Secrets of the Silent Witch - Volume 3 - Chapter Pr

PROLOGUE

Bernie Jones and Everett the Mute

Bernie Jones was the second son of Count Ambard, a noble renowned in the Kingdom of Ridill.

In aristocratic society, any sons past the first were treated as spare children. And while Bernie’s older brother may have been incompetent, he’d still be the one to inherit the family headship.

That, however, was no reason for Bernie to sulk and abandon his studies. If a second son couldn’t succeed his father, then he need only make a name for himself in other ways. So Bernie had studied like mad, eventually enrolling in Minerva’s, the top institution for up-and-coming mages, at the age of ten.

His goal was to become a high mage—and not just any high mage. He wanted to be one of the Seven Sages, the greatest mages in the kingdom. Becoming a Sage would earn him the title of count of magic, equal in rank to a normal count. A count of magic, however, had even more influence; they were said to serve as aides to the king himself. That would put even his older brother to shame.

His ferocious studies bore fruit, and within half a year of his enrollment, his grades stood at the very top of the student body.

I’m not like my brother. I have talent.

Even a second son had ways of moving up in the world. Back then, he never doubted for a moment that one’s path in life could be carved out through effort alone.

When Bernie was thirteen, something happened.

He’d just returned to his own classroom after attending a lesson held in a separate room when he noticed a few boys standing in the corner, surrounding someone.

In the middle of their group was a petite female student who had only recently transferred in. Her name was Monica Everett; they’d nicknamed her Everett the Mute.

She was a plain, boring, gloomy girl who always had her eyes trained on her feet. She almost never spoke in front of other people, and even when called on during class, she’d just mumble, unable to answer. Basically, she was the type to quickly get left behind and drop out.

It seemed like the boys were playing a game to see who could get her to speak. One of them picked up a spider from the windowsill and brought it to Monica’s face.

“Hey, someone pry her mouth open!” he called out. “We’ll shove this in! That’ll make her scream!” Another boy forced Monica’s mouth open while the first carried the spider even closer.

Bernie could no longer stand by and watch this happen. He pointed his index finger at the group and uttered a short chant. His spell created a small flame, about the size of a fingernail, which scorched the sleeve of one of the boys harassing Monica.

“Gyah!” the boy cried out in surprise. “That’s hot!”

“What’s going on?!” exclaimed another. “Who did that?”

“What exactly are you all doing?” asked Bernie coldly.

The boys glared at him, disdain evident on their faces.

“We were just getting to the good part,” said one. “Stay out of our way, honors kid.”

Most students attending Minerva’s belonged to the aristocracy. These boys were no exception—they were nobles. The subject of their torture, on the other hand, was a commoner. At this academy, people like her had two choices: obey the nobles or endure their harassment.

Bernie, however, held different beliefs, and they led him to speak coldly to the male students. “Inflicting violence on the weak? You’re an embarrassment to the nobility. It’s disgraceful.”

His scathing words enraged the boys. Bernie snorted at them, then began quick-chanting as he pushed up the rim of his glasses. Arrows of fire rose near the bullies, surrounding them.

Quick-chanting was a difficult technique said to be a requirement for becoming a high mage. Bernie was the only one in his grade who could do it. What’s more, almost none of the students at the school—across all grade levels—was able to perform it without the use of a staff like he could.

As the boys backed away from this overwhelming display, Bernie snickered.

“Do you think you’re any match for me?” he taunted. “I have the best practical grades at school, remember?”

The boys swallowed their objections. Bitter looks on their faces, they walked past Bernie and left the classroom.

Bernie snapped his fingers to cancel out his fire arrows, then looked down at Monica, who was sitting on the floor.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

She didn’t answer him; instead, she simply looked down at the floor through her disheveled bangs. Her eyes were on the spider the boys had tossed aside a moment ago. Eventually, it scuttled out the window and escaped.

Awkwardly, Monica looked up at Bernie and mumbled, “Um, th-thank you…”

Her speech was stilted, but apparently Everett the Mute wasn’t mute after all. Privately surprised, he listened as she went on to say something that caught his attention.

“F-for saving, um, that s-spider.”

“Hold on a minute,” said Bernie. He hadn’t helped the spider—he’d helped Monica. Why did she feel the need to thank him for saving an insect? His eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he stared at the girl.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “I hate bugs. I didn’t save the spider. I saved you.”

Monica blinked slowly as her head tilted to the side in puzzlement. For a few moments, she seemed lost in thought, searching for the right words until eventually she began—very carefully—to speak.

“I’m not, er, scared of, um, spiders,” she said.

“What?” he asked, baffled.

Monica’s shoulders jolted. She looked down and started playing with her fingers.

The more Bernie looked at her, the more impassive she seemed. Her features were plain and unaffected, and while she’d probably be as charming as anyone else if she smiled, her face stayed still as a stone, save for her slow, occasional blinking.

