"Kuso yaro!"
A sharp string of syllables—bitten out in frustration—escaped Mikoto's lips as he found himself unceremoniously planted onto the grassy ground. The impact sent a dull ache pulsing up his spine, and he winced, his hands digging into the earth as he tried to suppress his irritation.
The perpetrator of this most humiliating moment—this heinous crime against his pride—stood before him, arms crossed, exuding an air of insufferable amusement.
Arthur Von Achenbach.
A towering hulk of a man, an undeniable force of physical prowess wrapped in sheer muscle and brute strength. His slicked-back pink hair (yes, pink—yet somehow it didn't diminish his imposing aura in the slightest) gleamed under the afternoon sun, and despite his 'masculine' nature, his choice of hair color was—well, it was a choice. His white buttoned shirt, with its sleeves rolled up, barely contained the bulging mass of sinew beneath, his biceps straining against the fabric with each minuscule movement.
And yet, despite his absurdly intimidating physique, this mountain of a man had the personality of a golden retriever that had somehow gained human form.
He tilted his head, eyes twinkling with curiosity. "There you go, speaking in that language again." His voice was smooth, rich, and maddeningly amused. Then, after a dramatic pause, his expression brightened as if he had solved a great mystery. "Ah, I know! You're cursing, aren't you?"
His giddy tone—like a child proudly answering a question correctly in class—only served to rub more salt into Mikoto's wounded dignity.
Mikoto dusted off his clothes, expression deadpan. "You figured it out. Way to go, you."
Arthur grinned wider. "Come now, boy, there's no need for sass!" He threw a hearty laugh into the air, the deep boom of his voice reverberating through the courtyard. Then, in one swift motion, his massive palm came down in a friendly yet devastating clap against Mikoto's back.
"Ghk—!"
Mikoto barely kept himself from face-planting a second time, his whole body jerking forward from the sheer force of it. Was this a 'friendly' gesture or an assassination attempt?
Still, he grumbled, "Forgive me for my lack of enthusiasm at having my ass handed to me."
Arthur's boisterous laughter shook the air itself. "There's no need to be so sour, dear boy! You're doing fairly well; I dare say you're even better than my dear little Fiona when she started out!"
Mikoto's eye twitched. Oh, well, that's great, isn't it? A backhanded compliment if he ever heard one. Who wouldn't want to be compared to a girl who started combat training years ago? He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remember that violence wasn't always the answer—except when it was, and unfortunately, he was still in the process of mastering that particular skill.
Yes, this was Duke Arthur Von Achenbach—his so-called physical trainer, a request from Fiona.
A request.
And because Fiona was too stubborn for her own good, Mikoto had somehow ended up here—sparring with this giant doofus for the past week, training in physical combat on top of his already exhaustive magical studies.
And the worst part?
As massive as Arthur was, as physically imposing as he appeared—Mikoto was superior in both strength and agility.
It was the most infuriating part of it all.
Even without any formal martial training, he was faster. Stronger. He could probably break Arthur's bones if he didn't hold back. But what good was raw power if he didn't know how to use it? If he couldn't control it? If he couldn't strike effectively in a real fight?
Strength without skill was meaningless.
And apparently, Luminare Academy—where he'd be attending—taught more than just magic. According to Fiona, there were also courses in alchemy, enchantments, and even physical combat.
Which meant one thing: he had to prepare himself.
The Achenbach mansion's library had been an invaluable resource in that regard. He had spent countless hours poring over magical theories, absorbing knowledge at an unnatural rate. Magic was simple, easy, especially with a proper reference. If you knew science, you could replicate magic with shocking ease. Fire, water, destruction, healing—it all came down to understanding the composition of mana and the laws governing reality.
And teleportation?
That was his main focus.
There were no records of world travel. None. Not even in one of the most extensive libraries in the kingdom.
Which meant teleportation was the next best thing.
And as a spawn of Octavia, Mikoto could wield it instinctively. The moment he laid eyes on a spell, its inner workings unraveled before him. It was like cheating.
But enough about that.
Because right now—Mikoto was about to punch this man's smug face in.
His body tensed, every muscle coiling like a spring as he lunged forward, a blur of movement tearing across the area. The wind whipped past his ears, his vision locked onto Arthur's grinning face.
His right fist snapped back, knuckles gleaming under the harsh sunlight—a perfect, devastating strike aimed straight for Arthur's jaw.
Arthur dodged.
A simple sidestep—effortless.
Mikoto's momentum carried him past his target, his speed betraying him.
And before he could adjust, his body slammed into the courtyard wall with a resounding crash.
A few bricks crumbled.
Mikoto grimaced. "Tch—"
Arthur, completely unbothered, let out a booming laugh. "Nice try, my boy! But you're too telegraphed."
Mikoto exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. "Noted."
