Vol 3 Chapter 21 – Boyhood: Midsummer at Age Twelve・Part 6

There exists a branch of magic known as mental magic, or empathic magic.

Within the Triple Empire—where a modicum of rebelliousness is tolerated in academic inquiry and technological development—this is one of the few magics deemed a taboo. Infringing upon the ostensibly inviolable realm of the mind and tampering with memory, the very evidence that secures one’s self, remains something even the people of the Triple Empire consider untouchable.

That said, the term “taboo” in imperial language is generally used to imply that immature users are prohibited or that only those judged to have sufficient ethical standards may employ it when necessary. It is not the kind of taboo that forbids uttering its name, let alone using it.

It is precisely because it is detested that it is forbidden; if one cowers and ignores it, one may be powerless when that very abhorred thing—banished for a reason—is unleashed. Moreover, if we distance it too much as a taboo, people, being prone to forgetfulness, will inevitably lose sight of the very reason for its prohibition and recklessly experiment with it again, so the knowledge must be preserved.

Besides, once knowledge is acquired it would be a waste not to use it, so ideally one should employ only its beneficial aspects.

If one can seize all the good without hesitation, it perfectly reflects a national character that is broad-minded and, if you will, unabashed.

Consequently, there are extremely few documents concerning mental magic, and I possessed only a general understanding of the magic that touches upon the very core of humanity—the most delicate and complex of all magical arts…

Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that in this age of cosplay I would come to confront its depths.

Right now, I share a single field of vision, as if I were being shown someone’s memory in the form of an intangible spirit.

The individual whose memory I am witnessing is confronted with an utterly hopeless sight.

In one desolate corner of a plain, as seen from atop a colossal rock that seemed to be an alien intrusion, the horizon was completely choked by a thick, black mass.

Those were the Rat Demons. If rat-men are demi-humans imbued with the essence of rats, then these were a rat-like magical species. Smaller than imps and deemed crude and coarse, these upright, rat-like creatures are even more fragile than humans. Excelling only in their reproductive capacity, when one considers the individual stats of the weakest species among mankind, they are remarkably feeble.

Without a nation of their own—and although they sometimes group together, they never form tribes nor are ever embraced as a noble species elsewhere—they are regarded as insignificant on the central continent.

However, once they swarm in such numbers, everything changes. Ah, so this is what people call a monster stampede.

I have heard that some magical species with exceptional reproductive ability, even when transformed into monsters, do not lose their drive to reproduce.

Driven solely by that desire, they continue to multiply unabated; naturally, the offspring born in such a manner are, from the moment of their birth, deranged monsters. Moreover, they inherit the worst trait of these creatures—namely, the inability to starve or die.

There are rare times when such malevolent monsters, if left unchecked, continue to proliferate. In places where, by some twist of fate, the entrance is sealed, they can multiply safely.

Then one day, when the seal finally gives way—either because it reaches its limit or, for better or worse, someone unseals it—they begin to surge forward, overwhelmed by the constriction and driven by their pent-up desires.

They do so to satisfy an unbearable hunger and to expand into wider lands.

This must be a snapshot of such an event.

The number of rats covering the horizon—so many that attempting to count them would be laughably absurd. And then, from what could only be described as the opposite shore of that horizon, something began to fly in.

What could it be, trailing a wisp of water vapor and soaring at high altitudes? For an instant, I thought of a fighter jet, yet in a fantasy world devoid of steampunk, airplanes do not exist. And yet, that shadow was unmistakably flying.

From that black dot, something detached. Smaller by more than an order of magnitude, it seemed to have been left behind by a trailing force, and then hurtled toward the ground at an incredible speed.

Following the acceleration of free fall, its form gradually consolidated, becoming clearer as it neared the earth.

It was a human. There was no mistaking it—undeniably human.

“Aaaaaahhhh!?”

The falling man let out a piercing, trailing scream, his arms and legs wildly flailing as he desperately cast a spell. Slowly—almost futilely—he decelerated and slid into the sea of Rat Demons, which resembled a vast, churning ocean.

