The Black Mage's Fall
Bellud, the black mage, was living his best days ever since he'd started learning magic—and since his oldest memory was of learning magic, that meant these were truly the pinnacle of his life.
Had his power ever risen so swiftly before? His status? And crucially, had he ever felt such eager anticipation for the future?
Thinking back on his gutter-rat existence, all of it was unprecedented.
Born in some backwater baron's rundown estate, he'd fallen for an old monster's honeyed words about his "talent," then slaved away like a mage's dog. Days sustained on mere scraps of bread, bits of meat, and a splash of cheap wine—those had been Bellud's darkest times.
But everything changed once he learned black magic.
The first thing he'd done was kill his old master. Patiently spiking the food with tiny doses of magic poison, he'd finished it in a single month.
Standing over the fallen wretch, ripping the power from his soul... the look on that old bastard's face still sent a thrill through him.
It was just a fraction, but absorbing his master's mana and knowledge, then sacrificing countless other souls after, had propelled Bellud far beyond that fool's level.
Look at him now. That senile wreck had wasted away scribbling formulas on scraps in a crumbling shack, doing menial jobs for coin now and then.
But Bellud? He was dining on fine cuisine in the heart of this massive city, face-to-face with its lord.
Bellud inhaled the aroma from the wine glass the servant had just poured, closing his eyes in feigned ecstasy.
"Hm, exquisite bouquet. Like a field of flowers."
He spoke like a connoisseur, but truth be told, he knew nothing of wine. He'd just spouted nonsense because of the fancy bottle painted with flowers.
"Hahaha, it was hard to procure."
"Your hospitality leaves me at a loss, as always."
Bellud shoved a tough chunk of severed meat from the plate into his mouth and chewed laboriously.
...Always thought the same: tough as leather.
The texture was barely swallowable, the overpowering spices stinging his nose, but since the count was eating the same, he assumed this was noble fare and forced it down.
Swallowing the masticated lump, Bellud eyed the noble before him.
Baerund Count. More precisely, the 26th Baerund Count. A legitimate powerhouse with authority and that blue-tinged hair.
A man he'd never have approached in his wildest dreams—but not anymore.
It started five years ago in the war. He'd seen the call for mages and enlisted, catching the count's eye.
From there, a string of dirty jobs for pay: secretly selling his wife and daughter into slavery for a new bride, for one. Impressive even by a black mage's standards. Bellud had even brokered an introduction for the count to learn black magic.
And after nearly a year of the count diving in headfirst, they'd reached this partnership.
It had taken time to build quietly under orders, avoiding suspicion—but now, shielded by the count's cunning protection and cover-ups, their system was solid.
Hypnotizing slum dwellers with black magic, amplifying the city's negative emotions bit by bit, harvesting souls bloated with resentment.
And someday soon...
"Speaking of, how fares 'That One'?"
"Splendidly, of course. That One holds great expectations for you, Count."
That One. Master to all black mages. Too exalted for even their name to pass unworthy lips.
It was That One who had lifted him from that hellhole ruin, teaching him black magic.
Without That One, he'd never have sat at such a table. So thought Bellud.
Time passed, the meal ending—tough on Bellud, but he self-deluded into satisfaction.
Rising, a servant draped his fine coat over him.
"Well then, That One says the time draws near, so next around then..."
"Take care."
Exiting the count's mansion, Bellud cast black magic to blur onlookers' perceptions.
He couldn't fully vanish from notice like That One, but making people outright ignore him was satisfaction enough.
He headed for the slums where it had all begun, skirting the coast past deliberately vacant buildings.
Frowning at the crumbled ruins and faint stench, hope for the future still brought a smile.
Soon, no more hiding here—he'd live nobler than that count, in even grander splendor.
That One had promised it.
Weaving through abandoned warehouses, Bellud approached the tiniest, most obscure shack.
The hideout was dug underground anyway—no need for a big entrance, and it honored That One's command to lurk unseen.
—"If the 'Great Enemy' catches wind, your petty wishes, our grand and righteous plan—all ends. Be vigilant."
Bellud had wondered who this Great Enemy was, why That One warned so gravely, if anything could thwart Them—but he'd obeyed without doubt. He had to.
Yet what greeted the sated Bellud was...
The hideout entrance, blasted clean open.
"...What?"
Only a handful knew this spot: slum fodder under his total control, resentment-slaves for soul-fattening, eight apprentice black mages from That One, and the count.
The count... betrayed us?
The thought flickered, but impossible. Rivals maybe, but once touched by That One, no black mage betrayed another.
Then what the hell?
Bellud dashed into the gaping entrance.
Descending the spiral stairs to the corridor, he froze, mind blanking at the scene.
Dimly lit by half-smashed magic lamps, eight corpses littered the hall—necks twisted backward, brows pierced, heads gone. All freakishly targeted at the skull.
Apprentices, sure, but each worth at least one man. That One wouldn't have taken weaklings.
Bellud flung doors open, hunting the intruder, calculating defenses and black magic in his head.
Finally, opening his own room, he faced the trespasser.
Sitting legs crossed on the fine sofa right inside, perusing documents from the deep drawer.
Long white hair cascading down, two loops jutting from the crown like a bold statement. A triple-ring gold ornament on the left...
A petite girl, utterly out of place.
"You're the last one, right?"
She murmured without glancing up, her thin voice pounding survival instincts despite its softness.
"What are you?"
Human ears, but probably disguised. Elf or spirit—long-lived races who despised black magic, Bellud figured.
Readying spells, he crept closer in combat stance.
Overconfident long-livers' weakness was that very arrogance-born carelessness. Seize momentum, end it quick.
The apprentices died 'cause they were weak.
I can do this!
Ignoring instincts, he closed to casting range. The girl unread, unflinching.
"Ever thought of quitting black magic?"
Her refusal to even look made him smirk inwardly. He deployed barriers and unleashed a mind-shattering black spell.
"Die!!"
And that was Bellud's last shout.
"Then die."
His last sound heard.
When Bellud desperately clawed his fading mind back, his body already lay limp on the floor.
Even that soon snuffed out.
Got some intriguing intel.
At first, with only small fry around, I thought they'd ditched the base and fled. But skimming the docs, looks like they crawled right into my lap.
That One, huh.
No name listed, but I could picture the face.
Things just got messy.