Diary of a Dead Wizard-Chapter 225: A Brother’s Concern

To my dear little brother,

To my ill-tempered yet pitiful little brother—

I had to leave in haste last time. It was truly unavoidable.

I have seen fate coiling around you, with shadows looming like dark clouds overhead. Your path is treacherous and rife with peril.

Challenges may not always lead to opportunity—they may instead herald heavier misfortunes. If the day ever comes when you have nowhere else to turn, come find me in the Wasteland. Though I may not be there, the door will always be open for you!

Until then, please—feel free to indulge in the death feast I’ve prepared for you~

Your loving brother,

Kismet

Saul quickly finished reading the letter. It was unmistakably from that man who called himself Victor—every word as incomprehensible as the man himself.

At the bottom, the signature Kismet was scrawled in large, bold strokes, as if venting his frustration at how Kira had ignored his attempts at self-expression during their last encounter.

After reading, Saul immediately closed his eyes to assess his condition. He briefly meditated, then replayed his memories to confirm that his consciousness had not been tampered with.

“This letter at least confirms that Victor is indeed Kismet. As for the ‘crisis’ he mentioned… if it really is like a cloud looming overhead, maybe it’s not directed at me personally.”

He looked up at the warehouse ceiling.

“If his brain isn’t completely fried, calling my danger a ‘dark cloud’ seems a bit dramatic. Could it be something bigger? A shift in the Wizard Tower’s situation?”

It was strange—Kismet had even thought about giving him a fallback plan. But the place he suggested was the Wasteland, a region so terrifying that even true wizards tended to avoid it.

If it weren’t for the possibility that Kismet was somehow connected to the golden pages in the diary, Saul wouldn’t even consider continuing any contact with him.

He tossed the letter onto the desk, turning over the possible hidden meanings in his mind, when he suddenly paused.

“Wait… did he actually use an honorific when referring to me just now?”

But when Saul looked down to double-check, the letter had vanished.

“Self-erasing message?” He felt a wave of unease. “What’s most important now is still to resolve my body’s condition. I’m too weak.”

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Though the evidence was gone, Saul didn’t let it slide. That very night, he used his messaging pen to report the incident to Gorsa—how Kismet had delivered a letter through someone else.

After all, Kismet was a Second Rank Wizard and seemed to harbor some ill intent toward Saul. He had no intention of facing this potential threat alone.

With that, he once again buried himself in the research and experiments for his body modification.

—

Meanwhile, at the border between the Kema Territory and its rival, the Kenas Territory—

On a barren plain with no sign of life for kilometers around.

Kismet stood among dozens of corpses, tilting his head to listen for something.

He cradled a white harp, idly plucking at its strings with his right hand.

The music drifted out softly, echoing like ripples under the night sky.

At his feet, a man knelt on the ground, shoulders trembling.

Suddenly, the harp fell silent. Kismet smiled.

“Ah, the master has received my sentiments.”

Satisfied, he looked down at the would-be knight who seemed desperate to lick his boots.

“When is Kenas planning to start the war with Kema?”

The knight’s trembling froze. He lifted his head, his face shifting from terror to confusion, then to joy.

“Milord?” he blurted out involuntarily, then quickly looked around in panic. Despite the carnage surrounding him, he seemed completely unfazed.

“Milord, the three-party subversion agreement has been signed. Once Prince Aruba reaches the Second Rank, the war will begin immediately.”

“Oh~ Three-party? Then it must be either Byton Academy or the Land Drifters sticking their noses in.” Kismet nodded and lightly tapped the knight’s helmet with the harp’s body. “That tells me nothing. I don’t know when Aruba’s going to advance.”

The knight looked a little lost but didn’t dare flinch. He quickly corrected himself.

“Prince Aruba said he’s confident he’ll break through within two years.”

Kismet scoffed. “They’ve been scheming all this time just to wait for a fledgling Second Rank? Kema has more than one Second Rank Wizard. Who exactly is he planning to fight? The War Goddess Kira? Or the Wizard Tower’s Gorsa?”

The knight inched closer and lowered his voice. “It’s said that once war breaks out, the Wizard Tower’s representative won’t show up.”

Only then did Kismet seem satisfied. “There we go—now it’s a fair fight. That makes things exciting. Looks like the Wizard Tower’s foundations are starting to shake. Time for another ugly game of intrigue.”

Mentioning war and conspiracies seemed to energize Kismet.

But as he did some mental calculations, his enthusiasm dimmed a little.

“One year… two years… Saul might not even make it to Third Rank. Still a little too soon. A mere Second Rank Apprentice doesn’t even qualify as cannon fodder.”

As he pondered, the ground began to tremble slightly.

A small hill cracked open, and from within crawled a massive sand scorpion.

Who knew how long it had been underground? Its body was covered in tangled roots and dirt.

The kneeling knight turned and screamed at the five-meter-long monster, collapsing to the ground.

But then, remembering who stood behind him, he somehow found courage. He grabbed a sword from the ground, planted himself in front of Kismet, and shouted,

“Milord! It’s a sand scorpion! I’ll hold it off—please run!”

Kismet glanced at the creature, then tilted his chin toward the knight.

“Then I’ll leave it to your loyal service.”

The knight froze—then a blast of foul wind struck, and the massive claw came crashing down.

His strength was unimpressive to begin with. He dodged the pincers but not the stinger. After one strike, he convulsed and died.

The sand scorpion turned toward its next prey.

But Kismet remained calm. He stepped over the bloated corpse and approached the beast. Humming a single note, a breeze swept through, cleaning the scorpion of all soil and roots.

The entire time, the creature didn’t move—its eyes fixed on him.

Then Kismet climbed onto its back, settling on a smooth section of carapace.

The scorpion shook its head and tail, like awakening from a trance.

Kismet patted its back. “Let’s go. We’re heading to Kenas to find Aruba and buy our little Saul a few more years.”

Man and beast disappeared into the deep night across the wasteland.

—

Five days after reuniting with Keli, Saul finally completed a dose of his Fleshcrafting Modification Potion.

Holding up the test tube, he stared intently at the shimmering crimson liquid and murmured,

“Finally. After burning through so many materials… I’ve managed to make just one. The true wizard-family formulas are more complex than I imagined.”

Everything—the procedure, the conditions—had been the same, but his earlier batches just didn’t work. If he had taken them, he would’ve turned into a monster and died.

After dozens of failed attempts, Saul had learned to multitask. While adjusting the serum with one hand, he calculated the neutralizer dosage and prepped catalysts and solutions.

The busiest of all, however, was the diary—it was doing the work of three people.

At last, today, he had completed the final component of his new transformation formula.

Amid a sea of scribbled notes, he carefully placed the crimson vial on the rack.

“Only one dose, but all external variables have been ruled out. As long as my hands don’t shake…”

He shook his two skeletal hands. Clack clack clack—the bones made sharp little cracks.

“Maybe tomorrow, I won’t have to hear this teeth-grinding sound anymore!”

(End of Chapter)