༺ 𓆩 Chapter 12 — Ice Magic (2) 𓆪 ༻
「Translator — Creator」
᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃
[Those who study Ice magic fall into one of two categories: either they’re snot-nosed children clinging to childish dreams of the legendary Ice Mages from old tales — or they’re vulgar fools chasing wealth through the path of the arcane.]
Such words were written in the final manuscript left behind by the last Ice mage to be recorded in the annals of magic history.
Isaac remembered the words well, not because they were profound, but because they had been drenched in biting self-deprecation. The author: Wales William, a 5th-Class mage who had devoted his entire life to the pursuit of Ice magic, only to despair at its limitations and fade into obscurity in the end.
The reason behind that disillusionment was simple.
Ice magic, for all its intricate beauty, was impractical.
In the world of magi-tech, spells involving ice enjoyed brief popularity among the wealthy elite and the nobility, those who could afford such luxuries, for example, to chill rare delicacies or regulate temperature within their estates. But that was the extent of it.
The functional capacity of Ice mages was frustratingly narrow.
To conjure a fireball required but a single step: ignition.
To form an ice crystal, however, the mage must first procure water in sufficient quantity. If there wasn’t any readily available, then they had to draw moisture from the air or shape it magically into the desired form. That alone required mastery over elemental shaping.
Next came four more steps — compression, condensation, expansion, and evaporation. All of which had to be performed in sequence.
Individually, none of those stages were exceptionally difficult for a seasoned caster. But aligning them all perfectly in the heat of battle? That required precision, control, and time and these were things no one could afford on the battlefield.
In situations where one’s life hung on the edge of a blade, few mages possessed the sheer nerve to calmly build their magic from scratch. Fewer still had the luxury of time. Enemies didn’t wait around politely for a spell to finish.
And even if, against all odds, the spell succeeded, its destructive power left much to be desired.
At best, it could freeze a river or trap an enemy's feet by icing over a damp surface.
To weaponize the ice crystal as a projectile, one needed the help of an auxiliary mage.
The Ice mage would first sculpt the ice into a viable form, after which the supporting mage would alter its phase and launch it. That was the process. But if a commander had the budget to hire not one but two mages for such coordination, they’d likely hire ten archers instead, cheaper and far more lethal.
'[If Ice magic is all you know, then congratulations. You’ll find yourself beloved by breweries and taverns alike. After all, who better to chill a barrel of beer than you?]
[Of course, if you happen to be obscenely wealthy, you can skip the cooling phase entirely by purchasing ice mana stones. But be warned: before long, you’ll be selling the pillars off your mansion to stay afloat. Those stones are among the rarest ingredients sought after by the old men of the Mage Tower. If you're the buyer, you'd better be prepared to offer more gold than there are stars in the sky.]
It was no wonder William wrote with such bitter sarcasm.
Because that had been the reality.
Unless under very special circumstances, ice magic hadn’t been used in battle for a very long time; nor was there a place for Ice mages in daily life.
Devices that automatically performed Ice magic had been sufficiently developed.
In short, Ice mages were completely ostracized from magical society.
And despite such a bleak situation, Isaac had interpreted William’s writings differently.
After all, he had time in abundance, and attaching ‘what if’ scenarios to magic and endlessly imagining was one of his favorite hobbies.
If ice mana stones were expensive and mainly used for academic purposes, it meant that few thought to use them in combat.
Because Ice magic was obsolete, it was difficult to identify the spell and even harder to trace the caster.
Moreover, due to its nature, ice magic was well-suited for stealth.
Other elemental spells easily left visible or audible traces.
In contrast, ice magic, if used cleverly, could be indistinguishable from injuries caused by metal weapons.
Since ice melted into water, it was even harder to find clues.
It had been decades since Isaac had those thoughts while sitting in a basement vault.
Now, Isaac was realizing and proving them with his own hands.
Each time.
Each and every strike.
Each time an ice crystal pierced through the darkness and struck a bandit’s head, Isaac felt a surge of exhilaration.
It wasn’t joy from harming someone.
It was the joy of seeing his long-held thoughts bear fruit in reality.
A mage was originally that kind of being.
Someone who could devote an entire lifetime to making imagination into reality without feeling it was a waste.
William’s book had said as much.
