The Freed Slaves Are Obsessed

“Master of the Magic Tower?”

The Master of the Magic Tower.

No further explanation was necessary. The title alone conveyed the essence of such a being.

The Master was not merely an overseer of a tower; they were the symbolic pinnacle of the magical world.

“That’s right. The Master of the Magic Tower! I felt it the moment I saw you. Child, you are several dimensions above others. You have what it takes!”

Edmund’s expression was akin to that of a worshipper before their deity, but Mirabel seemed indifferent.

“I’m not really interested.”

“Child, you don’t know what you’re saying because you’re too young. The Master of the Magic Tower means becoming the ultimate wizard.”

Mirabel thought for a moment.

The Master of the Tower? She still had no interest in that. Her main goal was finding Karamir.

But what would change even if she found him? She had disappointed him once, unable to prove her worth. Meeting him again without having changed would only lead to more disappointment.

She couldn’t bear to be abandoned again. She needed to increase her value before reuniting with him.

“If I become the Master of the Tower, will my worth increase?”

“Your worth? Only fools question the worth of the Master of the Tower. All the world’s wizards will look up to you.”

The Master of the Tower.

Yes, becoming the Master of the Tower might allow her to proudly declare herself as Karamir’s slave.

And then, the Miracle that Harold had dreamed of—a world where witches wouldn’t have to hide—maybe as the Master, she could create the world her family had wanted.

“I’ll do it. I’ll become the Master of the Tower.” 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

A resolute light appeared in Mirabel’s eyes.

“...Thus, I, Edmund Alexius Wilmore, nominate this child as the next Master of the Magic Tower.”

The first Elder Council meeting in ten years.

Five elders, along with the candidate Mirabel, had gathered in the council chamber.

The elders were seated around a round table, the seat for the Master conspicuously empty.

In truth, ever since the Magic Tower had appeared in this world, that seat had remained vacant following the death of the first Master who had discovered the tower.

Becoming the Master wasn’t something one could do simply because they wanted to.

The selection process was a nomination system, requiring the unanimous agreement of the five elders before anyone could assume the position.

In other words, the Tower had never elected another Master.

The reasons were trivial.

Not wanting someone weaker to be above them was acceptable.

But they found it boring.

They were too old.

The candidate was ugly.

Bald heads were unacceptable.

The list of complaints went on.

Due to various petty reasons, no Master had been chosen for centuries. The tower’s affairs had long been divided among the elders, so they had managed without a Master.

Thus, while Mirabel had made up her mind, it remained to be seen if she would truly become the Master of the Tower.

“A Master of the Tower, hmm... I’d nearly forgotten that was a thing,” said Darienor.

The Dark High Elf elder who had managed the tower since the first Master’s time.

The tower did not discriminate by race, age, or any other factor. Only meritocracy mattered. Anyone with exceptional magic talent could become a member of the Tower.

Mirabel’s youth was not an obstacle; rather, her potential for growth was an asset.

“So it was you causing all that commotion recently!” shouted a boy as he sprang to his feet, flapping his black wings behind him.

The Mischievous Elder.

Zakaril Vermor.

A demon from the demon realm, located on the opposite side of the continent.

He appeared to be around Mirabel’s age, but his soul was as old as time itself.

Zakaril had once tried to destroy the Tower for fun, only to join as an elder when he got bored. To his eyes, Mirabel was a new plaything that had rolled his way.

Zakaril’s eyes glinted with playful mischief.

“You’re strong, right? Just how strong are you? Play with me!”

It happened in an instant.

Darkness engulfed the area around them.

It was like a black sea, waves ominously crashing.

With a sharp hiss, sharks emerged from the depths of the sea, their forms both solid and wavering like mist.

For a moment, they circled Mirabel, as if catching the scent of prey.

Then they lunged, cutting through the dark water with their razor-sharp teeth gleaming.

Swish.

But the sharks’ teeth never reached Mirabel.

A navy-blue Reaper appeared, swinging its scythe, slicing through the insubstantial forms of the sharks.

“Oh!”

Mirabel tapped her staff twice, creating ripples that stilled the raging waves.

The shark emerging at her feet hit an invisible barrier with a heavy thud, as if it had collided with a shield.

The dark sea quieted.

A ceasefire.

Zakaril clapped his hands excitedly.

“Wow! You’re the first to withstand my prank! Usually, they panic and get gobbled up without casting a single spell.”

“That wasn’t so impressive, really.”

