The Villainess Is An SS+ Rank Adventurer

There was a spell for every occasion.

It was one of the first lessons all mages were taught. A lie repeated with a smile, encapsulating the wonders of magic and the infinite possibilities it could invite. 

No matter the problem, there was a solution. 

If a kitchen needed cleaning, there was a litany of household spells to send dust, grime and rodents to the wayside. If a cat was stuck in a tree, there was an adventurer ready to be conjured to grab it. If there was a promising rival who needed a career change, there were entire catalogues dedicated to just the right fireball for it. 

It was the greatest of mages who knew that magic couldn’t solve everything. Because their problems were more than untidiness and upstarts.

It was time.

As famously indiscriminate against the will of kings as it was to the shores they ruled, no spell could stop the slow erosion of the world and those who lived upon it–if one wasn’t an undead lich, that is.

Because for Alberic Terschel, the decade-long ritual fixed more problems than just the creak in his knee. 

It fixed the only thing he’d ever feared.

Sadly, for all his powers over life, death and the fate of entire kingdoms he now wielded, there still remained some things which not even becoming a more or less immortal demigod could solve.

And currently … that was a way to help him decide between the alabaster white or the starry midnight for his robes. 

Alberic hummed, brows furrowed as he stood before his open armoire.

His chamber was a menagerie for the weird and the wonderful. Artifacts gathered, bought and pillaged over the many centuries by those before him. Some could be priced in crowns. Others in kingdoms. But of all his many contributions to the world of magical academia, none of the artifacts in this chamber were one of them. 

They were, after all, relics of the past. And Alberic’s eyes only looked to the future.

One which began with appropriate robes.

The alabaster white was power in simplicity. A statement as meaningful as the one he’d prepared this long-awaited evening. The starry midnight, on the other hand, was beauty in a thousand strokes, each thread carefully woven until a veritable constellation glittered as much as his ambitions for the future. 

To and fro, he swayed like a sailor upon a ship as he decided which to don. Simple or complex. To suggest he was above others or to outright declare it. Both were suitable. And both were giving him a headache. Lichdom granted many things. But immunity to mental attacks wasn’t one of them. 

Especially if they came from himself.

Snap.

And doubly so when it came from those powerful enough to break through his diversion wards.

Alberic swivelled around, robes still clutched in either hand as he prepared to meet his assailant. He knew that no matter the barriers in place, visitors of the morally incessant variety would attempt to impede his work. Perhaps even a few of his lesser minded colleagues, not content to quietly study the results of his final lesson.

He didn’t expect to see one of the few he considered his peers instead.

“My unholy gods, Dorlund,” said Alberic, extinguishing the flames threatening the top stitching of his robes. “I was about to blast you into the nether! How many times have I told you not to arrive without a hint of warning beforehand?”

The Great Wizard Dorlund–or just the dunderhead who only appeared when he wanted, as he was known to his acquaintances–offered the minimum expression of remorse as he shook the effects of a breaching teleport from his robes. 

His plain robes. 

Even now, Alberic despaired at the sight. 

It was one thing to spill expended arcane energy over his chamber just after he’d tidied it, but to do it in plain cotton robes was outrageous. He could have been mistaken for an apprentice. And for a mage of his stature, there was no greater insult.

“Goodness, did I forget again?” said Dorlund, still shaking bits of arcane dust away. “I could have sworn I’d sent a message. Is the barrier up?”

“The barrier is always up. This is the Royal Institute of Mages. That means safeguards.”

“Ah, of course. I keep forgetting. We’ve none of that nonsense in Rozinthe.”

“Because the safeguards are the lack of qualms regarding vaporising anyone who enters with or without permission.”

“Exactly. Anyone is quite welcome to enter our towers as they please. You should consider a policy change. Keeps mages on their feet. You should consider looking into how Great Wizard Zolian approaches things in his own tower. Very holistic. When fireballs threaten to come from any direction, it results in excellent academic success for his apprentices.”

“I believe that’s because only those who survive go on to be graded.” Alberic paused, his finger tapping thoughtfully at the necks of his two robes. “It’s worth a consideration. But not now.”

“Is that so?” said Dorlund, already pretending to be listening as he scooted over to ransack his shelves. “By the way, I’m here for one of your more forgotten books. Echoes Of The Soul. Do you still keep it?”

“Only because no other known copies exist. Even then, Brahm’s work is hardly worth the dust building on it. I dare say his work is even more out there than my own. Why do you need it?”

“Precisely because it’s unorthodox. Magic of the soul has always been iffy at best. And what I need is a reference for the most iffy. I witnessed something horrific–and it was marvellous.”

Alberic raised an eyebrow.

