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[shamo-bird]

Arcane Flames of Resistance

Ch.6 “The Magic Codebreakers” released (8/4)

Once, before he became Professor Trein, he was a young mage who walked the bloodstained shadows of the Arcane World War. When his journey began, he could never have imagined where it would lead……

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💬 0  🔁 16  ❤️ 15 · Ch.6: The Magic Codebreakers Though Saturday was considered a day off by the general public, newspapers never stopped ch

[shamo-bird]

Arcane Flames of Resistance

Once, before he became Professor Trein, he was a young mage who walked the bloodstained shadows of the Arcane World War. When his journey began, he could never have imagined where it would lead……

#1: Prologue

That was the kind of era it was.

There was always a burnt, smoky smell lingering in the air; an era where children couldn’t stay children. Mozus Trein was born into such a time, a mage-in-training with a shining future ahead.

“Did you hear, Mozus? Apparently, a new instructor is coming.”

“Instructor? For practical magic?”

One morning, near the end of spring, Trein entered the classroom after finishing his morning self-study in the library to find his classmates buzzing more excitedly than usual.

A glance at the clock told him there were about five minutes left before the warning bell. In Class 3-A, where most students were earnest, this was usually the time they began preparing for homeroom, expecting their teacher to arrive any moment.

As Trein furrowed his brow at their rare display, the friend seated next to him explained the reason.

At NRC, those who educate the students are usually called teachers or professors. However, for one subject alone, in addition to a teacher, a special educator known as an “instructor” is assigned. That subject is practical magic.

With a world war underway, this class has become standard in arcane academies across all nations. It is a drill course for learning “military” attack and defense magic.

But why would a new instructor be assigned at this point in the term?

He tried to recall the morning’s newspaper, but there hadn’t been any significant updates on the war, nor any reports of military movement in neighboring countries.

“Third and fourth periods are practical magic…”

“Yeah. Rumor says he’s a part of the elite class, almost top-ranking. If he’s not some hardened veteran but just a retired noble geezer who went through the elite track just because, this’ll be a breeze!”

His friend spoke with eyes gleaming with hope, shifting restlessly with the expectation that the physically and mentally grueling class might become a little easier.

But Trein couldn’t bring himself to nod.

He had a bad feeling. He didn’t know why.

And yet, at the same time, there was a strange sense of exhilaration.

Something was about to begin. Something was going to begin.

That was the feeling he had...

♢　♢　♢

It seemed Trein’s premonition had been correct.

“Ku-fu-fu, excellent.”

In the worst possible way.

The instructor standing in front of him was laughing with terrible delight, not a bead of sweat on his forehead, while Trein, unable to even speak, stood trembling on the edge of collapse, breathing raggedly through his shoulders. And yet, he wasn’t even the worst off.

“You’re the only one left?”

As all his classmates had collapsed to the ground.

“Your name?”

The man responsible for this pitiful scene—Lilia Vanrouge, the new practical magic instructor—gently stroked the bat familiar perched on his shoulder and narrowed his blood-red eyes in quiet amusement.

His posture remained impeccably composed, and not a single strand out of place in his long ponytail.

There was something strangely commanding about him, and he could make others obey with a smile. Even the dissonance between his slender frame and the rough, low voice with which he barked orders only added to that unsettling presence.

“M-Mozus… Trein, sir.”

In contrast, Trein could barely breathe from an injury sustained during the fight. Every inhale sent a sharp, stabbing pain through his side. The pain felt so real, so intense, that he could almost forget he was still within the safe confines of the academy.

Nearly thirty years had passed since the World War began. Maybe it had been different back when the conflict first erupted and the entire world was thrown into panic.

But by the time Trein’s generation was born, more than a decade had already gone by, and conversations about the military, the front lines, and the latest weapons had become an accepted part of everyday life.

And the boys here had grown up far from the flames of war, in rural areas untouched by conflict. When they came of age, they were sent to this place—Night Raven College—a secure and isolated stronghold where only the most promising mage trainees were gathered.

Surrounded by newspapers filled with grim headlines from the day they were born, they had been raised in a carefully constructed garden, like an air-raid shelter meant to keep them safe from the truths beyond its walls. War, to them, was closer to a bedtime story read by their mothers than an immediate reality.

They didn’t worry about enemy legions in the skies or rains of fire. They laughed at their friends’ jokes, crammed for exams with furrowed brows, and shouted in joy during Spelldrive matches at lunch.

Stories like a town being occupied by the military felt no more real than hearing about the boy next class over getting harshly rejected by the baker’s daughter in downtown.

Or so it had been.

Looking only at what was in front of them had dulled their senses. But now, Trein understood—this man, standing here now, had come from one of those blood-soaked battlefields.

The man brought the scent of the real world with him, and in this moment, reality, once so vague, hit Trein like a blow.

“Mozus Trein, is it? Hm. Looks like we’ve got some promising students this year, Crowley.”

“Lilia, what do you plan to do if parents complain after seeing the injuries you’ve caused? Our supply of medicine in the infirmary isn’t unlimited, you know.”

“Oh, come now! One hearty bowl of my nourishing porridge and they’ll be right as rain!”

“Are you trying to finish the job and kill these poor boys!?”

When had he arrived?

Trein hadn’t noticed, too focused on surviving the lesson, but the Headmage seemed to have shown up at some point. Amid this hellish scene, the adults exchanged casual banter as if nothing at all were amiss.

Maybe it was okay now.

Once Trein was certain the lesson had reached a pause, he discreetly dropped to one knee, no longer able to stay on his feet. Probing at his aching ribs and other injuries to assess the damage, he noticed those raspberry-red eyes finally settling on him once again.

“Mozus.”

“Y-Yes!”

It had only been one exchange of magic. But that was enough to make it clear just how worthy of respect Lilia’s skill truly was. Being addressed by someone who embodied the very ideal of a mage made Trein’s back straighten instinctively.

“You’re now selected as my special student.”

In response, the terrifying instructor broke into a boyish, innocent grin.

[shamo-bird]

Ch.2: Southwestern 36th Division

Where was the fighting happening today?

Above him stretched nothing but an oblivious blue sky, as if it knew nothing of blood-red carnage.

Rubbing the side that had first taught him what real pain felt like. It was not the harmless sort dealt out within the confines of a sheltered world. Trein knitted his brows tightly together.

Even back when he had been nothing more than a student, his hands had never resembled those of a delicate young lady. Riding lessons, Spelldrive practice, physical training... His days at school had been filled with activities that hardened the body. Yet when he lowered his gaze to his palms now, they were rough with calluses that had split and reformed time and time again. Though he kept them clean, he could almost imagine the scent of blood clinging to them still.

They were hands that didn’t belong in a rural town said to be far from the front lines.

It had already been nine months since the sudden arrival of the Practical Magic instructor who had selected him as a “special student.”

At NRC, it was customary for fourth-year students to spend a year interning at companies and research institutions around the world under the guise of off-campus study. Yet Trein had departed from the Isle of Sages more than a month earlier than his peers, before summer vacation had even come to an end, to become the apprentice of Lilia Vanrouge.

“Come with me.”

That was all he had said.

Trein had not refused. Perhaps he simply could not. Not after, in the mere few months since they had met, that man had taught him what it meant to admire someone.

“Good morning!” came a cheerful voice. “I found some excellent apples at the farmer’s market. Would you like one?”

Even bundled up in a duffel coat, white breaths spilled endlessly from his lips. Eager to get indoors as quickly as possible, Trein strode down the cobbled main street, his footsteps echoing sharply against the stones, when the screech of brakes and that carefree greeting reached his ears.

He knew who it was without even looking.

For some reason, he found himself reluctant to turn in that direction and instead glanced up at the sky. Of course, the man in question wasn’t the type to notice such subtle avoidance.

The one who casually patted his shoulder and offered him an apple as red as a ruby was, for reasons beyond Trein’s understanding, someone who occupied the peculiar position of being his colleague: Ambrose LXIII.

He was the sort of man whose odd friendliness bordered on suspicious, and was thoroughly exhausting to deal with.

“No, thank you.”

When Trein declined and continued walking, Ambrose swung himself smoothly off the bicycle he had been riding and fell into step beside him at the same pace.

“They’re delicious, though,” he remarked leisurely, taking an unhurried bite from the very apple that had just been rejected. “You’re so cold.”

The town they were in lay not far from Harveston, a village of Shaftlands famous for its apples.

Trein, who hailed from Shaftlands, knew full well just how exceptional they were, arguably better than this man, who had grown up in the Queendom of Roses. Why couldn’t Ambrose understand that the apple itself wasn’t the reason for the cold refusal?

With the crisp crunch of biting fruit accompanying them, the two walked in silence for another five minutes before arriving at the offices of the Daily Shaftland, where Trein was serving his internship.

“I’ll be heading in first.”

After giving a perfunctory greeting to the coworker—technically his senior—who had gone to park his bicycle around the corner, Trein headed up the staircase attached to the side of the two-story office building.

The moment he pushed the plain door marked only with a plaque reading “Daily Shaftland Newspaper” open, a wave of warmth enveloped him, thawing the cold that clung to his face and body. Letting out a relieved breath, he removed his coat, hung it on the rack by the wall, and turned around.

“Oh! Moyse! You’re finally here!”

A familiar face he hadn’t seen in quite some time suddenly appeared from behind a mountain of paperwork piled high on a desk. The raspberry-red eyes that blinked at him had softened, as though they had long since forgotten the sharpness they once possessed on the battlefield.

“Va—! No, ahem… Mr. Rufus… it’s been a while.”

He nearly called the man by his real name. Covering the slip with a cough, Trein forced himself to use the alias that still felt foreign on his tongue.

Damn it.

He needed to remember his role. Using aliases here was absolute protocol. Even colleagues were forbidden from learning one another’s real names.

Not Mozus, but Moyse.

Not Vanrouge, but Rufus.

Those were the temporary identities the two of them had taken on so that Trein could follow the man.

Officially, this was the southwestern branch of the Daily Shaftlands Newspaper, one of the major newspapers distributed throughout the Shaftlands. Located far from the vulnerable capital and the border regions prone to attack, this modest office had recently become an important center for delivering news across much of the country.

That was the truth known to the townspeople—and the carefully constructed illusion created by Lilia Vanrouge.

The branch employed a total of thirty-four people.

Compared to the newspaper’s headquarters in the capital, the southwestern branch had less than a fifth of the staff. Of those thirty-four employees, only around twenty-five were genuine newspaper workers. They occupied the first floor, writing and editing articles.

The second floor, however, was something else entirely.

With the newspaper company’s cooperation, it had been transformed into a front office concealing its true purpose. Even among the employees downstairs, no one aside from the branch manager knew its real identity.

It was known as the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit—a special military intelligence division composed primarily of promising young mages and outstanding interns recruited from prestigious magical academies.

“Man, it’s freezing out there. Moyse, don’t just stand in the doorway. Get inside already.”

“My apologies, Mr. Wald.”

Trein had been lingering absentmindedly in front of the coat rack when a man with round glasses stepped inside, the tip of his nose as red as the apple he was eating earlier.

Wald.

That was the alias assigned to the only person in this organization, aside from Lilia, who knew Trein’s true identity.

The reason Wald knew who Trein really was—and Trein knew Wald’s identity in return—was simple.

Three years ago, shortly after enrolling at NRC, Trein had met him during a Spelldrive exchange match with RSA.

He would react with the same pure, almost naïve surprise every time, yet it still felt absurd that someone he had found so insufferable back then would end up as his colleague. And not just any kind of colleague, but a particularly unusual one at that. Just thinking about it made him want to roll his eyes so hard they might circle right out of his head, followed by a long, exasperated sigh.

“So then, Moyse. How did the matter we discussed turn out?”

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man he refused to describe with something as positive as rival, Trein faced the commander’s desk.

The military posture ingrained in him—hands clasped behind his back—was forbidden here, just like using his real name. His arms rested naturally at his sides, his feet remained close together.

It was the ordinary stance of a civilian, overturning everything that had been drilled into him before taking this assignment.

The only form of respect he could still offer was to keep his spine straight.

“As you suspected, Mr. Rufus,” Trein replied. “It seems the Stray Black Cats are indeed in this town.”

Even during Lilia’s absence, progress had been made. Turning his palm upward, Trein held out his hand. With a low whoomph, green flames sprang to life, rising roughly thirty centimeters into the air.

There was no heat. The fire was merely an illusion created by magic. Within it played footage gathered by the surveillance spells hidden throughout the town. The recording had been captured three nights earlier, beneath the full moon, in the alley behind a rundown tavern on the outskirts of town—a place usually frequented by vagrants.

A magic circle had suddenly appeared in the deserted alley. Moments later, three figures emerged. Though they looked no older than boys, each wore a black robe.

Then, almost instantly, they slipped into the shadows and vanished. If one weren’t paying close attention, it would have been easy to miss them.

They were known as the Black Cats—members of a group that the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit had been desperately hunting.

If they could locate and capture the mysterious group’s leader, they could finally bring an end to the tragic war that had continued for decades. Trein and the others truly believed that.

“Oh?” Lilia mused. “Then that means ‘that thing’ is here as well.”

A cheerful chuckle escaped him, yet his expression remained chillingly cold as he gazed out the window at the town below—a place untouched by the shadow of war.

Tension tightened in his narrowed eyes.

Trein and Ambrose exchanged a brief glance. Then, quietly but with certainty, they nodded.

[shamo-bird]

Ch.3: Thus, the Arcane World War Began

This bloody conflict, euphemistically called the “Holy War,” began roughly thirty years ago. The trigger for the madness that had been slowly creeping across the world was finally pulled in the beautiful savannah ruled by beastmen—Sunset Savanna.

In Twisted Wonderland, there are broadly two species: Humans and Subspecies. Humans refer solely to Homo sapiens, while “subspecies” is a collective term for all beings other than humans who possess their own languages and cultures—beastmen, spirits, fairies, merfolk, and more.

In truth, even this naming was created by humans to distinguish themselves from others. As the term suggests, the historical divide between humans and subspecies runs deep.

At first, humans defined everything other than themselves in this way. There was likely admiration and reverence toward beings closer to the divine creator. But fear and inferiority also existed. Once clear distinctions were made, human pride hardened into exclusivity.

Spirits, fairies, and merfolk—beings directly connected to the “natural elements” that existed since the world’s creation, or those derived from them—were treated as fundamentally different by newcomers. They did not accept such treatment without resistance.

They claimed themselves to be the superior supernatural beings, rejecting humans as inferior. Since their very essence of life was different, they chose not to coexist.

Fairies and spirits who weakened without pure natural environments like forests or clean water, and merfolk who could only survive in the sea where humans could not live long at all—such fundamental differences in habitat only deepened the separation.

But among all subspecies, the beastmen were different.

They were not supernatural beings, but animal-like beings similar to humans. They did not draw energy from nature itself; instead, they hunted other living things and cultivated the land with their own hands. Because their way of life was closer to that of humans, the fear and inferiority that humans felt toward other magical beings was not directed at beastmen as strongly.

For that reason, they had relatively little resistance to interacting with humans, and contact between them never fully ceased.

For a long time, the world remained in a delicate balance—neither large-scale conflict nor true harmony, but coexistence, keeping distance yet living side by side.

Until the discovery of magic stones became the spark.

Magic, by nature, had been the exclusive domain of subspecies—especially those connected to natural elements. There had occasionally been humans with rare talent or those who learned through training, but such individuals were extremely rare throughout history.

And the idea of freely using magic powered by imagination, as it is today, was unthinkable. At most, humans used it in potion-making, alchemy with minimal magic infusion, or divination through astrology.

Beastmen, compared to humans, were more likely to possess innate magical power and control it, but even they could not compare to those directly connected to natural elements who could convert natural energy into magic itself.

At some point, those beings connected to natural elements began to be distinguished within subspecies and were called “Arcane Races.”

However, the discovery of magic stones granted humans the forbidden technique of magic as well. Humans who possessed magical potential could now use it without accumulating blot or risking their lives, producing supernatural phenomena directly.

Naturally, the spirits and merfolk saw this development as a threat to their domain. Humans vastly outnumbered them. If they gained access to magic, the balance would collapse. Was it not already unacceptable that those without divine favor were encroaching upon their sacred power?

Driven by such fears, the world gradually fractured after the discovery of magic stones.

Those Arcane Races connected to natural elements isolated themselves further, strengthening the boundaries around their territories. Humans and beastmen, meanwhile, chose to integrate with each other to strengthen their own side.

The paths diverged. The distortion grew strongest in lands governed by beastmen—those closest to humans—including regions such as Sunset Savanna, which possessed the vast natural beauty beloved by fairies. And yet, none of them realized it was approaching collapse.

Minor conflicts rooted in species differences repeated for hundreds of years across nations and regions, and prejudice deepened with time.

And then, when the dark fate could no longer be avoided, the spark of the great Holy War that would shake the world ignited on the banks of a river in Sunset Savanna.

Back then, the land had not yet become as dry as it is now. It was a vast and beautiful country, rich with forests, clear rivers, and lakes that symbolized abundance.

But as humans developed and expanded their nation, deforestation and cultivation became necessary. The water spirits, who loved nature, rejected human settlements and moved upstream in search of unpolluted water, away from the capital. Their original forms resembled crocodile-like creatures tied to the essence of rivers, living peacefully while nurturing the river’s prosperity.

It was there that they arrived.

Beastmen hyenas, driven from their homes and with nowhere else to go, reached the riverside in search of a place to live.

“Please… allow us to live here. We have nowhere else to go.”

The hyenas pleaded for mercy, but the spirits rejected them.

Fearful that their home would be further tainted by humans and those close to them, they refused. History of discrimination and conflict had already justified their distrust far too well.

Unlike fairies, hyena beastmen could not survive on natural energy alone. To live across the vast plains, they needed food and water. Once coexistence was denied, conflict became inevitable. It was a simple matter of survival—live or die. Both sides bared their fangs.

The victors of the battle later known as the Battle of Utopia, the conflict that ignited the World War, were the creatures of the land; the hyena beastmen.

Even then, the river fairies refused coexistence. Seeking refuge with others of their kind who had settled elsewhere, they fled to the fairy kingdom of Briar Valley.

And from that moment onward, nations across the world began loudly proclaiming their views on the relationship between magical races and other peoples, as if venting centuries of pent-up resentment.

The first nation to issue an official declaration was Sunset Savanna itself. Ruled by a royal family of lion beastmen, the kingdom advocated for coexistence among all races.

“Such ideals are nothing but hypocrisy. Foolish Lion King, your naivety knows no bounds.”

Those words came from Briar Valley, where the displaced river fairies had sought sanctuary. They condemned Sunset Savanna, arguing that its vision of “all races” truly referred only to humans and beastmen. The supernatural races, they claimed, were afforded neither the respect nor reverence they deserved, and the Battle of Utopia had proven exactly that.

Land of Dawning, ruled by human royalty and populated overwhelmingly by humans, sided with Sunset Savanna. They denounced Briar Valley on the international stage as discriminatory.

Thus was born the coalition advocating for coexistence between races: The Soleil Axis.

But this movement was met with immediate opposition from the neighboring kingdom of Coral Sea.

“Humans were the ones who began this discrimination in the first place. You called the noble magical races—those closest to the divine—monsters, and hunted our kin of the sea. If anyone are monsters, it is you. What is wrong with protecting our homeland and our people?”

The merfolk, who generally remained isolated in the depths of the ocean and had little interaction with outsiders, chose to ally themselves with Briar Valley, whose beliefs closely mirrored their own. kingdom of Heroes, said to have been founded by gods and their descendants, soon followed suit.

This alliance became known as: Praeter Naturam — the Divine Peoples’ Alliance.

And so, the two great factions emerged.

Gradually, they began competing over territories rich in magic stone deposits, forests saturated with magical energy, and rare magical artifacts. Like a stone rolling downhill, the flames of war spread across the world.

Once that happened, the remaining nations could no longer remain idle.

Shaftlands, with its vast territory, shared borders with numerous countries. Its people varied widely from region to region in language, customs, and heritage. Unable to reach a unified stance, the nation ultimately chose not to establish a single national policy, instead leaving the decision to its individual territories and the people who lived there.

Meanwhile, the Queendom of Roses, an island nation inhabited mostly by humans but geographically surrounded by Briar Valley, Coral Sea, and lying close to Kingdom of Heroes, deemed neutrality the safest option.

Officially, it refrained from taking sides.

Unofficially, however, it quietly began providing financial aid and weapons, under the banner of humanitarian assistance, to regions within the Shaftlands that supported the Soleil Axis.

Before long, it also extended support to Sunset Savanna in exchange for the abundant natural resources unavailable to an island nation.

Amid this increasingly divided world, one nation stood closest to true neutrality: Land of Dawning.

A small island country that included Sage’s Island, home to two of the world’s most prestigious institutions for magical education.

Night Raven College, the oldest arcane academy in existence, was originally founded near the magic stone mines of Shaftlands, where the first magic stones had been discovered. It was said that, as those mines were exhausted, the school itself had relocated time and again in search of stronger magical ley lines.

Royal Sword Academy was established by a legendary mage from the Queendom of Roses after his retirement from active service, dedicated to nurturing the next generation of young wizards.

Students from noble and influential families across the world attended both institutions.

Leveraging the political complications that interference would invite, the two schools declared shortly after the war’s outbreak that they would reject all outside involvement and devote themselves solely to training mages capable of preserving world order.

Yet many dismissed this as little more than a façade.

Even with magic stones, those capable of wielding magic represented only a tiny fraction of the world’s population. Surely those blessed with such power would never truly stand alongside the powerless and share what they possessed.

Thus, it became an open secret that Land of Dawning, too, quietly sympathized with the Praeter Naturam alliance in order to safeguard its own interests.

The war continued to drain the world, slowly and relentlessly.

Like a glass filled to the brim, held together only by the delicate tension at its surface, the conflict maintained a precarious balance for thirty years.

Would it end tomorrow?

In another year?

Or would it continue for a hundred more?

The future lay shrouded in darkness, impossible to see.

And within that darkness, someone whispered.

“Light the flame of resistance.”

[shamo-bird]

Ch.4: The Man Called Lilia Vanrouge

“The moon is the color of blood tonight. Have you seen it?”

A cheap boarding house for single men stood in a residential district a little way from the town center. Now that he was no longer living at the academy among boys his own age, that modest room was Trein’s castle.

The room was small, but he had reinforced it with soundproofing magic. Having grown accustomed to a life so quiet that he never heard a sound made by anyone but himself, Trein nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice suddenly greeted him the moment he stepped out of the shower.

“M-Mr. Rufus…”

“Heh. Even now, that name feels stranger to me than it does to you.”

He had not been expecting visitors.

Taking advantage of being alone, he was dressed only in pajama pants and a bathrobe loosely thrown over shoulders. It was impossible not to be startled when he found his instructor, who is also a superior officer, sitting calmly by the window in his darkened room and sipping wine as though he belonged there.

“You may use my real name. I placed another barrier over your soundproofing spell. Even the Fairy King himself would not be able to locate this room right now. Want some?”

Lilia offered the wine as casually as if they were meeting in broad daylight.

Still red-faced, Trein shook his head.

A man as unpredictable as Lilia entering his room without warning was hardly unusual. This was not even the first time he’d been seen in a state no one else ordinarily would. After all, normal people gave notice before visiting.

Determined to change clothes as quickly as possible, Trein flicked the short wand-shaped Magical Pen he kept on him even while showering.

“Hmm?”

Nothing happened.

His clothes remained exactly the same.

“Oh, right. My apologies,” Lilia said cheerfully. “Didn’t I tell you? The barrier. While it’s active, no one except me can use magic in this space. That includes you.”

“Master Vanrouge…”

Trein wished, just a little, that Lilia would consider how it felt for someone in his position.

A mage. A field operative. A member of a secretive intelligence unit that relied on civilian students and recent graduates rather than professional soldiers. Someone who lived with the possibility of death around every corner.

Having his magic stripped away without realizing it was not exactly comforting.

Even knowing that Lilia’s presence alone made the room safer than any fortress in the world, Trein hated the feeling of becoming dead weight.

Besides—

“Come here, Mozus.”

The man before him, Lilia Vanrouge, was perhaps the most dangerous thing in the room.

A shiver ran down his spine as Lilia beckoned him closer.

“Mozus?”

When Trein hesitated, Lilia tilted his head, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

The youthful mannerisms disappeared.

Gone was the lively voice that made him look like a delicate young boy.

Instead came the same rough, weighty tone Trein had first heard from him years ago; the voice of a hardened warrior.

The sound settled deep in his gut.

Almost unconsciously, Trein found himself walking toward the window.

Lilia guided him closer and motioned for him to part the curtain.

Outside, beneath a cloudless sky, hung a crimson moon.

It truly was red. Though rather than blood…

“It looks more like your eyes, Professor Vanrouge.”

The thought slipped out before he could stop it.

A soft chuckle brushed against the back of his neck.

At some point, Lilia had risen from his chair. Silent as a ghost, he now stood directly behind him.

Warm breath grazed Trein’s skin, making him flinch.

Then fingers hooked into the back of his robe and tugged it down slightly, exposing the base of his neck.

Lips brushed against his skin.

“Van—!”

It wasn’t entirely unexpected. But neither had he approached intending to accept it. Before he could protest, a sharp pain pierced him.

“Ghk—… ah…”

Teeth.

The realization came instantly.

Fangs sank into his flesh. Then his blood was drawn away.

Trein was the only person in town, and the only member of the Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit, who knew the truth.

The elegant superior whose attack magic inspired awe throughout the military: Lilia Vanrouge was a vampire fairy.

“I heard from Ambrose,” Lilia murmured. “Seems you’ve been enjoying life in this town while I was away. Apparently you’ve become quite friendly with a girl in a certain baker.”

“That’s… not… umm…”

What exactly had Ambrose been telling him?

The accusation felt absurdly similar to being suspected of infidelity. Heat rushed into Trein’s face.

It was true that he frequented the bakery near the town center.

And yes, he spoke with one of the women working there more often than someone as stiff and serious as himself normally would.

But there was nothing improper about it.

More importantly, his relationship with Lilia was simply that of mentor and student.

There was no reason to feel the need to explain himself. And yet…

His heart still skipped a beat.

“Heh. Your blood truly is sweet,” Lilia whispered. “I wonder… which is sweeter? Your blood, or the bread from her shop?”

Embarrassment and agitation churned together inside him.

The warmth of Lilia’s lips against his neck felt almost scorching.

About a minute later, the fangs finally slid free.

The wound couldn’t have been very large.

And yet it felt as though a hole had been punched straight through him. A small groan escaped his lips.

Although he had offered his blood several times now, Trein still could not grow accustomed to the strange sensation of having something deep inside his body drawn out along with a sweet, numbing haze.

Without thinking, he reached out to touch the wound, but before his fingers could reach the puncture marks, Lilia caught his hand.

“Does it hurt?”

