Secrets of the Silent Witch - Volume 1 - Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

A Midnight Visitor and a Happy Feller

After finishing dinner in the dormitory, Monica returned to her attic room and sat down on her bed.

“I’m so tired…but I should change…”

Sluggishly, she got back up to her feet, removed her uniform, and smoothed out the wrinkles before hanging it up. Then she put on her hooded robe. While she was at it, maybe she’d let down her hair as well and put it into a loose pair of hanging braids.

She reached for the ribbon. But she ended up leaving it, instead moving her fingers across the hair Lana had so neatly styled for her.

Her classmates looked at her differently now that she was a student council member. Most of their gazes were jealous or suspicious, wondering how and why a girl like her had been selected. But Lana didn’t hate her. She’d talked to Monica the same way she always did.

…And that alone was enough to make Monica very happy.

It would be a waste to undo it, she thought, figuring she could wear it like this until it was time to bathe. She left it as it was and fell onto her bed face-first.

A moment later, there was a clattering at the window—Nero. After coming into the room, he politely used his front paw to close the window behind him.

“Good work today, Monica.”

He jumped onto Monica’s back as she lay facedown on the bed and pressed his front paws onto her shoulder blades. The pressure was a little weak for a massage, but the squish of his soft paws felt good. Absorbed in the sensation, Monica closed her eyes and breathed a sigh.

“How did your first day at student council go?” he asked.

“…Lord Ashley…made sure I didn’t slack off…”

“Ashley? Oh, I remember now. That chilly guy who’s always near the prince, yelling at everyone, right? Who never stops leaking ice mana? I know all about the prince and everyone around him! Amazing, right?”

“…But not their names, huh?”

“I’m awful at remembering human names. So anyway, he worked you pretty hard? Was it worse than Lou-lou-lou Lounpappa?”

Evidently, Nero had no intention of learning either Cyril’s name or Louis’s. Monica grinned wryly and answered, “Hmm… I would say Lord Ashley is about… one–one hundredth as strict as Mr. Louis.”

“What is that guy, a demon?”

Cyril’s speaking style was harsh and exhausting, but his instruction had been cordial. He’d made a list of everything she’d need, and when she didn’t understand something, he took the time to explain it. Compared with him, Louis is… She remembered those nightmarish days under his instruction and instantly deflated. But then she heard a knocking sound from the window.

She craned her neck to look at it and saw a bird perched on the sill. It was a beautiful, small bird with yellow and yellow-green plumage. Was it an ornamental pet that had run away from its noble master?

The bird continued to peck at the window with its beak and showed no signs of fear when Nero approached. On a hunch, Monica opened the window. The bird flew into the room, made a circuit around it, then landed on the floor. Eventually, small particles of light appeared around the bird, and it morphed into a woman wearing a maid’s outfit.

“You’re, um, Louis’s…”

The maid pinched the hem of her skirt, curtseyed. Then, in a monotone voice, she said, “It is I, Rynzbelfeid, contracted spirit of the Barrier Mage Louis Miller. Please call me Ryn.”

Monica unconsciously straightened her back—they’d just been speaking about Louis being a demon, after all.

Louis had probably sent Ryn, his contracted spirit, to get a report on how the mission was progressing.

“Um, er, you…you want a report on the, um, mission, right?”

“Yes, but first, I have a pressing message to deliver from Lord Louis.”

A pressing message? That meant it was something she needed to hear right away. What could it be? thought Monica and Nero with bated breath.

Ryn opened her mouth, face still impassive. “I, Louis Miller, am about to…”

“A-about to…?” repeated Monica.

“…become a dad.”

Monica was at a loss for words.

“Who caaares!” yelled Nero. “Why is that important?! It’s just a personal message!”

Nero began punching the floor with his front paw, but Ryn seemed unfazed.

“Yes,” she continued. “The mistress is now pregnant, and Lord Louis is quite the happy feller.”

“…F-feller?” repeated Monica. She hadn’t heard that term before.

