Chapter 151: Cleaning up the Twin Peaks 9

At the same time, in a room at the Ealdred ducal estate in the capital, a man entered. Locking the door behind him, he took a black robe from the wardrobe. As he put it on and pulled the hood deep over his face, his aura instantly became intensely gloomy. He let out a sigh of relief. Then, taking a single mouse from a small pouch, he tossed it onto the tabletop. The mouse, trapped in a golden ring, lay limp.

“Such fine workmanship.”

It was just a mouse created by curse-craft, but at a glance, it looked no different from an ordinary one. Its movements were all perfectly lifelike; no one would normally realize it was a spy of some kind.

He poured water from a pitcher on the shelf into a cup and drank it down in one gulp. His throat quenched, he neurotically adjusted the position of a candle and lit some incense he had taken from his bag. Soon, a gentle, calming fragrance began to fill the room. The incense, which he regularly purchased from merchants from foreign lands, was a personal favorite.

“Honestly, I wouldn't come all the way to the damn capital unless I was asked to.”

He grumbled under his breath, but his face didn't look particularly displeased. He seemed to have resigned himself to the fact that it couldn't be helped.

Rubbing his hands together, he sat down in a chair. Finally able to settle down and analyze the mouse, he let out a delighted smile. Unaware of the perfect arc his lips formed, he spread out a curse-craft array. It was his own improved version of a common array, and he was confident in its quality. Chanting, he channeled his magical energy into the array and began his analysis.

“—Hmm? What’s this?”

He frowned, puzzled, but after a moment, his eyes widened.

Frantically chasing the golden characters that floated in the air before disappearing, he scribbled down every formula on paper without looking at his hands.

“Wait, how many formulas are layered on top of each other? And they have incorporated contradictory formulas without their effects canceling each other out—ah, I see, they omitted the formula here and substituted another one. No, wait, I’ve never seen this formula before. What effect is it aiming for—?”

He muttered to himself as he wrote down the intricate formulas, wondering if this was really just a spy mouse. Eavesdropping alone wouldn't require such complex formulas, nor would it be necessary to layer multiple ones. The mouse before him was designed not just for simple eavesdropping, but to slip through heavy defensive barriers, avoid danger, bring back necessary information, and even transmit the sounds of the location directly to the caster upon contact.

“This formula is converting something into magical energy, which explains why the mana stone powering it is so small. But I can’t figure out what’s being converted, and that’s the most important part.”

Automatic magical artifacts were not unheard of. But to make them move on their own, away from the caster, a mana stone was required. The longer they were away, the larger the mana stone needed to be. And once the magical energy in the mana stone was depleted, the artifact would stop moving. If one didn't want to use a large mana stone, the caster would have to periodically send magical energy from a distance. However, sending magical energy increased the risk of the caster's presence being detected by a third party. Therefore, creating a magical artifact that could continue to move for a long time away from the caster was said to be impossible.

“I’d like to speak with this caster just once—. I wonder who they are.”

A caster who could sneak a spy into the royal palace. Or a caster who would accept such a request. They were likely not a decent person. But their skill was among the best the man had ever known. If that talent were used for the good of the country, the Kingdom of Slibegrad would surely prosper even more. What a waste of talent, the man thought, his lips turning down in a frown.

But now was not the time to lament a wasted talent. He needed to finish his analysis quickly and cast a tracking spell. After that, he would release the mouse, and the trap would naturally reveal its owner.

But, in that instant—the man felt a sense of wrongness and stopped what he was doing.

“—!?”

Stunned, the man stared at the tabletop with a look of disbelief. The mouse on the array was crumbling. He scrambled to stop the disintegration, but it was too late. The mouse quickly turned to dust, and the dust transformed into glittering light and vanished.

“—There wasn’t an annihilation formula built into it.”

The man muttered in a hoarse voice. He hadn’t finished analyzing everything yet, but he was fairly certain the mouse itself didn’t have a self-destruct mechanism. That meant he had to assume the caster who created it had destroyed it remotely.

“The residual magical energy is gone.”

When using magic remotely, an invisible, thread-like path of magic forms between the caster and the target. No matter how skilled the caster, they cannot erase this path. Therefore, one could normally identify the caster's location immediately by sending their own magic down that path. However, if that identification process was delayed, the opponent could sever the path. Once that happened, there was nothing more to be done.