The spiteful man deliberately made loud kissing sound as he licked the wound. The moment his thick tongue traced over the opening, Trein’s body jolted.

He knew that a vampire’s saliva possessed a mild healing ability meant to close wounds caused by their bites, but he could not help but wonder why the gods had not granted them a different method of healing.

The vampire’s broad tongue passed over the wound several times, and little by little, the hole began to close.

“This time… mmh… where were you… injured…?”

Trein asked, trying to ignore a strange, sweet shiver ran up his spine every time that Lilia’s tongue slid slowly across his skin.

Lilia normally sustained himself through ordinary food consumed by humans. The blood—the meal of vampires, for vampires—was something he only took when his life force was at risk.

Knowing that, Trein willingly accepted this troublesome method of feeding, standing in the position of prey while enduring the pleasure-inducing effects of the venom in Lilia’s saliva, a substance designed to keep a victim from escaping.

This is treatment.

Nothing more than treatment.

He repeated those words to himself as he tried to come to terms with the burning sensation spreading through the core of his body.

“This time, it was my right side, near the ribs. Fascinating, wasn’t it? So that is the Queendom of Roses’ new type of magical device. A weapon that seals light magic inside and fires it out. It resembles those things the magicless ones use. What do they call them? Pistols?”

Whether he noticed Trein’s inner struggle or not, the predator once again playfully sank his teeth into the heated skin of his neck.

It was an act that served no purpose. He was not feeding, nor was he healing the wound.

It was completely unnecessary.

When a voice almost slipped from his throat, Trein bit down hard on his lower lip. A finger suddenly pressed against his mouth, gently warning him not to make a sound.

Even so, he refused to cry out, allowing only short, heated breaths to escape.

This man was truly cruel.

He had heard rumors of the Queendom of Roses’ newest weapon, though he had never seen one himself. It should have been something fascinating enough to capture his full attention.

Yet all he could focus on was the heat of Lilia’s lips.

“The weapon fires compressed spheres of light magic. They carved wind magic formulas directly into the magical device itself to launch them. The speed is unbelievable, and they travel a great distance. For a moment, I couldn’t even tell where the attack came from. You wouldn’t happen to have information regarding that wind magic formula, would you?”

Unable to push away the arm wrapped around him from behind as though comforting a child, Trein gripped the curtain in front of him and desperately steadied his trembling knees.

He felt dizzy.

The overwhelming scent of blood filled his senses.

And beneath it was another scent—one that brought a strange sense of relief. A gentle fragrance like a forest after rain, the scent of life itself that came from a fae closely connected to natural elements.

“But we must end this soon. If things like that begin appearing on the battlefield, who knows how many more will die. Even if it were only soldiers, that would be one thing…but how can a nation, how can the world, flourish when ordinary people lose their lives?”

At last seeming satisfied, Lilia slowly lifted his head and spoke in a serious voice.

The face Trein saw when he slightly turned his head upward was no longer the face of a mischievous fae.

It was the face of a warrior.

“Everyone wishes to live. Yet they cannot choose to do nothing. They steal from one another and kill in order to live more comfortably, then cry and tremble in fear of suffering the same fate themselves. Telling the Ouroboros to stop biting its own tail is a far more difficult task than one might imagine.”

Was it only his imagination that the arm slowly slipping away from him trembled slightly?

Trein placed one hand against the window frame, gathering strength back into his legs before turning around.

His superior slowly removed the buttons of his black vest and lifted the hem of his equally dark shirt, looking down at his side.

The gauze pressed against his wound was stained with a dark red mark, yet when he removed it, the skin beneath was flawless.

Not a single trace remained.

Ah… he healed it.

Trein let out a quiet breath of relief.

But in that very moment, the two raspberry-pink eyes—eyes with a pull as powerful as a black hole—locked onto him.

“It is strange, is it not? How impossibly difficult it is to create a world where a child like you does not have to breathe in the stench of blood. To wish for an era where one does not have to cut away beautiful hair like yours… such a dream is as fragile as melting snow.”

The back of Trein’s neck still burned from being relentlessly toyed with.

The long hair he once had while living inside the sheltered world of NRC—carefully maintained and tied neatly with a ribbon—was gone.

Not long after he decided to follow the man standing before him, he had cut it off without hesitation.

On the battlefield, or during dangerous missions, he could not move with the same efficiency as his master, Lilia. Long hair was nothing but a hindrance unless one possessed the skill and experience of someone like him.

Trein himself had never been particularly attached to it.

But Lilia’s expression when he saw him after the haircut…

A man who almost never allowed his true emotions to appear on his face had gone pale for a brief moment, as if he had been struck by absolute despair.

It must have felt like tearing the beautiful feathers from a white dove, a symbol of peace.

“The Black Cats…”

Trein adjusted the disheveled collar of his bathrobe and let the night breeze entering through the open window cool his heated body.

If he looked directly into Lilia’s eyes, he felt as though the lingering heat would never fade.

So he lowered his gaze slightly and asked in a whisper the question he had wanted to ask for so long.

“If we capture them… will this truly be enough to end this war…?”

While Lilia remained at NRC as a special instructor of practical magic, Trein had been exempted from regular classes as a special student and subjected to intense training.

Training that was clearly not meant for students.

It was training for soldiers.

Yet the moment he left NRC, Lilia forced him to abandon those military-like movements and instead gave him a strange assignment:

To blend into civilian society and pursue a group known as the Black Cats.

There was very little that Trein and Ambrose knew about the Black Cats.

First, they were a small elite team consisting of only four members.

Second, they belonged to neither the Soleil Axis. nor the Divine Peoples’ Alliance.

Third, they possessed the “key” to ending this war.

Fourth, the only ones who currently knew of their existence and were pursuing them were Briar Valley, the Queendom of Roses, and the Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit.

Who were they?

What exactly was the thing called the “key”?

Why were only Briar Valley and the Queendom of Roses pursuing them?

Trein knew nothing.

“Mozus, do you know what is necessary to erase war from this world?”

Perhaps he was exhausted from having just returned from the battlefield.

Lilia carelessly lowered his shirt, sat down on the bed, and did not even bother fastening the buttons of his vest.

A cynical smile rested on his lips.

“Law, perhaps? International law, treaties, social norms. The Soleil Axis and the Praeter Naturam would need to establish a non-aggression treaty so that war becomes impossible.”

A peace treaty that would bring about a complete end to the war.

That had to be the goal humanity desired after being worn down by such a long conflict.

Of course, the reason this quagmire continued was because neither side was willing to compromise, and yet the battlefield had not shifted enough for either side to force the other into accepting unfavorable terms.

Once the war ended, peace would come.

For Trein, who had been born during wartime, it was a completely unknown world he had never experienced.

“Should I be pleased that you are such an honest and straightforward child… or should I worry that you possess knowledge but lack flexibility in thought…?”

Apparently, such an answer would not bring about an era of peace.

The instructor crossed one leg over the other in an almost deliberately improper manner, rested his elbow upon his knee, and supported his cheek with his hand.

His cynical smile deepened.

“People betray, Mozus.”

“…What?”

“A peace treaty is a promise not to wage war. Once it is formally established, the eyes of the entire world will be upon them, and breaking it will not be so easy. That much is true. But when pushed into a corner, even a mouse will bite a cat. The fact that one has the choice to keep a promise means one also has the choice to break it. A treaty does not make war ‘impossible.’ It merely makes people choose not to wage it.”

“Is that not so?”

The darkness within Lilia’s eyes seemed to speak.

War was a method that consumed enormous amounts of money, time, and the labor of its people.

A nation only chose that path when it was already cornered.

When people were driven to desperation, would they truly have the room to worry about something as insignificant as a single sheet of paper called a treaty?

No.

Such things became meaningless.

A nation that had already chosen to start a fight would not suddenly obey the rules.

They only held power while peace could still be maintained on the surface.

The moment Trein reached that conclusion, doubt began to grow inside him.

“What is necessary are ‘threats’ and ‘disadvantages.’”

Reading his hesitation perfectly, his master narrowed his eyes with a grin.

The strange eyes of the inhuman being, with their vertically slit pupils, gleamed with a predatory beauty.

Trein’s spine froze.

“Threats…and…disadvantages…? Whose…?”

The man before him carried many names.

To Trein, the first that came to mind was the Special Instructor of Practical Magic at NRC.

And then the Head of the Special News Division at the Daily Shaftlands Newspaper.

But the name the world knew him by was—The Right General of Briar Valley.

In other words, Lilia Vanrouge was one of the top figures of the Divine People’s Alliance Army.

It was already common knowledge that, despite claiming neutrality, the Dawn Kingdom secretly supported the Divine People’s Alliance—an organization primarily composed of magical races—in order to preserve its own superiority through magic.

That was precisely why Lilia, a military figure from Briar Valley, had been able to come to an academy that was supposed to remain neutral, even if he had done so while concealing his true identity.

But Trein was, as expected, a member of the human race.

A human.

One of those whom Briar Valley did not accept.

The Shaftlands was divided in its support depending on the region, but Trein’s birthplace was primarily inhabited by humans, and naturally, it supported the Soleil Axis.

And yet, he had chosen to follow Lilia because the Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit belonged to neither faction.

After all, the majority of the world’s population consisted of humans without magic.

Yet the discovery of magical stones had established the existence of mages and created a distortion in the world.

This war, fought over limited resources—stronger magical fields, more advanced magical devices—would only continue to cause unjust suffering to those without magic the longer it dragged on.

The pain and anxiety created by a war that showed no signs of improving had given birth to a third faction: The Resistance.

The Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit was one part of that movement.

A group hidden across nations around the world, one that cared neither for the political systems nor ideals of individual countries.

Their only purpose was the swift conclusion of the war.

A revolutionary organization seeking to bring an end to the conflict.

“Master…Vanrouge…?”

It was not that he wanted to doubt him.

But when a long-lived fae who had fought on the front lines since the beginning of the Holy War as one of the leaders of the Divine People’s Alliance had invited him to join the Resistance, Trein simply could not believe it.

Because it was impossible.

It depended on how the war would end, but the general of a nation was essentially walking toward becoming a traitor to his own country.

And yet—Lilia had taught him how to fight.

They had spoken together about the world they wished to create.

Trein had listened to the desperate, almost blood-soaked longing Lilia carried for an era of peace.

And eventually, he chose to follow this man.

Not the instructor.

Not the Right General.

But Lilia Vanrouge himself.

The man behind the titles.

Now, quite literally, Trein gave even his blood to keep him alive, wishing for his ideal world to become reality.

That was why he did not want to doubt him.

He truly did not.

But Lilia did not answer immediately.

Several seconds of silence shook his heart.

The unsteady feeling beneath his feet was not simply because he had lost too much blood.

“…I am about to say something rather ruthless.”

Just as Treun was about to call his name again, overwhelmed by anxiety that threatened to consume him, Lilia finally opened his mouth.

Trein listened only to the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding so violently it hurt his ears.

And he waited.

“Both threats and disadvantages… must be given to everyone.”

Lilia’s voice was low.

“We must all hold blades against each other’s throats.”

“Wait.”

Trein’s voice rose before he could stop himself.

“How is that any different from the situation we are in now? Haven’t we already spent thirty years holding blades against each other’s throats?!”

The answer he received was unexpected. And impossible to understand.

The enemy’s mages could descend from the sky at any moment.

Through summoning magic, they could appear in the middle of a city. A fireball could fall from above. Lightning could destroy an entire town. A flood could be created, swallowing everything in a massive wave.

The entire world was already living in fear of their ordinary lives being destroyed without warning.

“Ah, the kind of threat and disadvantage I speak of is slightly different from what you are imagining.”

Lilia smiled faintly.

“The disadvantage I mean exists precisely because it benefits everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me, why does international trade exist?”

“…What?”

Trein blinked.

“Because there are things people wish to buy from other countries, or things they wish to sell to other countries.”

“Exactly.”

Lilia nodded.

“But if they desire those things, why do they not simply make them themselves?”

“Because the necessary resources, technology, or culture may not exist within their own country.”

“That is also correct.”

“Come sit here.”

Lilia tapped the space beside him on the bed.

It was his own bed, and the idea of sitting together with his superior officer on it felt strangely inappropriate. So, Trein hesitated, unsure of what to do.

Seeing that, Lilia curled one finger toward himself, signaling him to hurry.

“Now, look.”

Having made up his mind, Trein sat beside him.

Lilia leaned back, resting only his upper body against the bed, and pointed toward the ceiling.

Feeling as though he had already surrendered himself to whatever would happen next, Trein lay down as well and stared upward.

He folded his hands over his chest, trying to calm his heart that was beating far too quickly.

He could not bring himself to look at the face beside him.

“The Soleil Axis exists. the Praeter Naturam exists. Whether different races should coexist or remain separated. Who should possess the sacred lands where magical energy is abundant and nature remains untouched.”

From the tips of the fae’s fingers, countless specks of light like scattered stardust emerged and struck the ceiling, painting patterns across its surface.

At first, the image was hazy. But within seconds, it transformed into a map of the world.

The sun and crescent moon stood at opposite ends of the map. A complex magic circle, filled with countless lines and small circles, overlapped across it.

The sun represented the Soleil Axis. The crescent moon represented the Praeter Naturam alliance.

The smaller circles scattered throughout the map were likely the Resistance groups hidden across the world.

“Every nation has engaged in trade with other countries, to varying degrees.”

Lilia’s voice remained calm and instructional.

“Even Briar Valley trades with the Kingdom of Heroes and Coral Sea. Why is that? Because there are things outside of Briar Valley that we simply cannot provide for ourselves. Because other nations possess things that Briar Valley values.”

The image above them shifted.

“If one attempted to create the same things, it would be impossible without the necessary technology. Even if it were technically possible, without the craftsmen, the environment, and the culture required to produce them, a perfect reproduction could never be achieved.”

Above the Shaftlands appeared an illusion of magical stones.

Above Sunset Savannah appeared ancient magical artifacts.

Above the Queendom of Roses appeared the newest magical devices.

Above Coral Sea appeared magical potions.

Each nation’s specialties shone brightly—things that no other country could perfectly imitate, no matter how hard they tried.

“But that is not all.”

Lilia continued.

“Even if two nations create the same thing, there will always be differences in how much each can produce.”

The lights above them changed.

“Suppose one country spends an entire month mining magical stones and can gather three hundred kilograms. Yet, even if it spends that same month producing magical devices, it can only create one hundred and fifty.

Another country may only gather two hundred kilograms of magical stones in a month, but can create four hundred magical devices.

Each nation does what it is best suited for, then exchanges those goods through trade. By doing so, both nations can provide those resources to a greater number of people than they ever could by relying solely on themselves.”

Trein gasped and stared at the glowing map above them.

“Then, if you think about it the other way…”

His voice was quiet.

“Through trade, nations can hold each other’s lifelines…”

“Exactly.”

Lilia smiled faintly.

“Humans fight because they wish to live richer, more comfortable lives. Then surely they should also be capable of avoiding conflict in order to preserve that prosperity.”

The magic circle above them shifted.

“The more trade develops, the more each nation places a knife against the throat of another.”

A flash of light appeared above the Shaftlands.

“If the Kingdom of Heroes continues supplying magical energy to regions of the Shaftlands populated primarily by magicless humans, then one day declaring that they will suddenly stop that supply would become a threat.”

“A disadvantage.”

“Correct. If that happened, the Shaftlands could respond by declaring that they would stop supplying magical stones from their prized mines.”

Lilia’s eyes narrowed.

“A threat answered with another threat.”

The image of the world above them trembled.

“In an era where international trade has become so deeply intertwined with the necessities of daily life, would the Shaftlands truly be able to burn the factories that produce magical devices, as they do now?”

A battlefield appeared in the illusion. Flames spread across the land, swallowing cities whole.

“Would the Kingdom of Heroes truly be able to launch an attack that could destroy the magical stone mines upon which others depend?”

The flames reflected in Lilia’s eyes.

“Would other nations that rely on trade with them allow such attacks to happen?”

The phantom sea on the map surged upward. A massive wave rose from the oceans and extinguished the burning flames.

From the smoke that drifted away from the dying fire, black chains formed, wrapping themselves around the nations displayed on the map. Binding them together.

“It would likely take decades to create such a state.”

Lilia’s voice remained calm, as though he were explaining a simple lesson.

“Without technological advancement, without improving production efficiency enough to provide goods that become essential enough to infiltrate another nation’s daily life and become a threat, it cannot be achieved.”

The chains tightened.

“But if we consider only the root cause of this Holy War, there is one thing that could create a trade relationship between the two major factions where they hold knives against each other’s throats.”

Lilia suddenly lowered his voice. The glowing image on the ceiling disappeared.

The shift made Trein remember where this conversation had begun. His eyes widened.

“The trump card… that could end the war…”

He turned his head sharply.

Only a few inches away, raspberry-pink eyes stared back at him.

Dark. Mesmerizing. Possessing a strength that would not allow him to escape. A strength like chains.

“Yes.”

Lilia’s voice was quiet.

“The Black Cats are the ones who possess that move.”

A faint smile crossed his lips.

“Though they themselves do not seem to realize it.”

Slowly, his hand reached out. His fingers gently brushed over Trein’s eyes, still filled with shock.

Then, he gathered the slightly damp strands of hair that had fallen against Trein’s cheek and tucked them behind his ear.

The movement was slow. Mature. Carrying a devastating allure that a boy still in his teenage years could not simply laugh away.

Trein held his breath. Frozen.

Lilia smiled at the reaction of his imperfect disciple and sat up.

“Who… are they…?”

Several seconds later, Trein followed and pushed himself upright as well. The hand he placed against the bed trembled.

His master did not answer immediately. Instead, he pressed his lips together tightly and returned to the window.

When he opened the curtains, the red moonlight of the Strawberry Moon spilled into the dim room, softly illuminating his cheek.

Under that light, his eyes—deep red as though stained with blood—trembled with sorrow.

Perhaps he was remembering a distant past he had once let go of. Or perhaps he was mourning a future where no light could be seen. A crease formed between his brows. Then, he finally spoke.

“They were raised in Briar Valley…”

His voice was low and deep, like a sound crawling up from the depths of the earth.

“And they are the traitors who stole the sacred treasure…and are now on the run.”

[shamo-bird]

Ch.5: Bakery "Château de Choux"

The bell above the door of "Château de Choux" chimed brightly, and a cheerful voice, as sweet as a songbird singing in the forest, called out from the back.

"Welcome!"

"Oh, Sir Moyse! Good morning. What can I get for you today? The baguettes are just about to come out of the oven. Is it for home? Or lunch?"

"Good morning, Miss Rosana."

The girl who hurried out to greet him, her long blonde braid swaying behind her, looked perhaps a year or two younger than Trein.

Returning her gentle smile, Trein cleared his throat to hide the smile threatening to spread across his own face before offering his greeting.

He himself had only recently arrived in this town, but apparently. Miss Rosana had also found her way to this countryside bakery after fleeing the war not long ago.

Driven from the hometown she loved, forced to seek refuge in a distant land. There were far too many people like that these days. Every time he saw her working so earnestly, it strengthened his resolve to bring this pointless war to an end as quickly as possible.

Perhaps it was because of her naturally warm personality, or perhaps because her adorable appearance could soften anyone's expression without them even realizing it, but Rosana had become the bakery's poster girl almost overnight.

A short while ago, the owner had winked at Trein and voluntarily told him—without being asked—that business had become so busy thanks to the growing number of male customers who came just to see her.

Naturally, Trein came to this bakery only because it was close to his workplace, and no ulterior motives really. Though he wasn't entirely sure who he was trying to convince.

"If the baguettes are ready, I'd like one made into a sandwich with tomato, mozzarella, and smoked salmon. Then four croissants for breakfast... and..."

He paused thoughtfully.

"Hmm... I'd also like a loaf of pumpernickel for dinner."

Feeling oddly self-conscious for no particular reason, he spoke to the young lady simply as a customer.

The previous night, Lilia had come by for blood as usual. Despite being nocturnal, he'd complained of being sleepy and promptly fallen asleep in Trein's bed, but there was no way two grown men could fit in a single bed. Well... more importantly, it was strange enough to share a bed his commanding officer. So Trein had resigned himself to sleeping on the sofa.

When he woke up the next morning, Lilia had already helped himself to the croissants and black bread in Trein's kitchen as though the place belonged to him. As a result, his kitchen cabinet now stood completely empty.

Yet, had he ordered too much?

Would she think he was gluttonous?

His cheeks warmed slightly.

At the same time, another thought crossed his mind: if Lilia didn't happen to stop by again tonight, he'd have to eat all of this himself, and then he wouldn't have any excuse to visit this bakery for the next couple of days.

He clicked his tongue inwardly.

Of course, the reason was simply that he enjoyed fresh bread.

Nothing more. Absolutely not. Certainly not.

There was, without question, no frivolous motive whatsoever.

"Hehe. Sir Moyse, you really do love our pumpernickel."

"It goes wonderfully with the cream cheese and nuts you use. Living alone, I can't exactly prepare elaborate meals... so it helps."

"My, but you have to eat meat and vegetables too, you know? Would you mind if I added some sliced onions to your sandwich? You like onions, don't you?"

"W-Wait, there's really no need..."

But Rosana either didn't mind or intended to feed him even more.

Her round sky-blue eyes darted about as she murmured to herself, then she suddenly seemed to think of something and hurried back into the kitchen.

She was always thoughtful like this, often slipping him little extras. Nearly every visit she tried to make sure he ate something healthy, leaving him feeling equal parts guilty and grateful.

According to both the elderly couple who owned the bakery and Rosana herself, their philosophy was simple: "Especially during wartime, you have to eat whenever you have the chance."

Incidentally, Trein had become a regular here because Ambrose had recommended the bakery after noticing his far-too-serious workaholic tendencies that often led him to neglect his meals whenever work became busy.

The fact that even Ambrose had been worried enough to intervene probably meant Trein ought to reflect on his habits a little.

"Sir Moyse! Apples have been inexpensive lately, haven't they? So the owner let me practice making Apfelkuchen. It isn't pretty enough to sell since I made it instead of him, but I'm sure you'd finish it in no time, so I'll put a slice in for you."

Returning from the kitchen with the sandwich ingredients, the cheerful baker worked with practiced efficiency, slicing open the baguette, filling it generously, wrapping it in paper, and then adding a thick slice of her homemade apple cake.

It looked wonderfully dense, just one slice seemed filling enough.

He couldn't even tell what part of it was supposedly "misshapen." It looked absolutely delicious.

"Ah... but..."

"Oh!" she giggled. "I made these cookies today too. These turned out nicely enough that the owner let me put them on display."

"Well... they look wonderful."

Trein studied them for only a moment before nodding.

"In that case... I'll take a bag of those as well."

"Really? I'm so happy! You'll be the very first customer to buy something I made today!"

One after another, she wrapped each item and dropped it into the paper bag with energetic efficiency.

Before he realized it, the package had grown large enough that he needed both arms to carry it.

"...Well, at least you'll definitely finish it before any of it goes bad."

Once everything had been packed, Rosana looked the bulging bag up and down from bottom to top, thoughtfully stroked her chin, and murmured the observation just before handing it over across the counter.

The gesture was so endearing that Trein nearly let the corners of his mouth curl upward.

"Thank you."

He placed the payment into her slender hand as she passed him the bag.

Her face lit up like a flower blooming in the morning sun.

[shamo-bird]

Ch.6: The Magic Codebreakers

Though Saturday was considered a day off by the general public, newspapers never stopped chasing the news. The Resistance Intelligence Division was no different.

Even so, employees were allowed to arrive at the office a little more leisurely than on weekdays.

Yet when Trein opened the door to the second floor of the newspaper office, it was still exactly nine o'clock, just as it always was on a workday.

"You're late, Moyse. Didn’t you leave before me?"

He had expected to be the first one in. Instead, someone was already there.

Just as the day before, the fairy's face peeked out from behind a mountain of paperwork. Only this morning, until moments before dawn, he'd been lounging about Trein's room as though it belonged to him.

After eating croissants and coffee for breakfast, the nocturnal creature had declared he was still sleepy and crawled right back into Trein's bed. Trein had left the house first, leaving him there.

Apparently, Lilia had managed to wake up on his own and make it to work.

"You ate everything in my house, Mr. Rufus. So, I had to stop by the market to get something for me."

With a sigh, Trein set the large paper bag of bread beside his desk.

Normally, only Trein and Ambrose were permanently stationed in this intelligence division office. The rest of their comrades, including Lilia, were infiltrating the Axis or Allied militaries and governments, so they rarely appeared in person.

Naturally, most of the desks sat empty, which meant no one complained when he left a large paper bag on one of them.

Ambrose's desk was cluttered with miniature figures of unknown purpose, books, and potted plants to the point where it was noisy just to look at.

Lilia's desk, despite its owner appearing only irregularly, somehow surpassed even that chaos, buried beneath memos, newspaper clippings, and stacks of documents.

Sure enough, when Trein glanced over, several papers had already spilled onto the floor.

Honestly, why can’t Master Vanrouge organize his things…?

Shaking his head, Trein resigned himself to beginning the day's work by cleaning up.

It seemed one of Lilia's scrapbooks had fallen open, scattering its contents.

Sunset Savanna.

The Queendom of Roses.

The Land of Heroes.

Newspapers from countless countries and written in countless languages lay strewn across the floor.

Remarkably, Lilia read every one of them without using a single translation spell.

Trein himself considered languages one of his stronger subjects, but his expertise lay in magical tongues such as ancient arcane languages and beast languages. He could read some modern foreign languages well enough to understand newspapers, but nowhere near Lilia's effortless level.

When one ignored the occasional childish antics, Lilia truly was a mage worthy of the deepest respect.

"Oh? Went to the morning market? ...No, maybe not.”

As Trein crouched down to gather the scattered newspaper clippings and return them to the scrapbook, Lilia suddenly leaned his weight against his back from behind.

"Heh... That has to be the bakery with the cute girl everyone's talking about, correct? I’m so jealous. After all, we spent such a hot and sweet night together yesterday."

"Please stop saying things that would give people the wrong idea."

This was exactly the sort of nonsense that ruined his otherwise respectable image.

A warm breath ghosted teasingly across the nape of his neck and behind his ear.

Trein's shoulders jerked involuntarily, and Lilia chuckled darkly.

"The wrong idea? What could they misunderstand? Kufufu... I'd love to hear what sort of fantasies young people would dream up. I'd like you to tell me while letting out those sweet little cries again, just like last night. Your eyes turned as red as an anemone... ah, how adorable."

Perhaps the thing Lilia devoted the greatest passion to in his entire life was teasing other people.

Even if someone laughed and insisted his greatest dedication was surely the war or the fate of the world, Trein found it difficult to dismiss the thought as a joke.

After all, he seemed to be the primary target of Lilia's endless amusement.

Brushing aside the streak of colored hair hanging from Lilia's ponytail with the back of his hand as though scolding it, Trein shrugged the older man off and stood.

At that very moment—Thud.

