Do Your Own Revolution-Chapter 134

#134

“Eugene. Do you know how magic imprints are created?”

In my drowsy state, I recalled a conversation with Count Kassel in the Korhonen Territory.

The past with the Emperor, their shared failures. And the small bits of old stories in between.

As if it had been a while since he’d spoken at such length, Count Kassel took a sip of cold tea and posed an unfocused question to me.

“I’m not an imprint specialist, so I don’t know the details… but I understand the principle.”

They take the design of a high-level imprint as the source, then carve catalysts like mana cores or magical power stones to create the imprint.

That’s how the initial one stroke is made.

Afterward, they watch the mage’s magical power development process and gradually increase the number of strokes.

As the strokes increase, the imprint develops its own unique character beyond the original source, finally reaching completion at seven strokes.

‘Of course, this is just the theoretical explanation.’

Creating a truly unique imprint was only possible up to six strokes, the stage before the final one.

The seventh stroke, the final stage.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

The technique to manifest [Domain] is said to have been lost long ago.

“Complete.”

After hearing my explanation about magic imprints, Count Kassel spoke as if intrigued.

“When you think about it, it’s not even funny. Don’t you agree?”

“What’s strange about it?”

Looking at [Steel Puppeteer], the magic imprint engraved on his right arm, Kassel said.

“For magic nobles, magic imprints are the foundation that supports their house.”

“……”

“The symbol of their house. Their identity. Their history. They deify these things with all sorts of fancy words.”

It was an obvious statement.

The manifestation of a house’s magical achievements.

The source of magic, virtually synonymous with a mage’s identity.

Yet what appeared on Count Kassel’s face was a faint sneer.

“Is that really true?”

“Pardon?”

“Are magic imprints truly the unprecedented and unique essence of magic?”

What’s he suddenly talking about?

While I was thinking this, the count continued with a subtle smile.

“The moment one possesses a seven stroke imprint, that mage is treated as the pinnacle of magic. They receive praise from across the continent, with people going on about how it’s the final stage of being a mage and the ultimate realm.”

“Because they can wield that much power.”

“However, the moment we actually handle this imprint, we realize.”

The count looked at me, sharing the same thought.

“At best, one army. One city. One country. That’s all.”

“That we’re just slightly stronger than others, mere insignificant humans after all.”

Two seven stroke mages gathered in one place.

The count’s eyes were ice-cold as he looked at his imprint.

Probably, I had a similar look in my eyes.

“Originally, magic’s purpose was to discover truth through magic, and through understanding that truth, to be reborn as a higher being.”

“……”

“However, Eugene.”

Kassel raised his arm, showing his imprint.

“Is this thing engraved on our arms truly the truth?”

“……”

“You should know better than anyone that it’s not.”

After taking a breath, he continued:

“After all, you’re the very person who created and raised those anomalous mages of the Special Magical Power Unit who use mass-produced magic imprints from factories.”

“…I can’t deny that.”

For the Special Magical Power Unit, magic imprints are merely military supplies, consumables to be used and discarded.

Mass-produced industrial products that can be replaced at any time, made cheaply.

That’s probably why the knights don’t recognize us as true mages.

“Instead of being precision equipment made by craftsmen, mana cores are carved in factories running on oil. Instead of the delicate hands of imprint specialists, the formulas are inscribed by day laborers working for daily wages.”

“……”

“And those formulas aren’t ancient secrets passed down through generations, but merely written according to manuals handed out by factory managers. In the ‘process’ of creating these imprints, there’s not even a trace of nobility, history, or anything that could be called pride.”

Yet despite all that, magic manifests.

So easily.

So simply.

“What’s engraved on our right arms isn’t the source of a magician’s power, nor is it a key to discovering truth.”

It’s just a tool for handling magical power, created to replace staffs and grimoires.

No different from the clock sitting on this table.

“That only applies to lower imprints of three strokes or less.”

