(Why does it always end up like this…)
I reflect, weighed down by gloom. Before me stands Serie, the great mage. Unlike before, it's just us—alone. A nightmare. How did this happen? I relied on Himmel's crew, barely escaping death. I had no intention of following this elf, planning to ignore her, but—
"Go on, Aura. It's fine—she won't harm you," Himmel said, infuriatingly carefree.
His fault. How much will he toy with me? Heiter and Eisen are no better. Unable to resist, here I am. He's a hero, so if he says it's safe, it probably is. Still, a nightmare.
I glance at Serie, or rather, her mana. Absurd—surpassing even mine as a great demon. Frieren likely matches it. Frustration grips me as I focus, but there's no flicker, no distortion. Purely natural. Was I overthinking her mana suppression? But—
"What are you staring at?"
Serie's piercing gaze, as if seeing through me, demands.
"You see it?"
"No, I see nothing. But… you're suppressing it, aren't you?"
My slip confirms my suspicion. Not the outcome I wanted, but I was right.
"How'd you know?"
"Like that elf… Frieren. Not that I figured it out myself."
"The hero's party spilled it? Meddlesome fools."
She's clearly annoyed, likely recalling Himmel's group. I agree on that point. Still, it let me one-up her.
"What, no begging for your life? Have you forgotten, bound to those heroes?"
"Pointless with you. No need. You don't intend to kill me, do you?"
Serie questions my lack of demon instinct. I've heard this before—heroes find it odd demons don't beg. I don't waste effort, especially on those who know demons. I sense she has no intent to kill—not just because Himmel said so, but my gut.
"Why think that?"
"You'd have done it already. Himmel's crew wouldn't stand for it—your ceremony would collapse. You're not that foolish. Right?"
Obvious. If she wanted me dead, I'd be gone. She didn't because she couldn't—Himmel, the king, the nation. My ties to them stayed her hand. I wield a human-like status demons lack. She's not too foolish to see that.
"A demon acting clever. Knowing that, why follow me?"
"My line. No intent to kill, so what's this about?"
Tit for tat. Why this farce if she won't act? I've no clue. But—
"Name a magic you like."
Her words deepen my confusion.
"Huh?"
"Answer. It'll decide your privilege."
I freeze, then recall her ceremony promise—her magic, her privilege. That's why I'm here? She took the king's jest seriously? No reason to comply. I don't care for it, could refuse, but that's a hassle. Fine, let's end this.
"Magic to create a flower field."
The words slip out naturally, without thought.
"…Are you mocking me?"
"You're the one mocking. A demon's favorite magic is their own."
"Then why that one?"
"No reason. Just came to mind. Your 'intuition,' right?"
Serie's displeased, but it's mutual. A test for her privilege, meaningless to demons. I meant to jab back, and it worked better than expected. I'm surprised too. Wasn't that Himmel's favorite magic? Whatever—it's not mine, but a favorite.
"Not to your taste? Fine, I didn't want it anyway. I've got a question instead."
"A demon has a question for me? What?"
"Your Magic Association. Why bother? Magic's personal. What's in it for you?"
Like at the ceremony, Serie's lost in thought. Tired of waiting, I ask what's bugged me since before this began. Why form this Association, especially as an elf? Pure waste. I don't care for privileges, but I'm curious.
"Typical demon. You don't get it."
"Then explain. Or can't you?"
She scoffs. It's beyond demons. I could ask Himmel later, but let's hear her out. Maybe she's got a perspective they don't.
"Hmph. Bold now you're safe. Simple—I use humans' strength for magic's advancement."
"What? You're a great mage. Why need humans?"
"Foolish. Talent or not, one's limits are clear. Humans share and develop knowledge—a strength we lack. I created the Association to harness that. That's all."
Alien to demons. Sharing magic knowledge? Pointless. A crowd can't match the talented. Serie proves it—her heights are unreachable. Humans cooperate, sure, but for magic?
"No way humans catch up to demons."
"You'll see. Humans analyze Qual's Zoltraak, killing magic. It'll join their system soon. Flight magic too. They'll surpass us. It's certain."
Serie speaks as if she's seen it, gleeful. Incomprehensible—she's happy to be overtaken?
"Fine. I don't get it, but if you say so."
"…Creepy. Where's your demon pride? You're mocking magic."
"Maybe. But that pride got me here. I'm not foolish enough to repeat it."
My reaction surprises her. I don't care. She, a mythic mage, says it's so—it must be. My pride remains, but it's led to my downfall. Arrogance, complacency—I've tasted human strength. I won't repeat that mistake. So—
"You're lying. Not telling the full truth."
"What? I don't lie, unlike demons."
"Not lying, but hiding something. Right?"
I press. As a deceptive demon, I sense she's concealing more.
"Why think that?"