He reset his stance—left foot forward, weight balanced.
This body. This strength. This speed. He still wasn't used to it. He wasn't used to being shorter. His reach had diminished. His stride was different. His sense of distance was off. A single miscalculation could send him flying into the next area.
But right now—
He wanted to wipe that smug look off Arthur's face.
His leg bent.
And then—
The ground cracked beneath his feet.
He shot forward—an explosion of force tearing across the field. His right fist cocked back—a feint.
Arthur moved to dodge—
A trap.
At the last second, Mikoto's left leg snapped upward—a vicious axe kick aimed for his chin.
Arthur dodged again—leaning back by mere inches.
"Tch."
Mikoto slammed his foot down.
The earth shattered.
Cracks splintered outward. Chunks of stone and dirt erupted into the air. Arthur stumbled—
Mikoto struck.
His right leg snapped up—a high-speed kick straight to Arthur's head.
Arthur blocked.
Bone cracked.
And then—
Arthur became a ragdoll.
His feet left the ground.
His massive form hurtled through the air.
And then—
Boom.
Arthur crashed through the mansion wall.
Mikoto blinked.
"...Ah. Shit."
____________________
"Hahahaha! I haven't been hit like that in quite some time!"
The booming voice of Arthur filled the luxurious chamber, vibrating through the extravagant tapestries and bouncing off the polished wooden beams. The sheer gusto in his laughter was almost enough to shake the grand chandelier overhead, its gilded frame swaying slightly as if in reaction to his amusement.
Yet, for all his bravado, the reality of the situation was far less dignified. One arm now lay wrapped in a thick cast, immobilized entirely. His head was adorned with a multitude of bandages, making him look less like a gallant noble and more like a battle-worn tavern drunk who had lost a particularly unforgiving game of dice. Despite this undeniable proof of his defeat, Arthur laughed with the kind of glee only a complete fool could manage.
And his daughter?
She simply stared.
Not with worry. Not with sympathy.
But with the exact look one gives a particularly idiotic dog who just ran headfirst into a tree.
"Foolish old man!" Fiona exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose as if she were enduring the greatest of burdens. "That is what you get for underestimating your opponent."
Her eyes flicked down to her father's overgrown bed—a piece of furniture so ludicrously oversized that it could comfortably fit five grown men and still have space for a grand feast. Indeed, everything about this chamber was over-the-top: the gilded columns, the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the unnecessarily opulent canopy draped above his bed, and of course, the overwhelming presence of Arthur himself, lounging comfortably despite his injuries.
"Come now, little Fiona!" Arthur dismissed her scolding with a grin as wide as the mountains of Verdantis. "It is but a scratch! Your dear old dad will be out of bed soon, good as new!"
From across the room, Mikoto, who had remained painfully still, shifted awkwardly.
"Uh… still sorry," he muttered.
His crimson eyes flicked toward the gigantic man lying before him, guilt lingering in his gaze.
Truth be told, he had definitely gone overboard.
After being put on the ground far too many times in their little spar, he had allowed frustration to seep in—his normally composed demeanor giving way to unfiltered irritation. One moment, Arthur was standing—taunting, laughing, and standing tall like some kind of unshakable titan. The next? He was airborne.
All it had taken was a single kick.
The kind of kick that sent a full-grown, seasoned warrior soaring like a sack of potatoes flung from a catapult.
And now here they were.
Arthur, battered but unbroken. Fiona, exasperated but amused. Mikoto, regretful but... also slightly proud?
"You've nothing to apologize for, dear boy!" Arthur smacked his good hand against his casted arm with a hearty chuckle. The loud thunk echoed through the room, making both Fiona and Mikoto visibly wince as if they could feel the secondhand pain.
"I'm just glad to see you finally dish out this much punishment! And from a single kick, too! That's a spawn of Octavia for you!"
"It seems you need another head injury." Fiona muttered under her breath.
Arthur did not seem to hear her.
Mikoto, meanwhile, sighed. "I still think I went way too far."
"Nonsense," Fiona immediately shot back, her lips curling into a smirk. "I wish you went harder on him."
"Fiona!" Arthur gasped, clutching his chest in feigned devastation. "Such hurtful words to your beloved father! Have you no shred of filial piety? Are you not concerned that I might shed a tear?"
Fiona's response was a singular, uninterested glance.
"Please do," she deadpanned.
Arthur made a truly dramatic gasp—one so exaggerated that he almost toppled off the side of his gigantic bed.
Fiona, wholly unbothered, simply turned away.
"Come, Mikoto," she called out, already walking toward the exit. "Father can busy himself with his work as duke. I've something to show you in the meantime."
Mikoto hesitated for exactly three seconds, glancing back at Arthur with a last sheepish apology before quickly following after Fiona.
