Chapter 40 — The Mediocre Ones
After eating to their hearts' content, the trio left the restaurant with satisfied smiles.
Serie in particular was so delighted she unconsciously made a little "cat mouth."
Looking at her now, no one would imagine she was a blood-soaked elf who slaughtered demons like weeds.
"Ahh… that was delicious… huh?"
The moment they stepped outside, over a dozen young men and women suddenly blocked their path.
Serious faces.
Complicated gazes.
All of them aimed straight at Serie.
Serie instinctively clenched her fists—
but Elias gently tapped her shoulder.
"Relax. They're all ordinary civilians. I don't sense any mana from them."
"Hmph… that so…"
Serie muttered, then boldly stepped forward, her stride powerful, her presence overwhelming.
"So? What business do you have with me?"
"If you're here to cause trouble—"
She tilted her head, revealing small sharp fangs with a cocky grin.
"—I'm afraid even all of you together wouldn't last two seconds."
The moment her voice fell—
Thud!
All the men and women suddenly dropped onto one knee in perfect unison.
"Serie-sama!"
"Please take us as your disciples!!"
Serie: «(≖_≖'')»
"Uh… what?"
"What great deed did I supposedly do? Why are you all—"
"—We all saw it!"
One young man cried out, eyes practically shining.
"We witnessed Serie-sama's heroic figure when you slew that demon! The magic blooming between your hands like a miracle! And that calm smile after victory! It was unforgettable!"
"Yes, yes! Absolutely!!"
Everyone nodded fervently.
Serie merely scoffed.
"I am strong. You're right about that. I've never denied it."
"But I have no intention of sharing my strength with mediocre people."
"Especially—hm?"
Her eyes suddenly narrowed as they landed on one particular young man in black clothes.
"You there. The guy in black."
Hearing himself called, the black-clad youth rushed over excitedly, his sparkling eyes overflowing with desperate admiration.
"Serie-sama! D-Does this mean… you don't consider me mediocre?!"
Serie: «(´-ι_-｀)»
"Last night…"
"Were you the one on the tower… using a telescope to spy on me bathing?"
Black-clad youth: (⊙ω⊙)!
"As expected of Serie-sama!"
"Even from half a city away, you noticed my presence instantly!"
"With just a flick of your hand, your long-range spell blew my telescope to pieces!"
"Such overwhelming power—"
"I LOVE YOU EVEN MORE!!!"
—BANG!!
A crisp, merciless impact echoed across the street.
The black-clad youth soared across the street, landing with a perfect splash inside a water vat a hundred meters away.
Serie let out a long breath, then turned her gaze toward the remaining young men and women, who now looked terrified.
For humans—ordinary, short-lived, and painfully limited—most never even touched the edge of magic before touching the edge of their coffin.
Even after living for over a thousand years, Serie had never been bored enough to waste time on lives that flickered out in an instant.
Not now.
Not ever.
"Listen, all of you. I, Serie, will never take humans as disciples."
"Being mediocre isn't scary. What's scary is being mediocre and refusing to acknowledge it."
"If you remain delusional… your end will be far worse than his."
---
A carriage rattled along the road to the outskirts.
Watching the walls of the city shrink in the distance, Aivis sighed helplessly.
"The city lord originally wanted statues built in our honor, you know. But after what Serie did, that plan is… gone."
Serie lifted her right leg, resting her chin on her knee like this was someone else's problem.
"I only spoke the truth."
"Those ignorant mediocrities—seeing magic as a miracle yet never respecting how rare miracles truly are—ridiculous."
She glanced up and mocked Aivis openly:
"I've said it many times. Magic belongs to the strong."
"Short-lived humans—unless they're prodigies like you—should keep their distance."
"Serie, I disagree."
Aivis shot back firmly:
"Human talent is limited. It's true that even with a lifetime of effort, we might never reach your level or Elias's."
"But the wish to pursue magic—
and the resolve to become stronger—
are far more important than strength itself."
"Wish and resolve, huh…"
Serie tilted her head with a faint smile.
"Aivis—
you're frighteningly naïve."
Both of them then looked toward the silent demon, hoping for a verdict.
Elias scratched his hair lazily.
"Don't look at me."
"I really don't understand."
---
*Back to Present*
Meanwhile, Back at the House…
Walking up the stairs alone, Flamme couldn't help reflecting on the nature of demons and their cold detachment.
To the mediocre:
Her teacher, Serie, chose rejection.
Elias chose indifference.
"…Even so, is it really impossible for him to say a single encouraging word?"
"People who live too long… always end up stubborn."
Knock, knock.
Flamme gently tapped on Frieren's door.
No response.
She slowly turned the handle and slipped inside.
The dejected elf was curled up in her blankets, wrapped like a cocoon.
From within the bedding, Flamme could faintly hear trembling sobs.
"Frieren… are you all right?"
"If it's about training, we can keep working on it."
"Don't you remember? Everyone in the village said you were the most talented mage!"
The blanket squirmed.
"…No. I'm not."
"I'm just a mediocre nobody… unworthy of magic."
"Sorry, Flamme-sensei. A weakling like me… can't pass the trial, can't ever become a great mage…"
"Who said that?!"
Flamme placed her hand firmly on the blanket.
"Frieren, I took you as my apprentice not only because of your talent—
but because of your wish to pursue magic, and your resolve."
"And didn't you say it yourself before?"
"No matter the result… the path in pursuit of magic is the happiest one."
Frieren sniffled twice.
"…Not happy anymore."
"I'll never be happy again…"
"Flamme-sensei… can I… just cry alone for a while?"
"…Maybe for about a month."
Flamme stepped back toward the doorway and sighed softly at the hunched figure on the bed.
"All right…"
"Then I'll bring you meals every day."
---
Five Days Later — Night
Lying in his own bed, Elias could still hear the soft, constant rustling of Frieren crying in the next room.
He stared at the ceiling, sleepless, for hours.
"Heh…"
"If crying were a talent… she'd be gifted indeed."
For some reason, his mind drifted back to the old argument between Serie and Aivis.
—Magic belongs only to the strong.
—Even the weak can pursue magic.
"…No."
A faint memory surfaced.
Over two thousand years ago, after the three of them left that city—
something happened.
Something that quietly changed the old dwarf's way of thinking.