Fallen Mage Regressor

"So, you're definitely going to participate, right?"

Mal leaned back in his chair, his fingers covered in dirt stains from the transfer of his small sprouting seedlings into a larger container.

"It all sounds like an exhausting waste of time to me," he said. "I think I would sooner spray myself with hot wax. I think that would be a more worthwhile investment."

Really, the most interesting thing thus far was the complete lack of mention regarding the disappearance of the Cup of the Winter Witch—which he was currently using as a paperweight. Either they were trying to hide the disappearance or they somehow hadn't noticed, which was honestly even more troubling.

Mal, Rolam, and Philo, were sitting around the table in the common room of their dorm. Lusia had retired early, as she always did, leaving just the three of them. Mal was working on his plants, one of his soil cubes set in front of him on a tray. Rolam and Philo were reading through their mail, Rolam with a set of personal letters and Philo with a newspaper.

Mal ignored the way his skin prickled at the thought of Lusia.

"Oh, don't be such a buzzkill." Rolam waved him off. "You want to join, and you know it."

"Not really." Mal finished the transfer of one of the seedlings and set the pot down to the side. "It'll cut into this very important work that I'm doing."

Rolam rolled his eyes. "What about you, Philo? You'll be signing up, yeah?"

"Philo will, it'll be a good chance for Philo to test his spellcraft against others."

"I'm in it to win it. Think about the consequences of success," he said. "For a brief period of time, one would be the star of campus. It would be a most glorious moment!"

"You seriously overestimate how much people care about a junior domestic tournament." Mal shook his head. "At this rank, there's not a lot that students can do."

"Yes, but we're not normal students, are we?" Rolam said.

Mal had to give credit there. Rolam and Philo had far surpassed the rest of combat class, as demonstrated in the last sparring session. They were already on par with second-year students, and their growth would accelerate further once the school year picked back up again.

"Besides," Rolam said. "I think you're forgetting about the princess. People are gonna show up in droves if only to see her."

Mal grumbled. "Fine. A fair point. An S-rank core and royalty is a pretty good draw."

"So you're definitely going to join and finally show her who the boss is, yeah?"

"No."

Even if Mal was interested in participating, he would most likely need to spend money on a participation fee, and given the letter to his side, that wasn't happening.

As it turns out, Mal had been right—he had gone over budget, and his father wasn't happy about it. Dear old dad had cut his allowance in half as a response, and said that Mal wasn't to use any more checks, as they would be denied and contested. Instead, his father would send the money monthly, and that would be the end of it.

Mal didn't particularly blame his father for this decision. Mal would likely have done the same. It was his mistake, and to pretend otherwise would have been shameful.

"I bet you're gonna somehow end up participating," Rolam said. "People like you always get wrapped up in this sort of thing."

"People like me?" Mal raised an eyebrow and glanced over in Rolam's direction. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, you know. Important people."

Rolam nodded to himself and Mal rolled his eyes for a second time and returned to his personal thoughts.

Even if he wasn't going to participate, the money thing was still a serious issue. Funds would be important to continue his growth and buy ingredients for his plants.

I could get a job, he thought. Perhaps work for a magical workshop?

...

Yeah, that's not happening.

The idea of listening to someone else's orders for several hours a day outside of the classroom was about as appealing as a fireball to his nether regions. No, what he would prefer is something a bit more entrepreneurial.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a newspaper. He picked it up and idly scanned through it for interesting headlines.

Mercenary group met with disgrace!

The picture at the front was of a collection of beastpeople, all of them dressed in armor and with a weapon of some sort.

Mal knew these people. He'd hired them during his early days, and they later formed the core of his future army.

Unfortunately, I don't have the funds I would need to obtain them.

More evidence that he needed to get more money, and soon.

If he recalled correctly, they'd be between big jobs for nearly an entire year, so Mal had some time—but he would need to move fast before they were snapped up by somebody else. Either that, or they'd disband.

