Ferzen von Schweig Brutein
Among those who possess mana, there are largely three paths, and the most representative is that of the elemental mage. They can convert their mana into fire, water, or lightning, and interfere with the atmosphere or the earth. Of course, those who possess all such possibilities are generally nonexistent.
Just as whether one is born with mana or not is innate, so too is the form mana takes and what it can affect—a congenital talent.
Hwaruk! A small spark ignited on the strands of Erbet Arachne webs stretching out before him, and the flickering flame soon found its direction, transforming the entire web into a conduit of fire as it blazed forth.
Tadak! Unable to withstand the intense heat, the webs snapped midway, and the charging hatchlings plummeted to the ground, hastily burying themselves in the snow.
Hwaak! But the surging flames swept over the surroundings like a tidal wave, mercilessly incinerating the hatchlings hidden in the snow. They vaporized into wisps of steam, dissolving into the moisture without even voicing their agony, reduced to a handful of ash melting away like specks in water.
With the misaligned patterns of those hatchlings finally erased from his mind, Ferzen naturally curled the corners of his mouth in satisfaction.
Kwajik! But before he could savor that fleeting joy, a massive adult—the mother Erbet Arachne—burst forth, shattering the sturdy northern tree with its 3-meter frame and charging ferociously.
As a spider, the Erbet Arachne possessed three pairs of eyes, their colors shifting mysteriously according to its emotions. It was said that extracting the eyes when they turned blue in grief fetched a high price from collectors.
"Even a speechless monster possesses maternal love."
Gazing at the mother's rippling blue eyes, Ferzen straightened his crumpled sleeve.
Ferzen suffered from extreme OCD, but his emotions weren't withered; he could empathize with the poignant grief of a parent losing its young...
Yet, recalling those misaligned patterns brought it all crashing back, rendering him unable to comprehend the mother's rage. From Ferzen's perspective, at least, they weren't offspring—they were mere defects.
Hwaruruk! The flames danced like impurities in a ritual embrace around the mother Arachne, spreading wide to match her evasive movements. Their sway was as beautiful as a flower blooming after winter's end, and when her sluggish motions allowed the fire to contract like wilting petals, Ferzen felt a strange pang of regret.
Tadak! As the Erbet Arachne's body burned placidly without resistance, splattering viscous embers as it collapsed, Ferzen pulled out a cloth, wiped his glasses, and tucked it back into his inner pocket.
The 27th head of the Brutein family—Bayern von Grieel Brutein—was an elemental mage of Euclid rank, equal to Ferzen. Animating him to wield his full pre-death prowess consumed considerable mana.
Weighed down by dense fatigue, Ferzen bowed to the 27th head, directed him back to his coffin, stored it in subspace, and boarded the carriage.
"..."
Due to the sudden stop, Euphemia had her head tilted rightward, breathing softly in sleep. Ferzen sighed faintly, shifted to the left, and murmured, "Depart."
Then he closed his eyes for a moment.
"Brutein... no, we should call you Lord Ruerg now. Already heading back? You only stopped by our territory four days ago."
"I cannot defy the imperial summons."
"Indeed..."
Overnighting made no sense, so upon arriving at Baron Roberon's territory by evening, they decided to stay one night before departing.
'This is trouble.'
Ferzen never dined with three or more people. He could starve, but imposing that on Euphemia was impossible, so he accepted the offered evening banquet—though anxiety already gnawed at him.
"Oh... you've arrived. Please enjoy. Our north may lack much, but our wine is something we pride ourselves on. I've prepared a cherished vintage."
"Is that so."
Answering curtly to avoid rudeness, Ferzen glanced at Euphemia beside him.
'Left hand on the knife, right on the fork...'
Ferzen was ambidextrous—originally right-handed, trained to use both.
'Then I'll take the knife in my right and fork in my left. The problem is...'
The baron and his wife across from them. Fortunately, the baron mirrored Euphemia: knife left, fork right.
If the baroness matched Ferzen—knife right, fork left—they could eat, drink, and sleep soundly without issue.
