Infinite Mage - Remake

Deep in the grimy backstreets of Dock 3, Jis and his crew were locked in a heated argument. With the ship’s cargo already claimed and their would-be passengers gone, all that remained was bitter infighting.

"Jis!" one of his lackeys snapped. "Why the hell did you throw that money back? Five gold is enough to keep us fed for days!"

Jis’s fists shook at his sides. "You got no pride? She tossed it like we were beggars—you want me to crawl for it?"

"Who cares how we get it? Money’s money!"

"I’m not doing it!" Jis snarled.* "Damn bitch! Even when she’s ignoring us, she’s still rubbing her wealth in our faces!"

His friends exchanged uneasy glances. They didn’t get it. Sure, the noble girl’s attitude was insulting—but since when did nobles not act superior?

One of them smirked. "Jis, be real. You into her or something?"

Jis’s face twisted. "What?! Why the hell would I like some spoiled noble brat?"

"You’re acting like a guy trying to impress a girl. But face it—that boy with her? Definitely high-born. And if she’s throwing around five gold like it’s nothing, her family’s loaded. Way outta your league."

Jis’s teeth ground together. "So what if they’re nobles? I’m Jis—future king of this damn port!"

Just then—footsteps echoed from the darkness.

A slow, deliberate click-clack of metal-studded boots striking stone.

Jis’s blood ran cold.

His friends stiffened. There was only one man in the harbor who walked like that.

"Well, well. Jis."

A middle-aged man of average height stepped into the dim light. His face was hard, his eyes like a viper’s—Falcoa, the ruthless leader of the Freeman’s gang, the crew Jis and his boys answered to.

Jis’s shoulders tensed. Falcoa was brutal, a man who lived for violence. He’d brawl with ten men or a hundred—didn’t matter. They called him "Galliant’s Mad Dog" for a reason.

"H-Hey, Brother Falcoa," Jis forced out, trying to sound casual.* "What brings you here?"

Falcoa smirked, draping a heavy arm around Jis’s shoulders. The stench of cheap narcotics clung to him, the ever-present loop-leaf tucked between his yellowed teeth.

"Hand it over. You get the money or not?"

Jis swallowed hard. "Uh… no. Not yet."

Falcoa’s grip tightened. "No?"

A cold dread slithered down Jis’s spine. His friends dropped to their knees, groveling.

"P-Please! They refused our wagon! We tried, but they threatened us—!"

Falcoa chuckled darkly. "Oh? Then what was that little performance back there? You throwing away money—or just trash?"

Jis’s heart stopped.

He knew. He’d been watching the whole time.

Like a frog caught in a snake’s gaze, Jis couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Falcoa’s grin widened.

"Tsk, tsk. What am I gonna do with you idiots?"

Shirone’s group rented a wagon outside the port and traveled toward the western resort. In the distance, the wide expanse of white sand gleamed under the sun, its beauty undeniable. Rows of vibrant shops lined the shore, while accommodations—built like quaint mountain village houses—climbed the slopes in tiers.

The villa Rian had secured sat halfway up the hillside. True to its aristocratic exclusivity, the property was spacious enough for four, and the sweeping ocean view from the terrace was nothing short of breathtaking.

Shirone leaned against the railing, watching the sea. The azure waves crested into foam before crashing onto the shore, their rhythmic motion hypnotic. Below, people lounged on the beach or waded into the shallows, their laughter carrying on the breeze. For a moment, the unpleasant clash at the port faded from his mind.

After unpacking, the group lit a fire in the hearth and gathered in the living room, finally relaxing. Hunger gnawed at them—they’d eaten nothing but snacks since morning.

Tess, brainstorming ways to make their meals memorable, suddenly clapped her hands.

“I’ve got it! Let’s cook!”

Rian blinked at her. “Wait—you can cook?”

“Hah! Of course. Did you think prosecutors only live on military rations?”

“Uh… yeah, kinda.”

“Wow. Do you think we’re barbarians? I can make a proper meal.”

Rian’s eyebrows shot up. He hadn’t expected the carefree girl to boast culinary skills. But this was exactly Tess’s plan—if she could impress Rian with something unexpected, this trip would be a victory.

“I’ll whip up something amazing. You just handle the ingredients. Deal?”

“Hmm… Well, eating out on the first day does feel lazy. Shirone, what do you think?”

“I’m fine either way. Though homemade food has its own charm.”

Then, Amy spoke up softly.

“I… could cook too.”

