# Karma (5)
*
The night Marquis and Yulian struck their deal.
Deep beneath the Academy Territory, in a darkened room where a round table sat, a shaven-headed man muttered to himself.
Oswald Steigen.
Elder of the Chimera School.
"What a foolish Round Table this is. Humble Monk warned them as much."
"Did I not earnestly beg them not to rely so heavily on the parasite magic brought in by an outsider?"
Oswald answered his own words himself.
Parasite magic.
A school of magic unearthed by the Magic Tower of the 13th Month, hundreds of years ago.
Back when black magic was still called life magic, there was one reason parasite magic drew such attention.
It was simply that, unlike other forms of black magic, it was not weak against divine magic.
Hypnosis magic, necromancy, curse magic, and the rest—conventional black magic had always been remarkably powerless against divine magic.
But parasite magic was different.
Far from being weak against divine magic, it was a form of magic that grew even stronger the more it was exposed to divine power.
Its effects were so extraordinary that parasite magic was evaluated as having the makings of an undisputed mainstream school within the tower at the time.
"You must understand. It is parasite magic, after all. A magic thought to have vanished into the back pages of history, suddenly placed in your own hands—even I would not have been able to resist using it with great excitement."
"Well. Humble Monk did have some fun with parasite magic a time or two..."
"Hmph. Humble Monk has never once depended on that magic."
"And yet one must admit it is convenient, no?"
"Ahem... Humble Monk does not deny that."
Undetectable. Unbreakable.
Above all, one need only plant a parasite to hold life and death at a distance.
It was precisely this binding power of parasite magic that had allowed the Round Table to seize the reins of black mages who had previously been too busy stabbing each other in the back, and the cooperation thus gained had ushered in an unprecedented golden age unseen throughout history.
The pale-faced man seated at the round table likewise acknowledged the convenience and efficiency of parasite magic.
And yet—
"He was an outside collaborator's magic. The Round Table should never have grown so dependent on it."
That dependence had become poison.
Who could have predicted that the parasitemancer would suddenly go mad and bring the once-mighty Round Table to ruin?
The Round Table had made a practice of planting parasite eggs in black mages affiliated with the organization or in outside collaborators.
Because parasite magic was undetectable by divine magic, could not be dispelled, could be kept dormant until conditions were met, and then activated remotely to claim a life on command—there was no more effective means of enforcing a contract among black mages, for whom betrayal of master by disciple and backstabbing of comrade by comrade was everyday life.
And so the black mages had gone around planting parasites in one another,
until the madman known as the Seeker of Blasphemy used those very parasites to unleash a bloodbath upon the Round Table.
— "Brothers. Repent. The gods have always loved you, and they long for your return."
— "I repent! I repent, you madman! I repeeent! Aaaargh!!"
Once a year, the black mages would gather at a place called the Great Round Table.
The Seeker of Blasphemy appeared at that gathering and clapped his hands softly.
At that, the bodyguards became berserkers who had forgotten fear and threw themselves at the elders, and when the bodyguards were slain, black tentacles sprouted from the corpses and surged at him again.
That was the spark. The Grand Assembly Hall descended into pandemonium.
The black mages slaughtered one another, and the Seeker moved through that hellscape, finishing off one by one those who barely clung to survival.
— "What is the meaning of this! Seeker!"
It had been a blindsiding assault for the elders.
Ordinarily, activating another's planted magic as one's own was a feat of considerable difficulty.
But the Seeker of Blasphemy did it as though it were nothing, wielding the parasites black mages had planted in one another as freely as his own.
That was precisely why the elders had failed to counter him and fled.
A prepared mage is stronger than an unprepared mage of higher rank.
A mage inside their own workshop is stronger still.
At the time, the Grand Assembly Hall had been as good as the Seeker's workshop—because of the dormant parasite eggs the black mages had planted in each other.
Oswald, too, had been unprepared. While cutting down the disciples who threw themselves at him, he had shouted at the Seeker:
— "Seeker! This is not what we agreed upon! Were you not only permitted to target black mages below elder rank?"
