What the Tower Needs Most (2)
Lunchtime.
Oscar threw together a hasty meal from a can of soup in the cupboard, then left his room.
The 10th floor.
When the doors of the mana elevator slid open, a sea of vibrant color spread out before him.
This was the 10th-floor flower garden, a place he often came to for a walk whenever he needed to think something over deeply. Given that an entire floor had been turned into a garden, it was honestly less a garden than a full-fledged park.
"Mm, this is nice."
The fresh air seeped deep into his lungs, and his mood brightened at once.
Oscar did some light stretching, loosening up his stiff body.
This kid has terrible base stamina, probably from shutting himself in his room doing nothing but research.
Just yesterday, a single outing had drained him completely, hadn't it? Frankly, that part bothered him a little. The perfected mage he aspired to be needed a physical body no less capable than a knight's. And above all, the Oscar-style combat method demanded stamina as its foundation.
Let's start with just one easy lap.
He began running at a slow pace, and the scenery around him slid quickly past. Perhaps it was the fresh oxygen flooding his brain, but his mind grew sharper as well.
Well, I'd say the first button is buttoned properly for now.
The normalization of his physical circuits, Oscar Crucian's deepest wish, had been successfully completed. Eight circuits still remained bound, of course, but trying to release them now carried far too much risk.
I shouldn't attempt it until I'm at least 5th level. By then, my body will be able to withstand just about any shock.
The only reason he could so boldly abandon the Eight Extraordinary Meridians was that he had no need of them yet. They were circuits reserved for high-tier magic, after all.
...And the new mana breathing method is working well, too.
Right now, his body was absorbing mana without a single moment of rest. The greatest strength of this breathing method was that it could be maintained around the clock — even while asleep. Everything about it was perfect, except that his subordinates had slapped it with the ghastly name Oscar-style Breathing Method.
If nothing goes wrong, 3rd level within two months, and 4th level within half a year.
That much would keep anyone from sneering at him as a second-rate mage. But with the White Night Festival looming, even that would be too slow.
Oscar, who had been running while lost in one thought after another, gradually slowed to a stop.
"This place..."
He had arrived at the training ground where, in a dream still vivid in his memory, he had taught his disciples. Recalling the dream's contents once more, he gazed at the open ground with eyes touched by a faint loneliness.
He said he'd give me more private lessons. I made that promise with Lloyd, didn't I.
Truthfully, he hadn't even remembered it. The war had intensified more and more after that day, and the time he spent on battlefields came to outweigh the time spent at the tower. More hours among corpses than among his disciples.
"..."
Why was it, he wondered, that a master seemed to break far more promises than he kept?
For a moment he felt guilty toward Lloyd — and then, quite suddenly, a different feeling swelled up inside him.
No, really — being the Red Tower Master's disciple? That's just not fair.
That old man couldn't cast magic as well as Oscar could, and his personality was bizarre. Frankly, looks-wise, this side won by a landslide, too.
...And above all, that geezer doesn't suit Lloyd at all.
A man whose way of thinking was the exact opposite of Lloyd's — precocious yet delicate. And since Lloyd was his own disciple in that life, the man would no doubt nag him endlessly, one way or another. The boy's heart must have suffered terribly. Even so, there must have been a reason — a real one — that Lloyd came to serve him as master.
I want to know.
He was dying to ask what had happened, why Lloyd had made such a choice. But doing so right now was impossible. A 2nd-level mage had no way of getting close to someone standing as high as the Red Tower Master's disciple.
"So in the end, it comes back around to the White Tower."
Rebuilding the fallen White Tower would lift his own reputation along with it. And one day, the chance to exchange words with Lloyd would surely come.
...Now then, what should I fix first for the greatest effect?
In his head, Oscar held a vast store of knowledge that could only be called the history of the White Tower itself. And most of it no longer existed in the present-day tower — it had all been lost when the demons invaded twenty years ago.
Fortunately, revealing it bit by bit won't seem unnatural.
That was thanks to the existence of one Oscar Crucian. He had been hailed as a genius theoretical mage, and he'd researched obsessively across every field imaginable. In other words, he could churn out results one after another under the banner of research achievements, and hardly anyone would think to question it.
Oscar was in the middle of steadily stacking up his plans for the tower's reconstruction when—
"Hm?"
An old man dressed as a caretaker approached from the path across the way and greeted him warmly.
"If it isn't Little Oscar, sir?"
"...I'm sorry, who might you be?"
The old man made a pitying face at the question and bowed his head.
"I am Walter, an old servant of the Facility Management Department. So the rumor that you'd lost your memory in an accident was true, then."
"Yes, well. It would seem so. Were you and I close, by any chance, sir?"
"Hmm. I'm not sure 'close' would be the word, but whenever we crossed paths, you would often stop for a chat with me, Little Oscar."
"That's... surprising. Franc told me my personality was so foul that hardly anyone could bring themselves to talk to me."
At that, Walter let out a hearty laugh.
"Haha! It's true that you didn't mix well with the others, but I never thought it was because of a prickly temperament. To my eyes, you always seemed warmer-hearted than anyone."
