Mana Destiny Theory
Baldrova’s daily routine was truly simple.
An enemy appeared.
She tore it apart.
She roared.
She went home.
Her deeds were closer to those of a barbarian warrior than a Grand Duke. She had always poured her strength into protecting people, and she felt little resistance toward that path.
Yet lately, even she had begun to hesitate over one particular thing.
Kroaa—
The roar itself.
That cry, so perfectly suited to the thrill of battle and the declaration of victory, had started to embarrass her.
Ah…
Her voice shrank to a mouse’s whisper. Baldrova let the sense of release burn only halfway and cleared her throat. Her golden eyes slid, almost against her will, toward the place that had made her this way.
Her gaze climbed to the summit of Lonely Mountain.
Whenever she took the field, Ferda was always waiting on that peak.
He didn’t come again today…?
But the summit showed only the flat, packed earth where he usually stood. He had not come down to watch her, as he always did.
Baldrova found his gaze burdensome. When he watched her, she grew restless and fidgety, certain she must look ridiculous. Sometimes she even wished he would simply look away.
Yes… perhaps this is better.
She spread her wings and returned to her lair.
Lonely Mountain in the far east. She had claimed it as her territory precisely because humans rarely saw her there.
As she entered the long cave, Ruri greeted her.
“Welcome back, Master.”
Baldrova passed her without answering. Seeing her master ignore even a light greeting, Ruri followed her inside the iron gates.
“Has something happened?”
Nothing of consequence.
Baldrova coiled herself as if to say there was no need to worry.
“Please do not say that. Tell this girl. I will be of help to you.”
Mm…
Has Ferda… grown tired of me?
“……What?”
Ruri’s face went blank with disbelief.
He did not come again today.
Baldrova had told herself it was a relief that he had stayed away. Yet a hollowness larger than that relief settled in its place.
It had been an ordinary day. And still, something vast felt missing.
“At most it has been twice. A single week. Compared to the long years Lady Baldrova has endured, it is nothing.”
Of course. I know that as well.
At most a week. At most twice… How could that little word “at most” feel so heavy?
“Lord Ferda has been extremely busy of late.”
Ferda truly had been. Cooperating with merchants, handling petitions from local lords—once he entered his office, he rarely emerged until the moon stood high.
Even so… he always came out before, did he not?
She was right. No matter how busy he was, the moment he heard Baldrova was fighting, Ferda stepped outside. And whenever their eyes met, he always smiled for her.
Surely… because I never even glance his way, his affection has cooled.
She hung her head under the weight of that gloom and sighed.
Ruri did not share the thought.
If he had grown to dislike her, he would never move so busily.
Ferda was working to care for everything under Baldrova. The driving force behind it was, without doubt, his love for her.
Ruri.
“Yes, Master.”
Baldrova forced the words out with difficulty.
That thing… the young ladies do…
“Do you mean a tea party?”
Yes. That.
Ruri was more than a little startled. Ever since the prince incident, Baldrova had avoided contact with humans.
Could you… propose a tea party to Ferda for me?
She was taking a large step forward, ready to face her fiancé herself.
Ferda had become a 3rd-circle mage, the bearer of three overlapping rings.
The 1st Circle was a point.
The 2nd Circle was the line that connected point to point.
And the 3rd Circle was the weaving of those lines into a plane—the plane that became a magic circle, the stage at which one could truly cast magic.
The Magic Library is gone as well.
The Magic Library was a memory technique that filled one pure corner of the mind with nothing but magic and formulae. It could only be established upon reaching the 5th Circle, and it had vanished naturally when Ferda regressed to the past.
Still, the magic lives inside my body.
Spells that lay beneath the realm of the unconscious. Like rummaging alone through a collapsed library, he decided to draw magic at random.
He focused his mana into his right arm. With three layered circles, the flow of mana was swift and natural.
Drawing a magic circle.
He was a true mage and, at the same time, not yet a mage—the stage of serious practice in forming circles.
First step: visualization.