While imprints might be treated as consumables, it’s different for high-level imprints of four strokes and above.

Custom imprints created considering factors like the wearer’s magical power development and frequency of formula usage.

That could certainly be called the culmination of a mage’s achievements.

“That’s not right.”

The count shook his head and pointed at me.

“For example, that [Wings of Crimson] engraved on your arm is the same.”

“…?”

“The five magic imprints stored in the Imperial Archives. They are certainly precious items with powerful strength, capable of changing the empire.”

While refilling his empty teacup, the count said.

“But at the same time, they are just power. Just a collection of complex formulas and circuits. Merely catalysts to awaken what they contain.”

…Wait a minute.

‘What did he just say?’

At first glance, it seemed like an old man’s advice not to be arrogant about one’s power.

But the words hidden in between couldn’t be taken lightly.

“Your Lordship.”

This was information I didn’t know about.

I immediately caught onto the count’s words and asked.

“Just now, did you say ‘awaken’?”

A seven stroke imprint is just a tool?

A catalyst to awaken what it contains?

What does this mean?

“…Indeed. You are a brilliant flame.”

As if congratulating me for solving a puzzle.

The count smiled contentedly and slowly opened his mouth while looking at me.

“Imprints amplify a mage’s magical power, allowing them to exceed human limits. However, Eugene, that’s not the true purpose of magic imprints.”

And this is the real story I want to tell you.

The count’s eyes deepened as he brought the teacup to his lips.

“A completed seven strokes magic imprint is merely a cradle for creating a perfect being.”

“……”

“However, if you were to break free from the cradle.”

If you break through the imprint and advance to the next stage.

If the potential contained in the wings breaks through the wall of limitations and achieves ‘awakening’.

“That’s when you could obtain the truth that the ancient ‘magicians’ sought – the power to distort the laws of the continent.”

***

“……..Ah.”

Stop being so cryptic, you damn old man.

While I was thinking that about Count Kassel who appeared in my dream, I slowly opened my eyes only to immediately grimace.

“It’s wake-up time, Division Commander.”

“…Matt.”

Matt, the Sniper Battalion Commander, was staring at me with a stern expression.

As his voice woke me from my deep sleep, I forced myself to gather my groggy thoughts and got up.

“Shining a flashlight in the Division Commander’s face – the level of insubordination keeps rising by the day.”

“Is that so? If this didn’t wake you up, I was planning to fire a pistol next to your head.”

“Do you have some complaints lately?”

Our friends have gone beyond insubordination to contemplating superior officer murder, how praiseworthy.

Thinking that, I stumbled to my feet.

“Of course I have complaints.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“The resentment of doing this harsh work in enemy territory when we were told reinforcements would come if we held the capital?”

“I’m suffering through it too, you know.”

“That’s why I can’t say it out loud and am just quietly rebelling like this.”

Thanks ever so much, my friend.

Muttering that, I put on my uniform coat and military cap that I’d been using as covers.

It had been a week since we’d spectacularly escaped by self-destructing the Republic’s capital.

During that time, I and about 300 mages had destroyed two enemy brigades and were advancing toward the Kalhyram Army’s operational area while bombarding the Republic army’s supply bases and strategic points in the rear with magic.

“You seem to be sleeping more lately, are you alright?”

“Magical power depletion. It’s killing me.”

I don’t even have the strength to light the cigarette in my mouth.

While still dealing with aftereffects from the fight with Petrenko, supporting the formulas of subordinate officers.

And the high-powered bombardment formulas I’ve been firing every day for the past week.

Four hours of sleep a day was far from enough for this level of overwork.

“Current situation?”

“No deaths overnight, no stragglers. No illness, injuries, PTSD, et cetera. The Special Magical Power Unit is as bright and energetic as ever.”

“Anything unusual?”

“Just that the Republic army combat rations we looted from the supply base taste terribly bad?”

“I agree with that one.”

