Their meeting had been vivid.
Lieselalte, who was still traveling alone at the time, had been passing near a small town when she spotted a boy in the forest, cornered by four Bandits.
Naturally, her first thought was that a child was being hunted. Though he wore the light armor of an adventurer, he stood perfectly still with his hand on the hilt of his sword, paralyzed. Or so she thought. It was a common enough story: a fledgling adventurer finding his body frozen by terror the moment he finally faced a real monster.
Bandits—low-level monsters in the same class as Goblins and Slimes. They were essentially trash-tier threats, characterized by purple fur and bodies a size larger than a typical wild dog. They possessed no special traits beyond their agility and sharp fangs, but the movements of a beast were fundamentally different from a human's. They were never to be underestimated; even a veteran adventurer could walk away with a nasty wound if they grew careless.
—Well, I suppose I should save him.
Lieselalte was a great and haughty Great Mage. She wasn't the sort of soft-hearted saint who went about saving every soul she met, but she had her pride. To turn a blind eye to a child under attack would be a disgrace to the title of Great Mage.
Besides, she figured it wouldn't be half-bad to gallantly repel the beasts and be rewarded with a look of fervent respect from the boy. She was already getting ahead of herself, puffing out her chest as she imagined showing off the overwhelming power of a Great Mage.
"——?"
Suddenly, she felt a prickle.
Lieselalte stopped in her tracks, a stinging sensation washing over her skin. She realized that an inscrutable presence was radiating from the boy who stood with his hand on his blade. It wasn't quite bloodlust, but it was something that made her instinctively hesitate to step any closer.
(Wait—)
That boy. He isn't frozen in fear.
The moment that thought crossed her mind, the Bandits pounced simultaneously.
Lieselalte clicked her tongue, annoyed at her own hesitation. She immediately surged her mana to construct a spell. She had to protect him, but a standard cast wouldn't be fast enough—she would have to use a minimized formula to pinpoint—
A flash of silver light erupted.
Three of the four Bandits were cut down in a single stroke, their bodies tumbling across the dirt.
"…!?"
It took a full breath before her mind could register that the boy had been the one to strike.
For the lone Bandit that had escaped the arc of his blade, there could have been nothing more terrifying. What should have been an easy hunt—tearing a lone child to shreds—had ended with its entire pack dead in a heartbeat. It hadn't understood a single thing.
The beast's instincts made the only logical choice: flight. The boy didn't pursue the creature as it scrambled away in a panic, and the quiet rustle of leaves returned to the forest.
"…Wha—oh?"
Lieselalte stood there, dazed. Her jaw had quite literally dropped. The magic formula she had been constructing dissolved, its light scattering into the air as faint, aimless particles of mana.
The boy looked like a genuine child, perhaps ten years old at most. He was at an age where any adult would have scolded him for even touching a sword. The boy's jarring youth and the artistic, lethal perfection of the swordsmanship he had just displayed refused to reconcile in her head.
The boy checked the condition of his blade. The tip was stained with a tiny amount of dark red blood.
For having cleaved through three Bandits in a single swing, there was far too little blood on the steel. It was a transcendent level of skill—a technique so precise that the blood of the slain hardly had time to cling to the metal.
Lieselalte had met many skilled adventurers, but even among them, a feat like that was—
(No, but wait, that just now—)
Perhaps it was an occupational hazard of being a scholar of the arts, but Lieselalte's thoughts began to spiral into the depths of analysis. When she fell into a contemplative trance, she tended to lose all sense of her surroundings. Consequently, she failed to notice that her oversized witch's hat and staff were sticking out from behind the tree, leaving her perfectly visible.
"—Who’s there?"
"Fwah!?"
Before she knew it, the boy was right in front of her. Startled, Lieselalte jumped, stepped on the hem of her own robe, and face-planted into the dirt with a pathetic splat.
"Oof."
"…"
"…Nnh."
He had seen it. All of it. While her inner self was on the verge of tears, she summoned an iron will to stand up as if nothing had happened. She didn't forget to maintain her dignity with a solemn, practiced cough.
The boy looked her over, tilted his head, and muttered a single word.
"…A child?"
"Hah!?"
