Antidote Chapter 14.1 - Mannerheim

Ismion was uneasy.

This cynical mage still wasn’t sure if going to Mannerheim, specifically for talks with the capital, was the right choice.

However, with many Karlac mages killed in the previous purges, Ismion’s presence was essential to protect Slan with the remaining mages. Especially now, when it was certain that the capital’s mages, at least of marquis rank, would be present.

Moreover, Ismion had been thoroughly informed about the events on the Black Continent. The magical kingdom’s astonishing magic (though it wasn’t astonishing to him), and Kirda’s seven-horned dragon on top of that.

‘Kirda’s seven-horned dragon… surely a new kind of chimera. Which lunatic in the capital tampered with Malorn’s chimeras again? Or is it really seven-horned dragon serum?’

What revolution in chimera magic had occurred in the capital while he was away from its magical essence? His worry outweighed his regret.

While the capital’s battle magic focused on large-scale, wide-ranging spells designed for a few mages to slaughter many enemies, it wasn’t lacking in covert operations like espionage or assassination. Tracking summons, chimeras for spying, various stealth techniques, and magical eyes for long-distance surveillance… Ismion had once been among the capital’s best in chimera magic. Or rather, he used to be.

In other words, Ismion’s concern was the capital’s mages harboring hostile intentions. If the worst happened, could Karlac’s mages alone protect Slan?

Slan, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed.

“With Sir Jiyod here, what’s the worry? If you’re scared, you don’t have to come.”

“No!”

Ismion, who had been anxiously tapping his foot, snapped.

“It’s uncertain. It’s definitely better if I’m there.”

“That’s true, but… can you really protect me like that?”

Slan asked, staring down at Ismion’s now even more frantic foot-tapping. Ismion stopped irritably but then began biting his thumbnail.

“Why hold it in Mannerheim in the first place?”

Yes, that was another issue.

Karlac Castle was protected by traditional Karlac defensive barriers, now reinforced with Ismion’s sanctuary magic, surrounded by multiple layers of magical shields. When bolstering the defenses, Ismion had used Karlac’s magical techniques. Even if the capital’s mages saw it up close, they wouldn’t recognize it as their own magic.

Yet Slan chose Mannerheim.

What kind of boldness was this?

“Letting those guys inside Karlac’s walls would be dumber.”

Slan replied with a cheerful laugh.

Ismion’s expression grew darker.

‘If something happens to Slan, what use are Karlac’s triple walls? The most important thing wouldn’t be inside them.’

Ismion swallowed those words.

He was powerless anyway. When news of the Kirda conflict reached them from the Black Continent, he couldn’t even stop Slan from crossing the northern sea.

“Fine. I’ll explain again. This is a peaceful talk. To discuss exchange.”

“Exactly.”

“The capital has various types of mages. They’re categorized by specialty or affiliation, but the bigger distinction is rank. From first-rank mages to fifth-rank, further divided by their roles.”

Here we go with Ismion’s capital studies lecture, Slan thought, letting his gaze drift absently.

“A marquis mage will likely attend this talk. I don’t know who, but… probably a third-rank or sixth-rank marquis. The sixth-rank marquis has long handled external affairs and is belligerent. They specialize in large-scale weather magic, but that doesn’t mean they’re incapable of other things. Other specialties include venomous attack summons, lightning and electric magic combined with weather spells, shadow summon duplication… those are the ones to watch for now.”

Ismion rubbed his brow with a tired expression, continuing.

“The third-rank marquis, as you know, Slan, is newly titled after the previous one married Kirda’s duke and left. I don’t know them, which is not good. Not knowing their specialty makes it hard to plan a response.”

“I acknowledge the capital’s mages are threatening. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Talking about Kirda’s chimera?”

“Hmm. Whether it was a chimera or a real seven-horned dragon, who knows.”

“…I heard rumors in York. That a capital traitor was messing with seven-horned dragon blood in Kirda.”

Ismion’s voice grew darker with deepening worry.

“The important thing is war mages. Few in number, but dangerous. Trained in all magic needed for war, they’re basically killing machines. Their necessity is undeniable, but they’re not the kind you’d want to deal with… ahem. If war mages are there, it means this talk isn’t about exchange.”

“I’m prepared for that level of danger.”

