Kays Translations

Chapter 09: The Dodecahedron Fractal-Type Magic Staff Aleister

Thanks to Ohinata-sensei’s 90-minute lecture on magic languages, I gained a foundational understanding of them.

Though memorizing phonetic symbols, grammar, and rhetoric felt overwhelming and impossible to grasp all at once, I managed to cover the basics. The professor gave me her seal of approval, even calling me a model student—which didn’t feel bad at all.

Out of everything I learned, mastering the concept of “safety sounds” stood out as particularly significant.

Safety sounds are a protective system devised by magic linguists prone to accidental magic outbursts during their research.

Unlike Japanese, the pronunciation of magic languages is completely different, so the average person faces no risk of unintentionally casting a spell in everyday conversation. However, magic linguists, who frequently speak magic languages with one another, face a much higher risk of accidental magic outbursts while discussing spells.

For example, if someone were to casually say, “I’d like to discuss the Vaalar freezing system,” and accidentally trigger a frost beam, it would be catastrophic.

To prevent this, magic linguists developed the habit of prefixing their magic language sentences with a brief fricative sound.

This fricative sound is not found in any magic language currently known, meaning it’s considered an unpronounceable sound in magic contexts.

By incorporating this fricative sound, magic language becomes an improper utterance, ensuring that any spell fails to activate.

It’s a safeguard against accidental magic outbursts, aptly named a “safety sound.”

Because safety sounds are faint, short, and difficult to detect, they’re often dismissed as background noise unless one listens carefully. Even with safety sounds, conversations remain unaffected.

While witches and wizards don’t need safety sounds, they’re incredibly useful for ordinary people like us.

This is undoubtedly one of the great achievements of magic linguists.

That said, when experimenting with rerouted chants or modified incantations, spells need to activate, so using safety sounds to ensure failure isn’t an option. As a result, magic linguists remain unable to escape the risk of fatal accidents.

To protect magic linguists from chanting-related incidents, more fundamental measures and innovative approaches are necessary.

After the lecture, I offered the stoat professor some canned juice poured into a small dish as she rested, worn out from all the talking. I took a break as well—my brain hadn’t worked this hard in a long time.

After a quick trip to the (pit-style) toilet, I was on my way back to the workshop when the Blue Witch poked her head out of the study and called me over.

“Dairi, is the lecture over?”

“Yeah. Any more than that, and I wouldn’t retain anything today.”

“Well, come here for a moment. I need to discuss something with you.”

Following her gesture, I entered the study. The Blue Witch, looking hesitant, fiddled with her hair spilling out from beneath her mask as she began to speak awkwardly.

“Um, actually…”

“Yeah?”

“Well, it’s hard to say, but…”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t get mad… just hear me out.”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing that makes me want to get mad. Spit it out already. There’s only room for one socially awkward person here, and that’s me.”

Prodded, she finally got to the point.

“Well, I might’ve made a rash promise. No, I didn’t outright commit, but I did imply I’d come up with a solution. Basically, in exchange for this magic language lecture, I now need to resolve the food crisis in Japan—or at least in the greater Tokyo area.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

How on earth did the conversation take such a bizarre turn?

What could’ve possibly led to this?

It made no sense at all.

Upon further explanation, it turned out there had been a political negotiation at a witches’ assembly.

The seer who was protecting Ohinata-sensei turned out to also be the Minister of Food Supply Issues. In exchange for lending personnel, our side was tasked with assisting their food production project.

She launched into a lengthy explanation of the severity of Japan’s current food crisis, but to summarize, that’s what happened.

“You’re the one who promised, right? Then you figure it out.”

“I don’t know anything about agriculture. My only experience is growing morning glories in elementary school. But Dairi, you’ve done home gardening and worked in rice fields, haven’t you?”

“Don’t lump personal gardening in with large-scale agricultural policy issues.”

“But you’re more knowledgeable than I am. You created the Kyanos, didn’t you? Can’t you make a magic staff that could revolutionize agriculture?”

“Stop messing around. That’s asking way too much.”

Despite my protests, I started thinking.

