A Wish to Grab Happiness

That was an overly stupid sight.

What happens if people jump into flames? Plus, fuel together. Logic that even children can understand. If you do that, you die.

Naturally, die. Besides, there is no mercy such as instant death. The whole body is burned, the trachea is offended by heat and unable to breathe, the guts are steamed and die remembering the worst suffering. You can't know that. Yes, what even children can tell. The man in front of you can't possibly not know. 'Cause why?

- Why did this man, as a matter of course, make it?

I don't know. I don't understand. For Fiarat La Borgograd, who has lived before with universality as a friend and beside the common law, it is an action outside of imagination and beyond.

How come you weren't like me? nature and the lips speak of doubt. Like me, I am mediocre, powerless, and unable to resist my destiny.

In such a mediocre person, thoughts swirl in the bright white brain of a fialert, wondering if they didn't.

Being mediocre was evil for Borgograd, the creator of Fialert.

Born into a magical house called Borgograd, it's just unacceptable to be an ordinary person. Undisputed bloodlines and talent education in the best environments that can be described as intense. While in it, being mediocre is a lack of personal qualities. Out of business. Crude. It is evil.

She and I are not outside the idea. They say that mediocrity is evil, and they say unto themselves, No matter how mediocre you were, you could never stand out.

Oh, since what time? What time does it start? When I realized that I had no talent, I felt that way at the beginning of the fialert. I gave up many times, explored every avenue, and licked the taste of giving up and frustration.

As mediocre as it is, we cannot live in Borgograd's house. Therefore she played herself as strange. Because of the folklore of my talents. Because of the shortness of my qualities.

Stacking a few times more effort than a person doesn't blossom, and pouring all of your leisure time into magic is still not enough.

A wizard is someone who knows how to reconcile with nature. A sorcerer is one who rewrites the structure of the world by the art of man.

Therefore, on top of the effort, the little ones will have consequences. That stirred up the tragedy of Fialert. She can't do what others naturally can. Even if I can, I can't reach my feet. The effort is a haste that is quickly overtaken, even though he says he is more stacked.

- If they're gold, I'm lead. No matter how lead brushes itself, it's just beautiful lead. You can't be golden.

Still trying to twist it out, I kept scratching my feet. As Borgograd, she continued to chant, as a famous house pardoned the title of the one who makes the sorcery.

That's an unlikely magic theory. Conceptual ideas that jumped reason. Worldwide figures without looking at precedents. The delusions that kept springing up more than the children of Fialert continue to be uttered, saying that the folklore do not know that it is true.

The titles given to her as such were Pettenists, philosophers and con artists. Everyone mocked, pitied, despised, and everyone didn't call her mediocre.

That makes no difference when you come to study in the walled city of Galuamaria, its college. I could give you more vegetables than my parents, but that's not what they call mediocre.

The rarity of international students and the name Borgograd. Many who approached from those two, only Hert Stanley remained around the fialert, which became bruised and laughed at in the shadows with the Petten Master.

- Oh, take him. This is it. People talk about gold and that's what I guess.

Not only its vast presence, but its talent for attracting people, making them everything they learn and do. Oh, crazy. How much she asked for that talent. How much of that talent this man wanted.

dazzling. Its existence was too dazzling. The more direct you look at it, the more your eyes burn. But therefore, it seemed to me that, if it were a little, it would be okay to bring it on.

It depends. That's half-close the path you've been following. But what are we going to do? With no talent. What can you do to this ungrateful self?

- Zuang.

The neck of the decapitator flew. Right in front of you, he did. An adventurer named Rugis. I made it up. Burning with flames and exposing himself to the reaper, he still tells me to move.

Isn't that strange? Is there such a thing? Fialert stretches his eyes and shivers his dark hair in front of Rugis in flames, in such a distracting moment.

- Even you, you're supposed to be the same.

The person in front of you is supposed to be an ordinary person. At least, it's not genius. Though he seems to be a wise man, there are traces that tell the story of affliction in the verses of his body. Same, same as me, I thought so.

So you don't have to work so hard. If you give up, it's not good. Leave those who are out of reach to the geniuses, and the ordinary man should live face down.

Die. If you can't do that, you're dead. That's the price that ordinary people pay for chasing their talents.

Oh. Oh, I don't like it. I don't like it. I don't like it.

If I had been able to exercise witchcraft, he wouldn't have had to be so impotent either. I had better means. Then, with this ending, it is he who dies.

- Nothing, nothing. Me. By the responsibility of Fialert La Borgograd, he dies.

I can't accept it. Such a result is very unacceptable. The ingredient that occupies that mind is, regrettably, that word.

Yeah, that's definitely normal. That's what the world would say about lead and copper. But look at that. Do my worlds still talk about that when I see how risking my life to make things happen?

The man, Rugis, is doing his best. Even so, the world only tries to leave him with a poor ending.

Don't be silly. Don't be silly. That's me. It goes over me, it's my ideal. If he is not golden, if the world declares otherwise.

- I'll make it golden. Even if you rewrite this world.

It constitutes the art of distorting the world as the spirit of fialert twists back. Enough, I've given up enough, leaned down, and let go.

So I'm sorry for any more. Fialert's throat makes some noise. Her surroundings are inflamed and several humans are holding fire with water bottles, but her body is no longer safe than staying here.

But Fialert doesn't even move a step. I had little intention of moving. I don't want to lose anyone's life because I can't do it any more. That too, and more importantly, to proclaim to save my life, and the fact, I can't believe I'm losing a dying person in front of me. Absolutely, thank you.

Your throat is dry, your body. If you can cook, burn. If there is anything deep inside this body that can be called talent, give me strength even now. In Fialert's eyes, Rugis is shown. The figure of Rugis, wrapped in fire and holding a sword but still immobilized. My vision narrows. The others are buried in white. The walls, the floors, the other soldiers, even the flames were anointed. Only Rugis remained in sight.

- If you will, give yourself a storm that will pay for the fire.

That's a magic celebration. It's not a chant. The ultimate in rewriting the reason of the world with your own will, called the magician's brace.

Fialert ordered the storm to be generated and its entire body attacked, so as to cover the whole of Rugis. That's the only way to jump the flames wrapped around Rugis' body, and that's the only way not to let the flames rush around the room yet. If it was meant to be, its body would be torn apart with the flames, spraying blood flow unbroken, leaving no mustard on the spot either. Extremely small storm.

But that can't happen. Fialert can't hurt Rugis. That's a pledge. Words of oath, proclaimed before entering here.

- Me and my magic will never hurt anything that is Rugis, I swear.

I can't breathe a beat. So much so, a tremendous run of magic. You can't blink, your fingertips tremble, and the fialert no longer even knows if you're sane or crazy.

But from that appearance, I didn't want to distract myself from that appearance, even though I was flailing my whole body, but just looking forward.

The exercise of witchcraft continues. Up and down the line of limits, until that time when Rugis is exhausted and falls.