“No preparation beats holding it in Karlac Castle.”

After his habitual sarcasm, Ismion tried to compose his expression.

But Slan was no longer taking the issue seriously. He was even smiling.

“Ismion, I’ve already met the capital’s mages once on the Black Continent. In a very hostile situation. Those war mages you’re so worried about were probably crawling around too. If they wanted to kill me, wouldn’t they have done it then, not in Mannerheim?”

Ismion swallowed dryly.

Slan was right. From what he knew, the current twin court mages weren’t the type to commit the insane act of killing an archduke in Karlac’s territory (maybe on the Black Continent, but not here). Even if they’d gone mad enough to try in recent years, Karlac’s shock cavalry wasn’t something a few mages could handle, and Mannerheim’s terrain was disadvantageous for casting magic.

What he truly feared was…

“Afraid you’ll run into a familiar face?”

Yes… Slan’s question was a joke, but Ismion couldn’t take it as one.

“Yes. Exactly.”

Ismion answered seriously, but Slan burst out laughing.

“Then hide behind me. I’ll wear a long cloak for that.”

The Karlac archduke knew nothing of the capital. Or how they dealt with traitors… Ismion glared at Slan, his teeth chattering.

“In Karlac Castle, I could avoid them. But even if I don’t enter the meeting, in Mannerheim’s cramped fortress… if I run into a familiar face…”

The mage looked as if he bore all the world’s cold and pain alone.

“Slan, you know what mages can do. But you don’t know what they do to traitors.”

“Whatever it is, it’s better than a kangaroo court.”

Slan said lightly again.

Ismion didn’t agree.

“As I said, if they come at you calling you a traitor, you can hide behind me anytime.”

Slan’s playful jest reminded Ismion of a golden era long past. He couldn’t help but chuckle.

Whatever happened, Ismion would do what he could.

All the defensive magic he knew. Barriers against magical assassination or espionage. Detection spells. The capital’s mages wouldn’t realize it was their magic. At least… not until it activated.

If worst came to worst…

‘Ugh. If it comes to it, Sir Jiyod will turn into a beast or something and handle it.’

Ismion, indulging in slight escapism, tried to change the topic.

“By the way, why did you scrape the pearls off the chamber’s ceiling?”

*

Despite Ismion’s worries, the Mannerheim talks proceeded smoothly. The season changed. The air grew drier by the day, the two streams of the Koevisto River dried up, and lush reeds filled the swampy bed.

The advance party reported arriving in Mannerheim, and soon Slan’s rear party left eastern Karlac.

As usual, the rear party was more elaborate than the advance. Slan personally preferred riding alone to Mannerheim, but he knew some matters required protocol.

The rear party’s procession was quite long. Wagons carried gifts for the capital’s delegation, daily necessities, and food for the journey, accompanied by court knights and the elite cavalry. Administrators and mages followed.

Slan rode at the head.

Ismion, trailing behind, grumbled incessantly.

“Here we go again, again, again. Slan leaving Karlac again. It hasn’t even been a year since you returned from the Black Continent! Are you listening? Hey?”

Of course, Slan was barely listening.

It was the dry season. Autumn’s cool weather was perfect for travel.

Originally, Jiyod’s Ipsen cavalry was to join them in Glenberg, but a clash between York merchant ships and pirates at Ipsen’s port delayed the rendezvous.

Still, with administrators and mages unaccustomed to riding and multiple supply wagons, Jiyod’s cavalry would be faster, so the final arrival schedule wouldn’t be disrupted.

The weather was good, and everything went as planned—better, even—so their pace was quick.

By the fourth day, they passed Glenberg, and on the fourteenth, at dusk, they reached the midpoint of Mannerheim’s great road connecting the great canyon’s north and south. A nearly pristine stone milestone stood tall. The canyon’s sharp ridges gleamed silver-white. The milestone pointed left to Sodergran and right to Mannerheim.

Slan paused before the milestone.

His mind traced the past.

‘Turn here, and in five days, you reach Glenberg. It’s not a great trade route. But with investment in road maintenance, we could build an inland road connecting Sodergran, Glenberg, Livensdale, and Mannerheim in one go.’

Recalling Jiyod’s voice, he smiled.

He glanced back. Ismion stood with an unreadable expression. Slan said brightly.

