A lone man sat in a basement. It was Mors, and he was currently pouring liquor down his throat.
It wasn’t particularly high-quality alcohol; he simply enjoyed the specific sensation that came with drinking. Under the faint glow of the light, he had a notebook spread out, meticulously organizing information.
It was then that the door opened, and a massive man stepped inside.
Para had returned. Shaking off the light dampness of the rain, he pulled up a chair at the table, grabbed a glass, and poured himself a drink from the bottle sitting there.
Mors looked up from his notes and turned toward the man sitting opposite him.
"How was it?"
"I still can't believe it," Para spat out.
He slammed his glass onto the table with a heavy thud. Fortunately, he had controlled his strength enough that the glass didn't crack.
"...I believe the information is reliable, however."
"I'm not saying I doubt you. It's just that, to me, he looked like nothing more than an ordinary brat."
"I see."
The information Mors had gathered claimed that Ray White was the Ice Sword Sorcerer.
Heavy information restrictions had been placed on that fact, but Mors had managed to break through them. He had discarded countless pawns to obtain this intelligence, yet he felt no remorse. If anything, he considered it an honor that they had been sacrificed for his benefit.
After relaying this to Para, the mercenary had immediately gone to investigate Ray. Their passing each other earlier had been no coincidence; Para had been intentionally tailing him. Since then, he had continued his surveillance until finally returning to the hideout.
"However..."
"However?"
"I can tell the kid is no amateur."
"Ho..."
Mors let out a soft breath as Para shared his observations.
"Usually, I can judge an opponent’s caliber at a glance. I can tell by the quality of the Prima Materia leaking out of them. But I couldn't find his bottom. Not to mention his footwork and the skill he showed in detecting my gaze. There's a chance he's just a kid with nothing to him... but there's also the chance of the opposite. I'm not certain yet, but the possibility that he’s the Ice Sword isn't zero. That’s my take."
"I see. A wonderful analysis. I caught sight of the boy myself, and I certainly felt that he possessed an extraordinary aura."
"Hah. The world is a big place... to think a brat like that might be the Ice Sword."
"Indeed. The world remains vast. And we have yet to reach its ultimate truth."
The two battle-hardened veterans continued their discussion.
Mors, at least, was convinced that Ray White was the Ice Sword. He had no intention of underestimating the boy's combat prowess. Because that was the kind of Sorcerer the Ice Sword was.
Lydia Ainsworth was considered a top-priority individual even within Eugenics. She was held in such high regard that a leadership post was still being held vacant specifically for her.
Beyond her practical combat abilities as a Sorcerer, her achievements as a researcher were world-class. She was famous in both the Surface World and the Underworld; everyone wanted a piece of her. But she was far from a simple woman to handle. To begin with, she was not the type to ever be swayed by the ideology of Eugenics.
And it was this woman who had raised the current Ice Sword Sorcerer.
Mors had already gathered every rumor available. The boy had completely shut out Helena Grady during her infiltration of the Academy and had achieved a total victory over the Grim Reaper. These were accomplishments far beyond what one would expect from a student. Yet, if he were the Ice Sword Sorcerer, such feats seemed entirely plausible.
At the same time, a question lingered. Ray was an Ordinary.
But could an Ordinary truly reach such a Domain? There was no doubt the boy possessed talent at the pinnacle of the world. That was unquestionable. This was why Mors viewed Ray White as an anomaly.
"Ray White... he may become our greatest obstacle."
"...More so than Scorching or Illusion?"
"The current Ice Sword is simply too much of an anomaly."
"Can I be the one to handle him?" Para asked.
"...Are you sure?"
"Yeah. You were going to have me deal with him eventually anyway, right?"
"Indeed. That would be a help."
Mors reached up to touch his chest.
Lurking beneath his clothes was a scar—a massive vertical gash that would likely cause a normal person to faint upon seeing it.
"Ten years. Ten years have passed."
"..."
Mors spoke as if to himself. Para watched him in silence, staring at the expression of madness that gripped the man’s face while he sipped his drink.
"A little more, and I will finally achieve it."
Ten years.
Mors's grudge had begun a decade ago. And by a twist of fate, it had begun with Rebecca Bradley at its center.
"Rebecca Bradley... her awakening is near."
"Is that so?"
"Yes. I have already confirmed it."
"Well, I don't really care about that side of things. Though I am interested. I believe the name was..."
"—Akasha."
"Right. That’s the one."
Mors answered without a moment's hesitation.
"That power, unique to House Bradley, is something truly fit to transform the world."
"That sounds like something to look forward to, in its own way," Para said with a grin.
He, too, was fired up. To be honest, he wasn't sure if the pay for this job was worth the risk. It was unclear if any amount of money could truly compensate for the danger involved. The prospect of facing three of the Seven Grand Sorcerers was enough to make even someone like Para hesitate. So why had he accepted?
It was simple curiosity.
To him, the world was too monotonous. He had abandoned his status as an Association Sorcerer and descended into the Underworld. At first, every day had been a thrill. The days spent stacking up kills with his magic had been the best.
And so, he had continued to refine his skills. Magic intended for killing seemed to have no ceiling, and he pursued it relentlessly. He had taken this job in hopes of finally quenching his thirst.
Specifically, there was only one person Para sought: the Ice Sword Sorcerer.
He had actually crossed paths with Lydia Ainsworth once during the Far East Campaign. He had been utterly defeated; escaping with his life had been nothing short of a miracle. Through that encounter, he had learned where the pinnacle of the world—the Seven Grand Sorcerers—truly stood. It was a peak he had yearned for ever since. Para, much like Mors, had his own agenda.
"Hahaha... dammit. My hands won't stop shaking."
"The tremors of a warrior?"
"I don't know... maybe I'm just remembering that time."
"The Far East Campaign?"
"Yeah... that was a truly insane war. And that woman, who just kept racking up achievements in the middle of it, was a monster."
"Lydia Ainsworth. I hear she is currently recuperating."
"It doesn't matter. The one I face has to be the strongest..."
He took another drink with a trembling hand.
Mors and Para. Both men carried their own grudges, and by some strange coincidence, those grudges were now converging on Arnold Magic Academy.
The upcoming Cultural Festival provided the perfect timing. Mors, who had uncovered the secret of House Bradley and the truth about Rebecca Bradley. And the two men bound by the past.
It was a stage that felt as if it had been prepared by some unseen hand. Mors was grateful for that stroke of luck. He truly felt fortunate.
Ever since that day ten years ago, he had been at the bottom of a pit of despair. In the lowest reaches of the world of Sorcerers—or perhaps it was better described as the darkness—he had struggled and clawed his way up until he finally arrived here.
A little more.
Just a little more.
In just a short while, he would reach his goal. And he would have his revenge.
That was the oath Mors had sworn.
"...Now then. Shall we?"
Approaching malice.
A writhing will.
The Cultural Festival at Arnold Magic Academy would mark a major turning point.
Ray White.
Rebecca Bradley.
Maria Bradley.
Mors and Para. And House Bradley.
The stage was perfectly set. Every arrangement was complete.
The preparations were flawless. He had scoped out the location repeatedly, accounting for every possible scenario to ensure there would be no failure. There was not a single opening.
Mors was already certain of his plan's success. Yet, he would not be arrogant. He possessed humility as well.
And so, the fateful Cultural Festival was about to begin.