Mage Hunters (3)
A strange standoff took shape in the middle of the black market's street.
Oscar, having already deduced who they were, tossed the question back at them.
"And what business does a Yellow Tower mage have with us?"
"...Hah. You saw through our identities, and *that's* the tone you take with us?"
As the burly mage's eyes blazed, the gaunt one beside him hurriedly held him back.
"Now, now, what good does picking a fight right off do? You'll scare them."
He bowed at the waist with practiced grace.
"A pleasure. I am Bern Rodrí, a 4th-level mage of the Yellow Tower. Introduce yourself too."
"Why would I bother greeting trash like—"
"It's the mission, remember? Hurry up."
"Tch. Jonathan Pult. 4th-level mage of the Yellow Tower."
Oscar quietly probed the air around the two men first.
Hmm. Their lie is...
The air lay still, undisturbed by so much as a tremor.
Doesn't seem like one.
Then again, it wasn't conclusive proof either way. This was a cheap parlor trick at best—one that only worked on sloppy amateurs who couldn't even control their own emotions.
By that measure, the two men before him were professionals.
At the very least, they've got their own feelings buttoned up perfectly.
Having heard their introductions, he couldn't exactly snub them in return. Oscar gave a small nod and spoke.
"Oscar Crucian, 3rd-level mage of the White Tower."
"Kilian Lockwood. 4th-level mage of the White Tower."
"Hm? Kilian Lockwood... you wouldn't mean the White Tower's Rising Star?"
When Bern's eyes went round with surprise, Kilian gave an irritated little tilt of his head.
"Well, this works out nicely! The reason we sought you out is none other than a request for your cooperation."
"...Cooperation, you say?"
"Yes. You two will surely have heard the rumors—that mage hunters have been prowling the northern territories of late."
Oscar and Kilian gave quiet nods. After all, the phone call from Maxim earlier that very evening had been about exactly that.
"The last place that creature's trail was discovered is right here—in Baran. We are working with the mages stationed in Baran City so that if any one of us falls to the mage hunters, the rest can track the trace and bring the bastard down. So we earnestly ask for your cooperation."
"What exactly does this cooperation entail?"
Kilian asked the question.
Huh. So this guy can manage basic conversation with strangers after all.
"Nothing terribly complicated."
Bern produced a single card from inside his robe and held it out to Kilian.
"Please, accept this."
"What is it?"
"A card imbued with magic. It's paired with one I carry myself. Would you care to channel a bit of mana into it?"
When Kilian fed his mana into the card, a thread of it sprang taut between the two cards, linking them.
Bern wore a satisfied expression as he continued.
"When you channel mana like so, a thread forms that lets you track the other holder's location, up to a maximum of ten kilometers. And should your partner die, the card glows red—simply follow it."
"Hm."
Efficient, no denying it.
Whatever else might be said of them, it was clear these two were serious about hunting down the mage hunters.
Come to think of it, they did say even Red Tower and Yellow Tower mages had fallen victim to the bastard recently.
Apparently, the pair had been assigned by the Yellow Tower itself to eliminate him.
Bern tucked his own card back into his robe.
"We'll check on your position once every two hours. If you two make it safely to Shilin, simply tear up the card. We'll know on our end what that means."
"Understood. And do we need to check in every two hours as well?"
At Kilian's question, the burly mage—Jonathan—let out a snort.
"You're a funny one. Maybe for the likes of you, but do we look like we'd fall to some lowlife?"
"Well... Jonathan's words are abrasive, but he isn't wrong. It's hardly likely we'd be the ones taken down."
It was boasting of the most brazen kind.
Kilian studied the two of them for a moment, then apparently decided further conversation wasn't worth the effort and gave a careless nod.
"Fine."
Bern immediately held his card out toward him.
Too much of a bother to carry it himself, so he's dumping it on me.figures.
But as Kilian reached for it, Bern stayed his hand.
"Ah—apologies, but the card has already been registered with Kilian's mana. If you were to hold it, it wouldn't function."
"You heard him. Kilian, you carry it."
"...Fine."
Only once Kilian had slipped the card into his coat did color finally return to Bern's face.
"Thank you for your understanding! Then I wish you both a safe journey."
Once the two were gone, Oscar murmured,
"Let's go as well."
Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
The mountain road back to Shilin was dark and quiet.
With no money to spare, they had hired a carriage instead of a taxi—though truthfully, this mode suited him better anyway. It was far slower and less comfortable than a taxi, but a carriage had a certain romance all its own.
Kilian, seated beside him and staring out at the darkened window for a long while, suddenly spoke.
"...There was no warrior more suited to inherit the King's Tattoo than she was."
He realized at once that this was about Kaya Lockwood.
"I've thought it over hundreds of times. Thousands, even. Why did she do it? In time, the tattoo would have passed to her naturally. Why would she go so far as to break into the temple uninvited and strike down the chief just to steal it?"
Oscar kept his eyes and mouth shut, ears only open. The man wasn't looking for some grand response—he was simply letting what festered inside him spill out.
"At first, I told myself there must have been circumstances beyond her control. The her I know has a rotten streak, finds pleasure in tormenting others—but she was someone who understood what a warrior's pride meant."
From that brief monologue, Oscar could piece together what had happened among the Forest Tribe.
"But to steal that sacred power, only to use it for... for common crime. It's beyond forgiveness."
"Nothing unusual happening within the tribe before she took the King's Tattoo?"
"Nothing. If anything, it was utterly peaceful. Looking back now, I miss it with an ache I can hardly bear."
"Hm."
Then why on earth did she do it?
