Magic Academy's Bastard Instructor - Chapter 291: Archmage Zen [3]

Left with his thoughts, Vanitas considered what to do with the entity known as Kafka Rossweisse.

For a child to have appeared with the Sword Saint’s blessings, he surely had to have something special with him. After all, this world did not choose those who would be blessed with power on a whim.

What was certain, however, was that those with power were bound for a life full of tragedy ahead.

“How old are you?”

“Eight.”

Eight, and yet he already had the intellect befitting that of a boy older. Moreover, the boy’s height seemed much more pronounce for an eight year old, clearly hinting he would grow up to be a tall man in the future.

“Rossweisse… if I recall… that’s a Knight Family, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Father was a Crusade member, and mother was a baker.”

Despite that humble background, the boy spoke with a level of clarity that suggested proper education.

With even a modest foundation and a few natural talents, it was enough to shape him into someone like this.

“How did you end up with Fyodor?”

“Fyodor?”

“That strange… lady…”

Just the fact that he had to refer to Fyodor as a lady made Vanitas want to scowl.

“The strange lady came to the orphanage and adopted me.”

“Adopted?” Vanitas raised a brow. “You’re an orphan? What happened to your family?”

There was not much to remember about the Rossweisse Family. The only reason he could even recall something so trivial was simply because one of the knights who had worked under him during the crusade to dismantle cult facilities had the same surname.

It was highly likely that the man had died in action.

“Father is dead. And my mother left me at the orphanage.”

“….”

For a boy at the age of eight to speak of such things without a hint of emotion was not normal. It was clear that he already carried a bleak outlook on life, one where he did not care how he lived or who took him in.

But if his father was dead, then Vanitas had already reached a conclusion.

This boy’s father had likely died under his orders.

To say he felt guilt, or any desire to take responsibility, would be a lie.

A dying man like him had no reason to dwell on regret or the sins he had committed. Kafka’s father was simply another man who had died for the sake of a greater goal.

“You killed him, Mister Vanitas.”

“…”

So he was aware. That wasn’t strange either. Anyone in Aetherion who paid attention to the Crusade Order would know that Vanitas Astrea, a mage and the Emperor’s hand, had led them just a few months ago.

“So are you here to get your revenge?” Vanitas asked, probing him in an almost mocking tone.

“Even if I am, there’s nothing I can do,” Kafka replied as if he were stating something mundane. “I’m powerless. A sword rejects me, and magic is beyond my reach.”

Vanitas took a moment to process his words.

According to Fyodor, this boy had inherited the Sword Saint’s blessing, yet had no aptitude for the sword. Naturally, with a constitution similar to that of a Crusader, his affinity for mana would be even worse.

“Then you’ll live a useless life. Pitying you would only be a waste—”

“But that doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

“Hm?”

The strike was direct and decisive, giving Vanitas the impression that this was simply the boy’s nature. There was no second thoughts behind his actions.

———!

But unfortunately for him, the blade stopped just short of Vanitas, halted by the autonomous barrier of wind surrounding him.

“You missed your chance.”

“It’s frustrating. My father’s murderer is right in front of me, yet I can’t do anything about it.”

“You don’t look frustrated.”

A strange boy. His tone was monotonous, and his face remained completely listless, without even the slightest change in expression. He claimed to be frustrated, yet there was nothing in his expression to support it.

For a moment, Vanitas wondered if the boy’s facial muscles even worked.

Kafka slowly lowered the blade as he stared at the ground.

“I know I’m weak,” he said. “No matter how many times I try, the result will be the same.”

Vanitas watched him in silence. Kafka looked up at him.

“Are you going to kill me as well?” he asked.

“Why should I?” Vanitas raised a brow. “What do I gain from going out of my way to kill a child like you when you’re bound to die a dog’s death on the street anyway?”

“….”

Kafka’s lips pressed into a thin line.

He had tried provoking him, the man responsible for ruining his family’s life. Even that had led nowhere. His attempt to kill him had failed, and now even his attempt to throw his life away at Vanitas’s hands had been denied.

Vanitas glanced at him from the corner of his eye before turning his attention back to the dragon bones.

“I assume you don’t give a damn about your life.”

“….”

“A life so worthless that even his own mother abandons him. A father so incompetent he chose his duty over his own family.”

“…What do you know?”

For the first time, the boy’s expression cracked. It was subtle and barely there, but the crease along his brows was enough for Vanitas to know he had struck a nerve.

Kafka stepped forward and grabbed onto his clothes. Because of the height difference, Vanitas had to look down at him. The boy’s hands trembled slightly as he tried to keep himself composed.

“Father didn’t even die as a knight… I heard he suffered injuries and died from leptospirosis… He wasn’t even given a chance for treatment… because their commander didn’t let them leave…”

Kafka’s fist struck his stomach, once, then again. The force was there, but Vanitas barely felt anything but a light touch.