Monica remained silent and expressionless for a few more moments but eventually began to mumble again, barely moving her lips. “But if the spider had gotten into my mouth, um, I would have felt really bad for it… I’m happy that you, um, saved it before th-that happened.”

“What kind of logic is that?” asked Bernie, scratching his cheek. Then he asked her something that had been on his mind. “And the way you talk is quite awkward. Did you come to this kingdom from somewhere else?”

Monica shook her head back and forth, face still expressionless. Apparently, she wasn’t a foreigner.

“I’m sorry…,” she muttered. “I did, um, practice speaking, but…” She trailed off, then took a big gulp of air before exhaling it again. It sounded like she had somehow forgotten to breathe. “There was a long, um, period of time when…well, I didn’t talk to anyone…so I’m, er, not really good at it…”

She’d gone a long time without talking to anyone. So she has a reason, thought Bernie. Judging by how thin she was—far too thin for a thirteen-year-old—and her awful complexion, he could hazard a guess that her circumstances had been less than ideal.

Bernie bent down before her and extended a hand. “Can you stand?”

Monica’s eyes widened as she looked at his outstretched palm. Then, abruptly, she clutched her uniform pocket. “Um, I don’t…I don’t have much, um, money…”

He hadn’t expected that. His mouth twitched.

“I hope you think a little more highly of me than that,” he said. “I am a proud member of House Ambard. I would never pester you for money.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet.

Even then, she seemed somehow vacant—like a puppet being tugged around by a puppeteer. Bernie brushed off some of the dirt on her uniform, and her eyes widened a little more. The shift in her expression was infinitesimal, but it made him oddly happy to know he’d caused some sort of change.

“You’re really a piece of work, aren’t you?”

“…I’m, um, sorry…”

“Shouldn’t you be saying thank you instead?”

Monica’s lips squirmed a little. It was far too minuscule a movement to be considered a smile, but the corners of her mouth had definitely lifted.

“…Thank…you.”

When he heard those words, Bernie felt a faint sense of satisfaction in his heart.

“Bernie! Bernie, help meee!”

“What is it today?”

“This essay question on our history homework—I don’t understand it at all…,” said Monica, showing him the page in her textbook.

Ever since rescuing her, Bernie had started helping her more frequently, and she’d come to rely on him. After all, she was a helplessly dull, clumsy girl who would trip over nothing, whose hair was constantly a mess, and who was always losing her possessions. There was certainly no shortage of things to help her with.

Although Monica’s grades rivaled Bernie’s in magic formulae and mathematics, her general-education grades were awful—history and linguistics in particular caused her no end of trouble.

“What am I going to do with you?” He sighed as he opened his notebook and began his explanation.

Once he’d finished, Monica muttered, “Bernie, you’re amazing.”

“This stuff is basic,” he replied casually, though he rather liked having Monica look at him with such respect.

Lately, Monica’s speech seemed to be growing more fluid and her face more expressive. When she was in trouble, she’d come crying to him, and whenever he taught her something, a little smile like a wildflower would bloom on her face.

This made Bernie feel good about himself. He’d brought about this change in her.

“Thanks, Bernie,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

Little exchanges like these never failed to fill him with pride.

…But the truth was, he knew what was going on. Faintly anyway.

He knew Monica’s hair was so messy because her classmates had cut it against her will. He knew she lost things so often because they stole and hid them from her.

Bernie pretended not to see any of it, though, and continued to help her. Unconsciously, perhaps, he wanted her to be isolated. For the more isolated she became, the more she would rely on him.

And as long as she relied on him, he could remain the ever-dependable honor student in her eyes.

As a school for mages-in-training, it stood to reason that Minerva’s taught practical magecraft. However, it forbade students from trying it until six months after they had enrolled. When misused or mishandled, a powerful art like magecraft could be disastrous and lead to all sorts of tragedies. Thus, students would study the basics for at least half a year before moving on to practice.

Bernie had been at Minerva’s for three years; he could use most intermediate-level spells and even a few higher-level ones. More importantly, though, he was the only one in his grade who had learned quick-chanting. Because of that, his practical scores were unrivaled.

Monica, on the other hand, was a relatively new student and had only recently begun practicing her fundamentals. Her understanding of magic formulae was incredibly high, and Bernie was convinced that as long as she could control her mana, she would catch up to him in a flash.

But on the first day of practice, Monica stood in front of the lectern and said nothing.

“When will you be starting, hmm?”

“…Ah… Um… Ummm…”

Macragan urged her on, but Monica’s lips only trembled. She looked like she was about to pass out.

Bernie had helped her practice before class. Her formula construction was perfect, and she had a solid grasp of the fundamentals of mana control. There was no way a beginner spell like this was beyond her abilities.