Lieselalte snapped. She stomped toward the boy with aggressive, wide strides.
"I am not! I am absolutely nothing of the sort! I am not a child! I may look like this, but I am far, far older than you! Do not judge your betters by their appearance, you rude brat!"
"U-Uh, okay…?"
The boy recoiled from her sheer vehemence, his eyes wide with confusion.
"I-I see. …I’m sorry."
"Hmph… Hmmm. It is a good thing you can offer a sincere apology. I, too, perhaps raised my voice more than was necessary. My apologies."
Her irritation evaporated, replaced by a small smile. She was impressed; he was quite a reasonable boy.
"I saw you were surrounded by Bandits and thought to lend a hand… but it seems my concern was misplaced. You are quite capable."
"Mm…"
Despite the heartfelt praise, the boy didn't look happy. Instead, he knitted his brows and sheathed his sword with a look of genuine frustration.
"…Please, just forget about that."
"? Why?"
"I intended to cut them all. I missed one. I’m still not trained well enough."
Lieselalte’s eyes widened. She was astonished not just by the fact that he had expected to kill all four in one breath, but that after showing such mastery, he felt shame rather than pride.
At that moment, her interest in the boy reached a fever pitch.
"You… you are an adventurer, yes?"
A nod.
"And your party? Are you alone?"
A nod.
"As a solo, they don't really give me any significant requests yet…"
The boy seemed disgruntled. From Lieselalte's perspective, however, the fact that a human child around ten was allowed to go solo without a mentor was already bizarre. If she hadn't seen his sword skills, she might have marched to the Guild to file a complaint about their negligence.
He was a fascinating child. Lieselalte let a smirk play on her lips.
"…Say, boy. Could you show me that <Strength> from earlier once more?"
<Strength>—the most basic of physical enhancement spells. It was a fundamental tool, a lifeline for adventurers and knights who had to contend with the raw power of monsters.
The boy looked at her blankly, his expression asking: Why would you want to see that?
"I am a mage, as you can see. I felt something… off about your <Strength>."
"Mm…"
"If you let me help you refine it, your sword strokes might become even sharper."
The boy didn't hesitate. The moment he heard "even sharper," he made his decision. He bowed his head with such force it was as if he were snapping at a hook.
"I would very much appreciate that…!"
"Umu, umu. It is the duty of those who came before to guide the youth."
Lieselalte felt wonderful. It had been a long time since she'd spoken with someone so cooperative. Usually, when she tried to offer her wisdom, people just laughed and treated her like a little girl. She was quite tired of having to blast magic into people's faces just to be heard.
The boy immediately began to circulate his mana, activating <Strength>. His construction speed was better than average, and his focus was solid. It was clear he had been working hard for his age.
However…
"How do I put this… it is incredibly disjointed."
"Disjointed…?"
His Bypass was a catastrophe of inefficiency. To use an analogy, it was as if someone were trying to deliver goods through a city by struggling through dark, narrow, winding back alleys when there was a perfectly maintained main road right next to them.
The enhancement worked, but it was so wasteful that his mana would never last.
"To think you used such a messy formula… what sort of half-wit taught you magic?"
"…Ah,"
The boy hesitated, looking slightly embarrassed.
"…Well, I’m basically self-taught."
"…What?"
"I just realized I could do it one day. I don't really understand… formulas or whatever."
I see, Lieselalte thought. Occasionally, there were those who could use magic instinctively without formal training. But because they didn't understand the underlying mechanics, their Bypass ended up looking like a child's chaotic scribbles.
"That <Strength> of yours… it doesn't last very long, does it?"
The boy nodded.
"If I keep it up for about four hours, I feel like I'm going to collapse…"
"Wait, what? Y-You can hold it for four hours like that…? That is an incredible amount of mana."
"At first, I couldn't even make it five minutes."
"Hmm? …N-No, wait. Don't tell me—"
"I just kept collapsing. Every time I did, it got a little longer."
Lieselalte gave the boy a sharp chop to the top of his head.
"Ow…"
"You complete idiot! Who trains like that these days!?"
Mana was like physical stamina; you could increase your maximum capacity through training. But just as no sane person ran until they fainted every single day to get faster, training that involved using magic until you blacked out had been abandoned centuries ago.