Ferda called up a magic circle formalized in memory. Ordinarily one visualized while looking at a diagram in a grimoire and speaking the chant. The more practiced one became, the shorter the process. Ferda did it differently. Without knowing the purpose, relying only on the unconscious, he began to draw.
Like casting a fishing line into a lake and waiting, waiting, for a great catch that finally could not resist the bait.
I feel it.
He moved to the second step.
Formalization.
He imagined a pen dancing across his palm. Following that pen’s motion, a simple magic circle formed in his hand.
Third step: actualization.
The frame was ready; now he poured mana into it. The completed circle determined the nature of the mana and changed color. The soft blue circle flared with light.
This spell is…
His body moved before his mind caught up. He pointed two fingers at a spot on the wall.
Then the final step: the chant.
“Elemental Bolt.”
The moment the words left his lips, a sharp crackle of electricity rang out.
Pajijik—!
A bolt of lightning shot in a straight line. Elemental Bolt—alongside Mana Shot, one of the most basic offensive spells.
That was close.
If he had not aimed properly, that cratered mark would have contained a piece of him.
Pulling spells from the unconscious is not always ideal.
Even so, Ferda did not stop. The more a spell resided in the unconscious, the more often he had used it, the more it had been a favorite.
He emptied his mind and descended inward, searching for another spell.
I feel it.
Once more he entrusted himself to sensation and drew the circle. Visualization, formalization, actualization. The soft blue circle turned pitch black.
Attribute: darkness.
Pure black magic.
Among the dark-attribute spells he knew, which one was this? The answer had not yet arrived when his hand moved again. This time he brought the hand holding the circle toward a candle flame.
Only at the end did the name surface.
“Shadow Hand.”
In that instant, the shadowed portion cast by the candle began to bubble like lava. Ferda’s shadow swelled, then peeled away from his arm as though shedding a skin. Another hand, born of magic.
I can feel the side effects properly as well.
At the 3rd rank there was a similar spell called Magic Hand. Magic Hand was more like a glove overlaid on the real hand, floating free yet mimicking the right hand’s movements. Shadow Hand was different. It did not overlay; it flew. An entirely new hand came into being.
In place of a price, there is a heavy condition.
Black magic of high performance relative to mana demanded two things: the “price” of mental contamination with each use, and the “condition” of requiring the mind itself at the moment of casting. The sense of alienness that came with the new hand was the condition. Is this my hand, or a virtual one? The confusion that followed. Fail to accept it and the condition was not met; the mage suffered vicious phantom pain.
To Ferda, that danger meant nothing. He had long since mastered the condition of Shadow Hand.
Still, it doesn’t feel completely like my own arm yet.
He looked down at the black hand. He tested it with waves of the fingers, fluid and precise motions. Natural as his original hand.
He turned his eyes to the shelf. Ordinarily he would have stood and walked ten paces. He stretched the hand toward it.
An arm can stretch.
At that shattering of common sense, the shadow hand elongated past its limit, covered the distance of ten paces, plucked a book from the shelf, and returned.
A 3rd-rank spell, yet burdensome even for a 3rd-rank mage.
The finer the control, the more imagination and mental strength it demanded. That was the essence of black magic: high performance that demanded an equally high level. Fall short of that level and madness was the likely result.
Once I reach the 4th Circle, it should stabilize more.
Thinking that, Ferda murmured,
“The next stage, is it…”
His heart grew complicated. This was a time that required ambition, yet the usual stimulus was missing.
To fully stabilize her, I need mana on the scale of the 4th Circle.
That was the amount required to completely suppress Baldrova’s blood-heat. For that alone he wanted to climb somehow. Yet something blocked him now.
Reaching the 3rd Circle so listlessly was part of it, but the greater reason was the aptitude search he had begun recently.
Mana destiny theory…
Under a master greedy for gold, Ferda had learned many things, among them a theory of magical destiny. It resonated more with owners of Red Circles than Blue. Its claim: no matter the era, no matter the purpose or incident of awakening, the attribute one possessed never changed—a tale derived from fatalism.
