Chapter 12: The Inefficient Use of Magic
The soil improvement project was progressing steadily under Zenon’s direction.
Across the Arkwright domain, limestone was being crushed and its white powder spread over the fields. In the villages, compost pits were being built where livestock manure and weeds were piled up as valuable resources for the next planting season.
At first, the farmers were skeptical. Why would the young third son of a noble house concern himself with dirt and dung? Surely this was just another whim of the upper class.
But Assistant Magistrate Marc patiently went from village to village, explaining Zenon’s theories in plain words that even the common folk could understand. More than that, the fear of defying their new lord kept everyone in line.
Zenon reviewed the reports and confirmed that the project was moving forward smoothly.
But, of course, he was not one to be satisfied easily.
“The problem of the soil is on its way to being solved. But one more critical element remains untouched.”
In agriculture, there are two essential factors: soil and water.
No matter how fertile the soil, crops could not grow without water.
Zenon studied the map of Arkwright territory. Several rivers ran through it, but only the villages along their banks benefited from them. Those farther away relied solely on rainfall from the heavens.
A single drought could ruin everything. From a management standpoint, such instability was an unacceptable risk.
“A stable water supply… We’ll need to construct irrigation canals. But that alone won’t be enough. We need an emergency measure as well.”
That was when Zenon remembered a certain group.
The court magicians employed by the Arkwright family.
In this world, magicians were rare. On the battlefield, they served as powerful weapons; in peacetime, their mystical abilities allowed them to interfere with the natural order in subtle ways.
The Arkwright family retained three such magicians — mostly as symbols of prestige for the house. They spent most of their days sequestered in a tower at the back of the estate, engaged in what they called “research.”
Among their supposed duties, however, was performing rainmaking rituals during droughts.
“Gray. Summon all the magicians in our employ to my office.”
“The magicians, my lord?”
Gray looked startled. Magicians were notoriously proud; unless summoned directly by the duke himself, they rarely left their tower.
“Yes. I intend to evaluate whether their cost justifies their return.”
“E–evaluate… understood, my lord.”
Gray’s face twitched in confusion at hearing a term like evaluate — something utterly foreign to the world of sorcery — but he faithfully carried out his orders.
Half an hour later, three magicians entered Zenon’s office, their faces full of displeasure.
At their center stood an elderly man with a long white beard — Oldas, the head magician. Flanking him were his middle-aged disciples.
All three wore loose, ornate robes, projecting an air of superiority that said, We are not like the common rabble.
“So, young Master Zenon summons us. To what purpose, may I ask?”
Oldas’ voice carried both condescension toward his social inferior and irritation at having his “research” interrupted.
Zenon ignored the arrogance and went straight to the point.
“I want a report on your recent work — specifically, your contributions to the territory’s agriculture.”
“Agriculture?”
Oldas frowned in puzzlement.
“Our duty is to read the flow of mana, commune with the spirits, and seek the laws of the world. Such matters are on a completely different plane from tilling soil.”
“In other words, you’ve done nothing.”
Zenon’s cold response made Oldas’s expression stiffen.
“…How rude. We conduct annual rites of blessing for bountiful harvests. Thanks to our rituals, this land has avoided major famine.”
“Rituals, you say? And how exactly do you measure their effectiveness?”
“Measure!? Magic cannot be quantified! It depends upon the spirits’ guidance, our years of experience, and sensitivity to mana! Only through such harmony can miracles occur!”
As Oldas ranted passionately, Zenon watched him with detached eyes.
Spirits, experience, sensitivity — all vague concepts, with no objective indicators. No reproducibility. No verifiable results.
He had seen this many times in his previous life — underperforming salesmen making excuses like “I’m building client trust” or “The market’s just bad right now”, all without showing a single piece of concrete data.
“Then what about your rainmaking? Report your results for the past five years.”
“Th–that is…”
Oldas faltered immediately.
Zenon presented the data he had already collected.
