Black Magic, White Magic, and Gray Art – 3

Missionary Casas glared at me with a terrifying expression. As if he were looking at his mortal enemy. What did I even do?

“Well, Father did imprison the priest and teach the child black magic…?”

“That’s not true. Hilde was the one who directly imprisoned him.”

“Father ordered it! The ringleader is Father, so of course, I can’t help but dislike him!”

“What is this? You always said you did the harder work since you were the one on the ground, but now you’re passing the blame to me.”

Unreasonable. I should have been the only one to shower.

“Glory to Lord Celsius!”

Temperus could not remain silent in the face of Priest Casas’ intrusion. He swung his staff grandly. Following its arc, a massive hemispherical dome of ice formed, engulfing the missionary and me.

Such a grand ice sculpture with a single-verse incantation? Within the family estate, Temperus might as well be considered a wielder of unique mana. No, perhaps he’s an even more troublesome opponent for me, since he can’t actually steal unique mana.

“Stop right there!”

The ice prison is erected. Sharp icicles engulf Priest Casas like teeth. But only for a moment, a flash of light, and *Time Blessing* is cast once more. The ice melts gradually from the points of contact.

Magic and time collide. Water melts and freezes in a cycle, creating a battle between ice and water, like the glaciers of the North Sea. Freezing, shattering, coalescing, scattering, ice fragments twinkle like starlight.

“Deliver us from evil, deliver us from evil…”

Missionary Casas was at a disadvantage. This was inside the Celsius family estate. If he were alone, he could have saved himself, but he was far from able to protect Richard and the twenty denizens of the Outcast Zone.

Clutching his rosary tightly, he frantically flipped through the pages of his Bible with his other hand.

“Holy Father, Holy Mother, Holy Spirit! Let there be light from the beginning. Watch over the innocent!”

Light erupted from the closed pages like an explosion. Radiant light. A *Light Summon* that any cleric could use. But the missionary’s light was so bright and hot that it melted the magic-made ice.

Evaporated mist slowly dissipates. Missionary Casas’ whole body was frozen blue, but the Bible still emanated a holy radiance.

The essence of divine power is the power to negate the abnormal. A restorative force that returns the twisted to the correct path. Nothing can match divine power in terms of defense. Temperus showed his annoyance.

“From the moment he uses dark power, that child is a dark mage! Is the Holy See attacking a mage to protect a dark mage?!”

“The child is not guilty. If there is any guilt, it is the fault of me, for not showing him evil, and the fault of this land, for failing to prevent it.”

Of course, that’s right. What crime does a child commit who doesn’t even know whether dark magic is good or bad? What’s bad is not the child, but this world….

“Of course, the most detestable one is that man!”

“Eh. I was just being purely benevolent.”

“If it is benevolence, it should lead to good results! If this is benevolence, then even a demon could whisper in the ears of men with benevolence!”

That’s a fair point. No matter how good your intentions are, if you don’t take responsibility when things go wrong, it’s just evil.

But you know what?

“So, what should we do? Should I, like you, let that child slowly sink and die in the Outcast Zone? Mercifully?”

Divine power is the power to reject the ideal. A force that compels resignation and conformity. Religion, which advocates enduring the suffering of the present and emphasizing the happiness of the afterlife, is well-suited to protecting the system.

“Push him into a place where only promised decay awaits, and trample on any hope of looking upward. Should we lock the child in a cold prison, whispering only of happiness in the afterlife? Would Richard be satisfied with that life?”

I know the answer to that question. The answer is no. There’s no need to even ask.

“If that were the case, Richard wouldn’t have come to me. Nor would he have struggled and tried to climb upward. Isn’t that right?”

I looked up at Missionary Casas, asking the question. He, of all people, would understand.

Richard, the one from the Outer District. The brilliant magician said to have come from the Floating City… well, it was Missionary Casas who told my story, after all.

A flicker disturbed the missionary’s radiant aura, but only for a moment. He cried out, almost indignant.

“Spreading sins like black magic, and you have the gall to stand there! Why not help in the right way, instead of being an apostle of *this*!”

“Sophistry. The accumulated ‘right ways’ resulted in this structure. This is the outcome. Regardless of good or evil, righteousness is just the order that’s solidified over time.”

That’s simply how it came to be. A shame, really. Those original architects of this order must have imagined a happy, hopeful future for everyone. But the world refuses to cooperate.

And to place the blame on them? That would be just as unreasonable. Does anyone live in this world alone? Did a single person create it? An era is the product of all the humans who lived through it.

“I’m not saying the order is evil. Nor am I pursuing some notion of ‘good.’ I don’t care about such things. I won’t shift the blame to anyone. This is just the result of everyone’s struggles.”

Humans are merely beasts. Foolish, base creatures. Even if we try to burden a select few with sin and virtue, the species of humanity simply lacks the capacity.

