Fallen Mage Regressor

The greenhouse had long since been abandoned at this time. There would be no risk of the others coming in to stop him, and Hortensia was guarding the door.

”It’s at the end of the hall,” she said. ”My most prized flower.”

Mal walked up to the end and was greeted by a pure white lily. Each of the petals were arranged in exact symmetry with each other, the lines unnaturally straight.

White mana—even whiter than Air-type mana—floated off of the petals and dissipated into nothingness.

”What is this?” Mal asked.

”A flower embedded with Maxim type mana. Unfortunately, it’s exceptionally rare and as such it has no common name. I had to come up with one myself.”

”What did you choose?”

”Ahabadabadabadaba.”

”That’s not a name.”

”I’m just screwing with you. I called it Maximas.”

Mal hummed. ”I’ve never even seen a potion that calls on Maxim type mana.”

”It’s not particularly useful for the vast majority of recipes,” she said. ”The main effect it has is stabilization. The problem is that it’s so strong that even a small amount completely neutralizes a potion. You obviously wouldn’t want that in wizardry or in witchcraft.”

Mal stepped closer and reached out his fingers toward the petals. ”And you want me to just pluck these off?”

”Yes. It’s very simple, isn’t it?”

For some reason, Mal suspected that it really wasn’t that simple and he was about to become very, very frustrated.

He reached out toward the edges of the petal and whispered under his breath.

”I need your aid.”

He pulled on the petal and—

It wouldn’t come off.

He tugged a little harder. Everything was perfectly still. The stem, the petals, it was like he was having no effect on it whatsoever.

Mal frowned and gripped it with both hands, then pulled even harder. He braced himself against the ground with his legs and tried with every bit of might he could.

Nothing. His foot slipped out from under him and he fell to the ground with a thud.

He turned back and glared at Hortensia. ”What kind of a joke is this?”

”It’s no joke,” she said.

”You’ve clearly enchanted this so that I’m not able to remove it.”

A faint smirk. ”I can assure you, there’s no foul play involved. This is simply one of the natural properties of Maxim type mana. It is immensely stable. It doesn’t allow outside interference.”

Mal growled and shifted his eyes back to the flower. He was mad. He didn’t necessarily need the woman’s knowledge, it was more about the fact that a challenge had been put before him and he wasn’t able to reach it. Especially one that was within his capabilities. He was some sort of witchcraft prodigy, wasn’t he? He destroyed his core for the sake of that talent. And now this plant refused to function in accordance with his will—?

He paused and breathed out.

Witchcraft wasn’t about that. He had to remember his lessons.

Instead of focusing on his frustration, he repeated his request.

”I need your help,” he whispered. ”If I give a part of you to that woman, I’ll receive a reward which will help me to stay alive in the long term. Please.”

He gently pulled on the petal.

There was the slightest bit of give, but then it stopped.

It wanted to help him. But there was something else he was missing. Something about the harvesting process.

He stared at the flower for nearly a minute.

Symmetry.

It all came down to symmetry, didn’t it? It wanted things to be ordered just right.

Mal reached out with his other hand, so that he was grabbing both the left and the right side. He tugged on both sides and both came off with a gentle pluck.

A hand wrapped around his wrist.

Hortensia had crossed the room in a fraction of a second and was staring down at him and the petals with a cold gaze. She took the petal from his hand, took a sniff, then gently put it into a pocket hidden inside of her sleeve.

”Well done,” she said. ”I didn’t expect you to succeed.”

Mal subtly pocketed the other Maximas flower petal into his satchel. ”I’m a man of many talents.”

”Indeed, and a deal is a deal.”

The shock disappeared from her face and she strode back to the other side of the room. She glanced back at him, a knowing look in her eyes. ”Well? Let’s begin your studies.”

Mal wrote down a handful of notes in his newfound journal, then set the quill and ink to the side. He was in a guest room of the estate, and it was late at night, the sun already long set and the moon rising in its place.

He pulled out his Nettleleaf dagger and set it on the table.

Over the past couple of days, Mal had gotten a crash course in Elven witchcraft, along with a new journal. It was apparently warded to protect from any would-be readers, which Mal was grateful for, though he wouldn’t necessarily rely on the enchantment or write anything too damning inside of it.

Elven witchcraft was way outside of Mal’s wheelhouse. If Mal had thought that Human witchcraft was pseudoscience of the highest order, Elven witchcraft made Cassandra look downright scientific. There was a vast amount of emphasis on spirits and the spiritual, to a degree that made Mal almost uncomfortable.

They didn’t worship spirits—no, they worshipped the Archons, and quite proudly—though there were certain sects that did engage in spirit worship. Rather, it was that these spirits were far more defined and personalized than the ones that Cassandra had spoken of. Granted, when the trees could apparently communicate with certain people, Mal could understand why they’d place such a great emphasis on the subject.

He’d also learned that the forest had apparently been planted by the Winter Witch, which was why it had such strange properties. Although, Hortensia seemed to imply that the only thing it could communicate was feelings and emotions, not direct speech. Mal had elected not to tell her that the forest had been directly speaking to him, as that felt like the sort of thing that one keeps a secret.

