There are all kinds of mages in the world.
Mages who use strange magic, mages with peculiar personalities, mages who train in bizarre ways.
There are plenty of eccentric mages performing every sort of oddity imaginable—and such mages often possess reputations that far exceed their actual ability.
But even among those eccentrics, there were a few who were truly famous.
Weird methods of training, un-mage-like behavior, un-mage-like appearance—
Among 6th-Circle Lexuror-class mages, one man stood out as the prime example.
Phyron.
“Take this! Magic of Justice!”
Phyron shouted as he thrust out his fist.
Mana shaped like a giant fist flew forward in a straight line, sweeping through the War Mages.
It was called “magic,” but in practice, it was nothing more than a blast of condensed fist-wind.
Defense was meaningless.
The sheer power behind that casually thrown spell shattered every shield and protective artifact the War Mages tried to raise.
No matter how eccentric he was, his opponent was still a 6th-Circle mage.
Once one reached that level, their power carried weight, regardless of public opinion.
“W-What the hell! Why is that man here?!”
The War Mages broke apart in panic.
They knew clustering together would only get them annihilated—but even without that, facing such a monster head-on was impossible.
“And he looks even more deranged than before!”
A mage as famous as Phyron was impossible not to recognize.
And yet, the War Mages could barely tell it was him.
First, he wasn’t wearing the robe that symbolized his school. He was bare-chested.
Second, he’d grown out his beard and hair wildly, leaving his appearance utterly unlike the man they remembered.
He looked like a mountain bandit who had come down after living alone for thirty years.
If they hadn’t seen the way mana gathered into the shape of a fist around him, even his own family might not have recognized him.
“R-Retreat! Retreat!”
In the end, the War Mages had no choice but to flee.
Gariel stared blankly at the scene, then shifted his gaze to Phyron, who approached him slowly.
“So, how’d you end up being chased by those guys? They looked like mages from the New Mage Tower.”
“Wa... ter...”
“Water? You’re asking for water? I’ve got protein shakes, though.”
“Water... mat-ter...”
Only then did Phyron notice the scattered ingredients around Gariel.
“...You stole these? No, wait. Your attitude’s way too desperate for that. Looks like there’s a story here.”
Gariel couldn’t answer.
The poison had spread through his body, leaving even his lips stiff.
His breathing was growing heavy.
At this rate, his muscles would seize up and kill him.
That was when Phyron acted.
Pang!
He spread a hand the size of a pot lid and pressed it to Gariel’s solar plexus, releasing a gentle surge of mana.
The mana coursing through Gariel’s body washed the poison’s energy away.
“Khuh! Khh!”
Gariel coughed, spitting out blackened, dead venom.
After several gasps, he realized his body was moving again. His eyes widened at Phyron in disbelief.
He’d neutralized the poison? No—it wasn’t healing.
He’d purified the poison itself into pure energy.
While Gariel was still reeling, Phyron grinned.
“Now then—mind explaining what’s going on here?”
* * *
Having arrived at their new hideout with Cravat and Roteron, Ludger frowned when he didn’t see Gariel anywhere.
If the one who should have arrived first hadn’t shown up, it meant something had happened along the way.
Even if Gariel could stop time, he lacked field experience—being ambushed wasn’t impossible.
“It seems I’ll have to go look for Gariel—”
Before ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) Ludger could finish, the hideout door burst open, and Gariel stepped in—
—with a massive man following behind him.
“What the hell. Who’s that giant?”
“Who is he supposed to be?”
Cravat and Roteron looked bewildered at the bandit-like Phyron.
Only Ludger narrowed his eyes, recognizing him immediately.
“Sir Phyron?”
“Hm? Oh! So you’re all here! Hahaha!”
Phyron laughed heartily and waved as though greeting old friends.
Ludger turned to Roteron.
“Don’t tell me this is the mage you mentioned...”
“Yes. That’s right. But I heard he secluded himself on the island, refusing visitors and dedicating himself to his own research. How in the world...?”