Something hit the floor some fifteen meters behind them.

"Uh..."

Trein spun around.

Standing frozen in the doorway was the one person in the world he least wanted to hear that conversation.

Ambrose.

No—that wasn't quite true. He wouldn't have wanted “anyone” on earth to hear it. Still, Ambrose was certainly among the last people he wanted as an audience.

"Mr. Rufus and Moyse... y-you're... that kind of relationship?"

His cheeks tinged pink as his gaze darted nervously between the two of them.

Trein let out a long, weary sigh. This is your fault, he thought resentfully, casting a glance toward Lilia.

The fairy, meanwhile, looked entirely unconcerned, wearing his usual carefree grin.

"Kufufu... So you've found us out. Moyse is simply so adorable that I can't help teasing and doting on him. Don't you think so, Wald?"

"He is too serious," Ambrose replied with an easy smile. "He answers every joke with complete sincerity. I can understand the temptation."

Apparently the exaggerated reaction had itself been part of the joke. Picking up the briefcase he had so dramatically dropped, Ambrose chuckled to himself as he walked over to his desk.

So in the end, Trein had been the only one getting played.

Trembling with silent indignation, he floated the scattered clippings into the air with magic, gathered them all into the scrapbook in his arms at once, returned it wordlessly to Lilia's desk, and finally sat down.

"Oh? Did I upset you?" Lilia asked with a laugh. "Kufufu... Even that grumpy face of yours is adorable, my lovely apprentice."

Without the slightest hint of remorse, Trein opened the returned scrapbook and calmly resumed reading.

—I'm never falling for his tricks again.

It was a vow he had made countless times since this secret life began. Keeping it firmly in his heart, he reached for today's newspapers and the stack of magical mail that had arrived on his desk.

"Mr. Rufus... there was a clash in a northern city of the Kingdom of Heroes?"

After casting translation magic over the newspapers from various countries and skimming the headlines, one article immediately caught his attention.

The front page of a newspaper from the Kingdom of Heroes described an aerial battle that had taken place two days earlier.

Comparing the listed city with the map in his mind, he recognized it as a fairly large city near the kingdom's northernmost border.

"Mm. This one was nasty," Lilia replied. "Sunset Savanna's airborne division tried to rain fire down from an altitude of five hundred feet. That region houses several of the Kingdom of Heroes' magical articraft factories."

Sunset Savanna was famous for its unparalleled aerial combat capabilities. That much was obvious from the fact that it was always among the favorites to win the world championship of Magical Shift.

Making full use of its beastfolk population, the nation had organized elite airborne divisions composed primarily of avian beastmen, unrivaled in mobility.

It was often said that if one ever found themselves facing a squadron clad in sunset-colored robes in the sky, the only thing left to pray for was a painless death before hitting the ground.

Just imagining them appearing above his own town made the hairs on the back of Trein's neck stand on end.

Continuing through the article, he learned that the force that intercepted Sunset Savanna's airborne troops had been Briar Valley's mobile unit.

Briar Valley, too, was renowned for its superiority in aerial warfare.

In that kingdom, where ninety-nine percent of the population consisted of fae, flight meant far more than merely riding broomsticks—They could fly. With nothing but their own bodies.

Not every fairy possessed that ability, of course, but pixies, devas, some leprechauns, and others freely took to the skies using their wings or their magic alone.

And Lilia Vanrouge possessed that very ability.

"I see... It seems the Red Messiah stopped another battle from reaching the city."

According to the article, there had been no civilian casualties.

Briar Valley's forces had arrived at the last possible moment before the fighting reached the residential districts and driven Sunset Savanna's troops away.

The article never named the commander leading the unit. But considering what Trein had heard only the previous night—that Lilia had been wounded by one of the Queendom of Roses' new magical weapons and had spoken of his fear that such weapons might soon be turned against civilians—it was painfully easy to imagine exactly what had happened.

"Heh. ‘Red Demon’ will do just fine," Lilia said with a snort. "Being called a messiah makes me itch."

Red Messiah.

The title Trein had spoken with such pride was a nickname given to Lilia by a small number of people.

In recent years, whenever a battle threatened to engulf a city, Briar Valley's Vice General of the Royal Guard would appear like a wind spirit, impossible to predict.

The unit under his command varied each time, but his purpose never did.

To force back any enemy attempting to attack populated districts swiftly and precisely until the fighting had been driven away from the city.

Sometimes he drove the battle away from the city until one army was completely destroyed. Other times, he merely destroyed the weapons capable of slaughtering civilians before disappearing once more.

Either way, civilian casualties on both sides had decreased dramatically.

Those who had been saved by his actions—especially the citizens of those rescued towns—came to call him the Red Messiah, out of gratitude and admiration.

Trein did. So did the other Resistance members.

Even if Lilia himself thought the title embarrassingly exaggerated.

Unfortunately, very few people in the wider world used that name. Instead, they whispered a far more hateful one.

Red Demon.

Believing that Lilia's frequent appearances at urban battlefields meant he was the one causing them, they hurled the slur at him with contempt.

It infuriated Trein beyond words. Yet so long as people believed that lie, fewer would suspect Lilia of belonging to the Resistance.

Much as it frustrated him, he understood why Lilia willingly embraced the nickname.

Even so, Trein didn’t like the situation.

"No. You're the Messiah."

He answered without hesitation.

"There is no one here who would doubt that."

It was the only truth he knew.

"Well..." Ambrose said after several seconds of silence, raising a hand with his usual easygoing smile, "...I agree with him, sir."

Though his smile remained gentle, his eyes were utterly sincere as he quietly lowered them back to his newspaper.

"...I truly have been blessed with good subordinates."

After studying the two younger men in silence, Lilia allowed himself the faintest smile.

For just a moment, Trein thought he saw the shoulders of the man who always stood invincible tremble ever so slightly. Pretending not to notice, he traced the newspaper photograph of the northern city in the Kingdom of Heroes with his fingertips.

He hoped it ends soon. A world where there would be no need for either Messiahs or Demons. A world where no one would ever again have to endure the pain of hearing someone precious called a devil, or the hollow relief of being grateful they were not called by their true name.

As the thought brought a sting to the corners of his eyes, he quickly shook his head to drive it away. The movement carried another scent to his nose.

A fragrance of peace that somehow still existed in this broken world. Miss Rosana's bread.

He never snacked outside of lunch, but perhaps, just this once, it was worth breaking that overly serious rule. Drawing out his wand-like magical pen, he tapped the desk twice.

Knock. Knock.

From the corner of the room, the coffee cups floated gently into the air and drifted toward each of their desks.

“I bought some cookies at the bakery just now. Would you like some? This smell... I can't resist it anymore.”

“Heh heh, you're like a child, Moyse. Though you're right. It really does smell wonderful.”

“Sounds great! I'd be happy to partake, Moyse!”

The gloomy atmosphere vanished at the mention of cookies.

Moyse took the small paper bag he wanted from the larger one, divided the cookies into three equal portions, placed them on paper napkins, and sent one floating to each desk.

“Would anyone like milk?”

“I'm fine.”

“Yes, please,” Ambrose said. “Just a little sugar as well.”

Lilia lightly tapped the side of his coffee cup with the back of his index finger. At once, as requested, everyone's cups filled with steaming brown coffee.

“Oh, look at this, Moyse.” Ambrose pointed to his newspaper. “The Queendom of Roses has developed a new magical device. Ah... they've improved upon the pistols used by non-magic users. At this rate, perhaps one day they'll enchant something capable of turning an entire country into a sea of fire with a single shot.”

“...Please don't talk about your own country as though it has nothing to do with you.”

The mention of the new magical weapon from the Queendom of Roses brought last night's events flooding back. Fangs sinking into the nape of his neck. A hot tongue sensually tracing along his skin.

Heat rushed to Trein’s face. He hid his flushed expression behind one hand and hastily took a sip of the bitter coffee to compose himself.

“It can't be helped,” Ambrose replied. “I left that country long ago, when I was still a child. Besides, I've never approved of what its mages have done. Calling it a 'Magical Industrial Revolution,' they gathered magically gifted children into factories to work. They invaded countries like the Sunset Savanna for magical resources and turned them into colonies. There's nothing beautiful about any of it.”

What Ambrose pointed out was one of the defining problems facing the world's major powers, led by the Queendom of Roses.

Moyse's homeland, Shaftlands, struggled with similar issues, but it was the industrialized nations that had conquered developing countries—using them as suppliers of magical materials and markets for manufactured goods—that had accelerated magical industry to unprecedented levels once they secured stable supply chains. And in their desperate need for labor, they had begun exploiting children.

Everything was justified in the name of strengthening national power to win the war. Anyone who spoke too loudly against it was branded lacking in patriotism.

The world might appear divided into the broad conflict between the Axis and the Allies, but beneath the surface countless smaller wars and competing interests raged simultaneously.

“I agree that it's a nauseating situation,” Trein admitted. “But if you look at it from the perspective of profit, it's not entirely incomprehensible. Idealism alone doesn't advance the world.”

“Idealism, hm?” Ambrose smirked. “But is there any value in progress built upon human sacrifice?”

“Then does a world without progress have a future? Sadly, in the thirty years since the war began, technology has advanced at a pace incomparable to anything before it. Life-and-death struggles have contributed enormously to technological development.”

“And yet you're still on the side that wants to stop the war, aren't you? Despite believing that.”

Although Trein had voiced the opposing argument directly, the insufferably smug man merely smiled, listening as though savoring an interesting thought experiment.

Among NRC students, the prevailing opinion of RSA students had always been that they were hypocritical idealists suffering from hero syndrome—or perhaps a Messiah complex.

But after getting to know Ambrose, Trein had begun to reconsider.

Like most RSA students, Ambrose loved what was "right." Yet what he sought wasn't social justice or humanitarian righteousness.

He sought for something magically correct. Something magically beautiful.

Had he not also believed that magic existed to save people, Trein suspected this man might very well have been chosen by NRC instead.

After all, NRC selected candidates based on the ideal of arcane education that fostered personal growth and the pursuit of one's own lofty ambitions, while RSA gathered those who should learn to extend a helping hand to others.

Perhaps it wasn't such a far-fetched thought. That was how intense Ambrose's devotion to something magically beautiful was.

Had he been only a step different, it could easily have become the kind of self-centered obsession prized at NRC.

Perhaps that was exactly why Moyse had always regarded him as such an obstinate, insufferable man.

“Merely because idealism can't fill empty stomachs doesn't make me pro-war,” Trein replied. “Once this war finally ends, the technologies developed for warfare over these past thirty years will rapidly advance civilization in a peaceful world. That's the only hope I see.”

His gaze dropped to the newspaper.

“And besides... even now, the cities built by our predecessors, the history they've woven together, the lives they've passed down... they're disappearing before our eyes. I can't accept that.”

“H-Hahaha...!” Ambrose burst into laughter. “Here I thought you were about to say something profound, but it's ‘history’? You really are a history fanatic.”

Then again, if anyone was hopelessly eccentric, Trein was hardly in a position to criticize. He had, after all, been chosen by NRC.

He hadn't joined the Resistance because he mourned the state of the world or believed it was his duty to bring peace.

It had all begun because he'd fallen in love with the world Lilia Vanrouge could show him and chosen to follow him.

Heroism had nothing whatsoever to do with it, and he wanted no one mistaking him for that sort of person.

He wanted the war to end, first and foremost because he was tired of the senseless hardships the fighting continued to inflict upon himself and those around him. Only after that came his fury at seeing humanity's greatest romance, history, destroyed before his eyes.

He had always loved history: Ancient ruins, the legends of great figures, and everything humanity had built across the ages.

Growing up in a world where even the immediate future was uncertain, history had been the only thing that felt undeniably real. No novel had ever thrilled him as much as a history book. No matter how much Ambrose laughed, his passion for history would never waver.

“Well,” Ambrose chuckled, “I suppose you couldn't say you wanted to stop a war unless you were that strange. Not 'I want my country to win,' but simply 'I want the war to end,' no matter the means. Every last member of the Resistance is a bunch of oddballs.”

With an amused rumble in his throat, apparently satisfied with their exchange, he finally reached for one of the cookies.

Trein had half a mind to point out that Ambrose himself belonged among those oddballs, but decided it wasn't worth the effort.

It didn't matter as long as the war ended as soon as possible.

“Mmm... these cookies are delicious. The spices really stand out.”

“They are,” Trein agreed after taking a bite. “What an interesting flavor. It's... surprisingly gentle.”

There seemed to be several varieties mixed together. Orange peel. Almond. Chocolate.

He bit into one shaped like a little person, and the sweetness of honey blossomed across his tongue. There were spices too—perhaps from the Scalding Sands, or the Land of the East?

It reminded him of gingerbread, though richer, deeper, and remarkably delicious.

“...Lebkuchen.”

Just as he reached for another, someone murmured the word.

It was the first thing Lilia had said after the two younger men started arguing.

Turning around, Trein found him staring at the half-eaten cookie in his hand as though he were looking at something impossible.

“Mr. Rufus?”

Trein exchanged puzzled glances with Ambrose.

Was there something strange in the cookie? No... considering the monstrosities, or so-called ‘meals,’ Lilia himself was capable of creating, surely nothing sold in an ordinary bakery could be stranger than that.

“This isn't a cookie...” Lilia murmured quietly. “It's cake. Even you didn't know, Moyse? I suppose it's too local. It's a confection popular around Briar Valley.”

“A cake?”

Trein looked down again at what he had assumed was a cookie. The thin little figure baked from dough hardly resembled any cake he knew.

Still... It wasn't exactly crisp, either.

Now that Lilia mentioned it, perhaps cake made more sense. There were thin cakes such as pancakes, and perhaps this was simply thinner.

“You said it came from a bakery?”

Lilia asked without taking his eyes off it.

“The owner... what sort of person is he?”

“The owner?” TREIN repeated. “A human in his forties. No magic. Just under one hundred eighty centimeters tall, muscular build. Right-handed. No noticeable moles or scars. Dark brown hair, gray eyes. He speaks the language of Shaftlands without an accent, though I heard he immigrated here as a child. No southern accent either, so he may have grown up near the capital. I believe he was originally a refugee from the Land of Slumber. His wife is a rabbit beastwoman in her late thirties whose parents came from Shaftlands and Sunset Savanna. White ears, black eyes, one mole beneath her left eye. As for her dominant hand... I'm not completely certain, but I believe she's right-handed.”

For some reason, the sadness lingering in Lilia's eyes made it seem as though he wasn't merely asking about the owner.

Trein searched every drawer of memory he had concerning the bakery and recited everything he could recall—perhaps even more than necessary.

It was the result of the training he'd undergone immediately before joining the Resistance's Intelligence Division. During an ordinary stroll, he had learned to memorize everything.

The number of steps beside a florist’s shop. The color of a bicycle left beside a bank. The accent of a waiter at a restaurant.

Nothing escaped his notice.

He could recreate an entire town perfectly inside his head.

Even if someone suddenly grabbed him from behind, blindfolded him, and dragged him away, he would still know exactly where they were taking him.

“...You've become remarkably good at gathering information.”

“I'm a newspaper reporter, after all.”

Lilia looked at him with unmistakable admiration.

Pride flickered across Trein’s lips before he could suppress it. He shouldn't let compliments go to his head. He needed to improve even further. Yet another part of him felt like a child being praised by a parent.

The conflicting emotions tugged at the corners of his mouth until he cleared his throat.

Lilia gave a small nod.

“I see... The Land of Slumber.”

His eyes fell to the pastry again.

“So that's why... Lebkuchen.”

Then he slowly turned to gaze out the window.

Watching his beautiful profile, Trein suddenly remembered.

The Land of Slumber had once bordered Briar Valley. A fallen kingdom that had fought countless wars against it before disappearing forever.

Originally descended from the Kingdom of Swords, famed for its legendary knights, it had once ruled territories including Howling Canyon, Verdurous Moor, and Cape Sunrise, steadily expanding westward under human rule.

For four centuries, it had repeatedly crossed blades with the Draconia clan of Briar Valley, who stood directly in the path of that western expansion, plunging the region into constant turmoil. That long rivalry finally reached its conclusion shortly after the Holy War began.

Refusing to coexist with other races, Briar Valley found itself invaded when the Land of Slumber seized upon the confusion at the outbreak of the world war, launching a preemptive campaign to settle centuries of resentment once and for all.

But Briar Valley was not a nation that fell so easily.

At first, the surprise attacks gave the invaders the advantage. What they failed to realize, however, was that this was no longer merely another regional border conflict. It had become a world war, with the pride and future of entire races at stake.

It did not take long for the fairies, whose pride had already been trampled by the Axis powers, to answer with a ferocity unmatched in centuries of history.

Until then, Briar Valley had often shown mercy, banishing troublemakers to remote frontiers rather than annihilating them.

This time, however, there was no mercy at all.

Within less than a month, the tide had reversed. The Land of Slumber, now on the defensive, was invaded in turn. Then, ultimately ceased to exist.

Its people without magic scattered across Axis territory as refugees.

Even now, thirty years later, they remained wanderers with no homeland to return to.

The man who had decided the outcome of that invasion by slaying the King of the Land of Slumber was Briar Valley's Supreme Commander at the time.

Commander of the Royal Guard. Right General—Lilia Vanrouge himself.

The confection beloved by the people of the neighboring kingdom he himself had destroyed must have stirred complicated feelings within him.

Trein couldn't bring himself to casually call out to the man gazing into the distance.

The aroma of spices drifted gently through the heavy silence.

How much time had passed?

Perhaps only a few dozen seconds.

Perhaps several minutes.

Yet the steam still curled lazily from their coffee cups.

Then.

“Moyse!”

A pale green light burst upward from the document table in the center of the office. Within seconds it stretched into a pillar that struck the ceiling.

An emergency transmission from one of their operatives embedded inside an outside organization.

Trein shoved back his chair with a loud scrape and hurried to the table. The other two reached it moments later.

Without so much as glancing behind him, Trein flicked his wand shut, sealing every window and curtain. At the same time, Lilia reinforced the office's barrier spell, cutting off all sound and light from the outside world.

“‘I am myself. I am one who seeks the truth.’”

Without taking his eyes off the ceiling, Ambrose pulled a pendant from beneath his shirt. Its silver pendant resembled a feather, and embedded at its base glowed a brilliant sapphire-blue magical stone.

As he clasped the stone while reciting a verse from the Truth Incantation—a spell said to reveal the true nature of all things—the pendant instantly transformed into a wand roughly eighty centimeters long. A heartbeat later, it shifted again into a quill pen.

At that very moment, the pillar of light slowly faded away, replaced by glowing lines that began tracing intricate patterns across the tabletop.

“They are in the way.”

Murmuring absentmindedly while watching the patterns evolve into a magic circle, Ambrose swept every document from the table onto the floor.

The magic circle immediately expanded until it covered the entire surface.

“‘I am you. I am one who seeks the truth.’”

Reciting the next verse, he began writing directly onto the magic circle with the quill tipped by the magic stone.

The circle crackled violently, almost screaming in resistance.

Hearing that defiance, the man who endlessly pursued magical beauty and intellectual curiosity smiled with near-maniacal delight.

“‘I am we. I am one who seeks the truth.’”

Writing additional incantations and magical components directly onto another person's magic circle, one that had already been activated,was something no ordinary mage could accomplish, no matter how many decades they trained.

Yet this young prodigy, the Great Enchanter, did it effortlessly.

As exaggerated as the title sounded, Trein couldn't deny it suited him. He had yet to meet anyone superior to Ambrose in either ancient magic or magical analysis.

“It's coming apart.”

The razor-sharp expression Ambrose wore only when confronted by magic itself—a look like a finely honed blade facing a worthy challenge—melted away the instant he solved the puzzle.

At the same time, a shrill electromagnetic whine echoed through the room as letters and numbers rose from the completed magic circle.

For the Resistance's emergency communications, the magic circle functioned much like an envelope.

Imagine every message arrived sealed differently—bound by ever-changing rules, wax, and magical locks. If Ambrose's role was to open that envelope without a single clue—

“M16. I94. GKDE KI VOCBR SKOOD. VMEMCN FEM RKIY...”

—then deciphering its contents belonged to Trein.

Geography, politics, history, economics, culture— He had the accumulated knowledge of thousands of years from every nation in the world.

Lilia often joked that Trein’s mind contained the entirety of the Kingdom of Heroes National Library, the largest library in the world.

Since childhood, Trein had deciphered ancient codes and documents written in long-extinct languages as a hobby, developing a mastery that astonished scholars with decades of experience and earned their requests for his assistance.

His speed and precision bordered on the unbelievable.

“The first character is a letter, followed by a two-digit number... It's from the Queendom of Roses Navy.”

The first step in deciphering magically encrypted messages was to restore the jumbled sequence of characters according to the order in which the fading traces of magical power had originally been written, but those traces weakened every second.

Ordinarily, the differences were so infinitesimal that distinguishing them required specialized magical devices or painstaking analysis with advanced spells.

So, the opening step alone usually demanded an enormous amount of time and magical power.

Yet since he was a child, Trein could sense those microscopic fluctuations instinctively.

Throughout history, those gifted with this ability had been said to possess the eyes that see magic—the Mystic Sight.

There had been a handful at NRC. Even among them, however, Trein’s accuracy had been considered exceptional.

With those eyes, reconstructing the proper sequence took only seconds.

That extraordinary sensitivity to magical flow, fine enough to thread a needle with one's eyes closed, not only aided cryptography but also proved invaluable in Practical Magic.

It was the very reason he had been the only student still standing when Lilia first arrived at NRC as an instructor.

Back then, he had survived despite being battered nearly beyond recognition, not because he was a stronger combat mage than everyone else, but simply because he could perceive the flow and nature of Lilia's magic just before each spell was released, allowing him to dodge.

Knowing what was coming did not mean he had been capable of stopping it. That remained one of his more frustrating memories.

Now, paired with Ambrose's unparalleled talent for magical circle analysis, that gift reached its fullest potential.

Together, they had effectively become a Codebreaker Unit rivaling an entire national intelligence agency.

Danger followed him every day alongside that insufferable man. Even so, Trein found that he rather liked the place he occupied now. His world seemed to grow wider with each passing day.

“East... forty-nine. North... twenty-seven... Black... hm... black... pill. I see. And the last phrase... Off with his the head. Very much like that country. Off with the king’s head.”

They had deciphered the Queendom of Roses naval ciphers several times already.

Surely the Queendom of Roses never imagined that a teenage boy working on the second floor of a tiny newspaper office—hardly an enemy military installation—would be reading their communications.

Although they changed the cipher key every time, they never changed the habits underlying how they composed their messages.

Once Trein identified the opening letter and number, the rest came easily.

“East forty-nine, north twenty-seven...” Lilia repeated calmly. “And where would that be?”

Having reconstructed the extraordinarily complex substitution cipher in his head, Trein looked up just as Lilia gracefully lifted his cloak from the coat rack and draped it over his shoulders. He looked so impeccably elegant. No one would ever guess he was preparing to head for a battlefield.

“The Coral Sea.”

Picking up the map Ambrose had knocked to the floor in his excitement over his new toy, the magic circle, Trein spread it across the table and pointed to a single location.

Deep within the Coral Sea. Approximately fifteen hundred kilometers due east of the Kingdom of Heroes’ northernmost coast.

“Do you know what the 'black pill' refers to?”

Lilia didn't question the accuracy of decipherment for even a moment. He simply assumed that if he asked, his disciple would have the answer.

“It came through the Queendom of Roses naval cipher,” Trein replied, “but this isn't one of their military orders. That country doesn't attack with its own navy. It's merely notifying someone that an assault is about to begin near its territorial waters.”

He tapped the map.

“So the question is… ‘Who requested that notification?’”

“The Axis,” Ambrose answered. “And among them... the nation with the most to gain from attacking the Coral Sea now would be Sunshine Lands, which has been targeting the waters surrounding Briar Valley.”

“Yes.”

Trein nodded.

“And that nation developed a weapon specifically to fight merfolk. If you were looking for something resembling a capsule-shaped pill...”

“…A torpedo.”

Ambrose inhaled sharply. Adjusting his round spectacles, he leaned closer over the map.

Like the enchanted pistol before it, it was another weapon originally created by non-magic users and later converted into a magical device.

Fire magic coated in darkness magic. Then sealed with time magic. Its appearance resembled nothing so much as a black capsule.

Once launched, the magical torpedo swam beneath the sea until it reached its target before detonating.

Even underwater, the black flames wrapped in dark magic burned undiminished, racing straight toward their victims, while the resulting shockwave obliterated everything in the surrounding area.

Could there be a crueler weapon?

One devised specifically to mock a people who had never known fire.

“Off with the king's head...”

Trein’s eyes widened.

“The king's head...”

Then realization struck.

“Of course. East forty-nine, north twenty-seven... The Crown Princess's seaside palace is in this sector of the Coral Sea. The king is probably there right now. And the number of torpedoes...”

The phrase off with the head evoked something unmistakable.

Before the Queendom of Roses had been unified, when the Red Queendom and White Queendom had fought for supremacy across the same island, beheading had been the execution method favored by the Red Queen.

Since those days, the country's soldiers had been known as Card Soldiers.

The tradition lived on among the students of Heartslabyul at NRC. Each soldier had been assigned a suit and rank according to a deck of cards.

And the King's number was—

“Thirteen.”

Trein and Ambrose answered in unison. A violent chill ran through them both. The wording had deliberately alluded to regicide. Combined with the number, there was little room for doubt.

Thirteen was an important number in magical theory, representing limitless potential.

Among non-magic users it was whispered to be the Devil's Number, yet within magic it dramatically amplified the effectiveness of most spell formulas. Whether viewed through physics or magical theory...

Thirteen enchanted torpedoes would erase not only the palace, but the entire castle town surrounding it.

In other words, urban warfare was about to begin once again.

Lilia quietly closed his eyes. Then, with a graceful sweep of his cloak, he turned away.

“...I'll leave the rest to you two.”

As the magic circle on the table dissolved, another appeared beneath his feet. A teleportation circle.

Watching him stand within it, unease tightened around Trein’s heart.

The man before him was the strongest person he had ever known. Someone who should not have been shaken by something like this.

And yet... For some reason, the feeling of dread refused to leave him.

“May the Dragon's blessing be with you.”

“Night's blessings.”

Trein offered his prayer after Ambrose did.

Lilia's beautiful two-toned ponytail was swallowed by the lightning-like glow of the teleportation circle… And vanished.

→ To Be Continued

[shamo-bird]

Arcane Flames of Resistance

Once, before he became Professor Trein, he was a young mage who walked the bloodstained shadows of the Arcane World War. When his journey began, he could never have imagined where it would lead……

#1: Prologue

That was the kind of era it was.

There was always a burnt, smoky smell lingering in the air; an era where children couldn’t stay children. Mozus Trein was born into such a time, a mage-in-training with a shining future ahead.

“Did you hear, Mozus? Apparently, a new instructor is coming.”

