24 – The Magician Leaving the Courtyard
“……!!”
The purple Magician Matop opened her eyes wide. She covered her mouth with one hand and with the other, she quickly held onto my sleeve. It appeared as though she wanted to yawn.
I bent my knees to match her height and leaned in close.
Matop removed the hand covering her face and adorably yawned.
It’s rare to see a cute yawn. Matop managed to do it, though.
“Whaaaooo.”
In order to avoid any misunderstanding between us, I inhaled deeply, taking in the breath she exhaled.
This isn’t some sort of perverse act to satisfy my desires.
Yawning is a natural occurrence for all creatures with souls.
Just as we burn firewood to gain warmth, creatures burn their souls to obtain energy. This energy, to put it in martial arts terms, is called lifeforce.
The reason dark magicians catch people with their glowing eyes is because they use life force to cast their spells.
And a byproduct of the soul’s combustion is magic energy.
To describe it with a poetic touch, magic energy is the ash remaining after a soul burns.
Creatures release small amounts of magic energy whenever they exhale. Occasionally, a buildup of unrefined magic energy will be released in a yawn.
The more highly developed a person is, the more pure the magic energy they release when yawning. With a person as highly-developed as an archmage, a single yawn could rival a potion.
Because of this, there’s a custom that allows one’s disciple to receive the magic energy from their yawns. If they are very close, they may overlap their lips to absorb 100% of the energy.
How could anyone do that without feeling risky? Just the thought of accidental lip contact caused me to tense up.
Wait.
“……?!”
Did our lips just touch slightly?
“Huuu.”
Matop cheerfully laughed, seeming refreshed. From her nonchalant reaction, it seems my suspicions were incorrect…… I touched my lips thoughtfully.
After the eventful session lead by Prince Irid II, Matop and I have been spending very calm and peaceful days.
Every morning, we wake up, wash up, brush our teeth. We carve models.
After eating, I stretch lightly and carve my models.
After eating, I carve the models for a brief rest, and carve some more models.
After eating, I work on the models…
Yes, I indeed needed an abundance of models. I needed carefully crafted models to serve as heroines, and I needed massive robot models to fulfill a man’s fantasy. There was a tremendous amount I wanted to do.
But the most urgent task was to obtain battle data.
If the mercenaries were main enemies, their clumsy swordplay could be excused by the setting, but if a knight appears as an adversary and wields a blade poorly, it would jeopardize the story’s plausibility.
I also required information on the movements of monsters. I had laid the foundation with the aid of many visual media from my past life, but after consulting with a notably sociable (with an outing rate of 50% a week) senior colleague with a scarred face, I was told my work was a mess.
“Maybe I should venture outside…”
“But, but it’s dangerous outside the tower!”
“I’m aware of the danger.”
In the nine years I’ve spent in the tower, I hadn’t touched combat magic research, not even slightly. It’s not that I’m a pacifist; I just found panty modeling more enjoyable than magic that shatters people’s minds.
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The master of the tower also opposed me learning combat magic, declaring it would ‘mix impurities.’ Since it’s advice from an archmage, I assumed there must be good reason, so I have not even considered it.
Thus, I’m in need of a helper—a bodyguard who can stoutly protect me outside the tower. Ideally, it would be best if the tower master joined me…
“Should I try writing a request form for the movement of strategic weaponry…?”
“No.”
It seems that superhuman archmages are required to submit a request form a week in advance, detailing where they will be, from where, and for how many days, to be reported to the imperial court.
I thought it to be a bit of an overreaction until I empathized with the perspective of the neighboring lord; if a strategic nuke suddenly started wandering around my domain, I would definitely break out in cold sweats and feel my limbs go numb.
Even if the lord himself takes caution, there’s a risk that some lax, black-haired tanned delinquent from his land might instigate trouble, and depending on the mood of a walking strategic nuke, an entire district might just get obliterated.
So, this procedure was added to prevent a recurrence of gastritis in numerous Imperial Lords.
If a request form is declined, one must submit another, and this can drag on for a month I’ve heard. Lowering my expectations for the tower master’s accompaniment seemed wise.
Incidentally, on the day when all the masters of the towers gathered to recruit me, no one had submitted a form, which caused quite a commotion. There was a rumor that the lord who ruled the village where I was born had fainted, foaming at the mouth.
In any event.
Whenever the opportunity arises, I should really go out sometime…
————-
When I entered the master’s study to see if she wanted to join me in carving out bra models, I found her clad in thin nightwear, unhappily clutching a letter.
“Prin, Prin, Princess, this… let, letter, ter for you.”
I received the letter from the malfunctioning tower master. It was a lavishly adorned letter sprinkled with all sorts of jewels, flown in from the royal family. All that could have been research funding.
I checked the sender while removing each gemstone one by one—it was from the first princess.
Stripping away the complex political rhetoric and summarizing the essence, the letter said:
‘It seems my little brother enjoyed himself quite immensely.’
“Do it for me too.”
“I find pleasure in beating people up.”
“In a week’s time.”
“Mm.”
The opulent phrasing of this crude content made me think it didn’t come from royalty for nothing. I read the letter once more to grasp the needs of the prospective player.
I asked the Master of the Mage Tower as well. If he knew anything more detailed about the First Princess.
Sitting cross-legged, the Mage Tower Master perched on my thigh and used one arm to create a makeshift backrest for himself.
“I heard she’s been a battle maniac since she was young.”
“A battle maniac?”