“By this time next year, we’ll be able to ride to Sodergran along this road.”

“Hmm. We’ll see if that old man lets it slide.”

“Duke Strubin? Just a toothless old man now.”

There was a time when northern Strubin and Sodergran’s archduke ruled Karlac’s northeast. He was once a loyal Karlac vassal, but no longer.

“We’ll deal with it eventually. Sooner or later…”

Slan continued cheerfully, turning his horse.

A court knight rode toward him.

“Duke of Karlac, preparations are complete for resting at a nearby village tonight.”

“Good.”

Ismion followed Slan.

“At least we’ll sleep under a roof and walls tonight. I hate camping. Not that I haven’t done it. In my youth, I wandered the continent…”

The next morning.

While leisurely heading south along Mannerheim’s great road, a cavalryman from the rear sped forward, delivering a message to a court knight, who then approached Slan.

“What’s up?”

“We received a pigeon. The Ipsen cavalry is nearby.”

“Here?”

Slan looked incredulous.

They were in the middle of the road, less than two hours from the village where they’d spent the night.

Unless Jiyod had gone mad, the Ipsen cavalry must have taken the same road as Slan’s party from mid-Glenberg. If they were this close, they would’ve met last night at the village. But to meet now, at this moment…

“Did they ride all night or something?”

“…Seems like it.”

The court knight hesitated before answering.

“They could’ve joined us in Mannerheim. What’s the rush?”

The knight didn’t answer.

Slan shook his head in disbelief.

“How far are they?”

“Less than an hour.”

“Seriously…”

Ismion, nearby, quipped.

“At least they’ll join before the capital’s delegation arrives.”

They decided to wait.

Slan dismounted and sat under an ash tree on a steep hill. The leaves briefly shaded him from the sun.

As he wiped his sweat, a seasoned attendant prepared a simple spread of food and drink. No ice, but the grape juice in a bronze jug was cool.

Slan looked down the hill.

Below the steep slope, a gentle basin formed, with a crevasse like a thin scar and a tributary flowing. Beyond it was the village they’d left.

A small village, but vibrant. Slan happily imagined it growing into a great city.

Once the road was built, this place would be a midpoint connecting Sodergran, Mannerheim, and Livensdale along the Tanalan Great Canyon. Goods would flow across the canyon, and an east-west road to Glenberg and eastern Karlac would unify Karlac.

Then, in this idyllic early autumn scene, Ismion appeared, cloaked in a dreary black robe like a cutout from another world.

“How’s your foot, Slan?”

“Ah… you startled me.”

Slan, heart racing slightly, looked up at Ismion.

Before a loyal attendant could scold Ismion for making Slan look up too long, Ismion quickly knelt and sat beside him.

“I brought ointment to ease the pain. And medicine. It’s different from your usual dose—just a mild sedative and relaxant, so you can take it without worry.”

“Thanks.”

Slan accepted readily.

“No pain? You’ve been riding all day.”

“I’m fine. You gave me medicine too…”

As Ismion removed Slan’s shoe, Slan leaned against the ash tree. An attendant quickly placed a cushion behind him, a luxurious one brought from Karlac. Slan grinned at Ismion as if to show it off.

“See this? This isn’t exactly a march.”

“Soderik must’ve drilled the attendants well.”

“Seems so. I had a hard time stopping him from following us to Mannerheim.”

“Good man. Except for the crying.”

Slan laughed aloud at Ismion’s remark.

“Anyway, it’s a good thing. Long marches aren’t good for the body. Not just for you, Slan, but for me too…”

As Ismion grumbled, pulling off one of Slan’s socks, a rough hand suddenly shot out from behind, grabbing the mage’s nape.

“Ack!”

Ismion screamed, tumbling backward.

Before Slan could gasp, the culprit who’d rolled Ismion like a hoop gently lifted Slan’s heel.

“Jiyod!”

Slan exclaimed, slightly breathless.

Before him, a knight in a black cloak and light armor knelt, grinning.

“When did you get here? And I told you to make up with Ismion!”

“Hmm… how should we deal with this insolent mage who dared touch Duke of Karlac’s foot? I’m thinking burning at the stake.”

Jiyod spouted nonsense instead of answering, gently stroking Slan’s foot.

