~Chapter 09~
. The Revealed Identity
They didn’t take any particular measures.
The only thing they did was bring Hogg into our quarters.
“Magic unit, you say?”
The senior members of the combat unit, including Tommy, frowned.
“It’s a shame he was bullied, sure… but we’ve never transferred someone to another unit like this.”
“But Commander Barnard hasn’t carved the mark on him yet, right? Then wouldn’t it be fine?”
“Don’t be stupid! You think that old man Barnard would just let us take one of his men?”
“What if we asked Commander Gardener…?”
“The commander is still out on reconnaissance and hasn’t returned yet!”
“Then what do you suggest we do? Just send him back? You know they’ll just bully him again!”
After much debate, they decided not to send Hogg back.
“It’s because our quarters are too big.”
“Yeah. Someone could sneak in and we wouldn’t even notice.”
“We’re too exhausted from work to care about that kind of thing anyway.”
So everyone chose to just ignore it.
That night passed without incident, and even on the way to breakfast in the morning, nothing happened.
But when the magic unit soldiers saw Hogg eating with us, they all crowded over in a group.
Among them was Hagen, Tommy’s peer.
He was smaller than Hogg, but still big—his fists were as large and brutish as a man’s head.
Led by Hagen, the magic unit soldiers didn’t address Hogg or me.
“Hey, black hair.”
They went straight for Ronan.
“I heard it was you who did this to my guys.”
Behind Hagen stood the soldiers Ronan had beaten the day before, each of them sporting big ugly bruises on their faces.
“Even if you’re in another unit, a senior is still a senior. And yet you dared to lay hands on your elders…”
“Some seniors aren’t worth the name.”
Ronan rose smoothly to his feet.
His jet-black eyes flashed like those of a wild beast as he glared at Hagen.
“A senior isn’t supposed to bully the weak, is he?”
“It’s not bullying, it’s discipline, you little bastard.”
Hagen stepped closer, unwilling to back down.
“Looks like you need some discipline yourself.”
“You think you can manage it?”
As the two squared off, more soldiers gathered around.
“What’s going on here?!”
“Get lost, now!”
“Magic unit scum, where do you think you are?!”
“You good-for-nothings!”
“Watch your tone, you dumb combat unit bastards!”
In an instant, combat and magic unit soldiers were snarling at each other, ready to rip each other apart.
A deadly tension filled the air.
Chaaang.
A sharp sound split the space cleanly in two.
One of the tables cracked in half with a loud crunch.
All eyes turned toward the gleaming blue blade resting atop the ruined table.
“The mess hall is for eating.”
Gardener stood there with his sword drawn, his voice low and heavy.
“If you want to fight, do it outside.”
He gave his sword a casual spin, the steel flashing menacingly.
“Of course, punishment will follow.”
At that, the snarling soldiers retreated.
The combat unit seemed to heed Gardener’s authority, while the magic unit clearly had no intention of challenging him.
Even Hagen withdrew, sneering at Ronan that he was “lucky.”
“Since you’re all so full of energy, I suppose we don’t need more recruits after all.”
“Th–that’s not it…”
“It was the new guys…”
“They started it…”
A few senior soldiers tried to protest, but Gardener’s sharp gaze silenced them.
With a shrring, he sheathed his blade, then looked straight at me.
“Esric.”
“…?!”
“The commander wants to see you.”
…Me?
…Why?
Inside Commander Siruela’s tent.
All the way there, following Gardener, I couldn’t think of a single reason for the summons.
After all, it was Ronan who had openly beaten those guys yesterday.
There was no reason the commander would want me.
“You look like you don’t know why I called you.”
“….”
Did he just read my mind?
Siruela smiled faintly at me.
“I summoned you because I have something to ask.”
“…What?”
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
The smile vanished from his face.
His deep green eyes gleamed sharply.
“The one who killed the Snow Worms.”
“…!”
How did he know?
Again, as if reading my thoughts, Siruela spoke first.
“Just because snow covers everything doesn’t mean the traces vanish. And my scouts are quite capable.”
He glanced at Gardener, standing solidly behind me.
“They found scorched earth beneath the snow. To melt all that ice and leave charred ground requires an immense amount of firepower. Enough, in fact, to kill a Snow Worm. That’s what I believe. Am I wrong?”
“…Why assume it was me?”
“Because none of the other recruits could have done it. Hogg may be big, but he’s too timid—he’s bullied by others. Ronan can fight well with his body, but I doubt he can wield fire like that.”
“And you think I can?”
“Not fire, perhaps. But magic.”
“…?!”
His unexpected reply made me flinch.
