Reincarnated as The SSS-Rank Villain Magus: My Arcana Evolution System

Chapter 9. Two Broken Magi

My first research paper was published when I was sixteen.

My first major academic award came two years later.

Eighteen years old.

Youngest officially recognized magic researcher in history.

There were photographs.

Interviews.

Articles.

A ceremony.

People congratulated me.

Professors twice my age shook my hand.

One researcher whose books I had studied as a child told me my work had forced him to reconsider an entire branch of mana theory.

I smiled so much that day my cheeks hurt.

And before the ceremony...

I invited my parents.

I sent them the date weeks beforehand.

I even reserved seats.

Three seats, actually.

Dad.

Mom.

My brother.

I remember staring at those empty chairs before my name was called.

They had good reasons.

My brother had the final match of a national tournament that day.

A major one.

He had trained for months.

Dad couldn’t miss it.

Mom couldn’t either.

I understood.

Really.

I did.

When I stood on that stage and received the award, I told myself they would watch the recording later.

Someone took my picture.

Eighteen years old.

Award in my hands.

Three empty chairs somewhere in the audience.

I smiled anyway.

My brother won his tournament.

I congratulated him that night.

He congratulated me too.

He sounded genuinely happy.

That somehow made it easier.

And harder.

The second award came the following year.

Bigger ceremony.

More prestigious.

This time I only reserved two seats.

Mom and Dad.

My brother had been invited to participate in a friendly exhibition duel organized by a famous professor-magician.

Apparently, it was an important opportunity.

My parents went with him.

Again...

I understood.

Magic tournaments were different.

They were loud. Bright. Exciting.

Crowds screamed.

Cameras followed every movement.

Spells exploded across arenas.

Commentators shouted names.

Thousands of people watched live.

Winning looked like victory.

Research didn’t.

Research was quiet.

Most breakthroughs happened at two in the morning while wearing an old shirt and staring at equations that looked like they had been personally designed to insult you.

There was no crowd when you finally solved something.

No explosion of applause.

No commentator screaming your name.

Sometimes there wasn’t even another person in the room.

Just paper. Ink. Cold coffee. And you.

Maybe that was why my brother’s accomplishments always seemed larger.

He won tournaments.

I published research.

He lifted trophies under stadium lights.

I received certificates inside conference halls.

His victories made noise.

Mine were quiet.

His face appeared on television.

My name appeared beneath academic papers most people would never read.

I told myself I preferred it that way.

And eventually... Maybe I did.

The third time I received an award, I didn’t reserve seats.

I sent my parents the invitation through text.

Nothing more.

No asking whether their schedules were free.

Mom replied with a heart.

Dad wrote that he was proud of me.

Neither came.

I stood on the stage.

Accepted the award.

Smiled for the photograph.

Went home.

Put it on the shelf.

Then made instant noodles because I’d forgotten to buy groceries.

The fourth award was easier.

I didn’t remember inviting them.

Maybe I did.

The fifth...

By then I had stopped.

There was no anger anymore.

That would’ve required expectation.

I received more than ten awards before I died.

Actually, I think it was twelve.

One was international.

Two more were national.

One came from the Arcane Research Institute itself.

Another recognized my work on ancient magical structures.

My parents never attended a single ceremony.

Not once.

And the pathetic part?

For the first few years, I always looked toward the entrance.

Even when I knew they weren’t coming.

Some stupid part of me kept thinking maybe Dad would suddenly appear in his suit.

Maybe Mom would rush inside late because academy traffic was terrible.

Maybe they’d surprise me.

They never did. Eventually, I stopped looking.

That was probably when it stopped hurting.

Or when I became better at pretending it didn’t.

My brother kept climbing.

He deserved it.

That was important.

He worked hard.

The accident wasn’t his fault.

He carried enough guilt without me adding resentment to it.

He became everything people had once expected me to become.

Powerful.

Famous.

Respected.

A brilliant combat magus.

His name appeared everywhere.

And mine... Mine existed in quieter places.

Libraries.

Research databases.

Academic journals.

Footnotes.

The sort of places where nobody cheered.

I told myself that was enough.

Most days, it was.

My romance wasn’t much better.

People sometimes assumed I stayed single because I was married to my work. That was convenient. So I let them believe it.

The truth was uglier.

My brother was famous. And being his older brother made me useful.

The first woman who approached me seemed genuinely interested.

She asked about my research.

We had coffee.

She laughed at my jokes.

Then she casually asked whether I could introduce her to my brother.

That hurt.

Not terribly.

Just enough.

The second one was less subtle.

She wanted his number.

The third asked whether he was dating anyone.

The fourth wanted an invitation to one of his private matches.

After that, I started recognizing the pattern.

Compliment me.

Ask about research.

Pretend ancient mana theory was fascinating.

Then... "By the way, your brother..." more than a dozen times.

Some wanted meetings.

Some wanted introductions.

Some wanted his contact information.