All eyes turned to her. Unlike Tess, Amy wasn’t the type to volunteer for domestic tasks—let alone cook for others.

Tess, sensing something, smirked.

‘Ah… for Shirone, huh? Cute.’

“Perfect!” Tess declared. “Let’s make it a cooking showdown! Rian and Shirone will fetch ingredients while we prep. Winner gets bragging rights—loser washes dishes!”

Everyone agreed. Soon, Shirone and Rian set off for the market with lists in hand.

The Girls’ Talk

With the men gone, the atmosphere relaxed.

Tess nudged Amy as they washed vegetables.

“So… first fight?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Come on. You and Shirone. That tension back at the port? Couldn’t miss it.”

Amy focused a little too hard on scrubbing a carrot.

“We didn’t fight. And even if we disagreed, it wasn’t… like that.”

Tess giggled. “Three denials in one breath? Wizards really are sneaky.”

Amy sighed. Maybe it was easier to confess.

“Shirone… sometimes feels distant.”

“Distant? Poetic.”

“No, I mean it. It’s like he’s… transparent. Like he might vanish any second.”

Tess tilted her head. “Why?”

“He sees the world differently. Most people view life through their own lens. But Shirone? He steps outside himself. He understands others too well—sometimes too well.”

“Huh. So when he didn’t take your side with those bullies…?”

Amy’s cheeks flushed. “Well… yes. But it’s deeper. He doesn’t just empathize—he dissolves into the bigger picture. Like he’s watching from above, where even he is just another speck.”

She remembered Shirone activating the Immortal Function to save the school. That wasn’t just bravery—it was detachment.

“When Shirone becomes ‘transparent,’ he stops being himself. He’s just… part of the balance. And if the scales tip, he’ll throw himself onto the other side—even if it means death.”

Tess gaped. “That’s insane. Who does that?”

“Shirone does. He saved everyone at the academy. And sometimes… I wonder if I’m just another dot to him.”

Tess squeezed her shoulder. “Hey. He cares. Why else would he invite you?”

Amy smiled weakly. But the doubt lingered.

How much do any of us matter to someone who sees life from the clouds?

The Market Run

Shirone and Rian navigated the bustling market. The ingredient lists were long, and the maze of stalls threatened to swallow their evening.

“Let’s split up,” Shirone suggested. “I’ll grab the veggies and meet you back at the villa.”

“You sure? It’s heavy.”

Shirone stared. “Rian. It’s garlic.”

“Fine! But remember—loser washes dishes. Hope you and Amy make up!”

“We didn’t fight—”

“Hah! Denial again. Just admit it!”

Shirone gave up. Rian had a knack for making him feel ridiculous.

“Whatever. See you soon.”

As Rian charged toward the butcher, Shirone checked Amy’s list. Simple ingredients, but many. He shopped diligently, pausing occasionally to admire the vibrant street performances and arcades.

‘This place is alive. We should explore tomorrow.’

Bag full, he turned back—

“KYAAAH!”

A woman tumbled out of a shop, crashing onto the street.

Shirone’s head snapped toward the sudden scream. His instincts flared—something was wrong. Without hesitation, he pushed through the crowd, his sharp eyes scanning for the source of the distress.

There, backed against a wall, was a trembling woman in her mid-twenties. She had short, bobbed hair, her straight bangs neatly framing her forehead. Despite her frightened state, her delicate features kept her from looking disheveled—even as she clutched her chest in panic.

Her dress was daring, cut low like those worn by saloon performers, but that didn’t justify the way the hulking man before her loomed over her like a predator.

The woman’s voice quivered. "Why… why are you doing this? What did I do wrong?"

She scrambled to her feet, arms crossed protectively over herself. Her sharp, thin eyebrows and piercing eyes should have given her a fierce look, but right now, she seemed as helpless as a cornered deer.

The man leering down at her was Garmoth, a notorious wealthy figure on Galliant Island. His body was massive—but not with muscle. Instead, he was a mountain of fat, his gut straining against his expensive clothes. Despite his unimpressive physique, the two hulking bodyguards flanking him made it clear: he was a man who got what he wanted.

Garmoth smirked, his voice oily with false charm. "Hey now, don’t be like that. We just wanna have some fun together."

The woman shook her head violently. "I-I’m not that kind of girl!"

Garmoth laughed, a deep, unpleasant sound. "Oh, come on. You walk around dressed like that in a place like this? You’re practically begging for attention. Why not enjoy yourself?"

