Chapter 17: Even Magic is Easy for AI(2)

Chloe’s homeland was Pirandel.

A federation of city-states, each ruled either by hereditary lords or elected delegates who acted like kings in their own territories.

Even the famed city of art, yaltessance, belonged to this patchwork nation.

But Pirandel’s national strength left much to be desired.

Calling it a “federation” was generous—it ran more like a group project in school, and we all know how well those usually go.

It was the ultimate example of a capital-centric nation.

Outside the capital region, the provincial cities were in decline, their populations dwindling.

To make matters worse, Pirandel was surrounded by powerful neighbors.

And as if the geography wasn’t cruel enough, their closest neighbor was the Holy Crown Nation—a brute of a country parked square in the center of the continent, with no real founding ideology beyond “might makes right.”

Pirandel had little choice but to pay homage to it like a vassal.

“Why the hell does this feel so familiar?”

Thanks to all this, Chloe couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

The fact that Pirandel was a peninsula-based country only deepened the sting.

In short—

“Damn the lords! Damn the merchants! Damn the zealots!”

The Painter’s Guildmaster had too many enemies to be mad at.

Too many people to watch her back around.

“All I wanted was to meet that girl, Cynthia! Why is this taking so damn long?”

“Should I turn her body to stone from the neck down and toss her in the sea?”

“Wishing your continued prosperity. Regards, Duce of yaltessance.”

“I’ll kill you.”

“Thank you kindly. Supreme Leader Pierrot (of yaltessance).”

“RRRRAAAGHHHHH!!”

Between love letters that burned hotter than napalm and polite threats wrapped in poison, the Guild master of Painters was quickly losing her grip on sanity.

The neighboring lords pressured her.

Her city’s own supreme leader pressured her.

Even the Holy Crown Nation across the border was sending demands.

Chloe had become a hot topic.

And the powerful kept hammering the summoning bell, desperate to get their hands on her.

Each new message came with another round of verbal beatdowns.

Add to that the insufferably “cute” Luntravalian style of passive-aggressive nagging It hurts, you know?, and the Guildmaster’s mental faculties began to crack.

And Fezzio?

Supposed to be the voice of reason?

He was no better.

Just more fuel to the fire.

“That little brat dares to make a fool of me?!”

They had finally gathered details on Cynthia’s appearance—

Only to realize it matched the girl from the exhibition: Chloe.

Of course it matched.

They were the same person.

Fezzio had been played like a fiddle.

Not that Chloe had meant to play him—but groomrok absolutely had.

Maybe that’s what pushed her over the edge.

“…We’re kidnapping Chloe.”

“Wait—what?!”

The guildmaster, moments ago aflame with righteous fury, now muttered her words like a curse.

Fezzio’s jaw dropped, yet he didn’t question if he’d misheard.

He didn’t dare.

The Guildmaster’s eyes blazed.

“What’s with the face? Haven’t you heard? That damn brat Chloe’s planning to join a monastery now!”

Luntravale was a proudly polytheistic culture, where religion held far greater sway than in Chloe’s homeland.

This was a world where divine power wasn’t metaphorical—it existed.

And the utility of religion here? 

Second to none.

So how could she?

No gods?

No belief?

“Why?”

“I dunno! Maybe she’s just stupid?!”

It was beyond comprehension.

If you consistently invested in one of the more stable, reputable religions and pulled the right strings of worship leverage, even the average layperson could gain a measure of divine power.

That’s just how it worked.

So who in their right mind would dare challenge that authority? Especially a monastery—a sanctified white haven atop a secluded hill, completely divorced from worldly affairs.

Getting involved with one wasn’t just rare—it was near impossible.

“How the hell are we supposed to breach a religious facility? You planning to lend the Pope some money like the Duce did?”

“I-I know it’s hard, I do!”

“Then you should also know this might be our only shot!”

Chloe was about to enter a monastery?

That would definitely slow the flood of anonymous complaints arriving at the guild—but not in a good way.

They’d stop because knives would start flying instead.

“If this keeps up, we’re gonna end up stoned—literally—from the neck down and chucked into the ocean!” “Me too?!” “You think they’d stop at just me? With these bastards? They’d absolutely go that far!”

Goddamn it.

Who said we had to get involved with freaks like this?

Fezzio wanted to shout it—You got us into this mess.

Why are you yelling at me?!—but he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

“Guess your brain isn’t just for show,” the Guildmaster muttered.

“Though realistically, they’d probably just cut off a wrist or two for show.”

The dry comment came not from her or Fezzio, but from an old man seated with them—his beady hawk-like eyes rolling in his skull.

Murray the Cursed Vulture.

A warlock, criminal, and business partner to the Guildmaster.

“Still,” he said with a rasp of amusement, “the idea itself isn’t bad.

If you’re serious about kidnapping the girl, I’ll help.”

“What—you, Lord Murray?”

“Cynthia, Chloe—whatever name she’s using. Isn’t she that precious little protégé Yaltarion dotes on?”

The old sorcerer’s grin twisted into something grotesque.

“If this is a chance to make that thieving bastard cry blood, I’d be a fool to pass it up.”

The Painter’s Guildmaster’s mind spun into high gear.

Murray was a master of concealment magic.

If you were going to pull off a kidnapping, there wasn’t a better accomplice alive.

Truth be told, it was almost a waste of talent.

The man had lived so far outside society’s gaze, he’d practically forgotten how to express normal human emotion.

Just being in his presence was exhausting.

Goddamn.

Just look at that creepy old bastard grinning.