Lending the Kyanos to the seer and letting them unleash an ultra-amplified fertility magic spell might solve the problem. But apparently, the infamous incident involving the Iruma wizard left a disastrous precedent, and the Blue Witch insisted that it was too dangerous to risk the same thing happening again.

Fair enough—I had no idea what kind of person this seer was.

If the Blue Witch says, “I want to trust them, but I can’t entirely,” I suppose that’s how it is.

“Why don’t you take the Kyanos and use it yourself to cast fertility magic across the nation? …Oh wait, you don’t want to leave Ome, huh?”

Before she could answer, I nodded to myself.

So using the Kyanos to solve this issue was out of the question.

The same went for the Octa Meteorite.

“How about a numbers game? I’ve got around 300 generic dual-layer magic staffs made by Gremlins sitting in storage. I didn’t make them for a situation like this, but just as a hobby to kill time. If we teach ordinary people how to use fertility magic, we could have 300 people casting it little by little to cover the fields.”

“That won’t work. Fertility magic includes unpronounceable sounds. Only witches and wizards can use it.”

“For real? Wait a second—didn’t Ohinata-sensei mention they’re researching a way to bypass unpronounceable sounds and modify incantations so regular humans can cast them?”

I snapped my fingers and pointed at the Blue Witch as the pieces clicked in my head.

Ah, I see. So when Ohinata-sensei said they were working on research with immediate practical benefits, they meant this.

For a moment, I felt relieved—Ohinata-sensei would solve the problem eventually. But that relief didn’t last, as the Blue Witch shook her head gravely.

“At this rate, Kei-chan will almost certainly die before their research is complete. The fatality rate for incantation experiments is far too high. I plan to convince them to stop the experiments, but if I succeed, there’ll be no magic language researchers left.”

“Oh, right. There’s only one left because everyone else died, huh? Just hire more people.”

“The fatality rate for magic language researchers exceeds 90%. It’s higher than the death rate for the security forces. They are recruiting, but no one’s applying.”

Every suggestion I made was shot down, and I was about to lose my temper.

Then what the hell am I supposed to do?

“We’re at a dead end.”

“Yeah, no kidding. That’s why I’m asking for your help, Dairi.”

“Nope. Can’t do it.”

I’m just an ordinary, if legendary, magic staff craftsman. If professors smarter than me and politicians more socially adept than a million of me combined can’t solve this problem, there’s no way I can.

Naturally, I threw in the towel. But the Blue Witch persistently pleaded with me.

“I understand why you’d feel that way, but please, just try thinking of something—anything. I’ll think about it too.”

“…Just thinking about it, yeah?”

“Yes, that’s enough. Thank you. I’m sorry for pushing you.”

The Blue Witch looked visibly relieved and bowed her head.

I just wanted to stay holed up as a legendary magic staff craftsman, enjoying my carefree isolation. That’s why I dumped all external negotiations on the Blue Witch in the first place.

Don’t saddle me with the future of Japan. Please, I’m begging you.

I guess I’ll think about it. But still, it’s such a heavy burden.

As the conversation dragged on, I suddenly remembered that I’d left Ohinata-sensei waiting during my break. I was supposed to return for a Q&A session afterward.

I nervously tiptoed back to the workshop, half-expecting them to be furious, only to find Ohinata-sensei curled up under a lap blanket, peacefully asleep.

S-so cute…!

I instinctively reached out to pet her, only for her to lick my finger with their tiny tongue while still asleep.

What is this ridiculously adorable creature?!

They’re a person on the inside, so they don’t need training, can prepare their own food, and aren’t noisy. They might be the ultimate lifeform.

“……”

As their warm little tongue kept licking my finger, I started to process the reality of the situation.

So this lovable little creature would carry out reckless experiments and die if things continued as they were.

I don’t want that. It’d be heartbreaking.

Maybe I should seriously think about this.

How to solve Japan’s food crisis and prevent Ohinata-sensei’s untimely death.

Ohinata, who was sound asleep, was carefully placed in a basket lined with a fluffy blanket and carried home by the Blue Witch.

It seemed that being burdened with solving Japan’s food crisis, turning into an stoat, and being subjected to one-on-one lectures with a socially awkward man had completely exhausted her—both physically and mentally.