No capacity to offload, no capacity to shoulder the burden.

I drew a card, shuffling it lightly.

“But if this order arose inevitably, wouldn’t attempts to overcome it also arise just as inevitably?”

If magic was discovered to overcome a harsh environment…

Then overcoming the order created by magic is also humanity’s purpose.

“Stop!”

One of the guards brandished his spear, threateningly. I offered him a wry smile.

Drawing the cards. Spades, and then Clubs. Cards imbued with demon and magic energy, held in my hands.

The Clubs card I used before was a sort of compressed magic grenade. Since I, with my pathetic magic, couldn’t wield powerful spells, I designed a magic circle and infused it with alchemically extracted magic, creating a one-time magic bomb.

Easy to use, but not particularly powerful, and cursed with the fatal flaw of being disposable.

The Clubs cards I had left were mostly empty husks, their magic depleted. Damaged magic circles, forcibly repaired into duds.

And yet.

“Set.”

I slam magic into it.

White magic? Black magic? The type doesn’t really matter. Magic energy is scattered throughout all things in the world.

White magic chooses crystals as catalysts because their magic is consistent.

Black magic chooses the body as a catalyst because it’s convenient to use one’s own body.

These are the reasons for those choices, but you can use other magic just as easily.

“I said stop!”

The guard thrust his spear forward. A magician’s bodyguard is the vanguard, a wall that creates space between the magician and the enemy while they prepare their spells.

The bifurcated spearhead aimed for me. Instead of dodging, I raised my hand, intending to grasp the spear point.

A futile gesture, of course. Though my strength has increased somewhat, grabbing a sharp blade with bare hands is still a reckless act. More than reckless – idiotic – if the blade is imbued with blade-qi.

My hand was deeply cut, blood spurting forth. Like a fountain, the gushing blood swirled in the air, only to return to my right hand.

More precisely, to the Clubs card held in my right hand.

“Hmph.”

Vampires use blood magic. Blood control to manipulate the blood-qi, weaving that life force to complete the spell. A huge price that humans would never dare to pay, but for vampires with their regeneration, it’s just a reasonable cost.

Which means that I, who now possesses regeneration thanks to a demon, can also use blood magic.

Life force surges. Magic woven from human blood. This blood magic is specialized for life, flow, and domination. It has many flaws when it comes to casting white magic and requires a purification process, but…

“Chain Lightning.”

There is a magic circle within the human body.

A small lightning magic circle inscribed upon the body, made of blood and bone, muscles, designed to control this body as one wishes.

He weaves strands of lightning into a layered magic circle.

A dizzying, sharp pain shoots through his right hand. The purest agony, grinding at the very nerves. Not content with using his body as a tool, they’re remodelling it for magical purposes, sparking a dreadful rejection. Pain and a sense of alien invasion flood his right arm.

Even as this happens, the Tyr’s god-machine attempts to restore him. Regeneration and destruction occur simultaneously, postponing and further postponing the end of this terrible torment. If only it would fully heal or utterly break; there’d be no pain then.

Magic power is born from structural collapse. The magic in his arm, from the repeated regeneration and destruction, was fuller than ever before.

He overlapped two clover cards. Five, Six. Wind, condensation. He seizes the atmosphere, solidifying it, and then propels it, space and all, with the wind.

“…! This is!”

The atmosphere solidifies. The escort, caught within, becomes like an insect trapped in amber. He quickly realizes what he’s been subjected to.

This magic, wielding vast physical force, was often used by Temperus.

“Farewell.”

With a light bow, he forcefully struck the air. The impact rippled throughout the solidified space, and cracks formed with a shattering sound. The escort, ejected along with the space, was hurled far away.

Temperus’ eyes widened. He was a magician himself. He couldn’t *not* know what had just happened.

“Black magic…?”

Temperus was aghast and enraged. A primal revulsion rose within him, and he aimed his staff.

The reason wasn’t merely that he’d used black magic in the Magic Federation, a land of white magic, nor that the black magic was surprisingly powerful.

“You copied my magic…?! With *black magic* of all things?! Impossible!”

He’d invoked white magic with tainted, filthy black magic.

His right arm was already healed. Shuffling cards with his now-perfect right hand, he spoke to Temperus.

“Now then. You posed a problem to those people earlier, yes? Let me do the same.”

His was black magic, ceremonial magic. A power rejected by the Magic Federation.

But the result was the same as Temperus’ magic.

“As you know, deciphering magic is far easier than devising it. Like how criticism is easier than creation. So, try to guess. What magic did I use?”

The Magic Federation has a rule. If you cannot prove what magic was used against you, you cannot blame anyone.

A rule born to reject the terrible witch hunts of ages past.

“If you can’t… then you’re conducting a ‘witch hunt’.”