Behind him, Ismion’s furious curses rang out. A startled attendant, crying “Oh, Mage!” handed Ismion water and a towel.

“Such a fuss. That’s how mages are, right? Acting like they broke an arm rolling on a carpet. Useless, loud-mouthed lot, but they’re good for messenger summons, so maybe we cut their tongues and use them as slaves?”

“Seriously…”

Slan shook his head in disbelief.

“You still haven’t made up with Ismion?”

“Made up? That mage couldn’t pick a fight with me if he tried.”

“Apologize.”

Jiyod responded instantly to Slan’s command.

“Sorry.”

“Not to me, to Ismion!”

The reply came from behind.

“No need! Brute! Ipsen barbarian! Vulgar bastard! Does this lunatic even know what an apology is?”

Ismion, pulling an ointment jar from his sleeve, hurled it at Jiyod’s back. Jiyod deftly caught it midair.

Without looking back, Ismion stormed down the hill, cursing loudly.

“Finally, the mage is gone.”

Jiyod whispered, opening the ointment jar.

Slan shot him a slightly sulky glance.

“When are you two going to… no. Never mind.”

Slan now knew how to handle Jiyod.

“If you won’t apologize, I will.”

“Duke of Karlac apologizing to that sneaky mage?”

“Your sins are my sins, right?”

“Hmm. I’m glad we’re one, but… fine. I’ll apologize to the mage separately.”

“I’ll check later.”

“You know I don’t lie to you.”

“I don’t believe you…”

Slan teased, and Jiyod’s eyes crinkled with a smile.

“Is this the mouth speaking naughty words?”

Jiyod whispered, leaning slightly to plant a short kiss. It was as sweet as a single sugar grain falling on Slan’s lips, melting away in an instant.

“By the way, how did you get here now? Don’t tell me you actually rode all night?”

“Yes. I wanted to check the road conditions too. The new bridge in eastern Glenberg is quite sturdy. Remember how we used to have to detour around the crevasse? You wanted to bet on jumping it with a horse, and I…”

“Stopped you. I remember.”

“Hmm. Yes. Please don’t do dangerous things.”

Instead of answering, Slan subtly turned his gaze aside, brushing it off.

Below the hill, knights, soldiers, and the rest of the party were spreading out tents, resting, or organizing supplies.

“The Ipsen cavalry?”

“They’ll join soon. I came ahead.”

“Ahead? How far ahead?”

“Not much. Maybe fifteen minutes? Twenty? Look, there they are.”

Slan couldn’t see them but just shrugged.

“I was riding past the milestone when I saw you. Adorably waiting for me under the ash tree.”

Jiyod quickly stripped off his riding gloves, wiped his hands with a damp cloth brought by an attendant, and scooped a generous amount of ointment, applying it to Slan’s ankle.

“So I sneaked up the back of the hill. To surprise you.”

The hand applying ointment to Slan’s ankle soon moved to his calf, skillfully massaging.

“Is your foot okay? By the way, you don’t seem to have gained much weight since I last saw you… Don’t tell me the cook’s slacking?”

“No way. He’s diligent.”

Truthfully, Slan never paid much attention to the cook. Meals arrived perfectly on time, and even when unscheduled, they were ready whenever he wanted.

“No. If he were truly diligent, you wouldn’t be this pale and twig-like. Seems he’s lost his mind without me around. Don’t worry. When I return to Karlac, I’ll beat some sense into him. That pig needs a good thrashing to get his act together. It’s the southerners’ nature.”

Slan didn’t know where to start correcting that, so he let it slide. Arguing with Jiyod’s unfunny jokes would only tire him out first.

Instead, he changed the topic.

“Did you handle things in Ipsen?”

At that, Jiyod’s face fell as if the sky had collapsed, and he let out a long sigh. Slan almost thought Ipsen had been ruined by a massive rebellion.

“Work talk again?”

Thankfully, Ipsen hadn’t fallen.

And as long as it hadn’t, Slan intended to keep talking.

“Is the Ipsen navy not enough to deal with the northern sea route’s pirates?”

His voice was cooler than before. Jiyod quickly adjusted his expression and answered.

“It’s a new route for us, but not for the pirates. They know the sea lanes and currents better. We need more time.”

