Fallen Mage Regressor

Mal adjusted his grip on his steeltree club. In front of him, the Ironwolf turned from left to right, its red eyes and silver fur glinting in the sunlight. It stood on it’s hindlegs—an unnatural stance for a normal creature. But for a magical beast? Just par for the course.

Mal took one hand off his stick and pinched his wrist. Hard as iron. The potion was still active. If he got bit, it would definitely be good if he wasn’t bleeding out all over the floor from the injury.

That didn’t mean the danger was completely diminished. He didn’t know how long his potion would last. He was reasonably sure it would stick around for the duration of the fight, but every second still counted.

Not only that, but though cutting damage was a nonfactor, clubbing damage still was. It didn’t matter how strong his organs and skin were if he went unconscious and the Ironwolf repeatedly bashed his brains in. Mal was fairly certain that there would be some kind of internal injury in that case. And sure, the examiners would step in before anything permanent would happened, but that would still result in a failure for him.

Besides, he doubted the examiners were watching at the current moment. Why would they? Mal was nothing more than an F-grade core with—from what he remembered—mediocre-at-best test scores.

But that was fine. He was sure he’d get a chance to show off his stuff later on. He just had to find a Razorsnake, slaughter it on his own, then prove that he deserved a spot at the academy.

Never mind the fact that he wasn’t entirely sure how he would do that or the fact that the creature was easily twice his size, if not bigger.

Details.

The Ironwolf’s nostrils flared. Its legs tensed.

It jumped forward, and its claws slashed from above toward Mal’s head.

Mal took an almost casual sidestep, and the Ironwolf stumbled forward like a drunken clown. It looked at its claw, then at Mal, almost as if it was struggling to reconcile what had just happened.

Mal was just as confused.

Mal was no speed demon, but that thing was pathetically slow. Mal could see the strike coming from a million miles away. The way the legs tensed, the way its shoulder had moved back slightly—all of it had indicated exactly what the creature was going to do. It didn’t even try to disguise its movements.

But that was the difference between fighting monsters and humans, Mal guessed.

Mal considered going on the offensive before he stopped that thought in its tracks. Although he preferred taking control of the situation, his body was weak and untested. No, better to play it safe for now.

The Ironwolf growled, a low rumbling voice. It turned and pounced, going for the exact same overhead strike that it’d used last time.

Mal smoothly slid to the left and reared his stick back for a thrust.

His muscles snapped into position, and the stick stabbed directly into the Ironwolf’s chest.

A loud clang rang out, and a shock traveled back through the stick and up Mal’s arms. He pulled back and jumped clear.

The Ironwolf took a few back steps and slouched, its breaths a little bit heavier than they were before.

Mal hadn’t managed to pierce the creature’s hide. At best, he’d maybe managed to knock the wind out of it. At worst, the Ironwolf would have a mildly irritating bruise tomorrow.

Mal thought back to his own words. Creatures made of aligned mana tended to reflect the physical characteristics of the area around them, along with the alignment of the mana.

In his haste, he’d forgotten the obvious fact that, of course, creatures born here would have bodies as hard as metal. If the trees were like that, then why wouldn’t the magical beasts be like that?

Mal clicked his tongue.

He understood what was going on, but that didn’t exactly help him. The creatures were durable. As hard as metal. Great, so now he was just in a no-win scenario? He could continue dodging all he wanted, but he needed a way to get onto the offensive.

The Ironwolf roared and brought both arms up for an X-shaped strike. Mal jumped clear and then thrust forward with his full body weight onto the stick. The sharpened point ground against the fur of the creature, the sound like nails against a chalkboard.

The Ironwolf’s knee shifted, and Mal frowned.

Oh, this is going to hurt.

The creature’s knee shot up faster than Mal could react to. It slammed into Mal’s chest, and he was blown off to the side from the force of the blow. He rolled along the ground before finally coming to a slow stop.

His stomach throbbed, and his breathing was a little bit harder than it had been before. He pushed himself up and touched the skin where he’d been hit.

He winced. That was going to bruise.

