Chapter 175

The Back-Alley Mage’s Return – Chapter 175

Chapter 175. Does Good Deed Need a Reason?

A pale, chilly dawn broke.

Attempting to shake off the lingering astonishment from the previous day, I gathered my angling gear in the early hours and headed down to the edge of the lake.

That is simply the nature of fishing.

If your only objective is to reel in a catch, nothing could be more tedious. However, when your mind is in turmoil or your thoughts are tangled in knots, it serves as the ultimate pretext for clearing your head.

In any case, looking back on it now, the events of yesterday had been an unrelenting sequence of disbelief and trepidation.

Heh-heh, how could someone as insignificant as myself ever be spoken of in the same breath as Duke Muspellun? Compared to his monumental legacy, I am merely a common man.

Haha! Your modesty is incredible, honored champion of the Great Battle of the Rotrin Valley! Did not Grand Duke Muspellun himself declare during his lifetime: “The sole individual who stands as an equal to me is the Spiritist of the Cutting Wind”!

There was Maisellne downplaying his own achievements, and an anonymous Nine Star piling on excessive flattery.

And that was hardly the extent of it.

The Great Battle of the Rotrin Valley!

Demian, are you familiar with it?

No, I have no idea.

What—how can you not know? Did they not cover that in your historical studies? The Great Battle of the Rotrin Valley was the pivotal clash that permitted the Empire—which was cornered defensively at the moment—to establish the foundation for a total counterattack…

Chenbi had been absolutely ecstatic to encounter a legendary historical persona, rattling off historical facts without pausing for breath, while Demian merely listened in silence.

It truly felt as though my reality was fracturing.

House Brando, the very lineage I had placed my complete confidence in, throwing open their entryways simply because they had been deceived by an adversary’s masquerade…

Indignation simmered deep within my chest.

Furthermore, what proved even more revolting was the slippery, cunning speech of Maisellne, the Spiritist of the Cutting Wind.

To speak candidly, the entire situation had felt bizarre from the very beginning.

Regardless of how celebrated the Spiritist of the Cutting Wind might be, why on earth would a prestigious Nine Star welcome him with such an expansive, beaming grin?

Naturally, there was an underlying motive.

What exactly had he muttered back then?

By the way, Sir Maisellne. Seeing as Young Master Demian is present with us now… why do you not resume the topic you were discussing earlier?

Amidst that bright and jovial ambiance, the Nine Star had seamlessly steered the conversation.

Smiling with an air of profound generosity, Maisellne replied—

Heh-heh, quite right. I was just preparing to touch upon that. As I previously mentioned to you…

You noted that you chanced upon a youngster on the path who possessed extraordinary capabilities as a spiritist?

Indeed, I did. And…

You were referring to our very own Young Master Demian, correct? Without a doubt?

Yes. With a single glance, it was evident he belonged to House Brando, so I made inquiries and guided myself here. I imagined…

You believed it to be a matter of proper social decorum?

…You possess quite the sharp intellect, do you not? You anticipate every word I intend to speak.

Haha! You flatter me.

It was glaringly obvious that he was employing biting sarcasm—silently commanding the other to stop cutting him off—yet the Nine Star simply chuckled, completely oblivious. He must have traded his situational awareness for his elevated cultivation realm.

In any case, the tactical ploy Maisellne utilized to gain entry to this estate was remarkably deceptive—and deeply malicious.

‘What? Because Demian exhibits incredible spiritist potential, you arrived wishing to provide him with basic mentorship?’

Even replaying the narrative in my mind made me scoff. I let out a dry, amused sound, and as I did, the angling rod in my grip twitched slightly.

The entire premise was utterly illogical.

‘Fine, let us assume Demian actually possesses spiritist potential. The man probably was not fabricating that part completely.’

But what is the part that genuinely falls flat?

Spirits, by their very nature, evaluate human character.

Based entirely on that intuitive judgment, they select their summoner—and that precise detail is where the logic crumbles.

Setting aside whether Demian actually holds any spiritist capabilities…

‘A guy like him would never pass muster.’

Why is that?

‘He just would not.’

As a common jest, forging pacts with spirits is often labeled a moral evaluation. Could someone like Demian—who possesses a fundamentally corrupted temperament—genuinely secure a covenant with a spiritual entity?

He would be incredibly fortunate if the entity he attempted to summon did not immediately flee in horror.

How can I be so certain of this?

…Because I attempted it myself.

‘How many instances did I tally again?’

Throughout my previous incarnation, I tried to bind myself to spiritual entities roughly three separate times.

Initially, the process appeared to progress smoothly. I managed to retain one for a duration nearing two years, if I recall correctly. It was not an exceptionally grand or dominant entity, but as far as cost-free labor was concerned, I found it highly satisfactory.

Yet, where did the issue arise?

