The Devil's Whisper
A acrid smoke rose from the forest, a lingering aftermath of Neriel's magic. Whether it was the irritating stench tickling her nose or the abrupt proposal from the masked figure that did it, Neriel's eyebrows furrowed sharply. Her eyes sharpened with heightened wariness, and the masked figure extended a hand once more.
"Neriel Marit. The sole disciple acknowledged by the famously picky Amelia Luminis, the genius mage dubbed the Scales' Sapling."
"...What are you getting at? You didn't track me down just to butter me up."
"I did mention it, didn't I? Why not join us?"
"You were serious about that nonsense? Then you already know my answer."
'Unless that thing on your head is just for show.' Neriel tapped her temple mockingly as she said it, but the figure didn't rise to the obvious bait. Instead, the mask twitched slightly, and a strange sound leaked out—like someone across from her struggling to stifle their breath.
Neriel realized they were barely holding back laughter and scowled.
"A mind as sharp as yours must have already guessed our identity."
"Obviously. You're those half-dead Silence Followers, aren't you? My master drilled it into me until my ears bled."
"Indeed. Amelia Luminis, eh? Well, it would be foolish of her not to know of our existence."
She was the one who, alongside Hero Iferia, had racked up the most kills against the Followers on the battlefield. Her vigilance toward them was accordingly fierce. That's why, during her last visit to the academy, she'd drilled into Neriel just how dangerous the Silence Followers were before departing.
Even without her advice, Neriel would have figured out the identity of the figure before her.
"That's right, just as you say. In a way, as the disciple of that witch—who was one of our greatest enemies—you and we are polar opposites."
"You know that full well. So throwing out an offer like this means you're prepared to lose a limb or two, right?"
Mana condensed in Neriel's hand, pulsing viciously as if eager to pulverize the enemy before her. Any half-baked mage would have felt a chill down their spine just facing it. But the masked figure calmly shook their head.
"No, I have no doubt you'll join us."
"...What?"
They pointed at her with utter conviction in their voice. It was such an absurd response that the mana gathered in Neriel's hand dissipated in an instant, her focus shattered.
"The public image of you is certainly at odds with us. A mage who's never faced the world's tempests, walking a smooth path thanks to your exceptional talent, even guaranteed a spot as the Magic Tower Lord's successor."
"......"
"But what's the reality, Neriel Marit? Or rather, no need to ask—you know it better than anyone...."
"Hey, ape."
"Huh? What?"
"I heard you're from the brothel district. No parents, worked at some lady's mansion, right?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
It hadn't been anything special, really. She was just curious about the life of a guy whose path seemed vaguely similar to her own.
"Never hated the world? Felt resentment?"
"Resentment?"
"Yeah. Like, why dump all this crap on me? Maybe even think this shitty world should just end.... You could feel that way, right?"
"Hm, fair point."
Was he the same as me? She'd felt a strange kinship, yet somehow a pang of regret dimmed her eyes.
"Damn right! You idiot!"
"Wha—crazy?! Why'd you suddenly go for my head!"
But he'd abruptly started pressing down on her head, so she wondered what was up. She shoved his hand away and glared, only for him to lean back with a hand on his hip, looking at her pitifully.
"Ugh, moron. If the world ends, does my life get better? Happier? Instead of that crap, figure out how to make myself happy."
"You think happiness is guaranteed?"
"No guarantees anywhere. Just live. But here's my take from experience...."
She couldn't say why that smile of his had stuck so hard in her mind. It was nothing special—just his usual gum-flashing grin, that annoying mug of his.
"Living life dreaming of a happy future? Kinda makes you happy on its own. Keeps you going, thinking sunny days'll come eventually."
Looking back, it was dumb nonsense with no deep meaning. Like an unhappy life suddenly turns blissful? Might just make you more miserable. And yet, ridiculously, even knowing that in her head, Neriel smiled faintly recalling it.
Maybe—just maybe—he hadn't meant some naive optimism. Maybe it was a simple admonition: don't curse the world just 'cause you're down.
Hard to imagine that brainless ape saying something profound like that. And yet, somehow, she was certain.
Whoosh—slash!
The masked figure had been speaking indifferently when a sharp sound tore through the air, like ripping fabric. Reflexively swinging her hand, a translucent barrier enveloped her body. The massive, formless wind blade that had approached halted abruptly, and Neriel's eyes narrowed.
"...Temperamental, aren't you? The story's not over yet."
"No need to hear more. I'll smash that mask—and your mouth—first."
Purple mana surged from Neriel's body, roiling fiercely in echo of her fury. But even as she bared her killing intent, inwardly she was stunned. Reacting to that attack was one thing, but blocking it effortlessly without so much as a chant?
"If some amateur said it, it'd sound like bluffing. But as expected of the Scales' Sapling. My hand's still tingling. If you came at me in earnest, I doubt I'd walk away unscathed."
"Ha! You dare talk down to Neriel Marit? Saying you're stronger than me?"
"Who knows. At least right now, I could hold my own. One or two years ago—no, even half a year—I couldn't say for sure."
What she'd dismissed as bravado felt chillingly analytical as the figure calmly assessed their strengths. Neriel grimaced.
'At least, not talking out his ass.'
Hated to admit it, but yeah. Talent and potential-wise, she'd have the edge. If they kept training and clashed far in the future, she'd probably crush them easily.
But not now. She couldn't claim victory lightly. Not about raw mana reserves or power difference.
It was experience. Like when she'd first met her master, Amelia. That skin-crawling sense of someone who'd crossed death's door countless times, impossible to gauge.
"Not bragging, but I'm certain I've overcome more hardships than you ever have."
"Tch...."
Neriel swallowed a frustrated groan. It wasn't the dismissive attitude toward her own struggles that irked her. Nor the arrogant claim that she couldn't win.
It was how precisely they seemed to know her pains. Like they had her whole story figured out. That calm delivery was just unpleasant.
"So, what'll it be, Neriel Marit? Not a bad offer. Deep down, you hate this world more than anyone."
"......"
"Don't tell me your master's love washed away all that rage and injustice. Save the bullshit—I can tell truth from lies."
Neriel's fists trembled. Not from anger. From inability to deny it.
This bastard was right. Neriel had hated this world. She'd started magic not out of love, but because it was the first thing to earn her recognition. It let her feel superior, belittle others—fuel to keep going while she tore herself down.
And grand ideals like using magic for the world's good? Changing it with benevolence? Not her.
In that sense, the offer was tempting. A discarded soul learns power, then gets revenge. Classic good-triumphs-evil tale everyone dreams of.
Except she'd be on the villain's side. Didn't matter to her. In the end, the winner's the hero; the loser's the villain.
"Yeah... you're right...."
Neriel bit her lip and stepped forward, extending her hand toward the masked figure like a handshake of acceptance. They smirked behind the mask, taking it as such.
Then, a conversation flashed through her mind.
She looked down at the enemy's hand in hers, and without realizing, mirrored his smile—one corner of her mouth quirking up.
"...Damn right."