Under normal circumstances, that would have been the end for him. He would have taken several rats with him, and then the process of grumbling, “Too bad, better luck next time,” while rolling dice for a new character sheet would have awaited him.

“You stupid bastard! Are you seriously going to do this? Don’t mess around!!”

Yet, for some inexplicable reason, the man survived—even as his landing produced a mass of crushed bodies. Shouting at the brisk, carefree shadow in the sky, he tore off the entrails clinging to his ornate armor and forcefully swung his right hand downward.

In that moment, as if emerging from nothing, a long sword appeared in his palm. Though modest in design, the sword was imbued with an immense reservoir of magic; the surrounding air froze, emitting a deathly creak.

“I’ll make them cry when I get back!”

Then, with a voice loud enough to split the earth, he shouted again and plunged into the sea of black monsters.

It was an astonishing display of combat prowess. He merely repeated the basic actions—cutting, dodging, parrying—endlessly, yet the enemies dwindled at an accelerating rate. Moreover, whenever a peculiar magic user appeared—often incapable of any coordinated assault due to their frantic nature—he effortlessly nullified them with a trivial spell.

First, there was a burst of fierce light. In the simple act of snapping a finger, a directional beam emitted from a ring on his left middle finger seared the enemy’s eyes, disrupting the reflections of any spear wall and granting him a clear opening to slash.

Second, there was an extremely straightforward barrier. Without any frills or clever twists, the barrier—powered solely by the magic he had amassed—unfailingly repelled spells, creating a brief window in which he could slice shallowly across an enemy’s neck to dispatch them.

Third, it served as an evasion technique for moments when all else failed. With a battle cry, a shockwave burst through the air in a semicircular arc, shattering enemy formations and buying him time to reposition.

He was engaged in nothing more than the most basic, even monotonous, actions: swinging his sword, casting spells, and killing his foes. By flawlessly executing these fundamental movements and magical incantations, he methodically eliminated his adversaries.

He had perfected his art. He had optimized himself and the magic he wielded for combat.

After all, there is a limit to the number of spells a human can cast simultaneously. No matter how many spells one learns, how many incantations one masters, or how deeply one delves into the arcane, in truth, only one spell can be cast at a time.

Thus, to truly fight as a sorcerer means to unleash, at every single moment, only the most appropriate spell in the most efficient way—eliminating foes without any wasted effort.

How long did he continue fighting? Corpses were strewn like a carpet, organs writhed like a churning sea, and in between, a vast ocean of blood filled every gap. The sorcerer, whose curved blade had wrought such a gruesome scene, cast a revitalizing spell upon himself to stand once more as his withering body stirred.

On the opposing side, the enemies surged forward like an unending mist, undeterred by mounting casualties. The sorcerer—stained red with his own blood to the point of being mistaken for a dying casualty—gagged as he spit out the accumulated blood from his mouth, then hefted his sword. Soon, the sword began to glow with a faint white light and tremble with a cry-like shudder; unmistakably, it was the preliminary motion of a grand technique destined to obliterate the weak.

At that moment, three plumes of smoke rose in the distance.

Simultaneously, a high-pitched sound that ripped through the air announced the arrival of a cavalry unit, like the scream of a fired arrow. The arrows, launched high into the sky, were imbued with magic that produced smoke, and in evenly spaced intervals, three red plumes draped the heavens.

Accompanied by the sound of hoofbeats, a small, almost pitiful force emerged on the horizon compared to the horde of monsters. Yet, adorned in dazzling armor and riding horses, they could only be knights and their retinues. It was clear that each was impeccably armed and possessed remarkably high morale.

“Why, despite all the effort I put in, do you idiots needlessly risk your lives?”

The man sneered at the cavalry’s arrival. He was, without a doubt, an exceptionally handsome man. I found myself transfixed by him; he appeared to be around fifteen or sixteen years old. And yet, while his face still bore a trace of youthful softness, his strikingly resolute eyes blazed brilliantly, leaving his overall impression entirely indeterminate.

He looked both like an innocent child and like a finely honed adult…

He reached for his waist and withdrew a folded piece of cloth. Then, picking up a plain spear that lay nearby, he forcibly tied the cloth to its tip and spread it out for display.

