Translucent fairies flew toward the crowd at the Echo Witch's command, their falling fairy dust rendering a large mass of objects transparent. By the time Ophelia finally stumbled drunk and collapsed, many people were groping at their invisible limbs in bewilderment, forced to admit they were indeed intoxicated.
The tree-speakers who crafted the cushions had also had a few drinks, and they'd chosen the wrong type of cushioning plant. The witch plunged headfirst into a pile of giant dandelions, sending fluffy white seeds flying skyward with the impact, scattering everywhere. The fairy dust settled on these seeds, creating a pile of invisible nasal mucosa killers. The grand wedding concluded amidst a thunderous, wave-like chorus of sneezes, as boisterous as a fireworks display.
"Can you really summon Cupid?" Abigail shook Ophelia excitedly the next morning, jolting her awake.
"...Huh?"
The Echo Witch groaned in the agony of a hangover, utterly unable to recall yesterday's events.
A god of love did indeed exist in the celestial realms, though clearly not the one the witch had summoned. No one, including Ophelia herself, knew how she had conjured the fairies.
Even in their own era, these palm-sized, brilliantly winged magical creatures remained as mysterious as ball lightning. They cherished music and the rhythms of intricate magic, trading with ancient spellcasters. Their fairy dust once concealed the gatherings of the Erian Declaration from the watchful eyes of both Heaven and the Abyss. They dwelled in unnamed corners, occasionally swapping newborns with infants from other clans for reasons unknown. These exchanged children mirrored their adoptive race in youth, gradually transforming as they matured. Most ultimately vanished from the societies of their foster families—Jacqueline's faerie heritage likely stemmed from such an exchange.
Knowledge of the Fairies is scarce, yet they are undeniably pure magical beings who should have vanished long ago.
Like the Fairy Lanterns, no one knows when they disappeared or when they might reappear. It wasn't until the Echo Witches' seemingly frivolous experiment that people discovered they had resurfaced in Erian.
This news sent shockwaves through both researchers and Echo Witches. Three Echo Witches from Tasmalin State, shedding their previous lethargy, began frequent summoning attempts. Most ended as before—with inexplicable flashes of light and gusts of wind—but some proved exceptions. One Echo Witch summoned an ice elemental during the coldest season. The elemental collided with a brewing cold front, unleashing a blizzard that plunged several nearby towns into frozen ruin. When the Dragon Knights arrested and detained her, she remained cheerful, showing no sign of remorse.
"The Lord warned of consequences for endangering public safety at the start of this year, Miss Mengsha," Dragon Knight Douglas shrugged wearily in the blizzard, tiny icicles dangling from his hat brim. "I thought you disliked prison life."
"If prison meant you could see dragons, what would you do?" the witch countered, standing atop the frost, her voice muffled by the blizzard. "I've heard about your exploits. We're two of a kind!"
Douglas burst into laughter, unable and unwilling to argue. Of course, the law must still be enforced.
Incidents involving the Echo Witches were becoming frequent. The magical creatures they summoned, though fleeting, were undeniably real. Magical beings had indeed reappeared in Erian. Though they remained largely unseen by humans, they could respond to summons. Following the magical plants, magical creatures seemed to be slowly reviving as well.
In the fourteenth year after the Peace Declaration, a startling hypothesis shook Erian.
After years of research, the Mages' Association of Tasmarin State, sifting through countless sets of minutely varying data, ample experimental specimens, and extensive control groups, reached an astonishing conclusion: spellcasters were slowly constructing a magical environment.
"This red curve represents the magical environment formed by slime, measured in 'days,'" Miranda said, pointing with her Light spell at two strikingly similar lines on the magical projection. "This blue line shows the impact of a group of mages on the magical factors within a unit area, measured in 'years.' As we can see, the trends these two curves indicate are remarkably similar."
Tasha suddenly felt as if she were sitting in a corporate meeting room, watching a presenter trace a laser pointer across a giant screen.
The mages' research extended far beyond a mere decade.
Why had casting a single spell become so arduous? Ancient grimoires described conjuring a mere speck of light as effortless as breathing. Yet for later generations of mages, simply igniting a spark at their fingertips became a crucial testament to their status as spellcasters. Did the legendary mages who moved mountains and overturned seas truly exist? Were those heroic epics historical accounts or mere tales? Why had the magic in the air grown so thin? Why did Eryan treat spellcasters with such cruelty? Was the magic they yearned for a gift or a curse?
Any self-respecting mage sought answers, and this quest had lasted not merely decades, but centuries. Three centuries ago, they proactively investigated the causes of magic's decline. Two centuries ago, they anxiously sought the secret to ensuring the mage profession's enduring prosperity. After the Anti-Mage Campaign, the scattered surviving mages pored over ancient texts, traversed every corner of Erian's lands, desperately seeking any glimmer of hope—any proof that magic was not merely sand slipping through their fingers. These predecessors found no answers, yet during their lifetimes, they meticulously documented annual environmental shifts—like meteorologists tracking rainfall and tides.