Roteron had thought summoning Phyron would be nearly impossible.
Meeting him at all was difficult enough—convincing him even more so.
And yet here he was, showing up on his own.
“Sir Phyron, your appearance...”
Gone was the well-kept mage they once knew—he now looked like someone who had spent decades alone in the wilderness.
“Huh? Ah, this? I’ve been so focused on training lately I didn’t bother with my hair or beard. Got a bit long, I suppose.”
“A bit?”
Even Cravat knew of Phyron.
But the image he knew didn’t include a mane and beard like that.
“If I skip shaving and cutting my hair for a week, it ends up like this.”
“A week?!”
Gariel’s eyes went wide.
How could anyone’s hair and beard grow that much in a single week?
“Maybe it’s all the protein I eat. Puhahahaha!”
Seeing Phyron laugh uproariously at his own joke, Ludger could only shake his head.
“A monster born of pure testosterone.”
Unbelievable—but somehow, hearing it about a 6th-Circle mage, it almost made sense.
“So—what’s all this about? Why are you here, and who’s this little black-mage kid?”
To Phyron, who had come to assess the situation, seeing Ludger, Roteron, and Cravat all together looked oddly mismatched.
“It’s a long story.”
Sorting out the tangled situation would have to come first.
“Let’s start with introductions. My name is Cravat. I’m a black mage living in Isla Machia and the master of the Ancient Curse School. Don’t let appearances fool you—I’m quite old, so don’t you dare treat me like a child.”
That last line was directed squarely at Phyron, with a sharp glare.
Phyron just laughed and shrugged.
“My apologies, then.”
One by one, everyone introduced themselves.
When Gariel’s use of time magic came up, both Roteron and Phyron reacted in shock.
“Time magic? That’s a real thing?”
“My god. I thought he was just some frail civilian.”
“...Ha.”
Gariel gave a bitter smile.
The name sounded grand, but in reality, time magic was full of limitations and rarely useful.
“Alright, let’s review. Professor Ludger Cherish, you... robbed the New Mage Tower. Correct?”
At Roteron’s question, Ludger nodded.
“And your purpose was to save a student’s life.”
“That’s right.”
“I understand it’s hard to gather the necessary materials on this island in such a short time—but still, that was reckless. Especially now, when Isla Machia is in such turmoil.”
“Ah, right,” Phyron interjected, crossing his arms. “Now that you mention it, the island’s been noisy lately. Did something happen?”
Phyron had indeed come to Isla Machina, but he hadn’t paid much attention to the island’s political climate.
That, however, only made it more telling—if even someone as indifferent as Phyron could sense the growing unrest here, then something was seriously wrong.
“As you already know, Sir Phyron, Isla Machina is home to the New Mage Tower, various mages, and black mages alike. Recently, all the commotion has started from the black mages’ side. A new faction appeared within their territory, and that’s what sparked this mess.”
“But from what I saw, the New Mage Tower’s mages seem to be involved too, aren’t they?”
Recalling the War Mages, Phyron asked.
Roteron nodded, sighing through his nose.
“There’ve been signs for a while now, but it seems the new force active on this island has allied with a certain faction inside the New Mage Tower.”
“A faction within the Tower, huh.”
“As you know, the Tower broke away from the old framework of the ‘Old Mage Tower’ to pursue new ideals. But even if the purpose is the same, the methods cannot be identical.”
The New Mage Tower’s internal factions were largely divided into two sides.
Those who believed that any means were justified if it served their purpose—
—and those who insisted that, at the very least, they must uphold reason and morality.
The former argued that magical research required money, and that therefore capitalism should be the foundation of their work.
In their eyes, cutting corners or ignoring ethics was permissible—so long as it brought in funds.
“I was on the opposite side,” said Roteron.
He distrusted excessive capitalism.
He couldn’t accept mages who prioritized playing with money over immersing themselves in magic.
And so the two groups came to be known by names that reflected their ideologies:
The money-driven faction — [Bourgeois].
Their opposition — [Proletariat].