Especially the biscuits they eat as their main food were really hopeless.

They were so hard to chew that I tried stabbing one with a bayonet, and the bayonet broke.

Those crazy Republic bastards.

No wonder you’re in such a sorry state when you’re fighting while eating this garbage.

“And if there’s another unusual thing… it’s that we haven’t seen any sign of friendly forces, which is strange.”

“Indeed.”

I looked at the Republic’s steppes where dawn was barely breaking.

“According to the operation plan, we should be meeting up with the Imperial army about now. But we haven’t found even their scouts, let alone the main force…”

“Either the plan changed…”

“Or something went wrong with the plan.”

Either way, it wasn’t very welcome news from our position.

It meant we’d have to continue this forced march for at least three more days.

“Eugene-!”

While I was thinking that, a voice called from outside.

Beyond the dense forest, on the Republic’s grasslands covered in frost.

In the middle of it were Ortega, who was eyeing a dead wild animal while licking his lips, and Rennie, who was checking contamination levels with a detector.

‘Ah, dear God.’

Are these really the high-ranking officers leading the Empire’s largest military force?

While I was lamenting at the sight of my friends waving at me in their raggedy state, I approached them and asked Ortega who had his arms crossed.

“What are you doing?”

“Preparing breakfast.”

“The enemy artillery would love it if we lit a fire here.”

“I know. That’s why I was thinking of eating it raw… but Rennie suddenly stopped me.”

What are you, Irene? Eating wild animals raw?

Ah no.

You’re actually more civilized than Irene.

She just ate them while they were still alive.

While I was thinking that, Rennie’s face grew serious as she checked the contamination detector again.

“Contamination level 470? Impossible. There shouldn’t be any contaminated zones nearby, how could an animal be this contaminated…”

“Is it serious?”

“Hiccup?!”

Rennie’s shoulders jerked in surprise at my voice and she hiccupped.

Is she nervous from being in the field after so long?

“W-when did you get here…?”

“Just now. Explain in detail.”

“I-it’s quite serious.”

Pushing up her glasses, Rennie pointed at the dead rabbit’s flesh.

The parts that had turned purple.

Anyone could see it wasn’t a natural color.

“It’s contaminated almost to the point of being a monster.”

“What? So we can’t eat it?”

“That’s not the issue! For it to be this contaminated, there must be a contaminated zone or fissure nearby.”

“Fissure? But that’s…”

Ortega tilted his head in confusion at Rennie’s words.

Understandably so.

We hadn’t seen any contaminated zones on our way here.

“No contaminated zones, but contaminated creatures exist.”

“Which means…”

Just as Rennie was about to continue with a hardened expression-

– Division Commander. Over here.

A magical power communication came in from the advance reconnaissance team.

A somber report, different from their usual playful tone.

The moment I heard it, I immediately headed toward the coordinates they specified.

“Over there.”

The reconnaissance team member who joined me pointed.

What we saw there was a collective farm where Republic citizens lived.

And in the middle of that collective farm…

Crunch- Crunch-

There was an Imperial soldier, transformed into a monster, devouring the corpse of their comrade.

“…!”

“Shit. Hey, Eugene. Don’t tell me that’s…”

“Yes.”

Some of the monsters seemed to notice us and turned our way.

Spread out around them was a sea of blood where Republic and Imperial soldiers’ bodies lay mixed together.

After briefly observing the horrific scene of what must have been thousands of corpses, I could guess what had happened here when I saw the gas masks worn by the Republic soldiers’ corpses.

“Haa…”

Poison gas refined from monster contamination.

The Republic’s weapon of mass destruction that was banned under the armistice agreement.

“So they used it after all. Idiots.”

What appeared on my face as I confirmed this was a cold sneer.

“You’re the ones who crossed the line first.”

The Republic forces, having lost their heroes and commanders, had begun to rampage.

This war has now fallen into an irreversible quagmire.

Exactly as I had intended.

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