The Doomed Genius (1)
A spacious living room with an entire wall made of a single pane of glass. Through it, the full panorama of the white city of Shilin spread out before his eyes.
"Hard to believe, even watching it with my own eyes."
Oscar, who had been gazing at the night view in silence, murmured quietly.
"...So twenty years have passed."
That fellow Franc hadn't been lying. The Shilin unfolding before him now was unmistakably different from the city he remembered.
It's developed to the point of being dazzling.
The city that used to sink into darkness the moment the sun set was gone for good. Lights that looked as though stars had been plucked from the night sky glittered brilliantly in every corner of the streets.
Magical lighting. Back in my day, you'd only see that in a magic tower or the imperial palace.
Yet there those luxury magical fixtures stood, proudly installed along the public roads. And beyond that, vehicles that moved on their own without any horse pulling them—no matter how he looked at it, that one was astonishing.
"Streetlights, automobiles, the Magic Engineering revolution."
He murmured the new words he'd learned. After spending a long while taking in the city's peaceful night, Oscar smiled faintly.
Thank goodness.
In an era waiting for its own destruction, a city's atmosphere had always hung heavy with dread. People didn't speak to one another, and their eyes held the look of those who had given up on everything.
But now he could see faces wearing smiles here and there.
"...I'm truly glad."
It felt as though a sliver of the guilt piled up in one corner of his heart had lightened, if only a little. Even if it had been for humanity's sake, he had never once forgotten the moment he abandoned this place.
If the others could see this, they'd have loved it.
He longed to see the subordinates he'd sent up to the heavens ahead of him—and at the same time, he couldn't bear to face them. Oscar stared at the nighttime city with a tangled heart, then murmured:
"That's enough sightseeing."
Tap, tap.
He rapped lightly on the glass wall, and in an instant it transformed into a clean mirror. Oscar stared at the man reflected there—a man still unfamiliar to him.
"...Oscar Crucian."
By a curious coincidence, the original owner of this body had also been named Oscar. Born to a fallen count's family, taken in by the White Tower at the age of ten, and now twenty years old.
For starters, the face passes.
The aristocratic young-master type, marked by sharp eyes and snow-white skin. The azure eyes, identical to those of his past life, suited the black hair rather well, too.
But... as a mage, he fails.
Still unable to break past Level 1 at this age. That meant he was hopelessly, profoundly lacking in talent. If he'd merely been average, he'd have reached Level 3 by now.
Is that why he grew so impatient, I wonder.
He'd heard the boy embezzled his research funds to take an illegal elixir. A potion said to multiply one's mana reserves severalfold, but one that could cost you your life if it failed.
Franc said surviving that stuff was pure luck, but...
Truth be told, this boy probably would have died from taking it. And that was precisely why Oscar's soul had come to inhabit this body. The concept seemed similar to the possession used by spirit-type monsters.
But there's no way my soul wandered the world for no reason at all.
Someone was clearly playing games with his soul. Whoever that insolent culprit might be, hunting them down could wait.
First, I need to find out the White Tower's current situation and what's become of my disciples.
And no wonder—of his mere three disciples, two were being called traitors.
"...What on earth has been happening all this time?"
Wearing a complicated expression, Oscar sat down on the sofa. It was partly to sort through his tangled thoughts, and partly to take stock of his new body's condition.
Vmmm!
His mana circuits, dormant until now, awakened at the call of a former Archmage—and he jolted in surprise.
"What is this?"
So much of it. For a mere Level 1 mage, the mana he possessed was overwhelming. Most of it, no less, was pure and still unrefined.
...And you're telling me all of this came from drinking some cheap black-market elixir?
Stunning—truly, the prices of this modern age. Mouth falling slightly open in admiration, Oscar drew up his mana with practiced ease.
Hmm.
Regardless of the quantity, the state of his circuits was difficult to describe as anything close to good. A mana circuit, by rights, should be smooth as a well-tended walkway. But this boy's circuits were a wreck, like a beach riddled with potholes that swallowed your feet at every step.
Well, I suppose expecting anything from a talentless Level 1 mage would be asking too much.
Just as Oscar moved to examine the mana circuits in closer detail—
...And what is this, now?
The moment he detected something strange lurking in the circuits, he gathered the foreign energies into the tip of his left index finger and expelled them like sweat.
