Who Will Bell the Cat

In the world of mages, hierarchy is decided by circle.

Among the few professions where pure skill—not noble status or rank—determines who stands above whom, the mage stood alone.

In that sense, Tessalos Wolcher had just endured the greatest insult of his entire life.

Adequate.

What do you mean, adequate? Is that your way of saying a Mage looks like garbage to you?

A mage's title was fixed by their circle.

First Circle: Mana Walker.

Second Circle: Spell Blower.

Third Circle: Magic Walker.

Only upon reaching the Fourth Circle did one finally earn the right to be called a Mage—the stage at which the name itself declared you a true practitioner of the craft.

And some brat who's barely a Mana Walker has the gall to call me adequate?

What was a First Circle, really? A bottom-feeder who had to scrape and bow not only before Third Circles but even before Second Circles. And that creature had just dismissed a Fourth Circle as "adequate."

Adequate.

Adequate, adequate, adequate, adequate.

That single word became a reverse scale in Tessalos's mind. The circle nestled in his dantian spun taut, wound so tight he could have unleashed a spell at any moment without anyone finding it strange. He might well have lost his reason and attacked on the spot—except that Ferda had, conveniently, offered a proposal worth thanking him for.

A First Circle had actually challenged him to a duel.

Tessalos intended to teach him a lesson he would never forget.

For the mage's contest they had stepped out into an open field. The two of them stood at a distance, each making his own preparations.

"There's something I'm curious about. May I ask?"

Tessalos answered curtly.

"What."

"What magic do you specialize in?"

Tessalos shot back as if he could scarcely believe his ears.

"Asking a mage about his spells before a duel—isn't that rather rude?"

"Was that a breach of etiquette? Hmm. My apologies. It's been quite a while since I last dueled."

Words no First Circle had any business speaking. Tessalos was stunned.

What kind of arrogant little brat is this!?

In that instant Tessalos swore it: he would pour out everything he had and kill the boy where he stood.

Ferda, for his part, had no interest in Tessalos at all.

Right. It's starting to come back to me.

It had been more than twenty years since Ferda last fought a proper duel. There was good reason for that. The last one he remembered had not ended well. A mage whose pride Ferda had crushed came back in the dead of night with a gang and ambushed him. From that day on Ferda never trusted the phrase "fair duel" again; the moment a fight seemed likely, he simply killed. Which was why he had forgotten the rules.

A mage's duel is like playing cards with a curtain between you.

You couldn't tell what cards the other held, or how many, and you laid them down one by one. A game that demanded theory, skill, and wisdom alike.

A Fourth Circle mage… he should be able to cast at least eight spells in a single engagement. Fourth-tier magic as well.

Tiered magic was available only to those who had reached a specific circle. Tessalos was a Fourth Circle, so he could command magic up through the fourth tier. His mana reserves would easily outstrip Ferda's several times over.

Eggs against a boulder, then.

Ferda already knew every advantage lay with Tessalos. And yet not once did he believe he would lose.

I'm not so much of a fool that I'd fall to an adequate mage.

That was what Ferda thought.

"The handicap is clear enough, so I'll tell you one thing."

Tessalos spoke with a crooked smile. Free information; no reason not to listen.

"What is it?"

"I, Tessalos Wolcher, will use Magic Blast in this place. I trust a fellow mage knows what that spell is."

It was the watching lords, more than Ferda himself, who stirred and whispered in surprise.

"Magic Blast…"

"Isn't that the spell that concentrates everything into raw firepower?"

Among fourth-tier spells, the pure instrument of destruction. Its power was so great that a mage of the same Fourth Circle could often unravel it—but those of lower circles could not. Least of all a First Circle like Ferda. So Tessalos was saying, in effect:

Submit while you still can, you little bastard.

"Hmm. Is that so?"

Ferda tilted his head, then nodded as if the matter were settled.

"Very well. I'll share something of my own, then. The only spell I can use is Mana Shot."

"Mana Shot? You think you can beat me with something that basic?"

Ferda waved a dismissive hand.

"Ah, no need to worry about me. Unlike the rest of you, I happen to know a great deal."

"You wet-behind-the-ears little—!"

The aura around Tessalos churned violently.

