Episode 23 Morg Camus (4)

What a shocking sight.


Even Hugo Les Baskervilles, the patriarch of the Iron Blade family, had hiccups.

Vikir’s actions were just as sudden.


Camus closed his eyes and screamed. No wonder, his arm was about to be cut off.

She was screaming and crying at a crisis she had never faced before.

Even his uncle, Adolf, had never seen her cry like this before.

“That, stop!”

Adolf unconsciously raised his mana.

The mana of a Sixth Circle Master surged out, pressuring Vikir.



As if he had anticipated it, Vikir immediately let go of Camus’s arm and fell backwards.

“Aaahhh! Uncle, he’s got my arm……!”

Camus cried, running to bury his face in the hem of Adolf’s cloak.

Adolf stared at Vikir in disbelief, not even angry, before turning his attention to Hugo.

“Go away, what are you doing!”

Hugo ignored Adolf’s protests. He simply tilted his head at an angle and looked down at Vikir.


Son, he said, and Vikir answered politely.

“Yes, father.”

“Your prank just now was a bit too much, I’m afraid.”

“I apologize. It is a common prank among the brothers of the family.”

After speaking, Vikir took the tip of the dagger in his hand and bent it.


The knife bent so easily. It’s a fake sword, made of rubber.

When Adolf saw it, he exclaimed in disbelief.

“No, no, no, what kind of a toy is this?”

“You’ve never seen a boy play with a toy sword before, and we Baskervillians play with them from the time they’re a year old.”

It was only at Hugo’s words, which seemed to surprise him, that Adolf opened his eyes and saw the sword in Vikir’s hand.

It was a crude rubber knife, obviously a fake, the sort of thing that even the average child in the world would play with.

My mistake was that I didn’t recognize the quality of the knife in Vikir’s momentary burst of strength.

Seeing Adolf, who was known for his meticulousness and composure, stumble in surprise gave Hugo a bit of satisfaction.

He quickly forgot his own surprise.

“Now, I’ve thought of something about the ruby mine. Maybe the Morg will like it.”


“So let’s just get this friendly competition over with.”

Hugo’s blatant attempt to sell out.

Adolph, looking dumbfounded, tried to protest in Moorish.

“……Blah, blah, kihing, kihing. That bastard, I’m not gonna let him get away with it, you’ll see!”

Unfortunately, he didn’t have time for that as he was busy petting Camus, who was blowing his nose against his cloak and whimpering.

Thus, an important meeting between the two families was ridiculously interrupted by an eight-year-old child’s argument.

* * *

‘Magic and the sword are at odds with each other in normal times, but in times of crisis they are a good complement to each other and save the country.’

In keeping with the former Emperor’s beliefs, Morg the Mage and Baskerville the Ironblade hold an annual friendly tournament.

Children from the ages of eight to fifteen gather to test their skills against one another.

By tradition, it is the 15-year-olds who compete in the most intense and spectacular battles with swords and magic, as opposed to the 8-year-olds who compete in theory and mana sensitivity.

…… but.

For this year’s friendly competition, all eyes were elsewhere.

The 8-year-old class usually gets little attention.

The two youngsters standing there were the main protagonists of the day.

Vikir van Baskerville, of the iron-blooded House Baskerville.

Morg Camus of House Morg, a master mage.

At the Morg’s initiative, the eight year olds were moved to the side of the field next to the 15 year old class where the real action was taking place.

They would be fighting just like the 15-year-olds.

The contrast between the nonchalant Vikir and the venomous Camus was quite striking.

“Brace yourself, boy.”


“You’re not going to get any breaks once you’re in the ring.”


“Say something!”



Vikir could only yawn.

The more he does so, the more he stomps his foot in frustration.


The bell rang, signaling the start of the real competition.

And with that, the match began.


A loud cheer rang out.

Camus immediately drew up his mana and charged at Vikir.

A performance that draws all of its power from the start.

It’s a great way to get a quick start, but in the long run, it’s not a good strategy because it reveals all of your cards.

However, Camus’s talent was indeed impressive.

Quadra casting!

He casts four spells at the same time, when most people can’t even cast two in a row.

Even though they were one-circle spells, Fireball, Ice Sphere, Thunder Ring, and Mud Wall, each one of them would be difficult for a 15 year old in Morg’s household.

To perform four of them simultaneously is a talent beyond imagination!

It was indeed a genius that could only be found once in a hundred years, even in the prestigious Morg.


Fireballs, ice balls, and lightning bolts the size of a child’s fist hit the ground.

They actually hurt a little, but only slightly, and Vikir ducked just enough to avoid them.

“It’s pretty spectacular, but I think you’d be better off focusing on just one spell for now.”

“‘Eeh, what business is it of yours, you magical ignoramus!”

Camus was chasing after Vikir, diligently controlling his three offensive magics.