“Instructor? For practical magic?”

One morning, near the end of spring, Trein entered the classroom after finishing his morning self-study in the library to find his classmates buzzing more excitedly than usual.

A glance at the clock told him there were about five minutes left before the warning bell. In Class 3-A, where most students were earnest, this was usually the time they began preparing for homeroom, expecting their teacher to arrive any moment.

As Trein furrowed his brow at their rare display, the friend seated next to him explained the reason.

At NRC, those who educate the students are usually called teachers or professors. However, for one subject alone, in addition to a teacher, a special educator known as an “instructor” is assigned. That subject is practical magic.

With a world war underway, this class has become standard in arcane academies across all nations. It is a drill course for learning “military” attack and defense magic.

But why would a new instructor be assigned at this point in the term?

He tried to recall the morning’s newspaper, but there hadn’t been any significant updates on the war, nor any reports of military movement in neighboring countries.

“Third and fourth periods are practical magic…”

“Yeah. Rumor says he’s a part of the elite class, almost top-ranking. If he’s not some hardened veteran but just a retired noble geezer who went through the elite track just because, this’ll be a breeze!”

His friend spoke with eyes gleaming with hope, shifting restlessly with the expectation that the physically and mentally grueling class might become a little easier.

But Trein couldn’t bring himself to nod.

He had a bad feeling. He didn’t know why.

And yet, at the same time, there was a strange sense of exhilaration.

Something was about to begin. Something was going to begin.

That was the feeling he had...

♢　♢　♢

It seemed Trein’s premonition had been correct.

“Ku-fu-fu, excellent.”

In the worst possible way.

The instructor standing in front of him was laughing with terrible delight, not a bead of sweat on his forehead, while Trein, unable to even speak, stood trembling on the edge of collapse, breathing raggedly through his shoulders. And yet, he wasn’t even the worst off.

“You’re the only one left?”

As all his classmates had collapsed to the ground.

“Your name?”

The man responsible for this pitiful scene—Lilia Vanrouge, the new practical magic instructor—gently stroked the bat familiar perched on his shoulder and narrowed his blood-red eyes in quiet amusement.

His posture remained impeccably composed, and not a single strand out of place in his long ponytail.

There was something strangely commanding about him, and he could make others obey with a smile. Even the dissonance between his slender frame and the rough, low voice with which he barked orders only added to that unsettling presence.

“M-Mozus… Trein, sir.”

In contrast, Trein could barely breathe from an injury sustained during the fight. Every inhale sent a sharp, stabbing pain through his side. The pain felt so real, so intense, that he could almost forget he was still within the safe confines of the academy.

Nearly thirty years had passed since the World War began. Maybe it had been different back when the conflict first erupted and the entire world was thrown into panic.

But by the time Trein’s generation was born, more than a decade had already gone by, and conversations about the military, the front lines, and the latest weapons had become an accepted part of everyday life.

And the boys here had grown up far from the flames of war, in rural areas untouched by conflict. When they came of age, they were sent to this place—Night Raven College—a secure and isolated stronghold where only the most promising mage trainees were gathered.

Surrounded by newspapers filled with grim headlines from the day they were born, they had been raised in a carefully constructed garden, like an air-raid shelter meant to keep them safe from the truths beyond its walls. War, to them, was closer to a bedtime story read by their mothers than an immediate reality.

They didn’t worry about enemy legions in the skies or rains of fire. They laughed at their friends’ jokes, crammed for exams with furrowed brows, and shouted in joy during Spelldrive matches at lunch.

Stories like a town being occupied by the military felt no more real than hearing about the boy next class over getting harshly rejected by the baker’s daughter in downtown.

Or so it had been.

Looking only at what was in front of them had dulled their senses. But now, Trein understood—this man, standing here now, had come from one of those blood-soaked battlefields.

The man brought the scent of the real world with him, and in this moment, reality, once so vague, hit Trein like a blow.

“Mozus Trein, is it? Hm. Looks like we’ve got some promising students this year, Crowley.”

“Lilia, what do you plan to do if parents complain after seeing the injuries you’ve caused? Our supply of medicine in the infirmary isn’t unlimited, you know.”

“Oh, come now! One hearty bowl of my nourishing porridge and they’ll be right as rain!”

“Are you trying to finish the job and kill these poor boys!?”

When had he arrived?

Trein hadn’t noticed, too focused on surviving the lesson, but the Headmage seemed to have shown up at some point. Amid this hellish scene, the adults exchanged casual banter as if nothing at all were amiss.

Maybe it was okay now.

Once Trein was certain the lesson had reached a pause, he discreetly dropped to one knee, no longer able to stay on his feet. Probing at his aching ribs and other injuries to assess the damage, he noticed those raspberry-red eyes finally settling on him once again.

“Mozus.”

“Y-Yes!”

It had only been one exchange of magic. But that was enough to make it clear just how worthy of respect Lilia’s skill truly was. Being addressed by someone who embodied the very ideal of a mage made Trein’s back straighten instinctively.

“You’re now selected as my special student.”

In response, the terrifying instructor broke into a boyish, innocent grin.

[shamo-bird]

Ch.2: Southwestern 36th Division

Where was the fighting happening today?

Above him stretched nothing but an oblivious blue sky, as if it knew nothing of blood-red carnage.

Rubbing the side that had first taught him what real pain felt like. It was not the harmless sort dealt out within the confines of a sheltered world. Trein knitted his brows tightly together.

Even back when he had been nothing more than a student, his hands had never resembled those of a delicate young lady. Riding lessons, Spelldrive practice, physical training... His days at school had been filled with activities that hardened the body. Yet when he lowered his gaze to his palms now, they were rough with calluses that had split and reformed time and time again. Though he kept them clean, he could almost imagine the scent of blood clinging to them still.

They were hands that didn’t belong in a rural town said to be far from the front lines.

It had already been nine months since the sudden arrival of the Practical Magic instructor who had selected him as a “special student.”

At NRC, it was customary for fourth-year students to spend a year interning at companies and research institutions around the world under the guise of off-campus study. Yet Trein had departed from the Isle of Sages more than a month earlier than his peers, before summer vacation had even come to an end, to become the apprentice of Lilia Vanrouge.

“Come with me.”

That was all he had said.

Trein had not refused. Perhaps he simply could not. Not after, in the mere few months since they had met, that man had taught him what it meant to admire someone.

“Good morning!” came a cheerful voice. “I found some excellent apples at the farmer’s market. Would you like one?”

Even bundled up in a duffel coat, white breaths spilled endlessly from his lips. Eager to get indoors as quickly as possible, Trein strode down the cobbled main street, his footsteps echoing sharply against the stones, when the screech of brakes and that carefree greeting reached his ears.

He knew who it was without even looking.

For some reason, he found himself reluctant to turn in that direction and instead glanced up at the sky. Of course, the man in question wasn’t the type to notice such subtle avoidance.

The one who casually patted his shoulder and offered him an apple as red as a ruby was, for reasons beyond Trein’s understanding, someone who occupied the peculiar position of being his colleague: Ambrose LXIII.

He was the sort of man whose odd friendliness bordered on suspicious, and was thoroughly exhausting to deal with.

“No, thank you.”

When Trein declined and continued walking, Ambrose swung himself smoothly off the bicycle he had been riding and fell into step beside him at the same pace.

“They’re delicious, though,” he remarked leisurely, taking an unhurried bite from the very apple that had just been rejected. “You’re so cold.”

The town they were in lay not far from Harveston, a village of Shaftlands famous for its apples.

Trein, who hailed from Shaftlands, knew full well just how exceptional they were, arguably better than this man, who had grown up in the Queendom of Roses. Why couldn’t Ambrose understand that the apple itself wasn’t the reason for the cold refusal?

With the crisp crunch of biting fruit accompanying them, the two walked in silence for another five minutes before arriving at the offices of the Daily Shaftland, where Trein was serving his internship.

“I’ll be heading in first.”

After giving a perfunctory greeting to the coworker—technically his senior—who had gone to park his bicycle around the corner, Trein headed up the staircase attached to the side of the two-story office building.

The moment he pushed the plain door marked only with a plaque reading “Daily Shaftland Newspaper” open, a wave of warmth enveloped him, thawing the cold that clung to his face and body. Letting out a relieved breath, he removed his coat, hung it on the rack by the wall, and turned around.

“Oh! Moyse! You’re finally here!”

A familiar face he hadn’t seen in quite some time suddenly appeared from behind a mountain of paperwork piled high on a desk. The raspberry-red eyes that blinked at him had softened, as though they had long since forgotten the sharpness they once possessed on the battlefield.

“Va—! No, ahem… Mr. Rufus… it’s been a while.”

He nearly called the man by his real name. Covering the slip with a cough, Trein forced himself to use the alias that still felt foreign on his tongue.

Damn it.

He needed to remember his role. Using aliases here was absolute protocol. Even colleagues were forbidden from learning one another’s real names.

Not Mozus, but Moyse.

Not Vanrouge, but Rufus.

Those were the temporary identities the two of them had taken on so that Trein could follow the man.

Officially, this was the southwestern branch of the Daily Shaftlands Newspaper, one of the major newspapers distributed throughout the Shaftlands. Located far from the vulnerable capital and the border regions prone to attack, this modest office had recently become an important center for delivering news across much of the country.

That was the truth known to the townspeople—and the carefully constructed illusion created by Lilia Vanrouge.

The branch employed a total of thirty-four people.

Compared to the newspaper’s headquarters in the capital, the southwestern branch had less than a fifth of the staff. Of those thirty-four employees, only around twenty-five were genuine newspaper workers. They occupied the first floor, writing and editing articles.

The second floor, however, was something else entirely.

With the newspaper company’s cooperation, it had been transformed into a front office concealing its true purpose. Even among the employees downstairs, no one aside from the branch manager knew its real identity.

It was known as the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit—a special military intelligence division composed primarily of promising young mages and outstanding interns recruited from prestigious magical academies.

“Man, it’s freezing out there. Moyse, don’t just stand in the doorway. Get inside already.”

“My apologies, Mr. Wald.”

Trein had been lingering absentmindedly in front of the coat rack when a man with round glasses stepped inside, the tip of his nose as red as the apple he was eating earlier.

Wald.

That was the alias assigned to the only person in this organization, aside from Lilia, who knew Trein’s true identity.

The reason Wald knew who Trein really was—and Trein knew Wald’s identity in return—was simple.

Three years ago, shortly after enrolling at NRC, Trein had met him during a Spelldrive exchange match with RSA.

He would react with the same pure, almost naïve surprise every time, yet it still felt absurd that someone he had found so insufferable back then would end up as his colleague. And not just any kind of colleague, but a particularly unusual one at that. Just thinking about it made him want to roll his eyes so hard they might circle right out of his head, followed by a long, exasperated sigh.

“So then, Moyse. How did the matter we discussed turn out?”

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man he refused to describe with something as positive as rival, Trein faced the commander’s desk.

The military posture ingrained in him—hands clasped behind his back—was forbidden here, just like using his real name. His arms rested naturally at his sides, his feet remained close together.

It was the ordinary stance of a civilian, overturning everything that had been drilled into him before taking this assignment.

The only form of respect he could still offer was to keep his spine straight.

“As you suspected, Mr. Rufus,” Trein replied. “It seems the Stray Black Cats are indeed in this town.”

Even during Lilia’s absence, progress had been made. Turning his palm upward, Trein held out his hand. With a low whoomph, green flames sprang to life, rising roughly thirty centimeters into the air.

There was no heat. The fire was merely an illusion created by magic. Within it played footage gathered by the surveillance spells hidden throughout the town. The recording had been captured three nights earlier, beneath the full moon, in the alley behind a rundown tavern on the outskirts of town—a place usually frequented by vagrants.

A magic circle had suddenly appeared in the deserted alley. Moments later, three figures emerged. Though they looked no older than boys, each wore a black robe.

Then, almost instantly, they slipped into the shadows and vanished. If one weren’t paying close attention, it would have been easy to miss them.

They were known as the Black Cats—members of a group that the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit had been desperately hunting.

If they could locate and capture the mysterious group’s leader, they could finally bring an end to the tragic war that had continued for decades. Trein and the others truly believed that.

“Oh?” Lilia mused. “Then that means ‘that thing’ is here as well.”

A cheerful chuckle escaped him, yet his expression remained chillingly cold as he gazed out the window at the town below—a place untouched by the shadow of war.

Tension tightened in his narrowed eyes.

Trein and Ambrose exchanged a brief glance. Then, quietly but with certainty, they nodded.

[shamo-bird]

Ch.3: Thus, the Arcane World War Began

This bloody conflict, euphemistically called the “Holy War,” began roughly thirty years ago. The trigger for the madness that had been slowly creeping across the world was finally pulled in the beautiful savannah ruled by beastmen—Sunset Savanna.

In Twisted Wonderland, there are broadly two species: Humans and Subspecies. Humans refer solely to Homo sapiens, while “subspecies” is a collective term for all beings other than humans who possess their own languages and cultures—beastmen, spirits, fairies, merfolk, and more.

In truth, even this naming was created by humans to distinguish themselves from others. As the term suggests, the historical divide between humans and subspecies runs deep.

At first, humans defined everything other than themselves in this way. There was likely admiration and reverence toward beings closer to the divine creator. But fear and inferiority also existed. Once clear distinctions were made, human pride hardened into exclusivity.

Spirits, fairies, and merfolk—beings directly connected to the “natural elements” that existed since the world’s creation, or those derived from them—were treated as fundamentally different by newcomers. They did not accept such treatment without resistance.

They claimed themselves to be the superior supernatural beings, rejecting humans as inferior. Since their very essence of life was different, they chose not to coexist.

Fairies and spirits who weakened without pure natural environments like forests or clean water, and merfolk who could only survive in the sea where humans could not live long at all—such fundamental differences in habitat only deepened the separation.

But among all subspecies, the beastmen were different.

They were not supernatural beings, but animal-like beings similar to humans. They did not draw energy from nature itself; instead, they hunted other living things and cultivated the land with their own hands. Because their way of life was closer to that of humans, the fear and inferiority that humans felt toward other magical beings was not directed at beastmen as strongly.

For that reason, they had relatively little resistance to interacting with humans, and contact between them never fully ceased.

For a long time, the world remained in a delicate balance—neither large-scale conflict nor true harmony, but coexistence, keeping distance yet living side by side.

Until the discovery of magic stones became the spark.

Magic, by nature, had been the exclusive domain of subspecies—especially those connected to natural elements. There had occasionally been humans with rare talent or those who learned through training, but such individuals were extremely rare throughout history.

And the idea of freely using magic powered by imagination, as it is today, was unthinkable. At most, humans used it in potion-making, alchemy with minimal magic infusion, or divination through astrology.

Beastmen, compared to humans, were more likely to possess innate magical power and control it, but even they could not compare to those directly connected to natural elements who could convert natural energy into magic itself.

At some point, those beings connected to natural elements began to be distinguished within subspecies and were called “Arcane Races.”

However, the discovery of magic stones granted humans the forbidden technique of magic as well. Humans who possessed magical potential could now use it without accumulating blot or risking their lives, producing supernatural phenomena directly.

Naturally, the spirits and merfolk saw this development as a threat to their domain. Humans vastly outnumbered them. If they gained access to magic, the balance would collapse. Was it not already unacceptable that those without divine favor were encroaching upon their sacred power?

Driven by such fears, the world gradually fractured after the discovery of magic stones.

Those Arcane Races connected to natural elements isolated themselves further, strengthening the boundaries around their territories. Humans and beastmen, meanwhile, chose to integrate with each other to strengthen their own side.

The paths diverged. The distortion grew strongest in lands governed by beastmen—those closest to humans—including regions such as Sunset Savanna, which possessed the vast natural beauty beloved by fairies. And yet, none of them realized it was approaching collapse.

Minor conflicts rooted in species differences repeated for hundreds of years across nations and regions, and prejudice deepened with time.

And then, when the dark fate could no longer be avoided, the spark of the great Holy War that would shake the world ignited on the banks of a river in Sunset Savanna.

Back then, the land had not yet become as dry as it is now. It was a vast and beautiful country, rich with forests, clear rivers, and lakes that symbolized abundance.

But as humans developed and expanded their nation, deforestation and cultivation became necessary. The water spirits, who loved nature, rejected human settlements and moved upstream in search of unpolluted water, away from the capital. Their original forms resembled crocodile-like creatures tied to the essence of rivers, living peacefully while nurturing the river’s prosperity.

It was there that they arrived.

Beastmen hyenas, driven from their homes and with nowhere else to go, reached the riverside in search of a place to live.

“Please… allow us to live here. We have nowhere else to go.”

The hyenas pleaded for mercy, but the spirits rejected them.

Fearful that their home would be further tainted by humans and those close to them, they refused. History of discrimination and conflict had already justified their distrust far too well.

Unlike fairies, hyena beastmen could not survive on natural energy alone. To live across the vast plains, they needed food and water. Once coexistence was denied, conflict became inevitable. It was a simple matter of survival—live or die. Both sides bared their fangs.

The victors of the battle later known as the Battle of Utopia, the conflict that ignited the World War, were the creatures of the land; the hyena beastmen.

Even then, the river fairies refused coexistence. Seeking refuge with others of their kind who had settled elsewhere, they fled to the fairy kingdom of Briar Valley.

And from that moment onward, nations across the world began loudly proclaiming their views on the relationship between magical races and other peoples, as if venting centuries of pent-up resentment.

The first nation to issue an official declaration was Sunset Savanna itself. Ruled by a royal family of lion beastmen, the kingdom advocated for coexistence among all races.

“Such ideals are nothing but hypocrisy. Foolish Lion King, your naivety knows no bounds.”

Those words came from Briar Valley, where the displaced river fairies had sought sanctuary. They condemned Sunset Savanna, arguing that its vision of “all races” truly referred only to humans and beastmen. The supernatural races, they claimed, were afforded neither the respect nor reverence they deserved, and the Battle of Utopia had proven exactly that.

Land of Dawning, ruled by human royalty and populated overwhelmingly by humans, sided with Sunset Savanna. They denounced Briar Valley on the international stage as discriminatory.

Thus was born the coalition advocating for coexistence between races: The Soleil Axis.

But this movement was met with immediate opposition from the neighboring kingdom of Coral Sea.

“Humans were the ones who began this discrimination in the first place. You called the noble magical races—those closest to the divine—monsters, and hunted our kin of the sea. If anyone are monsters, it is you. What is wrong with protecting our homeland and our people?”

The merfolk, who generally remained isolated in the depths of the ocean and had little interaction with outsiders, chose to ally themselves with Briar Valley, whose beliefs closely mirrored their own. kingdom of Heroes, said to have been founded by gods and their descendants, soon followed suit.

This alliance became known as: Praeter Naturam — the Divine Peoples’ Alliance.

And so, the two great factions emerged.

Gradually, they began competing over territories rich in magic stone deposits, forests saturated with magical energy, and rare magical artifacts. Like a stone rolling downhill, the flames of war spread across the world.

Once that happened, the remaining nations could no longer remain idle.

Shaftlands, with its vast territory, shared borders with numerous countries. Its people varied widely from region to region in language, customs, and heritage. Unable to reach a unified stance, the nation ultimately chose not to establish a single national policy, instead leaving the decision to its individual territories and the people who lived there.

Meanwhile, the Queendom of Roses, an island nation inhabited mostly by humans but geographically surrounded by Briar Valley, Coral Sea, and lying close to Kingdom of Heroes, deemed neutrality the safest option.

Officially, it refrained from taking sides.

Unofficially, however, it quietly began providing financial aid and weapons, under the banner of humanitarian assistance, to regions within the Shaftlands that supported the Soleil Axis.

Before long, it also extended support to Sunset Savanna in exchange for the abundant natural resources unavailable to an island nation.

Amid this increasingly divided world, one nation stood closest to true neutrality: Land of Dawning.

A small island country that included Sage’s Island, home to two of the world’s most prestigious institutions for magical education.

Night Raven College, the oldest arcane academy in existence, was originally founded near the magic stone mines of Shaftlands, where the first magic stones had been discovered. It was said that, as those mines were exhausted, the school itself had relocated time and again in search of stronger magical ley lines.

Royal Sword Academy was established by a legendary mage from the Queendom of Roses after his retirement from active service, dedicated to nurturing the next generation of young wizards.

Students from noble and influential families across the world attended both institutions.

Leveraging the political complications that interference would invite, the two schools declared shortly after the war’s outbreak that they would reject all outside involvement and devote themselves solely to training mages capable of preserving world order.

Yet many dismissed this as little more than a façade.

Even with magic stones, those capable of wielding magic represented only a tiny fraction of the world’s population. Surely those blessed with such power would never truly stand alongside the powerless and share what they possessed.

Thus, it became an open secret that Land of Dawning, too, quietly sympathized with the Praeter Naturam alliance in order to safeguard its own interests.

The war continued to drain the world, slowly and relentlessly.

Like a glass filled to the brim, held together only by the delicate tension at its surface, the conflict maintained a precarious balance for thirty years.

Would it end tomorrow?

In another year?

Or would it continue for a hundred more?

The future lay shrouded in darkness, impossible to see.

And within that darkness, someone whispered.

“Light the flame of resistance.”

[shamo-bird]

Ch.4: The Man Called Lilia Vanrouge

“The moon is the color of blood tonight. Have you seen it?”

A cheap boarding house for single men stood in a residential district a little way from the town center. Now that he was no longer living at the academy among boys his own age, that modest room was Trein’s castle.

The room was small, but he had reinforced it with soundproofing magic. Having grown accustomed to a life so quiet that he never heard a sound made by anyone but himself, Trein nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice suddenly greeted him the moment he stepped out of the shower.

“M-Mr. Rufus…”

“Heh. Even now, that name feels stranger to me than it does to you.”

He had not been expecting visitors.

Taking advantage of being alone, he was dressed only in pajama pants and a bathrobe loosely thrown over shoulders. It was impossible not to be startled when he found his instructor, who is also a superior officer, sitting calmly by the window in his darkened room and sipping wine as though he belonged there.

“You may use my real name. I placed another barrier over your soundproofing spell. Even the Fairy King himself would not be able to locate this room right now. Want some?”

Lilia offered the wine as casually as if they were meeting in broad daylight.

Still red-faced, Trein shook his head.

A man as unpredictable as Lilia entering his room without warning was hardly unusual. This was not even the first time he’d been seen in a state no one else ordinarily would. After all, normal people gave notice before visiting.

Determined to change clothes as quickly as possible, Trein flicked the short wand-shaped Magical Pen he kept on him even while showering.

“Hmm?”

Nothing happened.

His clothes remained exactly the same.

“Oh, right. My apologies,” Lilia said cheerfully. “Didn’t I tell you? The barrier. While it’s active, no one except me can use magic in this space. That includes you.”

“Master Vanrouge…”

Trein wished, just a little, that Lilia would consider how it felt for someone in his position.

A mage. A field operative. A member of a secretive intelligence unit that relied on civilian students and recent graduates rather than professional soldiers. Someone who lived with the possibility of death around every corner.

Having his magic stripped away without realizing it was not exactly comforting.

Even knowing that Lilia’s presence alone made the room safer than any fortress in the world, Trein hated the feeling of becoming dead weight.

Besides—

“Come here, Mozus.”

The man before him, Lilia Vanrouge, was perhaps the most dangerous thing in the room.

A shiver ran down his spine as Lilia beckoned him closer.

“Mozus?”

When Trein hesitated, Lilia tilted his head, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

The youthful mannerisms disappeared.

Gone was the lively voice that made him look like a delicate young boy.

Instead came the same rough, weighty tone Trein had first heard from him years ago; the voice of a hardened warrior.

The sound settled deep in his gut.

Almost unconsciously, Trein found himself walking toward the window.

Lilia guided him closer and motioned for him to part the curtain.

Outside, beneath a cloudless sky, hung a crimson moon.

It truly was red. Though rather than blood…

“It looks more like your eyes, Professor Vanrouge.”

The thought slipped out before he could stop it.

A soft chuckle brushed against the back of his neck.

At some point, Lilia had risen from his chair. Silent as a ghost, he now stood directly behind him.

Warm breath grazed Trein’s skin, making him flinch.

Then fingers hooked into the back of his robe and tugged it down slightly, exposing the base of his neck.

Lips brushed against his skin.

“Van—!”

It wasn’t entirely unexpected. But neither had he approached intending to accept it. Before he could protest, a sharp pain pierced him.

“Ghk—… ah…”

Teeth.

The realization came instantly.

Fangs sank into his flesh. Then his blood was drawn away.

Trein was the only person in town, and the only member of the Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit, who knew the truth.

The elegant superior whose attack magic inspired awe throughout the military: Lilia Vanrouge was a vampire fairy.

“I heard from Ambrose,” Lilia murmured. “Seems you’ve been enjoying life in this town while I was away. Apparently you’ve become quite friendly with a girl in a certain baker.”

“That’s… not… umm…”

What exactly had Ambrose been telling him?

The accusation felt absurdly similar to being suspected of infidelity. Heat rushed into Trein’s face.

It was true that he frequented the bakery near the town center.

And yes, he spoke with one of the women working there more often than someone as stiff and serious as himself normally would.

But there was nothing improper about it.

More importantly, his relationship with Lilia was simply that of mentor and student.

There was no reason to feel the need to explain himself. And yet…

His heart still skipped a beat.

“Heh. Your blood truly is sweet,” Lilia whispered. “I wonder… which is sweeter? Your blood, or the bread from her shop?”

Embarrassment and agitation churned together inside him.

The warmth of Lilia’s lips against his neck felt almost scorching.

About a minute later, the fangs finally slid free.

The wound couldn’t have been very large.

And yet it felt as though a hole had been punched straight through him. A small groan escaped his lips.

Although he had offered his blood several times now, Trein still could not grow accustomed to the strange sensation of having something deep inside his body drawn out along with a sweet, numbing haze.

Without thinking, he reached out to touch the wound, but before his fingers could reach the puncture marks, Lilia caught his hand.

“Does it hurt?”

The spiteful man deliberately made loud kissing sound as he licked the wound. The moment his thick tongue traced over the opening, Trein’s body jolted.

He knew that a vampire’s saliva possessed a mild healing ability meant to close wounds caused by their bites, but he could not help but wonder why the gods had not granted them a different method of healing.

The vampire’s broad tongue passed over the wound several times, and little by little, the hole began to close.

“This time… mmh… where were you… injured…?”

Trein asked, trying to ignore a strange, sweet shiver ran up his spine every time that Lilia’s tongue slid slowly across his skin.

Lilia normally sustained himself through ordinary food consumed by humans. The blood—the meal of vampires, for vampires—was something he only took when his life force was at risk.

Knowing that, Trein willingly accepted this troublesome method of feeding, standing in the position of prey while enduring the pleasure-inducing effects of the venom in Lilia’s saliva, a substance designed to keep a victim from escaping.

This is treatment.

Nothing more than treatment.

