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.

This bloody conflict, euphemistically called the “Holy War,” began roughly thirty years ago.

The trigger for the madness that had been slowly creeping across the world was finally pulled in the beautiful savannah ruled by beastmen—Sunset Savanna.

In Twisted Wonderland, there are broadly two species: Humans and Subspecies. Humans refer solely to Homo sapiens, while “subspecies” is a collective term for all beings other than humans who possess their own languages and cultures—beastmen, spirits, fairies, merfolk, and more.

In truth, even this naming was created by humans to distinguish themselves from others. As the term suggests, the historical divide between humans and subspecies runs deep.

At first, humans defined everything other than themselves in this way. There was likely admiration and reverence toward beings closer to the divine creator. But fear and inferiority also existed. Once clear distinctions were made, human pride hardened into exclusivity.

Spirits, fairies, and merfolk—beings directly connected to the “natural elements” that existed since the world’s creation, or those derived from them—were treated as fundamentally different by newcomers. They did not accept such treatment without resistance.

They claimed themselves to be the superior supernatural beings, rejecting humans as inferior. Since their very essence of life was different, they chose not to coexist.

Fairies and spirits who weakened without pure natural environments like forests or clean water, and merfolk who could only survive in the sea where humans could not live long at all. Such fundamental differences in habitat only deepened the separation.

But among all subspecies, the beastmen were different.

They were not supernatural beings, but animal-like beings similar to humans. They did not draw energy from nature itself; instead, they hunted other living things and cultivated the land with their own hands.

Because their way of life was closer to that of humans, the fear and inferiority that humans felt toward other magical beings was not directed at beastmen as strongly.

For that reason, they had relatively little resistance to interacting with humans, and contact between them never fully ceased.

For a long time, the world remained in a delicate balance—neither large-scale conflict nor true harmony, but coexistence, keeping distance yet living side by side.

Until the discovery of magic stones became the spark.

Magic, by nature, had been the exclusive domain of subspecies, especially those connected to natural elements. There had occasionally been humans with rare talent or those who learned through training, but such individuals were extremely rare throughout history.

And the idea of freely using magic powered by imagination, as it is today, was unthinkable. At most, humans used it in potion-making, alchemy with minimal magic infusion, or divination through astrology.

Beastmen, compared to humans, were more likely to possess innate magical power and control it, but even they could not compare to those directly connected to natural elements who could convert natural energy into magic itself.

At some point, those beings connected to natural elements began to be distinguished within subspecies and were called “Arcane Races.”

However, the discovery of magic stones granted humans the forbidden technique of magic as well. Humans who possessed magical potential could now use it without accumulating blot or risking their lives, producing supernatural phenomena directly.

Naturally, the spirits and merfolk saw this development as a threat to their domain. Humans vastly outnumbered them. If they gained access to magic, the balance would collapse.

Was it not already unacceptable that those without divine favor were encroaching upon their sacred power?

Driven by such fears, the world gradually fractured after the discovery of magic stones.

Those Arcane Races connected to natural elements isolated themselves further, strengthening the boundaries around their territories.

Humans and beastmen, meanwhile, chose to integrate with each other to strengthen their own side.

The paths diverged. The distortion grew strongest in lands governed by beastmen, those closest to humans, including regions such as Sunset Savanna, which possessed the vast natural beauty beloved by fairies. And yet, none of them realized it was approaching collapse.

Minor conflicts rooted in species differences repeated for hundreds of years across nations and regions, and prejudice deepened with time.

And then, when the dark fate could no longer be avoided, the spark of the great Holy War that would shake the world ignited on the banks of a river in Sunset Savanna.

Back then, the land had not yet become as dry as it is now. It was a vast and beautiful country, rich with forests, clear rivers, and lakes that symbolized abundance.

But as humans developed and expanded their nation, deforestation and cultivation became necessary.

The water spirits, who loved nature, rejected human settlements and moved upstream in search of unpolluted water, away from the capital. Their original forms resembled crocodile-like creatures tied to the essence of rivers, living peacefully while nurturing the river’s prosperity.

It was there that they arrived.

Beastmen hyenas, driven from their homes and with nowhere else to go, reached the riverside in search of a place to live.

“Please… allow us to live here. We have nowhere else to go.”

The hyenas pleaded for mercy, but the spirits rejected them.

Fearful that their home would be further tainted by humans and those close to them, they refused. History of discrimination and conflict had already justified their distrust far too well.