He looked down a little bit further. It was a report on the underground magical ingredients trade. Interestingly enough, they weren't trading in illegal ingredients per se—though there were certainly daredevils doing that sort of thing, preparing ingredients typically used in dark magic. Rather, the Kingdom of Chama had a number of taxes and tariffs associated with certain types of plants, for whatever reason, and smugglers had realized this and were offering the good stuff for significantly cheaper.

Mal was about to brush it off as uninteresting sociopolitical fluff when a lightning bolt hit him.

I can grow plants.

I can grow plants just as well as any of these smuggler types, and the school will insulate me from anybody knocking on my door.

If asked, Mal can just say that he's growing the plants for personal reasons—though in the long term, of course, he'd have to find a greenhouse out in the city for a more industrial scale. But in the meanwhile, it should be a good way to make some extra money.

Rolam set aside the piece of paper he was reading, then picked up a new one. When he saw who it was from, his eyebrow shot up into his hair and he scooted back on his chair.

Mal glanced away from his newspaper and over at Rolam. "What is it?"

Philo put down his own letter and glared at Rolam. "You're acting as if the world has exploded. What's the matter with you, half-elf?"

Rolam set down the letter. His eyes were staring at something a thousand yars away.

"It's from my brother," he said. "He wants us to come over for the summer, so that he can prepare me for the tournament."

"You have a brother?" Philo asked. "I've never heard you talk about him."

Rolam's shoulders tensed. "Yeah, he's a good guy. It's just..."

"Can you tell us about him?" Mal asked.

Rolam shook his head and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. "Right, yeah. Of course I can."

He paused and raised his vision up toward the ceiling as if he was in thought.

"My brother is similar to Princess Savaly in terms of how they're seen by the public," he said. "He's considered something of a shining star, the heir apparent to the chancellorship."

"Chancellorship?" Mal asked. "What's that?"

"The highest political office in the Kingdom of Faren," Philo said. "They have a nominal monarchy, but it's the chancellor who has all the power." He shook his head. "But I fail to understand why your brother would be seen as the heir apparent. I thought you came from a poor family."

"I never said that. I just said I didn't have any money."

Philo's eyes flickered with confusion. Mal was right there with him. He was starting to regret not doing research into the families of the Heralds back when he was in the future past. And also he probably should have looked into the basic political structures of other kingdoms? He wasn't accepting surrender, so he hadn't considered it worthwhile, and had mostly just steamrolled his way through every other political entity that stood between him and world domination.

Rolam looked further through the papers, then shuffled the first page behind the second page. Four golden tickets fell between the sheaves and onto the table.

Philo reached out and picked one of them up with a critical eye.

"Airship tickets," he muttered. "First class, too."

"He really doesn't do things by halves, does he?" Rolam looked over at the other two. "So, are you in?"

Mal picked up a ticket and noted that it was a round trip. "It would only be for about a month and a half. I guess it might be worthwhile."

While I'm there, I might get the chance to speak to an elven witch, and who knows what sort of knowledge they might have?

"We'll be back in time to sign up for the sports festival," Rolam said. "So that'll be no issue. And you two will likely get access to the library and my brother's tutors. It'll be a good chance for us to improve."

Mal noted that despite his neutral tone, there was still that hint of tension in his voice. This felt more like an obligation than a happy reunion.

Nonetheless, Mal didn't particularly care. Rolam's family business was his own, and it was only really out of curiosity that Mal was wondering what the issue was with his family.

Mal weighed things out in his head. It wasn't like he'd be doing anything particularly important if he stayed here. Why not? The most he'd have to ask Cassandra to keep an eye on his plants, but that would probably be fine.

"Sure, let's go," Mal said.

What was the worst that could happen?

Mal vomited down the port side of the airship. Chunks of food and liquid and other indiscernible fluids flew into the air and backward before poking a hole through a cloud and disappearing into the ether.

"I have a potion for nausea, Master."

Mal turned his ragged, weary gaze toward Lusia. Unlike him, she seemed perfectly put together. She'd elected to go with her maid clothes, as this wasn't a school trip and they weren't on school business. Her hands were folded in front of her in that typical at-rest position, and her eyes were as deadened as ever.

But if he looked a little closer, there was a hint of laughter in them.

…though that might have just been his imagination.