[Regardless of your status when you step onto the path of magic, whether you are man or woman, young or old, I know one thing for certain: you are a fool. And I know you will not listen no matter how much I try to dissuade you. Because I know that inside your mind, clear and brilliant ice rain is falling.]
Isaac chuckled dryly.
He realized once again that he, too, was one of those fools.
How could he not, when he was enjoying it so much?
At the same time, he felt a strange sense of relief and belonging.
Because of the mana explosion, he could never call himself a mage in his previous life.
But now, more than anyone, he recognized that he had truly become a mage.
A debtor who owed a debt of heart to precious people.
And a hopeless fool who was utterly mad about magic.
“Are you not going to kill them?”
Bill asked, noticing that the fallen bandit was still breathing.
“Lowlifes like these will keep appearing no matter how many you kill.”
Isaac glanced briefly at the unconscious bandit.
“But they’ll just do the same thing again.”
“That’s exactly why I’m sparing him.”
“Pardon, what?”
“There’s only one guy I’m planning to kill.”
“Who?”
“Nias.”
“.............!”
Ripples spread across Bill’s face.
“I have a role for you, Bill.”
Isaac said.
𝄞 𝄢 𝄞 𝄢 𝄞 𝄢
“Father, you’re not eating again today.”
The disheveled Nias sliced into the meat on his plate; the rare steak bled profusely and was so tough that it barely yielded under the fork.
Nias tore into it roughly with force and chewed it in his mouth.
Around him stood about half a dozen bandits, waiting silently.
Each time Nias chewed, they grimaced and fought off nausea.
Because the meat they had slaughtered, roasted, and served was human flesh.
“You really should eat something. You’re getting thinner and thinner.”
Nias stared across the long dining table.
But there was no person sitting there, only a skull, impaled on a skewer; the skull’s upper part, including the forehead, had been completely crushed.
Nias simply stared blankly at the skull.
“You’re there, aren’t you? I’ve always wanted to hear Father’s screams someday, but I guess I’m still not good enough. Just wait a little longer. I found a new black magic tome, and apparently I only need to consume five more fetal hearts.”
Nias wiped the dripping blood off with his hand and stood up.
At his movement, several of the bandits standing nearby flinched.
Unlike the scrawny folk who lived by begging in the sewers, Nias was so tall that his head nearly brushed the ceiling, and his massive body had long arms that reached below his thighs.
He was a typical example of a northern tribesman.
Nias lumbered toward the skull.
“When that happens, your soul will be trapped in that skull forever. How about it? You always wanted to live a long time, right? …No answer? Or maybe my spiritual energy is running out? Hey.”
“Y-Yes!”
A waiting bandit, startled, shouted in response.
“Seems like the soul’s power is weakening. Go drain some blood from some useless guy. I think I’ll need a bath.”
“O-Only the merchandise we planned to sell to the merchants is left, though.”
“Hmm.”
Nias muttered lowly.
Suddenly, his huge palm grabbed another bandit’s head entirely.
“Urk?”
He twisted the bandit’s neck and shoulders in opposite directions as if wringing out laundry.
Crack—!!!!
A corpse was created in an instant.
“Guess I’ll use this guy today. But… one body won’t be enough to fill the bathtub.”
Nias looked at the bandit who had answered earlier.
The bandit trembled, unable to meet Nias’s gaze; then, as if he had made up his mind, he drew his dagger and stabbed the neck of another bandit nearby.
“Khak!”
Blood spurted out as the dagger was pulled free.
“R-Ready, sir.”
“Wait for me.”
Nias lumbered past the bandit with his characteristic slow stride.
The surviving bandits held their breath, unable to move, until Nias rounded the corner and disappeared.
Only after he vanished did they gasp for air and slump onto the filthy sewer floor.
Their buttocks soaked in rotten water, but they didn’t care.
“Shit.”
Someone muttered a curse like a sigh, but no one responded.
All of them were caught between the relief of surviving and the despair of having to continue living under that mad monster.
None of them thought Nias knew black magic, but his madness and his monstrous physique were already no different from sorcery.
Thud—!!!
Just as the bandits were beginning to relax.
A heavy thud echoed from beyond the corner of the sewer.
Scrape—!!!
Scrape—!!!
At the same time, there was the sound of something tearing through flesh.
The bandits exchanged nervous glances.
Their bodies froze at once.
Was it Nias?
Or someone else?