Despite the other mage asking where the book might be found, he didn’t wait for an answer. Giving no heed to the wrinkles beneath that absurdly shaped beard and moustache, the man was practically flinging books from his shelves with the exuberance of a mage fresh from setting their first forest on fire. 

Dorlund was in an excellent mood. But he was also prone to his sudden whims and interests in the mundane. Whatever he’d witnessed, Alberic doubted if it was more impressive than an egg with a double yolk.

“Two shelves to your right. Second from the top.”

“Ah, I see it! Thank you most graciously.”

“You’re welcome. But while I’m always delighted to have you rummaging through my archives, I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a somewhat unfortunate time.”

Dorlund flipped through his newly retrieved book with barely a pause. He spared only a cursory glance towards his very, very busy host.

“Have I? You appear to be clothed. Busy mages wouldn’t even bother getting dressed.”

“I’m busy precisely because I’m getting dressed. I have to decide which robes to wear.”

“Come now. Any old curtain is fine. Who’s looking at what we wear? We’re mages. Not diplomats.”

Alberic’s faith in all his kind dropped even more. He returned his robes to his armoire, knowing well he’d need both arms to gesture his mild grief.

“Appearances matter,” he said, repeating a line only he listened to. “Mages may not care whether we wear twill or silk, but those dealing with us do. In fact, perhaps I could offer assistance? As it stands, your robe looks distinctly … generic.”

Suddenly, the Great Wizard Dorlund stiffened.

He pursed his lips beneath his thick beard, then turned to Alberic with an oddly pained look.

“Thank you, but my robes are quite comfortable. And unless you intend on giving a speech, I hardly see why you would spend your time on needless presentation … are you giving a speech?”

“I am, yes.”

“Graduations?”

“Just the one, actually. Myself.”

Dorlund nodded, his eyes already scanning the pages of the book once again.

“Oh? Are you retiring?”

“You know we don’t use that word around here. Actually, I’ve become a lich.”

Dorlund gave a hum, smiling at having found a paragraph which interested him.

“A lich? Goodness. Quite the commitment. How is it?”

“Superb. My knees no longer creak, my hips no longer bruise and my eyes no longer wince when struck by a pellet of rain. Frankly, I should have done this sooner. The health benefits speak for themselves. It takes undeath to feel alive.”

“I’ve heard similar sentiments. Morwyth–do you remember him? Well, he wouldn’t stop raving about it. Took 27 years just to gather the reagents, and after he was done, spent the next 200 years just selling the ritual to anyone who would listen. Hah. Lichdom is a fine thing, Alberic. But it changes things. Perspective. And also the desire to learn. I do hope that won’t happen to you.”

“The fear is misplaced. Just because I’ve now transcended you in every conceivable measurement doesn’t mean I’ve lost my drive to be always right. I still have much to prove–and also disprove.”

Dorlund nodded, returning to a page he’d already read.

“Side effects?” he lightly queried.

“My sense of taste has somewhat eroded. Particularly concerning cheese.”

“Probably for the best. The arguments are as vicious today as they were two centuries ago. All debates in academia are. But which is the best cheese most of all.”

Alberic couldn’t agree more. 

There was only one scar that rising to lichdom couldn’t repair, and that was the pain of knowing that most mages believed the answer to be either cheddar or brie. 

They were all wrong.

“A senseless division,” he scoffed. “And proof of the death of civil discourse. If they sat down for just one moment, they could all agree that a stout gorgonzola is unmatched.”

Catching his loose tongue all too late, Alberic took in a sharp intake of breath despite the fact he no longer needed air. 

Knowing well what happened when mages spoke their mind, he readied his most powerful defensive barrier as he warily eyed his guest.

No response of fire and lightning was aimed towards him.

The man truly was busy. Whatever had caught his attention, it was at the expense of both his new status as the most powerful mage in the kingdom, as well as any defence of his favoured gouda.

“You’re remarkably engrossed. Was this thing you witnessed actually noteworthy?”

“Oh yes, as I said, horrific and marvellous–in equal measure.”

“I see … and it’s soul magic? It’s rare for you to so much as glance in that field. What did you see which caught your fleeting interest?”

“Not a bloody clue,” said Dorlund with a chuckle. “And that, my boy, is a gift from the gods.”

“I’m only a handful of decades your junior, you know.”

“A handful of decades is several lifetimes, Alberic. The secrets of transmutational thaumaturgic lexicology were discovered, transcribed and improved upon over the course of a tuna sandwich.”

“Not everyone is you. Although I dare say I could now do better.”

“Perhaps in another century, once you’ve gotten used to your improved bones. Regardless, you should have been there. I saw a man literally open up his soul, engulfing an area the size of a farm.”

“Really? How large was the explosion?”

“That’s the thing. There wasn’t any.”

Alberic blinked. He wasn’t sure what to think of that. There was always an explosion.