He didn’t feel anything anymore. Vanitas had long lost the proper nervous system that registered pain. He was dying soon. He was certain of that.

“That’s where you’re mistaken.”

Kafka looked up. “…Huh?”

“As long as they died under my command, they died an honorable death. Not for the sake of this rotten Empire, but for this world.”

Kafka stared at him in confusion.

Just who did this person think he was to say something like that? Never before had Kafka met someone so self-centered.

“So, Kafka Rossweisse. Make sure your father did not die in vain.”

“….”

Kafka’s confusion only deepened.

Vanitas pushed the boy aside without care before turning back to the dragon bones and resuming his deciphering.

“Come here.”

Kafka blinked, then straightened, following Vanitas’s lead.

“Do what you did earlier,” Vanitas said.

Kafka glanced at him, then shifted his gaze toward the dragon bones before speaking.

“What is that?”

“The reason for all the lives this Empire has lost. The Dragon Bones.”

Kafka stared at it.

It didn’t look like bones at all and instead resembled a cluster of inky black beads, like pearls strung together, except far larger than what Kafka was familiar with.

“…What happens if I break its mana?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

In truth, Kafka had not been born with this blessing. Growing up, he had learned the ways of the sword, and ever since his father died and his mother left him in an orphanage, he had taken it more seriously.

It wasn’t long before he pushed himself to the brink, only to realize that he had lacked the talent for it all along.

In any case, it was only recently that Kafka had awakened to a certain constitution. The ability to see mana take shape before it formed into a spell.

At first, it terrified him. What else would a boy think when he suddenly began to see invisible strands hanging in the air, waiting to be cut?

When Kafka did cut them, he soon understood what he had done.

He had the ability to sever the flow of mana.

At that moment, Kafka extended a hand and focused.

If he was going to live a life of mediocrity anyway, he might as well prove that he could do something.

He hated Vanitas Astrea, yet he couldn’t deny it.

The man had a way with words. Harsh as they were, they dragged Kafka back into the reality that everything he had once cherished would never return.

“Don’t hesitate,” Vanitas said. “That very thing in front of you is the culmination of your father’s life.”

“….”

Kafka’s gaze hardened.

This foul, reeking mass was being compared to his father?

The thought alone made a lump form in his throat. His hand lowered, and he turned to face Vanitas.

“Why do you kill?” he asked. “Why do you make others suffer?”

He had read enough novels to recognize this situation.

If there was a word for Vanitas Astrea in this moment, then it was simple.

He was a villain.

“Because life has never been fair,” Vanitas replied decisively. “You have every right to resent me. You have every right to judge me. But what you cannot do is take back what’s already been lost.”

“….”

Kafka bit his lip, his eyes fixed on those amethyst-hued pupils that held no trace of life. A man who should have been driven by ambition instead looked hollow, as if everything that once gave him purpose had already burned away.

And in that moment, Kafka understood.

Vanitas Astrea had lost everything, too.

The difference lay only in time.

Of course, it was ridiculous to compare a man of twenty-seven to a boy of eight, yet Kafka could not shake the thought.

If he somehow survived long enough, if he continued down this path, then perhaps he would end up just like Vanitas Astrea.

“….”

People took.

And they kept taking.

There was no balance to it. There was no invisible force that returned what was lost. Karma was nothing more than a story people told themselves to endure what they could not change.

There were no better days waiting ahead. There was no hidden reward for suffering.

There was only what remained.

Standing there, given this choice, Kafka found himself thinking.

Would it truly be wrong to help the man who had taken everything from him?

His conscience resisted.

But his heart… his heart told him something else.

He had nothing left to lose.

Kafka was powerless.

But if he helped this man, then at the very least…

“….”

He would not be the only one dragged into the abyss.

With that thought, Kafka raised his hand once more. Strings began to manifest at the edge of his vision, as if they were begging to be cut.

Vanitas watched with clear interest. This child was only eight, yet he was already proving to be far more useful than the previous Sword Saint.

“…!”

At that moment, Vanitas saw it.

The flow of mana was severed.

He focused immediately. What had once been a puzzle waiting to be deciphered had now changed. With Kafka’s interference, it was no longer something to interpret piece by piece, but something already laid out before him, like a picture waiting to be arranged.

And so, Vanitas arranged the picture.

As he did, the boy who had been standing right in front of him suddenly disappeared.

——Hey.

And in that moment, a voice resounded, prompting Vanitas to turn around abruptly.

“….”

Standing there was a man draped in black, his hair as dark as midnight, his eyes carrying that same inky, murky shade of purple.

If a third party were to see this from a distance, it would look as if two identical people were facing each other, as if one were a doppelganger of the other.

——Strange, isn’t it?

“Zen.”

——Vanitas.