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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: The Left-Handed One
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After my meeting with Bianca.
I headed not to my usual annex in the Blandoga estate, but toward the outskirts of the grounds.
As befitting a prestigious family, the Blandoga estate was as large and vast as a decent-sized village.
'It's practically a town in itself.'
In fact, outside the Blandoga grounds, a city had formed of servants and the families of mages.
Anyway, the place I was heading to now was the Blandoga outer annex.
The Institute of Magical Studies.
A magical research facility.
'Who would've thought that idiot collateral branch punk was the deputy director's little brother.'
The collateral branch idiot who'd gotten thoroughly beaten showed up right after my meeting with Bianca.
- You, you bastard… You sure laid into me good earlier, huh?
- Guess you didn't get enough.
- …I got plenty. I'm here now because I have something to say. My brother wants to see you.
- Fine, but first, you need more.
Up to that point, it was the usual routine.
When you beat someone down, you can't assume that's the end of it.
These types always band together like goblins, and after one gets thrashed, the next dimwit comes stumbling in without learning his lesson.
Of course, I hadn't expected this.
'An idiot followed by the deputy director.'
What position is the deputy director of the Institute of Magical Studies?
If you line up the key figures of a magical powerhouse family in order of importance, he might not make the top five, but he's definitely in the top ten.
If you exclude the direct line, he's top five material.
'That's the usual clout for a deputy director, and with his bloodline backing it up…'
Position and bloodline.
He had both in spades—the real power among real powers.
To put it in perspective, it's like scolding a goblin loitering around, then storming the village to find an ogre—no, a wyvern—waiting in ambush!
But who am I?
'Nobody special.'
Even in my past life, I wasn't anything grand. Just a Troubleshooter. And in this life, a Black-White Slums street rat with nothing to my name.
So, I could just not go.
And any sane person with a shred of judgment would stay away.
Yet here I was, striding boldly forward, because I was the master of the tower.
'The tower doesn't exist yet, though…'
No land to build it on.
'No books, either…'
No money to buy them.
Still, in my mind, a towering spire stood proud, so did I need to feel intimidated by the deputy director of the Blandoga Institute of Magical Studies, no matter how impressive?
No.
And so I arrived at the Institute.
"What brings you here?"
As I entered the entrance, a low-ranking mage stepped forward to block my path and asked.
I recalled the name the collateral branch idiot had given me that morning and answered.
"Henji called for me."
"Ah, yes! The deputy director. This way, please."
The low-ranking mage immediately dropped his guard and personally escorted me to the deputy director's office.
As I passed through the Institute, I took in the scenery.
But man, what can I say.
'They all look half-dead.'
The mages I passed in the corridors all dragged their feet with no energy.
From a briefly open door, the only sounds were—
"Argh! That's not it!"
"No, no!"
Despair-filled screams.
When I slowed my pace to peek in, all I saw were corpses.
'…'
No, not corpses. They were moving.
Just mages in such pitiful shape that they could drop dead any second, clutching parchment and sobbing.
"H-Ha, ha. We're not always like that. It's just that the weekly meeting is tomorrow."
"Ah, I see."
That's even scarier.
Saying they're like that because of tomorrow's weekly meeting means they live like this every week.
'Guess anyone who wields a pen ends up like this.'
Here, "pen-wielders" didn't mean bureaucrats.
It referred to mages like these in the Institute, researching theoretical principles of magic.
That's what they were collectively called.
During my Troubleshooter days, I'd infiltrated places like this plenty of times, and they all had certain traits.
First.
'Sparse hair.'
All pen-wielders were bald as eggs.
Like how grass won't grow on a well-trodden mountain path. They yank at their hair so much, it stops growing back.
Second.
'One poke and they'd keel over.'
They don't actually die. It just feels that way.
One of my old colleagues actually poked one once, and it didn't die—it just passed out.
Or pretended to sleep, anyway.
'Said it was happier to have an excuse to nap than enraged at losing its research to an intruder.'
At that thought, I glanced at the low-ranking mage.
"Hm, stage one."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing."
Wearing his robe pulled over his head in this heat meant he was in the balding phase.
Denying it and hiding his head was stage one; exposing it was stage two.
Stage three was like that mage coming our way, shaving it all off completely.
'Ah, no. That one's stage four.'
After a while with a shaved head, the scalp starts gleaming—that's stage four.
'And… he's a lefty.'
The right side of his head was especially shiny. Sometimes people ask about lefties: why's the right side shiny?
Simple reason.
'The left hand holds the pen.'
The right hand, still stuck in the habit of tearing at hair even when idle, keeps rubbing his head.
Of course, there was stage five.
'Researching impossible magic.'
Spells to regrow hair.
Impossible.
Even history's geniuses had dipped their toes in, but none succeeded. An unknown realm.
Regrowing severed limbs was easier, relatively speaking.
Not many went that far, though.
Most found some happiness at stage four, consoling themselves with it as a badge of honor.
