Ryouma clenched his fists and swallowed hard. It was a lose-lose situation—either kill the old man or leave. He really didn't want it to come to that, but he wasn't going to let the old man have the win.
"Fine. I promise I'll put you out of your misery if that's really what you want," he said, straightening up. "But in return, you have to give me something of equal value."
"My things aren't worth my life?"
"Things can turn to ash in an instant, just like that newspaper."
"Oho! How wise of you, lad." René chuckled. "What is it you want then?"
Ryouma looked at his right hand. In just four years, his hand was almost entirely black from his constant practice of magic. The numbness in his fingers had made it nearly impossible to hold utensils, forcing him to re-learn how to write with his left hand. To him, that was more of an inconvenience than the possibility of this curse eventually taking his life.
"Tell me how to break the curse you put on me," he said, closing his right hand into a fist.
The old man's unreadable eyes met Ryouma's. The crackle of the fireplace cut through the silence between them that seemed to be stretching on and on.
"Hmph. Fine," René finally said, directing his attention back to the newspaper. "But you'll only get the answer once I'm dead."
"I expected as much," Ryouma said with a bitter smile.
"Well, best of luck, then. I'm a lot tougher than I look." René waved his hand to shoo him out of the room.
Ryouma left without another word, heading straight back to the library. He had one year to overcome his weakness and grow stronger than a sorcerer with more than triple his experience. Every moment of training, studying, and practice counted.
The simple life he lived with René turned into a game of cat and mouse as Ryouma made attempts on the old man's life every few weeks. He would study a new technique, practice it on his own, then put it to use on René. When he would inevitably counter or deflect the attack, Ryouma would be forced back to square one.
In half a year, Ryouma's overall skill with magic improved leaps and bounds compared to before their wager. He could cast and maintain glamour magic as long as he was awake, create new sigils and enchantments not found in books, and mimic the magical doors that René used to travel long distances.
He discovered his limitations during that time as well. Powerful magic, like healing and invisibility, took a toll on his curse any time he used them. The more intensely he had to focus on a technique, the more his curse spread after the fact.
So he adjusted. Worked within and around his limitations to push beyond them.
Initially, using glamour for extended periods of time affected the curse. But eventually, maintaining it became so second-nature to him that he often forgot what he actually looked like. The less he had to think about something once cast, the easier it was to prevent the curse from spreading.
The one thing he continued to struggle with was countering magic like René. If using the book gave Ryouma powers, then the powers a natural-born sorcerer like René gained from it were exponential. If he was going to beat him, he simply had to develop a technique that was nearly impossible to counter.
Through his rigorous study of all magical books in the library, including the very grimoire that got him into this situation, as well as reflecting on his own experiences, Ryouma formed a theory. His magic was something born from his willpower, so it stood to reason that he could very well exert his will over others to override their own. Thus, his unique word magic was born.
***
"It's been some time since your last assassination attempt," René said one evening over dinner. It had been nearly a year since their wager started. "Have you decided to accept your weakness and give up?"
"Quite the contrary," the now eighteen-year-old Ryouma replied with a smile. "I've been spending my time refining a new technique that's sure to overpower you."
"Is that so? What'll it be this time, I wonder?" The old man mused as he sipped his wine.
It had been a couple of months since he'd developed the word magic technique. Living in Paris made it easy to go to a tourist-heavy area and find a scammer to use as a guinea pig for his experiments. He didn't feel bad at all for targeting those types—aside from the children forced into it, most of them were scum. Plus, it was a way he could keep everything hidden from René.
He started with simple commands, like those used to train a dog (sit, speak, lie), while gradually increasing their complexity to see what he was capable of forcing someone to do. As it would turn out, there wasn't much he couldn't do.
As long as the commands weren't overly complex, they were effective. Though he did find out the hard way while trying to steal an immobilized pickpocket's earnings, they had a time limit. Ensuring they would work on a sorcerer, who typically had a higher mental fortitude than the average human, was the final stage of testing for this new form of magic.
Ryouma acquainted himself with a particular sorcerer who hung around the Eiffel Tower scamming tourists, and used him as a test subject. When that man obeyed his commands to strip naked, then crawl on his hands and knees into the Seine, he knew the word magic was ready.
"If I told you, that would ruin the surprise," he said with a shrug.
"Good. I was starting to get bored." René winked. "I'll look forward to it then."
