SMMA 49

Episode 49

In the Empire, black magic naturally held a loathsome reputation.

From its appearance alone, it was described as gloomy, grim, and unsettling. The spells it dealt with only worsened its image: curses, the summoning of undead, shadow and poison elements, negative energies, and the like. It was no surprise people recoiled from it.

—“Greetings, villagers. I am the newly appointed official mage. My specialty? Elemental spells, particularly fire.”
—“Oh! Then winters will no longer trouble us!”
—“H-hello… I am also a newly appointed official mage. My specialty is… black magic…”
—“Excuse me, what did you say?”
—“Black magic. My expertise is undead summoning.”
—“…Don’t let him near the graveyards. Block him from the cemetery.”

This same unease carried into even the academy’s freshmen. No student who had come brimmed with ambition wished to lower themselves by pursuing such a maligned art.

But Ihan gazed at the professor with sparkling curiosity.

Where others do not tread, there lies a path.

From the very beginning, he had thought black magic valuable. Few pursued it; therefore, competition would be low. Besides—taking the class didn’t mean committing to the path forever. One could accept the credits and move onward.

In fact, Ihan believed black mages lived rather comfortably. Though feared, they were rare, and once they found official placement, they almost could not be dismissed.

A guaranteed iron rice bowl—lifelong safety.

“As I expected, this is how you’d all react.”

Professor Garcia, sensing the chill among the young, spoke instead.

“Yet black magic, contrary to the world’s prejudice, contains profound mysteries and truths. You are still unpolished magicians. To find your specialty, you must challenge yourselves, experience widely. I hope you will study not with fear but with the curiosity fitting of mages.”

His words were calm, true enough to touch them. Some of the freshmen softened.

“So then… who will assist Professor Mortum in demonstrating black magic?”

Silence. Heads lowered quickly.

“Ihan! Bow low, quickly!” muttered Gainando, tugging at his sleeve.

“If you mingle with black mages, when you die you’ll never rest—you’ll become one of their undead soldiers!”

“…You call yourself a magician?” Ihan looked at him in disbelief. Superstitious nonsense—he’d expected of villagers, not fellow mages.

“I’ll assist, Professor.”

“!!”

Ihan raised his hand.

Students stared—stunned, even awestruck. The boy of House Wadanaz, already de facto leader of the Blue Dragon Tower, now stepped forward unflinching for black magic itself.

Even those of Black Turtle Tower, who had feared him at first only for rumor, looked with new eyes.

“Ihan!” Garcia’s tone brimmed with relief.

Of course, Ihan knew that look well—all professors knew the awkward silence when an invited guest lecturer stood before mute students. Oftentimes, they planted a student in advance to “ask a question.” How much greater was Garcia’s gratitude now.

“Cough, cough… Thank you. Come forward.”

Approaching, Ihan quickly grasped why the air had chilled so. The frail Mortum radiated noxious energy—a flood of negative-aspected mana.

This was the hallmark of black magicians.

Though mana was by nature colorless, it often required attunement to match the intended spell. Black magic demanded its practitioner suffuse it with the essence of shadow, dread, and negation.

Well, no wonder no one dares get close…

Who would eagerly approach such an aura, casually seeping dark energy? Professors, as always, had a poor sense for winning students over.

“You have good reserves of mana.”

“Thank you.”

“Take your staff. Watch closely as I demonstrate.”

After several rattling coughs, Mortum waved his hand, and suddenly the aimless waves of negative mana aligned with exacting order.

“Rise, servants of bone!”

Clack clack clatter—

Skeletons materialized in the space between students, gyrating in grotesque dance, circling around them. Terrified faces nearly collapsed.

Mortum looked to Ihan, smiling faintly.
“Cough… Well? Isn’t it splendid?”

“Eh?”

“I thought students would enjoy the spectacle.”

“Ah—fascinating, yes.”

Ihan avoided truth so as not to wound. Garcia’s eyes glimmered, grateful.

“Of course, I won’t have you attempt something advanced like that. Far too difficult.”

Obvious words, yet they filled Ihan with relief. If only Volady spoke like that!

“For now, practice converting your mana into a negative aspect.”

Ihan focused. Having once converted to light and water elements, he understood the principle: summon an image in mind, let the will stain the energy.

Fssht—!

“Not bad at all.”

“Thank you.”

“Continue converting.”

Ihan pressed onward.

He’s doing well? Garcia flinched. Mortum may not realize, but Garcia certainly did: the last thing he wanted was Ihan impressing too deeply here.

Most magicians struggled endlessly defining “negative attribute.”
Cold? Yet so was ice.
Dark? Yet so was shadow.
It was broad, ambiguous, hard to conceptualize.

But Ihan had an advantage: perspective.

Think non-Euclidean geometry; imaginary numbers. Something uncanny yet logical, mathematical nightmares.

Fortune favored him—such imagery harmonized, and his reserves flowed smoothly into shadow.

Ever deeper. Stronger. Darker.

“…Professor…?”

The room itself dimmed. The chill deepened; breath smoked from mouths. Students twitched, some whispering they heard voices from the dead.

Yet Mortum only urged him on, avid, eyes bright where once had been only coughs.

“How far can you go? Show me.”

“Professor—” Garcia interjected, alarmed. “We must stop.”

“Just a little more. I must know—”

“That can be tested elsewhere.”

“But—”

“I said stop.”

Startled by the steel in Garcia’s voice, Mortum recoiled.

“So close…” he muttered, disappointed.

Among black magics, quantity of negative-aspected mana was paramount. Undead? Required fuel. Curses? Demanded depth. Darkness and poison element spells—no less so. This boy could have demonstrated staggering potential.

“Petty man, that Garcia,” he thought bitterly.

“Professor,” Ihan spoke. The massive reserves were dispersing unused.

“Ah, yes. Then try casting. Swing your staff, chant: Be paralyzed.”

A first-circle spell. A minor curse inducing numbing cramps of limb, easy to visualize, trivial in form.

“Upon whom?”

“Me, of course.”

Ihan hesitated. Mortum looked ready to collapse from a breeze, yet he presented himself as target.

“Is this really safe?”

“Of course. Cough, cough. At most, a deadened limb. I have endured far worse.”

Well… he’s the professor.

Ihan steeled himself.

“Paralyze!”

Mana, stained to shadow, surged from his will, exploding forth, covering Mortum before he could brace.

“!!!”

Too much. Far, far too much.

The frail man staggered, tried to resist, but the tide of power engulfed him—smothering his strength until stiffness seized every limb.

Clunk.

Mortum toppled flat, paralyzed head to toe.

“Professor? Professor!!”

Ihan froze in horror.

In his mind, an abominable title flickered unbidden: Professor Killer.