The Bourgeois mages always said the same thing:
Magic requires money.
A mage constantly gasping for funds will never be able to pursue true research.
Regulation, they said, only stifles progress—turning what could be a one-year project into ten years of delay.
“Well, that logic isn’t entirely wrong,” Cravat admitted, nodding slowly. “But the problem is that those bastards didn’t just cross the line—they obliterated it.”
He could understand it all too well. Among black mages, there were plenty who would do anything for profit.
Was regulation truly a barrier to the advancement of magic and science?
And without regulation, could magic and science still develop in the right direction?
That question had long been a constant debate between the two factions.
Naturally, there was no definitive answer.
In the end, it was simply a difference of perspective—each side had its own justifications.
“In any case,” Cravat said, “the important part isn’t nitpicking their moral flaws. What matters is that the Bourgeois faction has officially become our enemy.”
“I never imagined they’d go this far—allying with dangerous outsiders, illegally modifying automatons, crafting weapons to kill mages, even conducting live experiments.”
At this rate, they were no different from the black mages society despised.
The New Mage Tower had been Roteron’s second home—the place that had accepted him, a beastkin, as a mage.
He couldn’t stand by and watch it fall into corruption.
“So let me get this straight,” Phyron said, crossing his arms and shutting his eyes. “A faction of the New Mage Tower joined forces with a mysterious organization. That organization’s now targeting you, and to save a terminally ill student, you went as far as to rob the Tower itself.”
He nodded gravely.
And then, between his closed lids, tears began to spill.
“What a moving story! It shakes the very soul of manhood itself!”
Phyrons’s sudden wail of emotion made Gariel glance awkwardly at Ludger.
His eyes said, Is he always like this?
Ludger subtly shook his head. No idea.
‘He wasn’t this bad before,’ Ludger thought. ‘Seems he’s drifted even further from civilization since I last saw him.’
Still, that might actually be for the best.
If Phyron were more logical and cold-blooded, it would have been much harder to get him emotionally invested.
“Alright! I’ll help! When a man’s soul burns this hot, he can’t just sit still! Truth be told, I’ve always wanted to try robbing that steel tower myself!”
“...Hey.”
Roteron’s face stiffened. That last part was hard to overlook.
Before this could escalate, Ludger quickly changed the subject.
“Sir Phyron, may I ask—what brings you to Isla Machina in the first place?”
Everyone turned to him, clearly curious as well.
“Huh? Research, of course.”
Phyrons’s tone implied what else could it possibly be?
Everyone murmured a soft “Ah,” as if remembering something obvious.
Right.
He was a mage, after all.
“I heard there are various artifacts here—like ones that weigh more than they should. Thought I could use them to give my muscles a little extra stimulation. Besides, this island’s full of iron—perfect for lifting heavy things.”
At that, Gariel recalled the clearing where he had collapsed earlier.
He’d assumed it was just a junkyard filled with discarded scrap metal.
Apparently, it really was a training ground.
Gariel leaned toward Ludger and whispered.
‘Is this guy really a mage? A school of magic that uses muscles? What the hell kind of discipline is that?’
‘Coming from someone who stops time with magic, that’s a bit rich.’
‘...’
Whatever the case, having Phyron on their side was reassuring.
Gariel, remembering how he’d fought earlier, nodded appreciatively—then suddenly recalled something and spoke up.
“Um, Mage Phyron, there’s something I’ve been wondering.”
“Hmm? Go ahead.”
“When I was hit with that paralysis poison—how did you cure it instantly like that?”
He couldn’t understand it.
His first impression of Phyron had been that of a battle mage—someone who only knew how to throw punches.
And indeed, Phyron specialized in combat magic.
But curing poison wasn’t something a typical War Mage could do.
And yet he’d completely purified it with just a touch of his palm.
“Oh, that?”
Phyrons’s tone was utterly casual.
“That’s a manual-therapy spell I developed myself.”
“...?”
Manual therapy? Did he just say manual therapy? Did I mishear that?