“How much?”

“At least two seasons.”

Jiyod continued without hesitation.

“The Karlac navy’s been a mess for years. The fleets in Lemberg and Salinen haven’t seen proper naval combat in ages. Our ships are built for patrolling Karlac’s western coast to keep pirates out, not for long-range voyages. Most of the northern sea route is open ocean, and our navy lacks experience there.”

Jiyod’s words didn’t stop.

“And the knights? The so-called elite knights get seasick the moment they board, barely able to stand, let alone swing a sword.”

“Hmm…”

Slan gave an awkward laugh.

Jiyod caressed Slan’s cheek briefly before continuing.

“Cooperation with the Lemberg and Salinen navies is a mess too. You know how their admirals are, don’t you?”

Lemberg and Salinen were Karlac’s only large-scale naval bases, led by admirals who’d held near-archduke-level power for generations. Their arrogance matched their long-held authority. Nominally under Karlac’s high command, the navies were practically the admirals’ private armies.

“They ignore orders from Karlac’s central command like lunatics, don’t they? Well, that helped us retake Karlac more easily. But we can’t let it continue.”

“I was already thinking we need to sort that out.”

Slan fiddled with Jiyod’s shoulder, lost in thought.

Before developing Ipsen’s port, Lemberg and Salinen were Karlac’s only harbors capable of docking warships. The port in Lemberg Bay guarded Karlac’s northwest, while Salinen, under Guntram’s domain, protected the southwest coast.

Both ports sat where the Koevisto River’s two tributaries met the sea.

If a new port were built at the river’s western estuary, large-scale supply imports through both harbors would ease inland logistics. Not just goods from York or the south, but new resources from the Black Continent too.

Of course, dealing with the two naval admirals came first.

‘The next generation might be all about the sea.’

Slan mused.

Jiyod gently stroked Slan’s hair.

“I know what you’re thinking, but that can wait.”

“What was I thinking?”

Slan asked, genuinely curious.

Jiyod burst out laughing.

“Canals, new ports, inland transport using the Koevisto River… boring stuff like that.”

Slan eyed Jiyod suspiciously, wondering if he’d muttered his thoughts aloud. Jiyod continued with a hearty laugh.

“Anyway… the new weapons on the warships are quite powerful. The issue is they need technicians, not knights, to operate them.”

Karlac’s military pride was its well-trained cavalry and knights. Most of its strength came from them. It was an effective strategy in Karlac’s rugged canyons and crevasse-filled mountains. But the sea demanded entirely new technology, strategies, and forces.

“The Tanalan Great Canyon won’t protect Karlac forever.”

“Conversely, it won’t hold you back forever either.”

Jiyod said jokingly.

“Focus on the talks for now. Those blabbermouth mages like Ismion will come in droves. Thinking about their wagging tongues already gives me a headache.”

He stood first, extending a hand to Slan. When Slan took it, Jiyod pulled him up lightly, winking.

“By the way, your travel pace was pretty fast. There’s some time before the mages arrive in Mannerheim, right? I brought something from Ipsen. Will you spare a day for this loyal knight, Duke of Karlac?”

*

The capital’s delegation traveled by sea through York as a midpoint, crossing the border to reach Mannerheim. The journey, spanning sea and land, took over a month, but from York’s border, Slan’s pre-arranged Inkeri special forces escorted them, ensuring a safe arrival without major incidents.

In truth, everyone except Slan (even Ismion) worried whether Sir Lea of Inkeri could handle the critical task of escorting the delegation without conflict. Slan dismissed it with, “Sir Lea’s matured.”

No notable issues arose.

The delegation was given three days to recover from their long journey, followed by a light banquet.

The delegation was composed with the highest formality and courtesy, something even Slan hadn’t anticipated. The Right Court Mage, a third-rank marquis, eight first-rank mages, thirty second-rank mages, and triple that number in attendants—nearly two hundred in total, with heaps of gifts.

Contrary to Ismion’s fears, the delegation’s composition was entirely peaceful.

The Right Court Mage’s personal attendance was unexpected (and shocked Ismion to the point of fainting).

Some in Karlac openly remarked, “Since our Duke of Karlac came in person, they had to match the level.”

It wasn’t entirely wrong.

