Regret, Arthur's Troubles

"The Mortal-Heaven Concordat, a proposed treaty by the Demigod Prince, paved the way for human economies to thrive. Inadvertently, the Eyes of Heaven were beyond pleased."

"Endless blessings were bestowed upon the humans and the gods, even unto the descendants that would follow. For ten thousand years, humans and gods have united the world in peace, prosperity and mutual benefit. The conversion of the human populace to the religion of the gods went smoothly, thanks to the obvious interference of heaven in their lives."

"Easily... Easily ...the demons... were brought low and subjugated instead."

My breath is shallow, and beads of sweat run down my face. I hold in my hands a book, kept in perfect condition since the moment I opened it. I do not know how many times I have reread a few of its pages, but the information carved into them reeks of a bloody and blasphemous odor that never fails to affect me negatively.

No matter how much I study- how much I learn- I always come back to this book: 'The Rising Fall: Birth of the New World.'

It sickens me to my core, yet humbles me with sadness and fear ...but most devastatingly of all ...regret. For once, in the short time that I have lived within this reincarnated version of myself, I experience the soul-crushing bitterness of regret. I hate it- despise it.

Four years have passed, and I am now 16. During my studying within our library, I came to learn many things about the state of magical knowledge in the modern world.

Firstly. After 10,000 years, I am forced to accept that theoretical knowledge of magic has not advanced- as painful as that is to do. In fact, it is not inaccurate to say that magical knowledge has regressed somewhat.

In Razalith's time, magus scholars pondered the possibility of trans-dimensional teleportation and had aspiration to invent new branches of branches. Nowadays, they ponder whether or not teleportation is an act of a person moving from place to place, or the magic around a person moving and accidentally taking the person with it.

Nonsense.

I can understand why, though. Despite what humans and gods tell themselves, no other race shares an aptitude for raw mana like the demons. In fact, the bodies of demons are, in large part, constructed out of mana.

Unlike humans, whose birth is an act of physical growth, demon pregnancies occur in the magic well. A demon foetus does not grow in size, but it sucks in an incredible amount of the mother's mana. Based on how much mana the child is able to take in- whether because of the quantity or quality of the mother's- will determine what age the child was manifest at.

To put it simply, demons normally did not go throw early childhood. Typically, they would have enough mana to jump straight into late childhood, becoming little demons aged 9 years or older. In rare cases, demons would be born and then grow over a period of days into the body of an adolescent.

As I laugh at the sad state of the humans and gods magical understanding, I think back to the words I read. My eyes linger on two particular words that repeat themselves a total of 14,675 times in this book. I have counted them many times.

Demigod Prince.

Earl von Tian, my Royal Magus. Following my self-imposed confinement within my chamber, he made certain of my departure by lying to my trusted subordinates. With his extensive knowledge of the inner workings, he manipulated forces behind the scenes to make certain mistakes. After he engineered more than just a series of unfortunate events, he dropped the axe on every single one of my subordinates.

This would be infuriating enough, but he put every effort into going into the deepest detail within personal reports of his actions that were published. He did this to goad the demons of the time into attacking him, and they are now considered historical relics.

I sigh, unable to focus my hate on him.

All of my anger and hate is being directed to myself, and I cannot help it. I was the one who overestimated the strength of my forces, due to blind confidence in myself. I was the one who failed to see that, over years of slaying his kind- on both sides- Earl von Tian would develop a hatred of the demons. Instead, I let the fact that we were friends long before the Subjugation War began dissuade me from taking action against him.

I stood by his side, convincing the demon nobility that his skill and knowledge were second only to mine. So, they appointed him Royal Magus and I granted him freedom to act as such. His authority was second only to mine.

We fought against bullies together as children; we slew human invaders in the Demon Realm, side by side. We were both raised by Denver Wilt, a man I regarded as the closest thing to a father.

Yet... That night, suspicious of Earl's claim that I asked for a period of undisturbed rest, Denver came to my room. About to enter, he was stopped by Earl.

Of course, in Earl's records, he claims that he acted in order to avoid Denver from discovering Razalith's dead body and thus causing a panic. Of course, this was an outright lie. I was busy working on reincarnating at the time.

He killed Denver then and there, just outside of my chambers. I was right there, but I did not know and I did not stop it.

His records went on to say how he took the Demon Lord's body, which explained her disappearance without any trace. Then, the detailed account of how he rescued human prisoners and slaves, safeguarded their journey home, spoke with the human leaders etcetera, etcetera.