“Magic? But I haven’t even been marked.”
“The idea that you must be inscribed to use magic is a ‘common truth’ that’s barely a hundred years old. Hardly something absolute. And the mana flowing in your body is… not of inscription. Don’t think you can fool my eyes.”
So he’d seen through me.
Inscriptions fix mana into place.
Circles keep it circulating endlessly.
Siruela had discerned the truth.
I’d planned to reveal myself eventually, though not like this.
But now I had no choice.
“…You’re right.”
Still, I wasn’t the only one hiding something.
“If it’s only been a hundred years, then it shouldn’t be so surprising.”
When I used my book’s “Discern” ability, I had realized Siruela’s secret.
His mana flow was nothing like that of an ordinary human.
Humans absorb mana through the head, via the respiratory system. It passes through the heart and then disperses downward.
Siruela did that as well—but also something more.
He was drawing mana up from the ground, through his feet.
With mana flowing both upward and downward, his body was overflowing with power.
“You… are one of those who live for centuries…”
I knew of only one kind of being with such mana.
“…A Half-Elf.”
Gardener reacted first.
Shrring. In a flash, cold steel hovered at my shoulder.
“Who told you that?”
“Gardener.”
Siruela waved a hand to restrain his murderous subordinate.
Reluctantly, Gardener lowered his blade, though he did not sheathe it, his killing intent pressing at my back.
“Where did you learn that?”
“I can sense the flow of mana.”
“You can feel mana flow itself? Then truly…”
“Yes.”
I met Siruela’s widening eyes head-on and declared:
“I am a Magician.”
A magician.
Today, anyone with an inscription is called a magician. But in the past, that was not the case.
Those who forged mana circles near their hearts, commanding infinite possibilities and overwhelming spells—
Those were the true magicians Siruela remembered.
But over time, inscribers became common.
Artifacts made with inscriptions flooded the markets.
Magic no longer required years of dedication.
Everyone could wield it, and the people rejoiced.
Meanwhile, true magicians dwindled into extinction.
From his fortress in Ice Rock, Siruela could only watch in sorrow.
He could do nothing.
Most new recruits already bore inscriptions, their potential sealed shut.
He knew better than anyone: the unmotivated never changed.
For centuries, since before kingdoms were united into empires, he had lived—
And not once had he seen the unmotivated seek the sky again.
Still, he hoped.
He longed for people to explore magic again, to crave infinite horizons.
At the very least, he hoped for a fragment of that will to walk into his fortress.
So he trained the “failures” sent without inscriptions, gathering books into a small library to teach them what little he could.
All the while, he dreamed that someday his wish might be fulfilled.
Then Barnard arrived.
A fraud who had illegally performed inscriptions.
But even a fraud who knew the craft was a resource worth keeping.
Until Barnard began coaxing the “failures” into letting him inscribe them.
Siruela raged, but their newfound power let them repel Snow Worms with minimal losses.
Results spoke loudest.
One by one, they lined up before Barnard.
They had no will of their own after all.
Barnard built his own magic unit, his influence growing until even Siruela’s authority as commander was undermined.
They fancied themselves capable of holding off the Snow Worms without the combat unit.
Fools.
Time, at least, was on Siruela’s side.
Barnard was old. He would die before Siruela.
And when he did, his unit would collapse, and Siruela would wait again.
For someone who could fulfill his dream.
And now…
“I am a Magician.”
A recruit stood before him, openly declaring it.
Siruela’s chest thundered with excitement.
At last, his centuries-long wish felt within reach.
“Astonishing.”
Siruela spoke in a tone that betrayed no surprise.
“Astonishing. I thought all true magicians had vanished.”
“Well, I am the last descendant of a fairly famous magical family.”
I boasted, though I was bluffing—if he asked how I formed my circle, I had no real answer.
So what could I do but borrow a name?
“A magical family?”
His deep green eyes gleamed with interest.
“The Spelder family.”
“Ha!”
At that, Siruela burst out laughing.
I wasn’t the only one startled—
Even Gardener’s killing intent melted away in shock.
Siruela chuckled, stroking his beard.
“So that’s it… the heir of the Spelder line…”
“What’s so amusing about that?”
“How could it not be?”
“…Pardon?”
“Seems you don’t know much about your ancestors.”
“…”
The real Esric Spelder was long dead.
All I had were his body and a few faint scraps of memory.
I couldn’t possibly know my lineage.
I stayed silent, blinking.
“One of your ancestors was my comrade,” Siruela said, grinning as though the revelation was too delightful to contain.
“He was one of the very first Ice Rocks.”