Out of nowhere, it vanished.

What parting words had it left behind?

The spiritual connection had grown so faint that I could not flawlessly comprehend its consciousness, but the sentiment was approximately—

I am terrified.

Following that incident, the second entity barely endured for three months.

The third pact dissolved after a mere fortnight.

The elemental attributes of those bound entities were entirely distinct, yet their conclusions mirrored one another. The pioneer stated, “I am terrified,” the second expressed, “I desire my autonomy,” and the final one declared, “Our companionship brought no joy, and I wish to never look upon you again.”

It went exactly like that.

For individuals of our disposition, establishing a connection with spirits is virtually unachievable, regardless of innate talent. Frankly, the reality that I succeeded three times is nothing short of a divine phenomenon.

The aesthetic and moral framework of a spirit diverges drastically from human perception, making their criteria highly ambiguous, and their definitions of righteousness and malice are entirely unique.

‘Do I truly project an aura of corruption?’

Perhaps from a spirit’s viewpoint, surviving in this manner appears inherently wicked… but that is a perspective that grasps a single detail while remaining blind to the broader reality.

Amidst these turbulent crises and societal upheavals, it is an absolute rarity for anyone to preserve this degree of morality.

“Tch, honestly, it is somewhat regrettable.”

There are very few sources of uncompensated labor that match the utility of spiritual entities.

Reflect upon it.

If you command even a solitary earth spirit, every task becomes effortless.

Masonry blocks that would require the strength of three or four human workers to transport and position—an earth spirit can simply glide through the air and stack them in rapid succession.

What does that imply?

It signifies that when the time comes for me to erect my sanctuary in the future, expenditure on human labor will plummet exponentially.

Granted, you are required to nourish them with Moonlight Stone and alternative mana-imbued delicacies, but when measured against the wealth to be gained, it remains highly lucrative.

To put it plainly, a spirit represents the ultimate definition of an asset that simply consumes and produces.

‘It truly would be incredibly practical to possess one.’

A laborer—an exceptionally productive laborer….

At any rate, I strayed a bit from the primary issue, but my ultimate deduction was that Maisellne’s assertion regarding Demian’s spiritist capabilities was nothing short of a convenient pretense.

Nonetheless, his sheer determination—his underlying objective—was impossible to disregard.

It proved that he was deeply committed to this endeavor.

And for a figure of the Spiritist of the Cutting Wind’s stature to exhibit this level of intensity… frankly speaking.

“It sends a shiver down my spine.”

The phrase slipped past my lips involuntarily, and at that precise instant, I detected a nearby aura.

“What exactly sends a shiver down your spine?”

“……”

As I shifted my gaze, there he stood—the commander of the cutting-wind laborers… rather, Spiritist Maisellne.

Instantly, a fresh glimmer of admiration flickered in my eyes.

Maisellne was an absolute titan within this domain—a living monument who had capitalized on uncompensated laborers for several decades.

However, that expression vanished just as quickly as it appeared.

I discreetly stood up, attempting to make a polite departure.

‘A dangerous agent of the wyvern.’

He masked himself in human form to present himself before me, but I refused to be deceived. Pestilence and wyverns are threats one avoids as a matter of basic survival.

Just as I began reeling in my angling line, his voice cut through the silence.

“Kindly grant me a single moment to explain.”

“No, there is no need.”

“If you hear me out and still choose to decline, I shall depart without further argument. Furthermore, I will ensure you are handsomely rewarded.”

I paused in my tracks.

For a fleeting second—a mere heartbeat—my resolve wavered.

It was not due to the promise of wealth… but rather because I could genuinely sense the profound, agonizing earnestness vibrating in his words.

“I am imploring you.”

I gazed toward the elderly Maisellne, who was pleading with absolute sincerity. For a man of his standing to lower his head to someone of my youth…

This was a display of pure devotion that I simply could not brush aside.

“Very well… I will at least hear what you have to say.”

“…Is that true?”

Indeed—it is.

“Senior, please take a seat here first.”

“…Senior?”

“You are far more advanced in years and experience, are you not?”

“Mm… very well, then.”

Grand Duke Muspellun had bequeathed to me that revolutionary theoretical manuscript concerning the “External Core.” I had not yet found the opportunity to put it into practice, but it represented… for my personal funds—no, for the entire paradigm of sorcery—a historic breakthrough that would chart a brand-new path.

And a spiritist rumored to be on par with such a figure?

‘The mere thought excites me.’

I remain ravenous.

Ceaselessly. Always.

As the explanation drew to a close,

a heavy quiet hung between the pair for a brief duration.

Maisellne settled himself next to Aster, dropping his own angling line down into the dark water.

Enshrouded by the early morning vapor, with the undulating surface dancing and the soft, rhythmic lapping of the lake filling his ears, Maisellne gently closed his eyes.