"So you're... not angry?" Mikoto asked once they were well into the manors vastly decorated hallways.
"About you injuring my father?" Fiona glanced at him before letting out a small laugh. "Of course not. My father is an irresponsible old dog who takes any excuse to slack off. Serves the old fool right for underestimating you."
She shook her head as they walked—the soft clack of her heels against the marble floor setting a rhythm to their conversation. But then, without warning—
She stopped.
Mikoto, not expecting the sudden halt, barely avoided crashing into her.
He blinked. "What's wrong?"
Fiona said nothing at first, but then she raised her right hand. A brilliant blue light flickered to life in her palm, twisting and condensing until—
A mask materialized from the air.
Mikoto stared at it.
It was stark white, eerily smooth, with two hollow oval-shaped eyes and a grinning mouth carved into the lower section—a toothy, unsettling grin.
"A magical item of my own creation," Fiona said, a hint of pride in her voice as she handed it to him. "I call it the 'Fool's Mask.'"
Mikoto turned it over in his hands.
"What does it do?"
"It alters your outer appearance," she explained, "changing your hair, facial structure, even your body. But the effect disappears the moment it is removed. A simple charm will keep it from falling off at the wrong moment."
Mikoto nodded. "Thanks… but why give it to me?"
Fiona tilted her head, utterly shameless.
"I'm using you to satisfy my curiosity."
"…"
"And this is the least I can do. If others learn you're a spawn of Octavia, your life will never be quiet."
Mikoto frowned. "Would it really be that bad?"
Fiona's expression turned thoughtful.
"Oh, you'd be courted by countless women," she said, casually.
Mikoto froze.
"Many would believe that mating with you would guarantee a child of the same blessing."
Mikoto visibly twitched.
"You'd also be one of the kingdom's most important figures, but trust me—that is not a good thing."
Mikoto stared blankly at her.
"Most importantly," she continued, "you'd likely be pressured into mating with the other spawns of Octavia."
"Yep," he muttered. "Wearing this forever. But there's something I've been meaning to ask about Octavia and all," Mikoto began, his voice carrying a note of curiosity. "I know her blessing is rare, but why is she so important? From your library, I read that there were Gods of creation, destruction, and even time. Wouldn't the blessings of those Gods be far more significant?"
His words hung in the air for a moment before Fiona gave a soft hum, her gaze narrowing slightly as she mulled over the question. She crossed her arms, her sharp nails tapping against the silk of her sleeves. "A fair inquiry," she conceded. "Concepts such as creation, destruction, and time are undeniably fundamental to existence. They shape the foundation upon which all things stand. However..." She let the word linger, her eyes flashing with something unreadable.
"Magic," she continued, tilting her head slightly. "Magic is the force that interweaves all of those concepts together. It is neither bound by time nor shackled by destruction or creation. It is both the bridge and the unrelenting storm that surges between them. Magic is potential, unfiltered and boundless. That is what sets Octavia apart."
Mikoto remained silent, digesting her words, but Fiona was not finished. She stepped forward, her expression sharpening, her voice growing firmer. "The Goddess of War, Magic, and Navigation was not simply revered for these aspects individually but because she embodied something greater. She was the one who commanded magic in its truest form. She wove spells beyond mortal comprehension—spells that could alter fates, defy inevitability, and shape the very fabric of existence. Octavia was not merely a Goddess of magic; she was magic itself, a being who stood at the precipice of infinite possibilities."
Mikoto's fingers curled slightly. "...If that's true, then wouldn't there be others like her? If magic is limitless, then someone else should've reached that pinnacle."
Fiona scoffed. "You misunderstand. Potential does not equate to mastery. There have been others who wielded immense magical power, yes. But to claim that any could rival Octavia? Foolishness. To this day, no other deity has ever matched her in sheer magical command. Even Gods who hold dominion over grand concepts are restricted by their own laws. A God of destruction destroys. A God of creation creates. A god of time moves within time's flow. But Octavia? She was beholden to nothing. She could conjure, annihilate, traverse the threads of fate, bend reality to her will, and still stand unchained."
Her eyes bore into his, the weight of her words pressing against him. "Do you understand now? That is why her blessing is coveted beyond all else. It is not simply rare. It is a fragment of something that should not be attainable by mortals or even deities lesser than her."
Mikoto exhaled, deep in thought. It made sense now. His ability to conjure magic freely, to manifest and alter spells at will—was it truly because of his own talent? Or was it the result of Octavia's blood running through his veins? If what Fiona said was true, then he was wielding something far more terrifying than he had originally believed. If he could learn to master it, then perhaps—
A flicker of an idea passed through his mind. If Octavia had wielded magic that defied all concepts, then perhaps world travel was not just possible—it was inevitable. He had to push further.