— "You broke the contract first."
— "What?"
— "While I cooperated with you, you were not to deny my faith or interfere with my pilgrimage. Yet days ago, you insulted my faith and obstructed the conclusion of my pilgrimage."
That his words were sincere was evidenced by the fact that the restraint placed on the Seeker's heart did not activate.
Which meant that, without the Round Table even being aware of it, they had been the first to break their contract with the Seeker.
— "What are you talking about!"
— "You need not know the details."
In the course of his research into black magic, the shaven-headed man had witnessed countless scenes of brutality.
But the landscape the Seeker of Blasphemy had wrought defied comparison to any of them.
In that assault, two of the thirteen elders had died.
The eleven who survived were so desperate to hide that they had no idea when the madman might come for them next.
"That is precisely why Humble Monk kept insisting we kill him before he turned on us."
"But the elders would not listen."
"And so they paid the price."
In Oswald's view, however, that tragedy had been the inevitable conclusion.
The moment the Seeker ever had a change of heart, the Round Table would suffer catastrophic losses.
And so Oswald had consistently proposed eliminating the Seeker.
But on the grounds that the restoration of all the parasite magic was not yet complete, the Round Table kept deferring his disposal.
The cost of that was the present situation.
"High Monk."
A feeble voice from the darkness drew Oswald out of his idle thoughts, and he raised his head.
Beyond the pale light of a teal-glowing magic stone lamp, a figure had settled into what had been an empty chair.
A pale-faced man with a hawk nose.
Before Oswald could even ask how long he had been sitting there, the man in the chair spoke.
"Your soliloquy ran rather long."
"If it was disruptive, Humble Monk apologizes, Lord Taster."
"It wasn't disruptive. I simply said that because the timing never seemed right to speak."
"Then Humble Monk is grateful for your patience, Lord Taster."
"Call me Sommelier."
Oswald turned over what he knew of the pale man seated across from him.
The Crimson Sommelier, Dietrich Rotmund.
The elder holding the Seat of Blood Magic in the Round Table, and a noble of the Empire.
He was careful, however, not to let even a slip of the tongue betray that knowledge.
Within the Round Table, speaking a true name aloud was taboo, as was revealing one's face.
Officially, the reason given was that even if one elder were captured, the information on the remaining elders would not be compromised—but in truth, it was a countermeasure against rival factions unleashing curses.
A black mage's blade, capable of cursing anyone given a name and identity, was not aimed only at nobles.
And so Oswald had to take care not to let slip, even by accident, that he knew the true name of the pale man before him.
'High Monk must not let it be known that he already knows that man's name.'
'Understood. High Monk will be careful.'
Answering his own internal question, the High Monk wore an amiable smile.
"Understood, Lord Sommelier. To what do I owe this visit?"
"How much longer must we stay in hiding? I need to pay a visit to the Marquis's household before long."
"You mean Marquis Barlot?"
"Yes. I spent two years making that man my puppet and grooming his son as a vessel. I have no desire to see all that effort come to nothing over something like this."
Marquis Barlot was a masterwork of the Sommelier's making.
Not merely because he had managed to puppet a figure as significant as a marquis—that alone was not the reason.
A true strategist conceals another purpose even within a single action.
While helping the marquis's son overcome his constitution, the Sommelier had taken a few additional measures with the boy's blood.
"It has been so long since I found blood that suits me. If the child were to die, that would be most inconvenient."
The Rotmund Family's secret technique was a form of blood magic—specifically, magic that transmits memories through blood.
The head of the Rotmund family had used this secret technique to overwrite the memories of young nobles from other families across multiple generations, quietly absorbing those noble houses one by one.
"When can contact be made with the Marquis, High Monk?"
"Bear with it a little longer. Is this not the grand plan you have longed for, finally coming to fruition? We finally have an opportunity to eliminate that dangerous bud who has been undermining us."
The grand plan they spoke of was the elimination of the Black Magic Defense professor, who had been operating under the Academy's protection.
"I understand its importance. That is why I cooperated. But if my cherished desire is crushed as a result, what am I to do?"
