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28 years after the death of Himmel the Hero, a nameless hamlet, located in the northern lands
Senken felt, only now, that being a mage was more than the occasional demon encounter and reading books. This little hamlet, too small to even have a name, with just more than a handful of homes, was overfilled with people. They made basic camps around the walls of the homes; half pitched tents made from cloth or thatch.
The young played in the dirt, smiling and having what fun they could. The old were busy. They were looking everywhere. Some focused on the kids, taking solace in their juvenile fun. Others looked down the road, as if on lookout for trouble. Many of them looked at him, though.
It made sense. Here comes a giant of a dude in a cloak of furs from enough deer to feed them all handedly. He had sunk his spear into his shadow as well, so he looked for all intents, unarmed. His lower eyes were closed, melding into his distinctive tattoos. He looked about, saw the oldest person was some spinstress, using two metal rods to fold and tuck some fabric into a shape, and moved over to her.
"What brings you all here?" He asked, shadow cast over her prone form. She leaned back to be able to look up at him properly.
"Good sir," She began, voice stressing in the ways elders often do. "We have been removed from our village."
"On what grounds?"
"Ineptitude." She explained. "We were told that, since we could not work the fields, we must leave."
Senken turned his view, and found that, upon closer inspection, that the vast majority of the people outside these homes were the elderly and the adolescent. The few who weren't were likely disabled in some way or other.
"Your headman is so cruel?"
"Headwoman Platzre is a practical, but blunt woman." The old lady said. "She killed the previous headman."
Senken hummed, and then sat down in front of her, which made her grow a smile.
"She is also a mage." The old lady explained. "She has foul magic."
"You all ran from one mage?"
"She had other mages there. Alongside armed men."
The old lady's lip quivered.
"All who were capable to work the fields were told to stay, those who couldn't were told to leave. Any who disobeyed were put to the sword. Even…"
Senken saw her tears fall, voice giving out into a whisper. "My son…"
Senken stood up, casting a shadow over her. "How far is it?"
The old woman sobbed, reaching up to wipe her face. "Th-three days?"
"Set out for your home tomorrow. When you arrive, you will be welcomed back."
Senken began walking down the road, gaze set for the horizon. If being a mage was anything like being a sorcerer, then the only way to sharpen his abilities would be to face adversity.
Though he had the feeling that this was not to be a whetstone, but a bamboo stand.
As he walked away from the nameless hamlet, the displaced families looked at his back, his cloak softly swaying in the wind.
The strength of a handful of mages and enough armed men to take over a town felt like a waste of resources. They could have built something themselves or at least pushed themselves to a greater enemy.
He could almost envision it. They got a few more people to join their group of weaklings and thought they could do as they pleased. Wasps swarming a beehive.
Insects all the same.
Senken kept that sentiment as he traveled, in no rush to clear out this nest of termites along his way. A small voice in the back of his head did speak up however in the dead of night.
He didn't have to do anything with this information. He could leave it be. Brigands, as a commonality, never lasted. There would be infighting, or the presiding authorities would organize a party to go deal with them directly.
So why help? If there was little chance this would push him further, and the problem would resolve itself in time, why bother?
That little voice, of a younger man, the same pink hair but with kinder eyes. They stood apart from each other, in his mind. The words crawled from his own mouth.
"The helpless have no choice but to swallow what life gives them."
"Then let's see if you can chew up me and my suffering."
Senken had believed these thoughts were long gone. He was not Hero material. He had no desire to be one. Gojo Satoru, Itadori Yuji, not even the likes of them could hold themselves as such—they had ultimately been sorcerers. He wished to be a mage, and to be the best one he could be. How would helping the helpless serve that aim?
Yet, the bitter aftertaste of beliefs buried by defeat lingered, like candy to the back of his teeth. He had been wrong.
So then, what was "right"?
Would leaving them to their helplessness be "wrong" because he would have done so in his past life, and the philosophy he lived by had been proven wrong by Yuji? Would helping the helpless be "right" because Yuji, who helped the helpless, had been the one to prove his philosophy wrong?
He was sure a "Hero" would know.
But he wasn't to be so fortunate, nor had Yuji been.
He didn't know.
The next day was nothing special. He hunted a few squirrels, making his way along the road to where this brigand-controlled town had ought to be. It wasn't until the next day that he found proof beyond that old woman's words.
Alongside the road, tied to the healthiest of branches by their wrists, were a few adults, dead and rotting. Their bodies had been picked over, and still were, by scavengers, their flesh a marbled gray and green that brought to mind matcha half mixed into fresh clay.
Scattered beneath them, and still embedded, were several arrows. Picking one up, from where it had been worked loose from the bodies by decomposition, he noted its make.
It lacked the idiosyncrasies of a handmade arrow, like his own. The head was metal, likely iron, unlike his stone arrows. The fletching was unremarkable, likely from a farmed bird for the express purpose of its feathers.
These brigands possessed neither the mind and integrity to better pick their battles, nor the strength and ambition to amount to anything beyond what those weaker than them could offer.
If you couldn't make your own arrows, why bother using a bow?
Senken left the bodies to hang. Any he may end up saving from the brigands would be able to get them down.
He had flies to swat.
The next day, he laid eyes upon the village of Abzug for the first time. It was much larger than his home, structured in a circular fashion rather than the rectangular make of his.
He floated high above the village, flight magic keeping him aloft as he studied his target. Surrounded on all sides by fields, each was filled with the mana of normal people. It was only his eyesight that helped spot the ones who were armed with sickles and scythes, and those armed with maces and sabers.
However, his mana detection let him see that five greater sources of mana were dwelling within a single house. The mages, it seemed, were content to let the brigands rule their slaves, while they lazed about.
Parasites upon parasites.
Senken undid his cloak, letting it drift into the shadow he cast in front of himself, back to the sun. The cold air of the higher altitude sent goosebumps up his arms.
They continued across his chest and back as he decided on a plan of action.
When one has an insect problem, how do you remove it?
You fumigate them. Smoke them out.
He lifted both right hands, palms facing each other. This technique had required several binding vows to bring to its pinnacle, but with mana, such actions could not be made.
Nevertheless—
[Furnace]
—the flames of Schrein would smoke these vermin out.
Open
His right palms lifted from one another, and within was a controlled maelstrom of mana set ablaze, the heat of which helped push away the chill of the wind. His upper arm stretched forward, and his lower arm stayed still, the fire stretching between the two palms, the swirl of the mana tightening, narrowing, until only a whisper of flame stretched taunt between them.
Without word or fanfare, his lower hand let go, and the flame fired like an arrow, directly to the building with the five mages.
The wooden and thatch home had no defense, the arrow detonating. Fire exploded from the house, billowing up in an incendiary cloud, clawing at the sky with black smoke that held embers and heat. He could see the ones in the field, slave and slaver alike, turn as the thunderous noise spread out like ripples on a still lake.
His mana detection did not fault him. He had only killed two of the mages outright. Two others were still present, as unaffected as before the attack, but the third was wavering, like a flag in a strong gale.
Through the smoke, he could almost sense their own detection of himself, suspended so far in the air.
Senkens first battle against human mages had begun, utterly in his favor.