Gawking at the pen-wielders' stages of enlightenment like that, I soon arrived.
"The deputy director is in here. Oh, and once you open the door, watch your head."
"...?"
The low-rank employee left those cryptic words and turned away.
I pondered their meaning in front of the door for a moment, then knocked to announce myself.
"Come in."
A polite tone.
Creak.
As I opened the door and stepped inside, a stack of documents rained down on my head.
Rustle, flap.
"..."
So that's what he meant by watch your head.
The deputy director's office I'd entered was a sea of documents—no, the space itself was.
Coughing from the thick dust, I saw a hand extended toward me right then.
"Pleased to meet you, Aster. I'm Henji von Blandoga. I hear you taught my little brother a lesson?"
* * *
"First, let me apologize. I've spoiled that late-born rascal, but I never imagined he'd be rude to the young patriarch's guest."
Henji was an unusual man.
Nothing like his brother.
The nameless sibling was the textbook example of a dimwit you'd find in any prestigious house, but Henji himself was solid, a man of substance.
And his hair—what about it?
'Lush.'
Lush.
As he smiled at me good-naturedly, Henji's head shimmered with the dull platinum blond typical of Blandoga collaterals.
The key here: it wasn't just "there"—it "shimmered." Meaning, lush enough to sway.
And on top of that…
'Young.'
Young, too.
A deputy director of the Blandoga Institute of Magical Studies, and only in his mid-to-late thirties. Quite a gap with his brother, but young for the position.
A family like Blandoga wouldn't plant a blood relative there purely on nepotism.
'Means he's got the chops.'
Did he notice my gaze?
Henji smiled faintly.
But it wasn't a smile that saw through my thoughts.
"You're an unusual one, Aster. I sensed it from my brother's story, but you're cut from a different cloth than your typical Black-White Slums street rat."
He'd sized me up in his own way.
I had nothing clever to say, so I just gave an awkward smile.
If he'd come at me aggressively, I could've reacted, but this unexpected amiable vibe was disorienting.
Look at that kind smile.
'…Hmm.'
Normally, I'd spit in anyone's face to feel satisfied, no matter who they were—because they always spat first.
But not a drop of spit, just that warm smile.
I'd always scoffed at "you can't spit in a smiling face," claiming I could while grinning—but faced with it, it's this hard.
Call it bad chemistry with humans.
Henji didn't mind, though. Or maybe he didn't notice my discomfort.
"By the way, I heard the news. You've been recommended for Jenion Academy? Congratulations."
"Ah, yes."
He opened with hearsay.
"A great opportunity. Plenty to learn. Fun fact—I'm a Jenion Academy alum myself. Class of 145, for reference."
Linking us through school ties before I'd even enrolled.
At this point, I couldn't help but wonder.
'Why exactly…'
What did the Institute's deputy director, Henji, want with me?
If it was revenge for his brother, it was a resounding success. Even the Decullan patriarch couldn't torment me like this.
Did he read my expression?
"Ah, sorry. Hearing about Jenion got me excited. Bloodlines like ours don't really have that alumni bond, so it's rare."
"Ah, yes."
He looked genuinely pleased, an emotion I couldn't fathom.
Street rats from the Black-White Slums have no school ties, blood ties, or hometown bonds. Regional ones are closer to grudges—mutual distrust on sight outside.
Anyway, Henji wrapped up the small talk and got to the point.
"Truth is, I called you here for a specific reason. Apologizing for my brother was part of it, but there's something bigger."
"The reason being…?"
"First, may I ask you to confirm one thing for me?"
I didn't answer right away. I just stared at Henji.
What to say.
'Hmm.'
Clear eyes. Their shape curved softly, overall pale and bright, giving off a kind impression.
And so clear.
But staring intently, a thought struck me.
'Can't read him.'
Good or evil, eyes always betray some emotion.
Even rigorously trained assassins do. Yet Henji's eyes reflected nothing.
In other words…
'He's wearing a mask.'
Not just any mask. One so refined and lifelike it fooled even him.
No, at that level, it wasn't a mask anymore. The facade had merged with his true self, impossible to tell apart.
Realizing that, I finally relaxed.
"...?"
Henji's eyes flicked up slightly in curiosity at my shift, but even that kind, clear look no longer unsettled me.
How to put it.
I'm like a swamp goblin—more at ease in murky water than a clear stream. And Henji was like the Seil River, the two mixed.
It felt comfortably like meeting a fellow traveler, so I smiled back.
And answered.
"Let's hear it."
"Then I'll ask, Aster."
"Yes."
"Would you stake your life for a friend? It concerns the fate of the Blandoga family. If you would…."
Henji placed a single book on the table.
"I'll give you this."
"...!"
I couldn't hide my shock at the title on the cover.
And for good reason.
It was the core secret art of the Blandoga family—one of them, the foundational one.
Light of Healing.
The grimoire containing that incantation.