If you pushed it too far, you would simply die.
And yet, this boy was saying it as if it were a point of pride.
"You… Listen to me! You could have died a dozen times over! How long have you been doing this!? Two weeks!? A month!?"
"…Seven years?"
"S-s-s-s-seven years!? Seven!? With a Bypass that broken for seven years!? You collapsed over and over for seven years!? Wait, no, stop…! Seriously, SERIOUSLY!! You idiot! You big dummy! What were you thinking!? Seven years! Why would you work that hard!? I have never seen such a stupid person in my entire life!!"
Lieselalte was a great and haughty Great Mage. Being great and haughty meant that when she saw someone using magic in a way that was inefficient, illogical, and utterly suicidal, it made her skin crawl with frustration.
When Lieselalte reached her limit of frustration, she tended to ball her hands into fists and flail them about.
"That’s it! It's forbidden! You’re not allowed to do that anymore! You’re going to kill yourself, do you hear me!?"
"…A-Ah…"
The boy stared at her, seemingly less concerned with her warning than her sudden change in demeanor. Lieselalte glared right back.
"What! What is that look for!? Do you have something to say!?"
"N-No… it's just, you suddenly started talking normally…"
"…………Nnh."
Returning to her senses, Lieselalte cleared her throat. She lowered her voice back to its great and haughty tone.
"…Regardless, you have no one to teach you. Our meeting here must be a twist of fate. I plan to stay in town for a while, so I shall give you some guidance."
"Eh? No, but—"
"Actually, let me guide you. Please. I refuse to let such a disgraceful use of magic continue."
"…By the way, that way of talking from a second ago—"
"Shut up! Forget it! None of that matters! Just do as I say!! I’m the older one, so you listen to me!!"
"U-Uh, okay…"
Looking back, it had been a truly bizarre encounter.
And so, Lieselalte had essentially forced the boy—Wolka—to become her student.
Initially, she had only intended to fix his "scribble-like" magic. But a week later, after he learned the proper way to use <Strength>, his sword flash was enough to slaughter five Bandits in the blink of an eye.
Lieselalte still remembered the expression on Wolka's face that day.
He rarely smiled, but in that moment, he let out a grin that actually matched his age.
"—Master! Please, teach me more magic!"
"…!"
—Master! He just called me Master!
Master, Master, Master, Master—the word echoed in her head like a beautiful melody.
Lieselalte was a great and haughty Great Mage. In the world of mages, there was a certain unspoken rule: every top-tier mage was expected to have disciples. If you didn't have at least one, people would gossip that you weren't truly elite—that only second-rate mages were loners.
But Lieselalte had never had a disciple.
Her body was young. She looked like a brat. No matter how much power she actually possessed, no one wanted to apprentice themselves to a girl who looked like she was ten years old.
In short, Lieselalte was a loner.
She was the one being laughed at. The one the "top-tier" mages whispered about.
It was her greatest, most painful complex.
So, when she was looked at with such earnest eyes and called "Master," how could she possibly refuse?
"Heh, hehe, hehehe… Hmmm. I see, I see. So, you wish to continue your studies under me. Well, I am an exceptionally great mage. It’s only natural you’d want to be my disciple. Goodness, this is a bit of a problem. I’m quite busy, you see—"
"Ah… well, if you’re busy, I don't want to bother you—"
"Don't give up so fast! Try harder!! You want me to teach you magic, don't you!?"
"Eeh…? I mean, yeah, but if you don't want to, then it's fine."
"It's NOT fine, you dummy!! L-Look, one more time! Tell me! What do you want me to do!?"
"…I want to learn magic. Please make me your disciple, Master?"
"…………U-Umu. Very well. Since you insist, I suppose it cannot be helped. I shall take you as my disciple. Ehehe."
That was how it had happened.
The lonely Lieselalte was incredibly easy to win over.
/
She remembered so many things.
Their first meeting. The day she gained her first disciple. From that day on, she found she couldn't leave him alone, meddling in his life constantly under the guise of being his "Master." It helped that Wolka was something of an outcast at the Guild; his skills were so far beyond his peers that he didn't quite fit in.
It was convenient for her. It meant she could have him all to herself.