I could only hope she wouldn’t die from overwork before the fatal accidents could claim her. The world is far too harsh for a girl at the level of a sixth-grader.

With the visitor gone, the peaceful solitude of my world returned, and my mind became sharper.

After sorting through the problem, I reached a simple conclusion: the key was to reduce the fatality rate of magic language experiments to zero.

Even if zero wasn’t entirely possible, getting it close to zero would suffice.

If the fatality rate for magic language experiments drastically decreased, more people would be willing to take up magic language research. This would relieve Ohinata-sensei from being a one-person team, reducing her burden significantly. That would also ease the worries of the Blue Witch, who was deeply concerned for her.

Research efficiency would improve, and the development of an alternative incantation for fertility magic would accelerate.

Once a universally accessible fertility magic was completed, the 300 generic magic staffs lying dormant in my warehouse could finally be put to use. If 300 weren’t enough, I could always produce more.

Even unprocessed Gremlins, though inefficient, could serve as magic activation mediums. So, in the worst-case scenario where there weren’t enough staffs, spreading the modified fertility incantation would allow for a sheer numbers strategy of low-output fertility spells, ultimately solving the food problem.

Now, how to reduce the fatality rate in magic language experiments?

It’s a tough problem, but my strength lies in being the world champion of dexterity. When it comes to crafting magic staffs, no one can rival me.

I decided the best approach was to leverage my skills to create a magic staff that could reduce the fatality rate in magic language experiments.

From what I’d heard about fatal accidents during magic language experiments, it seemed that many of the deaths could have been avoided if the magic power had been dialed down.

For example:

• In the incident where someone’s blood boiled, reducing the power might have resulted in the blood merely warming up, which could have been beneficial for circulation.
• In the case where someone’s body exploded due to a rapid increase in blood volume, reducing the power might have limited it to a mere nosebleed.
• Even the transformation into an stoat—if the power had been reduced, perhaps it would have only resulted in stoat-like ears or a tail appearing.

Until now, all the magic staffs I crafted were designed to enhance power. Compared to unprocessed items, even the weakest of my staffs doubled the output. One of my creations, the Kyanos staff, had an amplification rate so high that it was still unclear how many times it multiplied power (the Blue Witch speculated it might reach 100 times).

So, what if I reversed the approach?

If crafting could increase magic power, surely it could also decrease it.

It was the amplification rates of 2x or 3x that were causing problems. For instance, if I could create a magic staff with an amplification rate of 1/1000, even in the event of an accident during a magic language experiment, it wouldn’t result in fatal consequences.

Thus, I set a new goal: to craft a magic staff with negative amplification efficiency.

Once I had the goal, it was just a matter of playing to my strengths. I would develop the necessary crafting method and then make it.

I spent an entire day and night poring over the drawing board, brainstorming ideas. The floor became littered with hastily scribbled sketches I had torn apart. At some point, I found a bento box hanging on the doorknob of my workshop, left by Uber-Blue Witch. I absentmindedly ate it as I groaned and pondered.

Simplistically speaking, if spherical shapes enhanced amplification, then crafting a shape opposite to a sphere should reduce amplification.

But what exactly is the opposite of a sphere?

Does such a thing even exist?

A mathematician specializing in geometry might have some insight, but I was clueless.

Still, a geometrical approach seemed necessary, so I pulled out my old math textbooks from high school and college, searching for inspiration.

Shaping a Gremlin into random, irregular forms would certainly lower output, but only by about 1/2 to 1/3.

Even with the output halved, many spells would still be lethal. Moreover, irregularly shaped Gremlins caused magic to fly off in unpredictable directions. If you aimed a lethal spell at a target and it bugged out and hit you instead, that would be a disaster. Irregular shapes were a no-go.

It seemed that using spherical or spherical-based shapes only increased magic power.

Perhaps I could try spirals. Or squares?

I attempted carving Gremlins into spiral shapes and square shapes, but the reduction in power was still limited to 1/2 to 1/3. Additionally, the beams of natural frequency that should have flown straight instead twisted and veered off in unintended directions. Too dangerous. Useless.

I tore up yet another blueprint and found my eyes drawn to a column in a mathematics reference book discussing fractal structures.

Fractals. A geometric concept referring to shapes where the parts and the whole exhibit self-similarity…?