She’d given him several seed packets, along with a special ritual that she said would be far more effective for the summer solstice than whatever Cassandra would give him. She’d warned that he might end up seeing things, so Mal was worried that he’d undergo a drug induced hallucination. Nonetheless, he figured it was worth at least a shot.

He turned his attention to the Nettleleaf dagger.

He’d done a pseudo-infusion a long time ago, and it was time to upgrade to the real deal. He’d secured a ritual from the elven woman that would be able to do it, and he still had a small amount of Nettleleaf from some time back.

He took a brush from a drawer and dipped it into an ink bowl. He wrote a small sigil on the blade, then stepped out toward the balcony, where the ritual had already been prepared.

He’d laid out three items on the ground and had set up a makeshift pillar in the center out of some cloth and sticks. He set the dagger on top of the pillar and then kneeled in front of it.

The full moon was just overhead. The perfect time for this sort of ritual.

A crackle.

A slow grinding noise.

Flashes of light.

Mal opened his eyes to see that streams of energy were coming from the Nettleleaf and wrapping around the dagger. The dagger floated in the air and spun around in rapid circles. There was one more bright flash of light and then it fell back onto the pillar. The Nettleleaf had disappeared entirely.

Mal reached out and picked it up and instantly felt a swell of power just from holding it. He felt as if he were at one with the weapon, that there was no distinguishment between the two of them, and it was a sensation entirely foreign to him.

He sheathed it back under his cloak, then went back inside. He stepped over to his bed, then laid down. The land of dreams calling to him like a siren.

Mal’s teacher was out on business.

At least, that’s what she’d claimed in her letter. The point was that Mal all of a sudden had no lessons for the day and nothing to do. He decided to go watch Rolam and Holam training.

Rolam’s physical abilities were monstrous. He weaved between Holam’s spell casts with the utmost ease. At least, that’s how he made it look. Mal could see the sweat building up on his forehead from the constant dodges. And he seemed unable to throw back an attack despite his training—the pressure was too much. Finally, one of the bolts clipped his shoulder and he spun to the ground.

”You need to practice your spellcasting, brother,” Holam said.

”How are you supposed to win the tournament with such a lack of basic skill?”

The words weren’t delivered in a particularly harsh manner. Holam said them the same way he said everything else, with a neutral, stoic expression and tone of voice. Rolam flinched nonetheless and looked away shamefully.

”I’m trying, brother, but I can’t keep up,” he said.

There was something that had been bugging Mal for a while. Rolam’s abilities clearly favored physical strength. Why didn’t he just select a combat style that leaned into that?

”Have you ever considered becoming a Spellsword?” Mal said.

Rolam glanced back at him. ”Like the captain?”

”Yes,” Mal said. ”You’re one of the fastest and strongest people I know. It would make much more sense to lean into that.”

Only Hemp had greater physical ability, and she was genetically engineered to be that way. The fact that Rolam could rival her only with his natural talent was astonishing, and Mal was mystified as to how nobody had brought it up to Rolam before.

Rolam opened his mouth to say something when Holam shook his head.

”The Wpellsword is a mercenary and a brute. It is unsuited for the elven people. As a member of our highest lineage, Rolam mustn’t do such a thing.”

Mal’s face twitched. ”That’s entirely illogical. This clearly isn’t where his strengths lie.”

”I agree. But he would be looked down upon by his entire family if he chose to pursue that path.”

The fire that had built up inside of Mal’s chest was quenched in an instant. Holam agreed. He knew full well that Rolam’s talents lay elsewhere, but he also knew that Rolam wasn’t willing to lose any more prestige in the sight of his father.

Rolam coughed on the ground, a wrteched sound.

”I’m fine, Mal.” He pushed himself up. ”This is just a hurdle I’ll have to overcome. Besides, didn’t you say that we need to work on our weaknesses?”

That was true. Rolam needed to at least get up to competency in spellcasting before he could start specializing.

Mal did a slow nod. ”A fair point.”

A ring. The sound of a bell.

Holam immediately darted his eyes over toward the door. ”There’s someone at the entrance.”

Mal tilted his head. Holam’s voice was tense. Not exactly fearful, but it was clear he’d been expecting someone. Curious, Mal followed behind the older elf. They went into the hollow of the tree trunk and toward the entrance. Holam pulled it open and an elf Mal had never seen before stood outside.

The elf bowed low.

”Young master Holam,” she said. ”The Academy has assigned you a mission. As soon as possible.”

She reached into one of her pockets and offered up a folded piece of paper. Holam took it from her and opened it up. His eyes scanned across the ink, then he lowered it and looked at the woman.

”Tell the elders that I will embark on it immediately.”

She bowed back and then turned around, the door swinging shut behind her.

Holam looked back at Mal and Rolam who’d come up while Mal wasn’t looking.

”How would the two of you like to see a fifth year mage in action?”