Became the Unjust Contract Slave of the Archamage's Book - Chapter 8
âA mage who doesnât chant spells?â
What kind of question is that? A mage who doesnât chant spells?
Of course, I know. A being who can reveal their power with mere imagination. Havenât such figures often appeared in the epic poems of wandering poets?
And the protagonists of those epic poems, though hidden in metaphor, generally refer to the same individuals.
â¦Though that too may be an exaggeration.
âAre you asking about a certain level of proficiency?â
The skills of mages are usually classified according to a system called âtiers.â
From the 1st tier, for those just beginning to learn magic, up to the 7th tier, which only one person in history has ever reached.
The higher the tier, the more metaphysical, complex, and specialized the magic.
However, the tier system wasnât a clear-cut measure of skill. The field of magic itself didnât have that long of a history.
Even mages of the same tier had their own specialized fields, so the tier system didnât provide a perfect explanation.
Yet there were commonalities. Imagination, willpower, and chanting were essential elements for all mages.
âThatâs not it. I was asking if itâs realistically possible.â
Professor Yulio misunderstood Rikeâs question. He let out a short, hearty laugh.
âLooks like Professor Avia Flynn is playing tricks again. Seeing the princess come running like this.â
With some preparations, it wasnât too difficult to make it seem like one was using magic without any preliminary work.
And Avia Flynn was someone who possessed both the skill and the playfulness to do such things.
âNo? Thatâs not it. If it were another professorâs magic, I might suspect a trick too. But what I saw was a studentâs magic.â
âPardon?â
Professor Yulio didnât immediately understand. As he chewed over her words again, his astonishment grew.
âA student, you say?â
Dean Yulio first considered the method.
Using a sound barrier to erase the sound of the spell, or delaying the spell itself⦠No matter how he thought about it, it wasnât something a student could achieve.
âWho was it? Malek Baldwin? No, his professor always grumbled about Malekâs slow progress. Then Avichi Muller? He would have been disciplined after a big fight with his professor. Then Gospelt Louis?â
Names of current top students came rolling off Yulioâs tongue.
Each professorâs top disciples were the closest contenders for this semesterâs scholar selection. Naturally, they were the most skilled students.
Dean Yulio also remembered their faces.
But no matter how much he searched his memory, he couldnât think of anyone with the skill to deceive a 5th-tier mage.
âA name called Binaeril Dalheim.â
It was an unfamiliar name.
Seeing the deanâs lack of understanding, Rike explained roughly what she had seen and heard.
âSome commoners were fighting in the sacred magic tower⦠ahem. So, a student who transferred just recently?â
In that case, it was natural that Professor Yulio didnât know.
He didnât remember every student who had been promoted.
âIs that even possibleâ¦?â
It was beyond the realm of Yulioâs common sense.
If it had been a report from another student, he wouldnât have believed it.@@novelbin@@
But since it was her words, Yulio couldnât dismiss the matter as a mere joke.
She was a kind of anomaly, a student with better eyes for tracking magical power than even himself, the dean.
Feigning that he would confirm the facts, Dean Yulio sent Rike away for now.
He then immediately connected to a communication spell.
âYes, Dean.â
âBring me all the information the magic tower holds on a student named Binaeril Dalheim.â
âUnderstood.â
After issuing his instructions, he ended the communication at once.
âA student who uses magic without chantingâ¦?â
It sounded like a joke.
Regardless of the information that would be in the submitted documents, Dean Yulio thought he should meet this student named Binaeril in person.
In his dream, Binaeril saw a familiar ceiling.
It was the corner room on the second floor of the Dalheim mansion in Ruben, the room where he was born and raised.
His senses were awake, but he couldnât move a finger.
It felt as if he were experiencing sleep paralysis.
With a creaking sound, someone entered his room.
Binaeril guessed the identity of the visitor.
Although he had never seen their face in his dreams, it was the person he had resented all his life.
The approaching presence felt as if it were playing a prank or sneaking in to steal something.
The presence reached Binaerilâs bed and crouched down.
He heard a rustling sound. The person hid something under Binaerilâs bed and then left, chuckling.
The real nightmare began then. Though he knew what was coming, he could never resist the nightmare.
Outside his room, he began to hear the noisy clanging of weapons.
There were the screams of servants, the shouts of someone fighting back.
Among the sounds of sharp weapons clashing, words like heresy and cult occasionally emerged.
But Binaeril couldnât move.
Soon, a red light began to shine on the ceiling he was staring at.
The source was a fire that had started under his bed.
The crackling flames gradually emitted acrid smoke, and Binaeril still couldnât move a finger.