The definition didn’t immediately click, but as soon as I looked at the accompanying illustration, I instantly understood what it meant.

Oh.
Ohhh!
You can create fractals not just in two-dimensional shapes, but also in three dimensions?

And they’re recursive.

Fractal structures appear in nature—trees, coastlines, cumulonimbus clouds, and snowflakes… interesting.

It’s just a feeling, but fractals strike me as a “magic” kind of shape.

I didn’t fully understand it intellectually, but my hands—trained through countless experiences carving magic stones with precision—felt an itch to recreate the fractal pattern.

Tracing my finger over the illustration of a regular dodecahedron fractal in the reference book, I instinctively perceived a magic significance in it.

Ohinata-sensei once talked about something called the “Yoshida Hypothesis” in magic linguistics.

According to the late Assistant Professor Yoshida’s hypothesis, magic language is thought to contain five additional, currently unknown unpronounceable sounds beyond the seven already identified.

That makes a total of 12 sounds.

I wasn’t told how they arrived at this conclusion, and even if they had explained, I probably wouldn’t have kept up. But apparently, it’s a highly credible hypothesis, regarded within the research team as “a prediction bordering on fact.”

Twelve unpronounceable sounds.
A fractal based on a dodecahedron.
Both involve the number twelve. Coincidence or destiny?

Hmm. Thinking too hard about this is making my head spin.

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking—my desire for them to be connected creating a link between two entirely unrelated things.

Or maybe it’s the result of investigation, experimentation, and thought experiments leading me to some kind of truth.

Well, whatever. Let’s try carving the dodecahedron fractal and see what happens.

Judging by the illustration in the reference book, it’s going to require dizzyingly complex and delicate work, but there’s no harm in trying.

Since this will be the most intricate piece I’ve ever attempted, I chose the largest and easiest-to-carve Gremlin in my collection—a 28mm specimen harvested from the Yokohama Thermal Power Plant.

As soon as I began the process, I realized this wasn’t going to be a simple task.

The spherical, multi-layered crafting of the Kyanos staff was challenging enough, but fractal crafting took difficulty to a whole new level. Carefully carving out the recursive, multi-layered structure felt like it would drive my eyes and hands insane.

With Kyanos, I could work on it continuously. But with fractal crafting, I couldn’t maintain my focus for long stretches. I had to take frequent breaks, soothe my eyes with steamed towels, and rest my hands.

The experience of crafting over 300 magical staffs wasn’t wasted.

If I hadn’t spent so much time training my eyes and hands, refining my precision crafting skills, even I wouldn’t have been able to manage this ultra-precise task.

If carving a Buddha statue out of a grain of rice is dexterity level 1, this process feels like level 100. And I’m not exaggerating—it really is that difficult.

Eventually, I lost all sense of time as I became immersed in the work. What felt like an endless process finally came to an end, and I nearly collapsed from the release of tension.

Whoa, that was close. I almost dropped the prototype I’d worked so hard to craft.

The fractal-processed Gremlin, now hollowed out inside, had become much more fragile and prone to breaking. I’d have to handle it with extreme care.

Later, I’ll fill the gaps with resin to reinforce it. Even if this prototype ends up being a failure, I’d like to keep it as a memento of all the effort I put into it.

Judging by the pile of empty bento boxes stacked in the corner of the room, I’d apparently spent three full days absorbed in the crafting process. No wonder I’m so tired. My stomach might be full, but my brain has reached its limit.

After testing this prototype, I’m going straight to bed. I got too caught up in the work.

“Ahhhhhh!”

Feeling slightly unsteady, I held up the fractal prototype I had crafted and recited my usual resonant frequency spell. But something seemed off.

Instead of emitting a white beam, the regular dodecahedron fractal began to flicker rhythmically, glowing on and off in a steady pattern.

What’s this? Something’s happening!

I had hoped for something to occur, but I didn’t really expect it to. My drowsiness vanished instantly as I inspected the fractal, now causing an unknown phenomenon.

But… I couldn’t figure it out.

What’s going on? I have no idea!

Using a metronome, I managed to measure the intervals of the fractal’s white blinking. It appeared to repeat in a consistent cycle.

