The Magic School Scoundrel Wears a Sword

Pétrus Hall was packed for the admissions briefing of Caypol Municipal Magic School.

Students and parents from every corner of the continent filled not only the seats but the aisles themselves, and the briefing that had begun at dawn was now, in the middle of lunch, climbing toward its peak.

"And the decisive point! Right in front of the school stands the flagship of an imperial-class department store—The Deblique—offering a convenience to student life that nothing else can match!"

At the name The Deblique, the audience began to murmur.

The dean of admissions swept an unhurried gaze over them, then pointed to the far left of the stage and called out.

"Allow me to introduce a graduate of this school, a patron of Caypol Municipal Magic School, and the founder of the department store—Blow Deblique!"

At those words, a man rose from his seat.

He had the youngest face on the stage: a strikingly handsome young man with red hair that looked ready to catch fire.

"Boss!"

"Blow! Blow!"

Current students seated on the second floor chanted his name without pause. Blow Deblique waved with easy familiarity, as if the cheers reaching him were nothing new, and when he walked out at an unhurried pace and took his place before the lectern, every sound died away.

He let a leisurely gaze travel over the audience, then flicked his right hand through the air as if conducting an orchestra. A red magic circle bloomed at his fingertips. A single flame shot upward and burst with a crack.

The seats stirred louder at the burning letters, and smiles tugged at the mouths of the future freshmen.

"What about us!!"

"Do you know how much money we've spent!!!"

Wails rose from the current students' section. Hearing them, Blow launched another flame, as if he had been waiting for exactly that.

The students' complaints flipped into cheers, and the heat inside Pétrus Hall began to climb.

"Waaaaah!!"

"That's our boss!"

"Blow! Blow! Blow! Blow!"

Sweeping his eyes over that satisfying scene, Blow found himself thinking back to eight years ago, when all of this had begun.

Eight years ago. March.

"Young Master, you need to get up."

Blow woke to a voice both soft and clear. The first thing his eyes found was a scatter of fallen liquor bottles, and the remnants of bar snacks smeared thick across the table. A hangover headache came crashing in, and even with his eyes open he spent a long while covering his face with his hands.

Standing beside him was a beautiful girl in a school uniform that was almost entirely white, accented in red—white hair, pale blue eyes. She hesitated, then spoke.

"Young Master..."

"Jane, I get it the first time. Keep it down."

His sharp tone froze her. She pressed her lips shut and could only wait until he pushed himself upright.

"...What time is it?"

"Eight in the morning. If you don't get ready now, you'll be late for the summoning ritual."

"Ugh... I'm dying."

Thirst that felt as if it were splitting his throat, and a headache rolling in—Blow frowned and crooked a finger at the tavern keeper standing tense in the distance. The keeper, who knew perfectly well who he was, answered in a fluster.

"I-is there something you're looking for?"

"Mix me some honey water."

"I-I'm terribly sorry, but we don't have any honey in the shop."

"And why should that matter?"

Seeing Blow's face go completely rigid, the keeper swallowed dryly and bent at the waist at once.

"I-I'm sorry! I'll have it ready right away."

Blow shot a glare after the tavern keeper as he ran off at that answer, then tipped the water from the bottle on the table straight down his throat.

"Hah. I can live again."

"Young Master, I'm truly sorry, but if you don't leave now, you'll be late for the summoning ritual."

"Didn't I say I get it the first time?"

"I'm sorry, Young Master. I only spoke because I was afraid we'd be late. I'm sorry."

Blow's curt tone twisted even a kindly word into something bad, and Jane could do nothing but seal her mouth.

At this rate, something really terrible is going to happen.

In that moment she looked at the master she served—Blow Deblique—with a face full of worry. Today was the day Blow, second son of House Deblique and a fourth-year at the magic school, had to undergo the Spirit Summoning Ritual, a mage's crucial rite of passage.

The spirit a mage encountered during the ritual exerted an enormous influence over the whole of their magic, which made it immensely important. A normal student, hoping to meet a spirit of even a slightly higher grade, would fast, bathe and purify themselves, even visit a temple for the first time in their life to offer prayers. Her master, however, had spent the day before the ritual, and the day before that, and the day before that, on nothing but drink, drink, and drink.

And not just any day—he was still at it on the morning of the ritual itself. What on earth did he think he was doing? Even now, time was slipping away without mercy, and her insides were burning black, down to ash.

Blow, who had no way of knowing what she felt, was glaring at her with a displeased look.

"Jane. Didn't I tell you to come here yesterday?"

"I did come. You said you were going to drink until morning, so I went back in first."

"What? When?"

"After your duel with the cadet from Leopold Knight School, when you were pouring the liquor from that green bottle down your throat."