The thickness of this magical path varies depending on the caster's skill. For a skilled individual, it's like a single line drawn with a fine pen; for a beginner or an unskilled caster, it can be as wide as a highway. The thinner it is, the harder it is to trace and the easier it is to sever. Of course, thinner isn't always better. A truly skilled caster can channel high-purity, high-density magic through a thin path, making the spell more effective. But normally, such a feat is impossible. There are limits to how pure and dense a person can make their magic. That's why it's said that a thin path results in a weaker spell, and the man had never seen high-purity, high-density magic before. But what he had just witnessed was precisely that "theoretically possible but unrealistic" magic.

In other words, the person who created the spy mouse was not only an exceptionally skilled curse user but also one of the foremost mages in the kingdom.

The man groaned, caught between the joy of having touched a fragment of a brilliant mage's skill and the frustration of being outwitted. He slammed his clenched right fist onto the table.

＊＊＊＊＊

In one corner of the royal palace, people rarely ventured these days. Despite this, security was tight, and the atmosphere was gloomy. Passing through a corridor where not even a single sound could be heard, one would find a single room. The room was lavishly decorated, but contrary to the interior that boasted of power and wealth, it was filled with the stench of death.

On a bed placed in the center of the large room lay a man. He had been bedridden for the past few years, waking up only occasionally, but recently his consciousness had been clouded. Famed physicians and mages alike could not identify his illness, and thus there was no known cure. The only thing they could do was to maintain his weakening stamina. The man slowly approaching death was Horatio Jeff Slibegrad—the king of the Kingdom of Slibegrad himself.

But that day, things were different from usual. Several men entered the room, which was rarely set foot in by anyone other than his daily caretakers. One of them was Earl Mellars, who had just become Chancellor a few days prior, and he was eyeing a figure in a black robe with suspicion. Behind him followed the Director of the Ministry of Magic, Nicholas Bergson, with a disgruntled expression. At the very end walked Ulysses Pat Ealdred, looking as if he wanted to say he was out of place.

Greeting them was Horatio's legitimate son, Riley. He rose from the chair he was sitting in and welcomed Earl Mellars and the others with a smile.

“Is that the mage Lord Playstead spoke of?”

“Yes, and Duke Ealdred has vouched for his identity.”

Earl Mellars replied, his tone outwardly polite.

The face of the man in the deeply hooded robe was not visible, but he placed a hand on his chest and gave an elegant bow. Although it was so informal as to be considered presumptuous when addressing the crown prince, it was, at least, a proper gesture of respect. As this was an unofficial setting, no one rebuked him. Riley, for his part, didn't seem to mind much. The bigger issue was that the man kept his face hidden under the deep hood even before the crown prince and the king. Despite the fact that removing one’s head covering was a matter of etiquette, the man showed no sign of taking off his hood. Earl Mellars frowned.

“Mage-dono, you are in the presence of His Majesty and His Highness. I must ask you to remove your hood in accordance with etiquette.”

But far from removing his hood, the mage shrugged his shoulders with a sarcastic twist of his lips.

“Taking off my hood would only cause you further displeasure, so I ask for your forbearance.”

The language was barely polite, but it teetered on the edge between disrespect and acceptability. No, under normal circumstances, it would be condemned as insolence. Indeed, Earl Mellars and Bergson both showed clear displeasure.

Bergson, in particular, had a poor impression of the mage before him from the start. This mage, sent by Lord Playstead to re-examine the king whom he himself had previously examined, was, in a sense, a fellow who could potentially tarnish Bergson’s reputation.

Having demoted the thorn in his side, Deputy Director Ben Draco, and placed him on probation, and with the death of Duke Clark who held his weakness, Bergson was finally about to enjoy his reign. He couldn’t let some mysterious, shady man heal the king now. If a strange man calling himself a mage could cure an illness that Bergson, the Director of the Ministry of Magic, could not, the nobles and commoners would be disappointed in him. Then he could no longer bask in the glory of his time. He would lose his fame and power, and possibly his fortune as well.