"I'll erase every trace of you from this earth!"

Even in a situation thick with murderous intent, none of it reached Ferda.

So he too is a bearer of the Red Circle.

To grow stronger even after composure shattered and emotion poured out meant only one thing: a mage of the same grain as Ferda. A man who had refined his magic on the foundation of inferiority.

Something about this feels familiar.

Ferda was certain he knew it. Like chopsticks sunk deep into a jar—close enough to brush the fingertips, yet never quite grasped. Something kept tickling at the edge of his memory.

I'll set that aside for later. Right now I need to focus on the magic.

Even so, this was a First Circle against a Fourth. Ferda had already measured his own capacity and was reviewing it now.

An ordinary First Circle can form three Mana Shot orbs at most.

And that only because unfamiliarity with magic left concentration and sense dulled.

I can make six.

If he wanted to avoid the aftereffects of mana exhaustion, five was the limit. So he had five chances.

"Hrrraaah—!"

A surging current of mana gathered in Tessalos's palm. The condensed power whirled and drew a great circle—the circle of a magic formation. Within it, the hieroglyphic characters took shape from the patterns Tessalos had committed to memory.

Ferda felt the wind graze his cheek. The killing intent was thick.

That output… he fully intends to kill me.

But it didn't matter. Murderous will that never actually reached you was meaningless. Just as Tessalos had declared he would finish it in one blow, Ferda meant to end it in one blow as well.

Faster still, Ferda shaped his spheres of mana. One for each finger—five orbs rested above his hand.

Even after Ferda's attack was complete, Tessalos's Magic Blast was still being drawn.

"That settles it."

Ferda said.

"I've won."

With his declaration of victory, the five spheres shot toward Tessalos. Five arcs of light streaked in.

"What—!"

Tessalos's eyes went wide, and before he could finish the word, Ferda's assault was over.

Bang!

Ba-ba-bang!

Thud!

Four detonations and one dull impact rang out from Tessalos's position. Dirt erupted from the open field; dust hung thick in the air. A moment later, everyone present could see the result.

"Ghk…"

Tessalos, who had been chanting over his formation, was sitting where he stood and groaning. The right hand he clutched was swollen an angry red. Trembling, he looked up at Ferda and spoke in a low voice.

"I lose…"

The insolent First Circle brat, Ferda, had won.

Tessalos found himself facing a situation that could only be called wondrous. He replayed the scenes he had not understood in the moment.

The Mana Shot that flew straight at my face.

The sphere that had formed from Ferda's middle finger had come for Tessalos's eye. A hole through the head killed anyone. Under ordinary circumstances, though, you couldn't fluster a mage that easily—even a Red Circle mage; break their focus and the spell breaks. But something flying at the eyes was different. Any human would startle. So Tessalos, still chanting, had raised a defensive spell. He was a Fourth Circle; he could defend and attack at once. The three projectiles he had assumed were aimed at his torso should, by rights, have been stopped by that shield.

What he was aiming for wasn't my body. It was the formation.

They had detonated in front of the magic circle and shattered the still-forming structure.

He destroyed the formation…

Tessalos felt genuine awe. If a magic circle was not woven to perfection, mana blind spots existed. Strike one of those points with a precise explosion and you could diminish the circle's effect. Diminishing, however, was one domain; destroying it was another entirely. That was a technical realm a mage needed to reach at least the Fifth Circle simply to attempt—and this man had done it.

Formation destroyed. And for the finishing touch:

A low-output Mana Shot to the back of my right hand.

Lowering the power meant he had no intention of killing. At the same time, it meant: if I had wanted to, something like you would already be dead.

Everything pointed to Ferda's complete victory, and even Tessalos—blood rushed to his head—had no choice but to concede. Even those who knew nothing of magic could read the outcome with perfect clarity.

How can a First Circle mage defeat a Fourth?

Did he pull some kind of trick? Because he couldn't allow the Consort to die…

The only one who could pull a trick like that would be…

A few of them glanced, almost against their will, toward the dragon. Sensing those looks, Ruri fixed them with her silver eyes.

"Would you mind putting those eyes away before I pluck them out?"

"Hiiik!"

"A-ahem!"