These fragments lay scattered across Eryan, like storm-torn notebook pages. When the Dungeons emerged, a sanctuary was built in Tarsand, gathering both mages and their libraries together.
Webster, heir to the legacy of the Chalk Academy, brought a cartload of manuscripts. This librarian could finally openly share the treasures he had collected throughout his life, engaging in scholarly discourse with kindred spirits. Bruno, a White Robe Mage and descendant of the exiled mages of the White Tower, possessed a tortoiseshell bracelet. a storage bracelet containing one-fifth of the White Tower Library's secret treasures. Crafted in haste by the legendary mage who refused to join the dragon-slaying campaign, using simple materials and intricate magic, it had unexpectedly endured the ages—unlike storage vessels made from magical creature parts, which had vanished. Miranda, the Black-robed Mage, arrived with nothing but a few orphaned apprentices she had taken in. Within the first month of settling in, she transcribed dozens of scrolls and spellbooks...
The Mage Guild established a fair credit system: mages exchanged copies of their own books and notes for borrowing rights to other volumes. The dungeon library was absolutely secure, foolproof, and she held the authority to access these copies—as interest on the vault she served as—Tasha used this to lure mages into her proposed research projects.
Ah, I digress.
In any case, after converging in the dungeon, these mages who had long sought answers gained opportunities unseen for centuries. Under unified organization, these insatiably curious research fanatics ultimately discovered that while spellcasters expend mana when casting spells, over the long term, the mana they inherently generate exceeds the total they consume.
"Still just conjecture?" Tasha asked.
"The observation period was too short, the sample size insufficient, and the references incomplete," Miranda replied. "Without sufficient evidence, I can only call it conjecture."
In other words, this conjecture was already eighty percent certain.
The entire realm of Erian was abuzz.
The Empire's reaction was intense, especially among its high command—like a cup of water splashed into a cauldron of boiling oil. If this conjecture proved true, their once-glorious War of Magic Eradication would be exposed as a colossal mistake.
Officially, they had acknowledged the anti-magic campaign as a mistake, but they didn't truly believe it. Such declarations were merely a ploy to recruit mages once more—they needed someone to tinker with the source of magic. No one genuinely regretted it, just as they had never regretted any of the great wars in Erian's history. Those conflicts had ultimately made the empire the sole dominant power, elevating humanity—elevating them—to the pinnacle of the world, even if it came at a cost.
But if the mages' conjecture holds true...
Then the War of Extermination would be tantamount to pushing Erian further toward the precipice.
Is the empire truly oblivious to the decline of the magical environment?
The common folk may be unaware. As factories shut down one by one due to energy shortages, magical technology retreated into the military and the capital, no longer part of most people's lives; workers returned home unemployed, picking up hoes once more. Literacy became an unfavorable investment for most, literacy rates slowly declined, and history faded from memory, becoming merely the sanitized narrative in textbooks. The advancement of technological and industrial civilization requires the united effort of all, yet its decline needs only time. Today, most commoners remain largely unaware of what magic truly is.
Yet arcane technology still lurked at the heart of Erian.
The wealthy and powerful continued to enjoy its conveniences, ensuring they remained aware of its existence and its energy source. The elite understood precisely what fueled magic. At annual conferences, they received reports on the depletion rate of the core energy source—a rate that was steadily climbing year after year.
The wise recognize that something is gradually deteriorating. Yet in the past, they found no entry point to address such issues. Moreover, living in such comfortable circumstances, few would dedicate themselves to solving problems that might only surface centuries later. Just as leaders are more concerned with this year's fiscal situation than pondering global warming.
Then the dungeon emerged, established itself, destroyed the magic source, and created the current standoff between the two sides.
Tasha studied the Empire, and the Empire studied Tasha. Both discovered the positive correlation between the magic environment and the number of practitioners—the better the environment, the more practitioners seemed to appear. They studied the opposing side's inexhaustible supply of magic stones, examined the relationship between magic energy and the restoration rate of its source. This invisible specter—the "magic environment"—was exerting ever-greater influence, forcing the Empire to take notice.
Not long ago, research institutes on the Empire's side also detected similar signs, with many findings aligning with the publicly stated hypotheses from the Tasmarin Province.
The stir Tasmarin had anticipated arrived the following month.
On the Nightfall Front, the "non-existent window" remained open, though traffic fluctuated with the shifting temperature of bilateral relations. Early the next month, an imperial diplomat emerged from that passage—a route previously reserved solely for merchants and goods.