Szzzit!
The edge of the desk where a single drop of black liquid landed melted away on the spot.
"Poison?"
And a lethal one at that. Considering the residual amount and the timing, it had to be an ingredient in that so-called illegal elixir. Oscar took a moment to collect his thoughts, then slowly nodded.
...I see. I think I have a rough idea of what happened here.
For one thing, the illegal elixir Oscar Crucian had drunk was absolutely no bargain-bin product. Judging by the volume and purity of the mana, it was far beyond anything a cheap knockoff elixir could ever produce.
In its day, this would have been a genuinely premium elixir—hard to get your hands on even at a steep premium.
The seller must have used the elixir as bait to propose something, and Oscar Crucian hadn't been able to refuse. The only problem was that he hadn't known poison had been mixed into it.
In other words, this boy's cause of death wasn't mana rampage. It was poisoning.
What was more, the grade of the poison was far too high for killing a mere Level 1 mage. It was subtle enough that it would never have been detected without a full autopsy of the corpse.
"..."
Oscar considered for a moment how to receive this situation, then slowly rose to his feet. And gazing at the face in the mirror, he spoke.
"...Rest in peace. I'll repay the loan of your body with your revenge."
Even setting that aside, it was only right to clear away, in advance, anything that might obstruct his road ahead. Oscar picked up the vial faintly scented with herbs and left the room.
Elder Maxim, walking the corridors of the tower, found himself thinking back on that morning.
Goodness me.
The Wind Shield Oscar had deployed was polished enough to startle even him. If he hadn't collected himself in that instant, his wrist might have been twisted clean out of joint.
The boy's been training harder than I gave him credit for.
An elder of the White Tower could see ten things from one. Wind Shield was a basic spell, but no amount of a day or two of effort could produce that level of refinement. The boy must have been grinding himself down in secret, cutting even sleep and meals from his schedule.
His eyes stinging for no reason he could name, Maxim stopped walking and looked out the window.
"...Foolish boy."
Years ago, when the acting Tower Master had brought in some snot-nosed brat, he had opposed it tooth and nail. This wasn't an orphanage, and with mouths to trim from the roster, why on earth would they take in a child?
But that conviction had been overturned before long.
A genius, that's what he was.
The moment he glimpsed even the edge of that overwhelming talent, expectation had taken root and sprouted all on its own. This child would grow into a great mage. He would raise a new wind through the crumbling White Tower.
"..."
But the gods were mischievous. They gave him a mind capable of understanding the principles behind every spell in the world—yet withheld the body to wield any of it.
His growth lagged so far behind his staggering grasp of magic that an investigation was ordered. The verdict: the boy was a patient of Mana Deficiency Syndrome.
That was the first day I ever learned a man could weep so bitterly.
Perhaps that was why, when the boy himself announced he would convert to a theoretical mage, Maxim had quietly considered it a mercy. With the boy's understanding of magic, he'd believed the boy could claim an unrivaled place in the theoretical field.
But after the conversion, the path he walked had been nothing short of disappointing. Years upon years without producing a single result—what exactly had he been doing with the research funds paid out from the tower's empty coffers?
"And then the embezzlement scandal broke on top of it all... That little troublemaker, stirring up people's hearts for no good reason."
"Heh heh."
At the low chuckle behind him, Maxim whirled around. Standing there was a tiny old man who barely reached his chest, hands clasped behind his back.
"Acting Tower Master?"
"I was just looking for Elder Maxim, and here you are."
"Looking for me? What brings this on?"
"If I leave you be, I suspect you'll go storming off to tear into that boy again."
"Ah, that—well..."
Maxim, looking sheepish, cleared his throat awkwardly.
"I already gave him an earful this morning."
"My, already?"
Clicking his tongue lightly, the acting Tower Master spoke.
"Don't come down on him too hard. He's suffering more than anyone."
"We can't coddle him forever. Embezzling research funds is the one thing I cannot forgive. But..."
The boy had simply been turning his back on reality—that much, Maxim had believed. He'd thought him a child who assumed one swallow of an elixir would fix everything. But his thinking had shifted, just a little.
...Perhaps I was the one who gave up on him first. Perhaps I was the one carrying the ugliest prejudice of all.