Ruri made no effort to hide her contempt. Unlike Ferda, she had no need to observe formalities with the likes of them.

"Do you yield?"

"…I yield."

Tessalos gave a dry, hollow laugh.

"I never imagined I would meet a master of this caliber out here. The world truly is wide."

He bowed his head with genuine respect and acknowledged Ferda's skill.

"Your ability is outstanding among Fourth Circles as well. I am truly glad to have a force like you among us."

"Haha… It is an honor to meet a master of such stature after leaving the capital. Being demoted may not have been entirely a misfortune after all."

At those words, Ferda's body gave a small start.

"…You said you were demoted?"

"I was."

"For political reasons?"

"Yes."

Words began to whirl through Ferda's mind.

A Red Circle mage.

Demotion over political trouble.

Inferiority.

Mana of a similar grain.

A thirst for revenge.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Tessalos Wolcher."

And then Ferda understood.

"Tessalos Wolcher… Yes. At last I remember."

"You know me?"

A question mark practically floated above Tessalos's head. He sifted his memory for any chance encounter, but the Rosnova family and he had no point of contact to speak of. Ferda nodded all the same.

"I do. You are my benefactor."

"Benefactor…? When did we ever meet?"

"Not in the past. This is a story from a distant future."

"A distant future? What on earth are you—"

Bang—!

The words never finished. A great hole had opened in Tessalos's head. Aimed at that hole was Ferda's index finger. He had driven a Mana Shot straight through Tessalos's forehead.

"Which is why I cannot leave you alive."

Everyone who had watched Ferda's every move was struck speechless with horror.

Ferda had killed a noble. No one was permitted to deliberately murder a member of the aristocracy—and even the fiancé of Grand Duchess Baldrova would not be forgiven for it. How could anyone commit so monstrous an act? It was a deed that demanded condemnation and censure.

And yet Ferda had reasons enough of his own.

Tessalos meant to kill him just the same…

Does that count as… self-defense?

The lords knew perfectly well what Tessalos had been about to do. Out of personal spite he had chanted a fourth-tier spell powerful enough to kill the Consort. The stain on Ferda was that he had executed the man outside the duel rather than within it. Under ordinary circumstances the piranhas would have torn into him with glee—yet the lords only looked at one another's faces. Their thoughts ran along the same line.

Among rats like us, who is going to put a bell on that cat?

Ferda, having killed Tessalos, turned his head. Blood from the man's pierced brow was spattered clearly across Ferda's face. An expression that betrayed not a scrap of feeling, and that blood—together they made every lord present go cold.

Ferda himself was entirely unaware of the effect. He had no mind left to spare for it.

Dizzy.

He had spent every last drop of mana in his body. The difference between leaving one percent and leaving zero was extreme. Ferda had poured it all out so that nothing remained, and the backlash brought a headache and a swimming dizziness. Even holding onto consciousness was hard; managing his expression was harder still. To anyone watching, his face looked like that of a man thoroughly irritated.

"Why are you all staring?"

"Ah— well, that is…"

Their eyes flicked toward Tessalos. Only then did Ferda understand.

"Ah. Is this about Tessalos? Don't give it another thought. This man had done things for which death was only fitting."

He could scarcely keep his feet, as if drunk. The muscles of his face twitched and jerked.

"Had he lived, he would have done something to grieve Her Grace the Grand Duchess."

"H-Her Grace, you say?"

"Yes. The Grand Duchess is a merciful soul. She is fond of humans, and she fights for their sake."

Then the headache surged. It was so fierce that his blank face twisted into something ugly—ugly enough that one might have mistaken it for open disgust.

"I dislike people who make her sad."

"The Wolcher family… m-made her sad, you mean?"

"No. I simply knew they would, and that was enough."

The answer only deepened the lords' confusion.

What—what the hell is he talking about?

He 'knew they would'? That means they hadn't even done it yet.

Is the man set to become the Grand Duchess's consort this much of a lunatic?!

Cold sweat broke out at the sight of a man whose next step no one could predict. Ferda, sensing their fear, tried once more to make his meaning plain—lest they misunderstand him.

"Don't worry. I care less than a speck of dust about whatever it is you people get up to."

And they thought, with utter seriousness:

Who is going to put a bell on that mad cat?