“Haha! That’s the first time anyone’s said that. You’re fun! I feel like exciting things will happen with you around. Fine, I approve!”

She had passed the Mischief-Maker’s first trial.

Edmund exhaled quietly, then looked over at the other elders.

“What do you all think?”

“She’s a human. She’ll be swept away by time eventually. If it goes wrong, we can always pick another one in a hundred years.”

“Karsisa, what about you?”

Karsisa flicked out her long snake-like tongue, then slithered back to her own chamber, her serpentine body writhing.

Her silence indicated indifference.

With four of the elders, including Edmund, already in agreement, all eyes now turned to the last one.

The nomination for Master of the Magic Tower involved two main trials.

The first was to survive Zakaril’s games. Many hopefuls had come to the Tower, only to die failing his test.

Once they passed, it was usually easy to gain the other elders’ approval. Most of them didn’t care one way or the other.

And yet, a Master had never been chosen.

The reason lay in the final trial.

“Hm...”

A tall, brimmed conical hat.

A dress that clung to every curve, revealing a voluptuous figure.

A slender, long pipe held between her lips.

The last elder.

Morgana Cherise.

She was the one who always found fault with the candidates’ appearance, ultimately blocking their election. No matter how skilled they were, she couldn’t be swayed on this point.

Morgana exhaled a long plume of smoke, infused with magic, as the smoke slowly dissipated above.

“Pass.”

“What? R-really?”

“Yes. She’s cute. Adorable little things are always welcome. This gloomy tower could use some liveliness. Besides...”

Morgana’s eyes, half-hidden under her wide hat, settled on Mirabel. Her gaze held a mixture of colors, like a palette of feelings.

“We adults have to take care of young witches.”

She winked playfully.

Edmund sighed, more in exasperation than relief.

The requirement for becoming the Master was based on appearance?

Regardless of their individual reasons, the five elders had unanimously agreed.

The Magic Tower had a new Master.

And she was a slave.

Even with the advent of a new Master, life in the Magic Tower remained unchanged.

Ultimately, wizards were more concerned with their magic research than the affairs of the world. They stayed holed up in their labs, like cockroaches.

Mirabel was no exception.

Currently, she was in the center of the tower, sprawled in midair, engrossed in a book. Hundreds of magic tomes orbited around her like the rings of Saturn.

Each book was more valuable than any so-called “tips from the Great Sage.” As the new Master, Mirabel had the right to read them.

She devoured each tome in moments, tossing one aside as another flew into her hand.

To an outsider, it might seem bizarre, but Mirabel was diligently mastering magic. She was evolving beyond just a witch, becoming something transcendent.

No one would ever guess that she sought such power simply to catch her master’s eye.

Whoosh.

Within the book bunker Mirabel had constructed, a Reaper emerged from the distortion in space.

“You’re here?”

The Reaper nodded.

Though she had become the Master of the Magic Tower, Mirabel had paused her pursuit of Karamir.

She wasn’t yet skilled enough. She would continue honing her magic before seeing him again.

But she wasn’t planning to wait idly. Mirabel had a secret plan.

She had traced the small amount of Karamir’s magic she possessed, finally locating him.

He was in Bestia, the nation of beastfolk, surrounded by slaves.

Mirabel was envious of those around him but held herself back. It wasn’t time yet.

Instead, she had indulged a bit. She used the Reaper to sever the bonds binding their souls. She had needed Karamir’s magic embedded in those bonds.

They were no longer Karamir’s slaves, but that was of no concern to her.

Her needs were greater.

Mirabel inspected the magic the Reaper had collected. Dull, black mana. But to her eyes, it was more precious than anything.

When she had cut their bonds, she had been jealous, wondering why they had the privilege of her master’s bonds. Now, it didn’t matter.

She gathered Karamir’s mana, channeling it into her soul.

She shaped it into manacles.

In her mind, black shackles took form.

With her own hands, she bound her soul.

Click.

It sounded as if she’d heard the snap of the shackles locking.

As Mirabel poured her heart into binding herself, her expression softened. She shivered with delight, letting out a long sigh.

“This is it...”

The feeling of being utterly owned, of having her entire being bound to her master.

This pressure.

This reassurance.

It was perfect.

She hadn’t slept well since being separated from Karamir, but tonight, she felt she could finally rest.

“Tonight, I’ll dream of being with my master again.”

Hugging him tight.

Eating slime fries together.

With a simple spell, Mirabel clutched her staff close and closed her eyes.