Frost Magic (2)
Those who learn frost magic fall into one of two categories. Snot-nosed dreamers who, even as adults, aspire to become legendary ice mages from fairy tales, or vulgar scum who walk the path of magic dreaming of becoming obscenely wealthy.
The last frost mage to appear in the annals of magical history had written those words in his treatise. The self-deprecating tone had stuck in Isaac's memory.
Wales William, a 5th class mage who had devoted his life to ice magic yet ultimately despaired without surpassing its limits. The reason was simple: frost magic was rather distant from practicality.
Magitech involving frost magic was incredibly popular among the rich and nobles who could afford expensive ingredients. In contrast, the domain of a frost mage was severely limited.
To create a fireball required just one step: ignition. But to form ice crystals, one first needed sufficient water. Then, magic to gather moisture from the air or shape the water into the desired form. After that came four more steps: compression, condensation, expansion, and evaporation.
Each step individually wasn't particularly difficult, but fulfilling all those conditions was no easy task. This made its utility in combat extremely low.
In situations where life and death hung by a thread in an instant, few mages had the steel nerves to methodically go through each step. Enemies wouldn't wait, either.
Even if one somehow bought time to complete the spell, its lethality was lacking. At best, it could freeze a river or slick a wet floor to bind an opponent's feet.
To use ice crystals as projectiles required an assisting mage to cast supportive spells. The frost mage shaped the ice crystals as desired, and the assistant altered their phase to launch them.
Rather than hiring expensive mages for that, commanders would prefer to employ ten more archers. It was far cheaper and more lethal.
If you know no magic beyond frost spells, congratulations. Breweries and inns will welcome you with open arms. After all, you'll chill beer better than anyone.
Of course, if you have more money than you know what to do with, you could stockpile frost magic stones to skip the cooling step. But soon enough, you'll be ripping out your mansion's pillars to sell. It's one of the ingredients those old tower coots hunt with fire in their eyes. If you're the buyer, you'll need more gold than stars in the sky.
William had written in that tone for good reason. Reality demanded it.
Barring special circumstances, the history of frost magic not being used in battle stretched back quite far. Nor was there much room for frost mages in daily life, as magitech devices that automatically performed frost magic were sufficiently advanced.
In short, frost mages were thoroughly shunned by magical society.
Despite this bleak outlook, Isaac had interpreted William's treatises differently while reading them. He had plenty of time on his hands, and endlessly spinning "what ifs" about magic was one of his main hobbies.
The fact that frost magic stones were expensive and mostly used for academic purposes could be rephrased as: it was hard to conceive of combat applications. A neglected magic meant its true nature was hard to grasp, and pinpointing the caster was difficult.
Moreover, frost magic's properties made it ideal for covert use. Other elemental magics left obvious traces—light, sound, something conspicuous. Frost magic, if used right, could mimic wounds from metal blades or bruises, easily indistinguishable. Ice melted into water, making clues even harder to find.
Decades had passed since he'd had those thoughts in an underground vault. Now, Isaac was realizing and proving them with his own hands.
One shot, one shot. Each time an ice crystal pierced the darkness and struck a bandit's head, Isaac felt a thrill.
It wasn't joy from harming someone. It was the satisfaction of his ideas bearing fruit in reality.
That was the essence of a mage. Fools who devoted their lives to the moment when imagination became real.
William's treatise had said as much.
No matter your station upon entering the mage's path—man or woman, young or old—I know one thing: you're an idiot. So I know you won't heed my warnings. Your head must be filled with visions of transparent, crystalline ice rain.
Isaac chuckled wryly. He realized he was one of those idiots too.
This much fun proved it. At the same time, he felt a strange relief and sense of belonging.
In his previous life, his mana rampage had prevented him from calling himself a mage. Now, he felt more like one than anyone.
He was a debtor to his loved ones, carrying emotional debts, and an incurable fool mad for magic.
"You're not killing them, young master?"
Bill asked after confirming the fallen bandits were still breathing.
"Scum like this keep crawling out no matter how many you kill."
Isaac glanced at the unconscious bandits.
"But they'll just do this again."
"That's why I'm letting them live."
"Pardon?"
"There's only one guy I need to kill myself."
"Who?"
"Nears."
"……!"
Ripples crossed Bill's face.
"I've got a job for you, Bill."
Isaac said.
"Father still won't eat today."
In the mountain hideout, Nears sliced the meat on his plate.
The rare steak dripped blood and was too tough to cut easily with a fork. Nears brute-forced it into chunks, shoving them into his mouth and chewing laboriously.
Around him stood five or six bandits on standby, suppressing gags or grimacing each time he chewed. It was human flesh they'd butchered and grilled themselves.
"You need to eat something. What'll we do if you keep wasting away?"
Nears stared across the long dining table.
There sat not a man, but a skull impaled on a spit. Its upper half was shattered down to the forehead.
Nears gazed blankly at the skull.
"You're there, right? I always wanted to hear your screams someday. Guess I'm not there yet. Just wait a bit. I found a new black magic book—says I just need five more fetal hearts."