“Yes. A happy feller,” repeated Ryn, face serious. “Apparently, in western areas of the kingdom, feller is another word for man. As such, a happy feller is a man brimming with cheer.”

“I, um, I see…”

“I have been wanting to use it ever since I saw it in a book. I’m quite moved to have finally gotten the chance.”

She claimed to be moved, but her face was still as impassive as always. Monica could never tell if she was joking.

“Um… Well… Please tell Mr. Louis and his wife, um, congratulations.”

“This is your chance to get angry, Monica! That wicked mage forced you to do this difficult mission, and now he’s enjoying himself! Get as angry as you want!” cried Nero, raising his paws to emphasize his point.

But Monica honestly wished them well. Louis aside, his wife, Rosalie, had taken very good care of Monica during her stay with them.

“I shall inform them.” Ryn nodded, producing a sheet of paper from somewhere on her person. “Now that the main issue is taken care of, I—”

“Wait! That was the main issue?!” exclaimed Nero.

Ryn ignored him and unfolded the paper on the desk. On it was a message scrawled in Louis’s handwriting.

“Dear Silent Witch. I am well aware of your incompetence regarding giving oral reports. Please record any important information on this paper and give it back to Ryn.”

Her fellow Sage knew her well. If she’d had to give her report orally, she’d have missed half the important details.

“I will be your messenger pigeon for the duration of this mission. If you have any reports or messages for Lord Louis, please write them down and give them to me. I will ensure that they are delivered at once.”

“…U-um, what if there’s no particular news to report?”

“Then I will remain here until there is.”

“I-I’ll start right away!”

Flustered, Monica moved her lamp to the desk. Fortunately, she had quite a bit to report—about how she’d resolved the flowerpot incident and been appointed to the student council. These were both important developments for her mission, so she could probably include them with pride.

Oh, and this… And that… More and more came to mind.

As she was thinking about what to write, Nero’s whiskers twitched, and he turned toward the window.

“Hey, Monica,” he said, “there’s something chilly behind the boys’ dorm.”

“…Huh?”

Monica was confused, not understanding what he was getting at. Then Ryn jumped in. “I am reading ice mana behind the boys’ dormitory. It seems to be an uncontrolled outpouring of mana rather than a conscious usage of magecraft.”

Monica had a bad feeling about this. A chill ran down her spine. The words ice mana made her immediately think of the council’s vice president, Cyril Ashley.

“…Um, Ryn, you said the reading is coming from outside the dorm, right? Not inside?”

“Yes, it’s coming from the outside and slowly moving away from the dormitories.”

If the reading was coming from Cyril, did that mean a serious student like him had snuck out of the dorm this late at night? Either way, as the second prince’s bodyguard, she couldn’t overlook any unusual incidents near the boys’ dorm.

“I’ll… I’ll go have a look…”

“Wait up, Monica. How are you planning to get out of the girls’ dorm? You can’t use flight magecraft, can you?”

“Ack!”

Nero was right. Flight magecraft required a good sense of balance in addition to excellent mana control, making it very difficult for Monica, who had disastrous motor skills. Experienced veterans could freely fly through the sky, but she could only jump a little higher in the air at most.

As Monica stared uneasily down from the window, Ryn made a modest suggestion.

“In that case, you may leave it to me. As a wind spirit, flight magecraft is my specialty.”

Come to think of it, Ryn had also been the one to carry her from her mountain cabin to the royal capital. She’s so dependable! thought Monica, looking up at Ryn with admiration.

With one foot already on the window frame, Ryn said, “Regarding the landing method, I have recently devised something new called a hurricane landing. I highly recommend it, as it presents a chance to experience the wonders of centrifugal force with your entire body.”

“Th-that’s, um… You’re…joking, right?” asked Monica cautiously.

“……”

Ryn looked at her without saying a word. Her eyes, the color of fresh grass, were unclouded. They were so clear, in fact, that Monica was a little frightened.

Snatching up Nero and holding him to her chest, she cried, “Please just make it safe!”

