[5] Meeting Magic (5)
Shirone kept silent about what had happened in the city. Thinking it over, it wasn't a simple matter. Once he started to speak, he'd have to tell them about what happened at the Magic Academy as well.
He had some idea how extraordinary that day's incident had been. Whether it was a blessing or a curse, it was clear that once he'd crossed that line there was no going back.
One criterion of a genius is whether he knows he's a genius. Shirone, too, had realized from childhood that he was different from others. He didn't feel superior, but his desire to test the limits of his abilities was stronger than anyone else's.
He simply didn't show it.
To Shirone, his parents were the most precious people in the world. Even if they were poor, they had never forced him down the wrong path, and he didn't want to lay the burden of his secret on them.
So the great awakening the twelve-year-old had experienced entered a dormant phase, waiting for its chance.
His ordinary daily life continued as always. He helped his mother, and in the afternoons he went up the mountain to fell trees.
Most of his time on the mountain, however, was spent not chopping but meditating. After about a month, the speed at which he entered the Spirit Zone improved dramatically.
Of course, not everything went as smoothly as he'd hoped. No matter how accustomed he became to the Spirit Zone, the magic he had cast in an alley didn't reactivate.
Shirone soon realized why.
It had been a magic triggered by circumstance and performed unconsciously. Once you become conscious of a success, imitation becomes impossible. It's the same principle as a piece of music you played without thinking—if you start thinking about it, your hands freeze.
To restore the sensation you had to carefully retrace the intermediate steps you'd skipped by insight, but having never studied magic formally, it was impossible for him to examine those steps.
Shirone quickly gave up on what he could not obtain and instead dug obsessively into the Spirit Zone.
Simple casting alone was the limit of an ordinary mage researcher; he concluded that unshakable mental durability—remaining steady in any circumstance—was crucial.
After five hours of meditation, Shirone picked up his axe and attempted Thunder Strike. Unlike before, once he began to think about Thunder Strike the success rate dropped. But chopping a tree was different from magic; he could replay the process as much as he wanted.
He swung the axe hundreds of times, correcting errors one by one.
After hundreds of blows, Thunder Strike succeeded.
Crack!
The tree fell satisfyingly.
But there was no great emotion. He had merely found one mistake and corrected it.
"Tomorrow, and tomorrow again."
He would repeat the basics like that, for the opportunity that would come someday.
Carrying the wood home, Shirone's eyes shone more intensely than usual.
An Opportunity More Precious Than Life (1)
Leaves scattered endlessly on the wind.
Standing at the window, Shirone wrapped a marten-fur scarf around his neck and looked out over the late-autumn mountain scenery.
Four years had passed, and Shirone had grown into a sixteen-year-old boy. He still looked young, but his face was strikingly handsome enough to draw glances from anyone.
"I'm off, Mother."
"Don't overdo it. We've got enough firewood for now."
"It's winter soon. Better to be prepared."
He shouldered his gear and stepped out of the hut; the chill took his breath. Seasons came earlier in the mountains than in the city, and snow was already piled on the peaks.
"If I want to get back before sunset I'd better hurry."
Having trained his mind in the Spirit Zone for four years, Shirone no longer feared ordinary dangers. His shyness had faded, and he often hung out with the mountain kids.
But he had never had a friend he could truly confide in.
The mountain kids were rough and blunt—girls included.
Among them, Shirone was the ugly duckling.
They admired his intelligence but sometimes showed open hostility.
A year ago, a woman named Hauran from the slash-and-burn village had made a play for Shirone. Six years older than him, she had called him aside claiming she had something to say and then tried to make a physical advance.
When Shirone refused firmly, she suddenly turned on him: he was too weak for her taste, she sneered, and if he ever tried to hit on her again she'd wreck his family.
Shirone snorted at the memory.
He had lain awake for days then, terrified she might actually come.
'I wonder if they're all doing well?'
At the logging site he found a suitable tree, tapped a notch with his axe and studied the groove closely.
But his eyes weren't really seeing anything. Years of experience had taught him that a tree's vital point can't be found with your eyes alone.
If you repeat the same action or thought, you sometimes come to perceive its principles automatically—this is called a routine. It's like how you can suddenly grasp complex arithmetic through repetition.
Over four years Shirone had tried chopping trees in various ways, and through that process he refined the feel of Thunder Strike.
Sensing something, he raised his axe again and struck the groove with measured force. A thunderous sound burst out and the tree toppled. Success in only two strikes. He was lucky, but on average he succeeded with Thunder Strike about once in ten tries.
Sitting on the fallen trunk, Shirone entered the Spirit Zone. It took the shape of a sphere roughly forty meters in diameter—on a level comparable to the upper echelons at the Magic Academy.
He felt the world beneath his feet. It was as if he merged with the earth; he felt the brush of the undergrowth, worms wriggling underground, and the sound of roots drinking moisture.
Nature never ceased to change. If he savored that dynamic world, five hours could pass in an instant.
"Huh? It's already getting dark."
After his meditation, Shirone chopped the fallen trunk into pieces and strapped them onto his pack frame.
