Chapter 35

It was such an absurd scene.

What happens when a person jumps into flames? Moreover, with fuel? It’s a logic even a child understands. If you do that, you die immediately.

Of course, you die. And there’s no such mercy as an instant death. Your whole body burns, your trachea is scorched by the heat, you can’t breathe, your organs are boiled, and you die in the worst agony. There’s no way he didn’t know. Yes, even a child would know. The man in front of her couldn’t have been unaware. So why—

—Why did this man do it so casually?

She couldn’t understand. It was beyond her comprehension. For Fealart La Borgograd, who had lived with the universal and the mundane, it was an unimaginable, out-of-place action.

Why weren’t you the same as me? Her lips naturally formed the question. Just like me, ordinary, powerless, unable to resist fate.

Wasn’t he an ordinary person? In Fealart’s mind, which had turned completely white, thoughts swirled.

For the Borgograd family, being ordinary was evil.

Born into the Borgograd, a prestigious family of magicians, being just an ordinary person was unacceptable. Unmistakable lineage and an environment of intense education. Being ordinary meant a lack of talent, a laggard, a defective product, evil.

She, too, was not outside this ideology. She had been told that being ordinary was evil, and she had told herself the same, no matter how ordinary she was, no matter how she could never be outstanding.

Ah, when did it start? When did she realize she had no talent? The memory of when she first became aware of her lack of talent was at the root of Fealart’s being. She had given up many times, explored every possible path, and tasted the bitterness of resignation and frustration.

She couldn’t survive as an ordinary person in the Borgograd family. So she acted as if she were peculiar, due to her ordinary talent and her small talent.

No matter how many times she worked harder than others, no matter how much of her free time she devoted to magic, it was never enough.

A magician is one who knows the law of harmony with nature. A sorcerer is one who rewrites the structure of the world with human techniques.

Therefore, even with her small talent, she could produce results. This only made her misery worse. What others could do naturally, she couldn’t. Even if she could, she couldn’t match them. Despite her greater effort, she was quickly overtaken, which caused her frustration.

—If they are gold, I am lead. No matter how much I polish myself, I am just a pretty piece of lead. I can never become gold.

Still, she continued to struggle, trying to wring out something. As a Borgograd, as a member of a prestigious family that was granted the title of a magician, she continued to chant.

It was an impossible magical theory. A concept that defied reason. A world value that had no precedent. From her childhood, she had poured out this delusion, putting it into words, insisting that it was true, that the mundane couldn’t understand.

The title given to her was a charlatan, a quack, a fraud. Everyone mocked, pitied, and despised Fealart, but no one called her ordinary.

This was no different even when she came to study at the academy in the walled city of Galuamaria. She could be more herself than at home, but she couldn’t be called ordinary.

The novelty of being a foreign student and the name Borgograd. Many people approached her for these two reasons, but the only one left in Fealart’s surroundings, who was mocked in the shadows as a charlatan, was Hert Stanley.

—Ah, him. This is what people call gold, isn’t it?

Not only his overwhelming presence, but his talent to attract people, to make everything his own. Ah, how maddening. How much she had sought that talent. How much her body had desired it.

He was dazzling. His existence was too dazzling. It was as if looking at him would burn her eyes. But because of that, because of that, she thought she could lean on him a little, just a little.

It was dependence. It was closing off the path she had taken halfway. But what could she do? Without talent. What could she do, who had been given nothing?

—Zan!

The executioner’s head was cut off. The man in front of her, the adventurer who called himself Louis, did it. Burned and scorched by the flames, he was still trying to move, exposing himself to death.

That’s absurd. How could such a thing happen? Fealart, just before Louis was engulfed by the flames, in that moment when her mind was about to drift away, her eyes widened, and her black hair trembled.

—You, too, should be the same.

The man in front of her should be an ordinary person. At least, not a genius. He seemed to be wise, but there were signs of suffering in his body. He was the same, the same as her, she thought.

So, there’s no need to try so hard. It’s fine to give up. Leave the things you can’t reach to the geniuses, and ordinary people should just look down and live.

You’ll die. If you push yourself so hard, you’ll die. The price an ordinary person pays for chasing talent is that.

Ah, no, no, no.

If I could use magic, he wouldn’t have had to do such a reckless thing. There would have been a better way. If this is the end, and he dies—

—It’s nothing. It’s my fault. Fealart La Borgograd’s responsibility. He will die because of it.

She couldn’t accept it. She couldn’t accept such a result. The feeling that dominated her heart was one of regret.

Ah, he is undoubtedly an ordinary person. The world would call him lead or copper. But seeing him, seeing him risk his life to accomplish something, could my world still say such things?

Louis, that man, is giving it his all. And yet, the world seems to want to leave him with a pitiful end.

No, no, no. No, no, no. This is me. This is my ideal, someone who surpasses me. If he is not gold, if the world declares he is not—

—I will make him gold. Even if I have to rewrite this world.

Fealart’s mind twisted and began to construct a technique to distort the world. It was enough, she had given up, looked down, and let go enough.

So, no more. Fealart’s throat made a sound. The surroundings were on fire, and some people were trying to contain the fire with water bottles, but her body, if she stayed here, would not be safe.

But Fealart didn’t move a step. She had no intention of moving. She didn’t want to lose someone’s life because she couldn’t do anything more. Especially not someone who claimed to save her life and was actually dying in front of her. Absolutely not.

Let my throat dry, let my body burn if it must. If there is even a trace of talent in the depths of my body, give me strength, just for this moment. Fealart’s eyes were on Louis. He was still standing, wrapped in flames, holding a sword. Her vision narrowed. Everything else turned white. The walls, the floor, the other soldiers, even the flames were erased. Only Louis remained in her sight.

—May a violent wind extinguish the great fire on your body.

It was a magical incantation. Not a chant. It was called the breath of a sorcerer, the ultimate act of rewriting the world with one’s will.

Fealart generated a violent wind to cover Louis’s entire body and commanded it to attack him. There was no other way to knock off the flames that clung to his body and to keep the flames that were still running around the room from reaching him. Normally, his body would be torn apart by the flames, spewing blood, leaving nothing behind. A tiny storm.

But that couldn’t happen. Fealart couldn’t hurt Louis. It was a vow. The words of the vow she had declared before entering here.

—I and my magic will never harm Louis.

She couldn’t even breathe. The flow of magic was so intense. She couldn’t blink, her hands were trembling, and Fealart couldn’t tell if she was sane or insane.

But she never wanted to look away from his figure, which was torn to shreds but still faced forward.

The magic continued. It fluctuated at the limit, until Louis ran out of strength and fell.