“According to my investigation, only three official rainmaking rituals were conducted in the past five years. Of those, rainfall occurred within a week only once — and that instance resulted in a localized downpour that caused river flooding and landslides, damaging the very fields it was meant to save. Am I wrong?”
“…Weather manipulation lies within the realm of the gods. Even we cannot succeed every time—”
“A success rate of thirty percent — with negative outcomes — and yet the wages for the three of you equal those of a hundred knights. The cost–benefit ratio is unacceptable. In fact, it’s in the red.”
Zenon dissected the mystical domain of magic with merciless business terminology.
Oldas and his disciples’ faces twisted with humiliation — their sacred craft being reduced to mere numbers and profit margins.
“With all due respect, Zenon-sama!”
One of Oldas’ apprentices, standing beside him, could no longer contain himself and shouted.
“You understand nothing of the mysteries of magic! Our magic doesn’t merely make it rain! It aligns the mana flowing through the earth and invigorates the crops’ life force from within!”
“Oh? And this ‘invigoration of life force’ — by what percentage does it increase the yield?”
“T-That’s… not something that can be expressed in numbers! It’s a deeper, more fundamental power—”
“In other words, it’s just your imagination.”
Zenon’s merciless words left the magicians speechless.
All the experience, tradition, and mystique they had relied upon were smashed to pieces by the hammer of rationality.
Zenon let out a long sigh.
Utterly exasperated.
They possessed tremendous energy called magic — yet couldn’t control it at all.
It was as if someone knew how to make gunpowder but used it only to throw on a campfire, proudly saying, “Look, the flame got bigger!”
Pathetic. Utterly inefficient.
“That’s enough. I’ve seen enough of your incompetence.”
That scornful remark finally snapped Oldas’ patience.
“…You insolent whelp!”
Raw magic power burst from the old mage’s body. The air crackled, lamps flickered violently, and the whole room trembled.
“To insult the dignity of mages — unforgivable! I’ll teach you your place… along with the terror of true magic!”
A crackling sphere of lightning formed in Oldas’ palm.
Gray immediately stepped before Zenon, hand on his sword hilt.
But Zenon didn’t even flinch.
He simply watched the enraged old man as one might observe an unusual insect.
“I see… you’re good at releasing energy. But your control is appallingly crude. Most of your power dissipates as heat and light — the conversion efficiency is abysmal. Your magic is like an outdated mana engine with terrible fuel economy.”
“Wh–What nonsense are you spouting!?”
“In short, you’re wasting energy.”
Zenon rose calmly and extended his right hand toward Oldas.
At his fingertip, a speck of light — no larger than a grain of rice — began to shine.
Unlike Oldas’ violent lightning, it was quiet, steady, and pure.
“This is what magic is supposed to be.”
The next instant—
The tiny bead of light shot straight into Oldas’ lightning sphere.
And then, as if the storm of energy had been absorbed by a sponge, it vanished instantly — dispersing into thin air.
“Wh–What…!?”
Oldas could not believe his eyes.
The spell he had poured his full power into had been neutralized — no, disassembled — with childlike ease.
It wasn’t merely canceled; it had been unraveled, its internal structure exposed and elegantly solved, like a complex equation rewritten into a simpler, perfect form.
“Impossible… this can’t be…”
Oldas and his apprentices stood frozen in shock.
Zenon lowered his hand as though nothing had happened.
“What you practice isn’t magic — it’s superstition. Real magic doesn’t rely on prayer or ritual. It analyzes phenomena precisely, formulates them mathematically, and achieves maximum results with minimum cost. That is what magic should be.”
He looked coldly at the three trembling mages, now filled with fear and humiliation.
“I’ll give you one month. In that time, prove your worth through results. Those who can’t deliver returns proportionate to their cost will be dismissed. My house has no room to keep overpaid priests pretending to be magicians.”
Those words shattered the mages’ pride and carved deep terror into their hearts.
That day, that very moment, they witnessed the dawn of a new era, one in which everything they’d believed about magic would be overturned.