Special Affairs Department (4)
Veronica Frix took a small, deep breath.
That punk is supposed to be stronger than me?
What a joke. She had reached Level 4 a full two years ago. That meant she'd been an intermediate mage already back in her final year at the Academy, when the White Tower was still sponsoring her.
I hate to say it myself, but I've got talent.
And she wasn't some fat pig who basked in her own talent and stopped putting in the work, either. She was proud of it, and she was certain of it — that in the past two years, no mage alive had worked harder than she had.
I've never once skipped a single morning of training. Not one day.
Even a cold would keep her from training, so she was always careful and restrained herself from going out unnecessarily. She managed herself with ruthless discipline and trained her body to the point of near abuse.
Sure, I'm not Level 5 yet, and I can't say I'm better than Kilian……
But she took pride in the conviction that, at the very least, she ranked among the top two or three Level 4 mages in the entire White Tower. That pride was a castle built from the accumulated effort of years — and the engine that would let her work even harder tomorrow.
Watch closely.
A mage who had only reached Level 4 four months ago. No matter how much talent he had, talent could not beat two years of time and all the effort dissolved within it.
She opened her eyes sharp and cold, and spoke.
"Come at me."
"……"
At her words, Franc stole a glance back at Oscar.
"Why are you looking at me? You should be looking at Veronica."
"No, I mean — are you seriously telling me to use that?"
"What's this all of a sudden? When you were sparring with me, you swung like you were trying to beat me into the ground."
"That was…… because I was certain you wouldn't die."
"Same goes for Veronica. She might get hurt a little, but she's absolutely not going to die."
Oscar gave a warning.
"Think of it as fighting me, and come at her with everything you've got. Otherwise you might be the one getting flattened."
"……Sorry. I think I got ahead of myself."
That one line snapped Franc back to his senses, and he turned his gaze forward again.
Veronica, with her High-Speed Chanting, was ready to deploy magic at any instant — but she didn't attack first. Her stance carried only one meaning.
She's telling me to show my hand first.
Whatever it turned out to be, she would crush it head-on — so bring it out. Come to think of it, it made sense. If some guy who'd never even spared you a second glance was suddenly declared stronger than you, of course it would get under your skin.
"……Then here I come."
With those words, Franc undid the strap hanging at his waist.
A whip?
At the appearance of such an unexpected weapon, Veronica's eyebrows twitched. It was not a weapon White Tower mages typically used.
If I recall, whip-style weapons are favored by certain schools in the Yellow Tower — the ones that prioritize speed.
One thing was certain: a whip did not pair well with the White Tower's wind magic.
A whip attack would be built around speed.
If she could block just one strike, she could launch her own relentless offensive. All she'd have to do was rain dozens of spells down on him before he could recover the whip.
Block it once. Just once.
She ratcheted her focus up to its absolute peak. Franc Sirius's gaze, the rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest — she absorbed every piece of information about her opponent without missing a thing.
And then, at last, his body moved.
His ankle.
The first thing to move wasn't his arm — it was his ankle. The ankle rotated, and in sequence his calf, thigh, pelvis, and hips turned with it, the force flowing up his frame like water. The moment his shoulders — the final recipients of all that accumulated power — began to turn—
"Dance of Steel."
Screeeeeech!
That was not a sound a mere whipped lash could make. A roar like space itself splitting apart rang against their ears like the trumpets of the apocalypse.
"……!"
Veronica instinctively threw up a Wind Shield.
No — this won't be enough.
She layered a double Air Cushion between herself and her opponent and cast Wind Press to bleed speed from the incoming whip. And on top of that, a final line of defense — a triple Wind Shield across her entire front.
True to her High-Speed Chanting, she had deployed six spells in the blink of an eye, and for just a moment she allowed herself to relax—
……Huh?
She saw it. The formless whip, its speed drastically reduced, slicing through three layers of Wind Shield as if they were sheets of paper.
"Kgh!"
A searing heat flared across her side, and her body lifted off the ground.
KRA-BOOOM!
Flung backward, she rolled across the dirt outside the training ground, over and over.
"……!"
Kilian, who had watched the exchange unfold in an instant, uncrossed his arms in visible shock.
That attack just now……
Could he have blocked it? Even without thinking it through, the answer was obvious.
Impossible.
Blocking an attack that reckless head-on was suicide to begin with. If he ever had to face it, evasion — a warrior's footwork — was the only option. No question.
"D-damn it."
Veronica rose, brushing the dust from her body. If she hadn't just barely managed to dissipate the impact at the last moment, she'd be on a stretcher headed for the infirmary right now.
"Veronica, are you oka—"
Franco, his face full of worry, suddenly clamped his mouth shut. What surfaced on her face wasn't pain or suffering — it was pure, burning frustration. Any comfort or concern he offered now would only feed that feeling.
"Match decided," Oscar said, grinning ear to ear.
Franc shot him a look. "Hey! How can you smile at a time like—"
"What, am I not allowed to smile? Or should I stand here fidgeting and apologize — oops, sorry you didn't know you'd get hurt?"
He tilted his head and looked at Veronica.
"If that's what you'd prefer, I'm happy to oblige. What'll it be?"
"……Get lost."
"See? This way's better for her."
Oscar walked over to her and said,
"This is what you were so curious about — the standard for getting strong fast. So? Got your answer?"
"You…… asshole."
Veronica didn't even spare Oscar a glance. Instead she glared past him, at Franc standing on the training ground behind him.
"You. Once I've properly learned everything from this guy — that's when you and I go again."
