A year had passed since Shirone joined House Ozent.
He was now sixteen, and over seven thousand books had left the Grand Library.
Temuran marveled at his astonishing pace, but Shirone had expected this.
As categorized books decreased, efficiency naturally accelerated.
Constant velocity was a theoretical concept—in reality, all events were influenced by acceleration.
Thus, even a slow start could lead to faster-than-expected results if one persevered.
Of his original goal—eight hundred and fifty history books—only two hundred remained.
Averaging over three books a day, the backbone of his dreamt-of knowledge would be complete in months.
Beyond that, he had experienced swordsmanship and understood fear’s essence.
His Spirit Zone’s durability had skyrocketed as a result.
His first year had been fruitful.
But no achievement compared to the value of a true friend.
Rian: "There’s a crazy amount of books here. You think my family’s read all of them?"
Since their duel, Rian often spent time in the library when free.
Despite his size, he was affectionate and playful—the epitome of a youngest son.
Shirone: "Of course. The family head and your brother visit often."
Rian: "Tch. Must be nice being smart. So many things to read."
Seated on the floor, Rian tossed aside a book he’d been flipping through.
Shirone picked it up from the ladder and scowled.
"Don’t throw it carelessly. If it gets damaged, I’ll die."
"I don’t like that either. How can a book be more important than a human life? Even if this library burned down, I’d protect you, so don’t worry."
"If you’d just stay still, that would never happen. So please, be careful."
Shirone had never once spoken such awkward words before.
But this was Shirone.
Firm and strict in all things, yet never cold.
Rian liked that about him.
"Being with you is fun, but rotting away in this library is suffocating."
"Why are you holed up here anyway? What about training?"
"Just basic drills. I said I wanted to study in the library for a while."
Shirone’s body trembled slightly.
"Then study quickly. What are you doing right now?"
"I’m bored! Bored! Bored!"
Rian flopped onto the floor, flailing his limbs like a petulant child.
Shirone ignored him and walked to the desk.
Rian’s laziness wasn’t exactly concerning.
If Shirone’s nature was water, Rian’s was fire—a blaze that, once ignited, grew uncontrollably.
’He just needs the right spark.
Shirone returned with a history book in hand.
"Get up and bring your book. Time to study."
"Ugh, training’s been brutal lately."
Shirone practically shoved Rian toward the study before sitting down and flipping open the history book.
Lately, fieldwork had been finishing faster than paperwork, leaving him with spare time.
As he focused, the pages flew by in an instant.
Most of the content was familiar—he could even predict what came next.
This meant the scope of his knowledge had already surpassed the book’s.
Understanding six hundred and fifty volumes of history made the remaining two hundred easy to digest.
"Hey, Shirone. Found something interesting."
Rian, having picked out a book, marveled at Shirone’s speed.
There were times when he had spent over ten hours on a single page—only to wake up the next morning, having dozed off mid-read.
Not wanting to interrupt, Rian quietly sat beside Shirone and opened his book.
’Swordsman vs. Mage.’
"Preface. Have you ever asked yourself this question: If a swordsman and a mage dueled one-on-one, who would win?"
The moment Rian read aloud, Shirone’s hand paused.
Even for an aspiring mage, the topic was intriguing.
"I traveled the world to find the answer. Even now, I can still see it—the Artusna Mountain Range, six thousand meters high, where carnivorous trees prey on mountain birds..."
Rian snapped the book shut.
"Gods, this is boring."
"What? I think it’s interesting!"
Rian flinched at Shirone’s sudden outburst.
So much for pretending disinterest—his ears had been perked the whole time.
"Interesting? There’s no pictures, no sword techniques, nothing!"
"You didn’t even read a full page before judging!"
"A good writer knows how to hook readers. Start exciting, end moving."
"This isn’t fiction. Hand it over. So, who wins?"
"Who cares? Since when do mages and swordsmen duel for fun? If the odds are good, fight. If not, run."
Shirone flipped to the middle of Swordsman vs. Mage and skimmed.
"But what if they had to fight? Who’d win then?"
"Hard to say. If I had to guess..."
Then, from beyond the shelves, a sharp voice cut in.
"Obviously, the swordsman."
A cold-faced man stepped into view.
Though not as brawny as Rian, he was far taller, with long, lean limbs.
This was Rye Ozent, the second son of House Ozent.
Despite being brothers, his aura and looks starkly contrasted Rian’s—starting with his raven-black hair.
House Ozent carried two undiluted bloodlines: the patriarch, Bishop, and the eldest sons inherited black hair, while the eldest daughter and youngest (Rian) bore the azure hue.
Even Rian’s grandfather, a state-recognized third-rank swordsman, had been blue-haired.
The family shared deep bonds, but bloodlines sometimes split loyalties.
Which lineage dominated shifted by generation—this era belonged to Bishop and Rye’s black-haired faction.
