The Black Magician
Ian wrapped the remaining fruit pie and left the tearoom. With a heavy burden of worry weighing on his chest, he headed straight for the Owl Bookstore. He refused to remain helplessly submerged in fear without a single scrap of information about black magic or bone monsters.
The bookstore he revisited looked far more neatly arranged than before. At the entrance, used books selling for a mere three silver were packed tightly on low shelves, pressing against one another. When he opened the door and stepped inside, the pile of books that had blocked the entrance had vanished. In their place, the cozy aroma of old paper and polished wood welcomed him.
Except for the staircase leading to the second floor, towering bookshelves encircled every wall. Between them, additional shelves stood like dominoes, forming a labyrinth of knowledge. At the heart of that maze, in the narrow space left open, rested an old counter. Atop it sat a wicker basket serving as a cash box and a small handwritten sign.
Security Magic Installed. Please pay with your conscience.
A faint smile touched Ian’s lips as he read the words. He drew a deep breath, and the scent of aged paper that tickled his nose gently soothed his once-turbulent heart.
Pelua, the bookstore owner, was nowhere in sight—probably upstairs—and only the scattered shadows of customers moved between the shelves. Ian slipped among them, quietly wandering the aisles until he stopped before the History and Figures section. His gaze traveled down the spines until his fingertips paused on a worn hardcover.
The Tale of the Most Powerful Black Magician
He set the pie box on the floor and pulled the volume free. Yet after turning more than thirty pages filled with dense prose, Ian closed the book with a troubled expression.
Sigh, why is the introduction so long? And why are the sentences so convoluted…? I already know black magic is dangerous.
He exhaled in frustration, the small sigh barely leaving his lips before a voice spoke behind him.
“Did you suddenly become curious about black magicians?”
“Whoa!”
Ian spun around to find Pelua standing there, wearing her signature mischievous smile.
“Hehe. Looks like I truly startled you.”
“Pelua… I thought my heart was going to drop out of my chest.”
“Hmm, it has been a while, but your complexion is quite poor. Did something happen?”
Seeing his chance, Ian nodded and offered the pie box he had set down. Pelua accepted it with a delighted laugh.
“Excellent. Since you’ve brought a bribe, I’ll gladly offer my counsel.”
“Thank you. Truly.”
They moved to the living room on the second floor. Like the shop below, it was impeccably tidy. A modest kitchen with a small stove occupied one side, while in the center a round tea table sat between two facing sofas shaped like smiling lips.
Pelua swiftly brewed a light red tea and arranged slices of pie on a dainty floral plate. Meanwhile, Ian sorted through the tangle in his mind. Only then did the root of his fear become painfully clear.
The first cause was ignorance. He knew nothing of the harm black magic had inflicted on the world or how active those forces remained, so his anxiety swelled like a rolling snowball. The second was distrust of unknown danger. He could not gauge the true strength of bone monsters, nor whether high-ranking adventurers could truly protect ordinary people like him while fighting.
Once Pelua sat across from him and took a bite of pie, Ian poured out every worry and terror he had bottled up. His explanation was somewhat rambling and disjointed, yet the sharp-witted woman absorbed every word with perfect understanding.
When he finished, Pelua’s expression had grown solemn. She spoke in a crisp, decisive tone.
“To summarize: without yet fully grasping the usefulness of your own skills, you revealed everything to those high-ranking adventurers, and that is how this situation arose. Correct?”
Ian blinked several times, then answered in a small, defensive voice.
“Y-yes… I still haven’t studied the special skills in depth. If I may offer an excuse, I’ve simply been too busy trying to survive…”
“Well, that’s acceptable. You still seem to maintain the attitude of wanting to learn, so I shall generously overlook it this once.”
Ian let out a tiny sigh of relief. Pelua burst into bright laughter, took a sip of the steaming tea, then continued with a more serious gaze.
“Then let us begin with the most fundamental question—what exactly are black magicians, and what is the root of their malice?”
Ian nodded quickly. Her lecture flowed smoothly, each word clear and easy to remember.
“Black magicians are evil priests who worship the dark god Devilaka. The deity hides in the shadow of the world and carefully watches those who harbor especially wicked hearts or twisted natures. He slips into their dreams or hallucinations and tempts them with sweet whispers.”
“What kind of temptation?”
“He promises them overwhelming power to rule the world if they will worship him.”
“…!”