Unlike fairies, hyena beastmen could not survive on natural energy alone. To live across the vast plains, they needed food and water. Once coexistence was denied, conflict became inevitable. It was a simple matter of survival; live or die. Both sides bared their fangs.

The victors of the battle later known as the Battle of Utopia, the conflict that ignited the World War, were the creatures of the land; the hyena beastmen.

Even then, the river fairies refused coexistence. Seeking refuge with others of their kind who had settled elsewhere, they fled to the fairy kingdom of Briar Valley.

And from that moment onward, nations across the world began loudly proclaiming their views on the relationship between magical races and other peoples, as if venting centuries of pent-up resentment.

The first nation to issue an official declaration was Sunset Savanna itself. Ruled by a royal family of lion beastmen, the kingdom advocated for coexistence among all races.

“Such ideals are nothing but hypocrisy. Foolish Lion King, your naivety knows no bounds.”

Those words came from Briar Valley, where the displaced river fairies had sought sanctuary. They condemned Sunset Savanna, arguing that its vision of “all races” truly referred only to humans and beastmen. The supernatural races, they claimed, were afforded neither the respect nor reverence they deserved, and the Battle of Utopia had proven exactly that.

Land of Dawning, ruled by human royalty and populated overwhelmingly by humans, sided with Sunset Savanna. They denounced Briar Valley on the international stage as discriminatory.

Thus was born the coalition advocating for coexistence between races: The Soleil Axis.

But this movement was met with immediate opposition from the neighboring kingdom of Coral Sea.

“Humans were the ones who began this discrimination in the first place. You called the noble magical races, those closest to the divine, ‘monsters,’ and hunted our kin of the sea. If anyone are monsters, it is you. What is wrong with protecting our homeland and our people?”

The merfolk, who generally remained isolated in the depths of the ocean and had little interaction with outsiders, chose to ally themselves with Briar Valley, whose beliefs closely mirrored their own. kingdom of Heroes, said to have been founded by gods and their descendants, soon followed suit.

This alliance became known as: Praeter Naturam— the Divine Peoples’ Alliance.

And so, the two great factions emerged.

Gradually, they began competing over territories rich in magic stone deposits, forests saturated with magical energy, and rare magical artifacts. Like a stone rolling downhill, the flames of war spread across the world.

Once that happened, the remaining nations could no longer remain idle.

Shaftlands, with its vast territory, shared borders with numerous countries. Its people varied widely from region to region in language, customs, and heritage. Unable to reach a unified stance, the nation ultimately chose not to establish a single national policy, instead leaving the decision to its individual territories and the people who lived there.

Meanwhile, the Queendom of Roses, an island nation inhabited mostly by humans but geographically surrounded by Briar valley, Coral Sea, and lying close to the Kingdom of Heroes, deemed neutrality the safest option.

Officially, it refrained from taking sides.

Unofficially, however, it quietly began providing financial aid and weapons, under the banner of humanitarian assistance, to regions within the Shaftlands that supported the Soleil Axis.

Before long, it also extended support to Sunset Savanna in exchange for the abundant natural resources unavailable to an island nation.

Amid this increasingly divided world, one nation stood closest to true neutrality: Land of Dawning.

A small island country that included Sage’s Island, home to two of the world’s most prestigious institutions for magical education.

Night Raven College, the oldest arcane academy in existence, was originally founded near the magic stone mines of Shaftlands, where the first magic stones had been discovered. It was said that, as those mines were exhausted, the school itself had relocated time and again in search of stronger magical ley lines.

Royal Sword Academy was established by a legendary mage from the Queendom of Roses after his retirement from active service, dedicated to nurturing the next generation of young wizards.

Students from noble and influential families across the world attended both institutions.

Leveraging the political complications that interference would invite, the two schools declared shortly after the war’s outbreak that they would reject all outside involvement and devote themselves solely to training mages capable of preserving world order.

Yet many dismissed this as little more than a façade.

Even with magic stones, those capable of wielding magic represented only a tiny fraction of the world’s population. Surely those blessed with such power would never truly stand alongside the powerless and share what they possessed.

Thus, it became an open secret that Land of Dawning, too, quietly sympathized with the Praeter Naturam alliance in order to safeguard its own interests.

The war continued to drain the world, slowly and relentlessly.

Like a glass filled to the brim, held together only by the delicate tension at its surface, the conflict maintained a precarious balance for thirty years.

Would it end tomorrow?

In another year?

Or would it continue for a hundred more?

The future lay shrouded in darkness, impossible to see.

And within that darkness, someone whispered.

“Light the flame of resistance.”

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.