Mystical Fantasy : The Lazy Real Young Master [EN]

Al extended two fingers toward the vicinity of the man’s throat.

From his gesture there poured a violet-hued energy, coalescing into a razor of pure energy that nicked the man’s neck with surgical precision and drew a thin ribbon of sanguine blood.

”You had better answer this, because it is precisely what piques my curiosity: why did you single me out with an intent to kill?” Al said, voice flat and dangerously inquisitive.

The man felt it—the suffocating, crystalline intimidation emanating from Al—and his entire body reacted in instantaneous physiological recoil, every nerve suddenly alive as though his very existence teetered on the precipice of oblivion.

He fixed his gaze upon Al’s eyes, which glimmered a faint, murderous crimson as if poised to pounce at any instant.

Cold sweat beaded and raced down his face; even the purpled, bruised pallor of his countenance drew into a sallow, wan semblance of life.

A silence of severe, almost tactile weight descended for a few heartbeats as the magnitude of the question settled into the stale air.

Al continued to hold the man’s eyes with unrelenting focus.

The captive convulsed under overwhelming psychological duress—his eyes, which had been wide with terror, slowly dimmed as if a light were being slid shut, focus dissolving until the lids closed entirely.

His head bowed.

His limbs went slack.

His breathing eased, slowing to a lethargic, near-subconscious cadence as if consciousness itself were receding.

”Huh? He passed out?! Don’t tell me he died of fright?” Al murmured in bewilderment.

Michaelis stepped forward and reached out to check the carotid pulse at the man’s neck.

”Master... he seems to have fainted,” he reported. ”His heart is still beating, but very weakly.”

”Agh... of course I know that. Don’t take me literally, Michaelis,” Al complained.

Michaelis emitted a small, awkward chuckle and scratched the back of his head.

”Hehe. Understood, Master.”

Sebastian also advanced, narrowing his eyes as he clinically appraised the man’s physiological state.

”Perhaps from the mental pressure of the interrogation, or an abrupt depletion of his energy,” he observed. ”His body appears unable to withstand that sort of intimidation for long.”

Al merely nodded.

”A mentality this frail intends to become a spy—despite utilizing Helos. Pitiful.” he commented with cold derision.

”But Master, there is something odd,” Sebastian said.

”What is it?” Al asked.

Sebastian leaned in for a closer inspection of the man but found no overt clue beyond an uneasy intuition whispering that something was amiss.

He shook his head.

”I’m not sure, Master. I think it’s just my instinct.”

Al regarded him, surprised by Sebastian’s unusual uncertainty, then turned his attention back to the figure on the chair.

His Dimensional Eye slid into full mode; pupils constricted and flushed to a sanguine red, granting him the capacity to read the essences underlying almost everything he perceived.

This time the vision rendered clearer detail: while the man’s outer shell truly appeared unconscious, the flow of magical energy within his body nevertheless continued, albeit at a slow tempo—subtle enough to evade casual detection.

Ordinarily, a person who had fainted would have their magical flow cease.

The energy was faint, yet it pulsed with an unnervingly mechanical regularity.

Too mechanically regular.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Al’s lips.

”...Intriguing,” he murmured softly.

”What is it, Master?” Sebastian asked.

Al leaned close and whispered to the two of them, ”He is not unconscious.”

Both men turned to Al, alarm flashing across their faces.

Michaelis furrowed his brow and whispered back, ”Not unconscious? How is that possible?”

”I don’t know; I suspect some sort of camouflage magic,” Al replied in a flat, detached tone.

”I think this man has trained more in eccentric tricks than in practical combat prowess—but such techniques can be quite effective for entrapping an opponent.”

They both could only nod at their master’s explanation.

At that moment, the aura around Al shifted, becoming incrementally heavier.

He lowered his hand and fixed the pretending captive with a gaze that was almost expressionless and yet penetrated like a blade.

”Wake up,” he said quietly.

There was no response.

Al exhaled. ”I know you’re conscious. Don’t pretend any longer. I do not have much time for games.”

Within his pretense, the man could only panic inwardly.

What the hell... how did he know? How is that possible? Even my commander would be hard-pressed to deduce this. But this person—?

He shifted three poisoned needles beneath his tongue—an assassination technique executed with professional coldness.

I planned to ambush them when they lowered their guard with these needles. Should I strike now? he fretted inwardly.

Dilemma assailed him once more, while Al lightly slapped him and said something that made his pulse stutter.

”Cut the gimmicks. Even a hundred poisonous implements you try to use wouldn’t affect us.” Al said casually.

The man froze mid-action.

He couldn’t believe Al had detected that far, he thought in stunned disbelief.

He swallowed thickly and tried to whirl his mind for options.

Al simply sighed and lifted his right hand slowly; a pale, white-tinged green energy manifested, its luminescence pulsing gently yet containing enormous compressive pressure, generating a faint spiraling current of air about his hand.