"Himmel said you're like Frieren. So you wouldn't be honest with me. That's all."
That's the core. I know Frieren—met once, heard endlessly from the party. If true, she's a liar, never truthful with demons. Her master, Serie, even more so. Obvious.
"…Clever pests. Fine, it's just a demon. No harm in talking—like muttering to a beast."
Hit a nerve, or she doesn't care. Eyes averted, she speaks, not to me, but as a monologue.
"The Association? Simple. My disciple Flamme's last wish."
She confesses, as if to someone absent.
"Flamme… the great mage?"
"Known even to demons? Yes. I teach humans magic for her wish, her dream. You demons wouldn't understand."
Unexpected, but correct—her disciple. For Flamme's wish, she guides humans. That means—
"Last wish… like a keepsake in words?"
"…!"
A concept like keepsakes—left by the dead. Words, here. She follows Flamme's. So—
"Got it. Flamme must be glad you remember her."
"—"
Flamme wanted to be remembered. Humans obsess over such waste, caring post-death. Is being remembered that joyful when you're gone?
"What's that?"
Serie faces me, her expression a mix of anger, confusion—unfamiliar. Wasn't it a monologue? Did I say something odd?
"Huh? What's wrong?"
"Demons don't say that."
"Himmel did. Humans love pointless things."
"That hero… teaching demons? Seriously with a demon…?"
I just mimicked Himmel—he said something similar. It should be right. But it backfired. Humans—or elves—are foolish. I can't deceive her well.
"…Nonsense. Glad to be remembered? That's the living's desire. Flamme wouldn't care. I do this for myself—to not forget her."
Passing me, Serie speaks. Himmel's wrong. Keepsakes, wishes—are for her, not the dead. Another thing I don't grasp.
"To not forget? Why? Elves live near-eternally. No need for that."
To avoid oblivion. Her driving force. But why? Humans forget, their lives short. Like forgetting the Demon King in a decade. But she's an elf, beyond demons. No need for such worries.
"…True, our lives are near-eternal. But I'll forget—her face, voice, gaze."
Her tone shifts, back turned, unreadable. Words I can't fathom, yet I listen, drawn in.
"To delay that, I built the Association. So her dream endures, even if I forget."
That's why she bothers—for a dead woman's dream. A waste, even with near-eternal time.
"…I've grown old, muttering like this. Go. I'm done."
She cuts off, turning. It's no monologue, but I won't point it out. I got my answers. I'm done too. I start to leave, but—
"I forgot something."
"More? Hurry up, I'm not free."
Another question hits me. Laughable—I'm no better than humans. Let's finish this.
"Any idea where Frieren is?"
"Frieren? Why would I know?"
"Thought so. Fine."
As expected, no surprise. Just confirmation. Pointless, as I knew. I turn to leave, but—
"Wait. Why do you care?"
She stops me. To her, a demon asking about her archenemy is bizarre.
"The hero's obsessed. No clue what she thinks."
"Odd taste…"
I reveal it. Himmel will fuss, but it's known. No harm telling her. It surprises her—elves as love interests are rare, or just Frieren? I don't care.
"So, we wait for the meteors."
"What?"
"Frieren. They promised to watch the Era Meteors together."
"…Sane? That's over forty years away."
"Yup. Wonder if Himmel dies first."
Serie's stunned, not like before. It's not an elf thing—Frieren's just callous.
"…A millennium alive, and she hasn't learned?"
Like with Flamme, Serie murmurs, a mentor's tone—or something else.
"Enough. Name a magic. Anything. Let's end this farce."
She snaps, erratic. Her disciple's antics broke her?
"What's your game? Didn't I fail earlier?"
"It's for Frieren. She rejected it once, so you get it."
"No sense. Isn't it a mage's dream fulfilled?"
"Chasing magic is the fun part, she said. Foolish disciple."
She's dumping Frieren's privilege on me. Nonsense. Why? Frieren rejected a mage's dream. Maybe Serie's using me to spite her. What a bothersome pair.
"Hurry, before I change my mind."
"Fine—"
I comply to end this. I name a magic, but—
"You dare ask that of me?"
"Don't have it? Fine."
It displeases her, as expected. Any magic would. I don't care—it's just scraps. I expect nothing from this privilege.
"…Do as you like. I don't need it."
Snorting, Serie conjures the same grimoire from the ceremony.
It glows, and knowledge floods my mind, as if I always knew it.
'Magic Transfer Spell, Feaveria'
Her magic—giving away a mage's life's work. Utterly pointless, valueless. She must relearn what she gives. Yet it suits her—to not forget, to relearn if she does. Such a wasteful elf.
Done, I leave. No more questions. She feels the same. I depart without sentiment, her voice lingering—
"We'll never meet again. Keep playing human with your hero till you die—"
The prophecy of the living grimoire, Serie, echoes in my ears.
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