After a month of wrangling, the "non-existent cooperation" was finalized.
On the vacant land near the Nightfall Line, a non-existent mage tower rose. Straddling both sides of the border, its location and above-ground/underground proportions were meticulously negotiated by diplomats. This borderless tower was swiftly constructed through joint efforts. Under tight security, documents from both sides were transported here, and their spellcasters and researchers entered the tower.
"Uncle Edwin!"
"Abigail?"
The fire witch lunged toward the imperial mage the moment they met, nearly provoking an attack from the imperial soldiers. The middle-aged mage, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a white lab coat, embraced his niece with delight, nearly toppling backward under her force. The reclusive mage remained as frail and haggard as ever, while Abigail, having eaten well and slept soundly these past years, now towered a full head above her uncle in her sharp stiletto heels—it was less that she threw herself into his arms and more that she threw herself at him, pinning him into an embrace. Abigail took a step back, her eyes wide. "You've gotten shorter, Uncle Edwin!"
"You've grown taller," Edwin chuckled, slipping off his glasses and wiping away a tear at the corner of his eye with his fingertip. "Abigail's a young lady now. Wood would be so proud."
"After this, I'm going to see him! If we can meet each other, the day I see Dad can't be far off!" Abigail declared cheerfully, her excitement like a morning bird. "Oh my, so much has happened! When we have a moment later, I'll tell you everything, bit by bit!"
Edwin remained speechless, merely nodding as he stroked the head now taller than his own. "Yes," he said. "It will be."
Researchers from the Empire and Tasmarin State presented a striking and intriguing contrast.
Imperial scholars, uniformly clad in white lab coats, stared in astonishment at their future collaborators. The witches stood in varied postures, each dressed in what they deemed their finest attire. Even the plague witch, whose makeup made her look ghostly, simply believed this was her style. The druids remained clad in their naturalistic garments; seeing them was like seeing the forest itself. Out of respect for their partners, some exceptionally primal shapeshifting druids at least wore clothes. Mages cherished robes of every hue—white, black, and gray signifying their lineage and school.
—Only these three colors held significance. Wild mages could choose any other shade, so the pink robe worn by one male mage and the suffocating rainbow lace trim on another female mage's robes spoke only to their personal tastes.
Clothing is merely a trivial external expression. In researching this matter, both sides possess distinct advantages. A powerful alliance would be formed, as the Tower of Sand has long coveted the Great Library's collection and the Empire's talent pool.
The spellcasters of the dungeons enjoy greater freedom, allowing them to propose wildly imaginative hypotheses. Some are pure time-wasters, while others yield significant progress. The Empire provides a vast pool of highly skilled assistants. These academically trained individuals minimize time wasted on repetitive verification through standardized protocols.
The dungeon's library consists of spellcasters' private collections—hidden and specialized in specific fields. The Imperial Library's forbidden section boasts overwhelming volume, reflecting the Empire's deep foundations and its history of both destroying and collecting vast civilizational achievements during wars. Researchers from both sides plunged headlong into the opposing seas of books. Once their superiors had concluded their negotiations, scholars remained scholars.
Torn notes ultimately converged here. Scattered puzzle pieces were tossed into this mage tower. Time eroded some fragments while simultaneously filling others.
"The Magic Tide Hypothesis by Philip G. Ulysses—missing the second volume. Did I just see..."
"Here!"
"No, the data in this anonymous manuscript already refutes Philip's magic concentration function."
"This notebook by Sharon, The Abyssal Origin of Magic, could fill the gaps in the Magic Tide Hypothesis." "
"But isn't this 'Celestial Magic Origin Theory' similar? Has anyone found explanations to refute both?"
"I believe both Magic Origin Theories were finalized in the year XXX of the Common Era. Considering the possibility they originated during the same minor magic ice age..."
"I have a contemporary record here..."
"Based on existing data, this section should be verifiable..."
"Found it! Explaining it through the singularity and unity of the Erion Magic Plate's movement..."
The mages debated with reasoned arguments, while scribes from the Empire swiftly compiled their theories, cataloging them alphabetically. Tasha stored it all within her mind—her formidable memory and computational abilities serving as a search engine, providing data for hundreds of researchers. Far more mages participated in this grand endeavor than were physically present. Those who had posed questions in solitude for centuries, unanswered, stood alongside them. Their spirits ultimately crystallized within the records they left behind, traversing time and space.
Hypotheses and corroborations might span continents; questions and answers might be separated by centuries. Yet every arduous journey finds its destination. The arcs gathered by the pioneers finally joined here to form a circle.
Mavis, a half-elf who barely qualified as a caster due to the Sacred Tree Staff, abandoned her research decisively after half a day's participation. She slipped into the kitchen to join the staff in preparing meals for the scientists.
