Shamo

Arcane Flames of Resistance

Ch.2 released (7/1)

Once, before he became Professor Trein, he was a young mage who walked the bloodstained shadows of the Arcane World War. When his journey began, he could never have imagined where it would lead……

#1: Prologue

That was the kind of era it was.

There was always a burnt, smoky smell lingering in the air; an era where children couldn’t stay children. Mozus Trein was born into such a time, a mage-in-training with a shining future ahead.

Where was the fighting happening today?

Above him stretched nothing but an oblivious blue sky, as if it knew nothing of blood-red carnage.

Rubbing the side that had first taught him what real pain felt like. It was not the harmless sort dealt out within the confines of a sheltered world. Trein knitted his brows tightly together.

Even back when he had been nothing more than a student, his hands had never resembled those of a delicate young lady. Riding lessons, Spelldrive practice, physical training… His days at school had been filled with activities that hardened the body.

Yet when he lowered his gaze to his palms now, they were rough with calluses that had split and reformed time and time again. Though he kept them clean, he could almost imagine the scent of blood clinging to them still.

They were hands that didn’t belong in a rural town said to be far from the front lines.

It had already been nine months since the sudden arrival of the Practical Magic instructor who had selected him as a “special student.” At NRC, it was customary for fourth-year students to spend a year interning at companies and research institutions around the world under the guise of off-campus study.

Yet Trein had departed from the Isle of Sages more than a month earlier than his peers, before summer vacation had even come to an end, to become the apprentice of Lilia Vanrouge.

“Come with me.”

That was all he had said.

Trein had not refused. Perhaps he simply could not. Not after, in the mere few months since they had met, that man had taught him what it meant to admire someone.

“Good morning!” came a cheerful voice. “I found some excellent apples at the farmer’s market. Would you like one?”

Even bundled up in a duffel coat, white breaths spilled endlessly from his lips. Eager to get indoors as quickly as possible, Trein strode down the cobbled main street, his footsteps echoing sharply against the stones, when the screech of brakes and that carefree greeting reached his ears.

He knew who it was without even looking.

For some reason, he found himself reluctant to turn in that direction and instead glanced up at the sky. Of course, the man in question wasn’t the type to notice such subtle avoidance.

The one who casually patted his shoulder and offered him an apple as red as a ruby was, for reasons beyond Trein’s understanding, someone who occupied the peculiar position of being his colleague: Ambrose LXIII.

He was the sort of man whose odd friendliness bordered on suspicious, and was thoroughly exhausting to deal with.

“No, thank you.”

When Trein declined and continued walking, Ambrose swung himself smoothly off the bicycle he had been riding and fell into step beside him at the same pace.

"They’re delicious, though,” he remarked leisurely, taking an unhurried bite from the very apple that had just been rejected. “You’re so cold.” The town they were in lay not far from Harveston, a village of Shaftlands famous for its apples.

Trein, who hailed from Shaftlands, knew full well just how exceptional they were, arguably better than this man, who had grown up in the Queendom of Roses. Why couldn’t Ambrose understand that the apple itself wasn’t the reason for the cold refusal?

With the crisp crunch of biting fruit accompanying them, the two walked in silence for another five minutes before arriving at the offices of the Daily Shaftland, where Trein was serving his internship.

“I’ll be heading in first.”

After giving a perfunctory greeting to the coworker—technically his senior—who had gone to park his bicycle around the corner, Trein headed up the staircase attached to the side of the two-story office building.

The moment he pushed the plain door marked only with a plaque reading “Daily Shaftland Newspaper” open, a wave of warmth enveloped him, thawing the cold that clung to his face and body.

Letting out a relieved breath, he removed his coat, hung it on the rack by the wall, and turned around.

“Oh! Moyse! You’re finally here!”

A familiar face he hadn’t seen in quite some time suddenly appeared from behind a mountain of paperwork piled high on a desk. The raspberry-red eyes that blinked at him had softened, as though they had long since forgotten the sharpness they once possessed on the battlefield.

“Va—! No, ahem… Mr. Rufus… it’s been a while.”

