Vasileo, frozen in place, worked his eyes furiously.
Then he spoke.
“I—I was disrespectful to you, sir. I acted as if to test your skill.”
“No.”
Frondier spoke.
Vasileo feared him now, but Frondier wasn’t particularly angry. It was only that, in this situation, speaking gently would have felt stranger.
“Your friends almost got hurt.”
“...!”
“The spell’s completeness was excellent. That’s why it was dangerous. Despite having that level of skill, you failed to control a completed spell. Did you manifest a spell you weren’t confident you could control?”
“N-no, sir! I’ve never once made such a mistake!”
“You must never make it even once.”
At Frondier’s pronouncement, Vasileo bowed his head.
“This is convenient timing. Since everyone seems bored of theory, how about a story.”
At his words, the other students flinched for no reason.
Frondier wasn’t a mage. But any mage would know this.
A childhood friend had chattered to him about it since they were little.
Frondier had listened, inside his childhood friend’s dreams, to the many stories she told. Like a fairy tale, like a legend, or truly like a dream, she had eagerly shared what she knew.
Now Frondier would pass those words on to his students.
Only, in a way that was thoroughly Frondier.
There would be no fairy tales, no legends, no dreams, no hope in his words.
“A mage is the last line of defense. Everyone at Atlas knows that. What do you think that means?”
Frondier looked around at the students and asked.
It truly was a question—Frondier waited unhurriedly for an answer.
Soon one student said,
“If the mage goes down, there’s no one left behind them. So the mage must succeed in their spell, and they must survive.”
“Correct.”
Frondier nodded.
“If the mage goes down, no one is left behind them. So what does that really mean? Picture it. If the mage, who should be in the very rear in a theater of war, is in danger, what sort of situation is the battlefield in right now?”
At his words, the students imagined it—and their faces went cold all at once.
“A mage must survive. They are the strongest firepower a nation possesses, the last resort to overcome numerical inferiority, unfavorable terrain, and unforeseeable contingencies.”
However—
With his usual expression, Frondier said,
“That alone isn’t enough.”
“...”
“If the mage is the last line, it means they’re farthest back. They can see all their allies. They watch as comrades throw their lives at the enemy—and because they wagered their lives, they lose them. While watching friends and companions die, the mage chants.”
A few students swallowed.
War is where people die. It was ✪ Nоvеlіgһt ✪ (Official version) obvious. So obvious they’d never even tried to imagine it.
“Vasileo.”
“...Yes.”
“Why did you fail to control your spell?”
“...Because I was shocked—and resentful—that you completed a spell far faster than I did. That’s why I failed.”
Vasileo spoke honestly about what he’d felt at the time.
Frondier said,
“Don’t let something that petty shake you.”
“...Yes.”
“You must complete spells under worse circumstances, and without mistakes. Sorry, but I can’t just be lenient with you third-years. Once you graduate, your feet won’t be in a classroom but on a battlefield.”
In truth, Frondier wasn’t only speaking to Vasileo; it was for everyone.
There was no need for him to say such things here. Teaching students wasn’t high on his priorities.
But Frondier had done plenty of things he didn’t have to.
To clear the game.
To survive.
If he thought it would help, he believed in that and crawled through the mud.
That wouldn’t change just because this was another continent.
'Perhaps it’s my nature.'
Frondier, who had played the devil hoping the continent’s blood wouldn’t flow.
That feeling wouldn’t be different just because this was this continent.
In truth, he had always known.
Here at Atlas, he knew all too well what choice he would make.
It simply wasn’t very rational, so he’d gone around searching for rational reasons.
“Vasileo. Don’t make mistakes.”
“...Yes.”
“Otherwise, you’ll be the only one left alive.”
“...Yes.”
Vasileo clenched his fist tight.
After watching him for a moment, Frondier’s gaze swept over everyone.
“That’s all for today. I’ll leave what I wrote on the board. Make sure it’s erased before the next class starts.”
Having said that, Frondier gathered his materials and left the classroom without hesitation. The period had ended anyway.
Vasileo sagged into his seat as if drained, and the quiet classroom quickly turned noisy.
“What’s with that teacher?”
“He’s like a soldier. Did he actually fight in a real war?”
“No way. Even across the whole continent, the last war was decades ago.”
“Even if not war, maybe he’s been in some big fights a few times?”
The students whispered about Frondier’s past in their own ways.
Meanwhile, a girl sitting beside the depleted Vasileo cautiously spoke to him.
“Vasileo, are you okay?”
“...Huh? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Vasileo’s responses came a bit late. His head was a mess—Frondier’s spell, his own mistake, and getting scolded all stacked together.
“That teacher’s too much. Making a fuss about people dying over one little mistake.”
She grumbled. She meant to console Vasileo, but part of it was honest. At his age, would he really have experienced a war like that? It had to all be bluster.
“No, well, what he said is true...”
Vasileo recalled the moment just now.
