SMMA 65

Episode 65

Baldoroorn faltered at Ihan’s persistence.

It had been his idle tongue that birthed this trouble: making a first-year think about shattering spells by brute force.

And such a method was perilous. If handled wrongly, it didn’t merely fail—the mage could die. To break enchantment by sheer mana required volumes far beyond novices.

But Ihan did not relent.
“I’ll never attempt recklessly. But tell me the method.”

“But—”

“I paid the consultation fee, didn’t I?”

“…Fair enough.”

Bound by coin, Baldoroorn yielded.

“First, massive mana. Alone, you can’t suffice. Rely on circles and mana stones.”

Magical circles, mana-fused stones—these were the tools through which mages substituted for their lack. The higher the art, the greater the demand, and the rarer the man who could fuel it alone.

Circles gathered and amplified energy. Mana stones acted as reserve batteries.

“Have you learned circle-work?”

“Yes. In progress.”

He recalled his lectures in Imperial Geometry and Arithmetic Basics.

Etching circles was more math than mysticism—resolving equations, precision symbols, too foreign for most new to numbers. Students wailed their way through “geometry,” until no one knew if the name meant class or screams.

“Good. Once the power is pooled, stand atop the emission node—then control, and strike.”

But striking was harsher than gathering: all that thunder had to be released in one torrent. Not in trickles, but like the breaking dam’s rush. Hesitation equaled failure.

“I don’t think it sounds that difficult.”

The boy’s airy tone made Baldoroorn sigh.

Arrogance—the fatal flaw of the gifted.

For did not the talented perish faster than fools? They trusted their monstrous capacity, saying “I’ll be fine” until it obliterated them.

And this Ihan—first-year, Academy, already escaped once—of course he carried the fatal mark of arrogance.

But Baldoroorn decided: so be it. Let him learn.

He lifted his staff, drew patterns with dust from ground moonstone, chanted long.

3rd-circle illusion: Lunaryon’s Moonlit Maze.

To ward off assassins and nocturnal intruders—a spell any illusionist bragged to own.

“!”

The world shifted. Ihan blinked; the mage across the desk now seemed far away, distance bent.

Menace clung to the air: step across—fall into the maze.

“Don’t move rashly. It seems innocent but—”

“It drags into the maze if I step, yes?”

“……”

Baldoroorn staggered.

How had the boy read it?

Not prior knowledge: his face betrayed discovery.

He had smelled the fabric of mana itself.

Unthinkable perception.

“…Yes. But look—this was only to show. Breaking spells by force is nearly impossible. See how frail it seems, yet it devours intruders.”

“I see…”

Ihan’s eyes gleamed—not with pride, but gratitude.

To receive kindly, clear instruction—one that explained both what to do and why not to—after long months of getting screamed at and battered—his heart stung.

“This teaching… thank you.”

And he bowed, brimming respect.

Baldoroorn froze.
Why is this brat gazing at me like a saint?

KA-BOOM!

Not outside noise—but he heard it: mana smashing mana, spell broken by force.

Impossible!

A single attempt. Casual at that. No diagram, no circle.

Ihan drew mana briefly, then expelled it test-like, and shattered the Moonlit Maze.

Like a falling torrent crushing delicate mosaic.

Baldoroorn’s jaw clenched.

It shouldn’t be possible—mana gathered that swiftly should be weak. If strong, then it should be uncontrollable.

Unless—unless the boy’s blood itself was ocean-deep, and he knew no strain in its tides.

A sailor riding his first storm—and commanding the waves as if they were pets.

Nonsense.

“Thank you!”

Ihan bowed with sincerity.

“Eh…?”

“It was thanks to your fine instruction that I learned so much.”

“……”

Baldoroorn’s skin prickled. Is he mocking me? Is he even a student—or a lunatic professor in disguise?

But no—his eyes were clear. Pure gratefulness.

“I… I only showed a trivial thing…”

“No! Never have I been taught so kindly.”

“Don’t say that aloud! They’ll kill me!”

The mage flapped, fearing the true mad faculty would hex him into a frog if praised next to them.

But Ihan only bowed lower. “Next time I get out, I’ll visit again to learn.”

“…Please don’t. I, ah, have nothing to teach.”

Yet to Ihan, it only read as humility. Even humble!

The bowed grain bent with wisdom… he saw only greater dignity in this wandering mage keeping atelier in a village corner.

“Till next time!”

And he left, glowing.

Baldoroorn locked the door after him, sat numbly, then dug up his battered old grimoire.

…If only to try and be prepared, should the boy return.

“Headmaster—you needn’t hover here.”

Professor Garcia scowled at the skull-faced man floating smugly beside.

On shift at the outer gates, she saw no cause for his shadow.

But of course—only enjoyment brought him here.

He’s waiting for Wadanaz to stumble!

In Einrogard, rarer than escape was the legal “outing right.”

The chosen few had skipped for joy, but returned brokenhearted—empty-handed after their sojourn became farce.

The Academy laid snare after snare—they came back in tears, never to win another outing permit.

“Shouldn’t we be more lenient with reward passes?” she remarked.

“Still soft-hearted. Garcia—you would breed weakness. Magi are born in ordeal!”

“…Oh spare me.” She had heard his mantra a thousand times: “Through trial, a true mage is born!”

Nevertheless—the expectation was sweet.

“But Wadanaz is cleverer than most.”

“That I admit. Yet wit won’t help. With no funds, meager carrying. Time short. The sharper they are—the heavier their greed. And greed delays return. The clock ticks. Soon, our chase begins…”

Garcia inwardly sighed. His cruelty, alas, had logic.

Every student squandered minutes chasing “just one more.” Traps and despair grew worse with time.

But then—

“?!?!”

The hillside before the gate trembled.

Not troll, not ogre bearing load—

But a boy, spine bent under mountains of cargo.

Ihan.

“……”

Both professors gaped.

It was an answer so brutish, so physical, that they had no words.

But then—

As he climbed, box after box floated after him, levitating placidly.

The Headmaster stared.

And admitted at last.

…Volady trained him well.