SMMA 51

Episode 51

“Cough… You there, student. Come to my workshop during break.”

“????”

Professor Mortum spoke, his voice raspy, as he pointed at Gainando.

The boy looked struck dumb, as though he had been slapped.

Why me? What did I do wrong??

Could it be…? Did this man, this professor of black magic, bear some ancient grudge against the Imperial royal household?!

“And you too, student.”

Now Mortum pointed at Ihan.

Ihan, unlike Gainando, showed little surprise. He had already been considering black magic as one of his options purely for credit management.

But the Blue Dragon Tower students took it very differently.

“Gainando, you idiot! You’ve dragged Wadanaz into this with you!”
“You can’t even die alone without dragging others down?!”
“Hurry and tell him you’ll go alone!!”

They assumed Ihan was only being taken forcibly because he was Gainando’s companion.

Enraged, they berated Gainando—already frustrated that Ihan, who had so many responsibilities, was being pulled into danger too.

Flushed and defiant, Gainando killed his tears:
“You damn bastards… I’ll never go alone! If I go, I take him with me!”

“Cancel it!”
“No!”
“Cancel it!”

“You fools,” Garcia muttered, looking at them with scorn. “Professor Mortum is already gone.”

A mage’s workshop was simple enough to describe—it was essentially a research lab.

But in truth, it was effectively a prison where pupils were ground down endlessly. Apprentices slaved twenty-five hours a day (as the saying went), collecting reagents, cutting staffs, refining magical powder, balancing mana for circles, preparing meals on the run while still meeting deadlines…

Ihan recalled hearing many such stories back in his noble house.

“Long ago, a diligent student served under his master. Each dawn, he trimmed staffs, brewed alchemical tinctures, measured mana for circles, raced outside to gather fresh reagents, ate sparingly while venturing so as not to lose time—and in this way, dutifully returned to make his master proud…”

“…Does the story end with him slaying the master and taking over the workshop?” Ihan had once asked.

“My lord, what a scandalous joke. No, of course he became a fine mage.”

“…”

In every world, paradise was never for those learning.

But thankfully, now was different. Ihan was still only a first-year. He had no binding to any master yet.

If a professor was too deranged, he could simply back away quietly.

“Sniff sniff…”

“…Are you actually crying?” Ihan asked, alarmed.

Gainando’s eyes were reddened.

“What have I done wrong? Why did he call us to such a grim, lonely place?”

“There isn’t a guarantee it’s because of something you did.”

“What else then, huh?! Obviously he plans to torment us with his twisted, black-magic temperament!”

They walked toward Mortum’s workshop.

Already Ihan felt mood souring.

This place is far too ominous.

The road grew lonelier, the wind louder, forests whispering ghostly sounds, dotted now with grave markers. He understood why—it was the perfect environment for shadow attunement and corpse study.

Yet… to do this, then wonder why no freshmen came knocking? That would be hypocrisy indeed.

In the distance loomed the <Blackshroud Hall>, Mortum’s workshop tower—a modest 4-story structure. But with magical constructions, one never trusted appearances.

Clues lay nearby: broken bones and skulls, crude tombstones speared into the ground, crates labeled “DANGER! Deadly Poison Inside! Do Not Touch”.

Plainly, experiments of death and undeath occurred here.

Gainando was pale as a corpse himself now.

“Professor… are you there?”

Creak—

The door opened itself. The two entered. Gainando trembled, half-reaching to cling to Ihan’s sleeve until Ihan shoved him off. His betraying pout was almost comical.

“Cough, cough… Welcome.”

Smoke roiled—blue-black fumes drowning vision entirely. Mortum’s voice echoed through.

“Dirette. Guide the freshmen in.”

“Have you lost your mind? The Headmaster commanded us upperclassmen not to meddle with first-years.”

“Ah yes… Cough. Tedious. Can we not quietly disregard?”

“I just got out of punishment cell! You want me back in?!”

“It’s the penalty room, not prison… very well, go hide.”