His mind wandered off into asking questions about why it was that there was still tissue damage, despite the fact that his skin was as hard as metal. Mal supposed that there were some parts of the body that had a reduced effect from the potion—which made perfect sense. His blood still had to pump, his heart still had to move. His muscles still had to be able to flex—it was required motion. Motion that metal obviously didn’t have the ability to have. Mal’s best guess was that instinctively, his body was divvying up the magical effect of the potion in the areas where it would best serve—for example, the skin and bones.

Mal shook his head. There was no time to be thinking about that. He was in a fight.

Something edged against his hand, and he rubbed it off—fur-like metal flakes flew off his hand and into the wind.

Metal chips.

A small smile crossed his face.

If Mal could just break off the metal-like fur to get to the juicy interior—assuming that these creatures operated on roughly the same biology that he did, which he was pretty sure he vaguely remembered something to that effect in his classes—then he’d have victory well in hand.

Mal’s eyes narrowed. His heart pumped inside his chest. The faint, acrid smell of blood and iron filled his nostrils.

He grinned like a shark. The time for testing his opponent’s mettle was over. It was now the time for action.

Mal’s feet dug into the ground as he bounded forward in a single move. The Ironwolf’s eyes widened, and it scurried out of the way. Mal just barely clipped the side, more sparks and shards flying off from the impact.

Mal slowed himself to a stop. He quickly pivoted and came in for another attack. The Ironwolf tried to swing its claw in a block, but it was far too late. The sharp edge of the stick scratched against the fur and carved a thin line on the surface of the Ironwolf’s skin. The Ironwolf bounded back, its eyes uncertain, flickering between Mal and the forest.

It was looking for an escape route.

It was scared.

Good.

Mal’s mouth went dry. He took note of his own reactions. Despite returning to the past, despite having another chance, there was a part of him that had been twisted beyond recognition.

Oh well, he never said he was going to become a good guy. At the end of the day, there was once a time when he’d been Malfrasius the Endbringer. That was a part of his identity that would never leave.

And frankly, right now?

He didn’t want it to leave.

The stick swung out and aimed for the chest. The Ironwolf ran to the side—but Mal had anticipated it. His attack had been a feint. He swiveled the attack into a lobbing motion at the head. The blow struck true, and the Ironwolf tumbled to the ground in a heap. It immediately regained its senses and tried to stand back on its feet.

Mal jumped into the air and crashed the stick down on the chest. Bit by bit, he wore away at the exterior.

There was a loud tearing sound. The stick went directly through the Ironwolf’s chest and into its gut.

The Ironwolf let out a low moan and then fell backward. Its paws twitched intermittently, but it was clear it had no energy left to fight back.

Mal pulled out the stick and stared down at the dead creature . He’d been hoping for a little bit more of a challenge. But as soon as he’d figured out the creature’s weakness, it had become child’s play.

He rubbed his chin. Given how well potions had worked earlier, it might be for the best to harvest any usable materials from the creature.

He leaned down to start inspecting it when he heard a howl.

He perked up.

The acrid smell of metal, a smell that he’d gotten used to, was becoming strong enough to the point where he started tearing up. Soft paws pitter-pattered against the ground and quick movements all around him.

He’d almost forgotten.

Wolves tended to travel in packs.

He licked his lips. This was the challenge he’d been looking for. A real fight, one where either side had a chance of victory.

A faint part of him wondered what the purpose of his second chance was if he was going to be exactly the same as he’d been in his future.

He didn’t pay attention to that part.

There were bigger issues to take care of.

Silence.

The slightest flicker of movement from his left.

He moved his stick and braced for impact.

A flash of light collided with the Ironwolf before it could reach Mal.

The Ironwolf tumbled through the air and crashed into the ground, its fur scorched and black. It whined and ran away. Behind it, Mal could see that the rest of the wolves were fleeing as well in response to the threat.

Mal’s mind raced with theories.

A spell? he thought. But from a first-year, that level of power shouldn’t be possible. That is, unless it’s the heroine. But I would’ve recognized that smell coming from a mile away. Then it has to be natural—a draconid?

Out of the smoke trail left behind by the fire blast, a figure emerged from the tree line.

