I Refused To Be Reincarnated

The sunlight, reflected by the dense canopy in a myriad of colors, splintered in fractal patterns on Adam's dark robes. His striped necktie fluttered, whipped against his back by winds heavy with the scent of ancient trees, of decaying leaves crushed underfoot—and of magical beasts.

He saw a few leap into the underbrush, their small, fluffy forms quivering against rustling leaves as he passed. The larger ones howled from shadowed burrows, a throaty warning—ready to pounce on any intruder who dared to invade their territories. A warning he didn't even consider. Neither did Desmond.

The teenager was a crackling blur wreathed in purple lightning. Each of his steps boomed like a thunder strike that spread to the depths of the Spellroot Thicket. Adam didn't welcome the ruckus, not when they were after the strongest beast. Had he not sealed his qi, sensing the beast's life force would've been trivial. Now? They might as well have sounded war drums.

Pursing his lip, he glared at Desmond as they plunged deeper into the thicket. Before he could speak, the boy cut him off. "Did you know that the wood used to craft most staves and wands comes from this forest? Look."

He pointed at a tree darker than coal. Its bare branches twisted at jagged, unnatural angles, making Adam recognise the pattern of an inverted lightning bolt.

"If I could snatch a few branches from that Nightshock Tree," Desmond added with a wolfish grin, then tapped on the wand at his belt. "I could have a Stormbringer staff instead of this old wand."

Adam's eyes darted between Desmond and the tree, then he snorted. "Since when did you become an enchanter? Should I call you Master Desmond and begin lining up for a chance to have you craft me something?" He handed the teenager a scrap of parchment.

A flush crept up Desmond's neck as he glared at the parchment. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Give me your autograph. Who knows? I might earn a few Prestige points once you become famous." Adam shrugged, trying to convey supreme boredom but failing when Desmond froze as if he had shoved a knife through his back.

He halted too, bursting into laughter. "And here I thought I was the serious one. Relax—it's a joke." He gave Demond a friendly pat on the back, changing the subject to ease the mood. "The branches are there, and you need them. What stops you?"

Horror contorted Desmond's face as he slapped Adam's hand away. "Are you trying to get me to jail with your temptation?" His voice rose a pitch. "As if we could steal rare materials! There are enforcers at the borders, and even if Teacher Haldris teleports us back to college, he's watching us—his words."

"Nothing you can do then. Come on. Time's running." Adam waved and resumed running.

However, Demond lingered for a second, murmuring. "Why would I need to become an enchanter when I can commission a master?" He clenched his fists, lightning wrapping around him as he followed. Yet, a muscle in his jaw throbbed, and he begrudgingly added. "I've memorised enough diagrams to last three lifetimes—still couldn't fuse a twig without it exploding. Leaping out the window was less painful."

Slightly less annoyed by Desmond's noise after a good laugh, Adam forged ahead through the forest for a few more minutes until the canopy choked out sunrays. Howls faded in this somber area, replaced by an eerie silence broken by Desmond's crackling footfalls—until the silence swallowed them too.

That loud troublemaker silent?

A shiver of wrongness crawled up his spine. He instantly snapped his gaze toward Desmond, only for his eyes to widen.

Desmond was there, lightning bursts illuminating the darkness in silent resistance before the thick roots coiling around him devoured their light, crackles, and finally, existence. Red-faced from the lack of air, he clawed at the roots so desperately that blood gushed from his torn nails. And when he saw that Adam had noticed him, his teary eyes begged for help, and trembled with fear. Fear of hearing something such as "hold on until I call for the teacher," or of being outright abandoned.

"Hold on—" Adam started, and Desmond's head sank. He should have known it would have happened. After all, which sane student would jump into danger to save him? The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as he bit his lip. It appeared Adam was the same, and that he wouldn't even bother to finish his sentence. He wanted to tell him to go to hell, that he didn't need such a friend, that Teacher Haldris would surely save him, but settled on silently crying as the roots tightened around his windpipe and the damp rot of the moss filled his nostrils.

While Desmond closed his eyes in resignation, Adam's hand shot to his neck. His mouth opened and closed—his voice had been stolen. Even when a dozen roots covered in purplish-green moss shot around him like tentacles, he didn't hear the soil split open or their whistles.

The first root struck—not like a vine, but like a scorpion's tail, sudden and purposeful. His eyes shone as it threatened to pierce his left shoulder. He sidestepped at the last second, the root ruffling his uniform.

In the same fluid motion, a molten spear of pure magma and fire materialised in his fist. The air warped around the spear, leaves curling to ash in its wake. Its blazing edge crashed on the root silently. The bark splintered on impact like rusted armor, but the moss pulsed brighter than his weapon. When he had expected to reduce it to cinders, he only felt it drink his mana like wine before it could vaporise the soft part.

The collision lasted for less than a heartbeat when he leapt back—just in time to see five roots crash onto the soil. Dirt motes flew around him, but his attention was on his hand. Nothing remained of his elemental spear but the soft warmth in his palm.