“Yes, Count Urensto would often say something like this: ‘Don’t behave like a wild filly like the First Princess.’ Also, there were occasional reports of a knight from her territory breaking his arm while sparring with her.”
This was a key element. Battle.
If the player relishes combat this much, then it’s my mission to prepare a battlefield map. It’s time to fulfill the chewy, ultimate showdown that the Second Prince could never fully achieve.
However, a question occurred to me, and I asked the Master of the Mage Tower.
“By the way, isn’t it typical to count like this: First Princess, First Prince, Second Prince?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“What?”
“Ah, aha… The first prince died. That’s why he was deliberately left out of the conversation. The royal family… they don’t like to talk about the First Prince. It’s taboo. They treat him as though he never existed.”
“How did that happen?”
“It’s just rumors, so it’s not certain, but I heard he was poisoned. At around ten years old.”
This was a sensitive matter. The notion of a poisoned crown prince could greatly tarnish the reputation of the royal family if discussed openly.
Poison, huh. My mind raced over references ranging from courtly intrigues to romantic fantasy. Considering poison and succession conflict, the royal family might have been more of a mess than I’d thought.
Could there be reasons behind the Second Prince’s erratic nature? Unless he inherited a skepticism DNA from the emperor, it could imply significant events shaped his upbringing.
If it’s a sensitive area, best avoid any mention of poison. I should be careful not to introduce gimmicks like, “Who poisoned my green tea?”
Battle, battle…
What about dark fantasy?
A world of ash and decay, left in ruins. Say some magical calamity occurred. Ninety percent of humanity vanished, and bizarrely formed monsters emerged to take their place as the dominant species. These creatures speak a language beyond human understanding.
Humans cling to life in small outposts, eking out a meager existence, consuming artifacts and knowledge of a once-glorious civilization, quietly dying day by day.
Yet, there exists a thread of hope, though it’s merely a rumor—that somewhere on the continent there is a ‘shelter’… an ‘Safe Dungeon’ left behind by human civilization. A secret safe haven guaranteed to ensure survival for at least another hundred years.
Enter the player.
Surrounded by an aura of mystery, the player carves a path through the twisted environment and colossal monsters. The surviving humans follow and revere the player. Essentially, the player becomes a prophet.
It would indeed be beneficial to add some minor troubles to the group of humans led by the player. Petty theft at the least, or even murder at the utmost. Such ‘morally ambiguous choices’ greatly aid in defining the player’s character.
We should also include a heroine. Perhaps… well, a fragile scholar, a squire who admires and strives to follow the player, and a macho man, to consider for now.
We definitely need to venture outside the tower. The combat data is urgently needed.
If we can’t accompany the master of the tower, we’ll need an alternative. Someone with a certain level of combat prowess who is also willing to actively assist in my data collection. Not someone who holes up in research all day, but a person who has experience smashing goblin skulls in the outside world.
I decided to ask for help from Scarface.
“Junior, try following after me. Lo-ray.”
“Scarface.”
“Lo-“
“Lo.”
“Ray-“
“Ray.”
“Ei.”
“Scarface.”
Although there were slight communication troubles, he became very cooperative after I detached a few gems from a letter. Money really is second to none.
While the tower master whined, preparations for leaving were swiftly underway. Scarface hired an adventuring party, planned a suitable exploration route, and reassured the tower master that it would be a truly safe journey.
“Take these, just in case… also this… and this… this as well…”
The tower master, as if awakened to a ‘if I can’t have it, I’ll destroy it’ mindset, attempted to shackle me with an avalanche of artifacts. He actually slung forty-nine necklace artifacts around my neck.
Taking it a step further, the tower master threatened that I couldn’t leave until I wore all the necklaces.
After brief contemplation, Scarface instructed me.
“Whisper into the tower master’s ear that they’re the one you love most in the world and then come back.”
“Why?”
“Because that will open the path.”
Scarface was confident. I decided to trust in my senior magician and veteran explorer. The moment conjured up a recollection from elementary school days.
Embracing the tower master with the warmth of a parent hugging their child returning from school, I found them wonderfully warm to the touch as I whispered in their ear.
“I love you, Yuna, the most in the world?”
“…!!!?!”
In that moment, the tower master evaporated. Not in a metaphorical sense, but literally.
Confused about what had just happened, Scarface’s testimony suggested it was due to breaking the hold of a profound illusion magic that the tower master disappeared. And, for some reason, Scarface’s expression was oddly satisfied.
Perhaps that’s the difference a few months can make. Scarface, indeed a senior, had effortlessly removed every obstacle.
In the end, I left wearing only a single necklace.
With a heart that throbbed and fluttered, I stepped out of the tower for the first time in nine years.
Arriving at the promised meeting place, a trio of adventurers awaited us. From what I heard, they were an adventurer party, and their weaponry was no joke, bordering on semi-knight level.
The group consisted of one male and two females. At a glance, it looked like a warrior, an archer, and a rogue. The rogue’s outfit was rather scanty which was interesting to say the least. I made a mental note to steal the design for my own use.
The leader, a handsome youth with a short back and sides haircut, introduced himself. With eyes like a fox and even a beauty mark near his eye, well, he had a certain, shall we say… charm.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m a Class II adventurer who will be accompanying you on this journey, my name is Roweird.”
“Nice to meet you too, Tear Mark Guy.”
“…Are you picking a fight with me?”
“He’s a bit, um, eccentric. Please be patient with him.”
Quick to intervene, my former party member with a scar on his face, gave an excuse.
Having called him Tear Mark Guy pissed him off, but luckily it seemed he was interested in women, which was a relief to see.