”I’m not certain whether to use this, since I do not know if you have mental restrictions,” he said. ”But I suppose it no longer matters. Then—”

His tone turned icily austere.

”Let us expedite this.”

He placed two fingers against the prisoner’s temple.

The instant Al’s fingertips made contact, the illusion shattered. The Helos aura surging within the man’s body flared wildly, instinctively resisting the intrusion—but Al’s arcane force was too stable, too profound, too absolute to be defied.

A glowing magic circle began to form in midair, rotating with deliberate precision. Sigils assembled into a six-pointed star, lines of faint azure light tracing intricate runes that shimmered like a breathing constellation.

The man’s eyes snapped open—panic flooding his expression.

In a desperate reflex, he fired the object hidden beneath his tongue, but the barrier surrounding them had already materialized, effortlessly deflecting it as if swatting away dust.

Useless, he thought bitterly.

Al smiled faintly, and—

Sacred Skill: Mind Control.

BZZTTT—!!

A powerful surge of psychic electricity coursed through the man’s body. His muscles convulsed violently, spasms rattling his frame like a marionette on broken strings.

”Mind control, Master? Is that safe?” Sebastian asked, slightly tense.

”I don’t know,” Al replied with mock casualness. ”Just make sure to clean this place up if his head explodes from the mental backlash.”

Sebastian sighed and nodded, while Michaelis groaned under his breath—knowing he would be the one doing the cleaning if that actually happened.

The radiant energy pulsated outward, rippling against the damp warehouse walls. Their shadows flickered and danced amidst the drifting dust and faint mist.

The man’s body stiffened; his eyeballs twitched rapidly beneath closed lids—then snapped open, pupils unfocused, gaze blankly staring into the ceiling.

The spell completed.

A hypnosis-type skill—temporary mental domination over the target’s mind and will.

Al exhaled deeply.

”Huff... looks like there’s no restriction seal. That makes things easier,” he muttered with satisfaction.

He leaned closer, their faces mere inches apart.

”We’ll make this quick. Answer everything directly. Understood?”

The man nodded obediently.

”Good. Then tell me—who are you, and who sent you?”

”I am... a mercenary,” the man replied tonelessly, his voice hollow, mechanical. ”Sent by the Norvalien family... to monitor a young man named Al... and capture him for transfer to the Bahari Maritime Academy.”

Al lowered his hand slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

”The Norvalien family, huh... figures.”

”Why do they want to take me there?” he asked again.

”A shaman named Daraka is conducting something... significant there. We were ordered to bring and torment the boy named Al... in that place.”

”Daraka, huh. No wonder they wanted to relocate me,” Al murmured. ”So you were their backup plan if my school transfer didn’t work?”

The man nodded.

”Do you know what Daraka is planning there?”

The man shook his head.

”Hmph... so he’s just a paid executioner after all,” Al muttered.

”Then, was it Daraka who provided your teleportation stones?” Al asked again.

The man nodded again.

”Do you know where he got them from?”

The man shook his head.

”Not exactly. I only heard the stone was from Almakubar, but I’ve no idea where it is—or what kind of place that might be,” he replied in a flat tone.

”Almakubar? That’s the name of the Third Dimension,” Sebastian commented, his brows furrowing.

Al turned to him sharply.

”The Third Dimension? You know something about it, Sebastian?”

”Not much, Master,” Sebastian admitted. ”But because of the recent Shae incident, I started researching that information and came across that name. Also... if it’s related to Daraka...”

He stepped closer, lowering his tone.

”Shae mentioned it after she regained consciousness. I didn’t have the chance to report it yet.”

”What did she say?” Al asked.

”She claimed she saw Daraka together with a High Djinn—inside the Third Dimension. They seemed to be preparing something... massive.” Sebastian’s expression darkened. ”I think it’s best if you speak to her directly, Master.”

Al nodded thoughtfully.

”Daraka and the Third Dimension... interesting.” He murmured. ”Then I’ll have to meet Shae soon.”

Turning back to the prisoner, his tone hardened.

”Now, who are you really? Where are you from? You don’t look like a local.”

The man’s body tensed, trembling faintly. His lips moved as though struggling against invisible chains—words clawing their way up but choking at the edge of his throat, as though his own mind resisted release.

Sebastian stiffened. Michaelis narrowed his eyes, instinctively ready to strike.

”Master, I think he’s—” Sebastian began.

Michaelis nodded grimly. He could feel it too.

Al, however, remained calm, intensifying the hypnotic pulse around his eyes.

”Where are you from? Tell me about your organization.”

The man convulsed once, then again, violently. His voice cracked, rasping through clenched teeth.

”O... organi... zation...” He exhaled sharply, releasing a cold, venomous mist with every word. ”Tha... la... mi... ria Sacra... ment...”