"The Round Table will repay your sacrifice. Thanks to your masterwork, the Round Table has managed to infiltrate the Academy for the very first time."
It was not empty words.
Even with the restoration of parasite magic, without the elder of blood magic securing the Marquis's cooperation, infiltrating the Academy would have been impossible.
The other elders of the Round Table likewise recognized that the elder of blood magic's contribution was no small thing.
"Even if something goes wrong, the Round Table remembers your contribution and will give you what it is worth."
"And how am I supposed to believe that!"
Thud!
The elder of blood magic's fist came down on the small round table.
He held up his aged, wrinkled hand—so at odds with his young face—and spoke.
"I don't have much time left! Every last one of my children is too weak to accept my blood! At this rate, the Round Table will lose blood magic as well—can you afford that?!"
Oswald, the one called High Monk, shook his head slowly.
"Bear with it a little longer. The surveillance outside has intensified since the airship incident. Even if you move now, you'll end up as scaffold fodder before your cherished desire is fulfilled."
"Ugh..."
At the High Monk's words, the elder of blood magic let out a groan and sank deep into his chair.
The High Monk smiled pleasantly at him and spoke.
"Do not worry too much. The Marquis is in no position to act without your help—he needs you to save his child. And with parasites planted inside them, the moment he tries anything suspicious, we can retaliate immediately."
The Marquis could not defy the Round Table, no matter what.
Where else would he find a blood mage capable of saving his child without them?
This was blood magic, not just any other kind.
There was no one outside the Round Table who possessed knowledge of it.
On top of that, the planted parasites resided in a dormant state within the brain and eyes.
The moment the elder of blood magic sent even a faint pulse of magical power, they would awaken and tear through brain and eye alike—a horrifying form of magic.
'The Seeker of Blasphemy was the same. Whatever else might be said of other parasite magics, these particular parasites are magic for which no method of removal exists.'
Parasites so virulent that even the strongest medicine cannot touch them.
That was the nature of what had been planted in the Marquis's son and wife.
"So be at ease and wait. There is even a shapeshifter stationed as a watchman. Wait just a few days, and you will be able to meet with the Marquis again."
With that, the High Monk folded his legs and settled into a cross-legged position in the chair.
It was then.
"...Hm?"
A hollow sound escaped the pale elder of blood magic as he stared blankly into the air.
"High Monk...?"
"What is it?"
"Wasn't it said those parasites were impossible to remove?"
"That is what Humble Monk said, yes?"
"The signal... has gone dark..."
"?"
The High Monk stared at the elder of blood magic in alarm.
His expression was not one of a man making a joke.
"Don't tell me... the Marquis has abandoned his wife and child?"
"...Perhaps Yulian made a deal with the Marquis."
"Nonsense. Even if he is the Black Magic Defense professor, are you saying he knew how to remove those parasites?"
"Did you not see the leaked notes from his lectures? That man knows things we do not. He may well be a monster on par with the Master of the 13th Month's Magic Tower."
The Master of the 13th Month's Magic Tower.
The one who had once, if only briefly, crossed blades with the Great Sage—the Great Sage's final and most prized disciple.
The one who had achieved the feat of taking the Great Sage's eye—the pinnacle and hero of all black mages.
"To that degree?"
"I have served at that Tower Master's side. The direction of his thinking is entirely different, of course—the Tower Master preferred lethal slaughter. But in terms of subtlety and precision, Professor Yulian may well surpass him."
"That can't be..."
The High Monk's mind went white.
The thought had struck him—that Yulian might have already resolved the Marquis's problem.
But it lasted only a moment.
He turned at once to the elder of blood magic and said:
"We must flee."
"Where to?"
"Humble Monk is leaving the Academy."
The reason infiltration of the Academy had been possible until now was the Marquis's cooperation.
The moment one of the leashes on that Marquis was cut, this place was no longer safe.
"You had best hurry as well."
"...Tsk."
The elder of blood magic clicked his tongue and rose from his chair.
"High Monk. What about the disciples?"
