Even a Scoundrel Gets Tired

22 – Paying the Price, What is Desired?

Isabella, preoccupied with her insignificant worries,

paid no attention to her surroundings.

Meanwhile, Freon, concerned with his apprentice’s own adolescent struggles,

was lost in similar thoughts.

Well, similar only in that they both involved Jennison.

“…Surely, his skills were not what they are now…”

This, too, was true.

In his eyes, the Jennison of his wayward youth

was far inferior to the Jennison before him.

His mana capacity had been unremarkable.

His mana control, negligible.

He was nothing more than a common ruffian.

Of course, there were methods to improve one’s control over mana.

But they demanded relentless, focused concentration, pouring mana into a single task,

and even then, the amount of mana wasted was staggering…

Only after enduring the torturous whittling,

could one gain even a sliver of improvement in mana control.

He had surely surpassed a plain, ordinary level, but

how much time had he already invested, and how much more

would he sink into this endeavor to reach the present state?

A week?

A month?

Only by sacrificing food and sleep for that duration

could one barely brush against that level of attainment.

It was for this reason that the Archmage believed him

to be a vessel overflowing with talent.

He had truly endured fifty days with minimal sustenance and rest,

devoting all remaining hours to the unintentional

mastery of magical energies.

He, of course, had no inkling of this,

and so the Archmage found a measure of relief

that he harbored no ambition to become a blight upon the Empire.

With that level of dedication, there was no telling what havoc he might wreak.

He, too, had things he must protect.

And the way his eyes had changed of late troubled him.

Unbeknownst to himself, Jennison, now a person of interest to the Archmage,

was preoccupied with deciding what research he should undertake today.

*

Upon entering his room, he saw Ella seated on the sofa, her back to him.

Hmm?

He didn’t know why, but she seemed furious.

She wouldn’t have left the dormitory, so

there shouldn’t be any reason for her to be angry?

“Master…”

“…Hmm?”

Her voice was far more subdued than he expected.

He questioned if this was the same Ella he knew.

He didn’t know the cause, but it was clear to anyone observing that she was intensely angry,

so he decided to listen in silence.

“…I cleaned your room, Master?”

“Hmm…”

“…At first, there was so much dust, and strange cylindrical things were

scattered about, so I simply assumed you were working diligently.”

Hmm…

Had she found the canned coffee he’d consumed?

The amount I’d eaten lately was, well, a lot.

No, truthfully, far too much,

But if I didn’t do this,

I’d just succumb to sleep and abandon my research.

“…Then, while I was cleaning under the desk…”

“Under the desk…?”

“Could you possibly explain why there are bloodstains there?”

Ah.

Right.

Let me say this beforehand: it was unavoidable.

The creation of a sentient being required a physical form,

And I designated that form as human.

To create it, I had to be able

to construct a human body,

And my own body was the most suitable for experimentation.

To be able to create a new human body,

I needed a comprehensive knowledge of a common body.

Of course, even with 21st-century knowledge of the human body,

Whether that would apply to a body of my own creation was another matter entirely,

But the hesitation didn’t last long, and I immediately acted.

That is, I started dissecting my own body, bit by bit.

It began with a finger.

The easiest, and if I just aligned the finger bone correctly,

I could regenerate it easily.

Without further ado, I severed it.

It hurt.

It hurt, and it hurt, and it hurt.

It had hurt, it hurt, and it would continue to hurt.

A pain one never becomes accustomed to, no matter how many times it’s endured.

The affected area felt as if it were being branded with white-hot iron,

And the blood spurting from the severed finger

Was a truly revolting spectacle.

Despite the movement not being intentional,

My arm automatically began to tremble,

And tear ducts I thought had dried up long ago

Broke open and wept uncontrollably.

I bit down hard with the continuous, immense agony,

And clenched my other hand so tightly that blood flowed from my palm.

Assailed by such intense pain, initially I couldn’t afford

To think about creating a body or anything else.

Having fashioned and swallowed a painkiller, it was some time before I could gather my wits about me,

and soon after, I began the attempt to recreate my fingers.

Naturally, it wasn’t going to work out well at first.

The finger bones forming twisted and malformed was a common occurrence,

the shape of the fingers would be altogether strange,

a tiny, extra finger would sprout from time to time,

and I even forgot about fingernails, resulting in fingers barren of them.

