Episode 19
The Problem Child (2)
What the heck is he talking about?
Temia clearly remembered hearing that he came up with that ridiculous title himself. And not just in passing—he even had the audacity to write it on official correspondence to the headmaster!
Furrowing her brow in frustration, Temia quickly handed over the envelope.
“No, I definitely called you by the right name.”
“Was that supposed to be my nickname or something? Even so… doesn’t it seem like your sense of style is a little off?”
Despite his supposedly sympathetic words, the glint in Lowell’s eyes was unmistakably mischievous. He looked ready to tease her to the bitter end.
Temia’s face flushed with heat. She imagined punching him three times in the face just for his smug expression.
“Unfortunately for you, I didn’t come up with that title! And the one with the questionable sense of style isn’t me—it’s you, obviously!”
“Well… I suppose if you were overwhelmed by my magic and suddenly inspired to add some strange honorifics, I’ll try to understand.”
“I’m telling you, I didn’t make that up!!”
She had seen the absurd title written on the envelope with her own eyes. Yet Lowell looked genuinely clueless. Was he actually unaware… or just pretending not to know to mess with her?
Seething, Temia shoved the documents into his arms. The pristine envelope got crumpled in the process, but neither of them paid it any mind.
“This kind of aggression is a bit much for someone like me. I’m a delicate magician, after all. If you charge at me like a wild bull, I’ll just collapse defenselessly.”
“Delicate? You? Please. And seriously, is that any way to speak to a lady?”
“A lady? You don’t mean this tiny little mouse-like assistant in front of me, do you?”
“Now you’re insulting my appearance?!”
Temia took a deep breath, trying to calm the anger that was rapidly boiling over.
She considered herself a rational and composed person—someone who treated others with logic and courtesy. So why was it that she always lost her composure in front of this man?
At first, it was fear. But now it was raw, uncontrollable rage. No doubt about it—this man had a talent for pushing people’s buttons, and he was probably among the top offenders in the kingdom.
This sort of thing had been happening more and more lately.
So much so that each time she struggled to contain her temper, Temia began questioning if she might secretly have a violent streak. She was starting to seriously reflect on herself.
To be fair, Lowell had flung her across the battlefield several times during the war, so considering him a target for revenge wasn’t exactly unreasonable. Still, in his current state, he hadn’t done anything too terrible.
And yet… every time she saw him, she had the overwhelming urge to smack him.
As if he could read her mind, Lowell took a step back and said,
“Calm down. You’re about to punch me, aren’t you?”
He covered his smirking lips with one hand while casually examining the envelope Temia had handed over.
Clenching her trembling hands behind her back, Temia managed to speak in a cold, even tone after a brief silence.
“You’d better double-check it. If that ridiculous name wasn’t your doing, then maybe stop claiming things that aren’t true.”
But instead of replying, Lowell just stared at the document. Curious, Temia glanced at his face—and found his expression twisted into a deep frown.
—
Meanwhile, back at Therium Academy, the headmaster’s office had finally returned to peace—and order.
As the most prestigious academy for all future mages, the school was always bustling. Even when they cleaned all day long, new footprints would instantly appear across the floors. The headmaster’s office had been no different, always crowded with visitors.
But now, not only was the floor spotless—every scattered paper and item had been neatly sorted into place. The magical tools, previously left lying around, had been cleaned and arranged carefully on the desk, showing off their elegant craftsmanship.
It was clear someone had taken time to tidy everything up. A sign, perhaps, of unexpected leisure.
Bathed in sunlight, an old man sipped tea with a serene smile on his face.
His wrinkled features radiated kindness, as if they held all the wisdom and compassion in the world. He rocked gently in his chair, grinning with satisfaction as he took another sip. The tea tasted rich and pleasant as it slid down his throat.
It was the first time in ages that he’d truly felt at ease—not just physically, but mentally.
This wasn’t a break from work. This was blissful peace.
“Little bastard.”
Yet from this tranquil man’s lips came a phrase utterly at odds with the mood. This elderly gentleman—calmly enjoying the morning sun—was none other than Lindbergh Casey, headmaster of Therium Academy and famously known as the Tower Master of Ash.
As the academy’s leader, he was responsible for educating the next generation of mages. He had authored more than a dozen renowned magic books and published dozens of academic papers.
Given that magical talent was an innate trait, not everyone pursued it academically. But mages generally leaned toward research and theory. Lindbergh was no exception.
