Prologue

Life could change with a single word.

It didn’t matter whether it was filled with immeasurable love or stemmed from the depths of the deepest malice and loathing.

It might even be a perfunctory word said without the slightest heat or emotion.

Sorcerer Jenié Kors knew this well.

It was a careless word that changed the boy.

“Ah…well. I guess it’s about the size of an eyeball.”

Jenié was at a loss. She wasn’t sure how to explain what she meant to her student.

He couldn’t see, so he didn’t understand. How should she put the size of something into words? He knew what a sphere was, but the size…

After struggling for a little while, she reached that answer.

He understood the parts of his own body, even if he couldn’t see them. So she used his eyes—human eyes—as an example for comparison.

As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. She had brought up the topic of eyes to someone who couldn’t see. She’d thought long and hard, and it was really the only comparison she could come up with, but…she immediately felt guilty for being so careless.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…um…,” Jenié faltered.

She stopped speaking when she saw the boy.

He had lifted his head. His vacant, silvery pupils were blown wide.

Jenié had only ever seen him with his head down, looking reserved, almost soulless…as though life was unbearable for him.

The boy lost control over the A-ori he was maintaining, and it struck the ground with a splash.

“A round…sphere of…water…about the size…of an eyeball? An eyeball? Is…is that so…?”

The boy whispered those words to himself repeatedly. Over, and over, and over again, as if he were carving them with water into his desiccated heart.

The boy was just seven years old.

That was probably the moment Kunon Gurion, the sorcerer who couldn’t see, was truly born.

Two years had passed since the day when Jenié’s careless words jump-started her pupil’s rapid development.

As usual, they were in the garden in front of the detached house, running magic drills.

“Next! Whirlpool!”

“Yes!”

On command, a stream of water flowed from the large A-ori hovering in front of the small sorcerer. The resulting eddy—big enough to easily swallow two or three people—surged so violently that anyone entering it would drown in an instant.

“Next! Bring it to a stop, then separate it into thirty pieces!”

“Yes!”

The ring of water came to an abrupt halt before splitting into thirty distinct A-ori.

“Next! Thirteen red, eleven blue, and six green!”

“Yes!”

As instructed, the spheres began to change color. Bathed in sunlight, the dyed A-ori sparkled like jewels.

“Next! Dog, cat, cow, monkey, sheep, cat, sheep, cow, human!”

“Yes!”

The A-ori re-formed into a single sphere, transforming into each creature as the commands rang out.

Jenié nodded with satisfaction. She had a lot on her mind.

There’s really nothing I can teach him anymore.

He surpassed me so quickly. I can’t do any of these things. What am I doing, reeling off these commands like it’s nothing, when I, his teacher, can’t do any of it myself? How is he able to perform at this level? I probably shouldn’t even have assigned him tasks this extreme, and yet he hasn’t even broken a sweat!

Honestly, she thought. It might be time for me to quit.

Chapter 1

The Hero’s Scar and the Boy Who Couldn’t See

Long, long ago, when the Great War of the Seventeen Kings broke out between the Demon Lord and the rest of the world, seventeen brave warriors were chosen—one from each country.

From this country, the Kingdom of Hughlia, a prince and holy knight named Histor Hughlia took up his sword and boldly went forth to face the Demon Lord.

The battle between these seventeen champions and the Demon Lord was fierce, and more than half the warriors died in the fight. Histor had the good fortune to survive, but he returned home missing an arm and a leg.

From then on, descendants of warriors who fought in the Great War occasionally gave birth to children who were missing something. Sometimes it was an arm—or a leg. Sometimes fingers or ears. Some of the children were missing both eyes or simply their eyesight—others lacked emotions or their sense of taste.

This was said to be the result of the Demon Lord’s curse, though each country had its own explanation for the phenomenon.

In the Kingdom of Hughlia, at least, it became known as the Hero’s Scar and was considered auspicious. Children of high status with this mark might be chosen as heirs to the throne, to one day lead the people as their kings and queens.

But that was all a thing of the past. No one had been born with the Hero’s Scar for a hundred years—that is, until the birth of Marquess Gurion’s son.

Kunon Gurion came into this world without his sight.

The Hughlian royal family held a great celebration to commemorate the first child in a century to carry the Hero’s Scar. The person in question, however, was indifferent.

He couldn’t see.

He couldn’t see anything.

Not his parents’ faces. Not his kind elder brother. He couldn’t see beautiful things. He couldn’t see light or darkness. He couldn’t see anything.

What did some noble Hero’s Scar matter to him? His lack of sight didn’t make him feel happy or honored.

When Kunon was three years old, he realized something.

The people around him were very caring. His parents, his elder brother, the maid who assisted him—they all treated him well.

But he could hear how others talked about him. Perhaps to compensate for his lack of sight, his sense of hearing was very acute.

