There was no avoiding this situation. I-han could never have anticipated the Skeleton Principal calling him out like this.

*—The principal took Wardanaz with him!*

*—Damn it, do you think he’s been found out!?*

“Why are they running after us like that?” asked I-han.

“It seems they’re disappointed that I’m leaving.”

“Well, of course. When the one who cooks their meals disappears, they’re bound to feel let down,” the principal remarked with a sneer.

I-han was a little hurt. “My friendship with them is deeper than that.”

“Who’s going to cook for them now?”

“Well…I was the one cooking. But I charged them.”

“Of course, you did. For the record, my servants get paid too—probably more than you charge your friends.”

I-han resolved to assist Ifadur with his music magic research as actively as possible. If he could manage to get under the Skeleton Principal’s skin, what couldn’t he do?

---

The choir at Philone Village’s temple was astonished by Ifadur’s arrival. They’d gained some local renown, but meeting one of the most famous bards in the Empire was another matter entirely.

“We—we’re deeply, deeply honored, Lord Ifadur! And…who might this be?”

“This is Lord Gonadaltes.”

“…”

“…”

The choir members dropped to the ground in a panic. They’d occasionally seen skulls floating about, but never had they encountered the principal of Enroguard in human form.

Curious, I-han asked, “Did you do something here?”

“Why would I? It’s just baseless rumors scaring them.”

“But there has to be some reason for their reaction,” I-han replied.

“Maybe so. Perhaps it’s the same reason people claim you Wardanaz types feast on humans for breakfast, devour spirits for lunch, and demons for dinner.”

The choir members, who had just started to stand up, immediately prostrated themselves upon hearing the name of the Wardanaz family. It was obviously an absurd rumor, but the Wardanaz name had a way of making even such tall tales sound plausible.

I-han gave the principal an incredulous look.

*Unbelievable.*

Sure, he could understand the principal’s foul mood at having to assist Ifadur with his music magic research, but wasn’t it a bit petty to take it out on him?

“Enough. You may all rise. Today, I actually need your help,” the principal said, waving the choir members up.

“W-what can we possibly do for you?”

“You? Nothing at all…although, as you likely know, your hymns occasionally carry a touch of divine power.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right. When we sing together, a divine power sometimes spreads across the distance.”

“Let’s not start with lies. It’s only sometimes, not every time.”

The principal, trying to hold his annoyance in check, addressed the choir members. Discussing mystical phenomena with non-mages was always frustrating. Unlike recorded facts, these people remembered things however they wanted, which made an already complicated task even worse.

Ifadur stepped in to defend the choir. “Music is an art where the emotions of yesterday, today, and tomorrow differ each time. I trust in your songs.”

“Lord Ifadur…!” The choir members looked at him with tear-filled eyes, grateful for the encouragement from the Empire’s most respected bard. The principal, however, clicked his tongue in disapproval.

“That’s right. Magic isn’t just about knowledge but about the rhythm in one’s heart. Music must be the same, don’t you think?”

“???”

The principal stared at I-han, visibly shocked. It was as if a Death Knight had just declared, *I’ve committed too many sins. I wish to lay down my sword and pursue peace.* 

How could someone so well-educated spout such nonsense?

“You understand, mage! You truly understand!” cried a member of the choir.

“When a mage visited us before, they insulted us, calling us liars because our songs didn’t work like magic.”

The choir, apparently holding onto some resentment, seemed agitated. From a mage’s perspective, it was frustrating; they came hoping to observe magic-like effects in these songs only to get vague responses like, “It’s not working today” or “Strange, why isn’t it happening?” But from the choir’s viewpoint, they were doing their best—if the effect didn’t appear, it simply didn’t.

“Could we perhaps listen and take notes on your song?”

“It would be an honor, bard!”

The choir members straightened up, took their positions, and cleared their throats.

“Ah, ah…We’ll sever the enemies’ throats and use them as fertilizer! We’ll draw their blood to water our fields…”

*Isn’t that a bit intense?* thought I-han, though neither Ifadur nor the principal seemed fazed by the lyrics.

“There’s no effect.”

“Yes, regrettably, perhaps it’s due to nervousness.”

“Too weak. Far too weak,” the principal muttered with a sigh. To him, music magic had a fundamental flaw—its power was far too limited.