Even though they knew they had to check the source of the sound, their feet wouldn’t move.
Tap—!!!, Tap—!!!
One bandit nudged another.
Regardless, someone had to confirm it.
They silenced their footsteps and crept toward the corner.
Any presence had long since vanished; no sound came from beyond the corner.
One bandit pulled a torch from its sconce on the wall.
He cautiously approached the corner with it.
At that moment—
Roll.
Something rolled toward them from beyond the corner.
“Ugh!”
The bandit at the front fell onto his butt in fright.
Clang—!!!
The others behind him, startled, drew their swords and clumsily bumped into the wall.
Luckily, nothing happened.
The object that had rolled toward them was neither a bomb nor a weapon.
“W-What the hell is this?”
In the darkness, it looked like the severed head of a furry sack.
When they brought the torch closer, the bandits forgot to breathe.
It was the head of Nias, who had just gone off saying he needed a blood bath.
A hole, as if pierced by a sharp awl, was cleanly bored through the center of his forehead.
Nias’s head, wearing a baffled expression, rolled across the floor.
“Hey, can you give me some water?”
“Ugh—”
Only upon seeing the man did the bandits realize they hadn’t been breathing.
The man, covered in blood, was a face they knew well.
But he gave off a completely different feeling from the man they thought they knew.
“B-Bill?”
It was the once-pathetic, laughable Bill, soaked head to toe in Nias’s blood.
Boastful, cowardly Bill.
But it was a Bill they had never seen before.
“Water. Bring it, you bastards.”
Bill irritably pushed his blood-drenched hair back.
𝄞 𝄢 𝄞 𝄢 𝄞 𝄢
Just moments ago.
The four mana circuits paths Isaac possessed were operating like flowing water.
Cooling, cooling, phase shift, phase shift again.
The overlapping cooling hardened the ice crystal to be tougher than bone, and the overlapping phase shifts accelerated its speed beyond that of an arrow.
Pew—!!!
With a soft whizzing sound, the long-armed giant’s head snapped backward.
‘Hit.’
Isaac breathed a sigh of relief the moment the ice crystal pierced Nias’s forehead. It was thanks to his relentless training to control phase shifts, and to Nias’s own carelessness, grown from years of ruling as a predator.
“..............!”
Bill stared wide-eyed at Nears’ collapsing body, glancing between Isaac’s expression and the corpse sprawled before them.
Isaac gestured with his chin to move quickly.
“Fuu~”
Bill stripped off his shirt, bounced lightly in place, and shook out his arms.
In his grip was a butcher’s cleaver —thick, broad, and more suited to a slaughterhouse than a battlefield. His face was taut with nerves, but his jaw remained clenched with purpose as he climbed atop Nears’ lifeless form. Raising the cleaver high, he brought it down with brutal force.
Darkness obscured the scene, veiling the details, but the sound of flesh being torn and bones crushed rang out clearly.
Oddly, as the grotesque noise echoed around him, Isaac found his thoughts drifting back to something Enette had once said—
— Anyone can end up doing things they never wanted to do. At least once in their life. Even saints, I imagine. Otherwise, they’d have no reason to cling to faith so desperately.
But that hadn't been all she said.
—You won’t be able to undo it. You can’t erase it. It'll follow you for the rest of your life like a brand. There are only two choices — let the guilt suffocate you, or keep struggling to live on, even for those who no longer can.
Isaac remembered her voice being cool and dry, almost detached.
She had made no claim about which was better or more righteous. She simply offered a choice, one he hadn’t even considered until that moment.
Looking back now, it hadn’t been anything particularly profound.
And yet, at the time, those words had been enough to get him through another day. Enough to stop him from giving up on life.
Perhaps it was because Enette herself had once lost a friend named Clara.
Perhaps that grief had taught her how to speak to someone standing on the edge.
But he didn’t need to hear those words again.
Not in this life.
This time, Enette would never have to do something she didn’t want to do.
She wouldn’t have to lose a friend.
That was the conclusion Isaac had reached.
That was the choice he had made.
And so, it would be.
Yes.
Even if it meant dirtying his hands over and over again.
𝄞 𝄢 𝄞 𝄢 𝄞 𝄢
That evening…
A single carriage arrived at the Goethe estate.
Inside were three women, reeking of filth and rot.
The missing maids had returned.
END σϝ CHAPTER