Nears wiped the dripping blood with his hand and stood.
His movement made several nearby bandits flinch.
Unlike the stunted wretches surviving on sewage, Nears was tall enough to brush the ceiling, with a massive build and arms reaching past his thighs. Classic northern tribal traits.
He sauntered toward the skull.
"Then your soul will be trapped in that skull forever. How's that? You always wanted to live long, right? ……No answer? Or has my spirit power run dry? Hey."
"Y-yes!"
A waiting bandit yelped in surprise.
"The soul's power feels weak. Go bleed out some useless bastard. I need a bath."
"B-but all we have left are the merchants' goods to sell."
"Hm."
Nears grunted. Suddenly, his massive hand seized another bandit's head whole.
"Urk?"
He twisted neck and shoulders like wringing laundry.
Crack!
A corpse formed in an instant.
"Then this guy for today. But one won't fill the tub."
Nears eyed the bandit who'd answered earlier.
The bandit trembled, unable to meet his gaze.
Soon, he drew his dagger and stabbed the neck of another beside him.
"Gurk."
Blood sprayed as he pulled the blade.
"I-it's ready, boss."
"Wait."
Nears shuffled past in his characteristic slow gait.
The surviving bandits held their breath until he rounded the corner and vanished completely.
Only then did they gasp and collapse onto the filthy sewer floor. Their asses soaked in rotten water, but they didn't care.
"Fuck."
Someone muttered like a sigh, but no one responded.
They were all gripped by relief at surviving—and despair at having to live under that mad monster longer.
No one thought Nears truly knew black magic, but his madness and hulking frame were sorcery enough.
Thud—Just as they began to relax.
A dull impact echoed from beyond the sewer corner.
Slice, slice—Sounds of flesh tearing followed.
The bandits exchanged glances. Their bodies froze.
Was it boss Nears? Or someone else?
They knew they should check the source, but their feet wouldn't move.
Tap, tap.
One bandit nudged another. They had to confirm, somehow.
They crept silently to the corner. The presence had vanished long ago. No sound came from beyond.
One pulled a torch from the wall sconce and edged forward.
Then.
Roll.
Something tumbled from around the corner.
"Eek!"
The lead bandit fell on his ass in shock.
Clang! The others startled, drawing swords that clanged against the wall.
Fortunately, nothing happened. What rolled to them wasn't a bomb or weapon.
"W-what the hell is this?"
Obscured by shadow, it resembled a hairy sack with the top cut off.
As the bandit brought the torch closer, they forgot to breathe.
It was the head of Nears, the one who'd just left for a blood bath.
A neat hole pierced the center of his forehead, like a sharp awl.
Nears's head rolled on the floor with a puzzled expression.
"Hey, got any water?"
"Gasp—"
Seeing the man, the bandits realized they'd been holding their breath.
The blood-smeared face was familiar. But it gave off a completely different vibe from the man they knew.
"B-Bill?"
Topless, drenched head to toe in Nears's blood—he was the groveling joke, the braggart Bill.
But a Bill they didn't know. A first-time sight.
"Water, I said, you fucks."
Bill irritably slicked back his blood-matted hair.
A moment earlier.
Isaac's four circulation paths flowed like water.
Cool, cool, phase change, phase change again.
Duplicated cooling hardened the ice crystal tougher than bone; duplicated phase change accelerated it beyond arrows.
Pew—A light impact sound, and the long-armed giant's head snapped back.
'Hit.'
The instant the crystal pierced Nears's forehead, Isaac sighed in relief.
His relentless practice with phase change, plus the target's complacency as a long-reigning predator, had paid off.
"……!"
Seeing Nears collapse, Bill alternated stares between Isaac's face and the corpse.
Isaac nodded: Move, quick.
"Hoo—"
Bill stripped off his shirt, hopped in place to shake out his arms.
In his hands: thick butcher's cleavers, the kind from a slaughterhouse.
His face taut with tension, he hardened his expression, approached the corpse, climbed atop the massive body, raised the cleaver high—and brought it down.
Shadows hid the details.
Amid the sounds of rending flesh and crunching bone, Isaac oddly recalled Enet's words.
Anyone can do something they don't want to. At least once in life. Everyone does. Even saints. Otherwise, there'd be no need to believe in God so desperately.
Enet's words hadn't ended there.
You won't be able to take it back or erase it. It'll follow you like a brand your whole life. Two choices: suffocate in guilt, or thrash to live for their share too.
Isaac remembered her voice as cold and dry. No judgment of right or wrong.
Just presenting another option he hadn't considered.
Simple words, in hindsight. But back then, they let him cling on one more day. Kept him from giving up on life.
Enet could offer such advice thanks to losing her friend Clara, no doubt.
But he didn't need to hear it twice. This life's Enet wouldn't need to do the unwanted. Wouldn't lose a friend.
Isaac had judged it so. Resolved it so.
And so it would be.
Yes. Even if it meant dirtying his hands more.
That evening.
A carriage arrived at Goethe Manor.
Aboard were three reeking women.
The missing maids.