He repeated those words to himself as he tried to come to terms with the burning sensation spreading through the core of his body.

“This time, it was my right side, near the ribs. Fascinating, wasn’t it? So that is the Queendom of Roses’ new type of magical device. A weapon that seals light magic inside and fires it out. It resembles those things the magicless ones use. What do they call them? Pistols?”

Whether he noticed Trein’s inner struggle or not, the predator once again playfully sank his teeth into the heated skin of his neck.

It was an act that served no purpose. He was not feeding, nor was he healing the wound.

It was completely unnecessary.

When a voice almost slipped from his throat, Trein bit down hard on his lower lip. A finger suddenly pressed against his mouth, gently warning him not to make a sound.

Even so, he refused to cry out, allowing only short, heated breaths to escape.

This man was truly cruel.

He had heard rumors of the Queendom of Roses’ newest weapon, though he had never seen one himself. It should have been something fascinating enough to capture his full attention.

Yet all he could focus on was the heat of Lilia’s lips.

“The weapon fires compressed spheres of light magic. They carved wind magic formulas directly into the magical device itself to launch them. The speed is unbelievable, and they travel a great distance. For a moment, I couldn’t even tell where the attack came from. You wouldn’t happen to have information regarding that wind magic formula, would you?”

Unable to push away the arm wrapped around him from behind as though comforting a child, Trein gripped the curtain in front of him and desperately steadied his trembling knees.

He felt dizzy.

The overwhelming scent of blood filled his senses.

And beneath it was another scent—one that brought a strange sense of relief. A gentle fragrance like a forest after rain, the scent of life itself that came from a fae closely connected to natural elements.

“But we must end this soon. If things like that begin appearing on the battlefield, who knows how many more will die. Even if it were only soldiers, that would be one thing…but how can a nation, how can the world, flourish when ordinary people lose their lives?”

At last seeming satisfied, Lilia slowly lifted his head and spoke in a serious voice.

The face Trein saw when he slightly turned his head upward was no longer the face of a mischievous fae.

It was the face of a warrior.

“Everyone wishes to live. Yet they cannot choose to do nothing. They steal from one another and kill in order to live more comfortably, then cry and tremble in fear of suffering the same fate themselves. Telling the Ouroboros to stop biting its own tail is a far more difficult task than one might imagine.”

Was it only his imagination that the arm slowly slipping away from him trembled slightly?

Trein placed one hand against the window frame, gathering strength back into his legs before turning around.

His superior slowly removed the buttons of his black vest and lifted the hem of his equally dark shirt, looking down at his side.

The gauze pressed against his wound was stained with a dark red mark, yet when he removed it, the skin beneath was flawless.

Not a single trace remained.

Ah… he healed it.

Trein let out a quiet breath of relief.

But in that very moment, the two raspberry-pink eyes—eyes with a pull as powerful as a black hole—locked onto him.

“It is strange, is it not? How impossibly difficult it is to create a world where a child like you does not have to breathe in the stench of blood. To wish for an era where one does not have to cut away beautiful hair like yours… such a dream is as fragile as melting snow.”

The back of Trein’s neck still burned from being relentlessly toyed with.

The long hair he once had while living inside the sheltered world of NRC—carefully maintained and tied neatly with a ribbon—was gone.

Not long after he decided to follow the man standing before him, he had cut it off without hesitation.

On the battlefield, or during dangerous missions, he could not move with the same efficiency as his master, Lilia. Long hair was nothing but a hindrance unless one possessed the skill and experience of someone like him.

Trein himself had never been particularly attached to it.

But Lilia’s expression when he saw him after the haircut…

A man who almost never allowed his true emotions to appear on his face had gone pale for a brief moment, as if he had been struck by absolute despair.

It must have felt like tearing the beautiful feathers from a white dove, a symbol of peace.

“The Black Cats…”

Trein adjusted the disheveled collar of his bathrobe and let the night breeze entering through the open window cool his heated body.

If he looked directly into Lilia’s eyes, he felt as though the lingering heat would never fade.

So he lowered his gaze slightly and asked in a whisper the question he had wanted to ask for so long.

“If we capture them… will this truly be enough to end this war…?”

While Lilia remained at NRC as a special instructor of practical magic, Trein had been exempted from regular classes as a special student and subjected to intense training.

Training that was clearly not meant for students.

It was training for soldiers.

Yet the moment he left NRC, Lilia forced him to abandon those military-like movements and instead gave him a strange assignment:

To blend into civilian society and pursue a group known as the Black Cats.

There was very little that Trein and Ambrose knew about the Black Cats.

First, they were a small elite team consisting of only four members.

Second, they belonged to neither the Soleil Axis. nor the Divine Peoples’ Alliance.

Third, they possessed the “key” to ending this war.

Fourth, the only ones who currently knew of their existence and were pursuing them were Briar Valley, the Queendom of Roses, and the Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit.

Who were they?

What exactly was the thing called the “key”?

Why were only Briar Valley and the Queendom of Roses pursuing them?

Trein knew nothing.

“Mozus, do you know what is necessary to erase war from this world?”

Perhaps he was exhausted from having just returned from the battlefield.

Lilia carelessly lowered his shirt, sat down on the bed, and did not even bother fastening the buttons of his vest.

A cynical smile rested on his lips.

“Law, perhaps? International law, treaties, social norms. The Soleil Axis and the Praeter Naturam would need to establish a non-aggression treaty so that war becomes impossible.”

A peace treaty that would bring about a complete end to the war.

That had to be the goal humanity desired after being worn down by such a long conflict.

Of course, the reason this quagmire continued was because neither side was willing to compromise, and yet the battlefield had not shifted enough for either side to force the other into accepting unfavorable terms.

Once the war ended, peace would come.

For Trein, who had been born during wartime, it was a completely unknown world he had never experienced.

“Should I be pleased that you are such an honest and straightforward child… or should I worry that you possess knowledge but lack flexibility in thought…?”

Apparently, such an answer would not bring about an era of peace.

The instructor crossed one leg over the other in an almost deliberately improper manner, rested his elbow upon his knee, and supported his cheek with his hand.

His cynical smile deepened.

“People betray, Mozus.”

“…What?”

“A peace treaty is a promise not to wage war. Once it is formally established, the eyes of the entire world will be upon them, and breaking it will not be so easy. That much is true. But when pushed into a corner, even a mouse will bite a cat. The fact that one has the choice to keep a promise means one also has the choice to break it. A treaty does not make war ‘impossible.’ It merely makes people choose not to wage it.”

“Is that not so?”

The darkness within Lilia’s eyes seemed to speak.

War was a method that consumed enormous amounts of money, time, and the labor of its people.

A nation only chose that path when it was already cornered.

When people were driven to desperation, would they truly have the room to worry about something as insignificant as a single sheet of paper called a treaty?

No.

Such things became meaningless.

A nation that had already chosen to start a fight would not suddenly obey the rules.

They only held power while peace could still be maintained on the surface.

The moment Trein reached that conclusion, doubt began to grow inside him.

“What is necessary are ‘threats’ and ‘disadvantages.’”

Reading his hesitation perfectly, his master narrowed his eyes with a grin.

The strange eyes of the inhuman being, with their vertically slit pupils, gleamed with a predatory beauty.

Trein’s spine froze.

“Threats…and…disadvantages…? Whose…?”

The man before him carried many names.

To Trein, the first that came to mind was the Special Instructor of Practical Magic at NRC.

And then the Head of the Special News Division at the Daily Shaftlands Newspaper.

But the name the world knew him by was—The Right General of Briar Valley.

In other words, Lilia Vanrouge was one of the top figures of the Divine People’s Alliance Army.

It was already common knowledge that, despite claiming neutrality, the Dawn Kingdom secretly supported the Divine People’s Alliance—an organization primarily composed of magical races—in order to preserve its own superiority through magic.

That was precisely why Lilia, a military figure from Briar Valley, had been able to come to an academy that was supposed to remain neutral, even if he had done so while concealing his true identity.

But Trein was, as expected, a member of the human race.

A human.

One of those whom Briar Valley did not accept.

The Shaftlands was divided in its support depending on the region, but Trein’s birthplace was primarily inhabited by humans, and naturally, it supported the Soleil Axis.

And yet, he had chosen to follow Lilia because the Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit belonged to neither faction.

After all, the majority of the world’s population consisted of humans without magic.

Yet the discovery of magical stones had established the existence of mages and created a distortion in the world.

This war, fought over limited resources—stronger magical fields, more advanced magical devices—would only continue to cause unjust suffering to those without magic the longer it dragged on.

The pain and anxiety created by a war that showed no signs of improving had given birth to a third faction: The Resistance.

The Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit was one part of that movement.

A group hidden across nations around the world, one that cared neither for the political systems nor ideals of individual countries.

Their only purpose was the swift conclusion of the war.

A revolutionary organization seeking to bring an end to the conflict.

“Master…Vanrouge…?”

It was not that he wanted to doubt him.

But when a long-lived fae who had fought on the front lines since the beginning of the Holy War as one of the leaders of the Divine People’s Alliance had invited him to join the Resistance, Trein simply could not believe it.

Because it was impossible.

It depended on how the war would end, but the general of a nation was essentially walking toward becoming a traitor to his own country.

And yet—Lilia had taught him how to fight.

They had spoken together about the world they wished to create.

Trein had listened to the desperate, almost blood-soaked longing Lilia carried for an era of peace.

And eventually, he chose to follow this man.

Not the instructor.

Not the Right General.

But Lilia Vanrouge himself.

The man behind the titles.

Now, quite literally, Trein gave even his blood to keep him alive, wishing for his ideal world to become reality.

That was why he did not want to doubt him.

He truly did not.

But Lilia did not answer immediately.

Several seconds of silence shook his heart.

The unsteady feeling beneath his feet was not simply because he had lost too much blood.

“…I am about to say something rather ruthless.”

Just as Treun was about to call his name again, overwhelmed by anxiety that threatened to consume him, Lilia finally opened his mouth.

Trein listened only to the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding so violently it hurt his ears.

And he waited.

“Both threats and disadvantages… must be given to everyone.”

Lilia’s voice was low.

“We must all hold blades against each other’s throats.”

“Wait.”

Trein’s voice rose before he could stop himself.

“How is that any different from the situation we are in now? Haven’t we already spent thirty years holding blades against each other’s throats?!”

The answer he received was unexpected. And impossible to understand.

The enemy’s mages could descend from the sky at any moment.

Through summoning magic, they could appear in the middle of a city. A fireball could fall from above. Lightning could destroy an entire town. A flood could be created, swallowing everything in a massive wave.

The entire world was already living in fear of their ordinary lives being destroyed without warning.

“Ah, the kind of threat and disadvantage I speak of is slightly different from what you are imagining.”

Lilia smiled faintly.

“The disadvantage I mean exists precisely because it benefits everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me, why does international trade exist?”

“…What?”

Trein blinked.

“Because there are things people wish to buy from other countries, or things they wish to sell to other countries.”

“Exactly.”

Lilia nodded.

“But if they desire those things, why do they not simply make them themselves?”

“Because the necessary resources, technology, or culture may not exist within their own country.”

“That is also correct.”

“Come sit here.”

Lilia tapped the space beside him on the bed.

It was his own bed, and the idea of sitting together with his superior officer on it felt strangely inappropriate. So, Trein hesitated, unsure of what to do.

Seeing that, Lilia curled one finger toward himself, signaling him to hurry.

“Now, look.”

Having made up his mind, Trein sat beside him.

Lilia leaned back, resting only his upper body against the bed, and pointed toward the ceiling.

Feeling as though he had already surrendered himself to whatever would happen next, Trein lay down as well and stared upward.

He folded his hands over his chest, trying to calm his heart that was beating far too quickly.

He could not bring himself to look at the face beside him.

“The Soleil Axis exists. the Praeter Naturam exists. Whether different races should coexist or remain separated. Who should possess the sacred lands where magical energy is abundant and nature remains untouched.”

From the tips of the fae’s fingers, countless specks of light like scattered stardust emerged and struck the ceiling, painting patterns across its surface.

At first, the image was hazy. But within seconds, it transformed into a map of the world.

The sun and crescent moon stood at opposite ends of the map. A complex magic circle, filled with countless lines and small circles, overlapped across it.

The sun represented the Soleil Axis. The crescent moon represented the Praeter Naturam alliance.

The smaller circles scattered throughout the map were likely the Resistance groups hidden across the world.

“Every nation has engaged in trade with other countries, to varying degrees.”

Lilia’s voice remained calm and instructional.

“Even Briar Valley trades with the Kingdom of Heroes and Coral Sea. Why is that? Because there are things outside of Briar Valley that we simply cannot provide for ourselves. Because other nations possess things that Briar Valley values.”

The image above them shifted.

“If one attempted to create the same things, it would be impossible without the necessary technology. Even if it were technically possible, without the craftsmen, the environment, and the culture required to produce them, a perfect reproduction could never be achieved.”

Above the Shaftlands appeared an illusion of magical stones.

Above Sunset Savannah appeared ancient magical artifacts.

Above the Queendom of Roses appeared the newest magical devices.

Above Coral Sea appeared magical potions.

Each nation’s specialties shone brightly—things that no other country could perfectly imitate, no matter how hard they tried.

“But that is not all.”

Lilia continued.

“Even if two nations create the same thing, there will always be differences in how much each can produce.”

The lights above them changed.

“Suppose one country spends an entire month mining magical stones and can gather three hundred kilograms. Yet, even if it spends that same month producing magical devices, it can only create one hundred and fifty.

Another country may only gather two hundred kilograms of magical stones in a month, but can create four hundred magical devices.

Each nation does what it is best suited for, then exchanges those goods through trade. By doing so, both nations can provide those resources to a greater number of people than they ever could by relying solely on themselves.”

Trein gasped and stared at the glowing map above them.

“Then, if you think about it the other way…”

His voice was quiet.

“Through trade, nations can hold each other’s lifelines…”

“Exactly.”

Lilia smiled faintly.

“Humans fight because they wish to live richer, more comfortable lives. Then surely they should also be capable of avoiding conflict in order to preserve that prosperity.”

The magic circle above them shifted.

“The more trade develops, the more each nation places a knife against the throat of another.”

A flash of light appeared above the Shaftlands.

“If the Kingdom of Heroes continues supplying magical energy to regions of the Shaftlands populated primarily by magicless humans, then one day declaring that they will suddenly stop that supply would become a threat.”

“A disadvantage.”

“Correct. If that happened, the Shaftlands could respond by declaring that they would stop supplying magical stones from their prized mines.”

Lilia’s eyes narrowed.

“A threat answered with another threat.”

The image of the world above them trembled.

“In an era where international trade has become so deeply intertwined with the necessities of daily life, would the Shaftlands truly be able to burn the factories that produce magical devices, as they do now?”

A battlefield appeared in the illusion. Flames spread across the land, swallowing cities whole.

“Would the Kingdom of Heroes truly be able to launch an attack that could destroy the magical stone mines upon which others depend?”

The flames reflected in Lilia’s eyes.

“Would other nations that rely on trade with them allow such attacks to happen?”

The phantom sea on the map surged upward. A massive wave rose from the oceans and extinguished the burning flames.

From the smoke that drifted away from the dying fire, black chains formed, wrapping themselves around the nations displayed on the map. Binding them together.

“It would likely take decades to create such a state.”

Lilia’s voice remained calm, as though he were explaining a simple lesson.

“Without technological advancement, without improving production efficiency enough to provide goods that become essential enough to infiltrate another nation’s daily life and become a threat, it cannot be achieved.”

The chains tightened.

“But if we consider only the root cause of this Holy War, there is one thing that could create a trade relationship between the two major factions where they hold knives against each other’s throats.”

Lilia suddenly lowered his voice. The glowing image on the ceiling disappeared.

The shift made Trein remember where this conversation had begun. His eyes widened.

“The trump card… that could end the war…”

He turned his head sharply.

Only a few inches away, raspberry-pink eyes stared back at him.

Dark. Mesmerizing. Possessing a strength that would not allow him to escape. A strength like chains.

“Yes.”

Lilia’s voice was quiet.

“The Black Cats are the ones who possess that move.”

A faint smile crossed his lips.

“Though they themselves do not seem to realize it.”

Slowly, his hand reached out. His fingers gently brushed over Trein’s eyes, still filled with shock.

Then, he gathered the slightly damp strands of hair that had fallen against Trein’s cheek and tucked them behind his ear.

The movement was slow. Mature. Carrying a devastating allure that a boy still in his teenage years could not simply laugh away.

Trein held his breath. Frozen.

Lilia smiled at the reaction of his imperfect disciple and sat up.

“Who… are they…?”

Several seconds later, Trein followed and pushed himself upright as well. The hand he placed against the bed trembled.

His master did not answer immediately. Instead, he pressed his lips together tightly and returned to the window.

When he opened the curtains, the red moonlight of the Strawberry Moon spilled into the dim room, softly illuminating his cheek.

Under that light, his eyes—deep red as though stained with blood—trembled with sorrow.

Perhaps he was remembering a distant past he had once let go of. Or perhaps he was mourning a future where no light could be seen. A crease formed between his brows. Then, he finally spoke.

“They were raised in Briar Valley…”

His voice was low and deep, like a sound crawling up from the depths of the earth.

“And they are the traitors who stole the sacred treasure…and are now on the run.”

[shamo-bird]

Ch.5: Bakery "Château de Choux"

The bell above the door of "Château de Choux" chimed brightly, and a cheerful voice, as sweet as a songbird singing in the forest, called out from the back.

"Welcome!"

"Oh, Sir Moyse! Good morning. What can I get for you today? The baguettes are just about to come out of the oven. Is it for home? Or lunch?"

"Good morning, Miss Rosana."

The girl who hurried out to greet him, her long blonde braid swaying behind her, looked perhaps a year or two younger than Trein.

Returning her gentle smile, Trein cleared his throat to hide the smile threatening to spread across his own face before offering his greeting.

He himself had only recently arrived in this town, but apparently. Miss Rosana had also found her way to this countryside bakery after fleeing the war not long ago.

Driven from the hometown she loved, forced to seek refuge in a distant land. There were far too many people like that these days. Every time he saw her working so earnestly, it strengthened his resolve to bring this pointless war to an end as quickly as possible.

Perhaps it was because of her naturally warm personality, or perhaps because her adorable appearance could soften anyone's expression without them even realizing it, but Rosana had become the bakery's poster girl almost overnight.

A short while ago, the owner had winked at Trein and voluntarily told him—without being asked—that business had become so busy thanks to the growing number of male customers who came just to see her.

Naturally, Trein came to this bakery only because it was close to his workplace, and no ulterior motives really. Though he wasn't entirely sure who he was trying to convince.

"If the baguettes are ready, I'd like one made into a sandwich with tomato, mozzarella, and smoked salmon. Then four croissants for breakfast... and..."

He paused thoughtfully.

"Hmm... I'd also like a loaf of pumpernickel for dinner."

Feeling oddly self-conscious for no particular reason, he spoke to the young lady simply as a customer.

The previous night, Lilia had come by for blood as usual. Despite being nocturnal, he'd complained of being sleepy and promptly fallen asleep in Trein's bed, but there was no way two grown men could fit in a single bed. Well... more importantly, it was strange enough to share a bed his commanding officer. So Trein had resigned himself to sleeping on the sofa.

When he woke up the next morning, Lilia had already helped himself to the croissants and black bread in Trein's kitchen as though the place belonged to him. As a result, his kitchen cabinet now stood completely empty.

Yet, had he ordered too much?

Would she think he was gluttonous?

His cheeks warmed slightly.

At the same time, another thought crossed his mind: if Lilia didn't happen to stop by again tonight, he'd have to eat all of this himself, and then he wouldn't have any excuse to visit this bakery for the next couple of days.

He clicked his tongue inwardly.

Of course, the reason was simply that he enjoyed fresh bread.

Nothing more. Absolutely not. Certainly not.

There was, without question, no frivolous motive whatsoever.

"Hehe. Sir Moyse, you really do love our pumpernickel."

"It goes wonderfully with the cream cheese and nuts you use. Living alone, I can't exactly prepare elaborate meals... so it helps."

"My, but you have to eat meat and vegetables too, you know? Would you mind if I added some sliced onions to your sandwich? You like onions, don't you?"

"W-Wait, there's really no need..."

But Rosana either didn't mind or intended to feed him even more.

Her round sky-blue eyes darted about as she murmured to herself, then she suddenly seemed to think of something and hurried back into the kitchen.

She was always thoughtful like this, often slipping him little extras. Nearly every visit she tried to make sure he ate something healthy, leaving him feeling equal parts guilty and grateful.

According to both the elderly couple who owned the bakery and Rosana herself, their philosophy was simple: "Especially during wartime, you have to eat whenever you have the chance."

Incidentally, Trein had become a regular here because Ambrose had recommended the bakery after noticing his far-too-serious workaholic tendencies that often led him to neglect his meals whenever work became busy.

The fact that even Ambrose had been worried enough to intervene probably meant Trein ought to reflect on his habits a little.

"Sir Moyse! Apples have been inexpensive lately, haven't they? So the owner let me practice making Apfelkuchen. It isn't pretty enough to sell since I made it instead of him, but I'm sure you'd finish it in no time, so I'll put a slice in for you."

Returning from the kitchen with the sandwich ingredients, the cheerful baker worked with practiced efficiency, slicing open the baguette, filling it generously, wrapping it in paper, and then adding a thick slice of her homemade apple cake.

It looked wonderfully dense, just one slice seemed filling enough.

He couldn't even tell what part of it was supposedly "misshapen." It looked absolutely delicious.

"Ah... but..."

"Oh!" she giggled. "I made these cookies today too. These turned out nicely enough that the owner let me put them on display."

"Well... they look wonderful."

Trein studied them for only a moment before nodding.

"In that case... I'll take a bag of those as well."

"Really? I'm so happy! You'll be the very first customer to buy something I made today!"

One after another, she wrapped each item and dropped it into the paper bag with energetic efficiency.

Before he realized it, the package had grown large enough that he needed both arms to carry it.

"...Well, at least you'll definitely finish it before any of it goes bad."

Once everything had been packed, Rosana looked the bulging bag up and down from bottom to top, thoughtfully stroked her chin, and murmured the observation just before handing it over across the counter.

The gesture was so endearing that Trein nearly let the corners of his mouth curl upward.

"Thank you."

He placed the payment into her slender hand as she passed him the bag.

Her face lit up like a flower blooming in the morning sun.

[shamo-bird]

Arcane Flames of Resistance

Once, before he became Professor Trein, he was a young mage who walked the bloodstained shadows of the Arcane World War. When his journey began, he could never have imagined where it would lead……

#1: Prologue

That was the kind of era it was.

There was always a burnt, smoky smell lingering in the air; an era where children couldn’t stay children. Mozus Trein was born into such a time, a mage-in-training with a shining future ahead.

“Did you hear, Mozus? Apparently, a new instructor is coming.”

“Instructor? For practical magic?”

One morning, near the end of spring, Trein entered the classroom after finishing his morning self-study in the library to find his classmates buzzing more excitedly than usual.

A glance at the clock told him there were about five minutes left before the warning bell. In Class 3-A, where most students were earnest, this was usually the time they began preparing for homeroom, expecting their teacher to arrive any moment.

As Trein furrowed his brow at their rare display, the friend seated next to him explained the reason.

At NRC, those who educate the students are usually called teachers or professors. However, for one subject alone, in addition to a teacher, a special educator known as an “instructor” is assigned. That subject is practical magic.

With a world war underway, this class has become standard in arcane academies across all nations. It is a drill course for learning “military” attack and defense magic.

But why would a new instructor be assigned at this point in the term?

He tried to recall the morning’s newspaper, but there hadn’t been any significant updates on the war, nor any reports of military movement in neighboring countries.

“Third and fourth periods are practical magic…”

“Yeah. Rumor says he’s a part of the elite class, almost top-ranking. If he’s not some hardened veteran but just a retired noble geezer who went through the elite track just because, this’ll be a breeze!”

His friend spoke with eyes gleaming with hope, shifting restlessly with the expectation that the physically and mentally grueling class might become a little easier.

But Trein couldn’t bring himself to nod.

He had a bad feeling. He didn’t know why.

And yet, at the same time, there was a strange sense of exhilaration.

Something was about to begin. Something was going to begin.

That was the feeling he had...

♢　♢　♢

It seemed Trein’s premonition had been correct.

“Ku-fu-fu, excellent.”

In the worst possible way.

The instructor standing in front of him was laughing with terrible delight, not a bead of sweat on his forehead, while Trein, unable to even speak, stood trembling on the edge of collapse, breathing raggedly through his shoulders. And yet, he wasn’t even the worst off.

“You’re the only one left?”

As all his classmates had collapsed to the ground.

“Your name?”

The man responsible for this pitiful scene—Lilia Vanrouge, the new practical magic instructor—gently stroked the bat familiar perched on his shoulder and narrowed his blood-red eyes in quiet amusement.

His posture remained impeccably composed, and not a single strand out of place in his long ponytail.

There was something strangely commanding about him, and he could make others obey with a smile. Even the dissonance between his slender frame and the rough, low voice with which he barked orders only added to that unsettling presence.

“M-Mozus… Trein, sir.”

In contrast, Trein could barely breathe from an injury sustained during the fight. Every inhale sent a sharp, stabbing pain through his side. The pain felt so real, so intense, that he could almost forget he was still within the safe confines of the academy.

Nearly thirty years had passed since the World War began. Maybe it had been different back when the conflict first erupted and the entire world was thrown into panic.

But by the time Trein’s generation was born, more than a decade had already gone by, and conversations about the military, the front lines, and the latest weapons had become an accepted part of everyday life.

And the boys here had grown up far from the flames of war, in rural areas untouched by conflict. When they came of age, they were sent to this place—Night Raven College—a secure and isolated stronghold where only the most promising mage trainees were gathered.

Surrounded by newspapers filled with grim headlines from the day they were born, they had been raised in a carefully constructed garden, like an air-raid shelter meant to keep them safe from the truths beyond its walls. War, to them, was closer to a bedtime story read by their mothers than an immediate reality.

They didn’t worry about enemy legions in the skies or rains of fire. They laughed at their friends’ jokes, crammed for exams with furrowed brows, and shouted in joy during Spelldrive matches at lunch.

Stories like a town being occupied by the military felt no more real than hearing about the boy next class over getting harshly rejected by the baker’s daughter in downtown.

Or so it had been.

Looking only at what was in front of them had dulled their senses. But now, Trein understood—this man, standing here now, had come from one of those blood-soaked battlefields.

The man brought the scent of the real world with him, and in this moment, reality, once so vague, hit Trein like a blow.

“Mozus Trein, is it? Hm. Looks like we’ve got some promising students this year, Crowley.”

“Lilia, what do you plan to do if parents complain after seeing the injuries you’ve caused? Our supply of medicine in the infirmary isn’t unlimited, you know.”