They say you grow into the face you deserve.

I never believed in that face-reading crap, but he’s starting to convince me.

His nickname, “the Vulture,” wasn’t for nothing.

Grinning like a plague victim halfway to rigor mortis, he looked more corpse than man.

And the reason he wanted to help with the kidnapping?

An absolute joke.

What—Yaltarion stole his Archmage title?

Put that in modern terms and it might sound like this:

“Hey, I used to be tight with the chairman of Samsong overseas, y’know?”

Like all boasts of this nature, it probably wasn’t entirely a lie.

A quick background check would likely show they crossed paths once, maybe even competed.

Sure, Yaltarion must’ve been a novice once.

Maybe back then, they had a rivalry of sorts.

But to frame it like: If not for him, I’d be the CEO of the nation’s biggest magic conglomerate?

Crazy old man.

It was pure, pitiful envy.

The resentment of an aging sorcerer who had long since lost the capacity to grow.

Magic is a cold discipline.

The gods do not grant divine sweetness to those clinging to faded glory.

Still… he really is a Dawn-tier mage.

Apprentice. Radiant.

Dawn.

Incarnation.

The mage hierarchy in this world is divided into four ranks.

Murray stood comfortably in the second tier.

Even if he was a disgusting old man, his skills were no joke.

“He might be terrible in a frontal fight, but when it comes to magical prowess, he’s up there with the Tower Lords. No reason to say no.”

He wasn’t even asking for payment.

The Guildmaster had no reason to refuse.

“Please, Lord Murray. We’re counting on you.”

“B-but Master! Kidnapping? Really?!”

Fezzio raised his voice, hands shaking.

Understandably so.

“Good heavens! I didn’t think of that!”

It was a moment of pure, blinding insight.

A stroke of divine clarity.

Aha! If you can’t get them legally, you just kidnap them!

The Painters’ Guild leadership warmly solidified their plan.

It was as refreshing as chugging a bottle of digestion tonic.

To a modern viewer, all this might seem absurd—perhaps the result of stress-induced psychosis.

But no, they hadn’t lost their minds.

In Runtraval, the moral weight of kidnapping was roughly equivalent to how modern people view jaywalking.

Of course, it wouldn’t be fair to single out Runtraval for this cultural quirk.

Child abduction is a tradition as old as humanity itself.

Older than painting, older than music—by orders of magnitude.

It’s such a major cultural trope that even modern people do it.

Think about it:

Kidnapping someone else’s cat vs. ruining your life

Even in the 21st century, there are plenty who’d choose the former.

Some even go as far as “releasing” the stolen animal into the wild and ending up financially ruined in court.

This is the age of pet strollers and emotional support ducks.

Yet still, armed only with a sense of righteousness, these urban druids march on, declaring:

“Why should your cat be part of your family?”

If even the “enlightened” 21st century is like this…

Then what about Runtraval, a land with animal protection laws far more advanced than Earth’s?

Here, the life of a stray cat is worth as much as a human’s.

(And no, that doesn’t mean human life is cheap—don’t get sued for defamation through factual accuracy.)

“What was it again? You want an eight-year-old kid kidnapped?”

A narrow alley behind Chenseps’ general store.

Balt, a mercenary who specialized in cleanup jobs, smirked.

He was recalling the job he’d accepted just yesterday.

“Artists sure have some classy hobbies.”

“As long as they pay well, who cares? They even prepped a carriage to make our job easier.”

Balt’s partner tapped the side of the wagon—a fancy kidnapping carriage arranged by the Painters’ Guildmaster himself.

“She’s coming. Get ready.”

An old man’s voice spoke from behind.

Balt dropped the banter and focused on the task.

There.

That must be the girl—Chloe?

He sharpened his magical vision.

The moment he saw her clearly, his expression relaxed into disbelief.

…What the hell? She’s not even ten, and she looks like that?

It was unreal.

No wonder they were bringing in mages for the job.

Shhhk…

While Balt stood there, briefly stunned by the girl’s unexpectedly striking face, Murray made his move.

He slipped around the wall, approaching from behind, his body vanishing under a veil of invisibility as he whispered his incantation.

“Nostea, Lilian, Terrenos…”

Invisibility. Paralysis. Binding.

Three spells cast in perfect tandem.

A technique that proved he hadn’t been exaggerating when he claimed to once rival the Archmage.

Even in his twilight years, his skill was nothing short of terrifying.

The magic locked into place, and the spell’s aim shifted toward Chloe’s back.

A twisted grin curled on Murray’s face.

“If you want to blame someone, blame yourself for trusting the wrong people.”

Even a Spirit Tower Lord would collapse helplessly under such a surprise attack.

His staff hummed with a curse, vibrating with malicious power—only for it to vanish in a flash of flame.

Fwsssh!

Murray blinked. “…What?”

His hand was suddenly empty.

Ash drifted down in lazy spirals, the remnants of his incinerated staff.

The triple-layered spell unraveled in an instant, powerless without its conduit.

His invisibility dropped.

The world saw him again—and worse, she did.

“What a repulsive walk home. Trash just keeps rolling in.”

Tap.

Chloe flicked a charred splinter away with the tip of her shoe and turned her head.

Slowly.

Calmly.

As if she had simply sensed him there all along.

As if the faint whiff of smoke had merely piqued her curiosity.

Murray’s eyes quivered, disbelief blooming into dread.

System Notification

🔗 Nexor’s groomrok  function activated

📜 Spell Cast: Basic Elemental Spirit Magic – Fire Attribute