I continued to observe the severed remnants of my own fingers as I crafted,

and eventually, I managed to succeed in creating “one” proper finger.

Just one finger.

The creation of that single digit nearly depleted my mana,

and forced me into a period of unavoidable rest.

Having succeeded in making one finger, everything that followed was easier.

Each was merely a different shape, but undeniably a finger.

The initial pain of severing a finger was unfamiliar,

but soon enough, I grew accustomed to it.

My body had adapted to the pain.

And so, trusting in my body’s adaptation to the agony,

I believed I could proceed with other body parts,

and soon, my hand moved toward my toes.

The rest was straightforward.

Toes.

Hands and feet.

Arms.

Calves.

Thighs.

The main features of the face.

Of course, I did have the urge to attempt the vital organs,

but that could truly go awry,

so I decided to try it when a priest was present.

Craft one, and upon failure, sever it again,

and craft another, and sever it once more,

and craft again, and once again sever it,

A maddening, excruciating pain continued, and only after consuming eight bottles of painkillers

was I able to continue onward.

Sever, sever again,

Craft, craft, craft.

When the room was defiled with blood and flesh,

I cleaned it all away, only to defile it anew.

And so, the carnage of blood and flesh continued

within the confines of that small room.

Yet, I had reached a point where I could conjure limbs

at my whim.

Though, admittedly, a dark impulse had taken root –

the urge to slice a small wound on my arm, just to regenerate it.

Still, the sheer merit of limb regeneration was immense.

And because even the slightest deviation of my mana

would result in a deformed creation of my own body,

my control over mana had naturally increased.

Freeon, having noticed this, proved himself worthy

of the title Great Sage, though it felt unfair to call it talent.

Everything was a product of my own effort and dedication, after all.

Well, if I continued my research at this pace,

surely, I would be able to create other body parts someday.

Thinking so, I cleaned up all traces,

believing I had finished my work with hopeful anticipation.

“Master… please, an explanation.”

“W… what do you mean?”

“Why is Master, who hasn’t left his room, covered in blood?”

“And why does this place smell faintly of blood?”

She gestured towards the research desk, where I had dissected myself so many times,

the scent of my blood deeply ingrained.

I had meant to replace that desk, of course,

but it was a space only I used,

and I didn’t want to reorganize the papers on it,

so I had put off making a new one.

If Ella knew I was conducting research like this,

she would worry endlessly, that was all too clear.

I didn’t want to cause her any worry.

“..Nosebleed..”

“Pardon?”

“I was researching all day and got a nosebleed.”

“Is that the truth…?”

“What else would it be?”

“I thought Master was hurting himself due to stress!!”

Honestly, she wasn’t entirely wrong,

seeing as I had harmed my own body, that much was true.

Wasn’t the pinnacle only attainable if

I was willing to use my own body as much as needed?

Those others, desperate to reach such an extreme, would abandon all they possessed.

Yet I, could I not reach it by abandoning only this body of mine?

If so, should I not utilize it as much as needed, however filthy it might be?

Even if I die here, I will surely be reborn.

Unlike those religious zealots who believe they go to the Lord’s side,

or the wicked who expect hellfire,

I will endlessly repeat life and existence within this chalice of reincarnation.

What, then, is the meaning of my life?

I had earnestly contemplated this once,

and realized it within my fifth life or so.

To etch myself, to imprint who I am,

upon those to whom I am bound, so that they cannot forget.

Their memories are proof that I lived;

in a way, I could say I lived properly.

In this life, that goal is merely overlaid

with my mother’s desires.

Therefore, I will exploit it.

For me, living within this infinite cycle,

to leave behind proof that I once existed,

the means of life – my very life – is merely a tool for that purpose.

There is a common rule to the physical laws that apply to all things:

[If you desire something, you must pay the price.]

As payment, I would gladly offer my limbs,

not dozens, not hundreds, but thousands of times over.

For at the end of this endless life,

the meaning I could find in my existence was only that.

To look back upon that aeons-long time of suffering

and feel it was all meaningless – that was worse than death itself.

Thinking thus, I once again immersed myself in research,

and the next day, the group recruitment for the mid-term exam commenced.