Sure, the instability of primitive magic, with its reliance on emotions, was a drawback, but it was a manageable one. However, music magic’s inherent weakness was a hurdle he couldn’t ignore.

Consider divine magic, for example. Although irrational, its power was guaranteed since the caster offered their life force and mana in dedication. In contrast, music magic didn’t draw upon the user’s life force or mana.

The lyrics served as the spell incantation, the melody replaced the structure, but there was nothing in music magic to generate the necessary power. The only source of mana was the naturally occurring energy in the environment, resulting in weak spells. A small change in ambient mana was enough to render the magic ineffective.

The principal assumed that the only reason the choir could sometimes create magic-like effects was due to their collective singing. With multiple people, even weak energy could combine and amplify, and on rare occasions, a singer might instinctively tap into their own mana due to a surge of emotion.

“If it’s all right, could we listen a few more times?”

“By all means, until you’re satisfied—or until they lose their voices.”

The principal, having already lost interest, waved Ifadur along. Already, he was dreading complaints from students who’d soon be frustrated by their own lack of progress. Why did young mages always assume they’d be the exception? Sure, mages were supposed to pursue challenges, but they should stick to what they could handle if they were lacking.

The principal sighed deeply, feeling both miserable and sympathetic for having to allocate Enroguard’s resources to these pointless efforts.

“Would it be all right if I joined in?” asked I-han.

“Oh…that sounds like a wonderful idea.”

“No…wait—” 

The principal, snapped out of his brooding, pulled I-han aside and whispered.

“You’re doing this just because I mentioned the comparison with my servants’ wages earlier, aren’t you?”

“What are you talking about, Principal?” I-han replied, feigning surprise.

Sure, there was some appeal in needling the principal, but he was also eager to build a connection with the village choir. If the choir members thought of him as “that earnest, passionate boy from the Wardanaz family,” they’d be more likely to cover for him if he needed to disappear into town someday.

“Fine. Do as you like. But why would a Wardanaz even be interested in music?”

Ifadur seemed surprised by this question. “Nobles typically appreciate music, don’t they?”

“That may be true of *most* nobles. Wardanaz…never mind. Just sing. It’ll be entertaining if you stand out for singing poorly.”

The principal’s words didn’t bother I-han, who joined Ifadur and the choir with enthusiasm.

“Don’t worry, it’s not a difficult song. And we’ll help you along,” assured the choir leader.

“We’re truly honored to have an Enroguard student show interest in our choir!”

“I’ve always loved singing. I’ve heard so much about the Philone Choir and wanted to meet you, but I rarely get the chance to go out.”

“Oh…!”

“Ohhh!!!”

His words struck the choir members right in the heart. To them, I-han seemed like an endearing prospective recruit.

“Which of our songs is your favorite—?”

“Actually, I’d love to ask you about the song you just sang.”

Quickly steering them back to the topic at hand, I-han knew that showing enthusiasm was more important than singing perfectly. Just putting in the effort would earn him their admiration.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Recalling the Skeleton Principal’s undead minions, I-han channeled his sense of determination and sang alongside the choir.

“We’ll sever the enemies’ throats and use them as fertilizer, draw their blood to water our fields…”

*Bzzzzzzzz!*

Ifadur shivered with goosebumps. Nearby listeners, too, felt compelled to stop and turn.

A subtle magical energy washed over everyone present.

The song’s magic disregarded the usual law that the spell weakens with distance and requires an increasing amount of mana, unleashing its effect as if defying logic.

“Do you see? It’s extraordinary!” exclaimed Ifadur.

“What…in the world?” The principal was at a loss.

Ifadur, completely absorbed, began recording the notes with renewed enthusiasm, while the principal observed something more disturbing. 

Wardanaz was dispersing mana into the air around him, naturally amplifying the ambient concentration, and unconsciously infusing his own mana into his voice, merging it with the others to magnify their collective power

.

Even with a top-grade mana amplification artifact, achieving such an effect would be nearly impossible.

In disbelief, the principal wondered, *What is he even doing?*

“Is something wrong, Principal?” Ifadur asked.

“The lad’s enhancing the spell. To explain it in simple terms…” He started drawing a rough diagram on the ground, demonstrating how I-han’s voice infused mana into the surrounding environment and heightened the choir’s effect by syncing it with his own.

The old tortoise bard tilted his head. “But doesn’t dispersing mana like that harm one’s health?”

“…Exactly.”