“Oh, come now! One hearty bowl of my nourishing porridge and they’ll be right as rain!”

“Are you trying to finish the job and kill these poor boys!?”

When had he arrived?

Trein hadn’t noticed, too focused on surviving the lesson, but the Headmage seemed to have shown up at some point. Amid this hellish scene, the adults exchanged casual banter as if nothing at all were amiss.

Maybe it was okay now.

Once Trein was certain the lesson had reached a pause, he discreetly dropped to one knee, no longer able to stay on his feet. Probing at his aching ribs and other injuries to assess the damage, he noticed those raspberry-red eyes finally settling on him once again.

“Mozus.”

“Y-Yes!”

It had only been one exchange of magic. But that was enough to make it clear just how worthy of respect Lilia’s skill truly was. Being addressed by someone who embodied the very ideal of a mage made Trein’s back straighten instinctively.

“You’re now selected as my special student.”

In response, the terrifying instructor broke into a boyish, innocent grin.

[shamo-bird]

Ch.2: Southwestern 36th Division

Where was the fighting happening today?

Above him stretched nothing but an oblivious blue sky, as if it knew nothing of blood-red carnage.

Rubbing the side that had first taught him what real pain felt like. It was not the harmless sort dealt out within the confines of a sheltered world. Trein knitted his brows tightly together.

Even back when he had been nothing more than a student, his hands had never resembled those of a delicate young lady. Riding lessons, Spelldrive practice, physical training... His days at school had been filled with activities that hardened the body. Yet when he lowered his gaze to his palms now, they were rough with calluses that had split and reformed time and time again. Though he kept them clean, he could almost imagine the scent of blood clinging to them still.

They were hands that didn’t belong in a rural town said to be far from the front lines.

It had already been nine months since the sudden arrival of the Practical Magic instructor who had selected him as a “special student.”

At NRC, it was customary for fourth-year students to spend a year interning at companies and research institutions around the world under the guise of off-campus study. Yet Trein had departed from the Isle of Sages more than a month earlier than his peers, before summer vacation had even come to an end, to become the apprentice of Lilia Vanrouge.

“Come with me.”

That was all he had said.

Trein had not refused. Perhaps he simply could not. Not after, in the mere few months since they had met, that man had taught him what it meant to admire someone.

“Good morning!” came a cheerful voice. “I found some excellent apples at the farmer’s market. Would you like one?”

Even bundled up in a duffel coat, white breaths spilled endlessly from his lips. Eager to get indoors as quickly as possible, Trein strode down the cobbled main street, his footsteps echoing sharply against the stones, when the screech of brakes and that carefree greeting reached his ears.

He knew who it was without even looking.

For some reason, he found himself reluctant to turn in that direction and instead glanced up at the sky. Of course, the man in question wasn’t the type to notice such subtle avoidance.

The one who casually patted his shoulder and offered him an apple as red as a ruby was, for reasons beyond Trein’s understanding, someone who occupied the peculiar position of being his colleague: Ambrose LXIII.

He was the sort of man whose odd friendliness bordered on suspicious, and was thoroughly exhausting to deal with.

“No, thank you.”

When Trein declined and continued walking, Ambrose swung himself smoothly off the bicycle he had been riding and fell into step beside him at the same pace.

“They’re delicious, though,” he remarked leisurely, taking an unhurried bite from the very apple that had just been rejected. “You’re so cold.”

The town they were in lay not far from Harveston, a village of Shaftlands famous for its apples.

Trein, who hailed from Shaftlands, knew full well just how exceptional they were, arguably better than this man, who had grown up in the Queendom of Roses. Why couldn’t Ambrose understand that the apple itself wasn’t the reason for the cold refusal?

With the crisp crunch of biting fruit accompanying them, the two walked in silence for another five minutes before arriving at the offices of the Daily Shaftland, where Trein was serving his internship.

“I’ll be heading in first.”

After giving a perfunctory greeting to the coworker—technically his senior—who had gone to park his bicycle around the corner, Trein headed up the staircase attached to the side of the two-story office building.

The moment he pushed the plain door marked only with a plaque reading “Daily Shaftland Newspaper” open, a wave of warmth enveloped him, thawing the cold that clung to his face and body. Letting out a relieved breath, he removed his coat, hung it on the rack by the wall, and turned around.

“Oh! Moyse! You’re finally here!”

A familiar face he hadn’t seen in quite some time suddenly appeared from behind a mountain of paperwork piled high on a desk. The raspberry-red eyes that blinked at him had softened, as though they had long since forgotten the sharpness they once possessed on the battlefield.

“Va—! No, ahem… Mr. Rufus… it’s been a while.”

He nearly called the man by his real name. Covering the slip with a cough, Trein forced himself to use the alias that still felt foreign on his tongue.

Damn it.

He needed to remember his role. Using aliases here was absolute protocol. Even colleagues were forbidden from learning one another’s real names.

Not Mozus, but Moyse.

Not Vanrouge, but Rufus.

Those were the temporary identities the two of them had taken on so that Trein could follow the man.

Officially, this was the southwestern branch of the Daily Shaftlands Newspaper, one of the major newspapers distributed throughout the Shaftlands. Located far from the vulnerable capital and the border regions prone to attack, this modest office had recently become an important center for delivering news across much of the country.

That was the truth known to the townspeople—and the carefully constructed illusion created by Lilia Vanrouge.

The branch employed a total of thirty-four people.

Compared to the newspaper’s headquarters in the capital, the southwestern branch had less than a fifth of the staff. Of those thirty-four employees, only around twenty-five were genuine newspaper workers. They occupied the first floor, writing and editing articles.

The second floor, however, was something else entirely.

With the newspaper company’s cooperation, it had been transformed into a front office concealing its true purpose. Even among the employees downstairs, no one aside from the branch manager knew its real identity.

It was known as the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit—a special military intelligence division composed primarily of promising young mages and outstanding interns recruited from prestigious magical academies.

“Man, it’s freezing out there. Moyse, don’t just stand in the doorway. Get inside already.”

“My apologies, Mr. Wald.”

Trein had been lingering absentmindedly in front of the coat rack when a man with round glasses stepped inside, the tip of his nose as red as the apple he was eating earlier.

Wald.

That was the alias assigned to the only person in this organization, aside from Lilia, who knew Trein’s true identity.

The reason Wald knew who Trein really was—and Trein knew Wald’s identity in return—was simple.

Three years ago, shortly after enrolling at NRC, Trein had met him during a Spelldrive exchange match with RSA.

He would react with the same pure, almost naïve surprise every time, yet it still felt absurd that someone he had found so insufferable back then would end up as his colleague. And not just any kind of colleague, but a particularly unusual one at that. Just thinking about it made him want to roll his eyes so hard they might circle right out of his head, followed by a long, exasperated sigh.

“So then, Moyse. How did the matter we discussed turn out?”

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man he refused to describe with something as positive as rival, Trein faced the commander’s desk.

The military posture ingrained in him—hands clasped behind his back—was forbidden here, just like using his real name. His arms rested naturally at his sides, his feet remained close together.

It was the ordinary stance of a civilian, overturning everything that had been drilled into him before taking this assignment.

The only form of respect he could still offer was to keep his spine straight.

“As you suspected, Mr. Rufus,” Trein replied. “It seems the Stray Black Cats are indeed in this town.”

Even during Lilia’s absence, progress had been made. Turning his palm upward, Trein held out his hand. With a low whoomph, green flames sprang to life, rising roughly thirty centimeters into the air.

There was no heat. The fire was merely an illusion created by magic. Within it played footage gathered by the surveillance spells hidden throughout the town. The recording had been captured three nights earlier, beneath the full moon, in the alley behind a rundown tavern on the outskirts of town—a place usually frequented by vagrants.

A magic circle had suddenly appeared in the deserted alley. Moments later, three figures emerged. Though they looked no older than boys, each wore a black robe.

Then, almost instantly, they slipped into the shadows and vanished. If one weren’t paying close attention, it would have been easy to miss them.

They were known as the Black Cats—members of a group that the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit had been desperately hunting.

If they could locate and capture the mysterious group’s leader, they could finally bring an end to the tragic war that had continued for decades. Trein and the others truly believed that.

“Oh?” Lilia mused. “Then that means ‘that thing’ is here as well.”

A cheerful chuckle escaped him, yet his expression remained chillingly cold as he gazed out the window at the town below—a place untouched by the shadow of war.

Tension tightened in his narrowed eyes.

Trein and Ambrose exchanged a brief glance. Then, quietly but with certainty, they nodded.

[shamo-bird]

Ch.3: Thus, the Arcane World War Began

This bloody conflict, euphemistically called the “Holy War,” began roughly thirty years ago. The trigger for the madness that had been slowly creeping across the world was finally pulled in the beautiful savannah ruled by beastmen—Sunset Savanna.

In Twisted Wonderland, there are broadly two species: Humans and Subspecies. Humans refer solely to Homo sapiens, while “subspecies” is a collective term for all beings other than humans who possess their own languages and cultures—beastmen, spirits, fairies, merfolk, and more.

In truth, even this naming was created by humans to distinguish themselves from others. As the term suggests, the historical divide between humans and subspecies runs deep.

At first, humans defined everything other than themselves in this way. There was likely admiration and reverence toward beings closer to the divine creator. But fear and inferiority also existed. Once clear distinctions were made, human pride hardened into exclusivity.

Spirits, fairies, and merfolk—beings directly connected to the “natural elements” that existed since the world’s creation, or those derived from them—were treated as fundamentally different by newcomers. They did not accept such treatment without resistance.

They claimed themselves to be the superior supernatural beings, rejecting humans as inferior. Since their very essence of life was different, they chose not to coexist.

Fairies and spirits who weakened without pure natural environments like forests or clean water, and merfolk who could only survive in the sea where humans could not live long at all—such fundamental differences in habitat only deepened the separation.

But among all subspecies, the beastmen were different.

They were not supernatural beings, but animal-like beings similar to humans. They did not draw energy from nature itself; instead, they hunted other living things and cultivated the land with their own hands. Because their way of life was closer to that of humans, the fear and inferiority that humans felt toward other magical beings was not directed at beastmen as strongly.

For that reason, they had relatively little resistance to interacting with humans, and contact between them never fully ceased.

For a long time, the world remained in a delicate balance—neither large-scale conflict nor true harmony, but coexistence, keeping distance yet living side by side.

Until the discovery of magic stones became the spark.

Magic, by nature, had been the exclusive domain of subspecies—especially those connected to natural elements. There had occasionally been humans with rare talent or those who learned through training, but such individuals were extremely rare throughout history.

And the idea of freely using magic powered by imagination, as it is today, was unthinkable. At most, humans used it in potion-making, alchemy with minimal magic infusion, or divination through astrology.

Beastmen, compared to humans, were more likely to possess innate magical power and control it, but even they could not compare to those directly connected to natural elements who could convert natural energy into magic itself.

At some point, those beings connected to natural elements began to be distinguished within subspecies and were called “Arcane Races.”

However, the discovery of magic stones granted humans the forbidden technique of magic as well. Humans who possessed magical potential could now use it without accumulating blot or risking their lives, producing supernatural phenomena directly.

Naturally, the spirits and merfolk saw this development as a threat to their domain. Humans vastly outnumbered them. If they gained access to magic, the balance would collapse. Was it not already unacceptable that those without divine favor were encroaching upon their sacred power?

Driven by such fears, the world gradually fractured after the discovery of magic stones.

Those Arcane Races connected to natural elements isolated themselves further, strengthening the boundaries around their territories. Humans and beastmen, meanwhile, chose to integrate with each other to strengthen their own side.

The paths diverged. The distortion grew strongest in lands governed by beastmen—those closest to humans—including regions such as Sunset Savanna, which possessed the vast natural beauty beloved by fairies. And yet, none of them realized it was approaching collapse.

Minor conflicts rooted in species differences repeated for hundreds of years across nations and regions, and prejudice deepened with time.

And then, when the dark fate could no longer be avoided, the spark of the great Holy War that would shake the world ignited on the banks of a river in Sunset Savanna.

Back then, the land had not yet become as dry as it is now. It was a vast and beautiful country, rich with forests, clear rivers, and lakes that symbolized abundance.

But as humans developed and expanded their nation, deforestation and cultivation became necessary. The water spirits, who loved nature, rejected human settlements and moved upstream in search of unpolluted water, away from the capital. Their original forms resembled crocodile-like creatures tied to the essence of rivers, living peacefully while nurturing the river’s prosperity.

It was there that they arrived.

Beastmen hyenas, driven from their homes and with nowhere else to go, reached the riverside in search of a place to live.

“Please… allow us to live here. We have nowhere else to go.”

The hyenas pleaded for mercy, but the spirits rejected them.

Fearful that their home would be further tainted by humans and those close to them, they refused. History of discrimination and conflict had already justified their distrust far too well.

Unlike fairies, hyena beastmen could not survive on natural energy alone. To live across the vast plains, they needed food and water. Once coexistence was denied, conflict became inevitable. It was a simple matter of survival—live or die. Both sides bared their fangs.

The victors of the battle later known as the Battle of Utopia, the conflict that ignited the World War, were the creatures of the land; the hyena beastmen.

Even then, the river fairies refused coexistence. Seeking refuge with others of their kind who had settled elsewhere, they fled to the fairy kingdom of Briar Valley.

And from that moment onward, nations across the world began loudly proclaiming their views on the relationship between magical races and other peoples, as if venting centuries of pent-up resentment.

The first nation to issue an official declaration was Sunset Savanna itself. Ruled by a royal family of lion beastmen, the kingdom advocated for coexistence among all races.

“Such ideals are nothing but hypocrisy. Foolish Lion King, your naivety knows no bounds.”

Those words came from Briar Valley, where the displaced river fairies had sought sanctuary. They condemned Sunset Savanna, arguing that its vision of “all races” truly referred only to humans and beastmen. The supernatural races, they claimed, were afforded neither the respect nor reverence they deserved, and the Battle of Utopia had proven exactly that.

Land of Dawning, ruled by human royalty and populated overwhelmingly by humans, sided with Sunset Savanna. They denounced Briar Valley on the international stage as discriminatory.

Thus was born the coalition advocating for coexistence between races: The Soleil Axis.

But this movement was met with immediate opposition from the neighboring kingdom of Coral Sea.

“Humans were the ones who began this discrimination in the first place. You called the noble magical races—those closest to the divine—monsters, and hunted our kin of the sea. If anyone are monsters, it is you. What is wrong with protecting our homeland and our people?”

The merfolk, who generally remained isolated in the depths of the ocean and had little interaction with outsiders, chose to ally themselves with Briar Valley, whose beliefs closely mirrored their own. kingdom of Heroes, said to have been founded by gods and their descendants, soon followed suit.

This alliance became known as: Praeter Naturam — the Divine Peoples’ Alliance.

And so, the two great factions emerged.

Gradually, they began competing over territories rich in magic stone deposits, forests saturated with magical energy, and rare magical artifacts. Like a stone rolling downhill, the flames of war spread across the world.

Once that happened, the remaining nations could no longer remain idle.

Shaftlands, with its vast territory, shared borders with numerous countries. Its people varied widely from region to region in language, customs, and heritage. Unable to reach a unified stance, the nation ultimately chose not to establish a single national policy, instead leaving the decision to its individual territories and the people who lived there.

Meanwhile, the Queendom of Roses, an island nation inhabited mostly by humans but geographically surrounded by Briar Valley, Coral Sea, and lying close to Kingdom of Heroes, deemed neutrality the safest option.

Officially, it refrained from taking sides.

Unofficially, however, it quietly began providing financial aid and weapons, under the banner of humanitarian assistance, to regions within the Shaftlands that supported the Soleil Axis.

Before long, it also extended support to Sunset Savanna in exchange for the abundant natural resources unavailable to an island nation.

Amid this increasingly divided world, one nation stood closest to true neutrality: Land of Dawning.

A small island country that included Sage’s Island, home to two of the world’s most prestigious institutions for magical education.

Night Raven College, the oldest arcane academy in existence, was originally founded near the magic stone mines of Shaftlands, where the first magic stones had been discovered. It was said that, as those mines were exhausted, the school itself had relocated time and again in search of stronger magical ley lines.

Royal Sword Academy was established by a legendary mage from the Queendom of Roses after his retirement from active service, dedicated to nurturing the next generation of young wizards.

Students from noble and influential families across the world attended both institutions.

Leveraging the political complications that interference would invite, the two schools declared shortly after the war’s outbreak that they would reject all outside involvement and devote themselves solely to training mages capable of preserving world order.

Yet many dismissed this as little more than a façade.

Even with magic stones, those capable of wielding magic represented only a tiny fraction of the world’s population. Surely those blessed with such power would never truly stand alongside the powerless and share what they possessed.

Thus, it became an open secret that Land of Dawning, too, quietly sympathized with the Praeter Naturam alliance in order to safeguard its own interests.

The war continued to drain the world, slowly and relentlessly.

Like a glass filled to the brim, held together only by the delicate tension at its surface, the conflict maintained a precarious balance for thirty years.

Would it end tomorrow?

In another year?

Or would it continue for a hundred more?

The future lay shrouded in darkness, impossible to see.

And within that darkness, someone whispered.

“Light the flame of resistance.”

[shamo-bird]

Ch.4: The Man Called Lilia Vanrouge

“The moon is the color of blood tonight. Have you seen it?”

A cheap boarding house for single men stood in a residential district a little way from the town center. Now that he was no longer living at the academy among boys his own age, that modest room was Trein’s castle.

The room was small, but he had reinforced it with soundproofing magic. Having grown accustomed to a life so quiet that he never heard a sound made by anyone but himself, Trein nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice suddenly greeted him the moment he stepped out of the shower.

“M-Mr. Rufus…”

“Heh. Even now, that name feels stranger to me than it does to you.”

He had not been expecting visitors.

Taking advantage of being alone, he was dressed only in pajama pants and a bathrobe loosely thrown over shoulders. It was impossible not to be startled when he found his instructor, who is also a superior officer, sitting calmly by the window in his darkened room and sipping wine as though he belonged there.

“You may use my real name. I placed another barrier over your soundproofing spell. Even the Fairy King himself would not be able to locate this room right now. Want some?”

Lilia offered the wine as casually as if they were meeting in broad daylight.

Still red-faced, Trein shook his head.

A man as unpredictable as Lilia entering his room without warning was hardly unusual. This was not even the first time he’d been seen in a state no one else ordinarily would. After all, normal people gave notice before visiting.

Determined to change clothes as quickly as possible, Trein flicked the short wand-shaped Magical Pen he kept on him even while showering.

“Hmm?”

Nothing happened.

His clothes remained exactly the same.

“Oh, right. My apologies,” Lilia said cheerfully. “Didn’t I tell you? The barrier. While it’s active, no one except me can use magic in this space. That includes you.”

“Master Vanrouge…”

Trein wished, just a little, that Lilia would consider how it felt for someone in his position.

A mage. A field operative. A member of a secretive intelligence unit that relied on civilian students and recent graduates rather than professional soldiers. Someone who lived with the possibility of death around every corner.

Having his magic stripped away without realizing it was not exactly comforting.

Even knowing that Lilia’s presence alone made the room safer than any fortress in the world, Trein hated the feeling of becoming dead weight.

Besides—

“Come here, Mozus.”

The man before him, Lilia Vanrouge, was perhaps the most dangerous thing in the room.

A shiver ran down his spine as Lilia beckoned him closer.

“Mozus?”

When Trein hesitated, Lilia tilted his head, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

The youthful mannerisms disappeared.

Gone was the lively voice that made him look like a delicate young boy.

Instead came the same rough, weighty tone Trein had first heard from him years ago; the voice of a hardened warrior.

The sound settled deep in his gut.

Almost unconsciously, Trein found himself walking toward the window.

Lilia guided him closer and motioned for him to part the curtain.

Outside, beneath a cloudless sky, hung a crimson moon.

It truly was red. Though rather than blood…

“It looks more like your eyes, Professor Vanrouge.”

The thought slipped out before he could stop it.

A soft chuckle brushed against the back of his neck.

At some point, Lilia had risen from his chair. Silent as a ghost, he now stood directly behind him.

Warm breath grazed Trein’s skin, making him flinch.

Then fingers hooked into the back of his robe and tugged it down slightly, exposing the base of his neck.

Lips brushed against his skin.

“Van—!”

It wasn’t entirely unexpected. But neither had he approached intending to accept it. Before he could protest, a sharp pain pierced him.

“Ghk—… ah…”

Teeth.

The realization came instantly.

Fangs sank into his flesh. Then his blood was drawn away.

Trein was the only person in town, and the only member of the Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit, who knew the truth.

The elegant superior whose attack magic inspired awe throughout the military: Lilia Vanrouge was a vampire fairy.

“I heard from Ambrose,” Lilia murmured. “Seems you’ve been enjoying life in this town while I was away. Apparently you’ve become quite friendly with a girl in a certain baker.”

“That’s… not… umm…”

What exactly had Ambrose been telling him?

The accusation felt absurdly similar to being suspected of infidelity. Heat rushed into Trein’s face.

It was true that he frequented the bakery near the town center.

And yes, he spoke with one of the women working there more often than someone as stiff and serious as himself normally would.

But there was nothing improper about it.

More importantly, his relationship with Lilia was simply that of mentor and student.

There was no reason to feel the need to explain himself. And yet…

His heart still skipped a beat.

“Heh. Your blood truly is sweet,” Lilia whispered. “I wonder… which is sweeter? Your blood, or the bread from her shop?”

Embarrassment and agitation churned together inside him.

The warmth of Lilia’s lips against his neck felt almost scorching.

About a minute later, the fangs finally slid free.

The wound couldn’t have been very large.

And yet it felt as though a hole had been punched straight through him. A small groan escaped his lips.

Although he had offered his blood several times now, Trein still could not grow accustomed to the strange sensation of having something deep inside his body drawn out along with a sweet, numbing haze.

Without thinking, he reached out to touch the wound, but before his fingers could reach the puncture marks, Lilia caught his hand.

“Does it hurt?”

The spiteful man deliberately made loud kissing sound as he licked the wound. The moment his thick tongue traced over the opening, Trein’s body jolted.

He knew that a vampire’s saliva possessed a mild healing ability meant to close wounds caused by their bites, but he could not help but wonder why the gods had not granted them a different method of healing.

The vampire’s broad tongue passed over the wound several times, and little by little, the hole began to close.

“This time… mmh… where were you… injured…?”

Trein asked, trying to ignore a strange, sweet shiver ran up his spine every time that Lilia’s tongue slid slowly across his skin.

Lilia normally sustained himself through ordinary food consumed by humans. The blood—the meal of vampires, for vampires—was something he only took when his life force was at risk.

Knowing that, Trein willingly accepted this troublesome method of feeding, standing in the position of prey while enduring the pleasure-inducing effects of the venom in Lilia’s saliva, a substance designed to keep a victim from escaping.

This is treatment.

Nothing more than treatment.

He repeated those words to himself as he tried to come to terms with the burning sensation spreading through the core of his body.

“This time, it was my right side, near the ribs. Fascinating, wasn’t it? So that is the Queendom of Roses’ new type of magical device. A weapon that seals light magic inside and fires it out. It resembles those things the magicless ones use. What do they call them? Pistols?”

Whether he noticed Trein’s inner struggle or not, the predator once again playfully sank his teeth into the heated skin of his neck.

It was an act that served no purpose. He was not feeding, nor was he healing the wound.

It was completely unnecessary.

When a voice almost slipped from his throat, Trein bit down hard on his lower lip. A finger suddenly pressed against his mouth, gently warning him not to make a sound.

Even so, he refused to cry out, allowing only short, heated breaths to escape.

This man was truly cruel.

He had heard rumors of the Queendom of Roses’ newest weapon, though he had never seen one himself. It should have been something fascinating enough to capture his full attention.

Yet all he could focus on was the heat of Lilia’s lips.

“The weapon fires compressed spheres of light magic. They carved wind magic formulas directly into the magical device itself to launch them. The speed is unbelievable, and they travel a great distance. For a moment, I couldn’t even tell where the attack came from. You wouldn’t happen to have information regarding that wind magic formula, would you?”

Unable to push away the arm wrapped around him from behind as though comforting a child, Trein gripped the curtain in front of him and desperately steadied his trembling knees.

He felt dizzy.

The overwhelming scent of blood filled his senses.

And beneath it was another scent—one that brought a strange sense of relief. A gentle fragrance like a forest after rain, the scent of life itself that came from a fae closely connected to natural elements.

“But we must end this soon. If things like that begin appearing on the battlefield, who knows how many more will die. Even if it were only soldiers, that would be one thing…but how can a nation, how can the world, flourish when ordinary people lose their lives?”

At last seeming satisfied, Lilia slowly lifted his head and spoke in a serious voice.

The face Trein saw when he slightly turned his head upward was no longer the face of a mischievous fae.

It was the face of a warrior.

“Everyone wishes to live. Yet they cannot choose to do nothing. They steal from one another and kill in order to live more comfortably, then cry and tremble in fear of suffering the same fate themselves. Telling the Ouroboros to stop biting its own tail is a far more difficult task than one might imagine.”

Was it only his imagination that the arm slowly slipping away from him trembled slightly?

Trein placed one hand against the window frame, gathering strength back into his legs before turning around.

His superior slowly removed the buttons of his black vest and lifted the hem of his equally dark shirt, looking down at his side.

The gauze pressed against his wound was stained with a dark red mark, yet when he removed it, the skin beneath was flawless.

Not a single trace remained.

Ah… he healed it.

Trein let out a quiet breath of relief.

But in that very moment, the two raspberry-pink eyes—eyes with a pull as powerful as a black hole—locked onto him.

“It is strange, is it not? How impossibly difficult it is to create a world where a child like you does not have to breathe in the stench of blood. To wish for an era where one does not have to cut away beautiful hair like yours… such a dream is as fragile as melting snow.”

The back of Trein’s neck still burned from being relentlessly toyed with.

The long hair he once had while living inside the sheltered world of NRC—carefully maintained and tied neatly with a ribbon—was gone.

Not long after he decided to follow the man standing before him, he had cut it off without hesitation.

On the battlefield, or during dangerous missions, he could not move with the same efficiency as his master, Lilia. Long hair was nothing but a hindrance unless one possessed the skill and experience of someone like him.

Trein himself had never been particularly attached to it.

But Lilia’s expression when he saw him after the haircut…

A man who almost never allowed his true emotions to appear on his face had gone pale for a brief moment, as if he had been struck by absolute despair.

It must have felt like tearing the beautiful feathers from a white dove, a symbol of peace.

“The Black Cats…”

Trein adjusted the disheveled collar of his bathrobe and let the night breeze entering through the open window cool his heated body.

If he looked directly into Lilia’s eyes, he felt as though the lingering heat would never fade.

So he lowered his gaze slightly and asked in a whisper the question he had wanted to ask for so long.

“If we capture them… will this truly be enough to end this war…?”

