SMMA 42

Episode 42

The explosion of unrefined mana dealt a mortal blow to Garakse, who had taken it directly, but at the same time sent shockwaves through Ihan as well.
He felt his entire body rattle violently as he was hurled backward.

“Kh…!”

The impact was far greater than even when he had taken a clean strike from Alarron’s sword.

Regret pricked at him.
“Did I infuse too much mana?!”

Wanting to end his foe decisively, Ihan had poured everything into the strike, but the outcome went beyond even what he had anticipated.
His body would not move from the blow.

Fortunately, the enemies had also been taken out…

“Ihan!”

Professor Garcia was rushing over from afar. Seeing him, Ihan grew confused.

“Weren’t there still enemies attacking him?”

The answer soon revealed itself. Around Garcia lay crumpled zealots, their bodies dented as though struck with great hammers. Garcia’s fists were bloodied—but clearly, none of that blood was his own.

“Ah, right… he’s part troll.”

Ihan winced. Had he done nothing, perhaps Garcia would have defeated them all with only his fists. His race alone made him terrifyingly strong even without spells.

How daring those zealots were, to attack one such as him!

Then, in the sky toward the school, a massive skeletal figure approached in a pillar of green luminescence.

Normally, the Headmaster’s form froze Ihan’s spine—but this time, he breathed relief.

“Finally, rest.”

Closing his eyes, he simply sank down. His body ached everywhere; he wanted nothing more than sleep.

The skeletal Headmaster hurried in with Professor Volady at his side.

Imperial Anti-Magic zealots were vermin who spread like rot and poison mushrooms.
That such scum dared strike at the academy’s professors—unthinkable.

“My apologies, Professor Garcia Kim. My failure has endangered you.”

The Headmaster bowed low.

“N-no, Headmaster Gonadaltes. If they were zealots of the Twilight Dawn, none could have stopped them in advance.”

It was rare to see such candid apology from the Headmaster—it even flustered Garcia himself.

At which point, of all people, Professor Volady spoke up.
“That is not so. A true headmaster ought to have prevented it.”

“……”

Garcia gawked in disbelief. Only Volady could be this blind to social sense—criticizing the Headmaster to his face in this moment?!

Even Gonadaltes longed to crack his skull—but he restrained himself. For he, too, bore blame. He should have scouted more carefully.

And then—“That relic…?”

“Yes,” Garcia muttered grimly. “It absorbed every thread of magic.”

“They came well prepared,” the Headmaster clicked his tongue. Zealots were unmatched in fighting magicians—and now, they had unearthed such a relic.

“This man’s name is Garakse,” Volady added, eyeing the battered duelist.

Garakse—a name notorious even among the Twilight Dawn. The “Mage-Slayer,” they called him, for his mastery in battle against sorcerers.

“He yet clings to life. I will take him to my prison, to pry out secrets of their order,” Gonadaltes declared.

He swept his gaze across the battlefield. Lightning and other spells blackened the field, innumerable zealots scorched—that was clearly Garcia’s hand. Despite his lack of talent in combat, he had managed this destruction without losing control.

But what drew the eye were other marks—strikes by blade, foes felled by telekinetic crushing. Signs that anyone could see came from the fallen boy of the Wadanaz family.

“Why does that one wield blade so well?”

For him to fight Garakse—no matter how luck might play, no man without skill could have stood. The Headmaster puzzled but did not ask. After all, not all magicians lived only for spells; some indulged hobbies. Some rode horses. Some knitted. Others, perhaps, wielded swords.

“Were it not for Ihan of Wadanaz,” Garcia admitted aloud, “things would have been dire indeed. Thanks to him, even the workers survived unharmed.”

“Truly… he has talent. Not panicking in dire straits, casting successful spells mid-battle—he is gifted in magical combat,” murmured the Headmaster. “You taught him, Volady?”

“It should not surprise you,” Volady replied smoothly. “The boy focuses with crushing force when pressed by crisis. Added to his immense mana reserves, it was inevitable that he would shine in battle.”

“Bah. Bringing him was a mistake,” Gonadaltes grumbled.

He had wanted only a strong battle mage on hand for insurance—but Volady’s every word ground his nerves raw.

Why, even to admit—as much as he disliked praise—that Ihan’s feats here were extraordinary.
A mere freshman, newly admitted, in one of his first battles, standing against the most infamous zealots in the Empire.