He nearly called the man by his real name. Covering the slip with a cough, Trein forced himself to use the alias that still felt foreign on his tongue.

Damn it.

He needed to remember his role. Using aliases here was absolute protocol. Even colleagues were forbidden from learning one another’s real names.

Not Mozus, but Moyse.

Not Vanrouge, but Rufus.

Those were the temporary identities the two of them had taken on so that Trein could follow the man.

Officially, this was the southwestern branch of the Daily Shaftlands Newspaper, one of the major newspapers distributed throughout the Shaftlands.

Located far from the vulnerable capital and the border regions prone to attack, this modest office had recently become an important center for delivering news across much of the country.

That was the truth known to the townspeople, and the carefully constructed illusion created by Lilia Vanrouge.

The branch employed a total of thirty-four people.

Compared to the newspaper’s headquarters in the capital, the southwestern branch had less than a fifth of the staff. Of those thirty-four employees, only around twenty-five were genuine newspaper workers. They occupied the first floor, writing and editing articles. The second floor, however, was something else entirely.

With the newspaper company’s cooperation, it had been transformed into a front office concealing its true purpose. Even among the employees downstairs, no one aside from the branch manager knew its real identity.

It was known as the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit—a special military intelligence division composed primarily of promising young mages and outstanding interns recruited from prestigious magical academies.

“Man, it’s freezing out there. Moyse, don’t just stand in the doorway. Get inside already.”

“My apologies, Mr. Wald.”

Trein had been lingering absentmindedly in front of the coat rack when a man with round glasses stepped inside, the tip of his nose as red as the apple he was eating earlier.

Wald.

That was the alias assigned to the only person in this organization, aside from Lilia, who knew Trein’s true identity.

The reason Wald knew who Trein really was—and Trein knew Wald’s identity in return—was simple.

Three years ago, shortly after enrolling at NRC, Trein had met him during a Spelldrive exchange match with RSA.

He would react with the same pure, almost naïve surprise every time, yet it still felt absurd that someone he had found so insufferable back then would end up as his colleague.

And not just any kind of colleague, but a particularly unusual one at that. Just thinking about it made him want to roll his eyes so hard they might circle right out of his head, followed by a long, exasperated sigh.

“So then, Moyse. How did the matter we discussed turn out?”

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man he refused to describe with something as positive as rival, Trein faced the commander’s desk.

The military posture ingrained in him—hands clasped behind his back—was forbidden here, just like using his real name. His arms rested naturally at his sides, his feet remained close together.

It was the ordinary stance of a civilian, overturning everything that had been drilled into him before taking this assignment.

The only form of respect he could still offer was to keep his spine straight.

“As you suspected, Mr. Rufus,” Trein replied. “It seems the Stray Black Cats are indeed in this town.”

Even during Lilia’s absence, progress had been made. Turning his palm upward, Trein held out his hand. With a low whoomph, green flames sprang to life, rising roughly thirty centimeters into the air.

There was no heat. The fire was merely an illusion created by magic.

Within it played footage gathered by the surveillance spells hidden throughout the town. The recording had been captured three nights earlier, beneath the full moon, in the alley behind a rundown tavern on the outskirts of town—a place usually frequented by vagrants.

A magic circle had suddenly appeared in the deserted alley. Moments later, three figures emerged. Though they looked no older than boys, each wore a black robe.

Then, almost instantly, they slipped into the shadows and vanished. If one weren’t paying close attention, it would have been easy to miss them.

They were known as the Black Cats—members of a group that the Southwestern Thirty-Sixth Unit had been desperately hunting.

If they could locate and capture the mysterious group’s leader, they could finally bring an end to the tragic war that had continued for decades. Trein and the others truly believed that.

“Oh?” Lilia mused. “Then that means ‘that thing’ is here as well.”

A cheerful chuckle escaped him, yet his expression remained chillingly cold as he gazed out the window at the town below—a place untouched by the shadow of war.

Tension tightened in his narrowed eyes.

Trein and Ambrose exchanged a brief glance. Then, quietly but with certainty, they nodded.