While Lilia remained at NRC as a special instructor of practical magic, Trein had been exempted from regular classes as a special student and subjected to intense training.

Training that was clearly not meant for students.

It was training for soldiers.

Yet the moment he left NRC, Lilia forced him to abandon those military-like movements and instead gave him a strange assignment:

To blend into civilian society and pursue a group known as the Black Cats.

There was very little that Trein and Ambrose knew about the Black Cats.

First, they were a small elite team consisting of only four members.

Second, they belonged to neither the Soleil Axis. nor the Divine Peoples’ Alliance.

Third, they possessed the “key” to ending this war.

Fourth, the only ones who currently knew of their existence and were pursuing them were Briar Valley, the Queendom of Roses, and the Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit.

Who were they?

What exactly was the thing called the “key”?

Why were only Briar Valley and the Queendom of Roses pursuing them?

Trein knew nothing.

“Mozus, do you know what is necessary to erase war from this world?”

Perhaps he was exhausted from having just returned from the battlefield.

Lilia carelessly lowered his shirt, sat down on the bed, and did not even bother fastening the buttons of his vest.

A cynical smile rested on his lips.

“Law, perhaps? International law, treaties, social norms. The Soleil Axis and the Praeter Naturam would need to establish a non-aggression treaty so that war becomes impossible.”

A peace treaty that would bring about a complete end to the war.

That had to be the goal humanity desired after being worn down by such a long conflict.

Of course, the reason this quagmire continued was because neither side was willing to compromise, and yet the battlefield had not shifted enough for either side to force the other into accepting unfavorable terms.

Once the war ended, peace would come.

For Trein, who had been born during wartime, it was a completely unknown world he had never experienced.

“Should I be pleased that you are such an honest and straightforward child… or should I worry that you possess knowledge but lack flexibility in thought…?”

Apparently, such an answer would not bring about an era of peace.

The instructor crossed one leg over the other in an almost deliberately improper manner, rested his elbow upon his knee, and supported his cheek with his hand.

His cynical smile deepened.

“People betray, Mozus.”

“…What?”

“A peace treaty is a promise not to wage war. Once it is formally established, the eyes of the entire world will be upon them, and breaking it will not be so easy. That much is true. But when pushed into a corner, even a mouse will bite a cat. The fact that one has the choice to keep a promise means one also has the choice to break it. A treaty does not make war ‘impossible.’ It merely makes people choose not to wage it.”

“Is that not so?”

The darkness within Lilia’s eyes seemed to speak.

War was a method that consumed enormous amounts of money, time, and the labor of its people.

A nation only chose that path when it was already cornered.

When people were driven to desperation, would they truly have the room to worry about something as insignificant as a single sheet of paper called a treaty?

No.

Such things became meaningless.

A nation that had already chosen to start a fight would not suddenly obey the rules.

They only held power while peace could still be maintained on the surface.

The moment Trein reached that conclusion, doubt began to grow inside him.

“What is necessary are ‘threats’ and ‘disadvantages.’”

Reading his hesitation perfectly, his master narrowed his eyes with a grin.

The strange eyes of the inhuman being, with their vertically slit pupils, gleamed with a predatory beauty.

Trein’s spine froze.

“Threats…and…disadvantages…? Whose…?”

The man before him carried many names.

To Trein, the first that came to mind was the Special Instructor of Practical Magic at NRC.

And then the Head of the Special News Division at the Daily Shaftlands Newspaper.

But the name the world knew him by was—The Right General of Briar Valley.

In other words, Lilia Vanrouge was one of the top figures of the Divine People’s Alliance Army.

It was already common knowledge that, despite claiming neutrality, the Dawn Kingdom secretly supported the Divine People’s Alliance—an organization primarily composed of magical races—in order to preserve its own superiority through magic.

That was precisely why Lilia, a military figure from Briar Valley, had been able to come to an academy that was supposed to remain neutral, even if he had done so while concealing his true identity.

But Trein was, as expected, a member of the human race.

A human.

One of those whom Briar Valley did not accept.

The Shaftlands was divided in its support depending on the region, but Trein’s birthplace was primarily inhabited by humans, and naturally, it supported the Soleil Axis.

And yet, he had chosen to follow Lilia because the Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit belonged to neither faction.

After all, the majority of the world’s population consisted of humans without magic.

Yet the discovery of magical stones had established the existence of mages and created a distortion in the world.

This war, fought over limited resources—stronger magical fields, more advanced magical devices—would only continue to cause unjust suffering to those without magic the longer it dragged on.

The pain and anxiety created by a war that showed no signs of improving had given birth to a third faction: The Resistance.

The Southwest Thirty-Sixth Unit was one part of that movement.

A group hidden across nations around the world, one that cared neither for the political systems nor ideals of individual countries.

Their only purpose was the swift conclusion of the war.

A revolutionary organization seeking to bring an end to the conflict.

“Master…Vanrouge…?”

It was not that he wanted to doubt him.

But when a long-lived fae who had fought on the front lines since the beginning of the Holy War as one of the leaders of the Divine People’s Alliance had invited him to join the Resistance, Trein simply could not believe it.

Because it was impossible.

It depended on how the war would end, but the general of a nation was essentially walking toward becoming a traitor to his own country.

And yet—Lilia had taught him how to fight.

They had spoken together about the world they wished to create.

Trein had listened to the desperate, almost blood-soaked longing Lilia carried for an era of peace.

And eventually, he chose to follow this man.

Not the instructor.

Not the Right General.

But Lilia Vanrouge himself.

The man behind the titles.

Now, quite literally, Trein gave even his blood to keep him alive, wishing for his ideal world to become reality.

That was why he did not want to doubt him.

He truly did not.

But Lilia did not answer immediately.

Several seconds of silence shook his heart.

The unsteady feeling beneath his feet was not simply because he had lost too much blood.

“…I am about to say something rather ruthless.”

Just as Treun was about to call his name again, overwhelmed by anxiety that threatened to consume him, Lilia finally opened his mouth.

Trein listened only to the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding so violently it hurt his ears.

And he waited.

“Both threats and disadvantages… must be given to everyone.”

Lilia’s voice was low.

“We must all hold blades against each other’s throats.”

“Wait.”

Trein’s voice rose before he could stop himself.

“How is that any different from the situation we are in now? Haven’t we already spent thirty years holding blades against each other’s throats?!”

The answer he received was unexpected. And impossible to understand.

The enemy’s mages could descend from the sky at any moment.

Through summoning magic, they could appear in the middle of a city. A fireball could fall from above. Lightning could destroy an entire town. A flood could be created, swallowing everything in a massive wave.

The entire world was already living in fear of their ordinary lives being destroyed without warning.

“Ah, the kind of threat and disadvantage I speak of is slightly different from what you are imagining.”

Lilia smiled faintly.

“The disadvantage I mean exists precisely because it benefits everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me, why does international trade exist?”

“…What?”

Trein blinked.

“Because there are things people wish to buy from other countries, or things they wish to sell to other countries.”

“Exactly.”

Lilia nodded.

“But if they desire those things, why do they not simply make them themselves?”

“Because the necessary resources, technology, or culture may not exist within their own country.”

“That is also correct.”

“Come sit here.”

Lilia tapped the space beside him on the bed.

It was his own bed, and the idea of sitting together with his superior officer on it felt strangely inappropriate. So, Trein hesitated, unsure of what to do.

Seeing that, Lilia curled one finger toward himself, signaling him to hurry.

“Now, look.”

Having made up his mind, Trein sat beside him.

Lilia leaned back, resting only his upper body against the bed, and pointed toward the ceiling.

Feeling as though he had already surrendered himself to whatever would happen next, Trein lay down as well and stared upward.

He folded his hands over his chest, trying to calm his heart that was beating far too quickly.

He could not bring himself to look at the face beside him.

“The Soleil Axis exists. the Praeter Naturam exists. Whether different races should coexist or remain separated. Who should possess the sacred lands where magical energy is abundant and nature remains untouched.”

From the tips of the fae’s fingers, countless specks of light like scattered stardust emerged and struck the ceiling, painting patterns across its surface.

At first, the image was hazy. But within seconds, it transformed into a map of the world.

The sun and crescent moon stood at opposite ends of the map. A complex magic circle, filled with countless lines and small circles, overlapped across it.

The sun represented the Soleil Axis. The crescent moon represented the Praeter Naturam alliance.

The smaller circles scattered throughout the map were likely the Resistance groups hidden across the world.

“Every nation has engaged in trade with other countries, to varying degrees.”

Lilia’s voice remained calm and instructional.

“Even Briar Valley trades with the Kingdom of Heroes and Coral Sea. Why is that? Because there are things outside of Briar Valley that we simply cannot provide for ourselves. Because other nations possess things that Briar Valley values.”

The image above them shifted.

“If one attempted to create the same things, it would be impossible without the necessary technology. Even if it were technically possible, without the craftsmen, the environment, and the culture required to produce them, a perfect reproduction could never be achieved.”

Above the Shaftlands appeared an illusion of magical stones.

Above Sunset Savannah appeared ancient magical artifacts.

Above the Queendom of Roses appeared the newest magical devices.

Above Coral Sea appeared magical potions.

Each nation’s specialties shone brightly—things that no other country could perfectly imitate, no matter how hard they tried.

“But that is not all.”

Lilia continued.

“Even if two nations create the same thing, there will always be differences in how much each can produce.”

The lights above them changed.

“Suppose one country spends an entire month mining magical stones and can gather three hundred kilograms. Yet, even if it spends that same month producing magical devices, it can only create one hundred and fifty.

Another country may only gather two hundred kilograms of magical stones in a month, but can create four hundred magical devices.

Each nation does what it is best suited for, then exchanges those goods through trade. By doing so, both nations can provide those resources to a greater number of people than they ever could by relying solely on themselves.”

Trein gasped and stared at the glowing map above them.

“Then, if you think about it the other way…”

His voice was quiet.

“Through trade, nations can hold each other’s lifelines…”

“Exactly.”

Lilia smiled faintly.

“Humans fight because they wish to live richer, more comfortable lives. Then surely they should also be capable of avoiding conflict in order to preserve that prosperity.”

The magic circle above them shifted.

“The more trade develops, the more each nation places a knife against the throat of another.”

A flash of light appeared above the Shaftlands.

“If the Kingdom of Heroes continues supplying magical energy to regions of the Shaftlands populated primarily by magicless humans, then one day declaring that they will suddenly stop that supply would become a threat.”

“A disadvantage.”

“Correct. If that happened, the Shaftlands could respond by declaring that they would stop supplying magical stones from their prized mines.”

Lilia’s eyes narrowed.

“A threat answered with another threat.”

The image of the world above them trembled.

“In an era where international trade has become so deeply intertwined with the necessities of daily life, would the Shaftlands truly be able to burn the factories that produce magical devices, as they do now?”

A battlefield appeared in the illusion. Flames spread across the land, swallowing cities whole.

“Would the Kingdom of Heroes truly be able to launch an attack that could destroy the magical stone mines upon which others depend?”

The flames reflected in Lilia’s eyes.

“Would other nations that rely on trade with them allow such attacks to happen?”

The phantom sea on the map surged upward. A massive wave rose from the oceans and extinguished the burning flames.

From the smoke that drifted away from the dying fire, black chains formed, wrapping themselves around the nations displayed on the map. Binding them together.

“It would likely take decades to create such a state.”

Lilia’s voice remained calm, as though he were explaining a simple lesson.

“Without technological advancement, without improving production efficiency enough to provide goods that become essential enough to infiltrate another nation’s daily life and become a threat, it cannot be achieved.”

The chains tightened.

“But if we consider only the root cause of this Holy War, there is one thing that could create a trade relationship between the two major factions where they hold knives against each other’s throats.”

Lilia suddenly lowered his voice. The glowing image on the ceiling disappeared.

The shift made Trein remember where this conversation had begun. His eyes widened.

“The trump card… that could end the war…”

He turned his head sharply.

Only a few inches away, raspberry-pink eyes stared back at him.

Dark. Mesmerizing. Possessing a strength that would not allow him to escape. A strength like chains.

“Yes.”

Lilia’s voice was quiet.

“The Black Cats are the ones who possess that move.”

A faint smile crossed his lips.

“Though they themselves do not seem to realize it.”

Slowly, his hand reached out. His fingers gently brushed over Trein’s eyes, still filled with shock.

Then, he gathered the slightly damp strands of hair that had fallen against Trein’s cheek and tucked them behind his ear.

The movement was slow. Mature. Carrying a devastating allure that a boy still in his teenage years could not simply laugh away.

Trein held his breath. Frozen.

Lilia smiled at the reaction of his imperfect disciple and sat up.

“Who… are they…?”

Several seconds later, Trein followed and pushed himself upright as well. The hand he placed against the bed trembled.

His master did not answer immediately. Instead, he pressed his lips together tightly and returned to the window.

When he opened the curtains, the red moonlight of the Strawberry Moon spilled into the dim room, softly illuminating his cheek.

Under that light, his eyes—deep red as though stained with blood—trembled with sorrow.

Perhaps he was remembering a distant past he had once let go of. Or perhaps he was mourning a future where no light could be seen. A crease formed between his brows. Then, he finally spoke.

“They were raised in Briar Valley…”

His voice was low and deep, like a sound crawling up from the depths of the earth.

“And they are the traitors who stole the sacred treasure…and are now on the run.”

[shamo-bird]

Arcane Flames of Resistance

Once, before he became Professor Trein, he was a young mage who walked the bloodstained shadows of the Arcane World War. When his journey began, he could never have imagined where it would lead……

#1: Prologue

That was the kind of era it was.

There was always a burnt, smoky smell lingering in the air; an era where children couldn’t stay children. Mozus Trein was born into such a time, a mage-in-training with a shining future ahead.

“Did you hear, Mozus? Apparently, a new instructor is coming.”

“Instructor? For practical magic?”

One morning, near the end of spring, Trein entered the classroom after finishing his morning self-study in the library to find his classmates buzzing more excitedly than usual.

A glance at the clock told him there were about five minutes left before the warning bell. In Class 3-A, where most students were earnest, this was usually the time they began preparing for homeroom, expecting their teacher to arrive any moment.

As Trein furrowed his brow at their rare display, the friend seated next to him explained the reason.

At NRC, those who educate the students are usually called teachers or professors. However, for one subject alone, in addition to a teacher, a special educator known as an “instructor” is assigned. That subject is practical magic.

With a world war underway, this class has become standard in arcane academies across all nations. It is a drill course for learning “military” attack and defense magic.

But why would a new instructor be assigned at this point in the term?

He tried to recall the morning’s newspaper, but there hadn’t been any significant updates on the war, nor any reports of military movement in neighboring countries.

“Third and fourth periods are practical magic…”

“Yeah. Rumor says he’s a part of the elite class, almost top-ranking. If he’s not some hardened veteran but just a retired noble geezer who went through the elite track just because, this’ll be a breeze!”

His friend spoke with eyes gleaming with hope, shifting restlessly with the expectation that the physically and mentally grueling class might become a little easier.

But Trein couldn’t bring himself to nod.

He had a bad feeling. He didn’t know why.

And yet, at the same time, there was a strange sense of exhilaration.

Something was about to begin. Something was going to begin.

That was the feeling he had...

♢　♢　♢

It seemed Trein’s premonition had been correct.

“Ku-fu-fu, excellent.”

In the worst possible way.

The instructor standing in front of him was laughing with terrible delight, not a bead of sweat on his forehead, while Trein, unable to even speak, stood trembling on the edge of collapse, breathing raggedly through his shoulders. And yet, he wasn’t even the worst off.

“You’re the only one left?”

As all his classmates had collapsed to the ground.

“Your name?”

The man responsible for this pitiful scene—Lilia Vanrouge, the new practical magic instructor—gently stroked the bat familiar perched on his shoulder and narrowed his blood-red eyes in quiet amusement.

His posture remained impeccably composed, and not a single strand out of place in his long ponytail.

There was something strangely commanding about him, and he could make others obey with a smile. Even the dissonance between his slender frame and the rough, low voice with which he barked orders only added to that unsettling presence.

“M-Mozus… Trein, sir.”

In contrast, Trein could barely breathe from an injury sustained during the fight. Every inhale sent a sharp, stabbing pain through his side. The pain felt so real, so intense, that he could almost forget he was still within the safe confines of the academy.

Nearly thirty years had passed since the World War began. Maybe it had been different back when the conflict first erupted and the entire world was thrown into panic.

But by the time Trein’s generation was born, more than a decade had already gone by, and conversations about the military, the front lines, and the latest weapons had become an accepted part of everyday life.

And the boys here had grown up far from the flames of war, in rural areas untouched by conflict. When they came of age, they were sent to this place—Night Raven College—a secure and isolated stronghold where only the most promising mage trainees were gathered.

Surrounded by newspapers filled with grim headlines from the day they were born, they had been raised in a carefully constructed garden, like an air-raid shelter meant to keep them safe from the truths beyond its walls. War, to them, was closer to a bedtime story read by their mothers than an immediate reality.

They didn’t worry about enemy legions in the skies or rains of fire. They laughed at their friends’ jokes, crammed for exams with furrowed brows, and shouted in joy during Spelldrive matches at lunch.

Stories like a town being occupied by the military felt no more real than hearing about the boy next class over getting harshly rejected by the baker’s daughter in downtown.

Or so it had been.

Looking only at what was in front of them had dulled their senses. But now, Trein understood—this man, standing here now, had come from one of those blood-soaked battlefields.

The man brought the scent of the real world with him, and in this moment, reality, once so vague, hit Trein like a blow.

“Mozus Trein, is it? Hm. Looks like we’ve got some promising students this year, Crowley.”

“Lilia, what do you plan to do if parents complain after seeing the injuries you’ve caused? Our supply of medicine in the infirmary isn’t unlimited, you know.”

“Oh, come now! One hearty bowl of my nourishing porridge and they’ll be right as rain!”

“Are you trying to finish the job and kill these poor boys!?”

When had he arrived?

Trein hadn’t noticed, too focused on surviving the lesson, but the Headmage seemed to have shown up at some point. Amid this hellish scene, the adults exchanged casual banter as if nothing at all were amiss.

Maybe it was okay now.

Once Trein was certain the lesson had reached a pause, he discreetly dropped to one knee, no longer able to stay on his feet. Probing at his aching ribs and other injuries to assess the damage, he noticed those raspberry-red eyes finally settling on him once again.

“Mozus.”

“Y-Yes!”

It had only been one exchange of magic. But that was enough to make it clear just how worthy of respect Lilia’s skill truly was. Being addressed by someone who embodied the very ideal of a mage made Trein’s back straighten instinctively.

“You’re now selected as my special student.”

In response, the terrifying instructor broke into a boyish, innocent grin.

[shamo-bird]

Ch.2: Southwestern 36th Division

Where was the fighting happening today?

Above him stretched nothing but an oblivious blue sky, as if it knew nothing of blood-red carnage.

Rubbing the side that had first taught him what real pain felt like. It was not the harmless sort dealt out within the confines of a sheltered world. Trein knitted his brows tightly together.

Even back when he had been nothing more than a student, his hands had never resembled those of a delicate young lady. Riding lessons, Spelldrive practice, physical training... His days at school had been filled with activities that hardened the body. Yet when he lowered his gaze to his palms now, they were rough with calluses that had split and reformed time and time again. Though he kept them clean, he could almost imagine the scent of blood clinging to them still.

They were hands that didn’t belong in a rural town said to be far from the front lines.

It had already been nine months since the sudden arrival of the Practical Magic instructor who had selected him as a “special student.”

At NRC, it was customary for fourth-year students to spend a year interning at companies and research institutions around the world under the guise of off-campus study. Yet Trein had departed from the Isle of Sages more than a month earlier than his peers, before summer vacation had even come to an end, to become the apprentice of Lilia Vanrouge.

“Come with me.”

That was all he had said.

Trein had not refused. Perhaps he simply could not. Not after, in the mere few months since they had met, that man had taught him what it meant to admire someone.

“Good morning!” came a cheerful voice. “I found some excellent apples at the farmer’s market. Would you like one?”

Even bundled up in a duffel coat, white breaths spilled endlessly from his lips. Eager to get indoors as quickly as possible, Trein strode down the cobbled main street, his footsteps echoing sharply against the stones, when the screech of brakes and that carefree greeting reached his ears.

He knew who it was without even looking.

For some reason, he found himself reluctant to turn in that direction and instead glanced up at the sky. Of course, the man in question wasn’t the type to notice such subtle avoidance.

The one who casually patted his shoulder and offered him an apple as red as a ruby was, for reasons beyond Trein’s understanding, someone who occupied the peculiar position of being his colleague: Ambrose LXIII.

He was the sort of man whose odd friendliness bordered on suspicious, and was thoroughly exhausting to deal with.

“No, thank you.”

When Trein declined and continued walking, Ambrose swung himself smoothly off the bicycle he had been riding and fell into step beside him at the same pace.

“They’re delicious, though,” he remarked leisurely, taking an unhurried bite from the very apple that had just been rejected. “You’re so cold.”

The town they were in lay not far from Harveston, a village of Shaftlands famous for its apples.

Trein, who hailed from Shaftlands, knew full well just how exceptional they were, arguably better than this man, who had grown up in the Queendom of Roses. Why couldn’t Ambrose understand that the apple itself wasn’t the reason for the cold refusal?

With the crisp crunch of biting fruit accompanying them, the two walked in silence for another five minutes before arriving at the offices of the Daily Shaftland, where Trein was serving his internship.

“I’ll be heading in first.”

After giving a perfunctory greeting to the coworker—technically his senior—who had gone to park his bicycle around the corner, Trein headed up the staircase attached to the side of the two-story office building.

The moment he pushed the plain door marked only with a plaque reading “Daily Shaftland Newspaper” open, a wave of warmth enveloped him, thawing the cold that clung to his face and body. Letting out a relieved breath, he removed his coat, hung it on the rack by the wall, and turned around.

“Oh! Moyse! You’re finally here!”

A familiar face he hadn’t seen in quite some time suddenly appeared from behind a mountain of paperwork piled high on a desk. The raspberry-red eyes that blinked at him had softened, as though they had long since forgotten the sharpness they once possessed on the battlefield.

“Va—! No, ahem… Mr. Rufus… it’s been a while.”

He nearly called the man by his real name. Covering the slip with a cough, Trein forced himself to use the alias that still felt foreign on his tongue.

Damn it.

He needed to remember his role. Using aliases here was absolute protocol. Even colleagues were forbidden from learning one another’s real names.

Not Mozus, but Moyse.

Not Vanrouge, but Rufus.

Those were the temporary identities the two of them had taken on so that Trein could follow the man.

Officially, this was the southwestern branch of the Daily Shaftlands Newspaper, one of the major newspapers distributed throughout the Shaftlands. Located far from the vulnerable capital and the border regions prone to attack, this modest office had recently become an important center for delivering news across much of the country.

That was the truth known to the townspeople—and the carefully constructed illusion created by Lilia Vanrouge.

The branch employed a total of thirty-four people.

Compared to the newspaper’s headquarters in the capital, the southwestern branch had less than a fifth of the staff. Of those thirty-four employees, only around twenty-five were genuine newspaper workers. They occupied the first floor, writing and editing articles.

The second floor, however, was something else entirely.

With the newspaper company’s cooperation, it had been transformed into a front office concealing its true purpose. Even among the employees downstairs, no one aside from the branch manager knew its real identity.

It was known as the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit—a special military intelligence division composed primarily of promising young mages and outstanding interns recruited from prestigious magical academies.

“Man, it’s freezing out there. Moyse, don’t just stand in the doorway. Get inside already.”

“My apologies, Mr. Wald.”

Trein had been lingering absentmindedly in front of the coat rack when a man with round glasses stepped inside, the tip of his nose as red as the apple he was eating earlier.

Wald.

That was the alias assigned to the only person in this organization, aside from Lilia, who knew Trein’s true identity.

The reason Wald knew who Trein really was—and Trein knew Wald’s identity in return—was simple.

Three years ago, shortly after enrolling at NRC, Trein had met him during a Spelldrive exchange match with RSA.

He would react with the same pure, almost naïve surprise every time, yet it still felt absurd that someone he had found so insufferable back then would end up as his colleague. And not just any kind of colleague, but a particularly unusual one at that. Just thinking about it made him want to roll his eyes so hard they might circle right out of his head, followed by a long, exasperated sigh.

“So then, Moyse. How did the matter we discussed turn out?”

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man he refused to describe with something as positive as rival, Trein faced the commander’s desk.

The military posture ingrained in him—hands clasped behind his back—was forbidden here, just like using his real name. His arms rested naturally at his sides, his feet remained close together.

It was the ordinary stance of a civilian, overturning everything that had been drilled into him before taking this assignment.

The only form of respect he could still offer was to keep his spine straight.

“As you suspected, Mr. Rufus,” Trein replied. “It seems the Stray Black Cats are indeed in this town.”

Even during Lilia’s absence, progress had been made. Turning his palm upward, Trein held out his hand. With a low whoomph, green flames sprang to life, rising roughly thirty centimeters into the air.

There was no heat. The fire was merely an illusion created by magic. Within it played footage gathered by the surveillance spells hidden throughout the town. The recording had been captured three nights earlier, beneath the full moon, in the alley behind a rundown tavern on the outskirts of town—a place usually frequented by vagrants.

A magic circle had suddenly appeared in the deserted alley. Moments later, three figures emerged. Though they looked no older than boys, each wore a black robe.

Then, almost instantly, they slipped into the shadows and vanished. If one weren’t paying close attention, it would have been easy to miss them.

They were known as the Black Cats—members of a group that the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit had been desperately hunting.

If they could locate and capture the mysterious group’s leader, they could finally bring an end to the tragic war that had continued for decades. Trein and the others truly believed that.

“Oh?” Lilia mused. “Then that means ‘that thing’ is here as well.”

A cheerful chuckle escaped him, yet his expression remained chillingly cold as he gazed out the window at the town below—a place untouched by the shadow of war.

Tension tightened in his narrowed eyes.

Trein and Ambrose exchanged a brief glance. Then, quietly but with certainty, they nodded.

[shamo-bird]

Ch.3: Thus, the Arcane World War Began

This bloody conflict, euphemistically called the “Holy War,” began roughly thirty years ago. The trigger for the madness that had been slowly creeping across the world was finally pulled in the beautiful savannah ruled by beastmen—Sunset Savanna.

In Twisted Wonderland, there are broadly two species: Humans and Subspecies. Humans refer solely to Homo sapiens, while “subspecies” is a collective term for all beings other than humans who possess their own languages and cultures—beastmen, spirits, fairies, merfolk, and more.

In truth, even this naming was created by humans to distinguish themselves from others. As the term suggests, the historical divide between humans and subspecies runs deep.

At first, humans defined everything other than themselves in this way. There was likely admiration and reverence toward beings closer to the divine creator. But fear and inferiority also existed. Once clear distinctions were made, human pride hardened into exclusivity.

