Boot Camp Training (2)
The sole weakness of a Harmony Sphere mage was that their mana accumulated more slowly than that of any other element.
So what if there existed a breathing method that let you build mana twenty-four hours a day?
It was an idea so childish a toddler could have dreamed it up — and the one who had pulled it out of imagination and into reality was the Oscar-style Breathing Method.
I leaned on Ouroboros magic a lot when I created it.
And so Oscar paused to think it over. Now that he had succeeded in restoring Ouroboros, would people actually believe him if he claimed he'd built a brand-new breathing method on the back of that same magic?
After turning the question over in his mind for a long while, the conclusion he reached was simple: absolutely not.
Even granting that I was a genius of theoretical magic, developing a breathing method single-handedly is far too much to swallow.
His past self had only completed it upon reaching the 9th Level. And now a 3rd Level mage was supposed to have produced a method of identical performance?
He'd be lucky to escape being hauled off to some secret imperial military facility for live experimentation.
"Hmm."
But the goal of the upcoming boot camp was to raise every single student to 4th Level. For that, he absolutely had to create a situation in which he could legitimately teach the Oscar-style Breathing Method.
After agonizing over it for ages, Oscar finally hit upon the most plausible approach.
If it's impossible to announce that I made it, then the most natural angle is that I stumbled upon it by chance.
As it happened, he knew of one perfectly suitable spot — a place where a previous Tower Master's legacy might plausibly lie buried.
"...Whew."
That place was somewhere he never wanted to set foot in again if he could help it — a place stuffed to the brim with traces of his careless younger years.
His old hideout.
* * *
At some point, whenever he thought of his master, the same single scene had begun to play in his mind.
Scratch, scratch.
"...You're really not going to help me with this?"
Oscar, facing down a mountain of paperwork alone, finally voiced his complaint. In response, the old man standing by the window, sipping from a wineglass, let out a hearty chuckle.
"You rascal, this is all rehearsal. Once you're Tower Master, it'll all be yours to do anyway."
"That's exactly my point. Once I become Tower Master next month, I'll be sick to death of this work — so why are you making me start early?"
"I've been sick to death of it for decades myself. Just think of it as a young man getting a month's head start on his suffering. Enough griping."
It was the day, barely a month before his succession ceremony.
He could still remember, vividly, the happiest face in the world that his master wore that day.
"You know what I've been feeling lately? Time just flies. Feels like only yesterday I scraped you off the streets."
"Oh, come on. What am I, a stray cat? 'Scraped off the streets,' honestly."
"I did haul you out of a back alley, didn't I? You were crying your eyes out — eyeball gunk and snot everywhere."
"AAAAH!"
Snickering as he teased his disciple, his master turned his gaze to the brilliant moon beyond the window and went on.
"...It's been hard on you. It's about to get a great deal harder."
Gilbert Rosenbach.
The 16th White Tower Master — the giant who had steered the White Tower with a steady hand for forty-two years — was on the verge of retirement.
"...That's it? You don't have anything more to say to me?"
"What more is there to say?"
"I don't know, there's usually something, isn't there? Advice like, this is how you lead a magic tower, never do this or that."
"If you want it, of course I can give it."
His master smiled faintly and delivered the most irresponsible advice imaginable.
"Do it however you like."
"...You're joking, right?"
"Dead serious. That's exactly what the White Tower must be. Never stagnate — flow endlessly onward. Complete a White Tower that is yours alone."
The words struck him anew with their weight. Because it meant that from next month onward, hundreds of lives would hang on his every word.
Reading his master's expression, Oscar sidled in with a sly remark.
"Couldn't you put off retiring just a little longer? You're still hale and hearty — what's the rush?"
"You rascal, even I should get to benefit from having a brilliant disciple. My knees ache every time it rains these days. Even walking is a chore."
He must not be taken in by that pitiful face.
If an 8th Level Archmage found walking difficult, then the rest of the elderly ought to be bedridden, simply waiting out their final days.
"Oh, but what on earth is wrong with that Emperor fellow? Why does he torment a man who's about to retire like this?"
"He's probably just reluctant to see you go, Master."
The two of them shared an extraordinary bond.
After all, the Emperor Uncle, as a boy, had received all manner of tutelage from his master.
"Even so — you said it's your last commission before retirement?"
"That's right. Apparently they've found traces unlike anything seen before in the Red Mountains. I ought to go have a look."
The Red Mountains.
A place the Empire classified, for all practical purposes, as the end of the world. Beyond it stretched nothing but the Gray Zone, where nothing else was said to exist.
"...It's just a simple reconnaissance mission, so you'll be back soon, then?"
"I plan to go and enjoy it like a bit of a holiday."
His master shot a sidelong glance at Oscar's face and smiled wryly.
"I'll be back before the ceremony, so don't you worry about that."
"...I wasn't worried."
He was no little child fretting over whether his parents would show up late for the school recital.
Pursing his lips into a pout, Oscar asked,
"By the way, are you really not giving me a succession gift? They say every other tower gives one. Maybe I'll defect."
"Heh heh heh."
His master laughed a warm, good-natured laugh and turned to meet his eyes. Those crescent-moon crinkles were brimming with mischief.
"I already gave it, you rascal."
"...Don't tell me all the memories you and I have built together are the gift. If that's what this is, I really am defecting."
"BWAHAHA! Well — either way, I gave it, so go and look for it properly. You'll probably find it right away."
His master laughed so boisterously it seemed to shake the room — and the very next day, he departed for the Red Mountains with the imperial army.
And that was the last image of his master that Oscar ever held in his memory.