Her competitive spirit was boiling over, and honestly, it was a beautiful thing to see. Oscar, watching her, smiled with quiet satisfaction.
If she's like this, then even if I push her hard, she'll keep up just fine.
With Veronica's insufferable personality? One hundred percent.
"Sir, your lodging fee is overdue, so……"
"I'll settle everything when I check out. Now get lost."
A dark corner room of an inn that even sunlight rarely reached. Sniffing at the stale, damp stench peculiar to such places, the man slammed the door shut with a curse.
"Damn it all."
He scowled as he glared at the commission letters piled across his desk.
How did my life come to this?
It was all the White Tower's fault. No — to be precise, it was the fault of one damned brat from that place.
Oscar Crucian……
The man was Moira Maine, once a rising Level 5 mage in the Blue Tower's Potion Department. If the collaboration with New Tech had succeeded as planned and he'd secured an exclusive contract with the Archbishop, a clear path would have stretched before him — one that might even have led to the head of the Potion Department someday.
If only it had worked out, no one would have dared look down on me.
Now even the owner of this cheap, two-bit inn had the gall to look him dead in the eye and demand his money. A man who, back in the day, wouldn't have dared meet his gaze at all.
"Haaah."
But what could he do? He'd been cast out of the Blue Tower, reduced to taking on dangerous, life-threatening commissions just to survive.
Refusing their orders and running away was unthinkable, of course. No one could entertain the comfortable delusion that they could lie low and live out their days after making an enemy of the Four Great Magic Towers. No one knew that better than him — he was, after all, a Blue Tower mage himself.
"Damn it all……"
He couldn't live out the rest of his life like this, a mercenary in all but name. But neither did he have any dramatic remedy or master plan to turn things around. All he could do now was sit in the corner of this room, spewing filthy curses and drinking himself numb.
Knock, knock, knock.
At the sound of someone knocking again, his head whipped around.
"You mangy dog, I already told you! I'll settle the bill all at once when I—"
As he flung the door open, his voice trailed off. The figure standing in the corridor was not the innkeeper.
There stood a man in a fine suit, hands clasped behind his back, smiling pleasantly. Naturally, it was someone he had never seen before.
"……Get lost. I think you've got the wrong room."
The instant he moved to close the door, a courteous voice slipped through the gap.
"Mr. Moira. Wouldn't you like your revenge?"
A pause.
The man knew his name. And if he was talking about revenge, he knew exactly what situation Moira was in, too.
Summoning his mana to burn the alcohol right out of his system, Moira reopened the door with a growl.
"Who the hell are you?"
"How long do you intend to rot away in this stinking room? You're hardly the sort of talent this kind of place deserves."
"I asked who the hell you are."
"Someone who's come to help you."
"……"
Moira glared at the man and his friendly, unctuous smile, then asked, "Help me? Why?"
"To be perfectly honest — because we hate the same person."
"Ha. And who exactly do you think I'd hate?"
"Oscar Crucian. Am I wrong?"
The man whispered in a voice as sweet as candy.
"We know how you can have your revenge against him — and win back the Blue Tower Master's trust while you're at it."
"……Then talk."
Moira spoke, his guard nowhere near lowered.
"Recently, in the territories around Shilin, the White Tower's potions have been outselling the Blue Tower's."
"They're closer, so delivery must be faster. That's all."
"Exactly. And the problem is that the Blue Tower is on the verge of handing over the entire northern region — one massive customer — without a fight."
Having heard that much, Moira let out a contemptuous snort.
"So what? Are you suggesting we march into Shilin and terrorize their potion production department?"
"Heavens, no. There'd be no reason to charge into the heart of enemy territory. Their potions are distributed through the Sirius Merchant Guild — or rather, to be precise, the White Tower is using the Sirius Merchant Guild's distribution network."
"……So it'd be safe."
"Yes. The convoys fly the Sirius guild's flag, so hardly any bandit has the guts to touch them."
The man continued.
"We intend to swap out the potions in transit."
"Swap them out?"
"Yes. Poison the goods they're selling, and the customers will begin dying, one by one."
And naturally, questions about the White Tower's potion quality would follow. Hearing the plan, Moira smirked.
"The White Tower and the market merchants aren't idiots. They'll investigate first, obviously."
"And who do you suppose the White Tower would send to conduct that investigation?"
Moira Maine, catching the man's true aim, felt his eyes gleam.
"……Oscar Crucian."
"Precisely. The person who brewed every potion the White Tower sells would visit the scene personally, to find out where things went wrong."
"And we kill him then?"
"We'll handle the cleanup and containment on our end. However — we lack the manpower to take on the job ourselves."
Meaning: someone skilled enough to kill Oscar Crucian beyond any doubt. Moira Maine mulled over the offer, then raised one more question.
"It's a tempting enough proposal, but I can't join hands with people whose affiliations I don't even know."
"……Hmm. If that's truly how you feel."
The man paused for a moment, then drew a handkerchief from inside his coat and held it out. Moira took it naturally, about to ask what it was for — and stopped. The intense fragrance the handkerchief carried was one he knew very well.
"New Tech?"
"The Managing Director wishes to see you reinstated. You were a good colleague to him, after all."
Only then did Moira grasp the whole picture. After his expulsion, relations between New Tech and the Blue Tower had cooled as well.
He wants me reinstated so the Blue Tower will resume its dealings with New Tech?
Mutual benefit — a hand washing the other. As the phrase crossed his mind, a slimy smile crept across Moira Maine's lips.
"Once the date and location are settled, come find me again."