Alibuda Chronicles Prequel 1

I. The Wand

My name is Famit Shu Kamu, a dark magician. Perhaps you've heard of me before; yes, I am Famit, the one known as "the most lecherous magician in history." But what can I do? That nickname is just too infamous, and it's partly true. As many know, my profession doesn't belong to the four major categories of dark magic as commonly understood. I am a lewd magician.

Because of this, no matter what I've done or said, I am not accepted by the public. Even worse, the Dark Magicians' Association, which is generally considered by ordinary people to be accomplices of evil, refuses to accept me. The association's president, Balf, vehemently rejected me because of my excessively decadent private life. What the hell! When did that old man who deals with zombies and skeletons all day become a defender of propriety? Is he jealous of my power and romantic encounters? What's so great about that! They're just a bunch of guys hiding in the shadows rummaging through bones, are they so clever? I have no interest in associating with them. Power and beauty, I can have as much as I want, except for the approval of others…

Like now, I've completed another adventure, the Holy King's ring is on my left ring finger, but I only feel a wave of fatigue. Sometimes I wonder, what would my life be like if I weren't a magician—no, at least not a magician of lust?

I'm an orphan, raised by a sorcerer who often complains that his name is used to stop children from crying at night. He says it's a slander against his reputation, and that he just considers himself richer. Countless people, called heroes or warriors of some kind, come to defeat him. They approach my childhood in groups of three or five, for all sorts of reasons.

He said he found me one day while walking outside the castle and brought me back because he was afraid I'd be eaten by wolves. I suspect his purpose was to increase his followers. All the wolves around here are his followers. But anyway, I later called him Father.

I started learning swordsmanship when I was six. My teacher was a very peculiar skeleton with three arms, wielding three swords. He called himself the Sword Demon, but I thought, why waste such a good name? Simply put, let's call him Sword Skeleton, shortened to "S." "S" is also easy to remember. But he was quite skilled with his sword. He taught me his signature move, the "Triple Slash," a technique he'd devised after killing countless swordsmen. He proudly told me that if I studied diligently, I could definitely use it to kill a few as well.

But he eventually gave up. I broke his sword into three pieces, and on the third swing, I struck a rock. So he had to tell my father that I wasn't cut out for swordsmanship. My father wasn't angry; he just had me switch to archery. I studied this technique, which allowed me to kill from afar, very diligently for a time. The big monkey who taught me was also very confident in teaching me his ultimate move, the "Five-Arrow Shot." That was the technique of firing five arrows at once. Then I changed teachers. Three of the five arrows stuck in the teacher's body, one pierced a window, and the last one shattered a very valuable vase.

Sticks, axes, spears, hand-to-hand combat… I dabbled in almost every martial art for six years, but was forced to give them all up for one reason or another. My father ultimately concluded that I had no talent for being a warrior. But my father didn't give up; there couldn't be anyone who didn't serve his purpose in his castle. So, at the age of twelve, I began to learn all kinds of magic.

Of course, my father couldn't have white magicians under his command; there were only various kinds of black magicians. Black magic required the caster to have a strong body to resist the backlash from powerful offensive spells. Obviously, this training left me with nothing but scars. However, it did cause several unexplained fires and explosions in the castle. My tendency to vomit at the sight of dead people also forced me to stay away from necromancy.

So at sixteen, I was a pathetic failure, still just lounging in the castle, watching others fight with the visiting heroes. Finally, my father lost patience. He called me in and regretfully told me he could only give me one last chance. He tossed me a small, old, yellowed book, telling me it contained a long-lost dark magic, its origins, power, methods of practice, and other background details unknown. Studying

magic alone was always dangerous, so I might die. But if I continued as I was, my only fate would be to become a necromancer's magic source. My father said he would order his men to give me the necessary help. After thanking my father for his generosity, I returned to my room.

That was the "book of erotic magic" that would later change my life.

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