Not by raw might, nor excess spellcraft—but by wit, cunning, and persistence, he had grasped victory.

Such is the true gift of a great magician.

“It’s tempting…”

The Headmaster felt phantom fingers itch. Once, in antiquity, masters stole away disciples to train alone, pouring all their secrets into one chosen successor. How sweet might it be, to drag Ihan off and raise him in forbidden lore…

But such practice was condemned in this age. To dare imprison a Wadanaz child—complaints would rain from professors, family, even Emperor.

“Headmaster! Magic is not everything. What ruin we see wrought by cloistered madmen who never learned a shred of human decency!”
“Gonadaltes! If that were acceptable, I would have taught them myself. Can you do no more than that, you pitiful relic?”
“Gonadaltes! I fund this academy to nurture heirs of the Empire—not to foster lunacy. You dare squander prodigies this way?!”

Indeed—in this modern day, one-to-one inheritances risked twisting a disciple’s mind too far.

“This age plagues me,” the Headmaster sighed. Still, these rules were his own to uphold. Ihan would yet cross his path—again and again. In time, he might come under his hand regardless.

“Should that day come, I would pour into him every forbidden treasure of lore I command.”

“See to the field,” he commanded aloud. “Reward the workers—they deserve it. Secure the relic.”

His summoned servants moved instantly. Wiping the field ensured nearby villages would know nothing.

“Volady. What are you staring at?” Gonadaltes asked curiously, noting him pacing among bodies.

“These few zealots—their wounds differ. I wished to study them.”

“Hmm… what caused such marks? That boy of Wadanaz again?”

They puzzled. Blade cuts, sphere bruises—those were clear. But some corpses bore marks like pounding from gigantic hammers.

“Could he have manipulated rock? With only Lesser Manipulation? Even with his mana, it seems impossible…”

“Ah… that… those were me. My fists,” Garcia confessed sheepishly, raising his hand.

When Ihan next stirred awake, it was atop a soft bed. The first sight—was the grinning skull of the Headmaster.

“A nightmare?”

“You’ve done well, Ihan,” spoke Garcia kindly at his bedside.

“N-no. I only did what I should.”

“Even so, credit is due. You performed admirably.”

“Thank you.”

Though of course—his attempted escape was another matter…

“Damn.”

Hatred for the zealots boiled anew. Were it not for them, by now he’d be in the village!

“I am sorry,” Garcia sighed. “After all you did…”

“No apology. Reward and punishment stand apart. More pressing—how did you even break through the underground passage? It cannot be crossed in mere days.”

The Headmaster peered curiously. That warehouse beneath the main stairwell was a challenge beloved by freshmen. Hungry students longed to plunder its food stores. He even scattered keys for fools to find.

But none had survived deep enough to prise open its secret tunnels.
For Ihan not only entered but fooled the Keeper? Even Gonadaltes had not foreseen it.

“I… don’t know what you mean.” Ihan kept still, feigning innocence. Too late to admit truth—he must deny till the end.

The Headmaster grinned crookedly. “Truly a sharp one. But pity—it matters not. The passage is forever sealed.”

“Damn!”

Then his voice turned solemn.

“Hear me, Ihan of Wadanaz. For standing against zealots, shielding workers and professor alike, I offer the academy’s deepest thanks.”

“…!”

“As token, I grant you the famed blade—Dawnstar.”

“Th-thank—wait. Isn’t this the villain’s sword?”

In shock, Ihan forgot to ask the obvious—whether a true student ought to be handed a killing blade at all.

“Oh, well. Good enough. I’ll use it well.”

In one second he accepted the gift.

“I’ll sell it later…” Ihan thought with glee.

Garcia gaped. He’d planned to persuade him if he refused—saying: “The sword is no evil, only its wielder. Use it rightly.” But Ihan’s swift embrace of greed stunned him.

“And also—another reward. A Permit to Leave.”

“…!!”

Far more than the blade, joy surged across Ihan’s face. The boy, ever expressionless, nearly leapt for joy.

The Headmaster blinked. That—
That sword was priceless! Was this slip of paper truly worth more?!

“Thank you, Headmaster! I pledge loyalty!”

“Uh… yes.”

Even Gonadaltes felt momentarily overwhelmed by the boy’s manic fervor.