There was a hint of determination to feed him a shot no matter what.



Vikir dodged a barrage (more like three child’s fists) of spells, and instead moved closer to Camus.

And then.


Vikir kicked the mud wall that was protecting Camus and shattered it.


Camus swallowed hard.

It was too close to call in its offensive magic.

The base of the mud wall collapsed, and Vikir’s face came into view.

Camus felt his heart pounding in his chest.

“We’re down!”

Camus’s eyes rolled back in his head as Vikir’s flying palm blocked his vision.

Then, a searing pain shot across his forehead.


Bam. Camus pulled back, wiping the tears from his eyes, and looked up.


Her forehead burned, but that was all.

Vikir didn’t do anything, just flicked his finger and made a small bump on Camus forehead.

“You, you bastard! Are you kidding me?”


“Go, go!”

Camus canceled one of the three offensive spells he had cast earlier.


Mud Wall, a wall of mud was created in two layers, covering Camus.

“Haha, now there’s a double wall! You can’t get through this!”

The problem is, with the double wall, Camus herself can’t see out of it.



The two layers of mud are as easy to break through as a sheet of paper.

It was Vikir’s hand that broke through the wall and stretched out in front of Camus face.

“Who does this hand belong to?”

The hand that broke through Camus wall and into her space.

Vikir’s fingers moved quickly while Camus was stunned and unable to find the words to answer.

“The answer is, turn off the stronger one.”

Another snap.

Another tear leaked from Camus’s eye.

He was hit again.

Swat after swat hit the exact same spot, creating a second, smaller bump.

To make matters worse, Vikir’s hand slipped away immediately after the second blow.

It wasn’t like he was delivering a killer blow, it was just a quick slap.

“Who does this thing dare to play with me-aaaaaaaaaaaah!”

Eight years old, a genius girl who’s spent her entire life growing up like a forbidden jade leaf.

Camus screamed at the top of her lungs, unable to contain her rising tantrum.

With that, she canceled all of her offensive spells and formed four walls of mud to surround herself.

“Now, how about this, no one can break through this, not even you! Ha ha!”

Camus didn’t seem to mind that his vision had gone completely dark.

In fact, he was glad that he didn’t have to show his hands rubbing his forehead and his sullen expression.


He paused for a moment, wondering if that little bastard Vikir couldn’t break through the four walls.

Camu smiled victoriously.

“Ho-ho-ho! loser! They say you can’t even penetrate walls because you’re a dwarf dung bag! Come all the way here, you idiot!”

But still no answer.


Some time passed.

Trapped in the mud dome, Camus rubbed his forehead and thought to herself.

“Huh? But this won’t let me get out, will it?

What should I do? My vision is completely blocked and I can’t see what’s going on outside.

I can’t even try to do something different, because I’m stuck with four layers of mud.

I thought, “Hmm. Maybe I can cut a hole and peek out?’

With a little effort, Camus cut a small hole in the mud wall.

He stuck his face through the hole to look out.


Bikir’s hand swooped in like a ghost and delivered a third blow to Camus forehead.


Three lumps!

With three small lumps on the same spot on her forehead, Camus writhed in pain and anger.

She lifted her burning eyes and quickly canceled all four layers of mud walls.

As the mud wall collapsed, she could see the face of the insignificant bastard in the distance.

“I’m going to kill him! Aaahhhh!”

Camus cried. He was too angry and frustrated to think about his dignity.

So he threw away all his defensive spells and cast four offensive spells at the same time.

A firepower that would have been impossible for a fifteen year old to pull off!

Meanwhile, Vikir faced Camus’s fury and thought.

“……What should I do?”

If you want to kill her, you can snap her neck in 0.1 seconds. But that’s not the problem right now.

Dealing with children is painful. You don’t know where to stop and where to start.

This is especially true for Vikir, who has spent his entire life on the battlefield.

He was too young to be appeased by the younger members of House Morg.

Eventually, Vikir made a judgment call.

“Morg’s problems are Morg’s problems.”

It’s always cleaner to do things without getting your hands dirty.


A quick glance to the side reveals an intense battle in progress.

A nameless fifteen year old Baskerville and a fifteen year old Morg were engaged in a fierce battle of swordsmanship and magic.

Both are so focused that they don’t realize that someone is approaching them.

The 15 year old Morg seems to be practicing a powerful fire explosion spell, and a loud explosion is emanating from the arena.


Vikir ducked back and stood as close as he could to the border of the neighboring arena.

A very angry Camus followed closely behind him.

“Well, if there’s any more, the arbiters will step in.

Vikir shifted slightly, and Camus followed him relentlessly, not wanting to let go.

And then.


An explosion. And gasps.

“Ouch! It’s Camus!”

“Oh my God, Ms. Camus!”

“No! It’s……!”

Vikir began to see the picture he wanted.