their grasp. It was the brain's primal instinct, a desperate bid to protect its owner. Faced with an existence far exceeding tolerance, it simply refused to see, knowing it would shatter the mind.
But he felt it.
That man was different. He'd clearly seen her and gauged her. From Amelia's perspective, it was less than a ten-trillionth of her full power—a mere fragment others couldn't even face. Yet he'd shaken off his fear and stared straight at it before she even withdrew her aura.
For that alone, Amelia felt like awarding the boy a commendation.
He's got the chops to take my girl down.
A faint smile tugged at her lips unbidden as she began her lecture in earnest. She wanted to chat with him right away, but her official purpose here was the speech, after all.
"As the Magic Tower Lord, I often get this question from fellow mages: 'Tower Lord, what is magic?' A fundamental query. And every time, I answer..."
Even as she spoke, Amelia glanced at his face.
"...Pfft. Ah, sorry. Just a little hiccup."
Laughter bubbled up, and she covered with an excuse before pressing on. Who could blame her? The boy was yawning wide-mouthed through a lecture every mage dreamed of hearing once in their life.
To Amelia, it wasn't offensive—it was refreshingly amusing. Even renowned scholars and mages stared at her with tense, burdened eyes brimming with intensity.
"'Magic isn't merely the manifestation of power. It's the interaction between reality and consciousness. A balance of choices slots in between, bringing magic to life.'"
A bit abstract, like grasping at clouds. Even these first-years—prodigies who'd made it into the academy—mostly looked lost.
Amelia twirled her fingertip lightly. Threads of dark purple mana spilled from it, tangling and unspooling in a rhythmic dance.
"As magic novices, you've likely grasped the principles of binding and separation first. 'Every spell demands mana structured in a specific form; imperfection leads to failure. Trim the excess, add what's lacking.' The kind of dusty line that'd open any textbook."
She cleared her throat and continued.
"And this visualizes it. The most basic spell you all know: Wind."
Everyone gasped in unison. The cubic tangle hovering over her hand looked nothing like magic to anyone.
"That was Wind? Did you know?"
"No way anyone'd call that a spell. I thought it was just some mana phenomenon..."
"Same."
Amelia smiled, savoring the murmurs, then added, "Now, watch. I'll add a small mana clump to the center. Like this...?"
Whoosh—
A thin dark purple thread joined it, and the cubic mana cluster vanished in a faint ripple of wind.
The murmurs swelled. To them, magic was the phenomenon itself. They'd never seen—or even thought to visualize—its concrete formation process.
"As you saw, magic is a delicate art where even the tiniest misalignment dooms it to failure. But modern magic has evolved, letting you cast even with a rough grasp of the concept."
She frowned slightly, as if disappointed by the fact.
"Yet progress breeds regression. You've taken classes without knowing how magic forms concretely. Isn't it ironic?"
Magic class students especially looked sheepish at the pointed remark. He was right. Most here could wield magic well and use it aptly, but few delved into its scholarly depths or fundamental questions. Modern magic measured prowess by spell power and high-tier casts—not the essence Amelia called a true mage's duty.
Not wrong, but distant from her ideal.
"That's why today's lecture shares what I've uncovered about magic's roots over decades. Sleepy folks, go ahead and crash."
A boy promptly slumped forward; his neighbor yanked him back urgently. Rude before the Tower Lord herself, but Amelia burst out laughing again.
Her mind was already racing ahead, eager to talk to that guy more than the lecture itself.
Oh man, that was the best nap ever.
I'd felt eyes on me midway, kinda creepy, but the speaker herself said to sleep, so I went for it. Theo grabbed my arm trying to stop me—what could I do? Those Silence Followers or whatever had me tossing all night with worry.
Wiping yawn-tears from my eyes, I spotted a figure approaching with a pitiful look.
"Come with me."
It was Neriel.
Oh right. The Tower Lord wanted to chat with me. Almost forgot.
"Did you catch your master's lecture?"
"Every word. Meanwhile, you were busy snoring away?"
"Ahem..."
She'd seen. Awkward.
I averted my eyes; she sighed and glared.
"...Figures, all you ape-brain sword-swingers. Mages trek far for one glimpse of her wisdom, and you kick it away."
"What choice did I have? Not a word made sense."
"You don't even know the basics?"
"Hey, my mage buddy next to me barely got half!"
"Birds of a feather."
Damn, she never lets up. I itched to smack her, but I'd meet her master soon—no blemishes allowed. I'd hold off.
"Truly inspiring lecture, Lady Luminis. Thank you again for this precious time."
"No trouble. I planned to visit anyway, since my disciple studies here... Oh?"
We entered through a side door. The familiar Tower Lord chatted with a first-year magic professor.
"There you are, disciple. So hard to catch your face these days."
"Sigh... Long time no see, Master."
She spotted us, eyes widening, then greeted Neriel warmly. Neriel's response? Bland as dry toast. Like seeing pushy parents at school—just go already vibes.
But the oblivious Tower Lord beamed nonstop, then casually nudged the professor.
"Sorry, but I want some quality time with my disciple."
"Ah, yes. I'll step out. That kid...?"
"I brought him. Don't mind him."
"R-right? Then I'll..."
Whoa, that prof's notoriously picky in magic class. Tower Lord has him fleeing like a scalded cat. Felt oddly refreshing.
Now just us three, her gaze locked on me...
"First time meeting like this, right? You're Neriel's master, huh? Seems you two play pretty rough."
"...Pardon?"
I thought she'd offer a handshake, but nope—straight for the spicy opener, scrambling my brain. Why's everyone in this world—from saintess to Tower Lord—playing in the big leagues?