Workaholic mages like Miranda held food in utter contempt, viewing meals as a waste of time. They subsisted on milk-infused Karlo (a popular Tasmalin energy drink) and caffeinated beverages, indistinguishable from hardcore coffee or Red Bull addicts. When Mavis developed her nutritionally balanced "No-Heat, No-Dishwashing Delicious Mini-Cupcakes 2.0"—ready in a minute, filling, and mess-free—everyone from the mages themselves to their apprentices (whose stomachs were nearly ruined by their demanding bosses) instantly switched sides, showering the creation with praise.
The half-elf chef carried her improved "Brainworker's One-Bite Nutritious Delicious Mini-Cake 3.0," tiptoeing into the upper levels of the mage tower. The sound of pages turning filled the air, just as it had when she left. The library section was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, filled with people reading voraciously.
White-robed mages sat at the same table as black-robed mages, with a white lab coat—whose original robe color was unknown—blending in between them. While some mages still avoided sitting with those of specific robes, this preference amounted to little more than a mental boundary between desks. When space was tight, they'd pinch their noses and squeeze together regardless. A white-robed mage carrying a book hesitated between the two remaining empty seats, ultimately choosing to sit beside the black-robed mage rather than next to the wild mage in the garish rainbow-colored outfit.
Mavis placed the cupcakes beside them—everyone knew mages engrossed in books were utterly oblivious to food just meters away, even when famished. Some didn't notice her arrival (hopefully they'd remember to eat later), while others nodded their thanks.
Beyond a corridor lay the discussion area. Opening the triple glass doors designed for soundproofing revealed a lively scene within the meeting chamber. Spellcasters of differing schools were prone to heated debates, though arguments mostly focused on principles rather than personalities. Even when a gray-robed mage wielded necromantic texts as evidence, the druid merely frowned. Disputes among mages always carried weight—every curse had a reference point. The scribe's pen flew across the parchment, constantly adding and deleting notes. The mage apprentice from Tasmarin Province exchanged glances with the imperial research assistant, revolutionary camaraderie blossoming between them.
Mavis placed an entire tray on the conference table, refilling the empty cups with Carole.
The next level housed the experimentation area, where spellcasters less interested in research tended to congregate. On this floor, Mavis didn't need to bring those instant cupcakes.
The moment the half-elf opened the door, the testing ground erupted in a thunderous cheer. Mavis received a warm welcome the instant she entered. The yawning witches serving as the magic control group leapt to their feet and swarmed around her like wildcats hearing the clatter of bowls. Most research tasks, driven by rationality, bored them to tears. To secure their cooperation, Tarsha had made concessions, promising them ample funds, delicious treats, and generous vacation time. Instantly, Mavis was surrounded by a chorus of sweet voices. The charm of these semi-magical creatures, amplified by a sumptuous meal, caused the assistant's pen to slip from his grasp.
Edwin was the only formal mage to lose his pen. Startled by its clatter, he snapped his gaze back, casting an embarrassed glance at the collaborator standing nearby. Miranda wore a chilling, faint smile, her eyes sweeping over the wide-eyed apprentices. Edwin noticed her slowly rubbing her fingers together—the opening gesture for several torturous spells. He swallowed nervously and took a small, stealthy step backward.
The priests present muttered prayers like "May Saroth protect us," their eyes darting heavenward and earthward but never meeting the witch's gaze. Druids approached from the distance, their stares at the witch utterly unflinching—after all, it was simply the natural order of things. A coyote sprinted toward them, its tongue hanging out—spirit beasts weren't allowed here. Some impatient shapeshifting druid must have transformed early just to get a bite. It didn't even glance at the witches, its eyes fixed solely on the roasted meat on the platters. One could argue whether that showed strong or weak willpower.
Amidst the crowd, Mavis smiled.
"I've never witnessed such a scene," she remarked. "When was the last time we gathered like this? Probably back during the Erian Declaration. Ah, now I can finally imagine what it was like when my maternal grandparents first met."
The open speculation in Tasmalin soon found confirmation.
Do spellcasters slowly build magical environments?
Yes, and more than that.
To be precise, beings with extraordinary power—both human and non-human—can create magical environments.
The innate gifts of magical races consume mana, and holders of extraordinary power (all practitioners, not just spellcasters) expend planar mana when using their abilities. Yet simultaneously, they also cultivate magical environments. With each additional practitioner, the impact on the environment increases exponentially.
Think of extraordinary beings as plants: respiration consumes oxygen, while photosynthesis produces it. Ancient scholars conducted experiments at night, observing only the trees' massive oxygen consumption without realizing their daytime oxygen production far exceeded their intake.
The efforts made by the Empire a century ago to save Erian ultimately accelerated the plane's decline.