* * *

Felix was sitting in his dorm room drinking black tea. His spirit, Wildianu, was currently in the form of a white lizard. He poked his head out of Felix’s pocket and said, “Sir?”

Felix replaced his cup on the saucer, then let Wildianu climb up on his fingertips.

“…Is it Cyril?”

“Yes. I feel powerful ice mana outside the dorm.”

“Can you pinpoint it?”

“…I apologize, sir. I can only give you a general direction.”

Wildianu sounded contrite, but this was something they couldn’t do anything about. His forte as a water spirit was illusion and distraction, and his detection abilities were limited.

“What shall we do, then? I can’t very well leave him be… Perhaps I’ll go take a look.”

Felix rose, donning the jacket that had been hanging over the back of his chair.

* * *

My head… It hurts…

Outside the boys’ dormitory, the figure of a young man could be seen walking, his gait unsteady. He was slender, wore the uniform of Serendia Academy, and sported long silver hair that shone in the moonlight—it was the student council vice president, Cyril Ashley.

His fair cheeks were slick with an unhealthy sweat. Scrunching up his face in pain, he headed away from the dormitory and entered the adjacent forest.

“…Urgh, ah…”

Throb. Each time the sharp pain ran through his head, the mana in his body surged out of control. Cyril quickly said a chant and put his hand on a nearby tree. Instantly, the tree was covered in ice.

Cyril Ashley had a condition known as mana hyperabsorption.

Humans possess a vessel for storing mana. When that mana depletes, such as through the use of magecraft, the vessel slowly refills itself by absorbing mana from outside the body. However, humans are not able to store more mana than the vessel can hold. Once it is full, the body rejects any further mana, ceasing to absorb it.

But that was not the case for Cyril. Even after his vessel had filled, his body still believed more mana was required and continued to absorb it. This condition was referred to as mana hyperabsorption. An excess of mana could damage the body and lead to mana poisoning; therefore, every once in a while, he would have to release it.

Groaning, Cyril clutched the broach at his neck, which secured his tie. The broach was actually a magical item that forcibly expelled the excess mana in his body. With its help, he should be able to go about his daily life without issue. But ever since the previous day, he had been feeling unwell.

If he used magecraft, the amount of mana in his body would decrease. That would make it easier for a time, but soon his body would start absorbing more.

The absorption also appeared to be taking place much faster than usual. Too fast. No matter how many spells he cast, he couldn’t seem to run out of mana. In fact, it seemed like he was absorbing it faster than he could use it up.

He dropped to his knees, curled in on himself, and grasped his magical broach like a lifeline. Marquess Highown had given this to him—it was his treasure.

Cyril wasn’t originally from the marquess’s family. Because Marquess Highown had only been blessed with a daughter, he had selected Cyril as the most talented of his distant relatives and adopted him.

Though Cyril’s family technically shared Marquess Highown’s bloodline, they didn’t even have a noble rank—they were at the bottom of the bottom. Cyril had been chosen anyway. There could be only one reason: his talent.

Cyril, who had been cooped up in his town, attending the local school, had been proud to be chosen for his talent. He’d entered Lord Ashley’s house full of pride and joy, and what he had found when he arrived was the marquess’s daughter, his younger stepsister.

House Highown was called the Lineage of the Wise. His new little sister was possessed of vast intelligence, as befitting such a nickname. She was far, far more talented than Cyril.

Why, then, had he become the marquess’s foster child?

On the verge of losing his sense of purpose, he desperately immersed himself in every field of study there was. But no matter how much he did, he could never close the gap with her. In fact, the more he learned, the more he realized how wide a gap it was.

Deciding instead to devise a weapon of his own, he’d studied magecraft—only to be brought low by his reckless practice and the mana hyperabsorption sickness it had given him.

The more he struggled, the further he drifted from his ideal. It made him feel hopeless—and that was when his foster father, Marquess Highown, had given him this magic broach.