It was a pointless argument.
As meaningless as proving Utopia. No wonder people called it the spell for ending friendships. Yet Ferda, who had turned time itself back, could not simply dismiss it.
I no longer hold hostility toward my house or hatred for the world.
He had sworn to live only for her; he had believed the attribute would be different. What he received was darkness and lightning—exactly the magic he had used in the past.
How did I feel when I first learned these were my attributes?
He had rejoiced.
There were two attributes a Blue Circle could not properly handle: light and darkness. Light manifested through the upright hearts of the clergy. Darkness arose from negative emotions, as it had with Ferda. Aptitude for darkness meant one could never use light magic or restorative systems. Yet compared with other Red Circle wielders, the degradation of other elemental magics was far less severe. Thus Ferda had commanded every element except light almost on par with elemental masters.
But now…
It was not good. The story entangled with Baldrova was different. The blessing that had once allowed him to shine now felt like a curse.
Baldrova suffers because of the rank of darkness, and I carry the darkness attribute.
That mana infusion affected her had already been proven. Yet what if what he was doing was not mere stabilization, but watering another seed of darkness in one who already suffered from it? If what he gave ultimately led to ruin, could he still call it for her sake?
If the mana that once killed her is killing her again…
If mana never changed, and destiny likewise never changed—
Do I even have the right to stand at her side?
Even to Ferda, once an archmage who commanded heaven and earth, this was uncharted territory. Faced with the unknown he had always charged forward. Now it only sank him into deep deliberation.
A mage’s inquiry became magic itself. That deep worry drew another spell from the unconscious. Following the sensation, he formalized it once more.
Only after the circle took shape did he notice.
What spell is this?
Not something merely forgotten—something he had truly never seen. Dense formulae packed with runes of staggering complexity. By sheer intricacy it rivaled 6th-rank spells. Yet if it had been 6th-rank, formalization would have collapsed; it would never have appeared like this. Above all, he would have remembered it.
It was unmistakably a spell drawn from his own unconscious. Shadow Hand and Elemental Bolt had come the same way, and he had recalled their names eventually. This one floated above his palm, yet no name rose.
As if it never had a name to begin with.
He did not understand. Using the manifested Shadow Hand, Ferda retrieved a sheet of magic-copy parchment from the cabinet, laid it over the circle he maintained, and transferred the shape and patterns. He examined it. He tried to understand, yet even within his knowledge it defied analysis.
Knock knock—
Someone knocked.
It is Ruri.
Ferda rolled the copied parchment and set it aside.
“Come in.”
The door opened and the young maid entered, her face as expressionless as ever.
“You look as though you carry many worries.”
“I was thinking of this and that, and it showed, it seems.”
He glossed over both the circle and his thoughts. Ruri had no need to know.
“What do you think of a tea party?”
Mid-lunch, Ruri posed the question.
“A tea party? With whom?”
“Who else but Master?”
Ruri’s tone was rougher than usual.
“Master herself requested that I arrange it ‘personally.’ That is why I ask. If you wish it, we can hold it this afternoon.”
“A tea party with my fiancée…”
The image formed in Ferda’s mind: her in a dress, elegantly lifting a cup. Baldrova seated in a bright, graceful atmosphere.
I absolutely want to see that.
Proceed without question. That was how he would have answered on any other day.
“It is a fine idea, but the timing may not be quite right.”
“……Pardon?”
Ruri asked as if she had misheard. Ferda answered once more.
“There is no need to rush ahead. For the time being I require time to think, so let us postpone it.”
“…….”
As always, he spoke calmly. Ruri stared at him, then opened her mouth.
“Are you playing hard-to-get with Master?”
“Hard-to-get?”
“The struggle between lovers for the upper hand. A scheme to make Lord Ferda fall even more deeply…”
“It is not that.”
He was not skilled at such sophisticated notions regarding lovers.
“Then what is the matter?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“When the man who used to sing of wanting to see her every day acts like this, one begins to wonder if he is about to die.”