He drooped his head and nodded. "Please."

She turned around, presumably to retrieve the nausea potion.

Mal hadn't kept any directly on hand, assuming that he would be fine, instead leaving them with Lusia. He'd gone on airships in the future past. Then he'd gone through the air when they were heading up and down the stone elevators to get to Exodi. That time, it had been Lusia who looked sick. But for whatever reason, his body was having a visceral reaction to being up this high.

A round of turbulence hit the airship and Mal gripped onto the railing for dear life. Another wave vomit rushed up his throat and flew out, once again, over the port side and down into the sky.

A very unfortunate farmer was likely just hit by a liquid projectile, he thought.

Mal turned around and away from the sky in an effort to distract himself. Up at the rear of the ship, the helmsman kept a steady eye forward and his hands gripped on the steering wheel. There was a tall mast in the middle of the ship, with square sails the size of a small building arranged all along the side. At the top, there was somebody in the crow's nest with a telescope, constantly scanning the horizon.

The funny thing about airships was that they didn't differ in design from sea ships. They possessed the same sails, the same rudder design. The only difference was that one could fly and the other couldn't.

Mal was a first-class passenger. Mal had an absurdly expensive ticket. Mal had a room all to himself, and the finest food that you could bring on an airship.

Mal was also deeply regretting ever accepting Rolam's offer.

"Master, I've retrieved the nausea potion."

Mal turned his head to face Lusia and reached out for the potion. His hands brushed against hers as he wrapped his fingers around the neck of the bottle and—

Blood. Blood flooding his nostrils, his throat. The horrendous sound of a knife cutting through flesh, but the flesh was his own—

He jerked his hand back and pulled the potion along with it.

Lusia tilted her head by a slight margin. Mal shut his eyes and tipped the potion back along with his head, and the liquid poured down directly into his gullet. He ignored the foul taste and swallowed every last drop.

Instantly, a wave of relief hit him. The nausea wasn't quite gone, but had suppressed to nearly nothing.

"Master."

She had her hands extended with a handkerchief wrapped between her fingers. Knowing that his face was covered in unmentionables, he took the handkerchief out of her hand and wiped down his face.

"Thanks, Lusia," he muttered.

"Of course, Master."

"If you don't mind, could you check in on Rolam and Philo? Make sure they haven't killed each other yet?"

"Very well, Master."

She stepped away and Mal slipped the handkerchief into his pocket. He'd have to wash it out later. The idea of her cleaning up his vomit off of her handkerchief made him physically ill all over again.

When she disappeared from sight, the tension that had wrapped up his heart vanished.

He let out a sigh.

He tried not to think about it, most days, but everything about her reminded him of the heroine.

Mal still didn't fully understand. He'd killed Lusia. He saw her bleeding out on the floor. People don't survive those kinds of injuries.

And even if she somehow, magically did, the abilities were all messed up as well. Kinetic redirection was something that she'd gained via the Mark of Victory. It was a given power, not an innate one.

He'd discreetly asked if she'd suddenly manifested a mysterious mark on her body, and she'd instantly replied with a negative. He very much doubted that she was lying to him—he was pretty sure she didn't even have the capacity to do so with how blunt she was.

The heroine must've been lying, he thought. Her power wasn't kinetic redirection. Clever girl.

But that begged the question as to what the Mark of Victory actually did. And why hide it to such an extent?

There were all of these pieces on the board and none of them fit together in any way that made any sense whatsoever.

Was it even fair to treat her like this? It hadn't been the Lusia of this time that had killed him. It had been a Lusia in a potential, possible future. One that no longer existed.

And besides, Mal thought. I never really blamed the heroine even back then. She did what she had to do, just as I did.

It all came back to fear.

…I'm such a coward.

"You look like your grandmother just died."

That voice.

Instantly, Mal's mind whirred as it sorted out potential candidates.

Come to think of it, Mal had never met the captain in person, had he? The tickets had been approved through an intermediary.

An intermediary that had looked familiar, though Mal had been unable to place the face.

Mal turned to face the familiar face.

Ah.

What a coincidence.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!