He was the ideal scholar-mage: fascinated by the strange forces that shaped the world. For generations, such personalities had often risen to lead Therium Academy—and Lindbergh himself had been selected with overwhelming support, thanks in part to his mentor, the previous headmaster.
He had never once let down those expectations. A little eccentric, perhaps—but a dedicated scholar who studied magic with passion and passed on valuable knowledge for future generations.
For that, he was widely respected and loved.
“Damn brat.”
It was tradition for headmasters to seek out potential successors during their tenure. Lindbergh, though diligent in his role as an educator, had yet to find a suitable candidate—a fact that frustrated him to no end.
So why was he smiling so brightly now, even as he cursed under his breath?
Simple: he had just pulled a prank on his beloved (and insufferable) former student.
Time had only added fuel to the old man’s playful spirit, and now, basking in mischief, he was genuinely enjoying himself.
“You look down on the academy like it’s trash? Well then, let’s see how you like having your paper read under that name.”
The story went like this:
The “beloved and insufferable” former student in question was none other than Lowell, now the master of the Green Sandwich Workshop. A prodigy since his early days, he had once been considered for not just academy headmaster or Tower Master, but even Chief Court Mage.
But thanks to his foul temper, people started saying compared to Lowell, even Casey seems like an angel. Naturally, his reputation plummeted, and he never once took the responsibilities of those positions seriously.
Eventually, any admiration he once earned as a candidate for headmaster vanished. Despite Casey pleading for him to stay and at least continue his research—or at least accept the position of Court Mage—Lowell had rejected it all and left the capital behind.
And now, that same genius had reduced himself to running a dinky little workshop on the outskirts of nowhere.
It was laughable.
He was a noble-born mage pretending to be a merchant, operating a small shop like a commoner. With talent far beyond what such a setting demanded, the fact that he remained there was… irritating.
So Casey made him a deal.
“If you insist on doing things your way, I’ll write you the recommendation you need.”
To legally open a workshop, a mage needed both an official letter of recommendation from a certified Court Mage and a statement of competence. When Lowell came to him requesting that paperwork, Casey laid down a condition.
“You can be rebellious if you want—but wasting your gifts in obscurity is still unacceptable. From now on, you’ll be required to submit regular research papers to the Mage Association. Send them to me, and I’ll forward them.”
“As a mage, you have a responsibility to contribute to society. If others come to you for help, don’t ignore them. Use your knowledge. I’ll process your submissions under an alias. I’m sure you don’t want your real name showing up in the Mage Association registry, anyway.”
Left with no other choice, Lowell agreed. And that’s how the current arrangement had come to be.
Of course, running a workshop—especially a one-man operation like Lowell’s—was no easy task. Unlike other workshops with assistants and staff, he handled everything alone. On top of that, he still had to write those papers. It was obvious how overwhelmed he must have been.
What amused Casey most was that Lowell had been faithfully keeping his promise.
While some people struggled to submit even a single paper in their entire lives, Lowell churned them out regularly—even if they were scrawled in barely legible handwriting with smudged ink.
Eventually, he even stopped delivering them himself, using his summoned creature as a courier instead.
While most mages were lucky if their familiars could cast a few simple spells, Lowell had pushed his to communicate in full sentences, copy seals, and deliver sensitive documents.
Typical of that brat.
Sure, it was annoying—but still, entrusting even the writing of recipient names to his summoned creature was going too far. The paper held valuable knowledge—he shouldn’t have treated it so carelessly.
Still, thinking about that ridiculous alias his student had cooked up for the submission was enough to make Casey chuckle.
It must have been his way of “leaving a mark” without using his real name. Attaching titles like “Super Ultra Glorious Perfect Magician” must’ve been his attempt at praise… but it was just so absurd.
And the thought of Lowell now, blushing in embarrassment after receiving a reply addressed to that name?
Delightful.
Still, no matter how much Casey loved to tease his former student, Lowell was still his disciple.
A brief chill passed through the old man’s heart. He remembered the P.S. he had added to the letter—and suddenly wondered if maybe that had gone too far.
But some things had to be said, even if they brought trouble. Watching the sunlight beyond the frosted windows, Casey closed his eyes and muttered to himself with a worried heart.
“He might come looking for you soon, Lowell.”
> P.S. I heard that Trea Baeksaki is looking for you.
