A Wish to Grab Happiness

A city is a crucible of magic. Whatever you do, worker bee, there are many of them who will gather magic.

Fialert was told by his father at an early age that the great wizard was the ancestor of the Borgograd family, who once left such words behind. At the time, everyone seemed to wonder what the hell they were talking about.

It might be easier to say that a city is precisely a receptacle to people's magic.

The great wizard says that what magic is is is the beat of life itself. Blinking the lid, bouncing with the heart leaking palpitations, and moving your fingers and arms in that way are consuming magic without knowing. The wizard says it is aging and death that the magic moistens its belly and depletes it.

Without the power of magic, the existence of a person is just a piece of meat, and one finger cannot be moved. Therefore all humans possess magic. That's how you live every day by absorbing magic or spitting it out without knowing it. Apparently, a being who can do it intentionally is a wizard and a magician. Of course, to what the great wizard says.

The black eyes of the fialert blinked, remembering those words I had heard in the past without knowing. The gaze slowly licks through the dim library. Black eyes were increasing in size, as they looked for something.

Whatever you want must be here. Belfein is an urban state, and the very city of Belfein, so to speak, is the capital of the state. If so, the library here should be packed with everything Belfein has to offer.

In the library, it was painted with dust for a long time. Perhaps, in this case, there is little cleaning, and there is not even a lot of cleaning.

Although it is first and foremost the duty of the Lords to collect books, apparently Mordeau himself does not make great use of the library. Absolutely nothing. This is like giving a gold coin to a warcraft. There's enough to rot the treasure.

Fialert accidentally rang his throat in a crowd of books. If I can, I want to read all the books here. If time permits, living in a swinging cage called a book, wrapped in a spectator called Knowledge, is one of the pleasures of Fialert. In college, when I was alone in the college library, I felt strangely nostalgic. Because I don't think I want to go back to that time at all.

And then the finger that was shaking in the thin dark stops. Black, big eyes, round and tremble.

- There it is. There's a difference. My fingertips are opening my mouth to the knowledge that I've been indulging in.

The fingertips touching the back cover felt a slight shard of magic.

The look of the book goes beyond obsolete, to the point that it no longer seems difficult to preserve. It used to seem to be retained by witchcraft, but its effectiveness has also weakened, and now the parchment has hardened due to deterioration over time.

Perhaps what I once tried to repair, even painted pork fat or wax. The moment I took it in my hand, an indescribable smell stuck to the nostrils of the fialert. I don't know, I can't help it. Fialert stroked the parchment, slowly, in such a way as to fear.

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The city becomes a crucible of magic, that is, only because it brings together humans who are the bearers of magic.

As people gather and live in cities, they lose their magic from their bodies unknowingly every day. Little by little the magic accumulates into the earth, and so unknowingly the city itself becomes a mass of magic, a crucible.

I see what Borgograd's ancestors once called people working bees mean. People who seek work and lean on the city from the next to the next also seem to share their magic with the city, depending on what they see. So, sooner or later, you lose your magic and you do your best.

Now, what happens to the magic that builds up in that city? They do not accumulate evenly throughout the city. Concentrate on one point where magic is easily flowing, which can be some kind of hoarding ground. It's a demonic force field, or it's called an end point, that.

Now Fialert is searching for the end point of the demon.

Opening the cover of the book, parchment overlaps, telling the history of Berfein and describing its landscape. And there was a map in it. Nor is that just a map. When Berfein was once not yet a city state, but just a city, the more detailed, at first glance, that the king of the time made him make, you will know everything about this city, the map.

That said, the truth is, it's not worth that much to this day.

Over time, the city of Berfein has expanded considerably, and its topography and urban structure have undergone great transformation. Now that we've got something like this, it won't do us any good to invade Belfein.

But Fialert shook his eyelashes and rang his heels without thinking. This helps me a lot right now. Whatever this is, it's got to have everything that was once Belfein's. That's everything, even the demon's field of power. Because that's what a map a king makes you make.

Fialert's neck, poppy. I turn the page as my fingertips rub the parchment. With his black eyes wide open, he remembered from the edge of the map to the edge, just saying he didn't need to see anything else.

So, when everything, in the cranium of the fialert, crossed into the cerebral marrow. Slowly a thin finger closed the book.

The demon's power field, the end point and the demon's stadium called that. But many wizards, magicians, would lean their necks if they fulfilled it and said it was worth it. Whatever, no matter how much magic accumulates, it's just a scratch collection of what the common people squandered little by little in their daily lives. No will, no direction, no magic. They just flock around.

Wizards and magicians can treat magic as if it were their own magic or the magic of what they signed with themselves. Otherwise, control becomes ineffective, and it becomes difficult in itself to sublime as little magic or magic.

When it comes to magic gathered in the demon's power field, it's a mass of magic built up by the many humans who make up the city. It is chaos itself, in which every will boils down.

If we treat such a thing as our own magic, it is decided that it will quickly dissipate clouds and disappear into the sky.

Therefore, it was precisely in the past that it was thought useful for the demon's power field. Now there's only so much use for a lord to wish him luck and set up a museum on the land.

- I guess that's why. There were only two people who took the theory very seriously in an attempt to exploit that magic accumulated in the force field.

One is the ancestor of the Borgograd family. He spoke of the existence of the demon's power field to the way it was used, but in the end he died without knowing whether the theory had been completed or not. There's nothing on the record.

Now speaking the theory itself is the subject of ridicule. Everyone would say with their mouths shut that where we spoke in great seriousness, there was something unknown about the essence of magic. Impossible magic theory would be to distort your mouth and scream.

So, I guess.

There was another person who insisted that we should use the magic accumulated in the demon's field of power. She wrote, one paper. It still falls asleep in the depths of the college she once attended.

Without looking into the eyes of the day and without anyone looking at you, if only silly, odd is the theory that catches your eye, then so be cut off. squatting in a paper graveyard without being sorted out much.

The author's name, written to flow in a black pen, is - Fialert, Fialert-la-Borgograd.