Chapter 9 – Memoirs of an Old Mage
"Ah… a golden bell barrier, huh? Elias really doesn't hold back, does he?"
Serie leaned lazily against the railing of the Holy City's clock tower, her gaze fixed on the golden glow pulsing far beyond the city walls.
Even after three thousand years, that man's magic still made her marvel.
Born in the mythic age, a lunatic among monsters, and the very man who once taught the Demon King himself—it was no surprise he could conjure such grand spectacles.
And yet, as she watched the faint shimmer of the barrier fade against the horizon, Serie felt something stir in her chest—an omen.
Something important was about to arrive.
Sure enough, the moment she heard the faint, hesitant footsteps behind her, she sighed softly.
"I knew it. You're back, Flamme."
Flamme stood there, holding a thick, leather-bound grimoire tightly to her chest, eyes clouded with hesitation.
"…Why so quiet?"
Serie turned around. It was rare to see her disciple's expression so conflicted—somewhere between confusion, disbelief, and… disgust?
"That look," Serie drawled, narrowing her eyes. "What's that supposed to mean? You're staring at me like I'm some sort of pervert."
Then she spotted the book in Flamme's arms.
With a flick of her wrist, she summoned it into her hand using a simple telekinesis spell.
"Hmm… well, well," she murmured, flipping through the first few pages. "This isn't—"
Her eyes widened slightly. "Wait a second. Where did you get this?"
Flamme bit her lip. "From him. The great demon Elias. He said—" her voice trembled, "—he said this perverted grimoire was written by you!"
Serie nodded without hesitation. "He's right."
Flamme: (≖_≖)
"Don't just admit it so casually, teacher!!!"
Serie chuckled, running her fingers fondly over the old, dog-eared pages.
"Ah, the memories… I really did pour my heart into creating these spells."
Flamme puffed up her cheeks, pouting with obvious indignation.
"Unbelievable! You, of all people, inventing a spell that changes the size of one's chest—and then you forbid me from studying Flowerfield Conjuration! That's so unfair!"
"Flowerfields wilt in a day," Serie replied with a teasing grin. "But this spell? Now this has long-term practicality."
Her lips curled into a mischievous smile as she began stepping toward her blushing disciple.
"Flamme… want to give it a try?"
"I—no way!" Flamme's face flushed bright red as she instinctively covered her chest.
"Come now, don't be shy. It's effective, I promise. Has your teacher ever lied to you?"
Flamme groaned and, in a desperate act of defiance, reached out and pressed her hand on top of Serie's head.
Serie: «(=ω=)»
"Teacher, enough fooling around! I came here for something serious."
"Oh? Serious business?" Serie raised a brow. "Do tell."
"There's a village," Flamme began quickly, "with a statue of three heroes—a long-eared dwarf, a bald sage, and a busty woman who looks exactly like that demon Elias!"
"—PFFT!"
Serie nearly coughed up blood.
Even after two millennia, just hearing that description sent a cold shiver of humiliation down her spine.
Back when the City Lord of Lister commissioned those statues, she knew something was off about the sculptor's tastes.
But she'd never imagined the result would be this.
A dwarf. A bald brute. And a… well-endowed "woman."
Yes. Her intuition had never once failed her.
With a deep breath, she finally admitted, "As much as I'd rather deny it, those statues are of Aivis the Sage, Elias the Demon, and… your teacher, me."
"What?!"
Flamme's eyes widened in disbelief. Every word Elias had said—those absurd, impossible claims—had been true!
"But… why were the three of you together? And why would people carve statues of you as heroes?"
Serie turned away, her expression shadowed by the dim starlight.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
That journey—their shared road of danger, laughter, and loss—was one she'd long since buried deep within her as a shameful memory.
A past she refused to acknowledge.
But she knew Elias. That irritating, infuriating man would never let sleeping memories lie.
Finally, Serie opened her eyes. The stars reflected in them like a thousand ghosts of the past.
"…Alright, Flamme."