He was her first disciple. He was her family. He was precious to her beyond words.
Even as Wolka learned the foundations of magic, he never missed a single day of sword practice. Lieselalte often joked that he must have been born from a blade, given how obsessed he was. If he wasn't eating or sleeping, he was swinging his sword.
She knew he would one day be a world-class swordsman. She had asked if he wanted to be a knight, but his answers were always vague. He seemed so caught up in the pursuit of the blade itself that he hadn't given much thought to his future.
So, when his magic and swordsmanship had finally become a cohesive whole, she had gathered her courage and invited him to form a party.
She had been prepared for the worst. She had considered throwing herself off a cliff if he had looked at her with disgust and said, "Uh, no thanks… I think you’ve got the wrong idea." Fortunately, he had accepted with a smile.
She had been so relieved her legs gave out, and she might have cried a little.
She spent three full days and nights agonized over the name before settling on <Silvery Grey>.
Silver for her hair, Grey for his. It was a name that meant they were a pair—a place where they belonged together. She had worried he might find the sentiment "heavy," but he had simply said, "I think it’s a good name." He hadn't noticed the hidden meaning at all, judging it only by the sound.
It was a carefree party. They didn't have a grand mission; they just did what they wanted. They helped people, earned money, and traveled. Those simple days were more fun than anything she had ever experienced.
Two years later, they met Yulitia. Then they met Atri. Before she knew it, the party had grown to four.
At first, she had been jealous that she couldn't have Wolka's attention all to herself anymore, but Yulitia and Atri were such good girls that she soon came to love them like sisters. They were a family.
She thought those happy days would last forever.
And then, reality struck.
Every adventurer knows the danger of a dungeon. They are demonic fortresses that churn out monsters until their master is slain. They offer dreams of wealth, but they have claimed the lives of countless warriors.
But a conquered dungeon was supposed to be safe. Once the boss is killed, the dungeon loses its power and eventually withers into mere ruins. These places are often used for training or as a way for lower-ranked adventurers to earn a living by keeping the peace. It was routine work.
That was the common sense of their world.
No one could have predicted that the dungeon hadn't actually been cleared—that a horror capable of killing an S-rank party was waiting in the depths.
"…Wolka………………"
In the clinic room where the old sister had led her, Wolka was in a deep, unresponsive sleep.
He was broken. Though the wounds had been closed by Holy Magic, his right eye was gone, his left leg ended below the knee, and scars riddled his body. Lieselalte had never seen a person survive such damage.
His breathing was so quiet it was terrifying. Every few minutes, she would reach out to take his hand or lean in close to his chest, desperate to hear his heart still beating. She was terrified that if she looked away, he would simply stop existing.
She could do nothing else.
An hour had passed since the healer left. Lieselalte was a hollow shell, crushed by the reality before her.
Rejoice that he is alive, the sister had said.
That was a lie. To Lieselalte, that felt like the height of cruelty. How could anyone look at him like this and feel joy?
Losing an eye and a limb meant his life as an adventurer was over. It was a death sentence for his dreams. She didn't even know if he could live a normal life anymore.
Wolka had a genius talent. He should have had a brilliant, shining future. And now, it was all gone.
And it was her fault.
She was the leader. She was the one who had accepted the request.
"…I’m sorry…………"
If she hadn't taken that job. If she had been a better leader and noticed the signs. If she had actually been the 'Great Mage' she claimed to be, she could have protected him.
Everything was her fault.
"I’m sorry, I’m sorry…………"
She was his Master. He was her only disciple. He was the most precious person in her life.
And she had destroyed him.
Because she was stupid.
Because she was careless.
Because she was weak.
Because of me. Because of me. Because of me. Because of me.
"I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…………"
If the veteran sister had still been in the room, she might have been able to snap Lieselalte out of it.
But she wasn't there. She was exhausted and had gone to rest. Yulitia and Atri were gone. Lieselalte was alone with her guilt, and she had decided that this was a 'sin' she could never atone for.
Her eyes lost their focus, turning into dull, empty voids as she whispered the same words over and over.
If a human's heart could be seen, Lieselalte’s would have been a mess of distorted, shifting shadows, twisting into something unrecognizable.