Even a Scoundrel Gets Tired – Chapter 22

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Mod7
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While Isabella was preoccupied with her frivolous concerns, Prion, fretting over his disciple’s teenage angst, was also lost in thought.

Their thoughts, however, only converged on a single point: Jenison.

‘He wasn’t this skilled before…’

This was true. The Jenison he’d known during his “scoundrel” phase was far weaker than he currently was.

His mana capacity had been average, his control unremarkable. He’d been a typical, albeit privileged, bully.

Improving mana control wasn’t impossible, but it required intense focus and constant practice, minimizing mana wastage. It was a slow and arduous process.

How much time and effort had Jenison invested to reach this level of proficiency?

A week? A month?

It would take that long, without sleep or proper sustenance, to achieve such a dramatic improvement.

That was why Prion had initially assumed Jenison was naturally gifted. He hadn’t considered the possibility that Jenison had spent 50 days in isolation, foregoing food and sleep, honing his mana control.

He was unaware of Jenison’s grueling self-imposed training, and he was relieved that the boy’s goals didn’t seem to threaten the empire. Such dedication and focus could be dangerous.

He had his own responsibilities, his own people to protect.

And those changed eyes worried him.

Jenison, now unknowingly on the Great Sage’s watchlist, was contemplating his next research project.

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I entered my room and saw Ella sitting on the sofa, her back to me.

Something was wrong. She seemed angry.

She hadn’t left the dorm, so what could have possibly upset her?

“Young Master…”

“…Hmm?”

Her voice was unusually subdued. It didn’t sound like her.

I could tell she was upset, so I decided to wait and listen.

“…I cleaned your room…”

“Hmm…”

“…At first, I thought you were just working hard, with all the dust and strange cylindrical objects lying around…”

Hmm. Had she seen the empty coffee cans? I’d consumed an embarrassing amount, but I needed the caffeine to stay awake and focused on my research.

“…Then I started cleaning under your desk…”

“Under my desk…?”

“Care to explain the bloodstains?”

Ah.

Right.

It couldn’t be helped. I needed a body for my sentient life creation project, and I’d chosen to create a human.

That meant I needed to understand the human body. And my own body was the most readily available test subject. I needed to study its structure, its functions.

I had some knowledge of 21st-century human anatomy, but that didn’t guarantee it would apply to the body I was creating. I hadn’t hesitated.

I’d started with my finger. It was the easiest to regenerate, as long as I realigned the bones correctly.

I cut it off without hesitation.

It hurt. It hurt so much.

It was an agonizing pain, one I never got used to, no matter how many times I experienced it.

It felt like my flesh was being burned, the blood spurting from the wound a gruesome sight.

My arm trembled uncontrollably, and tears, which I thought had long since dried up, streamed down my face.

I gritted my teeth, clenching my other fist so tightly that blood seeped from my palm.

The pain was so intense that I couldn’t focus on anything else, not even my research.

I created a painkiller, swallowed it, and waited for the pain to subside. Then, I started creating a new finger.

It didn’t work at first. The bones were misaligned, the shape was distorted, sometimes an extra pinky finger would sprout, sometimes the nail would be missing.

I studied my severed finger, constantly refining the process, until I finally succeeded in creating a perfect replica.

A single finger.

It had nearly depleted my mana, forcing me to rest.

But once I’d created one, the others were easier. They were all fingers, just different shapes.

The initial pain of severing my finger was excruciating, but I eventually became numb to it. My body adapted.

Confident in my body’s resilience, I moved on to other parts.

My toes.

My hands and feet.

My arms.

My lower legs.

My thighs.

The major parts of my face.

I wanted to experiment with my internal organs, but that was too risky. I’d wait until a priest was available.

I cut, regenerated, cut, regenerated, over and over again. The agonizing cycle continued, fueled by eight painkillers.

I cut, I created, I repeated the process until the room was covered in blood and gore. I cleaned it, then started again.

A gruesome massacre, confined within the walls of my small room.

I could now regenerate my limbs at will. And a disturbing urge to cut and regenerate even the smallest of wounds had taken root.

But the ability to regenerate was a significant advantage.

And my mana control had improved dramatically. The slightest deviation in mana flow resulted in deformities, forcing me to become more precise.

Prion had noticed my improved control, attributing it to talent. He was a perceptive man, worthy of his title. But it felt unfair. This wasn’t talent, it was the result of my own hard work and sacrifice.

At this rate, I’d be able to regenerate any part of my body.

I cleaned up the mess, satisfied with my progress.

“Young Master… care to explain?”

“W… What do you mean?”

“Why is it covered in blood?”

“And why does it smell like blood in here?”

She pointed at my workbench, stained with my blood, a testament to my experiments.

I’d considered creating a new workbench, but it was just for my personal use, and I didn’t want to bother reorganizing my materials.

I knew Ella would worry if she knew what I was doing. I didn’t want to upset her.

“…Nosebleed.”

“What?”

“I was studying, and my nose started bleeding.”

“Really…?”

“What else could it be?”

“I thought you were stressed and… hurting yourself!”

She wasn’t wrong. I had been hurting myself. But wasn’t that the price of reaching the zenith? Sacrificing my body to achieve what others only dreamed of?

I could reach that pinnacle, that ultimate goal, by sacrificing only my physical form. So why wouldn’t I use it? I could be reborn, even if I died.

Unlike the religious zealots who believed in heaven, or the villains who feared hell, I was trapped in an endless cycle of reincarnation.

What was the meaning of my existence?

I’d pondered that question, finally finding an answer during my fifth life.

To leave my mark on the world, to be remembered by those whose lives I touched. Their memories would be proof of my existence.

In this life, I’d added another layer to that purpose: fulfilling my mother’s wish.

So I would use everything at my disposal, even my own life, to leave my mark.

There was a universal law, applicable to everything in existence.

[If you desire something, you must pay a price.]

I would gladly sacrifice my limbs, hundreds, thousands of times, if necessary. That was the only meaning I’d found in this endless existence.

I couldn’t bear the thought of all this pain, all this suffering, being for nothing.

I returned to my research, and the next day, the team selection process for the midterm exams began.

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I quite like this chapter.