And yet class ended before she managed to chant a single word, much less cast the spell.

As their break began, Bernie approached Monica. “What was all that?!” he demanded. “Your theory was perfect before!”

Monica, on the verge of tears, hunched over and played with her fingers. “B-but there were so many people around, and, um, I’m scared…of talking…”

At last, it dawned on Bernie. While Monica had gotten better at speaking around him, she hardly said a word to anyone else.

“I’m really…really scared of talking…in front of people. I’m scared of them all looking at me the moment I say something… I’m scared of their eyes…”

“At this rate, though, you’ll never be able to use magecraft.”

Monica sniffled and hung her head. She must have been frustrated, too, just like he was. He’d seen up close how seriously she’d devoted herself to her studies.

I wish I could do something for her, he thought—and then a plan began to form in his head. “I know,” he said. “If you aren’t good at talking in front of people, you just have to reduce your chants.”

“…Huh?”

“I’ll teach you how to do quick-chanting. If you learn it, you’ll only need to speak for half as long. That’ll be easier for you, right?”

Monica’s gaze began to drift, and she fiddled with her fingers some more. “B-but…quick-chanting…is something used by high mages, right? Would I even…be able to do it?”

“I know you can,” he insisted. “Because I know how hard you’ve been studying the basics.”

She was treated like a dunce by her peers, but her understanding of magic formulae was the best he’d ever seen. With her intellect, she should be able to figure out even formulae used by high mages in the blink of an eye. Her talent could rival his own.

“I’m sure you’ll pick up quick-chanting in a flash,” continued Bernie, his tone more impassioned than usual.

Monica flushed. Then she grinned and said, “Okay… I’ll, um, do my best. Eh-heh-heh. You always know what to do, Bernie.”

“Hmph. Of course I do,” he replied, puffing out his chest. “I’m gonna be a Sage one day.”

Monica smiled and nodded. “Yeah. I know you will. You’re amazing, after all.”

Monica’s earnest praise tickled Bernie’s heart.

Bernie had never once doubted he had a bright future ahead of him.

…Not yet anyway.

“Okay! Next. Monica Everett, please begin.”

It was Monica’s second day of practical magecraft. The other students snickered, saying class would probably end before the dunce could do anything.

Bernie watched the others in anticipation. Everyone was going to be so surprised when they saw the girl they called a dunce unveil her quick-chanting abilities!

After being made to stand in front of the lectern, Monica’s eyes remained fixed on the flame of a candle in front of her. The first task was to blow out the flame with wind magecraft. But even if you couldn’t extinguish it, just making it flicker was generally good enough.

She closed her eyes and pointed her finger at the candle’s flame. Bernie watched with bated breath for the shortened chant to pass her lips.

But Monica’s mouth didn’t move.

Had the difficulty of quick-chanting left her more nervous than before? For a moment, he even wondered if she’d fainted standing up—but just then, he heard a whooshing of wind.

The very tip of the candle at the end of Monica’s finger popped off, severed by an invisible blade. The flame itself, however, fell to the base of the candlestick holder and continued to burn.

As everyone was trying to figure out what had happened, Monica’s eyes cracked open a little, and she pointed at the flame at the base of the holder.

A moment later, about a cup’s worth of water formed above the candlestick, wrapping itself around the flame and putting it out. But the display didn’t end there—the water remained, a sphere now floating steadily in midair. Without a word, Monica waved her finger, and the sphere became a small snake.

By that point, everyone knew what had happened. Monica was using magecraft without chanting.

They were all speechless, their eyes glued to the scene in front of them—to the unprecedented display of unchanted magecraft, something no one had ever seen before.

And the one who had mastered it was the dunce who could barely speak in front of others—Everett the Mute.

Bernie watched in a daze.

This is absurd. Absurd…

He’d only taught Monica quick-chanting. He’d never seen—never even heard of unchanted magecraft.

I didn’t teach her anything like that!

All magecraft, right down to beginner spells like one that produced a little bit of wind, required the caster to calculate a formula, then chant to arrange their mana. Without following this process, a spell wouldn’t even activate.

Perhaps if someone could instantaneously find the optimal solution to such a complex formula, they’d be able to forgo chanting. But that was just an armchair theory. No mage, at any point in history, had ever possessed such a mind.

But… But she…!

The realization of that armchair theory—a spectacular feat that would leave its mark on history—was happening right before his eyes.

“It’s a miracle,” someone muttered.

They were right. It was a miracle. And the one performing it was a girl who had started learning magecraft a mere six months ago: Everett the Mute—Monica Everett. She was a true genius, beyond what anyone could hope to reach with effort and hard work alone.

As this dawned on Bernie, he was overcome with hopelessness.