The banquet’s atmosphere was pleasant. Though the court mage left early, citing travel fatigue, the third-rank marquis and all eight high-ranking mages stayed until the end, maintaining decorum.

After the three-day rest, a breathless schedule began.

There was much to discuss. They weighed the pros and cons of exchange, itemizing what each side could offer, what was non-negotiable, and what could be overlooked. Despite this, the mood remained good.

Since the capital’s delegation showed courtesy first, Duke of Karlac reciprocated with the highest respect. He rose from his chair to greet the court mage, forgoing the throne for two equal head seats at a long negotiation table for himself and the court mage. Though Mannerheim’s fortress was small, the best rooms were opened for the high-ranking mages, with top-quality food, clothing, and bedding.

There were some points of contention, but the talks were expected to conclude within a month, perhaps sooner, everyone hoped optimistically.

*

Late at night, Ismion strolled the eastern corridor.

Until the fifth day of the talks, he’d holed up in his quarters except to deliver Slan’s medicine, but the warm rumors carried like birdsong had softened his mood.

Say what you will, he was a mage from the capital. Though he could no longer call himself one… Ismion stared expressionlessly at the Karlac mage crest ring on his finger. Well, he had no regrets or remorse now. He’d done what he wanted. If he’d wanted to return to the capital, he could have five years ago, when Slan, in that secretive study with a Karlac map, asked for his help. There was plenty of opportunity.

His dreams were no longer of the capital’s gold. Through Slan, he saw a new dream in eastern Karlac.

When the confident young Duke of Karlac declared before all that he’d tear down Karlac’s old ways and rebuild anew…

‘Anyway, getting along with the capital is a good thing.’

Ismion, uncharacteristically, indulged in positive, peaceful thoughts.

‘If the court mage came this far, the capital must value its ties with Karlac.’

If the talks succeeded and both eastern Karlac and the magical kingdom got what they wanted, exchange could begin as early as next year. The capital’s culture would flow in, and Karlac’s would flow out. It would bring revolution to Karlac, long crouched behind the great canyon.

In ten or twenty years, Ismion’s origins or betrayal might not matter much.

He might see the capital’s golden citadel again…

‘I must be getting old.’

The stoic mage composed his expression and turned to return to his quarters.

But then, voices and footsteps echoed from the dark corridor’s other end.

“Phew, am I even allowed this far in? This area…”

“Don’t worry. It’s not exactly classified… Anyway, Duke of Karlac and the others are still at the banquet, so we won’t get caught.”

At first, Ismion thought it was fools sneaking off for a tryst in a secluded spot.

“Wow, this…! To see this with my own eyes! You know, this book is practically a legend in the capital. Like, they debate whether it even exists…”

“Ahem. I was shocked when I heard that yesterday. Honestly, it’s pretty valuable in Karlac too. My great-grandmother was a Karlac mage, and just before the sorcery crackdown began, she secretly took this book and a few others from the library and hid them. I’ve always been interested in this kind of sorcery… I mean, ahem! This kind of magic. So when I heard the capital’s mages were coming, I knew I had to bring it…”

“Are there more books? My goodness.”

“Hmm. I’m not entirely uninterested in capital magic either…”

“Quid pro quo, right? I get it, I get it, kya kya kya kya!”

The rustle of old parchment pages followed…

“Most of Karlac’s magic was lost then, that’s the prevailing theory in the capital. Of course, since few have met a real Karlac mage, its credibility is debated. Many mages who went to Karlac disappeared or were killed… Oh, I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Ahem! It’s fine. Honestly, until a few years ago, kangaroo courts did happen sometimes, though it’s not exactly an official talking point.”

“Anyway, raising corpses with wax and honey, that’s… well, in the capital, it’s banned or considered an ancient superstition from when magic and sorcery weren’t distinguished.”

They were indeed having a tryst. Just one about “real” sorcery involving corpses.

The chatter continued.

“Wow, this is in such great condition. Your great-grandmother was a Karlac mage?”

“Yes. Our family’s been mages for generations. About ten years ago, my mother was expelled from the Karlac magical society, which, well, saved us from the purge. That’s why I’m still alive, right?”

Ismion could now identify the fool trying to smuggle Karlac’s precious archives. With so few surviving Karlac mages, as head of the magical society, it was only natural he’d know every mage capable of attending the talks, even at the lowest rank.