‘As I anticipated… it is an impossibility.’

He had laid bare every piece of knowledge he possessed.

Deep within the territory of Amera, a multitude of spiritual entities are held captive. They have endured torment within that place for an agonizingly vast period.

This came alongside his deduction that the mechanism binding them appeared to be a powerful “barrier,” supplemented by the data he had painstakingly gathered through his own endeavors over the years.

The core objective was straightforward.

It boiled down to: “Let us unite to grant these entities their autonomy once more.”

Yet, the reason this presented such a grueling dilemma was equally straightforward.

A magical boundary that had successfully restrained spirits across countless eras—what manner of perils remained hidden inside it?

That was an inquiry Maisellne himself was unable to resolve with any certainty.

Had she perhaps detected the heavy emotions weighing on him?

Furyrit.

Fury drifted closer, gently stroking his head as if encouraging him to maintain his spirits.

Maisellne offered a sorrowful, fleeting smile in response to Fury’s affection, finally resolving to let the matter rest.

While the spirits enduring such prolonged torment were deeply deserving of pity, he simply could not justify dragging an innocent bystander into such a hazard.

Naturally, was there no sense of sorrow?

How could he not feel a pang of regret?

‘…It represents my ultimate life goal.’

While external observers might fail to comprehend, it was Maisellne’s singular dream.

From the very moment he initiated his path as a spiritist, it was the burning desire of an aging master who had spent his entire existence enchanted by the immaculate forms known as “spirits.”

Consequently, abandoning the pursuit was excruciatingly difficult, yet… what other path remained open to him?

‘In the true end, I shall have to undertake this venture entirely on my own.’

Just as Maisellne finalized that bleak conclusion within his thoughts—

Aster’s voice resonated from right beside him at that exact moment.

“What are you lingering for? Let us depart. Why are you remaining stationary?”

“…?”

Maisellne tilted his head in sheer confusion at the voice originating from behind him.

‘…When did he?’

A mere second ago, Aster had been seated right next to him—yet now, with his angling gear hoisted over his shoulder, he was gesturing for him to hurry.

Startled by that blinding speed, Maisellne also felt a profound bewilderment bubble up.

“Where… are we traveling…?”

“Did you not state that we are liberating the spirits? Do we truly have the luxury to dawdle like this? Even as we speak, my labor—no, the spirits are crying out in agony.”

“…?”

What exactly was that? It felt as though he had caught a glimpse of a phrase that was never meant for his ears.

However, that state of confusion lasted only a split second.

Maisellne swiftly interpreted Aster’s true meaning, and a wave of shock washed over him.

“You… you mean to say…?”

“Indeed. I shall lend you my assistance.”

“For what purpose?”

The moment the question escaped his lips, he felt a flash of self-reproach.

Why ask? In a critical juncture like this, he ought to simply express his gratitude and accept the benevolence without hesitation!

He recognized it was entirely brazen, but it would have been the most pragmatic course of action.

Yet, Aster responded—

“For what purpose? In these modern times, the world has turned incredibly cold, and countless individuals turn a blind eye to the tribulations of others, but I am incapable of such apathy.”

“…Ha.”

Maisellne released a soft gasp that he could not contain.

‘The tribulations of others?’

Others—a term that the vast majority of people would have dismissed without a second thought, yet for Maisellne, it resonated deeply within his mind.

It conveyed, in a subtle manner, that he viewed spirits as entities possessing equal personhood.

“The path ahead could prove exceptionally perilous… are you entirely certain?”

“Righteousness invariably demands a toll.”

To put it another way, he was prepared to endure even personal loss.

Hearing that singular declaration, Maisellne found himself completely struck dumb.

An unyielding determination was mirrored in the tight line of the youth’s mouth. Within those eyes reflecting the morning sunbeams, one could catch a glimpse of an almost sacred calling.

“Why… why do you go so far?”

Aster provided his reply.

“Does a good deed require a reason?”

Leaving that solitary remark behind, Aster turned and began stepping back toward the estate.

Maisellne remained seated as if paralyzed, silently observing the retreating form of the young man. Brilliant rays of sunlight bathed the boy’s head. And that sight was…

‘A redeemer.’

Yes—precisely as the spirits had foretold, a redeemer.

“Fury, how does his presence appear to you now?”

Fury fixed her gaze on Aster for a brief moment before suddenly recoiling—her form shivering uncontrollably.

“Mm, Fury. What causes this? Is something amiss?”

Maisellne pressed for answers, but Fury offered no reply. Nay—she was utterly incapable of it.

Aster strode forward beneath the illuminating sunshine. Yet upon his back, through Fury’s unique vision, it appeared as though dark, ominous wings had unfurled.

‘Comrades… jeopardy.’

Whatever his underlying motives, he was plotting something monumental.

Without a doubt… he certainly was.