He watched Monica, saw everyone’s eyes on her, and felt both envy and a dark anger.

If he hadn’t been here, she would have been all alone in this class! Without him, she couldn’t have done anything!

Bernie ground his teeth. He felt betrayed, and behind the lenses of his glasses, jealousy burned in his eyes.

Monica’s environment drastically changed after her ability was revealed. She became a scholarship student and was assigned to Professor Gideon Rutherford’s laboratory; the man was the highest authority at Minerva’s and had taught several students who had gone on to be selected as Sages. The word on everyone’s lips was that Monica would eventually join their number.

Professor Rutherford began to give her direct, personalized instruction, and Monica effectively ceased to show up in normal classes. Naturally, that meant she had fewer chances to see Bernie, too.

He hadn’t spoken a word to her since the day she’d used unchanted magecraft. She’d tried to talk to him several times, but he always ignored her. It was at that point that Bernie’s idea of his perfect future started to twist and distort.

Even if he ignored her, he’d still hear of her exploits whether he liked it or not—about her developing a new magic formula, or successfully summoning a Spirit King, or whatever. One of the most popular stories was about how she’d used unchanted magecraft during combat training against the school’s biggest problem child and overwhelmed him in a matter of seconds. That incident proved that her incredible talents could be used in battle, as well.

Bernie began training with reckless abandon, trying to somehow close the gap between his abilities and her genius. But as a result, he contracted mana poisoning and had to be sent to the infirmary.

Writhing in pain as the mana ate away at his body, he cursed her. She’d caused all his suffering. She was the reason things had gone wrong for him. Everything—everything was her fault.

If it wasn’t for Monica, my life would have been perfect!

Two years had passed since Monica and Bernie first met. That winter, as Bernie turned fifteen, Monica was selected as one of the Seven Sages.

Minerva’s erupted into a frenzy over the appointment of the youngest Sage in history—things were especially lively on the day of her induction ceremony and parade. But to Bernie’s ears, all their cheers and admiration were nothing more than deeply irritating noise.

Even as nothing more than a spare son, Bernie had believed that if he mastered magecraft and became a Sage, others would acknowledge him. And he’d never doubted he could do it.

But he hadn’t succeeded—Monica had. Bernie hadn’t even made it to the qualifying competition.

He could hear voices praising Monica from every corner of the school. Unable to tolerate it, he was in the process of searching for a place away from the crowds when someone called his name from behind.

“Bernie!”

The youthful voice hadn’t changed at all in two years. He’d never mistake it. Gritting his teeth, Bernie turned around and saw Monica awkwardly jogging toward him.

As one of the Seven Sages, she was no longer a student of Minerva’s. She wore the gorgeous robes embroidered in gold thread that only Sages were permitted to wear. In her hand she held a large decorative staff—again, one that only Sages carried.

She clutched the staff to her chest and fidgeted with her fingers. Her actions were childlike, she was too thin for her age, and her face was youthful and immature. Monica was no different now than when Bernie had known her.

Except she was no longer Everett the Mute. She was one of the Seven Sages—the Silent Witch.

“Bernie, I, um, I’ve always wanted to, well, thank you—” Her face flushed as she did her best to put her words in the right order.

Bernie coldly cut her off. “Why? To make fun of me?” he asked.

“…Huh?” Monica froze.

Oh, how good it felt. He smiled darkly. He wanted to see her face twist with hurt.

“Thank me?” he continued. “Ha. Are you trying to be sarcastic? You’ve been looking down on me this whole time, haven’t you?”

“Wh-what?” she stammered. “No… No, I haven’t. I’ve always considered you…a close friend…”

“You’re not my friend.”

Monica’s eyes widened and began to form tears.

Hurt her more, he thought. Hurt her so badly, she’ll never recover. Tear her to pieces. Rip her to shreds!

“You came to see me, all dressed up in your Sage robes? You are being sarcastic. Does it make you feel good to think of me as an idiot? To look down on me? I want to know. Tell me, O great and powerful Sage.”

Teardrops fell from Monica’s eyes, and she began to sob like a child, the tip of her nose flushing red.

Her miserable expression, the sound of her crying—in some small way, it satisfied him.

“Oh? I didn’t think Sages were supposed to look so pathetic. You certainly don’t seem like one. You’d be better off living in a mountain cabin somewhere far away from everyone else.”

She fell to her knees on the spot, burying her face in her hands and weeping.

Bernie quickly walked past her, his short blond hair swaying from the motion. He felt a tiny sense of satisfaction as he listened to her miserable crying.

For a while after that, Bernie didn’t hear anything about the Silent Witch’s exploits. Rumor had it she was leading a hermit’s life in a mountain cabin somewhere. She and Bernie would probably never meet again.

…It’s better that way, he thought.

That was how Bernie Jones finally regained peace and calm in his heart.