"When did my disciple start drifting away from , I wonder?"
At the peak of the highest mountain in the Etwas Mountains—
Serie, the greatest archmage in history, who had lived since the mythic era, pondered this question.
Standing alone at the summit, her brilliant golden hair swayed gently in the breeze.
Before her lay a masterpiece born of the Magic of Blooming Flowers:
An endless sea of blossoms stretching out in all directions.
Petals unfurled in the sunlight, creating a tapestry that blanketed the mountain top.
"Yes... when exactly did it begin?"
Serie stepped forward, her robes brushing against the flower beds, stirring up drifting petals.
"Was it thirty years ago?"
She recalled quietly, fingertips gliding across the floral landscape.
Scenes from the past flickered by like a lantern reel.
Little Flam, wide-eyed with joy the first ti she cast a spell;
Tears of frustration when she was punished for misreciting an incantation and made to copy it a hundred tis;
The mixture of nervousness and determination in her eyes when she asked her first question—
In a daze, Serie thought she heard that familiar voice.
"Teacher, wait for !"
She halted, swiftly turning back—
But the swaying waves of flowers showed no trace of that small figure who once tumbled through them chasing after her.
"Always"—
For Serie, it felt like "always," because thirty years was rely a blink of an eye to her.
"No… For humans, thirty years is already half a lifeti..."
"Back then, she was still a child who followed around."
Dismissing the thought, Serie pressed on through the sea of flowers.
"Then… was it twenty years ago?"
She looked down at her right hand—
There should have once been a small warm hand held tightly in hers.
"Teacher—"
That cheerful voice from her mories made Serie slow her steps.
A slightly older Flam, laughing and tugging her hand excitedly toward a patch of wildflowers she'd grown on her own.
Sunlight filtering through the blossoms dappled her round cheeks.
Serie rembered only nodding and comnting offhand,
"It could be better."
But the young Flam hadn't been discouraged.
"Teacher is always so strict."
She smiled and held out a small bouquet of freshly picked wildflowers.
"But I like you that way."
Like—a young girl's admiration and reverence.
"So… it wasn't twenty years ago either."
Serie rejected another possible answer.
"Ten years… No, more precisely, fifteen years ago—"
At last, she found her answer.
"Master, I want to see the world."
"Do as you please."
"I… I want to try changing the world in my own way, I want to—"
"You've graduated. What you do is no longer my concern."
That conversation still echoed vividly.
Back then—
Serie told herself she didn't care. She had taken on disciples rely to pass the ti.
But when Flam's back vanished over the horizon,
She stood at the doorway until nightfall.
At the center of the flower field stood a flat rock. Serie sat on it.
From here, she could overlook the entire mountain range, distant human villages rising in wisps of smoke.
Flam must have left for them—
For that foolish dream of "a world where everyone can learn magic."
Left her side, to do things Serie saw as "a waste of talent and ti."
"Utter nonsense..."
Serie stood and sighed deeply.
She walked again, her robe brushing flower stems, whispering softly.
The northern sky was crystal clear, sunlight streaming through thin clouds and rendering petals nearly translucent.
Beyond the field lay a steep cliff, and a restless sea of clouds churned below.
Serie closed her eyes. The fragnts of her ti with Flam felt close enough to touch.
"Teacher, why don't you ever smile?"
That was a childhood question from Flam.
Serie hadn't answered—
Because she believed that child wouldn't understand even if she did.
The answer was simple—
For those of long life, human emotions burned too bright and fleeting.
She had to keep her distance.
Even from her own disciple.
That was how it should have been—
So Serie told herself, staring into the distance…
Yes, it should have been—
But Flam was different. Unlike any other human she had t.
Her fiery passion easily pierced the walls Serie had erected.
More than that, she subtly changed Serie.
"Look, doesn't that cloud resemble the wave pattern of Anti-curse Magic?"
Flam would say the silliest things about mundane things.
Yet perhaps her perspective was that fresh and delightful.
A small smile crept onto Serie's face.
Flam and her so-called "Flam Logic"—
That foolish logic reminded Serie of feelings long buried in the passage of ti.
There was a mont—
When Serie truly thought about keeping Flam by her side forever.
But it was only a fleeting thought…
As Flam aged, she spent less and less ti with her teacher.
She had her own journeys and adventures, her own friends and life.
Even foolish enough to marry that demon mage Agusheed—
Serie tried to tell herself it was normal. Disciples must grow independent.
But whenever she was alone—
She'd find herself gazing down the mountain path, hoping to see a familiar figure appear.
The last ti she saw Flam was right here—
In the Etwas Mountains.
Not long ago. Almost as if it were just monts ago.
That day, Flam arrived as a mature archmage.
She ca with a magical theory of her own discovery, eager to present it.
"Teacher, what do you think?"
Her voice carried both exhaustion and pride.
Serie examined the theory—new within the human system of magic.
She marveled at her student's talent and found so flaws in the logic.
She ant to point out areas for improvent—
But then noticed the wrinkles at Flam's eyes, and the silver strands in her hair.
Human ti flowed far too quickly.
She was reminded of that once more.
"Well done."
That was all she said.
It was also the last thing they said to each other.
The evening wind brought the scent of flowers as Serie closed her eyes again.
When had her disciple truly gone?
Maybe that question didn't matter.
Her disciple had used her as a stepping stone, journeying far beyond.
As her teacher, Serie should be proud of her.
Because that was her disciple.
Flam, whom she had personally raised—
Whoosh—
A faint breeze broke Serie's drifting thoughts.
Without her realizing, a flower petal enchanted with a tracking spell floated into her palm.
It was the magical ssage she had once gifted Flam.
Of course, she knew how to read it.
"Heh..."
Looking at the petal's ssage—
A rare smile blood on Serie's ever-serene face.
"What a… foolish disciple you are..."
Thus mused the greatest archmage in history—
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