And the proof of it: hadn't the boy been working harder than anyone, out of sight? A belated rush of shame washed over Maxim, and he smiled bitterly.
"That Oscar... he might be more of an adult than I am, in some ways."
"If that's true, I'd appreciate him not causing any incidents for a while."
"Ha! The boy has a conscience, surely. It's only been a few hours since the last disaster—surely he won't cook up another one that fast?"
Just as Maxim burst out laughing, absolutely certain of it—
Oscar stepped through the door of a tavern somewhere in the city.
"Welcome."
The moment Oscar entered the establishment, Goblin's Tears, the bartender polishing a glass greeted him. Oscar took a seat at the counter, glancing around.
"So this is... a tavern?"
"Yes, as you can see. We do serve simple dishes to accompany your drinks, of course."
This was an unexpected turn of events. He'd tracked the faint herbal scent lingering in the vial—never did he imagine it would lead to a bar.
That means it's one of two things.
Either the original owner had come here for a drink after buying the illegal elixir, or this was where the transaction took place. Weighing which was more likely, the answer went without saying: the latter.
"A few days ago, I met someone here to conduct a transaction. Does that ring any bells?"
"Well, sir. We get so many customers coming and going in a single day..."
"It was an elixir. The vicious kind—multiply your mana severalfold if it works, die if it doesn't. I very nearly died myself, as it happens."
"...I'm sorry, but I really couldn't say."
The bartender shook his head as though sorry he couldn't help, and went back to polishing the glass. Oscar stared at him for a moment, then asked flatly:
"Not coming clean, is it?"
"Excuse me?"
"That glass. You've been polishing that one glass since the moment I walked in."
"..."
The bartender's busily moving hands froze—and he cast a quick glance at something behind him. At once, four burly men rose as if they'd been waiting and surrounded Oscar.
"Hey, mage. Why don't you quit harassing the innocent bartender and have a little chat with us instead?"
"Do yourself a favor and drink your ale like a good boy while we're being polite. And spend a little generously while you're at it."
"Hundreds of customers come through here in a day—how's anyone supposed to remember who met who, eh?"
"..."
Oscar studied the men encircling him with a level gaze, then opened his mouth.
"...Am I being threatened right now? By a mage of the White Tower, no less?"
"Khh! A mage? You think belonging to a magic tower makes you a real mage?"
"Aigoo, you uncultured brat, at least show him the courtesy he's due. He's a genius theoretical mage, after all."
"A half-pint who can't cast anything but basics, sure."
From the snickering thugs, he gleaned a piece of information he hadn't known.
So this body was a theoretical mage.
That explained why he'd still been Level 1 at this age. A theoretical mage devoted himself to interpreting and researching magic rather than practical combat.
"Anyway, we don't remember a thing, so unless you're here to drink, beat it."
"That's a lie."
"...What?"
"What you just said. It's a lie."
The air tells you far more than people think it does. For instance, the air around that man was trembling faintly—because he was lying.
"You little punk, on what basis—"
"Tony. Don't get worked up."
The man who calmed his companion slid a hand to his waist and let the scabbard of his sword catch the light—a threat, plain and simple.
"Why don't you quit throwing your tantrum and get out, mage? Otherwise you won't much like how this ends."
"...Hmm."
Oscar rubbed his chin, considering.
If I were the original owner of this body, what would I do here?
The answer came quickly.
Who cares what he would do.
He smirked and looked the man in the eye.
"Did you know? They say when a person dies and comes back to life, their whole personality can change overnight."
"...?"
"So if I seem like a stranger to you from this point on—that's why."
Barely had the words left his mouth—shff! shff!
With a sound like a heavy blade carving through meat, the three men behind him crumpled to the floor.
"...Huh?"
"M-my leg! Blood! There's blood on my leg!"
"AAAGH!"
Faces mottled with pain and terror shrieked like slaughtered pigs. The one man left standing scrambled to draw his sword—but something cold had already come to rest against the nape of his neck.
"Th-this is...?"
"Wind Cutter. The basic spell you all loved to sneer at."
There is no such thing as a bad spell in this world. What matters is only who wields it, and how.
"I'll ask once more."
Oscar's characteristically sharp eyes fixed on the man. He dangled the elixir vial he'd brought and swayed it gently as he asked:
"Who was it? The one who sold me this filth."