"But you know..." Fiona suddenly mused, breaking him from his thoughts. A contemplative look overtook her features, her lips pursed slightly. "It just occurred to me that all our conversations are one-sided—you asking, and me enlightening you."
Mikoto blinked. "Is something wrong with that?"
"Of course there is, you dolt!" She shot back, looking mildly offended. "Do you think I exist solely to answer your questions? Where is the exchange? The depth? I refuse to be some walking encyclopedia for you!"
Mikoto, taken aback, almost laughed. "I mean, I just thought you were interested in seeing how I develop. You're only helping me this much because I'm a spawn of Octavia, aren't you?"
She huffed, turning on her heel. "That may be how it started, but now I am more invested than that. Come, we shall go for tea. I wish to know more about you."
"That's kind of random, no? I thought you were only interested in me because of my—"
"Oh hush. Come now." Without waiting for his input, she grabbed his wrist, dragging him forward with surprising force.
Mikoto let himself be pulled along, sighing internally.
("Women.")
____________________
It was a quaint little building that looked like it had been plucked right out of a fairy tale, but maybe that description was too accurate. The building's white walls were adorned with intricate patterns of vines and flowers that climbed up the sides of the structure, giving it a whimsical look. The entrance to the old-fashioned cafè was framed by a bright red door that had a brass knocker in the shape of a dragon's head.
Once one entered the cafe, they would be transported to another world altogether. The interior was dimly lit, but the soft glow of the fairy lights strung up all around the room added a magical touch. The cafe was filled with antique furnishings, including an old grandfather clock that ticked away in the corner and a vintage velvet couch that was tucked away in a cozy nook.
On the counter, one would notice that it was made of dark wood and had ornate carvings all around its edges. Behind the counter, there was a display case filled with an array of delectable treats, from sugary fairy cakes to savory dragon stew, all served on mismatched china and silverware. There were also jars filled with colorful candies and other sweets lining the counters, with each jar labeled in beautiful, swirling calligraphy.
The walls of the cafe were decorated with paintings and tapestries that depict fantastical scenes from fairy tales and legends. In one corner, there was a shelf filled with books and dusty tomes that looked like they could hold the secrets to ancient magic, figuratively speaking. The windows were draped with heavy velvet curtains, and the sunlight filtered in through the sides, casting a warm glow throughout the room.
The ceiling was painted to resemble a starry night sky, with twinkling stars and a full moon hanging overhead. The soft strains of classical music drift through the air, adding to the enchanting ambiance of this fantastical cafe.
This place seemed semi-modern in a way, to him at least. And only to him, most likely.
Seated at one of the more secluded tables, Mikoto idly tapped a finger against the eerie mask covering his face, his other hand resting against the polished wood of the tabletop. The silver-rimmed teacup before him remained untouched, its delicate surface reflecting the warm glow of the fairy lights above. Across from him sat a familiar figure, her eyes watching him with keen amusement.
"Is the mask uncomfortable?" Fiona inquired, her voice carrying the same refined elegance as the setting around them. "If so, I could weave an enchantment to make it less bothersome."
Mikoto gave a slight shake of his head. "No, it's fine. Just getting used to it." His voice, slightly deeper than before, carried no hint of strain or uncertainty.
The small, effeminate albino boy that had once been him was gone. In his place sat someone entirely different—a figure with shoulder-length, wild raven-black hair, his form noticeably taller, his body leaner yet more structured. The mask's enchantment had altered him in ways far beyond a simple disguise; as long as he wore it, his height, skin tone, body structure, and even the natural sharpness of his features had shifted into something unrecognizable. And yet, despite its effectiveness, Mikoto couldn't help but wish it weren't so... unsettling. The grotesque design of the mask had earned him more than a few lingering stares from the other patrons, their eyes flitting toward him before quickly looking away, as if fearing that prolonged eye contact might invoke some unseen curse.
"That is good," Fiona mused, taking a dainty sip from her porcelain teacup before setting it back onto its matching saucer with a soft clink. Then, with a sudden but deliberate tilt of her head, she regarded him with a faint smile—one that did not waver, yet held something beneath its surface. "Now, Mikoto, tell me about yourself."
Her voice was smooth, almost lilting, yet the demand beneath her words was undeniable. This was not a casual inquiry.
Mikoto blinked, his fingers pausing against the rim of his cup.
For a moment, he simply stared at her, taking in her poised demeanor, the way she held herself with the effortless grace of someone born into nobility. Her long, pale pink hair cascaded over her shoulders, reflecting the soft glow of the fairy lights above. Despite the genteel manner in which she spoke, there was a sharpness to her gaze—a quiet, persistent curiosity that refused to be brushed aside.
This was not small talk.
She was genuinely interested.
And for some reason... that felt far more disarming than anything else that had transpired that evening.