That was why, when he heard that a mage not affiliated with the Ministry of Magic was being dispatched, he insisted that a mage of uncertain identity could not be allowed near the king and wrested the right to accompany him. If Marquis Finch had become Chancellor, his request would likely have been rejected, but fortunately, the new Chancellor was Earl Mellars. As they had some previous association, securing his approval was easy.

“You refuse to give your name and you will not remove your hood? Even with Lord Playstead’s recommendation, such selfish behavior is beyond the pale.”

Though polite, Earl Mellars’s tone was stern. Bergson nodded deeply in agreement, his gaze accusatory as he looked at the mage. Sensing that this was getting out of hand, Ulysses, who had been content to be a bystander, was about to speak up. But Riley interjected before he could.

“Earl Mellars, I am deeply grateful for your loyalty, but let us overlook this matter for now. If he has Lord Playstead’s recommendation and Duke Ealdred vouches for his identity, then I have no intention of reprimanding him. Rather than debating this here, I would like you to examine His Majesty’s condition at once.”

Earl Mellars was momentarily at a loss for words, but he quickly bowed his head and retreated, saying, “As Your Highness commands.” Bergson looked dissatisfied but said nothing, and Ulysses, standing diagonally behind him, gave Riley a look full of gratitude. Meanwhile, the mage in question stood there, radiating an air of amusement. Riley let out a small, wry smile and turned to the mage.

“However, it is rather inconvenient to call you Mage-dono. If possible, would you be so kind as to tell me a name I might call you by?”

“In that case, you may call me Chad.”

“Chad—is it?”

“Yes.”

The robed man nodded meaningfully. Riley’s eyes widened for a second, but he quickly nodded to show his acceptance.

“Very well. Then, Chad-dono, I am counting on you.”

“As you wish.”

Prompted by Riley, the mage approached the bed where the king slept. He took out the magical artifacts and curse-craft arrays he had prepared and set them up. Riley, Earl Mellars, and Ulysses watched the man’s actions with keen interest. Bergson stood by, looking annoyed and bored. He seemed frustrated that he couldn't say or do anything since the crown prince had given his approval.

Under the watchful eyes of everyone present, the mage steadily began to deploy his spell formulas. A golden light filled the space, and various patterns and characters appeared and disappeared. When the light faded, Riley and the others were jolted back to reality, having been in a dreamlike state in the all-too-fantastical space.

“Analysis complete.”

At the mage’s words, Riley took a step forward.

“Did you find anything?”

“Yes, it was surprisingly simple.”

For four years, countless physicians and mages had examined the king, only to report that they could find nothing, leaving them in despair. Because of this, Riley, Earl Mellars, and even Ulysses almost missed the mage’s nonchalant reply.

“—What? S-simple—you say?” Earl Mellars stammered, repeating the word. The mage gave a slight shrug and shot a fleeting, provocative glance at Bergson.

“It’s a very simple curse. I could analyze it while swatting away a noisy fly with one hand. It’s a wonder no one figured it out until now.”

Bergson gritted his teeth. The mage turned his face to Riley.

“A seed of curse-craft has been planted in His Majesty’s body. Vines, grown from the seed, were entwined around his heart and lungs. They are quite intricately tangled, but they have not yet fully assimilated with the organs. If this continues, he will pass away in another year or two, but if we begin treatment and dispelling now, he will gradually recover.”

“And—how long will it take to heal him?”

Still reeling from the sudden revelation, the mage gave them a nod. Riley, finally regaining his composure, thoughtfully posed a question.

The curse eating away at the king's body was a vine of curse-craft grown from a seed. Growing slowly over many years, the vine was wrapped around his heart and lungs, sucking away his life force. If more time passed, the organs and the vine would completely fuse, making it impossible to separate them no matter how hard they tried. But they were still at a stage where a cure was just barely possible.

“To avoid any lasting side effects, we must take the utmost care not to damage the organs when removing the vines. We also need to build up his strength. Therefore, we will proceed slowly, using magic and medicine to restore his health over time. Depending on His Majesty’s stamina and willpower, it will take at least one year, and at most, several years.”

“—That long?” Earl Mellars murmured.

The mage's eyes, though hidden by his hood, seemed to glint. He turned to the count.

“This type of magic is slow to progress, so dealing with it also takes time. If you don't mind him ending up a cripple, I can dispel it in an instant.”