With a sweep of his staff, Mortum banished the smoke.

And therein—the workshop revealed itself. Surprisingly orderly. Tables, shelves, chairs—like a library.

…Except, Ihan realized with shock, they were all made of bone.

To a master necromancer, bones were sturdy, durable resources. Efficient, if grisly.

Gainando, oblivious, sat nervously.

Mortum strained to appear kind.

“You know why I’ve summoned you, hm?”

“Professor, I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Both of you were called for showing talent in black magic. Wait… what did you just say?”

“Nothing.”

Gainando closed his mouth. Confused. I have talent in black magic?

He turned giddy. “Ihan. Did you hear? They say I’ve got talent.”

“Yes. I stood right next to you.”

“Oh no—what do I do? I’m not even interested… but I have talent? Oh dear…”

“…”

Ihan marveled at his flimsy heart.

Mortum leaned in, smiling too hard, pulling out candy wrapped in skull-marked paper.

“As you listen, enjoy these sweets. Both of you—gifted in black magic. I wish to prove it is not so terrible, but instead beautiful, profound.”

Gainando was already half-entranced.

Ihan though, only pitied. Professors of unpopular fields always carried such desperation.

The prestigious ones acted with aloof arrogance.
—“Perhaps I’ll allow you under me, if I judge your talent worthwhile.”

But those in bitter fields clambered for every recruit.
—“Our greatest strength is… there is nowhere lower, only higher to climb!”

So too here. Mortum practically begged.

“Thus black magic is the king of magic itself, the mightiest of all. Do you understand?”

“I feel compelled to study it!” Gainando declared.
“I never knew its greatness,” Ihan added politely.

Radiance brightened Mortum’s face.

“Aah… Should I truly study black magic? Me, talented? Yet its reputation is ugly… but if I’m needed… oh, what to do…” Gainando hummed beside Ihan.

Ignoring him, Ihan inspected the “gift.”

Bone. Wrapped neatly.

“What is this?”

“Take it home. Look at it. Then always, you’ll remember black magic.”

“No but… what is it?”

“Cough cough… Heh…”

Mortum gave an embarrassed smile, as though to say the joy of discovery could not be stolen with an answer.

For Ihan, it was only creepy. Could it be an artifact?

He recalled how the Headmaster had slipped him an enchanted book. Perhaps professors had a trend of tossing cursed gifts onto students like romantic keepsakes.

A ghastly practice…

He vowed to investigate later.

“Ihan. Don’t tell Meikin if I begin studying black magic, alright?”

Ihan saw through it—Gainando feared being teased, since he had once mocked Yonellia for alchemy. Now irony loomed.

“Of course not.”

I’ll tell her immediately.

Professor Ingerdel, elven fencing master, taught both Basic Swordsmanship and Basic Physical Conditioning.

Both classes, naturally, were dominated by White Tiger Tower students. Amid them, Ihan—alone from Blue Dragon Tower—stood out sorely.

Yet unlike before, the atmosphere was different.

In the first fencing lesson, tensions were itching for someone to pick a fight. Now—none dared meet Ihan’s gaze.

Careless approach = Shattered bones.

Convenient, Ihan mused. Sometimes one had to erupt madly to lower life’s overall difficulty.

Of course, that didn’t lower the difficulty of training itself.

“Run! Do not stop once! Use all muscle, but do not forget to circulate mana in your breath. Circulating will lessen fatigue, shield you from toxins, strengthen you.”

Mages used mana for spells.
Swordsmen for their bodies.
When kept flowing through muscles, mana resisted both exhaustion and poison.

But freshmen? They could not yet. They simply gasped and stumbled and ran.

“Professor—I have—a question.”

“What is it?”

Ingerdel welcomed Ihan’s voice. What would this clever one ask?

“I am—to gather reagents—in the mountains soon. Any advice…?”

“…I advise giving up,” came the solemn reply.

“…”

“Truly. I advise, do not go.”

His earnest expression only spread unease further within Ihan’s chest.