Mal’s breath caught.

Mal’s body tensed. Through the smoke, the figure remained standing, unmoving.

Although Mal wasn’t absolutely certain, he could smell this individual’s scent on the air. It smelled of ash and sulfur—a familiar scent.

Mal knew in his head that whoever this was wouldn’t attack him. The idea of doing that in the middle of a test felt rather unlikely.

Despite that, his heart was pounding wildly. He wondered for a moment if it was perhaps the leftover remnants of the excitement he felt during the fight with the Ironwolf, but no. His heart hadn’t sped up in response to this new potential threat.

Even if his head could remember, his body remembered.

Mal heard the breeze before he felt it. It whistled through the trees, metal leaves clanging in its wake.

The smoke blew away, revealing the face and body of a draconid.

He had all the typical features of a draconid. Hard scales on the arms and hands. Long claws at the ends of his fingers. The spikes at the top of the head indicated that this was a male. A ragged dark green tunic and shorts preserved his modesty.

That wasn’t the disconcerting part.

The disconcerting part was that this particular draconid was wearing a thick set of glasses on his head and a book tucked underneath his shoulder.

“Did it hit you?” The draconid’s eyes widened. “So sorry. Not good with fire. Never had much of a knack for it—Bilo saw that you were about to face off against all those creatures, so he thought he didn’t have a choice and—”

The draconid worked his jaw. “Phylum’s mouth is tired from getting hit, he’s slurring his name.”

Mal opened his mouth to respond.

“This one’s talking too much, isn’t he?” the draconid said. “Father always did tell me that Filo talks too much. He said that Phylo would never have a chance with a strong draconid woman. But what does he know, yeah? Sure, the classic male figure in draconid mythology is portrayed as a strong, silent protector. But times are changing. There’s no rule saying that we have to conform to societal expectations.”

Mal opened his mouth to respond when the draconid made a gasping noise and pressed his claws to his face.

“You’re being so quiet! Phylum’s heard of this, apes—Phylum means humans—can go mute from shock. Don’t worry, Filo read all about how to deal with this. All Filo needs is a thick blanket and—”

Mal tilted his head. “You like to talk a lot, don’t you?”

At that, the draconid’s face fell, and he dropped down and tucked his head in between his knees. He let out a low groan.

“—doing it again.” He poked his head out from between his knees and gave Mal an imploring look. “Phylum swears, he’s not usually this bad. Filo’s just nervous and excited because he’s finally going to the Academy of my dreams, and he doesn’t want to mess this up, like he always does and—”

“Relax. I’m not offended.” Mal walked over to the draconid and held out a hand. “I hope you don’t plan to remain there on the floor forever.”

The draconid stared at the outstretched hand before he nodded, gripped it, and pulled himself up. Mal nearly stumbled forward from the weight of the draconid, but he just managed to remain standing.

The draconid let out a half laugh, half huff.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “This one can turn it down a little bit so that he’s not just jabbering into the wind. Phylum’s self-aware enough to not be a total pain.”

Mal shrugged. He didn’t particularly mind the sound of chatter. From his enemies, sure. But only because they were his enemies. From a stranger? So what?

“Thanks for the save back there. I could’ve been in some serious trouble.”

Although the fight would have been fun, it was probably best not to test his luck.

The draconid laughed awkwardly.

“Honestly, Flo’s just glad that my fire breath managed to hit. He’s always had the worst accuracy with it—it’s why he became interested in the path of wizardry in the first place.”

Mal’s eyes flickered toward the book in the crook of the draconid’s shoulder. “I’m guessing that’s some sort of spell book.”

The draconid nodded up and down. “Flum hasn’t learned everything in it—really, he’s barely scratched the surface. But it’s so interesting just reading about the history of the spells and why they were created. Did you know that the lighten weight charm was originally created as a weapon?”

Mal did not know that, in fact. “I thought it would’ve been for construction or something.”

The draconid nodded up and down like he was having a seizure. “Exactly. Flom thought the same thing. But in actuality, it was used to launch extremely heavy objects at enemies. Of course, physics makes things a little bit difficult in that if you remove the weight of an object, it encounters more air resistance and other problems like that. You’re essentially throwing a feather. So wizards found a workaround where they would throw the object, then cast a preserving spell to keep the velocity, then add the mass back.”