“Huh?”

In the midst of a battle that would have left him utterly drenched in blood, it was impossible for the contents of his pouch to remain unscathed. The cloth, once splendidly adorned with luxurious embroidery, was now saturated and blackened by blood, its original pattern completely obscured.

“Oh man… I can’t make sense of this. Ah, whatever—this is my flag, then.”

Frowning in dismay as he regarded the flag ruined by blood, he suddenly grinned as if struck by inspiration and thrust the flag high into the sky.

“After all, I’m bound to be covered in blood time and again; remaking it every time is impractical, and a flag darkened by my own blood suits me just fine.”

The sword, which had been humming with power, gradually grew brighter until it nearly overwhelmed my vision, and just as it was about to converge into a singular blade… my consciousness was abruptly yanked back to reality, as if someone had grabbed my neck.

【Tips】 Overwhelming Stampede – the worst calamity that arises when several adverse conditions coincide. A horde of monstrous creatures, as vast and shifting as a clouded mist, devours the land—swallowing estates and towns alike—and can ultimately be the direct or contributing cause of a nation’s downfall.

The “brief lecture” was an impressively profound experience—almost equivalent to receiving a complete answer.

That beautiful man’s fighting style was a paragon of perfection. In short, if every action check were to succeed, defeat would be impossible. And when things became tedious, he simply relied on a grand technique to scatter the weak, and, if necessary, engaged in a one-on-one duel with the boss—if one was present—and beat him to death.

He was utterly efficient. Keeping his skill set minimal allowed him to invest lavishly in all his supporting attributes, and by merely maximizing his base stats without even needing to roll dice, his build was precisely my ideal.

Taking that into account, I realized that what I lacked was effective barriers and a method for swiftly dispatching lesser foes—and that my build would be complete once I acquired them. So I intend to use my current experience points to construct a well-thought-out build, from which I can steadily ascend to greater heights.

Shortly thereafter, after being instructed not to ask any questions about the source of that memory, I was taught a practical yet simple spell. With nothing more than an infusion of magic—which might later require improvements to its efficiency—I learned to cast barriers that grow stronger with magic and a spell that produces a potent flash of light with a single action. Both seemed well suited to my current capabilities.

And then, by integrating them with my existing strengths…

“Huh? What is it?”

On my way back, while tempering my excitement and planning my ideas before heading to bed, a weak sensation was detected by my aura detection. A plain white butterfly fluttered down before my eyes—the very same paper butterfly I had folded before.

It did not guide me; it simply fluttered past, and when I reached out to grasp it, it returned to its original paper form like a flower unfolding in moonlight.

On that ordinary piece of paper, several incantations were scrawled in my client’s handwriting.

Simple and containing only the essentials, it was unmistakably a magical recipe in my client’s own style.

I wondered suddenly why they had sent it. I moved toward the faint glow of a crystal streetlamp and, positioning myself where I wouldn’t obstruct the crowd returning home like me, I quickly scanned its contents.

It detailed fundamental theories, incantation construction, and the core principles of magic—the laws of the world that one might employ or twist to one’s advantage—all written in an exceedingly chaotic style. Even armed with ample knowledge, one would have to think seriously to decipher it; undoubtedly, this was a magical recipe. Its casual, scattershot nature was akin to dumping out all the runners of a plastic model kit without any instructions.

One could not tell what it would produce or how it would come together without reading it carefully and pondering its meaning.

Um… huh?

Ah—no, so the theoretical framework here is this. The main point is written along a horizontal line, but if you do not understand that line, you cannot grasp the essence; yet if you focus solely on it, you will never reach the correct answer. How twisted can one’s mind be?

Huh? Eh, so that means… in other words…

Two seconds later, unable to control myself, I shouted, “What the hell are you sending me?!” Even in the midst of the bustling crowd, my voice rang out loudly, my face turning bright red as I fled in embarrassment over my bizarre appearance.

【Tips】 Unless absolutely necessary, one must never proceed with such actions. This means “absolutely do not do it for stupid reasons like thinking it might be fun or hoping to be liked by someone cute.” Anyone who misunderstands that can never be called a truly mature adult.