Jane spoke while pointing at the bottle lying on its side atop the table. An ordinary person would have felt embarrassed at her words. Worrying about something like that, however, would have disqualified him from being Blow.

"You mean this Ropert malt? 'Green bottle,' she says. That's an insult not just to the liquor, but to House Ropert."

Blow grabbed the green bottle and shook it. What remained—less than half—sloshed inside. Jane went pale at the sight and pleaded with him.

"Young Master, right now—truly, just this once—you must not drink."

"I'm not drinking. Do I look like that kind of bastard to you? Today's the summoning ritual."

Blow Deblique snapped at her, looking utterly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠incredulous.

If he knows that, then what is he doing drinking until this morning...

But Jane could neither say the thought aloud nor let it show on her face. The more you spoke sense to him, the more he tried to go sideways. That was her master, Blow Deblique.

She had half given up on getting him there on time ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠when the door burst open and the tavern keeper came in, panting.

"Hah... hah... I'll mix the honey water right away!"

"Sorry, but I don't think I'll need it."

At the indifferent tone, resentment settled over the keeper's face. Finding that irritating, Blow shoved his scowling face in close.

"What? Got a complaint?"

"N-no, sir."

"Keep that liquor for me. I'll come drink it tonight."

"Tonight, you say?"

"Yeah. I'm definitely pulling a high-grade spirit, so we'll have to celebrate, won't we?"

"A most proper observation, sir."

The tavern keeper barely managed to hold a smile, his cheeks twitching as if in spasm. As if he found the sight cute, Blow tapped those cheeks a few times.

"And have the honey ready too."

"Of course, sir."

Only then did Blow start for the door.

Jane watched his back, heaved a sigh deep enough to sink the earth, and held out a gleaming gold coin to the tavern keeper.

"Sir, this is for last night's drinks."

"Th-thank you! Shall I give you change?"

"No, it's fine. And I'm sorry about yesterday. We were loud, weren't we?"

"Not at all! It wasn't as if the guest did anything wrong."

"The Young Master's fault is my fault. I'm truly sorry."

Jane bowed her head to him in courtesy. Just then the door flew open again, and Blow's irritable shout came flying at them.

"Hey! I thought you said we had to hurry!"

"Yes, I'm coming out now. I'm sorry."

With that, Jane followed him, shoulders slumped.

Watching them go, the tavern keeper clicked his tongue and shook his head, thinking it a shame that such a well-mannered girl had found the wrong master.

After a long struggle, Blow Deblique had barely managed to change into his uniform. Still locked in a hard fight with his hangover, he stepped out of the dormitory.

Why is the shirt wrinkled?

By rights he should have come out in the crisp new ceremonial clothes she had set aside for him. She approached Blow—who was yawning loud enough to be heard—and spoke with care.

"Young Master. The new uniform I bought separately..."

"You said we were in a hurry, so I just threw on whatever I grabbed."

"Even so, this is the Spirit Summoning Ritual. You really ought to change into the new—"

"Enough."

"If you go back up and change quickly, I think it will be fine. There's still a little time to spare."

At Jane's words, Blow's brow creased.

"Didn't I tell you earlier that I get it the first time?"

"I'm sorry. I'll be careful."

Sick of Blow, who never acknowledged her worry and only ever snapped at her, Jane swallowed a sigh and sealed her mouth.

"What about Hervena? She did her summoning ritual before me, didn't she?"

"I heard she summoned a high-grade spirit."

"Lucky girl."

"Hervena works very hard, after all."

It was an old common belief that a spirit resonated with the mana of the one who summoned it. The higher the purity of the mana, and the deeper the spring of the mana pond—the organ that held it—the greater the chance of drawing a good spirit. The mana Jane saw in Blow now was far too impure, and he had drunk all through the night besides. His condition could not possibly be good.

"So where did Hervena go, that you came alone?"

"When I asked her yesterday, she said she wouldn't come."

"You're telling me she said she wouldn't come to my summoning ritual?"

"She said... she had a lot to do..."

"Unbelievable."

Jane Foresti, following behind him now, and Hervena Westriver, just mentioned, were his attendants. His mother, Luce Deblique, worried over a scoundrel of a son who insisted on attending magic school, had attached them to him while covering their tuition and living expenses besides.

Ungrateful, arrogant bitch.

The more he thought about Hervena's behavior, the more it rankled. Blow ground his teeth and snapped at Jane for no reason at all.

"...Tell her to come see me when it's over."

"Yes. I'll pass it on."

Only after they had walked for quite some time did they reach Pétrus Hall, where the ritual was being held. True to a day of summoning, it swarmed with students. The headache from his hangover still lingered. Clutching his head, he checked the order of the summoning ritual written on the mana stone inside, and Jane, spotting his name first, pointed to it.