“That seems extremely exploitable and broken and dangerous.”

“There are upper limits on the weight of the object,” the draconid said. “It gets exponentially more difficult the more weight you add. Not only that, but it’s an extremely inefficient spell compared to what’s currently available. The only reason you’d use it now is if you just don’t know any better alternatives.”

Mal nodded up and down. There were many spells like what the draconid had described that Mal had come across. Spells, which appeared to have a method of exploitation, but which had hidden caveats or issues that made them difficult to justify the use of.

Someday, Mal would find an infinite feedback loop spell that would allow him to become omnipotent. Unfortunately, today was not that day.

As Mal had been thinking about this, the draconid’s face had been twitching and he’d been looking back and forth between the forest and Mal.

“This is kind of embarrassing, but…” The draconid’s shoulders slumped. “This one don’t know where to find the artifacts that we were instructed to obtain at the beginning of the test.”

“You didn’t notice the pillars?”

“Pillars? Where?”

Mal pointed at one of the trees. “It’s really easy to see. All you have to do is climb one of those and then you’d spot it.”

The draconid froze. “Oh.”

Mal got the impression that this particular draconid was a tad bit airheaded.

“Can you lead this one over to one of these pillars?” the draconid said. “You get first rights to anything that we find, obviously.”

“What if there’s only one artifact?”

“Then you get it. You’re the one who’s sacrificing his time and energy to help.”

It couldn’t hurt, could it?

“Sure, why not?”

The draconid grinned and his tail wagged like a dog’s.

“Take that, mom! Flo told you he’d make friends,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” The draconid coughed into his hands. “We’d best get going.”

Mal was about to agree when he realized that he had yet to harvest any materials from the Ironwolf.

“Hold on a second, this might take a few minutes, but I need to take care of something.”

Mal ignored whatever the draconid was about to say and walked over to the corpse of the Ironwolf. He immediately ruled out taking any soft tissue. He didn’t know how to preserve those things—he had a potions master who did things like that. He had been the one to do most of the brewing for that potion that involved the dragon heart.

With that in mind, Mal instead looked for the most mana-dense part of the Ironwolf’s body. He took a sniff. The smell was strong, but it was strongest at…

The mouth.

The canines of the wolf seemed to glisten in the sunlight.

For the next five minutes, Mal chipped away at the teeth of the Ironwolf. It had taken some trial and error, and he’d missed his mark and just ended up stabbing the Ironwolf in the mouth more than a few times. However, he eventually finished his gruesome work and harvested all of the teeth inside its mouth.

When he finished, he turned around to see that the draconid was staring at the corpse of the Ironwolf and its newfound injuries with a distinct expression of horror. He looked a little bit wheezy, and his chest was huffing like he was trying his best not to throw up on the ground.

“I’m all finished,” Mal said. “Let’s go.”

“Y—yeah! Let’s move!” Under his breath, he said, “—just made a terrible mistake.”

“What was that?” Mal asked, fully aware of what the draconid had said.

“Nothing! Nothing at all, just… complaining. About being hungry. One could go for a sheep or two, couldn’t you?”

Mal snorted. He wasn’t particularly offended by the draconid finding his behavior bizarre. He much preferred somebody who simply found him odd rather than somebody who found him worthy of death.

Mal took a few steps in the direction of the pillar when he paused. He looked back at the draconid and turned around.

“Ah, I forgot to introduce myself” Mal said. He held out his hand. “My name is Malfrasius, but you can call me Mal for short.”

The draconid looked at the outstretched hand like Mal was carrying a virus, before he let out a sigh and shook his head. He reached out his hand and shook Mal’s.

He adjusted his jaw and something clicked. “Ah, there it is!”

The slur was gone from his voice. Mal tilted his head.

“Philo’s name is Philo,” the draconid said. “A pleasure to meet you, Mal.”

Mal stiffened like a man who just found out his daughter was pregnant.

You’ve got to be screwing with me!