—————————————————————–
Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Silverriver
—————————————————————–
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The start of the new semester at Iliad Academy felt different. The trees, once vibrant with turquoise leaves, were now adorned with red and yellow foliage, slowly falling to the ground.
The breeze was cool and refreshing. The summer heat had dissipated, replaced by the crisp air of autumn. The students’ clothes grew longer as the temperature dropped, hinting at the approaching winter.
The professors’ lessons delved deeper, moving beyond the basics of magic to more advanced applications. Professor Akdin’s classes were no different. He continued his usual instruction, showing no signs of… instability.
It was hard to believe he would ever lose control. If I hadn’t read the original story, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought.
But I knew. Professor Akdin would lose control. For his daughter, Lily, he would resort to forbidden magic. A spell that Professor Arden, could use.
The Pact of Life and Death. Sacrificing the living to summon the souls of the dead. A simple exchange, yet its cost was exorbitant.
‘Twenty lives for one, wasn’t it?’
To revive one life, twenty had to be sacrificed. That was the price of returning someone from death. It was madness, yet Professor Akdin would do it. Whether driven by his love for his daughter or some other reason, I didn’t know. The novel hadn’t explained his motivations.
‘He needed twenty lives and… something else for the ritual…’
I couldn’t quite remember. There had been a catalyst, an item required for the forbidden magic.
I sat on a bench, lost in thought, when Agnes approached. She looked more haggard than when we’d left Winter Castle.
“Deron, do you mind if I sit here?”
“Go ahead.”
Agnes carefully sat down and sighed deeply, as if carrying the weight of the world. I looked at her and asked,
“I heard you’re undergoing therapy.”
“…Yes.”
“Is it helping?”
Agnes looked down at her trembling hands and shook her head.
“No, I don’t feel any different.”
“I see.”
“When I close my eyes, I still see Winter Castle. The stench of blood… the orcs roaring…”
Post-traumatic stress disorder. Agnes was suffering from it, severely. She had hidden it well while at Winter Castle, but it seemed to have worsened since returning to the academy.
“Soldiers, knights… dying. Cut down by orc axes.”
“….”
“And among them… you, Deron.”
At those words, I turned to look at her. Tears glistened in her eyes.
“I dream of you dying, every night. Even though you’re right here, alive… I dream of your life fading away.”
“It’s just a dream. I’m here, and I’ll continue to be.”
“I know. I know you’re alive. But… every time I dream, I… forget.”
Her tears were rare. I hadn’t seen her cry in the original story. Yet, I found myself strangely moved.
She mourned my death, even though I was alive. This was what combat, what PTSD, truly meant. Emotions the novel hadn’t captured, raw and real.
Not just a few lines of text, a handful of dialogue, a few dozen words describing tears, but real tears, flowing down Agnes’s cheeks. I opened and closed my mouth, wanting to comfort her, but the words wouldn’t come. I’d experienced the same battles, yet I couldn’t understand her emotions. To me, the fallen were just… the dead. They didn’t touch my heart. So I… simply patted her back. Silently.
It was all I could do.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Agnes sniffled softly against my chest for a moment, then pulled away, her face flushed. She hurried off, and I watched her go, a strange hollowness in my chest.
Perhaps this was for the best. Her embarrassment, her flight… they meant she was still capable of feeling. Just moments ago, she hadn’t even seemed aware of her own actions.
She had regained her composure. That was enough. I stood up from the bench. My body wasn’t tired, but my mind was. The mental exhaustion from Winter Castle lingered. The strange vision I’d seen during my visit to Crebiton had further hampered my recovery.
What was that vision? The chair itself was strange, but the sword… I couldn’t even begin to guess its nature. I hadn’t encountered anything in the original story that could absorb demonic energy and remain unaffected. If such a powerful artifact existed, it would have been mentioned.
If I didn’t recognize it, it meant one of two things: either it was from the original story, and I’d simply forgotten, or it was unique to this world, an unknown legendary sword.
Despite its immense power, I didn’t want to wield it. Because of the voice I’d heard as the vision faded. It had spoken of fate. The same cursed fate Lenox and my mother had mentioned. The unknown trait etched into my status window.
‘I don’t know what ■■ is…’
I had barely escaped the fate of a terminally ill body, only to be bound by an unknown trait? I wouldn’t accept it.
I had struggled to reach the advanced level, to control the demonic energy, all to overcome my terminal illness. I had sacrificed lifespan to wield demonic energy instead of mana. The forces suppressing the demonic energy had consumed my life force, growing stronger. But I didn’t need to do that anymore.
I had been so relieved, so happy. I had worked so hard to reach this point, my body too weak to even move properly. Now, I could move freely, without limitations. I could push myself without coughing up blood, the constant headaches gone.
This was my true body. I wouldn’t surrender it to the demonic energy again. Not even if it was my “fate.” I would fight it.
With that resolve, I started walking. I had somewhere I wanted to go.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The northern forest wasn’t far from the academy. A short trip with spirit magic, at night, while everyone slept. But Medea didn’t use it.
The autumn breeze was cool and refreshing, the perfect temperature. Especially within the depths of the forest, the autumn breeze made Medea’s ears perk up. For an elf, the angle of their ears indicated their mood, and hers were raised in pleasure. The wind spirits gently brushed aside the stray vines and leaves.
Medea hummed softly as she walked. These early morning walks allowed her to temporarily forget her current predicament. She came here every day. The life of a slave was harsh.
Even though her master, Deron, had left for Winter Castle, seemingly oblivious to her existence, being a slave was humiliating for Medea, a high elf and a princess. And having to clean the dormitory every day under Petra’s chilling gaze only made it worse.
“At least today was quiet.”
The morning sun filtered through the trees, the lingering mist scattering the light, creating an ethereal glow. The scent of grass, the chirping of insects… it soothed her. Medea quickened her pace, anticipating the lake. Practicing her spirit magic by the lake always calmed her. The spirits obeyed her commands, feeling more like friends than mere magical entities.
-Splash
The gentle lapping of water against the shore. Even a still lake had its currents. The lake, reflecting the early morning sun, welcomed Medea.
And there was another who welcomed her.
“What is he doing here?”
Deron Philasia. Her master, the man with impossibly powerful talent, lay on a hill overlooking the lake, his eyes closed. Just as when he had first brought her here.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