âItâs hot! Help me!â
He screamed, but it was only an internal scream. Then, someone burst into his room.
It was a different person from the first visitor.
While the first visitor exuded pure malice, this new one seemed desperate to save him.
The figure rushed over and leapt onto the burning bed. Then they embraced Binaeril.
Curling up tightly to avoid the scorching flames, the emaciated figure tried to protect Binaeril from the fire.
âMom, no. Mom!â
Young Binaeril was helpless.
As the bed and her body burned, all he could do was cry out in his mind.
ââ¦â¦Ha!â
At that moment, Binaeril woke up from the dream.
A fluttering book came into his view.
â Making a lot of noise, arenât you?
His entire body was drenched in cold sweat.
He realized that his clothes were stiff and frozen.
It wasnât just his clothes. When he got up, he saw that his bed was covered in frost.
âW-whatâs going on?â
Only then did Binaeril realize that he was shivering.
â How should I know? Youâre the one who did it while thrashing around.
âUgh, itâs coldâ¦â
After changing into new clothes, he noticed that even the floor around his bed was covered in frost.
âDid I do this?â
â Yeah. Look at you, using up all that magic. What kind of dream were you having?
It seemed even Veritas couldnât peek into his dreams.
âItâs nothing.â
There was no need to be honest about everything.
Binaeril felt a pang of desolation as he looked around the bleak room.
Not long ago, he had been a perennial failure who couldnât use any magic. Now, he was freezing his bed in his sleep.
Should he be pleased about this?
Binaeril realized that there was something wrong with his state.
âCanât you help me stop the magic from going off on its own?â
â Itâs power that follows your will. How can I help? You have to control it yourself.
Veritas, the source of his magical power, was of no help.
What Binaeril wanted was the result of three years of diligent effort.
He hadnât wished for uncontrolled magic blasting all over the place.
âI need to find a way to control it.â
Without a solution, he felt at a loss.
Where was the problem? Where should he start?
ââ¦Letâs start with the laundry.â
Binaeril sighed softly.
***
âThat guy cheated! Yeah, it was magic! That guy used magic! Report him right away, the coward. He deserves to be expelled!â
âWhat nonsense. Magic? I didnât even see him chant anything.â
Gillian was fuming in the infirmary.
âAnd I found out heâs from the Marquis of Ruben. Isnât your family just barons?â
âWho cares about some backwater marquis!â
âAnyway, it was magic. Yeah, that girl who was knocked down when I pushed her. Didnât she help him?â
âTalk some sense.â
It was an unconvincing story. Gillian was just babbling to protect his pride.
âYou all saw it. That Binaeril guy got hit by me and collapsed. Itâs impossible that a weakling like him suddenly changed like that.â
âEnough.â
âWe let a lowly baronâs son join just because he had some money, and now heâs becoming more disgraceful. Thatâs why common-born kids canât make it. They lack refinement.â
âMagic or not, we helped you look for him for days, but you lost. Seriously, this guy might actually be an illegitimate child.â
Gillian was too overwhelmed with shame and absurdity to respond.
The misunderstandings, or perhaps truths, spreading among his friends were already beyond control.
âIâve seen his dad before, too. Heâs a complete merchant. It was so funny seeing him grovel before my father.â
âGrowing up in a family that counts money, do you think he has any pride? Heâs a street urchin anyway. Honestly, I never wanted to hang out with him. He smells like a commoner.â
âEnough. How much time do we have to waste because of a guy like that? Iâm leaving.â
âMe too.â
Even though Binaeril winning the fight didnât mean his words were right, there was an unspoken agreement among boys this age that âthe winner must be right.â
Left alone in the infirmary, Gillian bit his lower lip hard.
The noble friends he made at Elfenbine were his assets.
Weapons to use against his father and brothers, who found him a nuisance.
âDamn it!â
In his rage, Gillian started throwing whatever he could get his hands on. He couldnât just leave things as they were.
âIsnât there some way? Some wayâ¦â
A way to strike back at that bastard Binaeril and regain his friendsâ trust.
âYeah, thatâs it!â
An idea struck Gillianâs mind.
âHeh, talking about rule-breaking. Coward. If you like the rules so much, letâs fight within them.â
He lost because of trickery, Binaeril must have done something underhanded. Gillian was fixated on this thought.
That meant that on a fair stage, he couldnât possibly lose.
There was one official way to set up a stage where he could bring Binaeril Dalheim to his knees and become the victor.
A stage where students could test their magic against each other with certified overseers. A magical duel.
That was the only way for Gillian to restore his honor.