“You will do no such thing,” Riley interjected, cutting off the provocative words.

Though he had spent four of his six years on the throne bedridden and had only been involved in the superficial aspects of governance during his two healthy years, he was still the king. Having him become a cripple was not an option.

The mage seemed to understand this and replied, “That’s why we will take our time.”

“I will bring the medicine as a decoction. As for the dispelling spell, I will visit periodically to perform it. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, of course. However, you must be accompanied by a knight and an attendant of our designation whenever you enter this room.”

If he were to enter alone and the king’s condition worsened, the mage would be the one suspected and blamed. Riley’s words were not only for the king’s protection but also showed consideration for the mage. Understanding this, the mage executed a perfect bow. It was not the abbreviated one from before, but the highest form of respect a person of rank shows to royalty. Earl Mellars’s eyes widened, but Riley remained composed. The mage replied quietly.

“As you command.”

＊＊＊＊＊

Having identified the cause of the king’s illness as curse-craft, the mage, along with Ulysses, boarded an Ealdred family carriage and headed toward the ducal estate in the capital. As soon as they left the palace grounds, Ulysses looked up. A wry smile played on his handsome features.

“Uncle Adolf, why did you introduce yourself as Chad?”

“A bit of mischief. I figured if I borrowed my brother’s name, some might guess our blood relation. And indeed, it seemed His Highness caught on. He’s quite a promising young man.”

The mage, now addressed as Adolf, chuckled softly. Chad was the middle name of the late Duke Ealdred, Bernard. Borrowing his brother’s name had been purely for his own amusement.

And at the same time, it had been a way to test Riley.

Ulysses didn't know, but this was not Adolf and Riley's first meeting. He had once received a secret request to create a magical artifact for the prince. What he wanted was a bracelet that functioned like telepathy. It was a surprising request, but as a mage, it was a thrilling job. For the sake of his position, he had informed his brother, Duke Bernard, who, for some reason, had asked for a receiving device for himself as well, but he hadn't told anyone else.

At that time, Adolf had asked Riley not to tell anyone that he was a mage. He rarely appeared in social circles. Although he was rumored to be a misanthropic eccentric, very few people knew he was a mage.

Therefore, he had been slightly suspicious that Riley might mention or show in his expression that he knew Adolf, but it seemed to have been a groundless fear.

“It’d be a pain if it got out that an uncle of the Duke of Ealdred is a mage. I had no intention of revealing my name from the start.”

“Indeed,” Ulysses agreed. If it became known that the House of Ealdred had a skilled mage, the Ministry of Magic would not remain silent. It was not hard to imagine they would be dragged into a power struggle.

This time, in particular, Director Nicholas Bergson had been hostile toward Adolf from the very beginning. He possessed neither magical talent nor an aptitude for curse-craft. That’s why Bergson must have wanted to prevent anyone else from examining the king. If someone else analyzed the curse-craft that he couldn’t, it would expose Bergson’s incompetence. So Adolf had anticipated some form of interference, but Bergson had been unexpectedly blatant.

Adolf grumbled, his voice laced with exasperation.

“Bergson has hardly any skill, yet he tried to interfere with my analysis.”

“—Ah, the fly.”

Ulysses thought for a moment and quickly recalled his uncle’s earlier comment.

After finishing his analysis, Adolf had said, ‘I could analyze it while swatting away a noisy fly with one hand.’ That “fly” must have been Bergson’s interference. Adolf nodded, affirming Ulysses’s words.

“I think it’s presumptuous of him to call himself Director with that level of skill, but I suppose he had the money and the timing was right. If he were younger, his name wouldn’t have even appeared on the main stage.”

The period when Nicholas Bergson joined the Ministry of Magic was a time of personnel shortages. There weren't many talented individuals, which is why even someone with only Bergson’s level of ability could climb to the position of Director using connections and money. However, the younger generation included the heir of the renowned Draco family of mages. Compared to Ben Draco, Bergson’s skills were woefully inadequate.

“He’ll probably try to interfere again, but what a pain.”

Adolf sighed, fed up. His opponent’s skill was nothing special, so he could be easily repelled. But it was annoying, like a fly buzzing around one's face. Now, what should I do with him? Adolf wondered as he gazed out the carriage window.

—-

ToC

Chapter 152