His grip tightened around her wrist, and she let out a sharp cry.

"Help me! Someone, please!"

But no one moved.

Tourists averted their eyes—they didn’t want trouble in a foreign land. The locals stayed silent, too afraid of Garmoth’ influence to intervene.

Shirone’s fingers curled into fists.

“Hey! Stop!”

Shirone stepped forward, his voice sharp as steel cutting through the marketplace chatter.

Garmoth turned, his thick brows knitting together in disbelief. Some random laborer’s brat—barely twenty, clutching a shopping cart—daring to interrupt him?

“Who the hell are you?” Garmoth sneered. “Where do little errand boys get the nerve to meddle in grown men’s business?”

“Let her go,” Shirone demanded, voice steady. “Everyone’s watching. The guards will be here soon.”

Garmoth threw his head back and laughed—a deep, mocking sound. “Puhahaha! Guards? Kid, do you even know who I am?”

“If you’re someone important, then act like it,” Shirone shot back. “If this keeps up, I’ll call the guards myself.”

“Hmm…”

Garmoth’s grip loosened. The woman—her wrists red from his grasp—bolted behind Shirone, trembling. The crowd murmured, but no one else stepped forward. To her, this boy was the only shield she had.

“P-Please help me,” she whispered, fingers digging into Shirone’s sleeve. “That man… he’s—”

Garmoth cracked his neck and strode closer. “Listen, you little beggar. I’m a merchant here on Galliant. That thief stole from me—smashed fine porcelain worth a fortune and tried to run.”

“Porcelain?” Shirone blinked. If true, then the woman had committed a crime. But extorting her body as payment? That twisted the scales of justice into something unrecognizable.

“Yeah, I used it as an excuse,” Garmoth admitted with a smirk. “But she broke it. You think she shouldn’t pay? Even the guards would drag her off.”

Shirone turned to the woman. Her eyes darted away the second they met his.

“Is what he said true?”

“Y-Yes… I’m sorry. But I needed that porcelain. Really.”

Garmoth barked another laugh. “Needed porcelain? Ha! Kid, there’s no such thing. If she wanted money, she should’ve begged. Now you get it, right? This girl’s not worth saving. Unless—” His grin turned vile. “—you’re after a cheap thrill yourself. Right, boys?”

The crowd erupted in laughter—nervous, complicit chuckles from those relieved they weren’t the targets.

“You’re here with friends, yeah?” Garmoth jeered. “Go enjoy your little trip. This is what happens when kids stick their noses where they don’t belong.”

The woman clutched Shirone’s arm desperately. “Don’t leave me. He’ll—he’ll do worse if you go.”

“Then talk to the guards. They’ll handle it.”

“No! He owns this island. Please… trust me.”

“How much was the porcelain?”

“Fifty silver. At least.”

Shirone hesitated. Fifty silver was nothing to him. But was buying her freedom the right thing? He couldn’t pardon sins—but he couldn’t stand by either.

Decision made, he faced Garmoth.

“I’ll pay for the porcelain. Let her go.”

Garmoth’s eyes narrowed. Fifty silver was pocket change for nobles, but this kid wasn’t dressed like one. So why protect her?

“Ohhh, I see,” he drawled. “You want her for yourself? Fifty silver’s a steal for a pretty thing like that.”

Shirone’s jaw tightened. “Not everyone thinks like you.”

“Then why bother? She’s a thief. Let the guards take her.”

“I’m not here to judge her,” Shirone said coldly. “But no one deserves your kind of punishment. Take the money and end this.”

The woman’s breath hitched—like she’d just understood something profound. Garmoth, though, just scoffed.

“Keep your coins. I don’t need ‘em.” He smirked. “But I’ll free her if you do one thing.”

“What?”

“Apologize. Properly. On your knees, in front of everyone.”

The crowd leaned in, hungry for the spectacle.

Shirone didn’t flinch. “Fine. If that’s what it takes.”

He bowed deeply, hands at his sides.

“I apologize on her behalf for the stolen porcelain. Please forgive her.”

Garmoth’s grin turned wicked. “Tch. Too easy.”

Then—without warning—he swung an uppercut straight at Shirone’s face!

Shirone moved, instincts kicking in. The fist grazed air where his chin had been.

“What the hell was that?!” Shirone snapped.

Garmoth clicked his tongue. “See? You dodged. If you really meant that apology, you’d have taken the hit. But you’re just a coward pretending to be noble.”

The crowd erupted in scorn.