Her tone softened, carrying a strange weight of nostalgia and resignation.
"You'll be the first disciple," she said, "to hear about my most disgraceful memories."
And as she spoke, the faint ringing of the distant golden bell echoed through the night—like the opening note of an old, unwelcome song.
...
Three thousand years before the Mythical Era.
Northern Highlands — Ruins of an Ancient Temple.
Under the pale flicker of ghostfire magic, three figures descended a long spiral staircase, their shadows stretching and shrinking along the moss-covered walls until they reached the very bottom of the temple.
Serie yawned and stretched lazily, resting her hands behind her head.
"This place has been abandoned for centuries. Don't tell me you dragged us all the way down here for some dusty old relics."
Elias chuckled, his voice echoing softly in the damp chamber.
"We're not here to find treasure—we're here to store it. I come back every so often to add to my collection."
Serie arched an eyebrow.
"Oh? So this is your secret hoard, huh? I'm curious—what exactly does a thousand-year-old demon consider a treasure?"
Before Elias could answer, their path was blocked by a massive iron door etched with ancient runes.
At its center glowed a hovering blue circle of light, pulsing with faint energy.
"Well, well," murmured Aivis, peering closer, "that's a formation I've never seen before. Don't tell me this is one of your original spells again, Elias?"
"Something like that," Elias replied calmly. "A simple fingerprint lock enchantment. You just do this—"
He extended his index finger and tapped the glowing circle.
The blue light quivered like rippling water and spread outward, melting into the metal until the runes flared open.
"So it identifies the unique ridges of your finger and unlocks the gate? Fascinating!" Aivis exclaimed, scribbling furiously in his notebook. "I must record this at once!"
Meanwhile, Serie smirked mischievously.
"So if I chop off your hand and press it against the door… would that work too?"
Elias sighed. "You'd be disappointed, Serie."
"When I designed this spell, I based it on a capacitive principle—recognizing the faint bioelectric currents within living tissue. Unless you move fast enough to use a freshly severed hand, the current dissipates once it cools. After that, the lock won't respond."
"Capaci—what? Bioelectric… what?!" Aivis nearly tore through his notes trying to keep up.
Serie rolled her eyes. "Here he goes again—showing off his memories from a past life. Damn demon."
The door slowly rumbled open, and the trio stepped inside.
Their expressions shifted immediately.
"…Books?" Serie blinked. "Your so-called treasure vault is… a library?"
Aivis's eyes lit up like twin lanterns.
"Incredible! Look at this vast collection! Elias, did you write all these yourself? Are these your magical theories?!"
Elias smiled faintly, walking between the towering shelves that stretched endlessly upward.
"Not magic," he said quietly. "Memories."
"These," he gestured around them, "are my diaries—every one of them written over the past thousand years."
For a long moment, silence reigned.
Aivis stood there, visibly shaken. For the first time, he felt the true weight of what immortality meant—
To live long enough that memory itself became a burden.
"Diaries…" he murmured. "Even demons keep such things…"
Serie strolled lazily between the shelves, running a finger along the spines of the countless books.
Her tone was calm, almost mocking.
"Diaries are meaningless. When you read them years later, they don't even feel like your memories anymore—just someone else's story."
She glanced at him over her shoulder.
"And even if you reread them all, would it change anything? Could you even remember what you've written?"
Her words landed like a needle to the heart.
Elias paused mid-step, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.
"…You're right, Serie."
"I once tried to develop a spell based on my memories from a former life—a technique I called Quantum Speed Reading. It was supposed to process and retain written information instantly."
He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh.
"But it failed. Turns out, imagination and reality don't always connect in the world of magic."
"Just as I can't imagine raising the dead…" he said quietly, "nor turning a demon into a human."
At that, Serie stopped browsing.
Her fingers brushed across a leather-bound volume, and she murmured softly to herself—
"Turning a demon into a human…"
Her golden eyes narrowed, reflecting the dim blue light that filled the chamber.
"…Such a dangerous thought."