The Demon Hand Shows Its Power (Part One)

"A third-level Mage can make a pact with a demon and summon it from the Abyss into our world. But your mentor's talent is limited, and Blue Town is poor in resources." Sanderson shook his head. "So I'm only a second-level Mage."

Dean nodded, though he only half understood.

"So, Little Dean, if you want to grow stronger, you can't stay in this impoverished place. You have to go out into the world. It holds wonders beyond anything you can imagine."

"But the outside world is dangerous!" Dean hesitated. He knew it was full of wonders. He could see all kinds of magic, races of every height, and perhaps even catch a glimpse of nobler beings.

But danger would multiply along the way. One careless moment could cost him his life. Dean did not think he was some chosen one, nor was he particularly lucky.

For all he knew, he might step out of Blue Town, have the good fortune to run into a few Magic Beasts, and promptly drop dead. Then no one would ever know a young mage had been killed there so easily.

Dean had no desire to turn into fertilizer without anyone even knowing his name.

"Of course, you need to know how to stay alive before you can soar through the countless wonders of the world. The Demon Abyss Great World is a wondrous place full of treasure. Countless powerful people want to enter it, and countless demons want to get out," Sanderson said wistfully.

"Now I'll show you what a demon is." As he spoke, cracks spread across the ice egg in Sanderson's hand, much as they had when he simulated the Swallowing Sky Little Snake in class.

"Of course, this is only a lowly flame demon, and the most common kind I've seen in a book on magic." As soon as he finished speaking, the ice egg in Sanderson's hand shattered, revealing a fierce-looking model inside the remaining half of its shell.

"Hiss!" Dean sucked in a breath of cold air—quite literally, from the chill released by the broken egg. The demon model was only the size of his palm, but even at that size, it looked nothing like the humans, other races, or animals he usually saw.

It had a human shape, but fine scales covered its entire body. Strange protrusions jutted from its arms, torso, thighs, and even its head. Most striking of all was the trace of savage violence it radiated.

Yes, that savage violence. Dean suddenly realized that Mentor Sanderson had even simulated the aura of violence that filled a demon. Still, this demon was only a sculpture. It could not make even the simplest movement.

"Huff! Huff! There, Little... Little Dean. Now you know what a demon is, don't you?" Sanderson asked between breaths. Creating a miniature sculpture of a lifelike demon had clearly taken a great deal out of him. Even as a second-level Mage, he could not sustain such magic for long.

But the effect was unmistakable. If the sculpture were a little bigger, he could use it to frighten people. It was a trick that would send ninety-nine out of a hundred running!

"Mentor Sanderson, I... think I understand." There was no need to search for some special meaning. A demon was cruelty incarnate. It represented fear, so the Demon Hand Dean would create had to be terrifying!

"Good! If you've gained even a little insight, then this old mentor's effort wasn't wasted." The moment he called out "good," Sanderson stood straight as though decades had fallen from his shoulders.

To take on a perceptive disciple at his age—Sanderson felt there was nothing left in his life to regret.

The first shaping of form magic was crucial. In severe cases, a form that had already been shaped might never be changed. Once it took root in the caster's mind, altering it became extraordinarily difficult.

It was like a habit someone had kept for most of their life. Willpower alone was rarely enough to break it.

Sanderson's method was to mold clay. Yes, the same clay children played with. But Sanderson required Dean to take the task with utmost seriousness.

"Little Dean, start digging!" Sanderson said with a smile.

"Well... all right. For the Demon Hand, I'll be a child again."

Dean crouched down, his young face slightly flushed. He wasn't sure he ought to follow Sanderson's instructions and happily dig in the dirt.

In the end, he lowered his head with a wry smile and began digging up clay.

If Kana and the others found out that he, at fifteen, had been playing with mud in his mentor's yard, Dean might as well ask to be excused from their team mission the day after tomorrow. He could not bear the embarrassment.

Sanderson seemed to recall his own beginnings. He had done the same thing and been scolded by his mentor more times than he could count. Only after he had worked the clay until it was fine enough had his mentor been barely satisfied.

But the first time Sanderson had molded a little animal, it had taken him two days. How long would Little Dean need?

A playful mood took hold of Sanderson. He rolled up his sleeves and began digging in the mud too.

Dean had just scooped up a handful of earth when he saw his mentor join in. It showed him a side of his new mentor he had never known existed.

And so, master and disciple dug up handful after handful of earth. Before long, they had piled it into two little hills more than half a person high.

"Use these tools. We need to pick out the finest clay so the forms you make will be more detailed." At some point, Sanderson had brought over a heap of tools.

Only now did Dean realize that his mentor truly was an expert at playing with mud. He even had a full set of tools. Sanderson probably had more mud-working tools than a tool shop carried.

The afternoon soon slipped away. Dean could hardly contain his anticipation. He kept thinking about the shape of the Demon Hand—not the clay before him, of course, but how powerful it would be when he used magic to create it.

Naturally, his distraction led to failure. He made more than twenty hands in all sorts of shapes, but none matched the Demon Hand described in Magic Hand well enough to satisfy Sanderson.

Mentor Sanderson rejected every one of them. He would not allow his only disciple to create such a shoddy hand.

Beside Sanderson stood a circle of twenty or thirty different little animals: mice, tabby cats, lions, falcons, and more. Every one looked vividly alive.

"Little Dean, it's getting late. That's enough for today. Go home and think about what an immensely powerful Demon Hand should look like to you, rather than these defective things on the ground." Sanderson was not angry about the failures.

(End of chapter)