Ryouma nodded. "Please do. And make sure to prepare your Will in advance."
The old man burst into laughter at this. To him, it probably seemed like the posturing of an over-confident teen at the cusp of adulthood. But it was fine if he thought that. Underestimating Ryouma would only work out in his favor.
By this point, Ryouma's right hand had turned completely black, and the curse was slowly creeping down his wrist. But to him, it was worth it. He'd achieved so much in such a short period of time that if it weren't for the curse, young Ryouma would have been drunk on power.
The night he killed René was nothing special. There was no raging storm to accompany an epic battle, no blanket of snow for an aesthetic death, and no fireworks to drown out dramatic last words. It was early spring—quiet, calm, and a little bit chilly.
Ryouma entered René's personal office without knocking. The old man was slouched over his desk, looking over papers.
"What is it?" he barked.
"I'm here to kill you."
René stopped what he was doing and looked up, a confused expression on his face. "Normally, one would not announce that beforehand."
"I know," Ryouma said, approaching the desk. "I just wanted to make sure everything was in order before I did it."
"Ha! You cheeky little…" The old man shook his head, grinning. He returned his attention to his papers. "What was that stupid little name you gave yourself again…?"
"Royce Westbrook."
"Right, right… Well, I left everything to that young man, who is my nephew on paper."
"And the way to get rid of my curse?"
"That's in a separate letter," he stated, tapping an envelope with a wax seal on the desk. René looked up at Ryouma expectantly. "Now, is that everything, lad?"
"Actually, there's one more thing…" Ryouma offered a bow of gratitude in that deeply ingrained cultural way: from the waist, nose pointed at the floor, hands stiffly at his sides. "Thank you for taking care of me. Truly."
When he stood upright again, his eyes drifted to an antique silver letter opener resembling a dagger on the desk. It was cliché, and the method would be messy—maybe even a little suspicious to the authorities—but it would be quick. Speed was what he needed over René because if anything too slow would create an opening for him to counter.
"Pick up that letter opener," Ryouma commanded.
The old man raised an eyebrow as his hand reached out for the object and grasped it.
"Oho? How interesting! It felt like my hand was forced," he remarked. "This your secret technique, boy?"
Ryouma nodded. The letter opener was in René's hands—all he had to do was say the next command. So why was he hesitating? He swallowed hard while the old man teasingly questioned how that was supposed to kill him.
Embrace your weakness or overcome it.
If he got cold feet now, he'd be kicked out. He was going to lose René either way, so did it really matter? There was no reason for Ryouma to feel this way about someone who didn't even give a damn about him. He'd worked so hard to overcome that weakness.
Ryouma took a deep breath to compose himself before uttering his final command, "Stab yourself in the neck."
René's eyes momentarily widened in shock before resignation took over. Then, he jammed the pointed end of the letter opener into his throat.
The gurgling sounds he made as he bled out would haunt Ryouma's dreams for years to come, but the thing that he'd never forget was the fact that René smiled in his final moments.
Was he amused by the irony of being forced to take his own life? Or was it catharsis for finally dying after living well beyond the limits of a normal human? That was something Ryouma would never know for sure.
René's body slumped over onto the desk after a minute, but Ryouma stood there watching for several more. He had to ensure the old man was dead, but he was also quietly making peace with what he'd just done.
Ryouma reached out and willed the sealed envelope into his trembling hand. Part of him thought that killing the old man might undo the curse, but his hand remained blackened. He had to leave for the sake of his alibi, but he couldn't wait any longer to uncover the reward for throwing away his attachments. So he opened the letter right there.
René's letter simply read:
If you're reading this, I thank you for ending my misery. You appear to be less of a coward than I. As for your curse… Since you believe power is gained by overcoming your weaknesses, think of it as a limiter. Only when you embrace your weakness will you be able to seek purification.
"What…the hell…is this?!" Ryouma said through gritted teeth. His shaking hands torched the letter into ash. "What the hell does this even mean, old man?!"
But a corpse could not respond. The only conclusion he could draw from that letter was simply that he was tricked. Whatever remorse or sadness he felt in that moment instantly vaporized alongside the paper.
Ryouma knocked on the door to the study and opened it to a quiet London street. He was to meet someone there soon as part of the alibi needed for Royce Westbrook. As he stepped through that threshold, crossing from one country to another, he closed the door behind himself without looking back.