Keeping this on him would suppress his mana hyperabsorption—that was what the marquess had told him when he had gifted him the broach. To Cyril, it had felt like the marquess was accepting him, recognizing his place in the family. He had been overjoyed. He wanted to meet the marquess’s expectations. And more than anything else…

I want……to believe in me.

Cyril didn’t have time to be crawling about like this. But despite his wishes, his body kept absorbing mana. He quickly chanted and unleashed an ice spell. The ground before him froze over, but as soon as he felt the slight physical relief, his body started absorbing mana again.

His mana absorption rate had changed at times when he was unhealthy, but this pace was abnormal.

Why? Why? Why…?! I need to chant again to use another spell, he thought before his head throbbed again.

His pulse started fluctuating, and his breathing grew ragged. He couldn’t chant like this. He couldn’t use magecraft.

“Ah…guh…”

Cyril clawed at the ground with his hands, his body convulsing and covered in a cold sweat.

Eventually, everything went dark, and his consciousness began to fade.

But before he completely blacked out, he heard a cat’s meow.

* * *

With the help of Ryn’s flight magic, she, Monica, and Nero had escaped Monica’s dorm room. From there, they had followed Cyril’s trail of mana into the forest, where they found him under a tree. He was writhing in pain, firing off ice spells at random. Clearly, he was not well.

Ryn tilted her head in a gesture of confusion, though her face was still impassive.

“I hadn’t realized students these days secretly practiced magecraft in the middle of the night. How diligent.”

“No, um… I think Lord Ashley is experiencing mana poisoning, um, from mana hyperabsorption illness.”

“Mana poisoning?” Ryn and Nero repeated together. Neither of them seemed familiar with the concept.

“W-well, a human body has low mana resistance compared to spirits or dragons, so if they absorb too much, they become unwell… It’s called mana poisoning… At worst, it can result in death.”

Monica had seen several people with the same symptoms before, when she’d been going to Minerva’s Mage Training Institution. Mana hyperabsorption was divided into five stages based on the severity, and Cyril’s symptoms seemed to indicate he was at the highest of those.

“Someone like Lord Ashley, who naturally absorbs mana easily, probably uses magecraft frequently to decrease his store of mana, or he wears a magic item that absorbs the excess for him…”

That would explain why Cyril regularly converted mana into chilly air and released it and why he’d been filling that glass with pieces of ice. That was how he expelled excess mana from his system. The fact that he kept fiddling with the broach at his neck likely meant it was a magic item for absorbing mana.

After hearing Monica’s explanation, Ryn made a loop with her thumb and index finger, then peered through it at Cyril. “I can see the flow of mana. His broach is collecting the mana expelled from his body and then returning it.”

“I knew it…! The magic item is malfunctioning…!”

The item was doing the opposite of what it was supposed to do. They had to get the broach off him as soon as possible.

But if Monica drew near, he’d probably demand to know what she was doing here. She had the hood of her robe up, but that wouldn’t be enough to fool him if she got close enough to touch the broach.

As she hesitated, Nero gave a heroic-sounding meow. “Just leave it to me!”

Nero sprang out from the trees and jumped on Cyril, grabbing the broach at the boy’s neck with his mouth.

“What? A cat…?! Stop… Don’t touch that!”

Cyril swung his arms around, trying to resist, but Nero easily evaded them and removed the broach before jumping away.

“Give it… Give it back!” screamed Cyril hysterically, eyes bloodshot, before he began to quickly chant a spell.

A moment later, a wall of ice was blocking Nero’s path.

Urgh?! Flustered, Nero changed direction and tried to flee into the forest…but the wall of ice rapidly expanded to block that way, too. The next thing he knew, the wall had surrounded him and Cyril.

Oh, damn… And I haaate the cold!

“Give it back… Give that back…” Cyril closed in on Nero, eyes bloodshot. Nero could hear hollow groans between his ragged breaths. “That’s… My father…gave it…to me… Need him to…accept…acknowledge me…” His eyes were clouded with obsession and had lost the light of sanity.