Sebastian’s head snapped toward him instantly, eyes widening in disbelief.

”What... did you just say?”

The man didn’t respond. His entire being seemed trapped in a tug-of-war between self-destruction and Al’s command spell.

Michaelis turned away slightly, disgust twisting his face.

”I’ve heard of them before... Master,” he muttered lowly.

Al turned his gaze toward him.

”What are they?”

”They’re an organization from Mirianmar... They abduct people... harvest their organs... sell them on the black market. And...” he hesitated, ”...rumor says they even consume human flesh—to absorb energy.”

Sebastian’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. He never thought he would encounter a member of such a vile group here of all places.

The name hung in the air like a curse.

Thalamiria Sacrament.

A whisper of horror from the depths of the underworld.

Al’s eyes widened at those words, yet no immediate response came from him.

He merely stood there, unmoving—turning slowly, his gaze sharpening upon the man before him.

The usual calmness in his expression dissolved into something darker, heavier, more oppressive. The edges of his irises shimmered with a faint, hellish red glow.

”Selling and eating humans... and ironically, I was one of your targets as well?”

”Y–Yes...” the man stammered softly, his voice trembling, yet still audible enough to confirm the horror.

Al lowered his head slightly, his eyes shifting toward the filthy ground beneath the prisoner’s chair—dust, grime, and flakes of dried blood forming a grotesque mosaic underfoot.

The air thickened with tension, pressing inward as though the very atmosphere rejected the presence of his wrath.

In the silence that followed, only one sound existed—the shallow, unstable breath of the captive, trembling on the edge of panic and suffocation.

Sebastian and Michaelis could do nothing but remain still. Every hair on their bodies stood on end, their instincts screaming as the power rooted within Al’s body began to leak outward.

Then—Al moved.

His hand pressed against the man’s head once more, and in one slow yet irreversible motion—

GRAB!

His fingers clamped tightly around the man’s throat.

The captive wheezed, air trapped in his lungs, unable to move under the spell’s paralyzing grip.

”You truly are a demon,” Al uttered coldly.

And then—

CRACK.

His neck twisted with a bone-snapping sound that echoed through the chamber.

Enough to crack it, but not to kill him instantly. Just to make sure, he didn’t even let out a scream through the next torment.

Then Al continued. His fist came down, again and again, each strike heavier than the last.

”Demon! You disgusting demon!” Al roared, fury finally breaking through the calm façade he was known for.

He struck with bare fists—no magic, no enhancement—just raw physical rage, as if savoring every fragment of destruction his knuckles delivered.

He could have incinerated the man instantly with a single spell, but that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted him to feel it—to crumble piece by piece under the weight of his wrath.

Blood splattered violently across the concrete floor. The man’s face was already unrecognizable, yet he remained barely conscious, his body twitching from the lingering control spell.

Sebastian and Michaelis exchanged a grim glance. They understood his fury all too well—but they stood ready nonetheless, in case Al’s emotions tipped beyond recovery.

The shadow on Al’s face deepened.

From within his body, a faint mist began to rise—a translucent, dark-purple haze of Helos Energy, seeping into the air like living smoke.

The temperature dropped. The very air vibrated with pressure, and the hanging lights above began to sway, trembling as if in fear.

”You deserve torment...”

His voice dropped low—each syllable heavy, deliberate, as though pronouncing divine judgment.

And then, when he had finally vented enough rage, it happened—

Dark flames erupted from his body, pure obsidian in hue, radiating no light yet consuming everything they touched. His special magic had awakened.

Hell Fire.

The fire surged forward, engulfing the two captives in front of him.

The second one had just regained consciousness, his eyes barely opening—only to be met with the sight of hell itself bursting forth from Al’s fury.

The flames swallowed them completely. Inside that infernal blaze, there was no scream, no blood, no trace of bone or soul. Not even ashes remained.

The magic was too precise, too absolute.

It erased existence itself.

Michaelis froze in place, his throat dry, the hairs on the back of his neck standing stiff.

Sebastian exhaled slowly—a deep, restrained breath filled with mixed relief, awe, and the faintest tremor of fear.

Al, however, stood motionless.

His gaze drifted beyond the burning air, beyond the ruined warehouse, as though his vision pierced through the world itself—into something vaster, unseen.

”Make sure every single one of them is annihilated,” Al commanded at last, his tone calm again—calm, but terrifyingly absolute.

Sebastian and Michaelis exchanged a silent look. No further discussion was necessary. They already understood. Their mission had just expanded.

”Yes, Master,” they replied in unison.

Al looked at them quietly—his clothes torn, his hands and face stained crimson. And in that heavy silence, all that remained was the echo of his fury slowly fading into stillness.

And thus, the interrogation—no, the execution—came to an end.

From this moment onward, not only had the shadows begun to move again...

but something far more dangerous—far more terrifying—had awakened.

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