“That child is blind, you know.”

“So young. What a shame.”

“I feel so sorry for him when he trips and injures himself like that…”

These voices were all around him… Probably nearby servants. He heard them all the time, even when he didn’t want to.

He hadn’t grasped the meaning of their words at first, but as he grew and learned, he gradually understood.

Ah, he realized. I’m different from everyone else.

He frequently heard people talking about “being able to see” and “not being able to see,” so he knew it was something he was lacking.

What did it mean to see?

At the very least, it must be something that prevented one from falling and getting hurt so often.

Eventually, he’d stopped being bothered by the voices. Regardless of what anyone said, there was nothing to be done about his blindness. And no one said such things to his face, so he could just pretend he didn’t hear them.

The sighing was the problem.

People often expressed their emotions through sighs. Pitying sighs, sighs of anxiety about what would become of him, worried sighs that leaked out every time Kunon slipped and injured himself. Kunon had heard those sighs hundreds of times. They pierced his heart deeply over and over again, even more than the thoughtless words.

I can’t see. I can’t move around by myself. I have to rely on others.

I can’t survive on my own.

Around the age of seven, when Kunon was already fully aware of his circumstances, a water crest appeared on his body. The crest was proof that he held magical power. Evidently, Kunon could perform water magic.

His parents and brother rejoiced. But Kunon only muttered to himself, “So what?”

So what?

Those were his true feelings.

In the end, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t see anything, and he couldn’t do anything or go anywhere without help.

“Haah…”

Mirika sighed somewhere in front of Kunon.

This was Mirika Hughlia, ninth princess of the Kingdom of Hughlia. At nine, she was two years Kunon’s senior.

Without his knowledge, the two of them had been betrothed.

Although Mirika had greeted him properly to his face, she was clearly disappointed in Kunon, and because of this, she sighed.

Well, of course, Kunon thought.

What did the Hero’s Scar or the water crest matter? Ultimately, he was just a boy who couldn’t see. Their engagement had been ordered by the king—there was no way she wanted to marry him. Who would willingly choose someone like him?

Her sigh was quiet, but Kunon could hear it.

He wished he couldn’t. It was a sigh of distinct unhappiness.

As the two of them spent more time together, Mirika started to become unkind.

“Your Highness? Princess Mirika?”

The two of them had been walking around the Gurion family gardens—Mirika leading the way—when she disappeared. Or to be more precise, when she pretended to disappear and quietly slipped away.

Kunon’s hearing and his ability to sense the presence of others had developed to compensate for his lack of sight. In general, he had a pretty good idea of how those around him were moving.

He knew that Mirika was quietly sneaking away from him, and he could tell which direction she was going. She wasn’t far. As expected, she wouldn’t abandon him entirely.

What a pain, he thought.

To begin with, they were in his family’s garden. He had a cane, and he knew his own location by the smell of the plants and the flow of the air.

Having lived here for seven years, Kunon had memorized the area’s layout, even if he couldn’t see it. And besides, if he shouted, servants would come running for him.

He thought of simply going back to the house but ultimately decided that if it was his fiancée’s wish, he would pretend to frantically search for her.

If this is what she wants, I’ll indulge her.

She had come all this way to visit him, after all.

But the whole time he was thinking, Ugh. What a pain.

With the appearance of the water crest, Kunon began training in magic as part of his daily routine.

In addition to a private tutor who did nothing but read aloud to him from books about the world, he gained a water magic instructor.

“Yes, like that. Remember that feeling.”

Kunon felt something decrease within him as a change occurred nearby, and his teacher, Jenié, praised him for it.

But Kunon, unable to see the transformation, only vaguely understood what was going on. He couldn’t experience firsthand the fruits of his labor, whether success or failure, so all he could do was practice exactly as he was told.

Then one day, after approximately three months of this, Kunon opened his eyes.

What kind of magic am I doing right now?

He wasn’t very interested in magic, but he wanted to have an idea of what he was doing, so he asked.

And his magic tutor’s reply caught him by surprise.

“I guess it’s about the size of an eyeball.”

There were several spheres of water floating around him, and apparently, they were each about the size of an eyeball.

His teacher’s casual, almost rude remark awakened something in Kunon. He felt shaken to his core in a way he had never experienced before.

His deepest wish, one he had thought would never come true no matter how hard he prayed, soared up inside him. Yearning flooded his heart.

“Oh. All I have to do is make eyes on the outside.”

Kunon possessed magic power, and he could release that power outside of himself.

Kunon was connected to his power.

And his power was connected to his magic.

And in that case, if he made an eyeball with magic, wouldn’t he be able to see?

With magic, maybe he could obtain the sight he lacked.

Can I do it?

Was such a thing even possible?

No—I will do it. I have to.

Whether it was possible didn’t matter. He was going to do it. No matter what.