Nero couldn’t help but pity the boy. Why are humans all such total morons? he thought. He knew this human probably had his own reasons for being so attached to the broach. But those reasons didn’t have anything to do with Nero.

Cyril quickly chanted a spell. More than a dozen ice arrows appeared in the air around him, floating. Each one was the thickness of a person’s arm—they were more like stakes than arrows. Either way, getting hit by one of those was going to hurt. A lot.

“He acknowledged me. My stepfather…the prince, too…so then, why…?” Cyril’s fevered, hollow gaze was fixed on Nero. But it wasn’t Nero he saw. Instead, as the mana ravaged his body, he was hallucinating someone else, someone Nero didn’t know and couldn’t see.

“…Why…?”

His handsome features twisted in pain and what looked like sadness. “Why…won’t you acknowledge me…Mother…?”

Suddenly, the wall of ice collapsed without a sound. That, along with the ice arrows floating around him, went up in flames and burned. The ice he’d produced melted within seconds, and the flames that had melted it, as if possessed of a will, coalesced into one spot until they transformed into a great, fiery serpent.

On the other side of the collapsed ice wall stood a small witch, hood pulled low over her eyes, standing with the white moon at her back.

This was the master of unchanted magecraft and one of the Seven Sages—Monica Everett, the Silent Witch.

* * *

Though the blood of House Highown had run through Cyril’s father’s veins, he hadn’t possessed a noble rank, and their family was far from affluent. But his father was full of pride over his noble connection, refusing to find proper work and behaving high-handedly toward Cyril’s mother.

Cyril had hated it and had always sided with his mother. He’d done what he could to try and make her happy. But whenever his mother looked at him—at his noble face that so closely resembled his father’s—she would always frown in sadness and avert her eyes.

Eventually, his father had drowned himself in alcohol and died. It was around that time that someone from House Highown had come to speak with Cyril about his potential adoption.

Cyril had jumped for joy. He could make things easier for his mother! He could make her happy!

Seeing her son’s innocent happiness, his mother had heaved a sigh and said, “You really are a noble, just as I’d thought.”

No. Mother, I’m your son.

But he couldn’t say those words, no matter how hard he tried.

* * *

In front of Cyril stood a hooded figure. The figure was small; he couldn’t imagine it was an adult. But when the person lifted their right arm, the flaming serpent that had melted his ice wall coiled around them.

The black cat that had stolen Cyril’s broach gave a meow before running over to the hooded figure. The person picked up the cat, then plucked the broach out of his mouth.

“…Does that cat belong to you?” growled Cyril.

The hooded figure didn’t look at him, however. They were focused on the broach.

Their attitude was making Cyril more and more irritated. “Give me back that broach!” he exclaimed, chanting a spell in his rage—one to create chains of ice.

When Cyril snapped his fingers, his ice chains would wrap themselves tight around the hooded figure’s limbs…but a moment later, his chains fell to pieces.

“…Huh?”

The hooded figure hadn’t done anything. They hadn’t even chanted. And yet, the ice chains had shattered like brittle glass, their fragments glistening and scattering across the ground.

Thinking he’d made a mistake with the formula, Cyril chanted the spell a second time. But the result was no different—they collapsed as soon as they materialized.

“Why, why…? You… Is this your doing?”

The hooded figure remained silent and stared at the broach, as though Cyril wasn’t even worth a look.

…It was eerie.

“Answer me!” he demanded, creating arrows of ice and shooting them at the hooded figure.

But right before they connected, they were engulfed in flames and melted away. Cyril assumed the person had a friend nearby. He couldn’t explain it otherwise. After all, the hooded figure had never chanted anything. And there was no way they could have nullified Cyril’s spells without doing so.

“Damn it… Damn it…!”

He created a lot more ice arrows this time, then fired them in random directions. If the hooded figure had an accomplice, he wanted to smoke them out. But the figure casually raised a hand—and with just that, the ice arrows burst into flame and melted away like they’d never existed.

What…? What is that…?