Spirits, fairies, and merfolk—beings directly connected to the “natural elements” that existed since the world’s creation, or those derived from them—were treated as fundamentally different by newcomers. They did not accept such treatment without resistance.

They claimed themselves to be the superior supernatural beings, rejecting humans as inferior. Since their very essence of life was different, they chose not to coexist.

Fairies and spirits who weakened without pure natural environments like forests or clean water, and merfolk who could only survive in the sea where humans could not live long at all—such fundamental differences in habitat only deepened the separation.

But among all subspecies, the beastmen were different.

They were not supernatural beings, but animal-like beings similar to humans. They did not draw energy from nature itself; instead, they hunted other living things and cultivated the land with their own hands. Because their way of life was closer to that of humans, the fear and inferiority that humans felt toward other magical beings was not directed at beastmen as strongly.

For that reason, they had relatively little resistance to interacting with humans, and contact between them never fully ceased.

For a long time, the world remained in a delicate balance—neither large-scale conflict nor true harmony, but coexistence, keeping distance yet living side by side.

Until the discovery of magic stones became the spark.

Magic, by nature, had been the exclusive domain of subspecies—especially those connected to natural elements. There had occasionally been humans with rare talent or those who learned through training, but such individuals were extremely rare throughout history.

And the idea of freely using magic powered by imagination, as it is today, was unthinkable. At most, humans used it in potion-making, alchemy with minimal magic infusion, or divination through astrology.

Beastmen, compared to humans, were more likely to possess innate magical power and control it, but even they could not compare to those directly connected to natural elements who could convert natural energy into magic itself.

At some point, those beings connected to natural elements began to be distinguished within subspecies and were called “Arcane Races.”

However, the discovery of magic stones granted humans the forbidden technique of magic as well. Humans who possessed magical potential could now use it without accumulating blot or risking their lives, producing supernatural phenomena directly.

Naturally, the spirits and merfolk saw this development as a threat to their domain. Humans vastly outnumbered them. If they gained access to magic, the balance would collapse. Was it not already unacceptable that those without divine favor were encroaching upon their sacred power?

Driven by such fears, the world gradually fractured after the discovery of magic stones.

Those Arcane Races connected to natural elements isolated themselves further, strengthening the boundaries around their territories. Humans and beastmen, meanwhile, chose to integrate with each other to strengthen their own side.

The paths diverged. The distortion grew strongest in lands governed by beastmen—those closest to humans—including regions such as Sunset Savanna, which possessed the vast natural beauty beloved by fairies. And yet, none of them realized it was approaching collapse.

Minor conflicts rooted in species differences repeated for hundreds of years across nations and regions, and prejudice deepened with time.

And then, when the dark fate could no longer be avoided, the spark of the great Holy War that would shake the world ignited on the banks of a river in Sunset Savanna.

Back then, the land had not yet become as dry as it is now. It was a vast and beautiful country, rich with forests, clear rivers, and lakes that symbolized abundance.

But as humans developed and expanded their nation, deforestation and cultivation became necessary. The water spirits, who loved nature, rejected human settlements and moved upstream in search of unpolluted water, away from the capital. Their original forms resembled crocodile-like creatures tied to the essence of rivers, living peacefully while nurturing the river’s prosperity.

It was there that they arrived.

Beastmen hyenas, driven from their homes and with nowhere else to go, reached the riverside in search of a place to live.

“Please… allow us to live here. We have nowhere else to go.”

The hyenas pleaded for mercy, but the spirits rejected them.

Fearful that their home would be further tainted by humans and those close to them, they refused. History of discrimination and conflict had already justified their distrust far too well.

Unlike fairies, hyena beastmen could not survive on natural energy alone. To live across the vast plains, they needed food and water. Once coexistence was denied, conflict became inevitable. It was a simple matter of survival—live or die. Both sides bared their fangs.

The victors of the battle later known as the Battle of Utopia, the conflict that ignited the World War, were the creatures of the land; the hyena beastmen.

Even then, the river fairies refused coexistence. Seeking refuge with others of their kind who had settled elsewhere, they fled to the fairy kingdom of Briar Valley.

And from that moment onward, nations across the world began loudly proclaiming their views on the relationship between magical races and other peoples, as if venting centuries of pent-up resentment.

The first nation to issue an official declaration was Sunset Savanna itself. Ruled by a royal family of lion beastmen, the kingdom advocated for coexistence among all races.

“Such ideals are nothing but hypocrisy. Foolish Lion King, your naivety knows no bounds.”

Those words came from Briar Valley, where the displaced river fairies had sought sanctuary. They condemned Sunset Savanna, arguing that its vision of “all races” truly referred only to humans and beastmen. The supernatural races, they claimed, were afforded neither the respect nor reverence they deserved, and the Battle of Utopia had proven exactly that.

Land of Dawning, ruled by human royalty and populated overwhelmingly by humans, sided with Sunset Savanna. They denounced Briar Valley on the international stage as discriminatory.

Thus was born the coalition advocating for coexistence between races: The Soleil Axis.

But this movement was met with immediate opposition from the neighboring kingdom of Coral Sea.

“Humans were the ones who began this discrimination in the first place. You called the noble magical races—those closest to the divine—monsters, and hunted our kin of the sea. If anyone are monsters, it is you. What is wrong with protecting our homeland and our people?”

The merfolk, who generally remained isolated in the depths of the ocean and had little interaction with outsiders, chose to ally themselves with Briar Valley, whose beliefs closely mirrored their own. kingdom of Heroes, said to have been founded by gods and their descendants, soon followed suit.

This alliance became known as: Praeter Naturam — the Divine Peoples’ Alliance.

And so, the two great factions emerged.

Gradually, they began competing over territories rich in magic stone deposits, forests saturated with magical energy, and rare magical artifacts. Like a stone rolling downhill, the flames of war spread across the world.

Once that happened, the remaining nations could no longer remain idle.

Shaftlands, with its vast territory, shared borders with numerous countries. Its people varied widely from region to region in language, customs, and heritage. Unable to reach a unified stance, the nation ultimately chose not to establish a single national policy, instead leaving the decision to its individual territories and the people who lived there.

Meanwhile, the Queendom of Roses, an island nation inhabited mostly by humans but geographically surrounded by Briar Valley, Coral Sea, and lying close to Kingdom of Heroes, deemed neutrality the safest option.

Officially, it refrained from taking sides.

Unofficially, however, it quietly began providing financial aid and weapons, under the banner of humanitarian assistance, to regions within the Shaftlands that supported the Soleil Axis.

Before long, it also extended support to Sunset Savanna in exchange for the abundant natural resources unavailable to an island nation.

Amid this increasingly divided world, one nation stood closest to true neutrality: Land of Dawning.

A small island country that included Sage’s Island, home to two of the world’s most prestigious institutions for magical education.

Night Raven College, the oldest arcane academy in existence, was originally founded near the magic stone mines of Shaftlands, where the first magic stones had been discovered. It was said that, as those mines were exhausted, the school itself had relocated time and again in search of stronger magical ley lines.

Royal Sword Academy was established by a legendary mage from the Queendom of Roses after his retirement from active service, dedicated to nurturing the next generation of young wizards.

Students from noble and influential families across the world attended both institutions.

Leveraging the political complications that interference would invite, the two schools declared shortly after the war’s outbreak that they would reject all outside involvement and devote themselves solely to training mages capable of preserving world order.

Yet many dismissed this as little more than a façade.

Even with magic stones, those capable of wielding magic represented only a tiny fraction of the world’s population. Surely those blessed with such power would never truly stand alongside the powerless and share what they possessed.

Thus, it became an open secret that Land of Dawning, too, quietly sympathized with the Praeter Naturam alliance in order to safeguard its own interests.

The war continued to drain the world, slowly and relentlessly.

Like a glass filled to the brim, held together only by the delicate tension at its surface, the conflict maintained a precarious balance for thirty years.

Would it end tomorrow?

In another year?

Or would it continue for a hundred more?

The future lay shrouded in darkness, impossible to see.

And within that darkness, someone whispered.

“Light the flame of resistance.”

[shamo-bird]

Arcane Flames of Resistance

Once, before he became Professor Trein, he was a young mage who walked the bloodstained shadows of the Arcane World War. When his journey began, he could never have imagined where it would lead……

#1: Prologue

That was the kind of era it was.

There was always a burnt, smoky smell lingering in the air; an era where children couldn’t stay children. Mozus Trein was born into such a time, a mage-in-training with a shining future ahead.

“Did you hear, Mozus? Apparently, a new instructor is coming.”

“Instructor? For practical magic?”

One morning, near the end of spring, Trein entered the classroom after finishing his morning self-study in the library to find his classmates buzzing more excitedly than usual.

A glance at the clock told him there were about five minutes left before the warning bell. In Class 3-A, where most students were earnest, this was usually the time they began preparing for homeroom, expecting their teacher to arrive any moment.

As Trein furrowed his brow at their rare display, the friend seated next to him explained the reason.

At NRC, those who educate the students are usually called teachers or professors. However, for one subject alone, in addition to a teacher, a special educator known as an “instructor” is assigned. That subject is practical magic.

With a world war underway, this class has become standard in arcane academies across all nations. It is a drill course for learning “military” attack and defense magic.

But why would a new instructor be assigned at this point in the term?

He tried to recall the morning’s newspaper, but there hadn’t been any significant updates on the war, nor any reports of military movement in neighboring countries.

“Third and fourth periods are practical magic…”

“Yeah. Rumor says he’s a part of the elite class, almost top-ranking. If he’s not some hardened veteran but just a retired noble geezer who went through the elite track just because, this’ll be a breeze!”

His friend spoke with eyes gleaming with hope, shifting restlessly with the expectation that the physically and mentally grueling class might become a little easier.

But Trein couldn’t bring himself to nod.

He had a bad feeling. He didn’t know why.

And yet, at the same time, there was a strange sense of exhilaration.

Something was about to begin. Something was going to begin.

That was the feeling he had...

♢　♢　♢

It seemed Trein’s premonition had been correct.

“Ku-fu-fu, excellent.”

In the worst possible way.

The instructor standing in front of him was laughing with terrible delight, not a bead of sweat on his forehead, while Trein, unable to even speak, stood trembling on the edge of collapse, breathing raggedly through his shoulders. And yet, he wasn’t even the worst off.

“You’re the only one left?”

As all his classmates had collapsed to the ground.

“Your name?”

The man responsible for this pitiful scene—Lilia Vanrouge, the new practical magic instructor—gently stroked the bat familiar perched on his shoulder and narrowed his blood-red eyes in quiet amusement.

His posture remained impeccably composed, and not a single strand out of place in his long ponytail.

There was something strangely commanding about him, and he could make others obey with a smile. Even the dissonance between his slender frame and the rough, low voice with which he barked orders only added to that unsettling presence.

“M-Mozus… Trein, sir.”

In contrast, Trein could barely breathe from an injury sustained during the fight. Every inhale sent a sharp, stabbing pain through his side. The pain felt so real, so intense, that he could almost forget he was still within the safe confines of the academy.

Nearly thirty years had passed since the World War began. Maybe it had been different back when the conflict first erupted and the entire world was thrown into panic.

But by the time Trein’s generation was born, more than a decade had already gone by, and conversations about the military, the front lines, and the latest weapons had become an accepted part of everyday life.

And the boys here had grown up far from the flames of war, in rural areas untouched by conflict. When they came of age, they were sent to this place—Night Raven College—a secure and isolated stronghold where only the most promising mage trainees were gathered.

Surrounded by newspapers filled with grim headlines from the day they were born, they had been raised in a carefully constructed garden, like an air-raid shelter meant to keep them safe from the truths beyond its walls. War, to them, was closer to a bedtime story read by their mothers than an immediate reality.

They didn’t worry about enemy legions in the skies or rains of fire. They laughed at their friends’ jokes, crammed for exams with furrowed brows, and shouted in joy during Spelldrive matches at lunch.

Stories like a town being occupied by the military felt no more real than hearing about the boy next class over getting harshly rejected by the baker’s daughter in downtown.

Or so it had been.

Looking only at what was in front of them had dulled their senses. But now, Trein understood—this man, standing here now, had come from one of those blood-soaked battlefields.

The man brought the scent of the real world with him, and in this moment, reality, once so vague, hit Trein like a blow.

“Mozus Trein, is it? Hm. Looks like we’ve got some promising students this year, Crowley.”

“Lilia, what do you plan to do if parents complain after seeing the injuries you’ve caused? Our supply of medicine in the infirmary isn’t unlimited, you know.”

“Oh, come now! One hearty bowl of my nourishing porridge and they’ll be right as rain!”

“Are you trying to finish the job and kill these poor boys!?”

When had he arrived?

Trein hadn’t noticed, too focused on surviving the lesson, but the Headmage seemed to have shown up at some point. Amid this hellish scene, the adults exchanged casual banter as if nothing at all were amiss.

Maybe it was okay now.

Once Trein was certain the lesson had reached a pause, he discreetly dropped to one knee, no longer able to stay on his feet. Probing at his aching ribs and other injuries to assess the damage, he noticed those raspberry-red eyes finally settling on him once again.

“Mozus.”

“Y-Yes!”

It had only been one exchange of magic. But that was enough to make it clear just how worthy of respect Lilia’s skill truly was. Being addressed by someone who embodied the very ideal of a mage made Trein’s back straighten instinctively.

“You’re now selected as my special student.”

In response, the terrifying instructor broke into a boyish, innocent grin.

[shamo-bird]

Ch.2: Southwestern 36th Division

Where was the fighting happening today?

Above him stretched nothing but an oblivious blue sky, as if it knew nothing of blood-red carnage.

Rubbing the side that had first taught him what real pain felt like. It was not the harmless sort dealt out within the confines of a sheltered world. Trein knitted his brows tightly together.

Even back when he had been nothing more than a student, his hands had never resembled those of a delicate young lady. Riding lessons, Spelldrive practice, physical training... His days at school had been filled with activities that hardened the body. Yet when he lowered his gaze to his palms now, they were rough with calluses that had split and reformed time and time again. Though he kept them clean, he could almost imagine the scent of blood clinging to them still.

They were hands that didn’t belong in a rural town said to be far from the front lines.

It had already been nine months since the sudden arrival of the Practical Magic instructor who had selected him as a “special student.”

At NRC, it was customary for fourth-year students to spend a year interning at companies and research institutions around the world under the guise of off-campus study. Yet Trein had departed from the Isle of Sages more than a month earlier than his peers, before summer vacation had even come to an end, to become the apprentice of Lilia Vanrouge.

“Come with me.”

That was all he had said.

Trein had not refused. Perhaps he simply could not. Not after, in the mere few months since they had met, that man had taught him what it meant to admire someone.

“Good morning!” came a cheerful voice. “I found some excellent apples at the farmer’s market. Would you like one?”

Even bundled up in a duffel coat, white breaths spilled endlessly from his lips. Eager to get indoors as quickly as possible, Trein strode down the cobbled main street, his footsteps echoing sharply against the stones, when the screech of brakes and that carefree greeting reached his ears.

He knew who it was without even looking.

For some reason, he found himself reluctant to turn in that direction and instead glanced up at the sky. Of course, the man in question wasn’t the type to notice such subtle avoidance.

The one who casually patted his shoulder and offered him an apple as red as a ruby was, for reasons beyond Trein’s understanding, someone who occupied the peculiar position of being his colleague: Ambrose LXIII.

He was the sort of man whose odd friendliness bordered on suspicious, and was thoroughly exhausting to deal with.

“No, thank you.”

When Trein declined and continued walking, Ambrose swung himself smoothly off the bicycle he had been riding and fell into step beside him at the same pace.

“They’re delicious, though,” he remarked leisurely, taking an unhurried bite from the very apple that had just been rejected. “You’re so cold.”

The town they were in lay not far from Harveston, a village of Shaftlands famous for its apples.

Trein, who hailed from Shaftlands, knew full well just how exceptional they were, arguably better than this man, who had grown up in the Queendom of Roses. Why couldn’t Ambrose understand that the apple itself wasn’t the reason for the cold refusal?

With the crisp crunch of biting fruit accompanying them, the two walked in silence for another five minutes before arriving at the offices of the Daily Shaftland, where Trein was serving his internship.

“I’ll be heading in first.”

After giving a perfunctory greeting to the coworker—technically his senior—who had gone to park his bicycle around the corner, Trein headed up the staircase attached to the side of the two-story office building.

The moment he pushed the plain door marked only with a plaque reading “Daily Shaftland Newspaper” open, a wave of warmth enveloped him, thawing the cold that clung to his face and body. Letting out a relieved breath, he removed his coat, hung it on the rack by the wall, and turned around.

“Oh! Moyse! You’re finally here!”

A familiar face he hadn’t seen in quite some time suddenly appeared from behind a mountain of paperwork piled high on a desk. The raspberry-red eyes that blinked at him had softened, as though they had long since forgotten the sharpness they once possessed on the battlefield.

“Va—! No, ahem… Mr. Rufus… it’s been a while.”

He nearly called the man by his real name. Covering the slip with a cough, Trein forced himself to use the alias that still felt foreign on his tongue.

Damn it.

He needed to remember his role. Using aliases here was absolute protocol. Even colleagues were forbidden from learning one another’s real names.

Not Mozus, but Moyse.

Not Vanrouge, but Rufus.

Those were the temporary identities the two of them had taken on so that Trein could follow the man.

Officially, this was the southwestern branch of the Daily Shaftlands Newspaper, one of the major newspapers distributed throughout the Shaftlands. Located far from the vulnerable capital and the border regions prone to attack, this modest office had recently become an important center for delivering news across much of the country.

That was the truth known to the townspeople—and the carefully constructed illusion created by Lilia Vanrouge.

The branch employed a total of thirty-four people.

Compared to the newspaper’s headquarters in the capital, the southwestern branch had less than a fifth of the staff. Of those thirty-four employees, only around twenty-five were genuine newspaper workers. They occupied the first floor, writing and editing articles.

The second floor, however, was something else entirely.

With the newspaper company’s cooperation, it had been transformed into a front office concealing its true purpose. Even among the employees downstairs, no one aside from the branch manager knew its real identity.

It was known as the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit—a special military intelligence division composed primarily of promising young mages and outstanding interns recruited from prestigious magical academies.

“Man, it’s freezing out there. Moyse, don’t just stand in the doorway. Get inside already.”

“My apologies, Mr. Wald.”

Trein had been lingering absentmindedly in front of the coat rack when a man with round glasses stepped inside, the tip of his nose as red as the apple he was eating earlier.

Wald.

That was the alias assigned to the only person in this organization, aside from Lilia, who knew Trein’s true identity.

The reason Wald knew who Trein really was—and Trein knew Wald’s identity in return—was simple.

Three years ago, shortly after enrolling at NRC, Trein had met him during a Spelldrive exchange match with RSA.

He would react with the same pure, almost naïve surprise every time, yet it still felt absurd that someone he had found so insufferable back then would end up as his colleague. And not just any kind of colleague, but a particularly unusual one at that. Just thinking about it made him want to roll his eyes so hard they might circle right out of his head, followed by a long, exasperated sigh.

“So then, Moyse. How did the matter we discussed turn out?”

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man he refused to describe with something as positive as rival, Trein faced the commander’s desk.

The military posture ingrained in him—hands clasped behind his back—was forbidden here, just like using his real name. His arms rested naturally at his sides, his feet remained close together.

It was the ordinary stance of a civilian, overturning everything that had been drilled into him before taking this assignment.

The only form of respect he could still offer was to keep his spine straight.

“As you suspected, Mr. Rufus,” Trein replied. “It seems the Stray Black Cats are indeed in this town.”

Even during Lilia’s absence, progress had been made. Turning his palm upward, Trein held out his hand. With a low whoomph, green flames sprang to life, rising roughly thirty centimeters into the air.

There was no heat. The fire was merely an illusion created by magic. Within it played footage gathered by the surveillance spells hidden throughout the town. The recording had been captured three nights earlier, beneath the full moon, in the alley behind a rundown tavern on the outskirts of town—a place usually frequented by vagrants.

A magic circle had suddenly appeared in the deserted alley. Moments later, three figures emerged. Though they looked no older than boys, each wore a black robe.

Then, almost instantly, they slipped into the shadows and vanished. If one weren’t paying close attention, it would have been easy to miss them.

They were known as the Black Cats—members of a group that the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit had been desperately hunting.

If they could locate and capture the mysterious group’s leader, they could finally bring an end to the tragic war that had continued for decades. Trein and the others truly believed that.

“Oh?” Lilia mused. “Then that means ‘that thing’ is here as well.”

A cheerful chuckle escaped him, yet his expression remained chillingly cold as he gazed out the window at the town below—a place untouched by the shadow of war.

Tension tightened in his narrowed eyes.

Trein and Ambrose exchanged a brief glance. Then, quietly but with certainty, they nodded.

[shamo-bird]

Happy birthday Leona🦁🎉

[shamo-bird]

Arcane Flames of Resistance

Once, before he became Professor Trein, he was a young mage who walked the bloodstained shadows of the Arcane World War. When his journey began, he could never have imagined where it would lead……

#1: Prologue

That was the kind of era it was.

There was always a burnt, smoky smell lingering in the air; an era where children couldn’t stay children. Mozus Trein was born into such a time, a mage-in-training with a shining future ahead.

“Did you hear, Mozus? Apparently, a new instructor is coming.”

“Instructor? For practical magic?”

One morning, near the end of spring, Trein entered the classroom after finishing his morning self-study in the library to find his classmates buzzing more excitedly than usual.

A glance at the clock told him there were about five minutes left before the warning bell. In Class 3-A, where most students were earnest, this was usually the time they began preparing for homeroom, expecting their teacher to arrive any moment.

As Trein furrowed his brow at their rare display, the friend seated next to him explained the reason.

At NRC, those who educate the students are usually called teachers or professors. However, for one subject alone, in addition to a teacher, a special educator known as an “instructor” is assigned. That subject is practical magic.

With a world war underway, this class has become standard in arcane academies across all nations. It is a drill course for learning “military” attack and defense magic.

But why would a new instructor be assigned at this point in the term?

He tried to recall the morning’s newspaper, but there hadn’t been any significant updates on the war, nor any reports of military movement in neighboring countries.

“Third and fourth periods are practical magic…”

“Yeah. Rumor says he’s a part of the elite class, almost top-ranking. If he’s not some hardened veteran but just a retired noble geezer who went through the elite track just because, this’ll be a breeze!”

His friend spoke with eyes gleaming with hope, shifting restlessly with the expectation that the physically and mentally grueling class might become a little easier.

But Trein couldn’t bring himself to nod.

He had a bad feeling. He didn’t know why.

And yet, at the same time, there was a strange sense of exhilaration.

Something was about to begin. Something was going to begin.

That was the feeling he had...

♢　♢　♢

It seemed Trein’s premonition had been correct.

“Ku-fu-fu, excellent.”

In the worst possible way.

The instructor standing in front of him was laughing with terrible delight, not a bead of sweat on his forehead, while Trein, unable to even speak, stood trembling on the edge of collapse, breathing raggedly through his shoulders. And yet, he wasn’t even the worst off.

“You’re the only one left?”

As all his classmates had collapsed to the ground.

“Your name?”

The man responsible for this pitiful scene—Lilia Vanrouge, the new practical magic instructor—gently stroked the bat familiar perched on his shoulder and narrowed his blood-red eyes in quiet amusement.

His posture remained impeccably composed, and not a single strand out of place in his long ponytail.

There was something strangely commanding about him, and he could make others obey with a smile. Even the dissonance between his slender frame and the rough, low voice with which he barked orders only added to that unsettling presence.

“M-Mozus… Trein, sir.”

In contrast, Trein could barely breathe from an injury sustained during the fight. Every inhale sent a sharp, stabbing pain through his side. The pain felt so real, so intense, that he could almost forget he was still within the safe confines of the academy.

Nearly thirty years had passed since the World War began. Maybe it had been different back when the conflict first erupted and the entire world was thrown into panic.

But by the time Trein’s generation was born, more than a decade had already gone by, and conversations about the military, the front lines, and the latest weapons had become an accepted part of everyday life.

And the boys here had grown up far from the flames of war, in rural areas untouched by conflict. When they came of age, they were sent to this place—Night Raven College—a secure and isolated stronghold where only the most promising mage trainees were gathered.

Surrounded by newspapers filled with grim headlines from the day they were born, they had been raised in a carefully constructed garden, like an air-raid shelter meant to keep them safe from the truths beyond its walls. War, to them, was closer to a bedtime story read by their mothers than an immediate reality.

They didn’t worry about enemy legions in the skies or rains of fire. They laughed at their friends’ jokes, crammed for exams with furrowed brows, and shouted in joy during Spelldrive matches at lunch.

Stories like a town being occupied by the military felt no more real than hearing about the boy next class over getting harshly rejected by the baker’s daughter in downtown.

Or so it had been.

Looking only at what was in front of them had dulled their senses. But now, Trein understood—this man, standing here now, had come from one of those blood-soaked battlefields.

The man brought the scent of the real world with him, and in this moment, reality, once so vague, hit Trein like a blow.

“Mozus Trein, is it? Hm. Looks like we’ve got some promising students this year, Crowley.”

“Lilia, what do you plan to do if parents complain after seeing the injuries you’ve caused? Our supply of medicine in the infirmary isn’t unlimited, you know.”

“Oh, come now! One hearty bowl of my nourishing porridge and they’ll be right as rain!”

“Are you trying to finish the job and kill these poor boys!?”

When had he arrived?

Trein hadn’t noticed, too focused on surviving the lesson, but the Headmage seemed to have shown up at some point. Amid this hellish scene, the adults exchanged casual banter as if nothing at all were amiss.

Maybe it was okay now.

Once Trein was certain the lesson had reached a pause, he discreetly dropped to one knee, no longer able to stay on his feet. Probing at his aching ribs and other injuries to assess the damage, he noticed those raspberry-red eyes finally settling on him once again.

“Mozus.”

“Y-Yes!”

It had only been one exchange of magic. But that was enough to make it clear just how worthy of respect Lilia’s skill truly was. Being addressed by someone who embodied the very ideal of a mage made Trein’s back straighten instinctively.

“You’re now selected as my special student.”

In response, the terrifying instructor broke into a boyish, innocent grin.

[shamo-bird]

If Cater boy moved in next door…🥹♦️

[shamo-bird]

❤🎂Happy birthday, Ruggie!

Sorry I forgot to upload it on your birthday😭

[shamo-bird]

Happy birthday, Cater❤️♦️

[shamo-bird]

[shamo-bird]

Happy new year!

Love you Nekura samurai💀❤️‍🔥

[shamo-bird]

Happy birthday, Idia!!

[shamo-bird]

Book 1, overblot battle

The relationship between Trey and Riddle in the book 1 really reminds me of this song

[shamo-bird]

These two can totally pull off a fashion magazine cover

[shamo-bird]

Happy birthday, prof. Trein❤