Beyond that, though, I discovered nothing. It wasn’t hot, it wasn’t vibrating—just blinking. It looked like it could be repurposed into some kind of LED display.

With no other ideas, I shouted once again.

“Ahhhhhh!”

This time, a thin white beam shot out, weakly striking the target on the wall. It dissipated pathetically without even rustling the paper target.

Whoa! It’s so weak! The power output has massively dropped! I have no idea why the first attempt malfunctioned, but the energy has clearly plummeted!

Could this actually work to my advantage?

“Freeze, Vaara!”

Next, I tried the freezing spell I’d just learned.

But again, it failed to cast, and the fractal started flashing blue-white.

Hmm? What’s this…

“Freeze, Vaara. Aha, I see now. Is it… waiting for activation? Freeze, Vaara. Freeze, Vaara. Freeze, Vaara. Freeze, Vaara. That seems to be the case. And if I just say ‘Vaara’… nothing happens at all.”

After repeated tests, I discovered that this fractal-crafted piece enters a “magic activation standby” state with the first chant, and only activates with the second one. It doesn’t respond to improper incantations.

On top of that, the power is drastically reduced.

A natural, built-in safety lock requiring two chants to activate!

Massively reduced power means drastically reduced accident risks!

Even just one of these features would’ve been an amazing innovation, but both at once? Incredible.

I trembled at my own genius. This creation had exceeded my expectations—it was more perfect than I’d ever imagined.

Lately, I’d been thinking of myself as the world’s greatest magic staff craftsman, but maybe I’m the best in the universe!

Brimming with excitement, I got to work finishing my groundbreaking invention.

I filled the gaps in the structure with resin to reinforce it and coated the entire piece with resin before shaping it into a rhombus. Gems for magic staffs are typically spherical, but making this one a sphere might risk increasing its power output again. A rhombus works just fine.

The final product was a clear rhombus-shaped crystal with a white, regular dodecahedron fractal floating inside.

Pretty cool, huh? Looks awesome!

For the staff’s handle, I used a luxurious 120cm piece of paulownia wood. Paulownia is soft but polishes to a beautiful sheen, and as the lightest domestic wood, it wouldn’t feel too heavy even for a long staff. Unlike the Kyanos staff, it didn’t have a metal core, so its strength was lower, but that was fine since this wasn’t meant for combat—it was for use in a laboratory.

Even for light wood, 120cm is still quite large. For its intended owner, a stoat, the staff was ridiculously oversized. But that’s not a problem.

I love the aesthetic of small creatures wielding oversized weapons!

Like when a little girl swings around an absurdly large hammer—that’s totally my thing.

I’m really looking forward to seeing her carry this oversized staff with all her might. Just imagining it makes me grin.

For the carved design on the handle, I incorporated the emblem of the university where her father used to teach. Ohinata-sensei seems like a daddy’s girl, so I figured this would go over well.

I never thought that the book of university emblems I bought years ago while watching a college war anime would come in handy like this. Not even the greatest seer could’ve predicted this moment.

Finally, I engraved the name “Aleister” in a stylish font, inspired by the 20th century’s greatest magician, Aleister Crowley, as the finishing touch.

With the staff completed, I wrote an instruction manual and tested how it felt in my hand. Just then, I sensed the presence of someone outside my room, trying to muffle their footsteps.

Perfect timing.

I opened the door and greeted the Blue Witch, who had come to deliver my bento.

The sudden burst of the door swinging inward startled her.

“Good morning!”

“Oh, uh, good morning. Though, it’s already evening. Taking a break?”

“Something like that. By the way, about the food supply issue you asked me to think about.”

“Ah, yes?”

“You just wanted me to think about it, right?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Well, I made something.”

“…What?”

“I solved the food supply issue. I made this.”

“……What!?”

“Here you go. This is the Aleister Regular Dodecahedron Fractal Magic Staff, along with its instruction manual. Just hand it over to Ohinata-sensei. She’ll understand. Okay, I’m counting on you. I’m going to sleep.”

Genius at work! Sorry, not sorry!

I’m just a guy with nimble fingers—that’s my only real talent.

But with nimble fingers alone, I’ll solve everything!

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