"If we all move together, we will be discovered. A large-scale subjugation will come soon—it would be best to use them as bait and slip away ourselves."
"So be it. I'll use my own vassals as bait as well."
A familiar act of cutting the tail.
The two elders hurried out of the room where the round table sat.
No hesitation, no lingering.
Every elder possessed at least one means of sustaining an indefinite lifespan.
As was true of the elder of blood magic, so too was it true of the High Monk.
And so it would be foolish to throw this life away over a momentary reluctance.
'As long as we live, opportunity will come again. You agree, don't you, Steigen?'
'Yes. Living is what matters. Oswald.'
Oswald answered the voice echoing through his own mind and moved quickly, packing his things.
Four pairs of arms working busily.
***
'Ugh... I really hate parasite surgeries.'
Inside the Marquis's villa.
I looked at Marchioness Barlot and Young Master Adrian lying on the bed, breathing in ragged gasps, and thought that.
In the basin beside me lay the corpses of the parasites I had extracted from the two of them.
'From the moment I started the patient interview, I was praying these wouldn't be those particular parasites. Why did it have to be these.'
The black mages had been holding the Marchioness and her son hostage through dormant parasites.
My plan had been to finish the patient interview quickly and get the parasites removed before dawn broke—but...
'I wanted parasites that could be handled with medicine, not surgery.'
You know the kind.
Intestinal parasites.
The sort that a strong dose or two of medication flushes right out.
That's what I'd been hoping for,
but no.
'I really, truly, absolutely hate Sparganosis.'
Sparganosis.
The most nightmare-inducing of all parasitic infections.
The surgery itself is straightforward enough.
You just remove every one of them as you find them.
The problem is what they look like.
They're just... unpleasant to deal with on a visceral level.
It's a parasite you typically get from eating raw freshwater fish, and it's one of those rare parasites occasionally encountered in general surgery.
I'd operated on one before my trauma surgery fellowship, during my time in general surgery, so I knew the procedure—
'Fuck.'
I just hate it.
Even I, with immunity built up against all manner of grotesque things, lose my appetite at the sight of these.
As an aside, incidentally, discovering this parasite usually means you get to watch an infectious diseases professor come bounding gleefully into the surgeons' office.
By the year 2000, it had become rare enough that you really only saw it in middle-aged men who ate raw freshwater fish or caught and ate snakes—so naturally, when a case came in, it was a research opportunity.
— "Hey, hey! We're thinking of writing a paper on this—can we observe the surgery?"
— "...Go right ahead."
Anyway. Among surgically treated parasitic infections, Sparganosis is the one I hate most.
This surgery was no different.
Brain, eyes, spinal cord.
Removing the things from places like that had taken considerable effort.
And apparently, I wasn't the only one who felt that way.
"..."
"Lord Yulian. Are you all right?"
"...I'm all right."
Perisia, wearing Yulian Nihilrit's face, answered.
Why she was wearing my face in the middle of the night requires a brief explanation.
The moment I confirmed the parasites were Sparganosis, I contacted Perisia, who had been waiting outside, and told her to disguise herself as Director Schun, bring the surgical tools, and come to the villa.
No matter how I looked at it, operating surgery was simply outside Lord Yulian's domain.
After that, she arrived at the villa in the guise of Director Schun, and just before the surgery began, she and I swapped identities.
She assisted the surgery as Yulian Nihilrit, and I put on the crow mask again for the first time in a while and led the operation.
The surgery concluded successfully, and I maintained a natural back-and-forth with Yulian—that is, Perisia.
"You came at such a late hour on such short notice. Thank you, Lord Saint."
"Think nothing of it. I was able to obtain a rather interesting specimen myself."
Perisia, making use of the past year spent observing me.
She was doing an admirable job of performing the lines I would have delivered in that situation.
"Then when do you plan to treat the Marchioness's other condition, Lord Saint?"
"I would like to operate tomorrow, if possible."
Today I had removed the parasites, but one more mountain remained to be crossed.
Specifically, the Marchioness's bowel and kidney surgery.