One woman spent three years talking to me before admitting she’d originally approached because she wanted access to him.

Three years.

I had almost respected the commitment.

When I refused, sometimes they became embarrassed. Those were fine.

Sometimes they apologized. Also fine.

Others got angry. Those were the interesting ones.

And that was usually when the harsh words came out.

’You’re just jealous because he’s everything you couldn’t become.’

’You’re still bitter about being crippled.’

’It isn’t his fault you’re weak.’

That one always made me laugh afterward.

Not because it was funny.

Because what else was I supposed to do?

Explain that I had nearly died protecting him?

People preferred simpler stories.

The crippled older brother.

The successful younger brother.

Jealousy made sense.

Love complicated things.

So eventually, I stopped trying.

When someone asked why I wasn’t dating, I shrugged.

Research.

Too busy.

Deadlines.

Projects.

Easy answers.

Nobody looked uncomfortable when you said you were married to your career.

Nobody needed to know that sometimes, late at night, after finishing another paper nobody in my family would read, I wondered what it would feel like to have someone who wanted me.

Evan.

The crippled magus.

But those thoughts were dangerous.

Hope had always been expensive for me.

Now... I stood inside a ruined training chamber thousands of years before I had ever been born.

My mana core was whole.

Power moved through my body.

Black flame curled around my fingertips.

For the first time in sixteen years, I could cast something more than just a couple of basic fireballs.

I closed my fingers.

The black flame disappeared.

And in the sudden silence, I realized something almost cruel.

I had spent half my life trying to fix a broken vessel.

Then I died and woke inside another broken man.

A bitter smile slowly pulled at my lips. "I guess we’re more alike than I thought, huh, Rey?"

My gaze dropped to my hand.

A hand that could finally hold the power mine never could.

And for the first time, I wondered...

Maybe that was why I had reincarnated as him.

Maybe it wasn’t random.

A broken magus who had spent his life trying to repair himself... placed inside the body of another broken magus who had eventually lost the fight.

The thought made my smile fade.

Maybe I hadn’t been brought here just to inherit Rey Valen’s life.

Maybe... I had been brought here because I was the one person stubborn enough to understand how badly he had wanted to save it.

The thought lingered for another second.

I raised my right hand. Black-crimson fire immediately curled around my fingers, violet edges flickering against my skin without burning it.

[Blackflame Manipulation]

Before I entered an actual battle, I needed to know my limit.

Not from a system description. I needed to feel where control started slipping.

Where Forbidden Energy consumption became dangerous and the spell became too large to safely contain.

Because discovering that information while fifty people were trying to kill me sounded slightly inconvenient.

I spread my fingers.

The Blackflame expanded.

More.

I fed it Forbidden Energy.

More.

The flame stopped looking like fire gathered around my palm.

It became a vortex.

Black-crimson flames spiraled upward, twisting around themselves as they climbed.

Ten meters.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

My eyes widened slightly.

The vortex kept growing.

The chamber darkened beneath its light.

The black center swallowed illumination while the crimson edges painted the walls blood-red.

Heat slammed outward.

My hair whipped backward.

The hem of my clothes snapped violently around my legs.

I planted one foot behind me and lowered my center of gravity, keeping my arm raised while my other hand came across my chest to stabilize the magical structure.

The spell answered.

The vortex widened.

Fire circled fire.

Layers formed around layers until the entire thing resembled a gigantic burning tower reaching toward the ceiling.

A tornado of Blackflame.

And suddenly the system’s earlier suggestion didn’t seem ridiculous anymore.

The thing was enormous.

The base alone could’ve swallowed dozens of people.

Fifty?

Probably.

Fifty ordinary soldiers standing within its effective radius would disappear before they understood what had happened.

Maybe more.

That thought should’ve concerned me.

Instead, my smile widened.

The tornado rotated faster.

The chamber trembled.

Protective runes flashed across the walls.

One layer.

Then another.

Then... CRACK!

My eyes snapped toward the floor.

A fracture had appeared beneath my boots.

Another spread from the center of the chamber.

Then another.

The reinforced stone walls began developing thin glowing cracks as the defensive formations struggled against the heat and magical pressure.

Ah. That was probably enough experiment.

I closed my fist. "Cancel."

The Blackflame tornado collapsed.

I stood there.

Smoke drifted around me.

My hair was a mess.

My arm remained extended.

The floor was cracked.

Several targets had partially melted despite never being directly attacked.

One defensive rune on the far wall sparked weakly.

My breathing came harder.

I slowly lowered my hand. My lungs expanded. My fingers trembled faintly from maintaining such a massive structure, and my body had that familiar hollow sensation of spending too much magical energy too quickly.

I stared at the damage.

Then an evil little smirk crept across my face.

Not yet.

Nobody could know I’d already found a way to handle Rey’s curse.

Rey Valen was still deteriorating. Still unstable. Still falling. Still desperately searching for a cure that didn’t exist.

And for now... I intended to let them keep believing exactly that.

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