I, for once, tire of reading of his exploits.

Spinning listlessly in a swivel chair, I lean into the back and stare at the glowing chandelier. Its light illuminates the library and reveals the mess of books I have made, strewn about on the floor around me. I disregard it, because I know how easy it is to correct.

I snap my finger, and the buzzing whir of expended mana fills the library. The books are gathering up swiftly, as if called into the swirling rapids of twister, then fly off with great speed to their places on the shelves. Even the dust in the library is taken up and sent through the windows toward the backyard.

I sigh again, and my outlook on this new life has changed.

If not for my interest in the level of magic knowledge within this age, I would never have stumbled upon the repeated mention of a 'Demigod Prince' at all. I was happy until my focus finally shifted from magic studies to history. That was when the happy life that my father and I had turned sour.

There is a knock on the door. I grab tufts of my wavy black hair and pull them over my face, just in case it is my father. I do not want him to see the look in my eyes; he has a monstrous perception and insight.

One strap of my nightgown falls and exposes even more of my milky skin. It even gives a slight glimpse at the developing figures that are my budding breasts. I am quite proud of them, especially considering I was on the lower side of spectrum. Thanks to a bit of crucial foods at a key point in my development, I gained some extra centimeters. Of course, the backside is definitely not lacking.

On the outside looking in, it would appear muscly and firm, but in reality it is soft and gelatinous- just the way I like them. I have put effort into developing my thighs just a bit, and have also done some weighted training with my arms. All in all, I am steadily on the way to my desired physique- the physique I once had as Razalith.

When I turn the chair, I see someone that I did not expect; I forgot they were supposed to be here today.

It is my father's stepson, son of Margaret Ellis-Vahn, the woman my father only recently married: Arthur West. He is wearing a red shirt and white trousers, and his face is hidden partially behind his long hair.

Arhur stands in the doorway, and I sense his hesitance to enter upon spotting me. He looks back at the hallway, his messy, straight black hair is flung about, then decides to come in anyway.

"Good morning, Arthur."

"Morning."

He enters the library and walks toward the table. It is massive, and takes up quite a lot of space. However, there are only two chairs, and the other one is directly opposite to me. Of course, he could simple move it away.

Only, he is a bit too spineless, this one.

When he notices that there are no books on the table or in my hand, he says, "Nothing good?"

I laugh.

"Papa will take these away and send a fresh batch again next week."

His eyes are now wide and he looks around at the many bookshelves surrounding us. "You mean you read them all? But weren't you just receiving a new batch last week when we moved in?"

With a smirk, I say, "What can I say, I grew up to be an even faster reader."

He scoffs, and gets up. He walks over to a bookshelf selected at random, then selects a book at random. Finally, he returns to his chair and sits both himself and the book down. I see the cover page, and am already certain of what he intends to do.

"Read this?"

"I have," my eyes narrow and I make it clear that I am not amused.

"Fill in the blank: Without sufficient emotional fuel, blank magic is useless-"

"Without sufficient emotional fuel, passion magic is useless to the wielder, unless they are aware of the emotions of the target. If one's own emotions cannot be used as fuel, then only the emotions of the target will suffice."

Arthur looks at me with shock literally carved into his face. He seems unwilling, but sighs and surrenders to the reality. For a second, he wanted to test me again, but he didn't. He gave up and accepted that I truly did read every book in the library- and have a great memory.

"Reading about magic doesn't mean anything- not if you can't perform it. I guess we both know something about that, huh?" I hear him say this, but am unsure of what he means.

So, I cast a simple spell.

"Up, in the air."

Arthur and his chair levitate before my cold white eyes, and his green eyes widen yet again. He adjusts his glasses and looks at me. He seems tormented by the fact that I have done this.

"As you were." My words will my mana to cease any action upon Arthur and his chair, and so he and his chair return to the ground.

"No cast time at all, more than efficient spell-chucking and excellent control. You must be a Magus!"

In response to his amazement and wonder, his awe and disbelief, I sit up and fold my legs.

"B-b-but, David said you don't go to school- I... I assumed it was because ...wow. So you're a Magus already? At sixteen, huh?"

For once, he is both excited and expressing that excitement. However, the tortured look hidden beneath the surface does not subside, but intensifies. The more he praises me, the less of himself he sees and holds in regard. I am indirectly cutting away at his sense of self, and I am temporarily unsure of how to solve the issue.

Temporarily.