"I would prefer to perform the Marchioness's surgery with my team, back in the Imperial Capital. In case of anything unforeseen."
The parasite surgery I had somehow managed alone.
Working with the healers who had been nursing the Marchioness around the clock in rotating shifts at the villa, the parasite surgery was done in short order.
But surgery on half-necrotic bowel and kidney required a team.
A highly experienced team, at that—my team, specifically.
Most urgently, I needed my excellent divine power supply, Ayla.
"I will explain the situation to the Marquis myself."
And so, before the Marquis, Yulian Nihilrit and Director Schun were in the middle of making it very clear they were two different people.
When suddenly, the Marquis, who had been silently watching, spoke.
"Lord Saint."
"Yes, please speak."
"I am a sinner. You must understand as much, Lord Saint. Under ordinary circumstances, parasites would never take root in such places."
"..."
It seemed the Marquis was laboring under a misunderstanding.
He appeared to believe that parasite magic being a form of black magic meant that having something like it nest in the brain, eyes, or spinal cord could only happen through contact with black mages.
This was a consequence of knowledge of parasites not yet having spread to the general population.
'It's been less than a year since I published on parasitology, and germ theory still hasn't been released to the public yet.'
By 21st-century standards, it was the equivalent of a pre-germ-theory era—so naturally, non-medical civilians wouldn't know.
And so the Marquis, guilty on his own, was making his confession to me.
"Our house, lacking sufficient faith, dared to disobey the divine word and reached for something unclean."
"..."
"And yet you said nothing, Lord Saint."
The Marquis, his face drawn with exhaustion, gazed at my crow mask.
"Might I... ask why?"
I answered without hesitation.
"I will keep myself far from applying my medical knowledge contrary to the laws of humanity, even under threat."
Wait—
I'd been away from it long enough to get it confused.
Not the Pythagorean Oath. The Hippocratic Oath.
"It is the oath I swore to myself on the day I resolved to walk this path."
"Whether one is a sinner or a good person is no concern of mine. Before me, I see only patients who long to live."
Work long enough at a university hospital and you meet every kind of person imaginable.
Gangsters who've been stabbed. Criminals whose crimes would make anyone's blood boil, temporarily released from prison.
And a 21st-century physician treats them all the same.
'This is nothing by comparison.'
Since when did I start choosing who to treat?
Besides, the Limbus Pit had been full of people with records far worse than this.
Even then, treatment had come first.
Judgment of character came later—if at all.
"Think nothing of it. As for me, I intend to forget what transpired here today."
Well—Lord Yulian wouldn't forget.
But the Marquis knew none of that as he stared at me.
After a moment, he brought his hands together and bowed his head toward me.
"Truly... truly, thank you."
A trembling voice came from beneath the Marquis's bowed head.
I noticed wet spots beginning to dot the floor where he stood, but I said nothing and left the room.
Perisia, wearing Lord Yulian's face, followed close behind.
She reached out to me through telepathy.
[What is to be done about the Marquis?]
[A pardon would be difficult, I imagine?]
[There are too many victims. The Academy's security was breached because of him. Although I serve as Lord Yulian's bodyguard, as one who serves His Majesty the Emperor, I do not think I can simply let it pass.]
[Even so, hoping that the Marquis and his family find the best possible outcome... is that my selfishness speaking?]
[As a personal sentiment, I believe it is one you are more than entitled to feel.]
I really am a selfish creature.
Now that I knew the full story, I'd gone and felt something like sympathy for the Marquis too.
Perhaps that was why.
I wanted to stop short of letting his family be destroyed, even as he faced the consequences of what he'd done.
So I offered one proposal.
[...Let's try this. Would this approach work?]
[I think... it might.]
Perisia was quiet for a moment, looking toward the room where the Marquis was at his wife's and son's side.
Then she spoke.
[Lord Yulian is kind.]
[It's selfishness.]
I had placed the deaths of students I'd never even known on the same scale as one man's tragic circumstances.
[I have always been selfish.]
No matter how I thought about it, titles like saint or savior seemed very far removed from who I actually was.