"When did my disciple start drifting away from me, 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 Flamme, wide-eyed with joy the first time she cast a spell;
Tears of frustration when she was punished for misreciting an incantation and made to copy it a hundred times;
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 me!"
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 merely a blink of an eye to her.
"No… For humans, thirty years is already half a lifetime..."
"Back then, she was still a child who followed me 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 memories made Serie slow her steps.
A slightly older Flamme, 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 remembered only nodding and commenting offhand,
"It could be better."
But the young Flamme 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 merely to pass the time.
But when Flamme'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.
Flamme 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 time."
"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 fragments of her time with Flamme felt close enough to touch.
"Teacher, why don't you ever smile?"
That was a childhood question from Flamme.
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 Flamme was different. Unlike any other human she had met.
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?"
Flamme 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.
Flamme and her so-called "Flamme Logic"—
That foolish logic reminded Serie of feelings long buried in the passage of time.
There was a moment—
When Serie truly thought about keeping Flamme by her side forever.
But it was only a fleeting thought…
As Flamme aged, she spent less and less time 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 time she saw Flamme was right here—
In the Etwas Mountains.
Not long ago. Almost as if it were just moments ago.
That day, Flamme arrived as a mature archmage.
She came 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 some flaws in the logic.
She meant to point out areas for improvement—
But then noticed the wrinkles at Flamme's eyes, and the silver strands in her hair.
Human time 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.
Flamme, 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 message she had once gifted Flamme.
Of course, she knew how to read it.
"Heh..."
Looking at the petal's message—
A rare smile bloomed on Serie's ever-serene face.
"What a… foolish disciple you are..."
Thus mused the greatest archmage in history—