“It is nothing of the sort, so do not worry.”
“I will not withdraw until you answer.”
Because Ferda was unlike himself, Ruri grew relentless. She looked ready to follow him even into the privy. He considered simply ignoring her, yet—
“Has Master grown tired of you?”
He could not. The instant he heard those words, his heart plummeted.
“Why would you say such a thing?”
“Master said so herself. That lately you no longer watch her fights. That because you never show even a glimpse of yourself, she thinks you must have grown tired of her.”
Tired of her?
How could that be? Ferda wanted only to see her. It was simply that watching her no longer felt the same as before.
“If you have not grown tired of her, then I would like an answer that matches.”
Ruri’s loyal eyes shone silver. Ferda finally spoke the words that had been circling only inside his mouth.
“…I have simply had many worries of late.”
“Even a blind man could see that. What sort of worries?”
“Darkness dwells in my mana. I have been troubled, wondering whether that darkness might do her harm.”
“Is that so?”
Ruri removed her glove and held out her hand.
“Then try it once.”
“On you?”
She nodded.
“I am a spawn who inherited dragon blood as well. Only a drop compared to her, but I can at least discern whether something would harm Master. Please try.”
Ferda did not deliberate further. He took the hand and tested it. A child’s small hand, yet not entirely soft. He poured his mana into it.
“How is it?”
Ruri, sensing deeply, tilted her head.
“…I am not certain what I am meant to feel. Mana is simply flowing in, is it not?”
“Nothing particular?”
“Nothing.”
The amount Ferda released equaled a single Mana Shot. With Baldrova, even that quantity had already provoked a reaction.
“I will send a little more.”
This time five times the amount—enough to touch the mana circuits and produce sensation. A subtle change crossed Ruri’s face.
“And now?”
“As you said, something is felt, yet there is no sense of harm. It is merely mana.”
Ruri furrowed her brow and looked up at him as if incredulous.
“Did you truly worry yourself into frightening Master over something as minor as this?”
“…Yes.”
“You turn people into dogs and break fingers without hesitation, yet when it comes to Master you are terribly cowardly.”
The absolute rank of power no one could stop—the Red Dragon, Baldrova. And yet before Ferda she was only a fragile woman, soft as a single flower. The fear that he might harm that woman was almost more than he could bear.
“As the man who is to become her husband, is it not unforgivable to create worry for Master rather than ease it, all because of such a trivial concern?”
“Yes. You are right.”
“Haa…”
Ferda nodded; Ruri exhaled a long breath. Caught between the two of them, how much hardship she endured—Ferda could feel it clearly.
“So what will you do?”
What else?
“I shall accept the invitation. When my fiancée herself makes the request, I cannot refuse.”
He had no choice but to face it.
“Understood.”
Having received the answer, Ruri offered a polite bow and left the dining room. Once she was gone, Ferda glanced at the parchment he had set aside.
Investigating it right now would only become another worry.
He could ask Mori to identify the circle. He could demand interpretation from Echydna, versed in runes. Yet he felt this circle was something he had to grasp himself. And so Ferda carefully folded the parchment and slipped it between the pages of a book.
Let it be forgotten naturally; if one day he pulled the book out and it tumbled free, he would think on it then. With that decision, he chose to forget.
Honestly, he always fusses over the most useless things.
Walking the long corridor, Ruri grumbled inwardly. He had the nerve to refuse the invitation, and the reason was trivial.
Normally he charges ahead without hesitation—why does he turn into this in front of Master?
He became a maniac who would obtain anything by any means, yet regarding Baldrova he was a foolish coward.
His own mana harming Lady Baldrova…
Ruri looked down at her right hand. She had said she felt nothing, yet in truth she had sensed something strange. And it still lingered on the hand Ferda had held.
I do not know what it is…
It was an odd feeling, yet unmistakably harmless.
I cannot mention it and frighten him further…
Ruri pulled her glove back on and moved. Even a loyal maid had to pass days so busy there was no time to blink.