"..."
But defying his desperate wish, the baroness held knife left, fork right.
'Ha...'
No matter what he did with both hands, perfect symmetry was impossible. His stomach churned, breath quickened. Biting his lip to suppress the OCD fit like withdrawal, a migraine throbbed, furrowing his brow.
'Wine...'
Yes, alcohol was what he needed now. Cork popped, servants poured; inhaling the sharp aroma, he tilted the glass and let it flow down his throat.
"Eum..."
High proof scorched his throat. Even a few sips brought a buzz—he set the glass down, moderating as he began eating.
Of course, he barely tasted it.
Even in the same space, treated as invisible amid the flowing conversation, Euphemia kept her head bowed, eating silently.
The servants attending seemed far more refined, making her instinctively shrink, shoulders hunching.
'Ah...'
Mended tears from needlework. Faded color despite cleaning. Traces of her desperate, earnest survival felt pathetically shabby today, filling her with shame—not from others, but herself.
In that moment of self-loathing, resentment surged within.
Perhaps acting vulgar, breaching etiquette to tarnish her husband's honor would ease it. She was his wife, after all.
Turning her gaze sideways with that thought, Euphemia wilted instantly.
No matter how vulgar, base, or wretched she appeared beside him, she couldn't sully his arrogant nobility.
Others would never see them as a couple. Likely why he left her in this pitiful state—to affirm his own value.
She was less than the small ring on his finger, unfit to elevate him.
"Know your place."
Ferzen's cold words resurfaced, plummeting her self-esteem further.
"Euphemia."
"...!"
His low call made her tremble, lifting her head.
"Have you eaten enough?"
Harsh liquor breath wafted. When had he drunk so much? Noticing his displeased expression up close, she steadied her quivering voice.
"N-not yet..."
"I see."
Drunk and irritable, he'd surely vent on her. Despite nausea, she said "not yet" and forced down more food.
Yet Ferzen kept asking the same. Each time, praying he'd pass out drunk, she repeated herself stubbornly.
"Y-you seem quite intoxicated, Lord Ruerg."
"Do I..."
"I'm grateful you enjoyed the banquet I prepared, but... harming your health defeats the purpose. With the capital and imperial summons awaiting, perhaps retire now?"
"Very well..."
Pale-faced, Ferzen rose; Euphemia watched anxiously, mouth dry.
"Euphemia... lend me your shoulder."
"..."
His body swayed as if to topple, but his words rang clear. She approached, supporting him.
"Hng!"
A grown man's weight bore down; even hardy Euphemia struggled.
"C-careful...!"
Jjanggrang—! At the mansion hall's stairs, Ferzen's stumble toppled a decorative vase.
"Ah..."
Tailing worriedly, Baron Roberon paled and sighed inwardly—knowing Ferzen as Brutein's second son, he wept silently.
"My apologies."
"N-no, it's fine. This vase was paired with the one beside it... it just loses some value."
A pair formed one artwork; one broken ruined it entirely. Denying it desperately, the baron summoned servants to clear the shards.
"A pair..."
Hearing that, Ferzen halted his ascent, slowly approaching the remaining vase.
Before Baron Roberon could protest—jjanggrang—! He lifted and smashed it gloriously on the floor.
"..."
"Baron."
"..."
"A true pair lives and dies together, doesn't it? So when one breaks and loses value, both shattering restores their equality, no?"
Was the drunkenness feigned? His words were flawlessly coherent.
But sober, who would explain this? With no grudge against Ferzen, the baron seethed impotently.
"Baron. I asked you a question."
"Y-yes... quite right."
"Good... Our aesthetics align; it's pleasing. Bill the Brutein family later."
His only fault: his wife not holding utensils as Ferzen desired, plus misfortune.
"..."
Witnessing it all, Euphemia approached his beckoning hand, face ashen, stooping to support his trembling form.
Kkiiik! In the pitch-black room Baron Roberon assigned, alone at last, Euphemia felt his gaze choke her throat like a noose.