Even with the facts laid out before him, Oscar couldn't readily guess the reason.
It's possible there's no reason at all.
That was how it went when a person was simply rotten to the core.
And yet—accepting that Radan's daughter was one of those people was something he couldn't quite bring himself to do.
Oscar glanced sidelong at him and said,
"Don't torment yourself over it. In time, you'll understand naturally. Until then, pour yourself into what you *can* do."
"...What I can do. There's wisdom in that."
Only then did Kilian turn his head to meet his eyes, and asked with evident curiosity,
"Though I wonder why you never asked me first. You must have been curious—why I'm so desperate to bring her down, why she serves in the Purple Brigade."
"I figured you'd tell me when the time came. And if the time wasn't right, asking would've gotten me nothing anyway."
"...I see."
Having grasped the thoughtfulness behind it, Kilian softened into a gentle smile.
"You remind me of the elders back in the tribe."
"?"
Don't tell me I come across as old. No way. I'm exactly like the young folks these days, aren't I?
But before he could even ask what he meant, the man had started nodding off, head bobbing.
"...Good grief."
He really does take after his father.
He'd already gathered that the man was every bit as simple-minded as Radan had been.
Letting out a quiet chuckle, Oscar looked down at the bracelet on his left wrist.
Quite a fine piece, and at a good price too.
Permanently engraving a spell into an object was never an easy feat. It required making the magic usable even by those who couldn't cast it themselves.
And this isn't even a mere magic tool—it's an artifact.
Both bore enchanted spells, and the difference between a magic tool and an artifact was simple: quality. Artifacts unearthed from dungeons were, by default, in a league of their own. They were creations fused with the technology of a civilization so ancient it had been all but forgotten—what scholars called the ultra-ancient era.
What's more, the spell engraved on this bracelet is one even I don't fully understand.
Illusion magic was a discipline cultivated by the Purple Tower, demanding not only exquisitely refined mana control but a wealth of imagination besides. In other words, even with an artifact in hand, the talentless simply couldn't use it. If this had been an artifact engraved with any other spell, it would have sold off long ago—not three years on the shelf, but barely three weeks.
Conversely, someone like me can wring every last drop of efficiency out of an artifact like this.
Because he had talent to spare.
Oscar studied the bracelet the way one might examine a fascinating new toy.
Shall we take it for a spin?
He channeled mana into the bracelet, and once again thirty percent of his reserves vanished.
As the tiny copy of Oscar materialized in the seat across from him, he stroked his chin thoughtfully.
So the form it summons is locked to a duplicate of me, then?
He concentrated hard, marshaling every ounce of imagination he possessed to force the figure before him into something else.
Trinity. Yes. Let's turn it into Trinity.
He strained and wrestled with his focus, but the effort ended in failure. Still, judging by the way the duplicate's left arm had morphed into the shape of a gun, it wasn't entirely impossible either.
Seems like a matter of proficiency for now. It'll improve with practice.
Once he reached that point, he'd be able to summon smaller illusions at a fraction of the cost. In terms of mana efficiency—and versatility—that would be far superior.
Can I make it move, though?
He pictured the Oscar seated across from him stirring to life.
The instant he did, the other Oscar crossed his legs with elegant poise, folded his arms, and turned a cool, half-lidded gaze out the carriage window.
It works.
Granted, it devoured mana like a madman. Recreating movement that smooth cost an extra one percent of his reserves per second.
But if I summon an illusion and keep it moving for just ten seconds...
He'd witness the miracle of forty percent of his total mana simply evaporating. He clicked his tongue lightly and cut off the supply, and the illusion scattered—precisely ten seconds later.
Ten seconds on residual mana. A little disappointing, but not terrible.
Especially considering that in a real fight, ten seconds was an eternity—enough time to accomplish a staggering amount.
Judging by the fidelity and fluidity of the magic's manifestation, its maker had without question been a high-tier mage.
So the story about it being found in an ancient dungeon wasn't a lie after all.
A smile curled at the corner of Oscar's mouth, and he went on running one experiment after another. He had only just finished to his satisfaction and closed his eyes to rest when—a thread of mana that had flown in from far away burrowed into Kilian's coat.
"Hm?"
Sensing it, Kilian's eyes snapped open, and he fished the card out of his coat.
Vvvmmm.
"And here I thought... Seems they're checking whether we're still alive."
"Didn't they say they'd check once every two hours, though?"
It felt as though at least six hours had passed without word.
Just as a faint unease began to creep over them, the driver raised his torch and shouted.
"Someone up ahead! I don't know who you are, but get out of the way! MOVE!"
Oscar leaned out the window to look at the figure stumbling toward them. Someone was staggering on unsteady feet, yet kept lurching in their direction.
"Driver, sir—please stop for a moment."
"Oscar, that man is..."
"I know. It's Bern Rodrí—whatever his name is."
It was the mage who had handed out the cards at the black market, and his condition was decidedly off. Whether he'd been rolling on the ground or what, dirt streaked his eyes and his filthy robe hung in tatters. Wounds showed through the tears, and broken manacles still dangled from his wrists and ankles.
"What happened to you?"
As Oscar stepped down from the carriage and approached, the man broke into choked sobs.
"Help—please, help us. Jonathan's been kidnapped."
"Kidnapped? What kind of lunatic would abduct a Yellow Tower mage... wait. Don't tell me."
At the question, Bern's tears began to fall in bitter streams. And then, from his lips came a name neither of them could bear to hear.
"...The mage hunters."
His shoulders heaved as he wept in misery.
"Jonathan is in that monster's hands right now."