"Ah! G-Good day, sir!"
Shirone hastily bowed.
No one knew he was Rian’s friend—if their earlier conversation had been overheard, he’d be in trouble.
"A swordsman wins? How can you be so sure? Just because you’re one?"
Rian, aware of the tension, deliberately needled Rye to keep him distracted.
"Do I need grand declarations? Just look at the standing of mages and swordsmen across the continents. The truth speaks for itself."
Rye seemed indifferent to his brother’s closeness with a servant, but Shirone remained uneasy.
Every time Rye visited the library, Shirone felt the same—this man was impossible to read.
"Rank means nothing in a duel. You wouldn’t say that on a battlefield, would you? ’I outrank you, so back off’?"
Rian laughed, smug as if he’d landed a blow.
But Rye didn’t react. His indifferent gaze slid to Shirone.
"What do you think, boy?"
"Well... Assuming both are at their peak, magic’s destructive power could fatally wound a swordsman. But swordsmen excel physically—if they close the gap before the spell..."
"No. Wrong. A mage can’t beat a swordsman."
Shirone stiffened. He was still just an apprentice, but he was a mage-in-training.
Rian bristled at his friend being dismissed.
"What gives you the right to say that? You think you speak for all swordsmen?"
Rye’s lips curled—the smirk Rian hated.
"A swordsman’s pride isn’t earned lightly. But a mage’s knowledge? That can be bought."
His words carried venom.
In truth, swordsmen did have a way to counter magic: artifacts called Anti-Magic.
These emitted a unique mental wavelength that disrupted a mage’s Spirit Zone—shattering their focus.
Typically crafted into crystal orbs, they could be embedded in armor, shields, even swords.
Their price? Exorbitant. They required dragon hearts, which radiated magical resonance.
But stacking ten 10%-efficient artifacts didn’t grant 100% protection.
Wavelengths interfered—adding more waves meant overlapping dead zones.
Thus, more artifacts lowered efficiency.
The greatest existing set was Yakra the Archmage’s "Five Deity Armor"—helm, chestplate, gauntlets, boots, and shield, each with a 20% efficiency cap.
Worn together, they suppressed magic by 65%—a feat achieved by minimizing overlap.
Losing 65% focus was lethal for mages.
Then there were Spirit Cores—natural crystals so rare only 17 existed worldwide (2 fire, 3 water, 5 wind, 7 earth). A single one could nullify its element entirely.
A master swordsman clad in the Five Deity Armor, wielding all four cores—what mage could defeat that?
Theoretically, at least.
The armor was scattered across the world, its origins murky. And cores? Only nations could afford them.
Stacking Anti-Magic carelessly was folly. Even Yakra spent a decade fine-tuning the Five Deity set.
Messing with wavelengths without mastery? A sure way to burn money.
Each 1% efficiency boost cost a fortune—no exaggeration.
This was the swordsman’s dilemma:
Why spend a king’s ransom on Anti-Magic when hiring an Anti-Magic mage was cheaper?
Rye’s implication was clear:
Mages are just swordsmen’s tools. Their knowledge? Purchasable.
Ironically, Anti-Magic artifacts were invented by mages.
Even now, countless mages researched how dragon magic affected Spirit Zones—for wealth and prestige.
The irony? Mages, who lived by magic, sought ways to weaken it.
Rye was mocking their plight.
"A mage who sells out to money can never match a swordsman’s pride."
"Well? You like history. Surely you know mages’ place in the world? Magic can be bought off. But a mage could never replicate a swordsman’s training."
A swordsman-centric view, but Shirone understood his point.
"That’s exactly what a mage is."
Rye’s eyebrow twitched.
He’d expected defiance—not agreement—from a magic-loving boy.
"Mages relentlessly dissect the world’s harmony. Studying magic’s suppression isn’t strange—they value knowing, not winning. Anti-Magic artifacts are products of that boundless intellect. Using that to claim swordsmen’s superiority? A flawed premise."
Unlike Rian, Rye crushed opponents with logic—yet now, he stayed silent.
Because he had no rebuttal.
Rian stifled a laugh.
’Hah! Serves you right. My friend’s tongue’s sharper than any sword.’
Rye’s face twisted as he scrambled for a counter—but nothing came.
"Ideals aren’t reality. Intentions don’t change the fact that mages lose."
With that icy retort, Rye turned and left.
The moment the door shut, Rian yanked Shirone into a crushing hug, howling with laughter.
"PFFHAHAHA! Shirone, you’re amazing! I’ve never seen him make that face before!"
Though jostled, Shirone’s gaze lingered where Rye had exited.
’Swordsman vs. Mage.’
Maybe reality was as Rye said.
But Shirone believed in the mage’s endless pursuit—the will to dissect even their own weaknesses.
That cold resolve was why intellect existed in this world.