He intended to stop this grave crime of leaking Karlac’s magic before it happened. It was simple. A few deliberate coughs, politely dismissing the capital mage (while reminding them of the diplomatic consequences), and a stern scolding for the fool who took the book. Then confiscate it… and don’t forget to interrogate the whereabouts of the other books the great-grandmother smuggled…

It’s just that the conversation was so magically fascinating, he got distracted.

For the past five years, he’d mostly dealt with idiots, fools, and morons, so he could barely recall the last intelligent conversation. The wise, passionate, brilliant Karlac mages he longed for were long dead.

Unknowingly, Ismion listened closely. Potential mana conduits to replace wax, traditionally used dragon scales and their cheaper Black Continent alternatives, sourcing methods, rampant smuggling routes… (Here, Ismion thought, ‘If we could import mana conduits in bulk, that’d be great. I need to grill Yofius about those smuggling routes.’)

The conversation was fascinating and informative.

But he was so engrossed that he didn’t notice the voices getting closer.

By the time he realized, two shadows stepped into the lamplight at the corridor’s corner.

‘Oh no.’

Ismion turned to flee, but it was too late.

Their chatter and footsteps stopped abruptly.

There was still hope. They seemed startled, both looked under thirty, fresh from the banquet with smells of food, spices, and alcohol. One was, as expected, a Karlac mage he knew. The problem was the other, wearing a blue robe with the capital’s mage crest embroidered on the sleeve.

He could scold them, confiscate the book, and be done with it.

But cursed curiosity reared its head, and Ismion couldn’t help glancing at the capital mage.

He wanted to see the bold junior who dared collude with a Karlac mage before the exchange talks concluded…

That was his mistake.

The mage, eyes darting, met Ismion’s gaze and made an “oh?” expression. Ismion mirrored it for a split second. They stared for about three seconds.

“…Ismion?”

Ismion’s face twisted as if choked.

He knew the odds of meeting someone who knew him in Mannerheim were slim. Many in the capital once knew him, but that was long ago. He’d aged and been through too much; even those who knew him might not recognize him now, especially in the dim night with only a wall lamp for light.

If only it weren’t this mage, with the sharpest eyes, an uncanny memory for faces, and a sociability so vast they might know every mage in the capital.

Ismion instinctively ducked his head, coughing hoarsely to disguise his voice.

“You’ve got the wrong person.”

But as he hurried to leave, a loud, unmistakable voice shouted behind him.

“Ismion! It’s me, Selam!”

Selam. Yes, that was the name.

Ismion knew at least 128 mages who’d either pretend not to recognize him or wouldn’t notice him at all due to disinterest. This mage was neither.

“Don’t you remember me?!”

This nosiest capital mage, who’d never fail to recognize or pretend otherwise, scurried to Ismion’s side. And shamelessly (something Ismion hadn’t experienced among Karlac’s decorum-obsessed people), he grabbed Ismion’s shoulder.

“My goodness, Ismion. It’s really you!? Where have you been… I heard you went to Karlac, disappeared five, no, six years ago… What happened?!”

At that point, ignoring him was impossible. Ismion stepped in front of Selam, commanding the stunned fool with maximum authority.

“I’ll question you later, so don’t even think of hiding that book. Stay in your quarters.”

He didn’t forget to glare fiercely.

“And don’t go blabbing needlessly.”

Then Ismion dragged Selam out of the corridor to a secluded garden corner. A recently planted orange tree and a small terracotta sandstone fountain stood there. The lamp was far, making it dim—exactly what Ismion wanted.

Only then did he release Selam, brushing out his crumpled robe with both hands. He tried to regain some dignity.

“Honestly, Selam, I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“No explanation?! You owe a ton!”

As Selam seemed about to shout again, Ismion raised a finger. A few small spells were far more effective than physical means to silence someone, and Ismion wasn’t foolish enough to forget them.

Selam, remembering this, shut his mouth with a flinch.

Ismion spoke, keeping his expression as cold and emotionless as possible.

“You’d better forget what you saw. The conversation with that fool, the Karlac magic tome, everything. Most importantly, that you saw me here.”

“How, how can I do that?”

Truthfully, Ismion agreed with Selam.