“The man drew people into his own soul. And for a moment as short as the click of a finger, I saw a world within a world. A soul twisted and bent into its own landscape. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, but I’m reasonably certain at least one or two strings from the hells were propping it up.”

Any interest Alberic might have feigned vanished at once. 

Every last letter drawn up by the hells meant borrowed power on an unequal footing, offered to the broken and the desperate. Alberic was the opposite of that. He was still on the rise. And he only cared for the bargains he dictated.

“A waste of time, then. You know how infernal spells go. Far better to study the magic we actually command.”

“Such as the one hovering overhead?”

“Such as the one hovering overhead.” Alberic tried not to look too pleased. “Well, now. You’ve taken note.”

“Despite my efforts not to, yes. I tried placing a sign outside my door this time. No visitors. About as useful as a fanged hamster. Because of you, I now have half the Mage’s Guild asking me to intervene. You have them running around like newly abducted apprentices.”

That alone made this all worth it.

Alberic felt the satisfaction coursing through his bones. He thought little of most mages, but those of the Mage’s Guild the least. Poachers and bores, the lot of them. If he could have aimed his spell above their headquarters, he would have.

“And will you intervene, then?” asked Alberic, knowing the answer already.

“You know that’s not my way. I’m a scholar, not a saviour. For that, there are endless hordes of others. And I dare say the whole lot of them will be coming for you soon.”

“Yes, quite the predicament. The soles of do-gooders are nothing if not muddy.” 

“I wouldn’t discount them out of hand. Despite the rather cramped nature of this kingdom, exceptionally talented individuals can still be found.”

Alberic shook his head.

“In Rozinthe, perhaps. But not here. I’ve spent all my life searching out talented individuals. Few in these pastures have ever earned that description. And the only halfway decent talent remaining is now tied in an unflattering bundle while guarded by a death knight. You might know her. Marina Lainsfont.”

Dorlund stopped flicking through his book long enough to actually read a word.

“Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in quite a while. Wasn’t she lost to fire? … Her own, I recall?”

“That is Roseline. This is her daughter.”

“A daughter. Most interesting. Does she show any hints of her birthright?”

For a moment, Alberic was glad of the additional control his glamour afforded him. 

He kept his expression serene and dismissive, even as the picture of that young woman’s eyes burning with silver as she snapped out of his [Suggestion] flashed before him. That had been quite something. Enough to immediately require him to employ his lich’s touch. Her magic had flared like a mirror against the sun.

Like blood to emotion.

“She possesses the same arrogance,” said Alberic easily. “And perhaps a spark of ability, as unhoned as it is. Sadly, she has none of her mother’s more interesting quirks. An ordinary, if semi-talented mage.”

Dorlund nodded, his interest waning at once.

He returned Echoes Of The Soul to its usual, dusty spot, and then retrieved a different book instead. And then another. And another. Within moments, he was juggling a stack of books he would only return after remembering he’d even borrowed them. 

Or in the words of anyone else, stolen.

“A shame,” he mused. “But perhaps that’s for the best. It would be truly unfair if this small kingdom played host to two newly revealed beings of terror.”

Alberic gave a genuine smile. A rarity these days.

“Goodness. I do believe that’s the first compliment you’ve ever paid me. A bit late, but better than never … although I would argue against being called newly revealed. I’ve always been immensely powerful. That I’m now even more so is irrelevant.”

To his puzzlement, Dorlund came to a pause, books and all.

His weathered eyes glanced over him, and it seemed for all the world as though he was actually considering his next words. A thing this man whose mouth moved without tact famously refused to do.

Alberic waited … and for his reward, he was simply offered a polite smile.

“Quite so,” said the Great Wizard Dorlund, in the tone used only for abruptly ending conversations. “Thank you for access to your shelves. I look forward to noting the results of your experiment, Headmaster.”

Crack.

And just like that, he was gone.

In and out like the magical blaggard he was, amidst a swirl of arcane energy enough to wake a colony of wyrmlings. Where he went, he had no idea. Other than somewhere he could ignore the pleas of princes and emperors even more.

Strangely, a pang of unease crept across Alberic’s spine.

It was gone with a brush of his hem as he returned to his armoire.

He had important decisions to make. And as colourful distractions were these days, he needed to make an important choice. 

Alabaster white or starry midnight.

Which he chose may very well decide the length he leapfrogged Dorlund. The man remained a peer for now, hermit even that he was. But by the night’s end, even an official Great Wizard would be fortunate to reach his shin. 

There was a reason Alberic didn’t discuss his spellwork or the 13th edition of his book with him. Because as capable as that man was, it wasn’t an equal he needed to help finish the last passage of his life’s endeavour.

It was a mentor.

And there was only one who could claim to have observed the grave longer than he did.