The real shock he carried wasn’t that he’d made a mistake. It was Frondier’s chanting speed.
Frondier wouldn’t know this, but Vasileo was a mage from one of the most renowned families at this school. Of course he had never failed Gathering Wind, and he had never once failed to control any completed spell.
That was why the ultra-high-speed casting Frondier had shown was so shocking.
'How in the world did he do that? Does he sketch the array in his head without using mana, then slot the mana in later? Can a person do that? No— even if you could, how would he know what spell I’m about to show—'
No chanting, no trigger phrase—whatever he did with the array, the flow of mana was almost invisible.
'And what was that black liquid? It completely contained my Gathering Wind.'
Its sturdiness was impressive, but the key was speed.
Vasileo firing Gathering Wind into the classroom had been an accident—an unanticipated situation. Even so, the black liquid that flew in should have been slower than Gathering Wind, and yet it caught the arrow before any student was harmed.
Which meant the black liquid was faster than the wind arrow. Was that a spell too?
'If I can just figure out how he did it, then even I...'
Vasileo bit his lip.
Whether Frondier and Elodie knew each other was becoming a secondary issue to him.
“...Right, I can’t just sit here.”
He suddenly came to his senses and stood up.
“Hey, where are you going?”
the girl asked.
“To apologize. To the ones who almost got hit by my arrow. I’ve been out of it.”
With that, Vasileo went to the students who’d been in danger and offered a sincere apology.
***
“...I need to learn magic.”
I muttered to myself, so quietly no one would hear.
I didn’t know why Vasileo suspected me, but in the end I’d unintentionally used a little cheat.
I can Weave an opponent’s skill or spell, but I can’t store skills in the workshop. So I can only use them while the opponent is in the middle of casting.
And I hadn’t used Menosorpo, either, so what I created was a flashy fake.
'When I fabricate objects, the Weaving itself doesn’t show. But when I copy a spell, it does.'
That’s probably because Weaving itself is magic. I can’t actually bring over matter, so when I imitate objects, nothing is visible; but when I imitate magic, at least the outer appearance matches.
Even so, it’s fake.
Borrowing Jeanne d’Arc’s phrasing, an invisible ghost merely became a visible ghost.
'There’s no way this sleight of hand will keep working forever. I need to actually use magic—at least the basics.'
Since I’ve decided to teach properly, I have to demonstrate properly too.
Of course, I already have an excellent teacher fit to teach me magic, so I don’t need to worry about how to learn it. What worries me is the lack of time.
“Ah, there you are, Professor Frondier.”
Just then, the teacher Giotto approached me.
This man is, how to put it—someone designed to be the “inscrutable type,” yet who ended up a character whose insides are extremely easy to read.
Flat and somehow three-dimensional; very familiar and hackneyed, and yet, in another sense, oddly fresh.
“How was your first class? Was it difficult?”
“No, it was fine.”
“Good to hear. If anything gives you trouble, tell me anytime. You came from afar; it must be hard to adapt.”
Like this, he looked like a kind superior who cared about and worried for the new hire, but I could feel the sly thoughts lurking behind his genial smile.
As if in a comic, the protagonist is moved by a kindly boss—then there’s a panel where the boss shows a nasty smirk you should never see.
“Come to think of it, Professor Elodie seems troubled about the direction of her instruction. How about advising her?”
“Hm, she hasn’t said anything to me. If she needed me, she would have told me.”
This, too, was no more than him seeking confirmation that Elodie and I were unconnected. He seemed interested in Elodie. Very much so.
'Well, of course he would be.'
One of the continent’s top faces, and a mage of peerless skill. Anyone might hold admiration—or affection.
Giotto’s age only made it feel like foolishness.
“Hm, but you see, Professor Frondier.”
“Yes. Go ahead.”
Giotto hesitated as if something troubled him.
It was obvious he wasn’t troubled at all, and that the hesitation was just acting, which made it hard to play along.
“I’m thinking of assigning you the combat theory course as well. What do you think?”
“...Pardon?”
“When you came to Atlas, I heard you were excellent in theoretical work across all fields. Wouldn’t it be a waste to use that ability in just one area?”
Not a waste at all.
It would just double the workload.
“The other teachers are very interested in you. If you handle combat theory too, the related faculty will be stimulated—and helped.”
Stimulated, sure. Helped, no.
You’re just trying to start a fight.
'...What is this.'
Is it just spite? Honestly, it might be. Few people wear such obvious darkness on their sleeve. Which almost makes it feel like there’s no grand reason.
Only the timing is awkward. Giotto moving right after I showed a spell in class and cleaned up Vasileo’s mistake.
There’s no way the lesson could have spread already. Nor any reason it would. Even so, I don’t think Giotto’s sudden move is unrelated.
Meaning, if Giotto—who shouldn’t yet know what I did in the classroom—does know and is acting on it now, then—
'...Eavesdropping?'
Among the possibilities that came to mind, I reached for the most ordinary.