“Ha! The kid’s all talk!”

“Fake saint! Should’ve kept his mouth shut!”

Shirone stared, baffled. “Since when does not getting punched make me a liar?”

Garmoth’s face darkened. “You still don’t get it. Everyone here saw you. All that grandstanding—just an act!”

Shirone’s patience snapped. “Even if it was an act, isn’t that better than being a monster like you?”

Silence.

Garmoth’s face purpled with rage. The crowd’s jeers died in their throats.

The woman watching from the shadows smiled.

‘My guess was right. This boy… he’s a mage.’

Mages didn’t ask who was right—they asked what was right. And this boy? He wasn’t justifying himself. He saw facts, weighed them, and acted.

‘Pathetic,’ she thought, eyeing the crowd. ‘All you did was mock. No wonder you’ll never rise above this.’

Time to move. While the mob was distracted, she slipped away—

—only to return moments later, arms full of rocks.

“Close your eyes!” she yelled.

Whiz! Thud!

Dirt and stones pelted the bodyguards. One yelped as a rock struck his forehead.

Shirone whirled—and there she was, grinning fiercely.

“Run!” She grabbed his wrist. “This way!”

“Wait—you left!” Shirone protested as they sprinted down twisting alleys.

“And came back!” She laughed, darting past crates and carts. “Those men? They’ll skin you alive if they catch you!”

Shirone had known she’d fled. He’d let her. Garmoth’s idea of justice was worse than any jail.

Behind them, Garmoth’s roar echoed off the walls:

“FIND THEM! I’LL HAND DOWN THE SENTENCE MYSELF!”

The Warehouse of Violence

The warehouse was thick with the suffocating heat of brutality. Falcoa’s heavy boots thudded into Jis’ ribs again and again, each impact forcing a choked gasp from the boy as he crumpled to the filthy floor, curling into himself like a wounded animal.

Shirone watched, his breath trapped in his throat. Every kick felt like it stopped his own heart. The terror was so overwhelming that Jis could no longer even remember where the blows landed—only the alternating waves of searing pain and numb shock.

Falcoa sneered, her voice dripping with mockery. “A worm-like child. That’s right—does it feel good? Huh? You like this, don’t you? So be a good boy next time.”

In the corner of the warehouse, Jis’s friends knelt, trembling. Their faces were swollen from crying, yet the tears still flowed, carving glistening trails through the dirt on their cheeks.

One of them, a boy named Neid, sobbed openly, his voice breaking. “Please… please forgive us! We’ll go out and earn the money back! We swear! Just… don’t kill him!”

Falcoa’s grin widened, her eyes bulging with manic delight. “Oh yeah? Then tell me—will you behave properly from now on?”

The friends stiffened, their blood running cold. In that moment, Falcoa didn’t look human—she looked like a demon, her expression twisted with cruel amusement.

She could kill Jis right now if she wanted. That much was obvious. But she wasn’t aiming for his head. No—she was dragging this out, savoring his suffering. And that was what terrified Shirone the most.

With a sudden jerk, Falcoa seized Jis by the hair and yanked him upright, forcing him to stand despite his battered body’s protests. Jis’s legs wobbled, barely holding him, but his eyes were wide open—dazed, unseeing. The mental shock alone had left his mind paralyzed.

“S-Save me…” Jis whimpered, his voice barely audible. “I’m… sorry…”

Falcoa tilted her head, feigning concern. “Oh? Are you hurt? Does it pain you? Say it. Tell me—does it hurt?”

She delivered a sharp slap across Jis’s cheek. It wasn’t even a full-strength strike, but Jis’s body convulsed as if electrocuted, his nerves frayed beyond endurance.

His friends broke down again, their cries echoing off the warehouse walls.

‘This woman… she’s insane.’ Shirone’s fists clenched. ‘She’s treating him like some kind of plaything.’

Without warning, Falcoa kicked Jis back to the ground. There was no reason—just pure, unfiltered cruelty.

Or maybe… Shirone’s eyes narrowed. Was it because the drug she’d been chewing was wearing off?

Falcoa crouched beside Jis, her voice sickly sweet. “You gave back five gold because your pride was hurt? How noble of you, Jis. What a handsome little hero.”

Jis shuddered, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry! I won’t—I won’t ever do it again!”

Deep down, he wanted to fight back. But fear had rooted itself too deeply. Against Falcoa’s madness, pride meant nothing.

All he could think was: ‘Just let me survive this… Please…’