"Then Franc lied to me."
"Hmm, heh heh..."
He didn't exactly deny calling it a lie. So this old man's personality had its quirks too, huh.
"By the way, what does 'Little Oscar' mean? My height isn't particularly small, is it?"
"Ah — I also worked here when the previous Tower Master was in office. To me, he was Big Oscar, you see."
"..."
It was a heartwarming thing. That even after twenty years had passed, there was still someone who remembered him. Oscar put on a gentle smile and spoke.
"That's a dashing way to tell us apart. I'll have to adopt it myself. I'll be dropping by now and then, so do keep me company for a chat then as well."
"Heh heh, that's a most gracious offer... but I'm afraid that will be difficult."
"..."
A rejection, here? Did something really go wrong with this man's personality after all?
When Oscar visibly faltered, Walter hurried on.
"Ah, no — it's not that I don't wish to. It's because I'll be leaving this tower soon, you see."
"Leaving? Where are you going?"
"...It has been nearly forty years since I first began working at this tower. I've served three Tower Masters in that time, and my colleagues have changed beyond counting. These days, I'm the only one left in my entire department. Heh heh."
Lowering himself slowly, he stroked a flower in full bloom with his wrinkled hand.
"The previous Tower Master, Oscar Sage, said this at his inauguration. Among those who dwell in this tower, he said, there is no one who is unnecessary — so live your lives taking pride in the fact that you belong to the White Tower."
"Ahem."
My face is heating up more than I expected.
Back then, he'd been riding high on the fact that he'd become the youngest Tower Master in history. No wonder such embarrassment-inducing words had come pouring out so easily.
"You may find it laughable, but from that day on, I have worked believing myself a member of this tower."
"It isn't laughable. I mean that sincerely."
Oscar spoke with the utmost gravity.
The Facility Management Department's role was to maintain and repair the tower's many installations. It might not sound like much, but a magic tower without them began to creak and groan before you knew it.
"Hearing you say it with such a serious face makes an old man bashful. In any case — that's why I'm resigning."
"...What on earth do you mean by that?"
Resigning because he took pride in belonging to the White Tower?
Walter rose slowly to his feet and spoke.
"As you know, Little Oscar, the White Tower is in a very difficult state right now. Those of us who work on the ground feel it in our bones above anyone. The facilities I've known like old friends are shutting down one by one, and even the parts needed to repair them are no longer being properly supplied."
"..."
"And all of it comes down to the tower's finances. Come next month, it will be exactly forty years since I began working here. Do you know what that means?"
Of course he did.
Oscar's eyes grew dark and still.
"...The long-service bonus."
Every employee of the White Tower, mages excluded, received a bonus and a commemorative plaque at twenty and forty years of service. The bonus awarded to someone who had devoted forty years to the White Tower was a full 200,000 Bel — enough to buy a house in any decent major city.
At that answer, Walter smiled a wistful smile and nodded slowly.
"That's right. And if I'm not mistaken, the White Tower of today cannot afford such a bonus. To raise that money, I imagine the Tower Master and many others will have to risk their lives fulfilling one new commission after another. And when I think of that... I simply cannot bring myself to take it. No matter what anyone says, this place is my second home."
"..."
The words were so unexpected that his voice caught in his throat.
It was true that the White Tower of this era had fallen. He knew it — had seen it with his own eyes, heard it with his own ears.
But still...
He had never imagined the finances were so rotten that a worker had to give up his rightful due. And the moment that thought landed, shame and fury surged up inside him at once.
...The Blue Tower was pulling every clownish stunt imaginable just to scrape together a few coins, was it?
Who was he, to sneer and condescend at their efforts? At the very least, with the money they earned, they were enjoying the greatest golden age in history.
And me? I'm...
War hero. Savior of humanity. Nothing but hollow titles, worthless as ash. They were mere phantoms — illusions that couldn't even secure a bonus for a man who had given decades of his life to the White Tower.
"L-Little Oscar, sir! Blood! There's blood coming from your hand!"
A startled Walter rushed over, wiped the blood away with his handkerchief, and even wrapped it in a bandage.
"Why were you clenching your fist so tightly? Your nails dug right in — doesn't that hurt?"
"..."
Oscar looked down at Walter's snow-white hair, unable to say a word. Right now, the guilt boring into his heart cut far deeper than the stinging pain in his palm.
Biting his lip hard, Oscar realized what the tower needed most at this very moment.
Money.
He had blacked it out entirely, spoiled by the prosperity of his days as Tower Master. He had forgotten that abundance is built in a full storehouse.
Oscar asked in a voice gone low and heavy.
"When were you planning to leave?"
"In two weeks."
Two weeks.
Oscar stared at the handkerchief bound around his palm and spoke.
"...I would like for you to remain my chat companion from now on, sir."
"But I'll soon be—"
"You don't have to leave."
Because he would make sure that never happened again. Not once more.
"I'll see to it myself."
Normalization of the magic tower. And the first goal he set toward that end was the securing of funds.