"It looks like you go in next."

"Cut it close."

He said it indifferently and turned. The students who saw him stopped talking, and those who had gathered split left and right, lest they catch his eye.

"Haaahm."

Blow Deblique, of course, paid no mind to the looks around him and simply yawned, mouth wide. Jane carefully held out two potion bottles.

"Young Master, please drink these before you go in."

"What are they?"

"One is a mana potion. The other is a potion I made myself, from herbs said to help ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with a hangover."

"Huh. When'd you make that?"

At the mocking tone, Jane lowered her eyes.

"At dawn today."

"Do I have to drink it now?"

"Drink the mana potion right before the ritual. Drink the other one now."

With that, Jane pulled the cork from the bottle of potion glowing a clear blue and held it out. Told it would clear his hangover, Blow tipped it straight into his mouth. The clean taste was one thing; the hangover that had tormented him from morning until now sank almost at once.

"Should've given it to me sooner."

"I forgot I had it with me. I'm sorry."

"Whatever. It's fine."

With the headache gone, Blow felt light enough in his step to hum. Watching him, Jane couldn't shake a lingering unease, and she asked in a careful voice.

"Young Master, you memorized the summoning incantation properly, didn't you?"

Instead of answering, Blow rolled his sleeve up to the elbow. When Jane saw the incantation written there in crooked letters, she cried out in shock.

"...Young Master, you're not saying you're going to chant while looking at that, are you?"

"I am. So what?"

She had hoped she was wrong. Of course she wasn't.

While Jane, the strength gone out of her, hid what she felt, a few people nearby flinched at the sight of his arm.

"The summoning incantation is an extremely sensitive spell. If you say you're going to read it off—"

"It's fine. I did last year's practical the same way, and nothing happened."

Jane looked at him speaking as if it were nothing, lost for words, and pressed a hand to her throbbing temple. He meant to cheat his way through chanting the incantation for this crucial summoning ritual. It was something without precedent in the school's history, and there would surely never be another like it.

Now all I can do is hope his luck holds...

Jane was praying inwardly when it happened.

The door to the underground chamber where the summoning ritual was underway opened, and students who had finished the rite came up. Some wore excited faces; others looked a little disappointed. Coming up with them was Mnevoir, the teacher in charge of Understanding Spirits. She swept back her long hair and called the next casters in a dry voice.

"Greig Campbell, Blow Deblique, Verona Ores, Blasse Latour. Come this way."

The weight of the ritual had drawn tension across the face of every student who stepped forward. Every student except one: Blow Deblique. He was stretching, looking as if he didn't have a shred of nerves. The students around him, unable to understand it, had disgust seeping into their faces, and the teacher in charge let out a deep sigh and shook her head.

A short while later, Blow stepped into the underground of Pétrus Hall—the Chamber of Casting.

Damp and humid enough to pass for a cave, the place was lit by candles half melted down. His room was separated from the other students', so all Blow could hear was the crackle of wax burning away.

I need to draw a high-grade spirit, like Hervena.

Thinking that, he downed the potion Jane had given him to replenish his mana before the ritual. The mana potion's characteristic foul taste crumpled his face without mercy.

No matter when I drink it, the stuff tastes like garbage.

But the lack of any pleasant taste was what let Blow pull himself together. He cleared his throat, drew one deep breath, cracked an eye open just a fraction, looked down at his right arm, and fumbled his way through the incantation.

Then, just as he had learned in class, his consciousness grew faint, as if he were falling asleep, and every light around him died.

A long time passed.

When he carefully opened his eyes, what lay before him was something that could barely be called a space at all—darkness, through and through.

This was the Realm of Night.

It was a place a mage had to face when some realization came, or when performing a ritual like this one. Spirits took up residence somewhere in the realm, and those undergoing the summoning ritual had only to wander it, find a spirit, and form a contract.

He scratched his head once at how lost he felt, then walked forward for the time being. He had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠been walking for about ten minutes when a spirit giving off a faint white light came into view.

"What? This is easy."

Muttering that, Blow strode quickly toward the light. At last the spirit revealed itself: a perfect sphere. As if it had resonated with his mana, a red light—the color of his own mana—swirled around it.

"Wasn't it the human forms and the animal forms that were high-grade? I'm screwed."

He decided he had simply had bad luck, brought his hands together, and closed his eyes. He sighed and fumbled through the incantation for contracting a spirit.

In that instant, a sound he could hardly have imagined reached his ears.

Crack—

At a sound like an egg shattering, Blow shifted his gaze to the spirit.

"Huh?"

The spirit, grown larger than his own body, bared sharp teeth and opened its mouth as if it would swallow him at any moment. Something was wrong. Blow's heart dropped with a thud.