It wasn’t that difficult to use a shield to block randomly fired arrows. But to shoot every single one of them down? The level of technique required was unimaginable. The magecraft Cyril had just witnessed, however, had done exactly that. What’s more, once the flames had melted the ice, they had disappeared without burning the nearby trees. That was a clear indication of how exact the magecraft had been. Each one of the flames had been constructed with terrifyingly precise calculations. And that many? Within seconds?

What…what—what is even happening? What am I seeing?

Someone unfamiliar with magecraft would have been distracted by the giant flaming serpent, since it had such a flashy appearance. But anyone who had even so much as tried their hand at a spell would have known how unusual those tiny flames that had melted the ice arrows had been.

Shields were the fundamental defense in mage combat—in other words, defensive barriers. But the person in front of him hadn’t used a shield at all, suggesting an overwhelming difference in technique between them and Cyril.

“What…what are you…?” Cyril abandoned the idea of delicate control. He converted all the mana he could into ice-cold air and rammed it into the hooded figure. “Freeze! Freeze, damn you! I’ll turn you into a silent ice sculpture!” he wailed hysterically.

The cold wave with Cyril at its center began to freeze everything in sight. The ground, the trees—and even Cyril himself. What did he care about frostbite on his limbs? He continued at full force.

Then, however, he noticed it. The cold wave he had created with all his power was being pushed back—no, it was being diverted, straight up into the air.

The hooded figure was redirecting Cyril’s cold wave with wind magecraft.

Simultaneously, the frost stuck to Cyril’s limbs began to flake off and fall to the ground. A barrier had been cast on his body to protect him from the cold. Cyril had used this spell without concern for himself—it wasn’t him creating the barrier.

Then are they doing it…?

If the hooded figure was using a wind spell to redirect his cold wave, and a defensive barrier was protecting him physically… In other words, they were likely using two advanced spells at the same time.

The hooded figure’s accomplice was probably hiding somewhere nearby, quietly chanting their spells. That had to be it.

But…what if that wasn’t the case?

If that hooded figure was using this much magecraft by themselves…then they had to be some kind of monster.

The color drained from Cyril’s face, and he began to tremble. The feeling of excitement and intoxication that had come with using his spells had faded, and his skin grew pale.

“Ah…” His vision hazed over, and his body went completely limp. He’d reached the end of his mana. “No such thing as can’t… I… I’m…”

Cyril gritted his teeth, trying to retain consciousness. But it was no use. His body became heavy, and his vision darkened.

“I…I need to…live up to…”

Right before passing out, Cyril saw something—the hooded figure running toward him, hopelessly clumsy, before extending a small hand.

* * *

“A-a-a-are you…are you all right…?!” exclaimed Monica as she ran over to Cyril. She set his head on her lap and began to examine him. He was unconscious, and his pulse was a bit weak, but he would survive. A little rest and he’d be back on his feet.

“…Thank goodness.”

In its early stages, mana poisoning gave one a strong sense of excitement when using magecraft. At later stages, it could cause hallucinations, heart palpitations, and dizziness, and at worst, the mana would eat away at a person’s body until they died. The fastest way to cure someone’s mana poisoning was to have them use magecraft until their mana ran out while still in the early stages of illness.

“Excellent job.”

Ryn appeared—she’d been watching from the shadows—and looked at the broach in Monica’s hands. “Is the item malfunctioning, as you expected?”

“Yes… A flaw has appeared in the formula… I don’t think it had a protection formula on it.”

Magical items were extremely sensitive. They were, quite literally, items that guided the flow of mana. If the mana wasn’t being guided by a correct formula, then it would likely malfunction. Therefore, generally, one would overlay a protection formula in order to protect it.

However, Cyril’s broach had no such measure.

“Magic items without a protection formula frequently malfunction when the bearer receives a strong magical attack.”

“So it’s a defective product?!” cried Nero, waving his tail in irritation. “Geez! So who was cutting corners?”