When he reached the hut he found a luxurious carriage he'd never seen before parked outside. Two white horses were nibbling at their feed in the stable.
"I'm home."
He opened the door and greeted them, but there was no warm reply. The mood in the house was strange. His mother's face was dark, and in the living room an old man he didn't recognize sat at the table talking with his father.
"Oh? Is Dad home?"
"Shirone, you're back?"
He had come back relatively quickly, considering he'd been in the city at dawn. Normally his parents would come running and smother him with kisses, but now they kept solemn faces.
"Say hello, Shirone. This is the steward of the Ozent family."
"Pleased to meet you. I am Temuran."
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Shirone."
Shirone bowed politely. Even living in a mountain valley, he knew of the Ozent family—second-rank nobles from Creas who had produced many warriors.
"I came to see you personally."
Temuran had the air of a noble's retainer about him. That didn't make him a noble.
The kingdom's class structure looked simple—nobles and commoners—but beneath politics a wide hierarchy existed.
Among commoners, your place was practically determined by the nobles. A blacksmith who forged a noble's blade was respected; merchants with shops in the noble quarter wielded influence.
What about the mountain folk? They had no ties to nobles and didn't even live in the city.
Thus mountain folk were called lowborn and were looked down upon.
By contrast, Temuran's job serving nobles up close put him at the top among commoners.
Shirone couldn't understand why such a man would come all the way to a mountain valley looking for him.
"Let me take a look, first."
Temuran inspected Shirone's body—appearance, bone structure, the look in his eyes—like a man grading livestock.
"I hear you can read."
"Yes. I started reading little by little when I was young."
Temuran said nothing more and fell into thought. Shirone's patience reached its limit.
"I'd like to know what this is about. Could you tell me?"
Temuran's gaze sharpened.
"Your reputation precedes you. A woodcutter's son who can read, and so filial—so I hear."
Temuran had a knack for making compliments sound like insults, as if to say, How deep could your filial piety really be?
Shirone hated people who disparaged others' families. He was about to retort when Temuran said something he could hardly believe.
"Would you consider working for the Ozent family?"
Lightning struck through Shirone's mind. To work for a second-rank noble house was almost like rising from the lowest to the highest social rung.
"What kind of work would it be?"
"We're relocating the main family library. It's not a job you can entrust to just anyone. Among the ten thousand volumes there are books that must never be leaked. The heavy lifting will be done by porters, but the classification work will be done by only two people—myself and you. It'll take about two years."
Library!
Shirone's heart nearly burst. He knew the more attractive a proposal sounded, the likelier it was to hide poison—but right now he would gladly drink any poisoned chalice.
Temuran explained what the poison was. The steward's pride prevented him from deceiving commoners.
"Only you and your family will know this. For any reason, if any book is leaked or if rumors of leakage spread, you and your family will be dead."
Shirone finally understood why his parents looked so grim. Even if they kept silent, anything could happen over two years. It was like entrusting their lives to strangers.
Still, he couldn't refuse the offer—perhaps because...
"For a life-risking job, you will be well paid. It'll be much more than your father earns hunting. Thanks to a dutiful child, the household will be kept afloat."
Vincent shot to his feet, face flushed.
"I didn't agree because of the money! I only wanted what was best for our Shirone… for Shirone!"
Vincent choked on his words, ashamed of having done nothing for his family until now. And yet the opportunity he'd brought home risked his son's life.
"...I only hope he can fulfill his dreams."
Temuran snorted incredulously.
"What are you thinking? Expecting to rise by flattering someone? Wake up. Let me be clear—I'm hiring him. You were the one who begged me to take your son. There'd be no reason to do that unless it was for money."
"You said he can read books!"
"Of course he can read. But that doesn't mean he can be perfectly guarded. If leakage happens, I said I'd cut his throat. It's the minimum safeguard."
Vincent ground his teeth. When he'd gone to the city to sell goods he'd heard a noble household's steward searching for a literate commoner. Thinking it a stroke of luck, he had begged Temuran to take Shirone.
And this was the result.
More than anything he feared the wound his son would suffer. Would people think he had sold his child for money?
The thought alone was unbearable.
"Get out. I don't need a single coin. If I'd known this would happen I never would have begged you. Get out of this house right now!"
"Father, I'll do it."
"Shirone!"
Temuran turned to Shirone in surprise. It was a life-risking job. For a sixteen-year-old lowborn, it was an enormous burden—yet Shirone showed no sign of fear.
"Are you truly sure? I'm not trying to frighten you. Let me be plain: if even a small rumor spreads, your head will be taken."
"Yes, I'll do it. I won't let anything leak; even if a rumor spreads for some reason, I won't resent you. Please let me do this."
Saying that convinced Temuran. All the conditions were perfect: a lowborn who could be killed at any time, deeply filial, and sharp-minded.
Pleased with his legwork, Temuran turned to leave.
"I'll come for you in a week. If you change your mind before then you can refuse. One thing to remember—once you enter the mansion, you cannot leave until the work is finished."
Temuran opened the door and walked out alone, refusing any escort. No one in the family was in any mood to offer the usual cautions as he left.