For his master had been slain in the Red Mountains — by beings who, upon first encountering them there, called themselves demons.
That was probably when it started.
The moment his feet stopped carrying him to the hideout he'd once slunk off to for slacking at every opportunity.
Perhaps it had been a kind of compulsion.
A compulsion to lead the White Tower perfectly, just as his master had entrusted it to him. A compulsion to become a flawless leader, a flawless mage, worthy of the man.
...A compulsion to slaughter every last demon alive and avenge him.
"Twenty-six years since I've been here, huh."
Twenty-six years is long enough for even mountains and rivers to change twice over.
And yet the small pond before him had preserved its appearance from his memory, untouched.
That much was only natural. This place was an artificial space his past self had conjured with illusion magic.
From the outside it looks like an ordinary pond — but if you dive in carrying a specific mana code...
Having altered his mana code, Oscar leapt into the pond without a moment's hesitation.
Thankfully, his memory hadn't failed him; his body never so much as touched the water.
Thud! Landing on the pond's floor, Oscar opened the door set into the bottom.
I made it myself, but I really did a fine job.
Self-congratulating as he descended the stairs, he emerged into what looked for all the world like a cram student's room. This, too, had stayed just the same. The desk where he used to doodle with magic, the bookshelf packed with dozens of novels, even the box where he'd stashed his snacks.
As Oscar gazed at that familiar, spotless room, his expression slowly turned strange.
"......"
Why is it clean in here?
He had no memory whatsoever of casting a preservation spell over this place.
Sweeping his astonished eyes around the room, he caught sight of it — a single letter and a wooden box, sitting on the desk. As though something had taken hold of him, Oscar drifted toward them.
"This is..."
The seal fastening the letter closed.
It belonged to someone he knew better than anyone — someone familiar, someone he missed.
That's Master's seal, isn't it?
With trembling hands he broke the seal, and an elegant, graceful handwriting he had thought he would never see again revealed itself.
[Well done finding this. You built it quite nicely, I must say.]
[Everyone needs an outlet where they can breathe.]
[It needn't be a space, mind you. A person to lean on, or a hobby that empties your head — any of those will do. Whatever it may be, make sure you keep at least one. That is an order.]
[Ah, and about the succession gift. I thought it would be far too awkward to hand it over to your face, so I'm simply leaving it here.]
[P.S. Now that you're to be Tower Master, learn to do a little cleaning while you're at it. How old are you, and your room looks like this, you filthy brat.]
Had he known all along that Oscar spent every spare moment lounging around in here?
And here he'd thought he'd hidden it perfectly...
The first scolding he'd heard in twenty-six years.
He used to hate it so much back then — so why did he crave it so desperately now?
Oscar sat down in the chair and stared at the spotless room for a long, long while. He could see it: his master, personally folding the blankets, tidying the bookshelf, casting the preservation spell.
"...So the gift was real. You really did have one for me."
He'd assumed it was a lie, and had griped about it endlessly to Edna, too.
After fidgeting with the wooden box for an age, Oscar slowly lifted its lid.
Inside lay a single pair of gloves — as thin and transparent as cicada wings.
Breeze.
These were the heirloom weapon his master had wielded.
Lighter than a feather, yet an artifact capable of effortlessly deflecting sword aura and mid-tier magic. Their hardness even rivaled steel — they could shatter any ordinary boulder without the slightest strain.
Beside the gloves sat one more small note.
"......"
Wordlessly, Oscar drew out the gloves and tried them on both hands.
They had seemed a touch too large at first, but the moment he slipped them on, they adjusted themselves perfectly to the size of his hands. To the eye, they looked no different from his bare hands.
Which made the artifact's value all the more staggering.
"...You said I'd find it right away, didn't you."
The moment the words left his mouth, the rims of his eyes reddened, and Oscar bowed his head deep.
When he had confirmed his master's body, those hands had been bare — no Breeze on them.
So naturally, he had assumed the demons who slew his master had stolen it away.
I asked every time, cutting down thousands upon thousands of them.
Was it you? Were you the one who took Breeze?
Not a single demon ever answered that question.
But then — why is it...
Why is it here?
If his master had carried these with him, might he not have bested the demons he encountered out there?
Might he not have clawed back another life or two at that moment of crisis?
Might he not — perhaps — have burst through the doors of the succession ceremony with that trademark booming laughter after all?
"...Hhk."
Clenching both fists, Oscar buried his face in the desk, his shoulders quivering faintly for a long while.
* * *
He didn't know how much time had passed since then.
Wiping his reddened eyes, Oscar rose from the chair and walked to the bookshelf. From among the books packed wall to wall, he pulled out one thick notebook.
It's a shame. This will be the first and last time.
He couldn't very well "stumble upon" the previous Tower Master's hideout over and over, all under the pretense of coincidence.
Which meant this was the golden opportunity to turn his past-life knowledge into a book and leave it to the tower.
But even for a Tower Master, smuggling out copies of high-tier grimoires is impossible...
The only knowledge worth passing on right now was the Oscar-style Breathing Method — nothing more.
Setting his regrets aside, Oscar swiftly filled the notebook with the pen he'd brought along.
Once he had completed a book spanning one hundred and twenty pages, he used his magic to blast the ink away here and there.
"Hmm."
Even under close scrutiny it looked like a book written decades ago — there would be no reason for suspicion.
"......"
Before leaving the hideout, he turned back for one last look at the place and pouted his lips.
"And for the record, I'm not a filthy brat anymore. I bet I clean better than you did, Master."
BWAHAHA!
For just a moment, he could have sworn he heard that trademark, room-shaking laughter ring in his ears.