“Um… There’s a maker’s mark engraved on the back of it…”

Monica flipped over the broach and read the name. Her expression soured. “…Emanuel Darwin, the Gem Mage.”

“Who’s that? Huh? Anyone know him?”

As Monica struggled to answer, Ryn cut in, her tone matter-of-fact.

“He, like the Silent Witch, is recorded as one of the Seven Sages. Not a friend of Lord Louis. Part of the second prince’s faction. According to Lord Louis, he is a ‘money-grubber.’”

After a few seconds of silence, Nero spoke up.

“Do any of the Seven Sages have their head on straight?”

The remark struck home. Monica put a hand to her chest and groaned before overwriting the broach with a new magical formula.

This sort of spell, which bestowed mana upon matter, was called imbuement magecraft. Monica hadn’t done any focused study on this subject, but the formula on this broach wasn’t very complex in its construction, so she had an easy time revising it.

In contrast, the broach Louis had made for Felix was an extremely advanced magical item—not only did it track the bearer’s whereabouts, it would also detect danger and create a defensive barrier if the wearer was to come under attack.

On the other hand, this broach was made only for absorbing and emitting mana.

Maybe I’ll add in a self-regulating formula to control how much mana is absorbed based on how much he has in his body at any given time.

Whenever Monica saw magical formulas like this, she got the urge to improve them. It was a bad habit. Still, if the broach’s functions changed significantly out of nowhere, Cyril would be confused. So Monica corrected the flaw in the magical formula, embedded a self-regulation formula, and stopped there. Then she overlaid two protective formulas. That should prevent future mishaps.

As she put the broach back on Cyril’s collar, Nero looked up at her mischievously.

“Why do all that for nothing, hmm? You could wring a couple of gold coins out of him just for repairing it, right?”

“…Well, that’s…”

Monica paused to get her words in order. She couldn’t help but be a little bit jealous of Cyril. He was so proud of the fact that someone else had acknowledged him—and he worked diligently to gain that acknowledgment, sparing no effort.

“Having mana hyperabsorption comes with various issues, but if you learn to control it, a mage can turn it to their advantage.”

If a person’s rate of mana absorption was high, that also meant they could restore mana quickly. And faster recovery could grant an advantage over other mages during prolonged battles.

Actually, there were even mages who tried to induce it by purposely putting themselves through grueling training to try and raise their mana regeneration rate.

In other words, this condition of Cyril’s had could easily be considered a talent.

“…I didn’t want…him to see his talent as a curse.”

Monica was never able to take pride in her own abilities. She couldn’t help but think of them as a curse. But she didn’t want Cyril to end up like her. She wanted him to be able to puff out his chest and be confident. To have enough pride to make up for Monica’s lack of it.

“Hey, uh, by the way,” said Nero, poking Cyril’s cheek with his front paw. “Now what? Leave him here to sleep it off?”

He had raised a good point. Though it wasn’t yet winter, Monica hesitated to leave someone in his condition out sleeping in the forest.

As she was wondering what to do, Ryn raised her hand. “I can use a gust of wind to blow his body back into the boys’ dormitory.”

“I’d rather do something a little less violent…”

“Then I’ll engulf him in a tornado and send him flying back to the dorm—”

“That sounds even worse!”

Still, even if Ryn was to sneak into the boys’ dorm using flight magic, she wouldn’t be able to find Cyril’s room. Monica was at a loss.

At last, Nero gave a dramatic sigh and leaped into the air. He did a flip before landing, and a moment later, he was a black cat no more. In his place stood a young man with black hair and golden eyes.

“I’ll go carry him to the gate of the boys’ dorm. If I leave him lying on the ground close by, someone’s bound to notice, right?”

Monica groaned. “Do you really have to leave him lying there?”

“Wouldn’t make sense for me to sneak inside and get us both caught, would it?” said Nero, roughly lifting Cyril’s body and throwing him over his shoulder.

“Um, Nero, can you at least put him on your back…?”

Nero ignored her and lightly kicked off the ground into a sprint.

Eventually, his silhouette melted into the dark forest.