Reign of the Seven Spellblades, Vol. 8 by Bokuto Uno and Ruria Miyuki

Author:Bokuto Uno and Ruria Miyuki [Uno, Bokuto and Miyuki, Ruria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Yen On
Published: 2023-05-23T00:00:00+00:00

“Fwahhhhhhhhhhhh!”

The old man pursed his lips and blew. Innumerable candles studding the giant three-layer cake like a hedgehog’s needles were blown away—along with the cream, the fruit, and the top layer of sponge cake. The sugary debris traced an arc through the air, splattering against the boy and the coffin seated across the table.

“Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! See? I blew out all two hundred! All that chanting really hones a mage’s lungs!”

“…Happy birthday, Great-Grandpa. I see turning two hundred hasn’t slowed you down. If anything, you’re even more powerful.”

The cream-covered boy said the right things, repressing the urge to wish dotage and death upon his elder. Laughing heartily, the old man said a spell, cleaning all the cake off the boy and his coffin.

“Buck up, Cyrus. You know perfectly well I only play these games out of love!”

“I am aware. You’ve played them enough.”

While the boy wiped down his face, Douglas pulled over the remnants of his cake, tearing off a chunk barehanded. He stuffed it in his mouth, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, his lips instantly covered in cream. The boy snorted—was that any way for a bicentenarian to act?

“And I have a question for my beloved great-grandson.”

“Ask away.”

“Can you get further than I did?” he asked, polishing off the last of the cake.

His tone never once changed. But this question contained no trace of humor. The boy straightened up. The old man had always been like this—no barriers between grim and goofy.

“As the inheritor of our great bloodline, it is my life’s sworn duty to do so.”

“I ain’t looking for rehearsed answers. I’m asking your gut feeling, Cyrus. Your premonition, even.”

The query cut deep. Caught in the light of his eyes, the boy wavered a moment, then let himself breathe.

“…The honest truth?”

“Mm.”

“Forty years at most, thirty if I’m quick. When they mention the mage named Rivermoore, they’ll no longer mean you.”

The boy had crossed his arms, eyes boring into the old man—the portrait of arrogance. The old-timer threw back his head, laughing, spraying bits of cake across the entire room.

“Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That’s the spirit, boy! Excellent, excellent! Then I’ll just have to snatch the name back in year forty-one!”

With another explosive burst of laughter, Douglas vaulted to his feet and walked away. He paused once by the boy’s side and mussed his hair.

“You made my birthday a grand one! My thanks, Cyrus.”

“A message from her,” the boy said, sensing the time for conversation was over. The coffin on his back spoke through him to her former bearer. “‘Congrats on two hundred years. But don’t go putting on airs. You’ve got more wrinkles, and your hair’s gone white, but you’re still that same kid inside. I’d suggest living at least another century if you ever want to grow up.’”

The old man weighed each word from the chatterbox ghost and then smirked.

“I do miss how she talks. Just like when I carried her.”

With that, he walked on. The boy rose to his feet and turned to watch the old man go. Shoulders so

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