Ian’s mouth went dry. He hastily lifted his teacup and drank. Pelua’s explanation continued without pause.
“Those ensnared by the dark god’s whispers are drawn to secret ‘black temples’ hidden across the world. There they become devotees, greedily devouring the forbidden knowledge of black magic.”
“……”
“Now, the true essence of black magic. It is the act of imbuing one’s innate skills with ‘malice.’”
“Malice?”
“Consider this example. My lower-grade Extinction skill can currently only make small objects disappear. The skill description states exactly that. Yet once malice seeps into it, the skill can erase living portions of a human body. A cooking skill would produce only poisoned dishes, no matter the recipe.”
“So that’s what it means for malice to dwell within a skill.”
A chill raced down Ian’s spine. Pelua nodded and added,
“Correct. However, merely studying the theory of black magic does not instantly grant malice to your skills.”
“Then how?”
“To become a true devotee of evil, one must offer their entire soul to the dark god through a ‘human sacrifice ritual.’”
“Human… sacrifice?”
Ian’s face drained of color. Even on Earth, records of such rites existed, but they were relics of ancient history. The knowledge that somewhere in this living world a life was being laid upon an altar struck him with an entirely different brand of terror. Pelua frowned as though suppressing revulsion.
“Yes. Those who offer innocent victims and their own souls upon the altar receive baptism from Devilaka—specifically, dark mana. From that moment, the nature of their mana is utterly corrupted, and their appearance turns as pale and withered as a corpse.”
“That dark mana… is it the same ominous energy that fills the labyrinths?”
“Precisely. Ancient epics tell us that the fallen god Devilaka unleashed countless monsters upon the Adrian continent. In response, the chief god personally sealed the evil deity behind the world’s shadow and imprisoned the monsters inside the labyrinths.”
“A war between gods, then.”
Pelua smiled softly, took another bite of pie, and sipped her tea. Then, with a playful glint, she posed a riddle.
“Question! Did every person baptized with dark mana and granted malice in their skills become a black magician?”
“No.”
Ian answered without hesitation. When Pelua tilted her head in mild surprise, he continued with growing confidence.
“Black magicians are still magicians, after all. To qualify as a true magician, one must acquire at least one auxiliary skill in addition to their innate unique skill. That’s what I read.”
Pelua’s eyes sparkled with delight.
“My goodness! It seems you truly read the book I gave you.”
“Of course. I finished it the same evening I received it.”
A warm sense of pride passed between them, and both shared gentle smiles. Setting down her cup, Pelua resumed her calm lecture.
“Since you already understand the basics of what it means to be a magician, this next part will be simpler. Those who earned the title of formal black magician and left the black temples gradually grew in number. The event in which they attempted to cloak the entire continent in darkness was the Arcane War five centuries ago.”
“The Arcane War…! I’ve heard the name. That’s also when the bone monsters were created.”
“Correct. To delve deeper, the catastrophe was caused by the legendary black magician Zafir Caligios, who drove that era to ruin.”
A cold undercurrent entered Pelua’s voice.
“The power he was born with was an ordinary recovery skill capable of mending broken bones. But the instant he sold his soul to the dark god and became a black magician, that healing power twisted into a curse that spawned bone monsters—creatures that attacked every human in sight. The true tragedy was that his black-magic skill had already reached the supreme grade by the early stages of the war.”
“Is a high grade truly that lethal?”
“The scale of power matters, of course, but once a skill reaches the supreme grade, the user can inscribe permanent magic circles using reagents and mana stones.”
“So that’s why the dark crystals still remain, tormenting travelers along the mountain paths for so long.”
Pelua nodded.
“Yes. Fortunately, the churches of the chief god spent centuries erecting sacred sealing stones of light across the continent to suppress the crystals’ power. Thanks to that, the number of bone monsters has been kept in check. Skilled mercenaries can escort people through safely.”
“Then the incidents in the Ephel Mountains must involve a black magician. For the dark crystals to grow strong enough to overpower the sealing stones, someone must be artificially feeding them power.”
When she nodded in confirmation, Ian’s brow furrowed deeply and his expression darkened noticeably. Yet while Pelua’s face remained serious as she spoke, it lacked the desperate gravity that gripped Ian.
He looked at her in confusion. She smiled sweetly and shifted the topic.
“Shall we talk now about exactly how strong high-ranking adventurers truly are?”
Her voice carried an undercurrent of intrigued playfulness that made Ian’s eyes widen even further.